It's December 18, almost the darkest day of the year, and the date that Lilah died. We just lit our first yahrzeit candle in her memory (other than the gigantic one that the funeral home gave us for the week after her death) and I am glad to realize that her candle will always light up one of the longest nights.
Lilah was the inspiration for this blog -- she was the most loyal reader, always appreciative, and she told me she often read these posts several times. This made me feel like I should write more often, of course. It's not the same now that she is gone but I think of her whenever I write these postcards.
Dear Lilah,
I don't remember the first time I met you (I was 21, you were 54. Wow.) but I am sure we were both on our best behavior. I am pretty sure you and I were both on our best behavior whenever we were together for the next 37 years. You were always kind, curious, warm, and uncritical with me. I understand that I got to have a special place in your heart -- I was Jon's wife and that was just about the only qualification I really needed. I never got the sense that you wished he had chosen someone else. You welcomed me completely.
I do remember a time quite early in our relationship when I did something that shocked Jon and no doubt surprised you and Leon. I rode my bike from Cambridge to Lexington, on a whim, just going a little further and a little further until I found myself at your house. It was a Sunday afternoon. I knocked on your door. You peeked out through the curtain at the side of the door and saw a sweaty, smiling girl. When I told Jon about it later, he could not believe that I had done that. He told me no one ever dropped in on you. Oh well. We all survived. Even though neither of you had your day clothes on yet, you invited me in, gave me a drink of water, and we chatted. You gave me a little sprig of basil wrapped in a damp paper towel to take home on my bike. At that time, none of us could have known that we would be in the same family for all eternity.
We were guests in your house several times a year between about 1983 and 2009. That's a lot of visits. Most of the time I spent with you was at Concord Ave, although there were occasions when the whole family was together for celebrations and reunions outside of the house, and sometimes you two came to the farm. When I think of you and Leon, though, it is in the kitchen and the playroom and the dining room. You had a later schedule than Leon (and I) so you and Jon would stay up into the night because you were both night owls. You would putter around the kitchen, washing dishes, tidying up. It was family law that the rest of us did not wash dishes. There was a longstanding matriarchal lock on dishwashing standards. Jon told me to just stay out of it, so I did for all those years.
In the mornings, Leon was always up first. He made coffee, and he even made orange juice from oranges with his mechanical squeezer. Breakfast was always cold cereal. He would take out about eight boxes of different kinds of cold cereal (all terribly healthy) and we would mix them in our bowls. You made an elaborate mix of chopped nuts and dried fruit to put on top of the cereal. Leon took the first shift at the narrow orange table, hunched over his bowl of cereal with his glasses on top of his head, reading the Globe (this is just how Jon eats breakfast today). You would wander in about an hour later, in your robe, and he would present you with your cup of coffee. He called you Schmoo. You always called him Leon, sometimes with an exasperated tone.
Our kids took all of these routines for granted, even though they were entirely different from our home routines. They didn't feel like they had to perform, or behave in any particular way. They were comfortable and talkative and easy with the two of you. They were allowed to read at the table since everyone else was reading anyway.
We never spent the whole day at your house. After a day of visiting other people in Boston, we would come home for dinner, if that was the plan. You were the chief cook. We didn't try to cook in your kitchen. After he retired, Leon became the salad chef. You always served the meal at the right temperature, and you might even use the warming trays on the sideboard to keep it all hot. Dinner was simple, with fish or meat and vegetables. Salad was served last. Dessert was usually ice cream and dark chocolate. I don't recall that you ever baked, but I can't swear to that. Sue was the one who brought rich chocolate cake from her kitchen. After we finished dessert, you would bring out the teapot and we would sit for longer while the kids went into the playroom.
It's so funny, how I always thought of you and Leon as being elderly. You were younger than I ever realized. Toward the end, you were actually elderly. But not for most of the years before that.
I told Jon recently that I remember how touched you and Leon were when your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren officially became Jewish. I feel like that was a real turning point in our relationship, even though you were completely welcoming in every possible way before my conversion. I was so surprised when you two announced that you were coming to the service. My own family has no such sense of duty -- I never expected my parents to come to anything (because they generally didn't). But the two of you drove down to Virginia and sat in the congregation and watched me get welcomed as a Jew. It showed me that this was more important than I had understood. And I think it made me an even more committed Jew, knowing that it meant something to you.
The last time I got to talk to you by myself, a few days before you died, I had a rare opportunity to tell you what you meant to me and what a perfect mother-in-law you had been for me, for 32 years. We sat in your dark bedroom, you in your pajamas (since you were no longer getting dressed, what was the point) on your bed, me on the other bed. I told you that you had done everything just right for me. You said, "I was always hands-off" and you shrugged in your Lilah way. I repeated, that was perfect. I think it might have been a little embarrassing for you to be told so baldly how I felt about our relationship. But there was nothing to lose and I wanted you to know. We had never been close or talked about feelings much, so this was my one chance. You accepted my appreciation gracefully.
I realized many years ago that you were much stronger than we realized. You seemed delicate, and as if you didn't have too much to say about most things. I know that in other company you probably had much more to say. But around your family, all very fast talkers, you didn't try to compete or even keep up. You had questions, brief comments, but while other people spoke in paragraphs, you did a lot of smiling and listening. But it became clear that you had patience and strength that was always in there, and when Leon began to decline, your powers became evident. I admired that.
You were so much smarter than you ever let on. I don't even know what I mean by that, but you were a match for Leon, the mother of four super intellectual children, and the grandmother of another six very sharp kids. Those of us who showed up late in your life didn't get to see all that had come before us. But I know that you were extremely intelligent. Just kind of bottled up and not very showy.
I am sure you are wondering how much longer I will go on. I have only just gotten started, but I don't need to say every little thing right now. We have missed you, I think of you much more often than I ever expected, and I remember you perfectly. I remember you with much fondness and huge gratitude. And not only because you produced Jon. Because you loved me so much, and that meant a great deal to me.
Your memory will always be a blessing.
Hana
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