Passover in Los Angeles and The Lace Shop Owner in Santa Barbara
Many years ago, when my parents were alive, Peter and I used to visit them often. My mother was an invalid then, and that made them semi-housebound. Papa did not drive. It fell upon Kelly, who at the time lived there, or Gilda to drive them where they needed to go. I went to Los Angeles once a month. Peter was able to come with me during holidays. This time it was Passover. It was planned that I would cook for family and friends for the holiday meals. I would plan the menu and make a shopping list. Bless him, Kelly shopped for everything so that the day after I arrived, first thing in the morning, I would start preparing. Peter and Kelly would take my parents out for the day. They loved walking by the beach. Mama would be in her wheelchair and Papa would walk beside her. Although she couldn’t speak at that stage, her face reflected the pleasure and contentment she felt in those walks.
In the meantime, Twyla and I were busy prepping and cooking up a storm. Everyone would be there for Passover. My sister Gilda and her family would come. My brother Jacky and Patricia would be there, as well as Yvonne and the boys. An old friend of the family, Victor, would be there. His wife had decided that she preferred living in Israel. A couple of Gilda’s friends would be there. Of course, our dog Max was there. He was a bicoastal dog. We really should have applied for frequent flier miles for him; he flew so often between New York and Los Angeles!
The next morning, my parents, Peter, and Kelly gathered around the kitchen table talking to us as we prepared breakfast for them and continued getting ready for the Passover meal. Everyone was happy. Papa was the happiest of us all, for he had family about him. For me, it was an opportunity to pile food on his plate, for we had a problem with his appetite. But on such occasions, he ate because he was happy to be surrounded by people he loved and who loved him back.
Passover night finally arrived! The aroma of all the delicious food wafted throughout the building. Family and friends gathered about. Max ran back and forth, greeting the guests every time the doorbell rang. Mama smiled serenely as she sat in her wheelchair, observing all that was going on. Papa was in his element as he gave voice to his wit and charm; people listened to him and laughed appreciatively. When everyone arrived, his face beamed with pleasure. There was laughter and happy greetings everywhere. It seemed like olden days when their home was always filled with people and laughter. It was good to have everyone around.
We all sat around the Seder table and read the story of the First Passover. Twyla sat next to Mama. Max sat by Papa, in the hope of a tender morsel. Papa had a soft spot for Max. They understood each other very well. Peter, Kelly, and I sat next to each other. Everyone else sat wherever they wished. It was informal. It was a very pleasant evening. My parents were surrounded by loving friends and family. We had our cherished parents with us. We realized how precious our time with them was. I have carefully folded those memories in a section of my heart. Every once in a while, I unfold them tenderly and remember them, as I am doing right now, and relive them with love.
A few days after that Passover night, Peter and I decided to take a little day excursion for ourselves. We drove to Santa Barbara. To me, Santa Barbara is a beautiful, bright jewel. It is very close to the water. It shines and glistens scintillatingly. We parked the car and walked about arm in arm. The water, the sun, the boats sailing by felt so magical. As we ambled along, we meandered into a shopping arcade that attracted us. There were many stores with tempting, beautiful goods there. One of them displayed the most gorgeous hand-loomed laces. We entered. The man behind the counter was an old, distinguished gentleman. He had a full head of shining, silver-grey hair. His face was intelligent, and his eyes were lively. He smiled at us as we entered. Both Peter and I immediately warmed up to him. He took out the pieces I pointed to. I touched them lovingly. “These have to be carefully hand-washed, you know. They cannot be machine washed,” he warned me before I could say anything. He obviously took pride in and loved everything he sold.
“Of course not! These are works of art!” I replied indignantly.
He smiled at me with approval. It seemed that in his eyes, I was deserving of buying his laces. I valued them for what they were. He now warmed up to Peter and to me as well. We began speaking as if we were long-lost friends. He confided that he had just lost his beloved wife. He told us that his daughter-in-law had no appreciation for his laces. Can you imagine what that woman had done? She threw one of his lace tablecloths into the washing machine and completely ruined it! Utterly ruined it! Did we realize how long it took to create such works of art? I did, and I was mortified by her action! I knew how much I cherished my tablecloths, how carefully I washed and ironed them. It is like having a child or a pet. If you are not capable of cherishing and loving them, it is a sin to have them! We were there for quite a while. At last, I narrowed down my choices. He began to wrap my purchases. I brought out my credit card. He hesitated and stopped his wrapping. “I only take cash or check. I am ninety something years old. It is not feasible for me to take credit cards anymore,” he explained. “I might be dead before the transaction goes through.”
Peter and I looked at each other. We did not carry a checkbook; we never do, nor did we have enough cash between us. We relied on credit cards. With great disappointment, Peter said, “We do not seem to be carrying enough cash on us. Sorry for taking up your time.” He made his slight, courtly bow that he was in the habit of doing.
The old gentleman smiled as he continued wrapping up my parcel. He enclosed a business card in my parcel and handed me another one. “No problem. Send me a check when you get to New York.”
“But how do you know you can trust us?” I asked in bewilderment.
“Ma’am, do you think I reached this ripe old age without being a judge of character? In all these years, I have seldom judged wrongly. My biggest misjudgment was when I trusted my nephew. My biggest mistake!” He handed me the package and shook both our hands warmly. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“No sir, the pleasure was indeed ours. You are a fine gentleman, and we are privileged to know you,” my husband told him sincerely.
Of course, I wrote him a check as soon as we returned home. The next time we went back to California together, we decided to visit him. We drove to Santa Barbara. We parked the car and walked to the arcade. We looked for his shop, but he was gone. Alarmed, we asked about him from the other shop owners. His children insisted he close his shop due to his old age. I think he was lonely with his wife gone. Perhaps he enjoyed speaking with people, just as we enjoyed speaking with him. A classy gentleman.
Over twenty years have passed since then. My parents and Peter are gone. I am sure he is as well. Yet, I still have memories of those times, and that keeps those times vivid and alive.