THE BITTER AND THE SWEET.

I was a bit surprised to see that my last post was from 2 months ago! My, how time flies.
It's not that nothing much was happening, it's that TOO much was happening; before I knew it, it was almost over.

So in the past few years, i.e., since I started blogging, I have written about what is, for me, the emotionally fraught time of year that basically goes from Pesach to Shavuot.
Well, this year, Pesach itself was wonderful because we all went away to a fantastic Pesach program at Whistler in Canada, and all my kids and their kids came and it was just magical. I didn't want to write about that because it would only sound like bragging about my privilege which it still does, so I'll stop.

The night that we returned was Yom HaShoa. The commemoration was respectful and well-organised and of course left me immeasurably saddened by the unfathomable tragedy of the Shoa. More later.

And then, a week later, Yom HaZikaron. I actually spoke at this year's commemoration, lighting a candle in the memory of my brother Julian (Yehuda) Pakula who fell in the Yom Kippur War. I was asked if it was hard for me to do, and I have to say that it was easier on the night at Robert Blackwood Hall, only because there had been a run-through on the Sunday just before that. Back in the day, it was more of a seat-of-the-pants operation, but it's bigger now so organisation is important. Anyway, they went through the videos and the poems and by the time we got to my bit I was a weeping mess - there is one poem in particular that cuts my heart, because it captures so well the grief and loss of a bereaved father- but I pulled myself together and said my speech. So on the night itself,  I was more prepared emotionally (plus I remembered to bring tissues).

Then a few days later was the Shloshim for my husband's uncle, Reb Chaim Serebryanski zt"l, who had passed away in New York. I had known him since I was a child and he was a unique and wonderful person who embodied Chabad Chasidus and complete love of his fellow Jew. There really are no people like that anymore. So that was sad.

And then there was a bunch of stuff, work, entertaining etc, but that's all normal.
And then my daughter arrived for a week long visit, with her baby, who is ka'h adorable ptu ptu ptu, and that was wonderful BUT during that week was:

• The annual Liberation dinner, commemorating 70 years since my father-in-law Nathan Werdiger was freed from Buchenwald (the actual date was April 11 but that fell on Pesach so it was postponed). These dinners have been going for 30 years or so, because for the first 40 years he was unable to talk about it. My mother-in-law Nechama puts together a dinner which could only have been dreamed of by a starving boy in a concentration camp; and my father-in-law gives testimony on whatever aspect of those years he wishes. His stories are recorded. He tries to talk about his family foremost, honouring the memories of the murdered, and it takes a tremendous toll on him, but he stands throughout and we are silent. This year there were 4 generations at the table, about 50 people representing a fraction of the family which lives in Israel, England and the US. Normally the youngest to attend has to be bat or bar mitzvah, but this year my 9 year old granddaughter was invited; too young, I think, but as she put it 'I didn't cry like my cousins did, but I was very sad.' So she heard what she could comprehend and didn't really hear about kapos and Musselmen.
• Lag B'Omer, and we hosted a function where 180 people turned up, and it was great except I kept worrying about the 2 firepits we had going and that the house would burn down or at least the grass would be destroyed or someone would catch fire. I'm happy to report that none of these things happened, Thank G-d.  Bloody hell, Jews and fire, so much potential for disaster so many times a year. Anyway.
• Mother's (Mothers'?) Day brunch where my kids, who are now also mothers, get to make brunch for me for a change! Sorry, ladies! Maybe next year we'll have it catered. I don't think we can actually go out, the kids would TRASH any restaurant, bless them. And of course I think about my mother who has been gone nearly 30 years, more about that later.
• My mother-in-law Nechama's 80th birthday. She didn't want a party, she didn't want a present, she gave herself a birthday cake at the Liberation dinner and that was enough, all her friends were dead (they aren't, I think she was feeling a bit low when she told me this a week earlier, she is very sad at the passing of her brother Chaim), and we went ahead and did it anyway, and it was great. Jack Feldman, aka Bubbe Henya, was a riot and we were all in fits, and it was great to see Nechama and Nathan both cracking up. So thanks for that, Dr Jack.

So that was a busy week! Talk about 'Rozhinklech und mandelach', raisins and almonds, i.e. folksy Yiddish way of describing how life is bitter-sweet.

AND NOW, we are heading into Shavuot; my brother Marvin passed away 8 years ago a few days before Shavuot, and my mother Freda a few days after Shavuot, 30 years ago. So I'm planning on doing a kiddush in their honour after Shavuot. And I always do a big festive yom-tov meal which almost but not quite, pushes away the memory of that last, awful Shavuot with my mother.

There are times that I cannot believe that I am the last person standing in my immediate family. It is very sobering. I mean, of course, I have my kids and grandchildren b'h, and there are times I can't believe that either.

I can't even begin to imagine what goes on in my father-in-law's mind. He is a very special guy, ('til 120); relentlessly optimistic and positive despite his experiences in the camps, his losses and bereavement. But just as I find myself thinking more about my parents and continuing to miss them every year, he thinks about his murdered family. He is plagued by flashes of memories from the camps; of course he has what we now call PTSD, yet he and so many other survivors managed to make new lives for themselves; how, I don't know. What strength.

But as he was sitting near me at the Mothers' Day brunch, he picked up the jar of Three Berry Preserve that was to go with the brioche and said quietly to me, 'On Xmas day they gave us a spoonful of jam with our bread. Later on, some meat. Some people traded the jam for more bread.' He shook his head, smiling sadly. 'Everything reminds me of the camps.'

Loss and optimism. Missing loved ones and living life to honour them. Privilege and sorrow. 

Raisins and almonds.