We've decided to hold a joint Yorzeight for both Oma and Opa, and rather than remembering them on the dates of their death, we prefer to remember them on a date midway between their birthdays.
We will try to complete 'Oma's Cookbook' by then, a collection of Oma's recipes, or if you will: 'edible memories from Oma's kitchen'.
I will do my best to publish them online here - or perhaps on an affiliated blog - both in searchable format and as a downloadable PDF.
In the hope of keeping Oma's memory a living and ongoing thing, I suggest leaving Oma's Cookbook open to expansion, where friends and family can share their own recipes (or versions of Oma's recipes) as part of Oma's Cookbook: "If it tastes good - share it!"
Michael

Yorzeight - On Site

We visited Oma & Opa's graves today, a year since Oma passed away.
The family came, some friends - a quorum to witness their absense.
A few words were spoken, the sentiment of her/their loss shared, and then, in the finest Jewish tradition - we went and ate dinner.
The world is a colder place without Oma, her warmth was unique & comforting - even at a distance, and conveyed a reassurance - Oma was around, even if not there at that moment; Never more that a phone call - or a cup of coffee - away.
Just knowing that, made the world a friendlier place to live, and a bit more bearable.
Now that she's gone - and every day drives that realization home more permanently - there's a void, and the world is less bearable, because you can't call Oma anymore, nor sit down for a chat with her, share your burden - and if there ever was a person not only willing, but happy to help shoulder whatever it was that was dragging you down - it was Oma.
And while they say that graveyards are full of people who can't be replaced - one graveyard in Kfar Vradim fits that description - because Oma can't be replaced. ever.
She was one of a kind, an icon, and while it may be better to have loved and lost - it hurts much more.
I must admit to metaphysical scepticism, but one thing I do know - more than living on in our hearts and memories, Oma is defined by the hole left in all that knew her.
More than talking with Oma as if she were here, I grieve her absence, and not being here with us these days, every day.
I miss you, Oma, terribly.

Yorzeight

A year has passed. Although it wasn't Yom Kippur when Oma passed away, it is this year - no symbolism, just non-synchronised calendars running their own cycles.
Nothing monumental has occurred in the past year, Opa's passing away excluded of course, just another year of running around trying to get by, and not paying enough attention to here and now.
A year of uncounted times I wanted to call Oma to let her know something - a chance meeting that she would have appreciated, a new gem uttered by Maya, news about Gili, and telling her of Elai who is growing faster than a tree; thoughts and frustrations, dilemmas and decisions, good news, bad news - things I wanted to share with Oma. And can't, anymore.
Driving is the worst time - it was always a good time (for me) to call - no one requiring my time, the clarity that being in motion gives me, and the multiple opportunities every day - to speak with Oma if not every day, than certainly several times a week.
There are other people to talk to: Shlomit, Liat & Gidi, friends - but they're not Oma, who somehow managed, while handling an overflowing plate of her own, to always be attentive, and interested, and caring, and not consumed by the events of her life.
The appreciation of a pithy line, even a pun on occasion, a new idea - this was a gift that Oma gave freely to whomever made such an offering, and with her passing, the greatness of this gift of hers, a rare and welcoming quality, becomes more apparent - and more absent.
I guess this might be called "BEing", a trait Oma may have passed on to some of her children - but not to me, and one I sorely miss since she died.
Sorry if I offer no blinding insights above - but I have none to offer, only a sense of loss and a lack of understanding and acceptance of her absence.
I also regret that the 'brilliant' idea of a blog for Oma has not been the success I envisioned for it - life is mundane, and good ideas are few and far between.
Rest in peace Oma, you are remembered fondly by those who knew you.

Where has the time gone...?

It's been over three months since Oma died, and life goes on as if nothing happened, as if nothing is missing, except every time something noteworthy happens, and the urge to share it with Oma touches that deep ache inside - and the emptiness returns, all at once.
I haven't been here enough to share news and a cup of cybercoffee with Oma - nor have others, and I'm ashamed of this.
So Oma, Maya is walking already (talking you knew, but walking is new), and Gili - you never met Gili, never smelled that wonderful baby smell of hers (although every baby has that unique scent - each baby has its own unique scent) - never held her, or looked into her blue (?) eyes... And knowing the love you had for each of your grandchildren, this is very painful to realize. A grandchild you never knew - and who will never know you.
And Maya, despite the bootcamp she put you through, immediately recognizes you when she sees a picture of you, and says: "Oma".
And Elai was just 12 and is growing huge - that phase when suddenly they're not kids anymore - they're too big, all of a sudden.
I'll stick to the happy news this visit, and promise not to stay away so long next time... Drink up, your coffee's getting cold.

Oma's Herb Garden/Grave 

Oma's Final Resting Place

We held a memorial service for Oma on a Friday, four weeks after her funeral.
We chose to make the grave an herb garden, and to keep it as simple & elemental as possible, because that was Oma's way.
All her friends from the village and the family were therem and shared some more moments thinking of Oma, and remembering her.
Here's a picture of the grave/garden for those who are too far to visit.

Gili Joins the Family

Although Oma died before meeting her, the youngest grandchild in the family, Gili, was born today, November 24th to Mike & Shlomit.
Never was Oma more absent than the moment I walked out of the operating room with Gili, taking her to the 'baby gallery'.
Of all the people I was to phone to break the wonderful news, Oma was to have been the first, to hear of her newest granddaughter.
But of course, she wasn't. Nor the second, nor even the last. Because I can't phone Oma with good news anymore - or any news, come to think of it.
While Oma was looking forward to Gili's birth very much, she left us before she could meet Gili and get to know her. And smell that wonderful smell that newborns have - the smell of infinite hope and promise, of a whole life ahead of them, where not even the first page has yet been written.
Oma will never meet Gili - nor Gili Oma. And that mutual loss is heartbreaking.
Like the phoenix reborn, new life springs from the ashes
Rest in peace, live in joy

Letter from Sheila Cole (5/11/04)

Dear Emil, Gidi, Liat, and Michael,

I have been thinking about your mother ever since I heard the news of her death. I am having a hard time believing that Shirley is no longer here and that I will never see her again. How can it be? She wasn’t that old (or at least not that much older than me) and she was such a vibrant person—alive in every way. If I feel this upset and sad, how must you feel?
I can only imagine your sorrow.

There are no words that can adequately express my sense of loss. She was an important part of my early childhood--the model for how to be a “big girl.” I tried to copy her in everything she did—even her bad habits. When I learned that she bit her nails, I bit mine too. I loved playing pretend games with her and I was honored when I was allowed to sleep over at her house. My desire to be like her in every way even led me to consider becoming a doctor to a leper colony (although I had to look up leper in the dictionary) after she told me about her admiration for Father Damon and his work among lepers.

We didn’t see each other very often after my family moved to California and she and her family moved to New York. But the time we spent with Emil and Shirley in the summer of 1975 was the best part of our stay in Jerusalem. Jenny and Sasha, who were only seven and nine at the time, still remember going out to see Roman ruins in the desert with Shirley and Emil where we splashed each other with water and were scolded by the guard.

What I most remember is being embraced by Shirley’s warmth.
She had a ready wit which always made it fun to be around her.

Please know that Mike and I are thinking of you.
You have all our sympathy. She was a very special person.

With love,
Sheila

Letter from Shiela

Shiela was one of Oma's dear and close friends for decades. Despite their often being on others sides of the ocean, they kept in touch up until Shiela's death some years ago. Shiela was such a colorful (and eloquent) person, that I felt a need to post excerpts from one of her letters to Oma...

Nov. 3rd or 4th or something!

Dearest Shirley-you-bitch:

Just when I had succeeded in throwing up some really nifty roadblocks: flares and blinking lights and tooting horns to distract myself from thinking about me, your letter. And I sat down in the middle of a bullpen of running people and let the words hit me.

Then I came back to my funny hotel room, ostensibly to work on some late copy that I really should be finishing this afternoon, and that goddam letter followed me all over the room. So I hung up my clothes and made a perfunctory pass at the tallest pile of papers (this place looks like it was inhabited by a little old lady miser afraid that they’ll come and take her away to the old folks home -- well?) and all the while your letter, following me.

Let me tell you what is happening – not the unimportant things, just the central stuff…
(In case it had slipped that fine mind of yours, pal, what I am doing in this letter is thinking out loud (on paper) all the things I’ve been avoiding thinking about for lo! these many days/weeks/months/years. Bear with me old pal, I think it’s moving…

How much shit does a friend have to read through? Sorry – I am long-winded, but in the midst of all of this babbling I have made a promise…

I am finding out things about myself: or at least asking myself questions that I’ve never really examined before… The question surfaces – where do I belong? Here? There? And the inescapable answer, getting stronger all the time, is that I belong inside myself…

Shirley dear… I am worried: keep me updated.
And understanding, so completely!, your preschool traumae. I have described a few of them, have I not? Or are your crazies different from mine? Or are we all preconditioned to suspect ourselves: our abilities, our consistency, our stick-to-itiveness…

Enough jabbering. Please write to. We have time for one more round, I think, before this trip is finished.

I miss you, too. Awfully!
Thank you for listening -- again!!

Love,

Shiela

Letter from Manny (Oma's Brother)

Losing Shirley was different than losing Rose [Oma's & Manny's mother]. Shirley used to joke about Rose every time we left Israel after our infrequent visits: "She'll bury both of us." Nevertheless, we could see the inevitable coming. Shirley, on the other hand, was always optimistic about her illnesses. "Oh, we have it under control. Feelin' great. No more treatment after next week. Etc." So her death was a surprise. She always was impulsive.

Growing up with Shirley was not easy. I was five years her senior so I was always being recruited by our parents to exert control over this unruly child. She was very independent. Peter and Rose worried about her constantly. And I was constantly telling them not to worry, she was an average kid growing up. There was no tension between Shirley and me - it was between me and our parents. They got very agitated when I refused to councel Shirley as a big brother should. I knew better than to waste my time and effort on a sister who had her own ideas. Rose and Peter had been spoiled by me. I was a goody-goody kind of guy when I was at home.

When we took up residence at the grocery store on Lapin Avenue in the late 1930s, Peter and Rose always called by her Yiddish name Shifra. Lapin was in an immigrant English-Irish neighborhood so Shifra became Skipper for some and Chips for others. I adopted Chips and that's the way I always addressed her.

When Israel was declared, much to Rose and Peter's great pleasure and pride (and surprise, I think) it was discovered that Chips was an ardent Zionist. And it was with mixed emotions that they greeted the announcement that she, her husband and her brood were emigrating. Peter and Rose were also very much involved in the new State - especially Peter - and now they had a wonderful excuse to visit.

I dimly remember the place in Jerusalem and the walks we used to take across the ravine to JU where Chips took classes. Then abruptly (characteristically) Ben was gone and Emil appeared. It was clear to everybody that Chips was very comfortable with Emil and the family quickly accepted the new arrangement.

After Peter died, Rose stuck it out in Toronto for a couple of years and then decided that she had had it with Canadian winters. Shirley was moving to Kvar Vradim and she added a room for Rose who moved in. From what we could make out from afar the arrangement worked smoothly in spite of some snarling on Rose's part in Emil's direction.

As you all know, as Rose grew older different living arrangement were made, and Chips handled it all with her usual aplomb and efficiency. She continued to go about her business, Rose's business, your business (she always kept an eye on all of you) as if
it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world. I think it was the three of you, the tight family, and constant communication, that kept it all together. It gave her strength and purpose. When Emil got sick we saw she had the right stuff. If there were any complaints we didn't hear them over here.

It takes and event like this to bring a life into focus. The picture that emerges is full of wonderful, gratifying detail and I have been examining them with memories I never knew I had. She was, to the very end, a "gitte neshima," as they say in Yiddish.

Letter from Emil to Shirley, 1975

5/8/75 (03:30)

Dear Wife,

My mother died today. I don’t understand why, but I am terribly conscious of loving you and not being with you. I am so very aware of both my father and mother being dead and longing to be with you again, to touch you and to hold you.

Interruption – you called! I love you all over and when I get home I am going to kiss you until your ears fly off!!

I was amazed at your parent’s concern about any display of emotion - not only on my part - but any other sympathizer as well. So we won’t tell anyone else that my mother is dead. Your father showed me his office as planned, we went to buy tapes as planned, records and when we got home I looked over their Hi-Fi, they were having trouble with it and played a record or two - went to Stratford, had dinner, saw Shakespeare – I drove – the country is so very serene - all of it was like a funeral – my mother is dead. Aid records, Hi-Fi, dinner, small talk and Shakespeare, I buried my mother.

Again you cried for me. Hearing you cry made me cry with you and not alone. I can’t remember anyone ever crying for me and with me. Only you know how I grieve – it’s not for my mother, she was an old lady and her time had come. I stood by her bed and just talked to her. I told her how happy I was, how good living is, I really and fully realized how not alone I am anymore. I told her all that and as I talked to her I realized how terribly alone I have been all my conscious life and how different my life is since I am with you. I watched the pulse monitor and every once in a while it went unstable – indicating (to me) that she was hearing me, and knew I was with her. I want to believe that she knew that I am no longer alone.

Dear wife, you are the love of my life, the beginning and end, complete without reservations.

Tomorrow I’ll try to find a Minyan and if not I’ll say Kadish by myself.

I love you Shirley,     

Emil               

Letters from Opa (Emil) to Oma (Shirley)

Since Opa is no longer able to make his own postings here, we'll post a couple of his letters to Oma, letters that tell of his beautiful & deep love for Oma.

Their love was very apparent, even over the past 6 years in Oma's loving devotion to Opa since a series of strokes (CVAs) left him needing the care of others.
Oma took her vow of 'to love in sickness and in health' literally, and their love was truly an amazing and heartwarming thing to see.

I'm sure that Opa will be happy with his wonderful contributions to this online kitchen, and we'll read them to him.

Are You in There?

Seeing Oma in the morgue with her eyes closed, I was reminded of a story Oma told about my early childhood:
One morning, while Oma was still sleeping, I came up to her, lifted one of her eyelids and asked her: "Are you in there?"
Looking at Oma's body, I knew, with a sad finality, that, no, Oma wasn't in there any more.

איך להוסיף מחשבות או זכרונות

האתר הזה נועד להעלות ולשתף זכרונות של אומה - שירלי ענבר - שהלכה לעולמה בטרם עת ב-13 באוקטובר, 2004
כל אחד ואחת מוזמנ/ת לכתוב פה כל דבר - מחשבה, זכרון, סיפור - שקשור לאומה, ולשתף את כולנו, שאהבנו אותה ומתגעגעים אליה, בעוד זכרון, מחשבה או סיפור עליה. וכך, נוכל להקל במעט על החלל שנפער בנו עם מותה
על מנת להצטרף לשולחן המטבח הוירטואלי של אומה, אנא שילחו אליי דואר אלקטרוני, ואזמינכם להצטרף. כתבו ל
shalevster@gmail.com
ואשלח לכם הזמנה להצטרף. התהליך נועד לסכל תוכנות אוטומטיות המפרסמות ויאגרה ושאר מיני זבל, מלהפריע במקום החם והחשוב הזה - עמכם סליחה על הטירחה. כיתבו בכל שפה שתרצו, ואתם כמובן מוזמנים לקרוא את המחשבות והסיפורים של שאר האורחים של אומה
עצה: הכינו לעצמכם כוס קפה לפני כל ביקור, וכך תוכלו לשבת עם אומה לעוד כוס קפה - כמעט
ברוכים הבאים,
מייק - אחד מבניה של אומה

How to Add Your Thoughts

Hi, and welcome to Oma's Online - a place to share memories of Oma, Shirley Enbar.
If you would like to add your thoughts to this Blog, please send me an email, to shalevster@gmail.com and I'll send you an invitation to join Oma-Online and to share whatever you would like to with the rest of us. Once you've done this, simply click on the 'Add your thoughts' link in the righthand bar, log in to Blogger (the invitation will walk you through joining), and add your story, memory, whatever.
I'm Mike, one of her sons, and the reason I'm limiting this to members is the senseless people who send spam - messages about viagra, pirated software, and other tasteless issues.
The purpose of this place is to reach out to as many people who knew Oma, and to keep her spirit of 'Come in and have a cup of coffee' alive.
Oma was taken from us on October 13th, 2004, long before her time, and this is one way in which I'm trying to deal with the huge void that she left behind.
Everyone has a story about Oma (or a million), and it's comforting to share these stories among the many people who knew, and loved her.
Note: It is recommended to sit down with a cup of coffee whenever you come to visit...

Letter from Lilly Zohary

Oct. 13, 2004

Dear Emil, Liat, Gidi & Mike,

I just received Mike’s sad phone call informing me of Shirley’s death.

I am very sorry I won’t be able to attend the funeral and tell you personally how I feel about Shirley and share with you.

I just want you to know that Shirley was a very meaningful person in my life. We shared times of crisis in both our lives and laughed and cried together about the turn of events in our lives. Even years later, we enjoyed many visits. I and Danny would pop in every time we were up north. Lately we only spoke on the phone. Shirley seemed to always be able to put some creativity into the present crisis- like forming a lunch club with neighbors when she could not leave home due to Emil’s condition. Emil & Shirley’s fondness and admiration for each other was lovely to see.

You come from good and creative stock- Shirley would hope that you remain the connected family she worked so hard to keep so.
Fond regards to all of you,

Lilly (Rozin) Zohary

Mike's Eulogy (Translated from Hebrew)

Mom, Oma, Shirley. You were one of a kind: a mother to us, your children, a loving be wife to Opa (Emil), a grandmother, Oma, to your grandchildren – and a friend to all - even people you had just met.
You had a wonderful gift of connecting with people and touching their hearts – even after a 5-minute conversation – let alone relationships that spanned years and decades…

You knew how to connect with people and how to keep the contact alive. Everyone that heard of your death – even after years of not being in touch with you – immediately felt that warm feeling, as if it were only yesterday.

Thinking of you, Oma, we feel the caress, the warmth and love, and suddenly – feel a little better.

You were a warm home to all of us – always attentive to the needs of others, and ready with a caring look, a kind word,… and a cup of coffee, of course.
And after visiting & talking with you, we’d leave a bit stronger, and a little happier.

You were a spark of light and goodness, warmth and compassion, always ready to listen & a safe haven for whomever crossed your path – or more often – whoever’s path you crossed.

And you’re gone. And the world is now a colder, harsher, and darker place.

You always chose to pay attention to others: to inquire, show interest, converse with, touch, caress. Never to yourself. Your health, your pain, your sacrifice for others. They always came first, and you, you were the symbol of “It’ll never happen to me”. And in your strength, your charm, you made us believe: “It’ll never happen to you”.

You fought Cancer for two years, but whenever we’d ask you how you were feeling, you always felt great, and everything was always fine. And instead of focusing on your battle with Cancer, you dedicated yourself to the loving care of Opa, and overcame Cancer as an afterthought, not as your main effort.

And when I spoke with you a couple months ago, you told me you had replaced your car, and only after interrogating you did it become apparent, of course, that you had been in a serious accident that totaled your old Subaru, and – how else – the gang from Me’ilyah (an neighboring Arab village) who saw the overturned car came running to rescue you, take you to the hospital, and look after the wreck – “Because it’s our friend, Shirley”.

In your world there were no strangers, Oma – only people you had not yet met & touched. Mom, you were made of the stuff of angels, not of this world, and not long in this world. You left us too early – there are so many family members and friends who need you – and so many that have not yet had the privilege of meeting you, and their lives, without your touch, are lacking.

When we called your old friends, to break the news of your death, the moment they realized we were Shirley’s kids, a smile and warmth entered their voices – because we all have a place for Shirley in our hearts: a warm and kind place, that whenever you touch it – even after years – makes you feel good.

Everyone you touched is a changed person, even if they only realized it just now.

And all that is left is to follow in your footsteps and cherish your heritage: to open our hearts a little more, to reach out to others from time to time – whether family, friends, or strangers, and yes, to always make time to sit down with them for a cup of coffee, because we all need a warm home. Today, more then ever.

And without you, we must be that warm home – for ourselves, and for others.

And we can, from time to time, think of you: remember a phone call, or a cup of coffee, or (for some) a cigarette – and to smile, and enjoy the memory, and to feel for a moment – that warmth, the contact with you – and to take some comfort in it.

So rest in peace, Mom, we are blessed having known you, and will always grieve your absence.