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Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Life Ain't Boring as appeared in Binah December 19,2016


Life is never boring. 

Even if you’re over sixty. Really.

If you don’t believe me, well, let me tell you about Yaakov, the man who cleans our stairwell each week lichvod Shabbos kodesh. In addition to washing floors, he works at the zoo, where he’s in charge of feeding the lions and tigers and bears.  Every morning, rain or shine, he gets up at 3 a.m., when normal people are still sound asleep (and others are lying in bed, wishing they could sleep!), so that he can get to the zoo by four. When I asked why these particular animals partake of such an early breakfast, he explained, “Savta, you have to understand, we can’t feed the lions and tigers and bears when the zoo is open because they eat meat — sometimes live meat. It’s bloody…but I won't go into all the gory details.”

I was glad he didn't.

Yaakov is one of the kindest people I have ever met. He’s profuse in his praise and rushes to help anyone with anything. Every time he catches me schlepping a bag of groceries up the two flights of stairs to my apartment, or running (okay, hobbling) down those same stairs to take out the garbage, he grabs whatever it is I’m schlepping and booms, “Savta, it’s my pleasure! I love helping you. Save your energy for your grandchildren, Savta. Halevai when I reach your age, I’ll be as active as you are…” 

 I never know whether to laugh or cry, but I always accept his help.

Hoshana Rabbah afternoon, I was on the verge of collapse from the constant cycle of cooking, cleaning and serving. The floors needed to be washed (aka, sponja), while my body craved sleep. Suddenly, I heard a loud knock on the door. It was Yaakov, requesting asking for a bucket of water to clean  for washing the stairs. I had an epiphany. Perhaps Yaakov was the answer to my dreams, or should I say, my desire to be in dreamland? Yaakov literally jumped at the opportunity to sponja my floors. “Savta, really, at your age you should be saving your energy for your grandchildren. Isn’t that what we’re here for, Savta? To do mitzvos and help each other?” I couldn’t (or wouldn’t)argue with his logic.

One Thursday evening I had just returned home from walking two granddaughters to the bus after tutoring them in English and math, when a grandson walked in to inform me that he and his older brother (who are learning in yeshivah here in Eretz Yisrael) will be staying with us until the end of bein hazemanim. I was in the middle of defrosting the chicken for Shabbos, so I removed a couple more pieces from the freezer, lichvod Shabbos kodesh. Big pieces, because yeshivah bachurim like to eat.

Half an hour later, the same grandson informed me that in the end, he and his brother would be spending Shabbos with their Rosh Yeshivah in Bnei Brak. I was just about to put the still-frozen pieces of chicken back in the freezer when my daughter called to ask if her two teenage daughters could spend Shabbos with Bubby and Zeidy.

The chicken was not returned to the freezer.

The phone rang again. “Mrs. Shapiro,” said the sweet but slightly hysterical seminary girl. “I know it’s kind of late to ask, but could me and my friend come for the Shabbos morning meal?”

I took a few more chunks of cholent meat out of the freezer.

I really wanted to start cooking, but first I had to finish my sponja. Yawn. I hate sponja. I’d much rather sleep. Or cook. Or do anything else, but…

Then, like in one of those Eliyahu Hanavi stories, there was a loud bang on the door. It was Yaakov, asking for water to wash the stairwell. Of course I asked him if he could finish my sponja, and he was more than happy to comply. “Savta,” he boomed, “it’s a mitzvah. I love to help! You just stay healthy, Savta. Halevai I should be so active when I’m your age…”


As Yaakov squeegeed the last of the water out the front door, into the stairwell, he began to talk about his job feeding the tigers. 

Suddenly, I had another epiphany.

The window box outside my kitchen has become Jerusalem's main pigeon facility. Somewhere in the city there must be signs posted in pigeonese informing all birds that they can do their thing at the Shapiros. Now, I have nothing against pigeons, as long as they stay far away from me… but I really have no idea how to clean the mess, nor how to permanently close the facility. But I was sure that Yaakov would know.

Not only did Yaakov know what to do, he offered to come by next week and take care of the problem. “Savta, don’t worry. It’s no big deal, Savta," he boomed. “Savta, see that house over there?” he pointed to a brightly lit window on the third floor of the building across the street. “Last week, a rat the size of a large cat was hiding in their kitchen closet.”

I turned white. My grandchildren, who had been listening to the whole conversation in amazement, had to hold their stomachs to stifle their laughter.

“Oh, Savta, there’s no reason to get upset," Yaakov said when he saw my expression. " I didn’t mean to make you sick. There is no rat in your house. It was over there, Savta, across the street. I got rid of it for them by pretending to be a cat. Listen, 'meow, meow.'” He really did sound like a cat. “The rat wanted to get away from the cat, so it ran out of its hiding place and I—”

I won’t go into the gory details of how Yaakov managed to extricate the rat and cause its early demise, but the moment he closed the door behind him, after promising, of course, to return next week to take care of our pigeon facility, my grandchildren almost fell off their chairs as they broke out into hysterical giggling.

 “Bubby,” one of them gasped between bursts of laughter. “These things only happen in your house.”

I don’t know if that’s true. I really don’t know what goes on in other peoples’ homes. But one thing I do know. Life in my house is never boring.

Even though I’m over sixty.




Wednesday, December 14, 2016

MY NEW Project

I have been working very, very hard on this project. Anyone who can assist in any way, it's a HUGE mitzvah! I can be contacted at tikvah4parkinson@gmail.com

PLEASE.IF YOU CAN ASSIST ME WITH FUNDS...I AM IN THE PROCESS OF BECOMING A REGISTERED NFP, BUT UNTIL THEN, I NEED SOME MONEY TO ADVERTISE THE EVENT ON JANUARY 3. I CAN BE CONTACTED AT TIKVAH4PARKINSON@GMAIL.COM

AND HERE IS THE NEW WEBSITE:http://www.tikvah4parkinson.org/

Here's a write up I made for the WPC:

How the WPC Inspired Me
Debbie Shapiro, PwP, Jerusalem, Israel
Parkinson is a very isolating disease. Your world grows smaller, and slower, while around you, the people you know, and love, are rushing, accomplishing, doing, at what for you is now a dizzying pace. It’s hard to explain to anyone not battling the slowness and stiffness of Parkinson what it’s like to wake up in the morning and have to literally force your feet to move. You want to crawl into bed, curl under the covers and do nothing, but you know that doing that would be a death sentence, that it’s crucial to get up and go, be with other people, exercise, work, and accomplish.
At the WPC I was together with thousands of others like me. I didn’t have to feel embarrassed if it took me a few moments to find the courage to step on to the escalator, or walk across the room. The people there understood me. They were there, together with me. We were battling the same enemy.
But it wasn’t just the camaraderie, the sense of belonging. There very air was charged with optimism. It pervaded every conversation, lecture and workshop. We felt unified, and that it is our obligation to do everything in our power to keep ourselves healthy, to continue living our lives to its fullest, despite our limitations. It was like being part of a gigantic cheering squad, urging me to stretch to my utmost.
The lectures and workshops touched on almost every aspect of living well with Parkinson, but even more, they gave me, as well as the thousands of others who had come because they believed that it’s possible to continue living well, despite Parkinson, a feeling of hope.
I returned home inspired to share what I had learned with my community. Sadly, in Jerusalem many people are embarrassed that they have Parkinson and as a result, they remain at home, isolated and sedentary. In addition, there are almost no programs available in Jerusalem for PwP, and none that are sensitive to the specific needs of the Orthodox community. As a result, I opened an organization, “Tikvah (hope) for Parkinson” for the Parkinson community in Jerusalem. Our vision is to educate the Parkinson community about the need to be proactive in their own care, organize support groups and Parkinson exercise/physical therapy groups, and advocate for better care for PwP in Jerusalem.
Our first event is planned for January 3, 2017 and includes lectures by Professor Nir Giladi, head of the Department of Neurology at Ichalov Hospital and Rabbi Gedalia Finkel, Rosh Yeshiva in Yeshivat Mirr, Jerusalem. To learn more about what we do, please go to http://www.tikvah4parkinson.org/ or contact me directly at tikvah4parkinson@gmail.com


Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Exceptional Times

Exceptional Times

Motzoei Shabbos, I was sitting with my husband, nursing a steaming cup of tea, wondering what in the world I was going to write for my upcoming article. “It’s due in two days. Give me some ideas,” I said to him.
“How about something on how to buy an esrog.”
“Ah, c’mon. That’s not for the ladies.”
“Well, maybe something about the sukkah. Lots of interesting halachos there.”
I rolled my eyes. Obviously he was not getting it. That’s because, well, as they say, men and women are from different planets, and besides, although the article is due in Elul, it will only be published in Cheshvan. By then, even Martians won’t be terribly excited by an article on Sukkos.
But Hashem is very good to me, because Sunday morning I had an interesting conversation with a seminary principal about what it was like to come to Eretz Yisrael in 1971 and that, of course, got me thinking, which, in turn, turned into material for an article.
Life in Eretz Yisrael was so different back then. On a physical plane, it was like going back in time to when my parents were young (and that really was a long time ago!). Yes, refrigerators had recently replaced ice boxes and almost everyone owned a washing machine, but dryers (and disposable diapers) were still unheard of. Two burner gas stoves had only recently replaced the primus, a primitive camp stove, as the standard mode of cooking, and ovens were an almost unheard of luxury; people baked in little round pots call “Wonder Pots.” In 1974, when I became an olah chadashah, the primus was included as part of my aliyah package, together with a sponja stick and shmatta, a straw broom, a metal bed, a straw mattress, a stool, a table and a roll of toilet paper!
The first time I traveled to Yerushalayim I was shocked by the absence of street lights on the narrow two-lane highway connecting the Holy City to the rest of the country. Yerushalayim boasted only one traffic light, on the corner intersection of Yaffo and King George, but it was really only there for show as there were almost no cars on the roads.
A friend of mine once got into a minor traffic accident with another woman driver. When she said to the sergeant at the police station, “The other woman suddenly stopped,” he interrupted her story to let her know that he already knew the other driver’s identity because (I kid you not!) there were only two female drivers in the city!
Physically, Yerushalayim was much smaller. I was friendly with a family that lived in the old (which at that time was the new and only) Kiryat Sanz neighborhood. The eight story apartment blocks sprouted incongruously from surrounding empty hills. At night, when I walked from Rechov Eli Hakohen down the hill to Kiryat Sanz, I would hear foxes at the side of the road (and occasionally, I even caught a glimpse of their eyes!), while from the zoo on the other side of the road (now Minchat Yitzchak) the lions roared (and I quivered inside!). But there were other animals too; it was not uncommon for an Egged bus to stop to allow a flock of sheep to cross the street.
Readymade clothes were expensive and difficult to find. There was but one dress shop in all of Geulah and Meah Shearim; we called it the “hole in the wall.” Seamstresses would make home visits to sew the family wardrobe. The entire family was recruited to help, and of course it was considered a valid excuse for all the girls to remain home from school. Faded outfits were turned inside out and resewn. Old sweaters were unraveled and the wool recycled.
Phones were a very difficult-to-attain luxury, which made life very complicated for us seminary girls hoping to get a taste of the country via Shabbos invitations. Postcards were sent out weeks in advance, and sometimes we’d travel across town to ask if we could come for Shabbos, only to be told to, “I have to ask my husband. Come back tomorrow for an answer.”
But although the country was small and undeveloped, the people I met were giants. They each had their own personal story of mesirus nefesh. They had journeyed to Eretz Yisrael via Auschwitz, or Siberia, or on a camel, or had miraculously managed to catch “the last boat.” They had learned in the great yeshivos, under the Chafetz Chaim or HaRav Elchanan Wasserman, z”l. They had studied in Cracow under Frau Sarah Schenirer. They had lived through exceptional times, and I was jealous of them. After all, I was living such a mundane life.
But looking back, I realize that I had been wrong. These giants had lived in an exceptional era, but I also lived in an exceptional era. And today, we are also living in amazing times. Fifty years from now, we will look back at our nisyanos and marvel how we not only managed, but how we succeeded in growing and becoming greater as a result.
And hopefully, by the time this article goes to print, all of us will be able to look back at Elul, which is when it is being penned, and wonder how we survived without the Urim v’Tumim and the Sanhedrin to guide us.
And even Martians or Plutonians, as well as those of us from Jupiter or Venus, will be able to relate to that.

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Debbie Shapiro is a wife, mother, grandmother and longtime Jerusalem resident. Her latest book, “Women Talk,” is a compilation of interviews with great Jewish women. Debbie can be contacted via Binah Magazine. She’d love to hear from you.