Dakota

The Feast of the Overpass

Today I will spend blogtime preparing for the celebration. Guess what? You probably have already. I belong to a group established for the purpose of celebrating the Jewish holidays. I call it the Havari, but I know the spelling is all wrong. As is our custom, we are celebrating at our convenience, Sunday, rather than smack dab on the holiday. Chanukkah happened on January 25 -- that was the brunch which launched my appendectomy .

Some of us are Jewish and some of us aren't, but all of us participate as best we can for the sake of the children and their cultural comprehension. Let me clarify that the children despise the group. Not so many years ago whole families arrived two hours late (one hour late is de rigeuor), tear streaked and flush faced with adolescents in a hammer locks. But we persisted.

The group has been meeting for twenty three years, three times a year on the biggies, and more often when circumstances warrant. Passover is always at my
house due to an architectural feature which allows three long tables to be strung together, so that twenty five of us (now fourteen) could all sit down for the proceedings. The spirit of irreverance is with us always; more since our most knowlegeable Judaic scholar moved to D.C.

Although our stated purpose is to eat, sing and speak Hebrew, we have been through quite alot together. Originally there were six families with two kids apiece. We lost one father to a heart attack, then another in a plane crash. We have had two bouts of cancer, one of which is cured and the other under tenuous control. We have had an adoption and an adoption reunion, two lavish weddings (one a remarriage), two more this summer, and are expecting our first grandchild in June. We have been there for one another in ways we never expected to be when we started.

We haven't had the children casting their ill humor over our ritual for a number of years, since they are disbursed around the country, but they seem to be returning. The married child, will join us this year, bringing with her a spouse and a new Chagada. A Chagada is the script from which the ceremony proceeds. It tells us what to say, when to sip n' sing, when to throw locusts and eat hard boiled eggs, as we retell the story of freedom. Our current Chagada is quick and to the point. It was written for kindergarteners. The real ones take many hours. Some of us are suspicious that our new document might result in a religious takeover. If it lasts too long, the hilarity level at the table will undoubtedly rise, discouraging those who sought to reform us.

I must now ritually clear all of the past month's junk mail from the diningroom table in preparation. Some observant folk have to change all their dishes, clean all their cupboards, and spit shine their houses for Passover. Just thinking of that makes me glad I'm a shiksa.

Posted by Dakota at April 2, 2004 06:41 AM