Birthday celebrations and a heroic rescue
I am trying to figure out why there is a weather app. All day it had been telling me that it wasn’t going to rain in Jerusalem until 6 p.m. At 4 p.m., I am walking Danish back to her apartment and the skies open up, the lightning is lighting up the sky, the thunder is clapping, and I, of course, have no rain apparel. Fortunately, we brought the double stroller with us and my amazing DIL #2 had the rain cover in the basket. Babka looks like a drowned rat (not much different than my usual appearance) but, thank God, Danish is totally dry.
In about an hour, I need to walk back up the hill to help with Matzo Ball and his sister. I am not even going to check the app (who am I kidding, of course I am). I texted Husband #1 to ask if his weather app said anything different than mine did, because he checks the weather app all the time, but his is the exact same as mine. Really, really helpful.
Just in case, I turned a garbage bag into a raincoat, because I am classy like that,
And now it is my birthday. Forty years ago, I had the best sweet 16. How is it 40 years ago? Don’t worry, I know that if I keep repeating that statement, it won’t change anything. It still would have happened 40 years ago.
We had a DJ, I got a new dress, the invitations looked like 45s (look that up, you youngsters), I had a high school boyfriend I can’t remember this morning, but I remember that party. Standing with my “special” friend under the apple tree in my parents’ backyard, hearing my dad call out from the upstairs bathroom window, “Uh, Banj, I think it is time for you to go back inside.” How I loved and now miss that man! (To be clear, I am talking about my dad, not the “special” friend.)
This year, my Israelis hosted a pizza and ice cream cake party for me. Since the only thing I wanted for my birthday was for Son #2 to come home from the hospital, everything else was just icing on the cake — pun intended.
It was a very exclusive guest list. You had to be 3 and under or married to a son of the birthday girl. There was nothing going on under any apple trees anywhere, and Madonna’s song “Crazy for You” was not being danced to anywhere either. It was beautiful and perfect. The only thing missing was Strudel and her family and Husband #1 — but they are together, so that is beautiful too.
Anyway, I would like to share a story of how I became a “Shtetl Superhero” this past Shabbos. It is a hard title to obtain in this community, so I am very proud.
Matzo Ball and I were taking a walk back to his apartment when we noticed a green and black ball gathering up speed as it rolled down the hill. “Matzo Ball,” I began, “where do you think that ball is going?” And he looked at me with his beautiful blue eyes and said, “To Jonah!” (Son #2 lives at the bottom of said hill.)
As we were walking, we saw the little boys playing in front of the apartment and asked if they lost a ball. They did. The younger boy threw it and it went down the hill.
Super Babka heard her calling, her true purpose, and she and Matzo Ball were on the case. As we walked down the hill. Searching for the green and black ball, we passed the chickens that live near the supermarket. Matzo Ball was so excited. Then we passed several cats, or “meows,” as my adorable sidekick calls them. And then, up ahead, at the bottom of the hill, underneath a car, we found the ball. What an amazing sight. “Bally, Bally,” my partner in crime called out in glee.
So SuperBabka got down on her hands and knees and went under the car and rescued the ball. When she got back up, several minutes later, she noticed a small crowd had formed. Yet she received no applause, just looks of horror.
But that was okay, Matzo Ball held onto the ball, we walked back up the hill, and all was good, once again, in the shtetl.
The End.
Banji Ganchrow of Teaneck is grateful to all those who have reached out to Husband #1…