The children asked me to tell them a story from "when you
were a little girl." I closed my eyes for a moment to see
what I could recollect that would be suitable for my young
audience. A memory emerged from some forgotten file that made
me smile. Immediately, I turned the image around in my mind,
examining it for any lost details. Satisfied with the clarity
that crystallized, I began to share with them the short saga
from long ago.
I was back in my parent's home on California Ave. The
small, red brick two-storied house with a chimney poking out
of the roof was graced by enormous oak trees and a few pines.
Stepping through the front door there was the living room to
the right, with a green carpet, a long couch, and a wooden
bureau that contained two large speakers and the record
player and albums behind closed doors. Behind the bureau were
floor-to-ceiling windows with sheer, gauzy curtains that let
the sunlight shine in. The room was full of guests, chatting
in clusters, holding drinks. My father, I remember, was
kneeling beside the fireplace, beaming happily as he talked
with a cousin while attempting to get a warm fire started.
The chimney was built with red brick, like the outside of the
house. But something was blocking the fire. Instead of the
smoke ascending up to the sky above, it was pouring into the
living room in gray billows. While someone ran to open the
windows, my father quickly grabbed a broom handle and began
to thrust it up the chimney to try and break through the
blockage.
Old, brittle leaves began to tumble down onto the hearth
embers and then, on top of the leaves fell a small frightened
baby squirrel! I began jumping up and down, squealing with
excitement! The little gray squirrel was SO cute and cuddly
looking and here he was in my own home!
"Can we keep it? Oh, Mommy, can we keep it?" I clapped my
hands.
The squirrel had other plans in mind, though, and began a mad
dash around the crowded room. It jumped under and over
furniture while some of the guests shrieked. Then it darted
quickly past the front door, through the dining room and into
the kitchen, with me and Mom right behind. I wanted so much
to catch and hold him! But Mom had already thrown open the
back porch door and the squirrel, with only a slight
hesitation, scampered out. I was left gazing sadly out into
the yard, keenly disappointed that my new pet had already
disappeared and that our encounter had been so brief.
I finished telling this story to my children and estimated,
from the accuracy of my recall, that I must have been about
six or seven, since we moved from that red brick house when I
was eight. So when my parents came to visit us this year in
Israel, I encouraged my children to ask Grandma and Grandpa
about the squirrel in the chimney.
"Oh, sure," my father laughed and smiled, "that happened at
Isaac's bris."
"Isaac's bris? No, that can't be!" I said with
astonishment.
"Yes, it was. He was born in the end of November and that
bris was the beginning of December and it was already
cold enough for a fire," my mother confirmed.
"But I was only about two and a half," I said with
amazement.
How could I remember something so vividly from nearly forty
years ago? I don't remember the bris at all. I don't
remember the mohel or hearing Hebrew prayers. In fact,
I don't even remember having a newborn baby brother, my first
sibling! But I can still clearly feel the excitement of
seeing that cuddly little creature cavorting over the
couch!
And then I gaze at my own two-year-olds. How much of their
day-to-day existence is so exciting that it is etched
eternally into their memory cells with complete cognition?
The fuzzy gray squirrel reminds me that my own children's
memories are being forged right now, and I would like them to
be lovely ones.
