We have a most unusual sukkah. Really. When people
come to visit and I invite them to have make a “leishev basukkah,” the
usual reaction is, “Where is it?”
“Here. You’re in it,” I say with a smile.
“Huh?”
In response to their confusion, I point upwards, toward
the ceiling. The sky is visible between the wooden slats.
When we moved into our apartment ten years ago, we moved
around a few walls to create an extra bedroom and enclosed the porch. Instead
of building a permanent roof over the open section of the porch, the contractor
installed a sliding roof, which could be easily removed to create – voila! – a sukkah.
And it really is “voila!” Erev Sukkos, my husband removes the false ceiling,
slides the roof off, and spreads the slats across the empty space. It takes him
less than fifteen minutes.
Our sukkah is tiny. My husband can, and does, sleep
in it, but only on a very narrow mattress, otherwise he might just roll out. We
can, and do, invite guests – four thin people can fit around the table, and two
not-so-thin ones. Because it is so small, I don’t hang decorations on the walls.
Every centimeter
is crucial.
But our sukkah is kosher. We can make a “leishev
basukkah” in it. And that’s the ikar.
Before we moved to our present apartment, we had two
fairly large sukkos; one for sleeping and one for eating. Erev Sukkos was
chaotic; I ran a marathon between preparing the meals, greeting our guests, taking
care of the children and desperately trying to prevent the stray pieces of schach
from overtaking our lives. The moment Yom Tov began, I would collapse in
exhaustion on the sofa and sleep until it was time to start the seudah.
I loved every moment of it. Yes, physically it was a huge
amount of work, but it was also exhilarating. I loved the magical evenings sitting
in our sukkah. It was constantly crowded with family and guests, and
laughter, and singing and divrei Torah.
Yes, I loved every
moment of it then, and I love every moment of it today. The small, quiet,
just-the-two-of-us sukkah with an occasional guest is what I need, and
want, now; while the crowded and chaotic sukkah, brimming with family
and non-stop company, was what I needed and wanted then.
Before starting high school (or “seminar,” as it’s
known in Israel) I take each of my granddaughters shopping for a new grown-up school
bag, followed by a tall ice cream sundae (with lots of whipped cream!) in Geulah.
Eight years ago, when I took my oldest
granddaughter shopping for her schoolbag, I really enjoyed the shopping part
(of course I enjoyed the ice cream part as well). We walked up and down the
streets of Geulah, comparing bags and prices, looking for the best deal. This
summer, however, as I stood crushed into a tiny corner of a crowded shop, watching
my granddaughter, together with half a dozen other teenagers, agonize over which
bag was the perfect one, my only thought was, “How much longer will it take?” (At
the cash register, the shopkeeper quipped, “Finding a shidduch is
nothing compared to finding the right bag).
That is part of the challenge of my stage of life. Of
course I really wanted to enjoy some quality time (and an ice cream) with this
granddaughter. It was pure nachas to share her excitement as she stepped
into young adulthood, as symbolized by the purchase of a schoolbag suitable for
a young lady, rather than a school child. And it goes without saying that
spending time with family is top priority. But at the same time, I crave the
safe haven and quiet of my own daled amos. I need my “tiny sukkah”
every day of the year.
A lot of construction is going on in our building right
now. Two families are renovating their apartments, and another two families are
building large sukkah porches off their living rooms. A couple of people
in the building suggested that we also add a sukkah porch.
But I don’t want to.
And the reason is simple.
I like our little sukkah. No, to be more accurate,
I’d say that I love our little sukkah. It’s small and cozy, which means
that we can’t have a lot of company. And that’s perfect for me and my family,
now, at this stage of my life.
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