Happy Tuesday Tidings, My Friend!
As I write this letter to you, it’s Memorial Day—a day to pause and remember, with gratitude, the men and women who have died serving our country. When I was a kid, my dad called it “Decoration Day.” Now, it seems we’ve also included honoring and remembering all of our loved ones who have died. Americans never miss a party, so we’ve turned it into a day to have a backyard barbecue and “Say hello to summer!”
I’ve been thinking lately about a trio of ladies I once knew a long time ago. They are surely all gone at this point, as they were all in their 80s and possibly 90s when I knew them some 40-odd years ago.
Before I share about “Marion and the girls,” let me set the stage.
In the early 80s, I worked at a very large nursing home in a Minneapolis suburb. This was no garden-variety long-term care facility! Walking in the front doors into the lobby felt more like entering a nice hotel. There were several buildings that accommodated all the levels of care someone might need. I worked there as a music therapist, along with Cheryl, a friend from college. We had music throughout the facility, from those confined to their beds to those in independent-living apartments. We led music and movement groups, music appreciation, sing-alongs, choirs, and handbell choirs—just to name a few activities.
Cheryl had worked there for a while; she was the one who established the music therapy program there. When I joined her, she took me around to meet some of the music “regulars.” And that’s how I came to meet Marion and the girls.
Marion was the obvious lead of this pack. The other two were Elna and Verna.
When they went anywhere, Marion was out front, with her thick snow-white hair and huge grin. She was always smiling, ready to crack a joke and cackle at her own funnies. Elna and Verna were just a step behind, walking with their arms locked. Vera was a short gal, so Elna had to slow her pace to avoid “dropping” Verna. Off those three would go to almost every music activity we had. They especially loved the sing-alongs!
I would usually sit at the piano and play the songs while Cheryl, who has a beautiful voice, stood with the microphone and led the singing. She’d weave in and out of the residents and hold the microphone up to their mouths so they could have some solo time. Some were shy, but many loved their moments of glory! Of course, Marion practically put on a one-woman show when the microphone got anywhere near her!
One year, as December was approaching, Cheryl and I decided we’d like to do something special for the Jewish residents there. Now, in a 500+ bed facility, there were maybe a handful of Jewish people. At that time, Minnesotans were mostly Scandinavian Lutherans. Hanukkah was approaching, and we thought we’d put together something for our Jewish friends. And our beloved Marion was Jewish.
Cheryl and I each worked one evening a week, and it just so happened that our Hanukkah celebration would fall on my night to work. Slightly panicked, because I knew nothing about the holiday, I got to work. I wanted to make Marion proud of my little gentile self!
I must have gone to the library to check out a book, because I couldn’t “Google” information at that time. I needed a menorah. Oops, no Amazon in that day either, but, lo and behold, there was a store in another nearby suburb that advertised selling “Judaica.” Surely, I could get a menorah there! So, off I went.
Oh, there were menorahs there, alright. But they were beautiful and expensive! There was no way I could buy one, so the thought occurred to me—”I’ll make one!”
Oy vey! What had I gotten myself into? Do you know what I made my sorry menorah out of? Clay and aluminum foil! You have never seen such a sorry sight! But it’s all I had, so it would have to do. I bought candles somewhere (I guess I couldn’t make those.) It was my night to work late, and we were going to celebrate Hanukkah, even if my menorah was falling apart. (I’m pretty sure toothpicks were involved as well.)
I gathered the few folks who would attend around one little table. Marion was there, of course. This may have been a rare occasion when “the girls” weren’t in tow. I must have found some appropriate music. Maybe we even spun a dreidel. (That might have been one thing I could have afforded at the nice shop.) I also had a list of Yiddish phrases that I read. Marion cackled and translated every single one. I’m not sure if she was laughing at the funny phrases or at how I was murdering their pronunciations. (Again, I don’t know where I got these phrases, unless it was a book from the library. We have so much more information at our fingertips now!)
And then, oh dear, out came my lopsided, ridiculous-looking menorah. The people seated around the table didn’t seem to mind that it was shabby. I think they appreciated my attempt to help them celebrate what was important to them, even though I didn’t know a latke from a sufganiyot.
This little experience, so long ago, was one of the first times I tried to learn about people who weren’t “like me.” I just hadn’t ever been around many—if any—Jewish people when I was growing up. Everyone I knew belonged to some Christian denomination. It was just the makeup of where I lived.
This little experience, oh so long ago, was one of the first times I really tried to learn something about people who weren’t “like me.” Realizing how much I enjoyed people who were different from me, I saw the value in reaching beyond the familiar. This experience planted a seed for a lifelong interest in connecting across differences and finding joy and friendship in unexpected places. The heart of my story is that embracing those unlike us can enrich our lives.
It reminds me of the poem by Maya Angelou, where she says:
I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
Wishing you a wonderful week.
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO