More Passover thoughts

Passover Wishes:
It may be an old story for us, but the children need to know how it happened. How the Jews left Egypt and 400 years of captivity. A community of enslaved people with the blind faith of those willing to lose the little they have and act with one purpose, to pack their bags and go forth into the wilderness. The stakes high: they had to give up the only home they knew in the hope that it would be better - there.

The story goes that the first man to jump into the Red Sea, Nachman, went against his own cautious and reluctant nature and flung himself into the breach and so the miracle happened to part the sea - of troubles.

To go against your own nature is indeed a miracle. To be released from where you were. To celebrate where you are going now. Now that you have been ‘passed over’, have escaped whatever demons that have burdened your journey thus far and are free to wander for another year in search of milk and honey - fourty years in the wilderness with just a little manna to munch. The older ones never get to the promised land, not even Moses, but the generation born in the desert, they do.

Haggadah - the next generation. It is for them we ‘tell over’ the story every year.

The rituals of Passover, fasts from the regular bill of fare, changes in habit, positions, we lean through the long suppers, reading while eating, odd ritual foods, story telling, singing. An experience of withdrawal, release from routine, even defiance as we choose to be free of the ties that bind us, to strike out on the open road, to skewer the sacred cows and eat them for dinner, sustenance for what's lies ahead: escape from oppression, our own and others, the 'pharaoh' who enslaves us with enough bread to eat in exchange for our will, hostile friends who worship false gods.

Happy Pesach.

In the spirit of human kindness, I wish you the very thing that Passover is about – freedom. The freedom to make choices, to relinquish old modes in favour of the untried in search of the ‘true’.

Cayle

April tis the cruellest month

Passover coming next week. A piece I wrote for the Star in 2002

TORONTO STAR
Mar. 25, 2002 01:00 EDT

`Next year in Glace Bay'

At Passover, we traditionally pray, "Next year in Jerusalem." This Canadian Jew, born in Cape Breton, would settle for "next year in Glace Bay" after the extraordinary reunion that took place in a small Nova Scotia town over the Aug. 1 long weekend.

Four hundred people descended on Glace Bay for the Kum-a-Haym, a celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Congregation Sons of Israel synagogue, built by Russian immigrants at the turn of the last century. The synagogue still graces the once thriving Jewish community, now shrunk to an unbelievable 20 people. Neither may be there much longer.

I went with my husband Dwight from Toronto to introduce him to my Nova Scotia home and a Jewish community that was mostly a memory already. We drove down and after three days on the road entered New Waterford by a full moon. Carly Simon sang on the radio and made me cry: "And then God and Daddy died, there was nothing those two couldn't do," because this was the first time I'd been back since my father, Solomon Chernin, died at the age of 81.

The Kum-a-Haym was a glorious event, unprecedented. Dwight got to meet old friends and family, play golf with my Pascoe cousins at the beautiful Bell Bay Golf Course. We swam in the Mira River, an inlet of fresh and salt water. My memory hadn't played tricks at all: The pure, clean feeling of our Mira Bay water was fact.

David Chernin, who lives with his family in Boston, rustled up delicious mussels. The Boniuk cousins, Isaac, Vivian and Tiny, explored the ruins of their old bungalow behind the one my father built.

There were services in the shul, a boat ride at the Mira Boat Club. Saturday night the festivities began after the Sabbath ended. We gathered at the Savoy where Aunt Sadie took Franky and me to the movies. Only the "OY" was lit up in the sign — a little Jewish humour. More abounded as voices were raised in song and we entertained each other. The full Dubinsky family in performance, proud Phil Simon kvelling from the sidelines, our own poet laureate Ellie Marshall. I read a poem and got my laugh on the line: "I'm from the Bay, where are you from, bye?" Wasn't that my childhood friend Karen Lubetski across the crowded room? Innes, my baby-sitter? Wasn't that United Israel Appeal's Barney Harris, grinning ear to ear, schmoozing with Nova Scotia's lieutenant-governor, Myra Freeman, who presided over the festivities?

Four generations of Glace Bay Jewish life have come and almost gone. We gathered the last day at the Glace Bay Cemetery where I could visit so many.

My grandparents, Louis and Rose Chernin, are buried there. Aunt Sandra and Uncle Myer, Mennie and Joey, newly laid to rest. I missed the funeral four months ago but now I stand with his grieving widow, Shirley, who made this reunion happen, and their children Marta and Mark. We all made a pact to contribute to the maintenance of this sacred ground.

Five days after our arrival we departed from Aunt Mary Moraff's, where we stayed in Sydney and spent wonderful evenings with my Moraff cousins, the first time ever with all of us together: Dennis lives with his wife Lorna and son Montana in Yellowknife; Bruce was down from Halifax and Carla and Kevin were there from Victoria with their adorable daughters, Cayle and Alysha. When Dwight asked about their father, my Uncle Buddy, we all went silent. I said, "Buddy could sing like Al Jolson" and it was very quiet for a moment while we listened. "The sun shines east, the sun shines west but I know where the sun shines best ..."

Not a cloud was in the sky as we departed on our return trip. So many things to think about and remember: Milo and Bill's little Isaac running around Mira, where Vivian's lamb once roamed free. Susan and John's young Max, who took to the magnificent waters of Mira like the proverbial duck. Aunt Ruthie Shane. Mother and Etta, my sisters Franky and Nancy, Aunt Bella.

How rich an experience. My documentary I Am Home, the story of finding our Russian relatives, was a love letter to my family and to the beautiful days of childhood, to Grandma and Grandpa and Bibby and Jack, Uncle Buddy, to Mira and Keltic, and Camp Kadimah, to people whose lives will always be entwined with mine. Just to say the names again, to hold each other once more for a moment through the layers of time, eyes stinging because you miss them and you love them so much.

We remember together the time when they were all here, too, Sandra and Myer, Mennie and Joey and Sadie and Bessie. Daddy.

Next year in Glace Bay ...



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Cayle Chernin is an award-winning video producer in Toronto who began her career as part of the cast of the movie Goin' Down The Road.


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Sunday Rainy Sunday

I forgot my password, my blogger name, and I've been entering my posts in the wrong place. It's Fall behind today and April showers are hitting with a vengence. Working on GLASS MENAGERIE, reading George Walker plays - letting the events of Friday, seeing myself across a century sink in and Pope John Paul is the news of the day.

this is a test to see if I can get it right.

Humber College

Today I will be at Humber College courtesy of Martin Lager, another Eli Rill alumnus, to talk to the students about GDTR and was asked to also bring Anita Doren's NOT A FISH STORY, a short we did together that got into the Toronto Film Festival two years ago..a lot of years in between those two projects!