Category Archives: Family history

April 20, 2026 · 7:30 am

How My Father Shaped My Jewishness

By Herbert Munshine (Great Neck, NY)

My father never called me by what I call

my American name.

I was never Herbert, Herbie, Herb or even,

as a Scottish fellow teacher used to call me

during my time in West Africa for the Peace Corps,

Bertie. To my dad, I was always a very guttural “Chaim.”

I never questioned his choice.

(A Herb by any other name….)

To my teachers, my friends, my sisters,

I was Herb or Herbie but to my dad, I was consistently

Chaim. It was good and even comforting to be addressed

that way by him. In mature retrospection, I realize that

his use of the Hebrew name gave me my Jewish identity.

It’s as if he used the name to remind me of who I am:

a Jewish male, a descendant of a proud people,

a member of a not-so-massive group who love peace,

education, community, ambition;

a never-ending congregation whose members

represent the sacred holiness of life —

even in the face of constant enmity.

All this emanated from a name that has always

carried with it a truly deep meaning in the simple

yet complex translation: “Life!” In my final maturity,

as I reflect, even against my will,

I occasionally stumble onto wisdom

and realize the gentle options which

he offered up to me: Temple Emanuel visits

for major holidays, after-school Hebrew culture classes,

public school Hebrew language classes

(I won the Golden Ayin and was President

of the Hebrew Culture Club), two agonizing visits to

Jewish cemeteries. Even in the presence of death, I —

Chaim (my soul hears echoes of my father’s voice

together with a whisper of assurance from my mother) —

even in the midst of humbly resting Jewish souls

gone from one kind of community to

a much more peaceful one —

I am my father’s Chaim.

I am my lifetime definition

of a Jewish life!

Herbert Munshine grew up in the Bronx and graduated from C.C.N.Y. with both a B.S. in Education and a Master’s Degree in English. You can find his baseball poetry on Baseball Bard where he has had more than 100 poems published, and where he was recently inducted into that site’s Hall of Fame. He lives with his wife in Great Neck, NY.

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April 13, 2026 · 7:30 am

Visiting on Father’s Day

by Lillian Farzan-Kashani (Santa Monica, CA)

Your energy shines

Like the sun rays

Grateful to be near you, 

I clean off your headstone with rosewater

What a gift to be raised

In the language you spoke

Hayedeh and Faramarz on repeat

In your honor

I wish we could have gotten 

Further into the

Rumi + Hafez of it all

Perhaps not a poet

But a philosopher

I wonder what you would say now

My fiancé’s flight canceled

Bombs going off in your homeland

And too close to where your parents rest

Would you tense like the rest of our family 

At the sight of a kefiyyeh?

Or see it just as

The stars I was given as a child, to wear around my neck

A symbol of

The people, at the end of the day

With whom you found grace, even kinship 

Moved by their beauty and hospitality

Oh how I long for more time spent with you, Baba, your leveled head and all

Lillian Farzan-Kashani is an Iranian American and Jewish therapist, poet, and speaker based in Los Angels, CA. Much her her work is rooted in being a child of immigrants and is reflective of her intersectionality. Read more about her professional and creative pursuits at https:www.lillianfarzan.com/

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April 6, 2026 · 7:30 am

Shabbat

by Penny Perry (Fallbrook, CA)

My six-year-old granddaughter

comes home from school

and declares, “Jesus saved me.”

My four-year-old granddaughter

echoes, “Jesus.”

“I need to tell them who we are,”

my daughter says.

My daughter found Judaism on her own.

I’m a Jew with Buddhist tendencies.

I pray to God and escort live spiders

from the shower to the grass.

My daughter gathers flour, honey,

eggs, oil, sugar, and yeast,

pours them in a mixer. The mixer hums.

She hums, lets the dough rise,

rolls the dough out.

She’s beautiful in her pink dress

and shawl, her hair tied back,

one loose curl.

She shapes the dough into four braids

and weaves them into a loaf.

She brushes the loaf with an egg wash,

bakes the bread to a golden brown.

She tells her daughters that all over

the world at sundown on Shabbat Jewish women

light candles. The candles she picks

are small with tiny flames. She places

each candle in a glass and puts them

on the cupboard. Each girl will have a candle of her own.

My daughter shows her daughters her book

of prayers, her Hebrew name embossed

on the cover. She says a prayer

in a language her girls have never

heard before. She asks them to close

their eyes and picture God,

says God loves them and will keep them safe.

I don’t tell my daughter that a friend

carries her flour and honey,

eggs and oil to the synagogue, 

where police in uniforms holster

their Glocks, guard the temple,

so my friend can bake and worship

in peace.

My granddaughters stand in their dresses,

their eyes closed.

I picture them as grown up mothers praying

in their kitchens at sundown.

I wipe my eyes, breathe in the scent of baking bread.

Penny Perry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize six times, by six different publishers. Garden Oak Press has published two of her poetry books, Santa Monica Disposal and Salvage and Woman with Newspaper Shoes. Her poetry has appeared in many publications, including Earth’s Daughters, Lilith, Poetry International, San Diego Poetry Annual, Paterson Literary Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, and Limestone Circle. Her novel Selling Pencils and Charlie was a finalist in the San Diego Book Awards. She was the prose editor at Knot Literary Magazine for ten years. In the early 1970’s, she was one of the first female screenwriting fellows at the American Film Institute; a screenplay she wrote there became a film on PBS. 

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March 30, 2026 · 7:30 am

Our Brooklyn Seder Table

by Sherri Blum (Wading River, NY)

My parents were both born in Brooklyn. They each came from strong Jewish families, and because my parents took lots of home movies I was able to get a glimpse into their past. On these 8mm tapes I watched scenes from my parents’ wedding, which showcased their one-bedroom apartment, and, in addition, scenes of family Passover Seders. 

All the relatives were dressed up for the occasion. Men in their suits, ties and hats; women in their finest dresses adorned with broaches and pearls. The movies were silent so I had to interpret their facial expressions as I watched people laughing and kids running around. There was plenty of smiling and waving at the camera. I could almost read their lips as they read the Haggadah and sang “Dayenu,” which brought a warm and loving feeling that made me feel connected to those who have passed on.

The seders that I personally remember took place ten years after the time when I watched the older videos. My relatives on my father’s side would gather at my grandparents’ apartment in Brooklyn. This included my father’s two brothers, their wives and kids (my cousins!). The building was built during World War Two. When you walked in the front door of the apartment building, you needed to be “buzzed” in. 

Dressed in my fanciest dress and patent leather Mary Janes, I arrived with my parents and my two older brothers at my grandparents’ Brooklyn apartment and felt transported back to the 1930’s as I entered what felt like a large ballroom. I was immediately struck by the sight of the black-and-white Art Deco tiled floor, the cement walls, and the high ceilings. 

The best part of walking into the lobby was the old elevator. There was an older African-American gentleman, small in stature with a kind face and a gentle voice named Bill, who would open the elevator door and allow us to pile in. The elevator door had a small, diamond-shaped window. If I stood on my tippy toes, I could see the elevator climbing past each floor. It was the start of an exciting evening for me. The thought of seeing all my cousins, the laughter, the matzoh balls, my uncles singing off key—it was all about to begin!

Dinner was always delicious and thankfully predictable. You’d find my grandmother dressed in a housecoat with an older Russian woman who she’d pay for the night to help clean. The woman never spoke to us. She stayed by the sink and continuously washed dishes, silverware, and pots and pans. We tried talking to her, but I don’t think she spoke much English. She would nod and smile. 

The apartment was small, but a perfect size for my grandparents. The kitchen came complete with a white enamel Hoosier cabinet and a very small round table with four small wooden chairs. The living room was right off the kitchen. My grandmother had her couches covered in plastic. There was a black piano that took up a good part of the room. Oddly enough, neither one of them played.

For Passover, the living room was set up with multiple folding tables lined up next to one another. The tables were adorned with my grandmother’s vintage white tablecloths, which were mildly stained with grape juice and wine from past Seders. Of course, the kid’s table came complete with wine glasses filled with Welch’s grape juice. We weren’t old enough for the Manischewitz just yet. But, boy, we felt so grown up with our “real” glasses. The table was set with matching place settings using my grandmother’s white and gold china. Unfortunately, there were not enough matching wine glasses, but that was ok. We made do.

Upon entering the apartment, you’d find a delicious platter of chopped liver and crackers to help tide you over until the start of the Seder. Stacked next to the platter was a pile of Haggadot for everyone to take for the readings. In addition, my grandmother’s matzah cover was proudly displayed, and, after the day was over, would be carefully and reverently stored until next year.

The kitchen was very small and full of the smells of the Passover dinner, and, like a clown car at the circus, people would pile in one-by-one to take their turn sampling Grandmother’s famous matzo balls, which sat in a large stock pot filled with broth and an endless supply of matzo balls, while she stood off in a small corner of the kitchen, lovingly and proudly watching her family enjoy all the hard work she’d put in. She had cooked for weeks before the holiday and froze whatever she could to save time.

The Mah Nishtanah served as a way to engage all of us, both adults and kids. Although it was my father and my uncles who would do the singing, the tradition of asking the questions was given to the kids who were old enough to read. To this day, I remember the pride I felt when my brother would answer the question “Why is this night different than all other nights?” And although I was very young at the time, I can still feel the weight of the answer.  I knew there was something very special in being a young Jewish girl and being a part of a group of people who endured hardships and triumphs. It was a humbling experience.

During dinner, I felt so grown up “sipping my wine,” but the traditions during the Seder were a lot of fun, too, because they only happened once a year. The small china plates, which had two pieces of gefilte fish, would be passed around and, of course, there were the two traditional bottles of Gold’s horseradish. (I would always choose the red one.) From a kid’s perspective, the first part of the Seder may have taken a while but doing it each year instilled the lesson of patience. 

Towards the end of the seder meal, my grandfather would play a game with us kids called “find the matzoh.” If you won, you’d get a $5.00 bill. I knew where it was every year because he would hide it in the same place. The piano bench! I’m not sure if that was him forgetting or if I was his favorite and he wanted me to win. 

After eating my share of chocolate matzoh and macaroons, it was time for the kids to have fun! As younger children, after dinner, we would congregate outside of the apartment in the hallway and run up and down the stairs. 

Thanks to the holiday, I got to see my cousins every year without fail. Ordinarily, I would see my cousins at a family party, but it was only a few times a year at most, so seeing them was very exciting. 

It’s so funny looking back, how an old hallway and a bunch of kids provided memories that I would forever remember with so much fondness.

Sherri Blum lives in Wading River, NY and enjoys writing, antiquing, baking and animal rescue volunteering.

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March 27, 2026 · 7:30 am

My turn to host the seder

by Catherine Durkin Robinson (Chicago, IL)

I had one chance to get this right. 

I was in my 30s, a relatively new mom, and had been lobbying – for years – to host my own Passover seder. We usually went to my mother-in-law’s house for the holiday. And she wasn’t interested in giving that up. Looking back, I don’t blame her. Historically, Passover had always been her day to shine. My mother-in-law’s brisket was legendary. Her matzo ball soup cured whatever ailed us. Her chopped liver and gefilte fish were…edible. 

For some reason, I thought it might be my turn. I don’t remember why she finally agreed. Nothing in our history together indicated that this was a good idea. 

I was a convert who liked to tell her, a woman who was Jewish before I was born, why she should have a Kosher home. We didn’t think about food in the same way. Early on, after we were first married, my husband and I lived several states away. I came home to visit, and my mother-in-law gave me about twenty blintzes. She made ricotta cheese blintzes for my Irish Catholic family, explained which ones they were in a pile of similarly-looking crepes, and which ones were potato blintzes, my husband’s favorites, to bring back to him. 

I didn’t pay attention and goofed it all up. After I got back home, I realized I had left the potato blintzes with my family and took back the cheese ones. 

My non-Jewish friends didn’t understand, but blintzes are a big deal, and my mother-in-law was angry about it. The poor woman didn’t ask for much, and I can appreciate that now as my own children routinely mistake my latkes for knishes.

But at that point, I wasn’t domestically inclined and couldn’t cook. Passover further complicated matters because I couldn’t use any of my tried and true ingredients – like pasta or bread. I was also a vegetarian and raising my twin sons as vegetarians. 

I had no business in this game.

But my husband and mother-in-law had put their faith in me. So I rolled up my sleeves and promised that Passover 2006 would be one for the record books. 

Mistake #1: I found recipes online under “Vegan Jews Unite.” In my defense, they looked good. We were living in a more rural area of Florida at the time, so I had to travel about twenty miles to find grocers who knew what “kosher for Passover” was, but I did it. I found every ingredient, including Matzo Meal, which my mother-in-law swore was a myth.

Mistake #2: I rented a big table and lots of chairs from the same local church that “borrowed” my synagogue’s parking lot on Christmas. It had little crucifixes on every seat cushion. I shrugged and said to my husband, “Interfaith cooperation at its finest.” 

Mistake #3: I didn’t send out a specific time on the invitation, so my husband’s family showed up three hours early. There went my idea of a peaceful meal preparation. 

Mistake #4: I told everyone they didn’t need to bring anything but a smile. So no one brought any extra Xanax. Rookie error.

Mistake #5: Several of my Irish relatives were still boycotting me because the year before, when a relative came down with shingles, and they needed my house for Christmas Eve dinner, I made all of them use paper bowls for the oyster soup because “shellfish is unclean.” The few family members who would attend Passover arrived to find that I’d thrown out all the beer and whiskey and replaced them with something called “cherry-flavored Kosher Wine.” They stopped speaking to me for years after that.

Mistake #6: Our friend Jon arrived hungry. He had been looking forward to a traditional Passover meal for weeks, fantasizing about brisket and homemade matzo ball soup. Then he got to our place and walked into the kitchen. No brisket. 

“But look,” I said, excitedly. “A gigantic salad!” 

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing as he perused the buffet while my mother-in-law sat at the bar, shaking her head, sipping cherry wine. 

“What is vegetarian Passover lasagna?” he asked. “All I see are pieces of spinach and matzo dipped in oat milk.”

“Don’t forget the almond cheese and tofu loaf,” my mother-in-law muttered.

Jon didn’t believe I was Jewish. He demanded to see my conversion paperwork and, to this day, requires an apology every Yom Kippur. 

Mistake #7: I forgot to tell my stepdad that, although the seder began at 5 pm, we didn’t really start eating until quarter to eight. That blood sugar drop almost killed him. He was like a kinder, gentler Archie Bunker, so imagine his face, sitting down with a fork and knife, seeing the rest of us sitting down with Haggadahs. 

Mistake #8: I heard my husband’s cousin mutter, “Once a shiksa always a shiksa,” after I placed an avocado pit on the Seder plate instead of a shank bone. 

Mistake #9: After announcing my matzo ball soup would be a vegetarian, salt-free event, I was unceremoniously kicked out of several wills. 

Mistake #10: I forgot where I hid the afikomen. My children still have trust issues. 

Mistake #11: I served Passover dessert “sweetened” with carob. But by that time, most everyone had gone home, vowing to lose our phone number. 

Eventually, everyone forgave me. It’s true that time heals. So does living in a city with plenty of people who’ve heard of good, kosher for Passover wine, soup, dessert, and brisket. And by people, I mean caterers. 

Catherine Durkin Robinson is an end-of-life doula and educator, living in Chicago. You can find her on Substack. 

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March 23, 2026 · 6:30 am

What They Thought

by Bill Siegel (Boston, MA)

You thought you were Black,

my cousin said,

talking about high school

when we thought we were

twin brother and sister,

and I guess I did,

just because I read Malcolm X

in a school almost pure-white

My parents thought

I’d be a rabbi

just because I kept studying Torah

after my bar mitzvah

And even though I stopped at 14

even after that, they thought I’d return

Three years later, while the car radio sang,

my mother cried

when I told her I thought

there was no God for me

Another three years, Yom Kippur,

home from college, a note by my bed

We’ve gone to services. Meet us there

if you think you still care.

And three years after that,

when I brought home my shiksa wife,

even then,

even now, when they think of me,

they think, he could have been a rabbi

 ******

Bill Siegel lives in the Boston MA area, and writes both prose and poetry – about family, fishing, jazz, and more. He has two manuscripts in process: “Printed Scraps”, poems inspired by Japanese woodblock prints; and “Waiting to Go Home”, about family and memories of growing up. His work has been published in “Beyond Lament: Poets of the World Bearing Witness to the Holocaust” (Northwestern University Press), and “Indigenous Pop: Native American Music from Jazz to Hip Hop” (University of Arizona Press). His poems also appear in Blue Mesa Review, Rust+Moth, JerryJazzMusician, Brilliant Corners, and InMotion Magazine, among others.

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March 9, 2026 · 7:30 am

Yiddish Lesson

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

Mamashaynele always came with a smile

and a pinch of my cheek, an adoration

of my young self for just being alive.

Let me feel your keppy always came with a kiss

on the forehead, sometimes followed

with You’re hot and the shake-down of thermometer.

Geh shlofen always came with a wave

of the hand toward the stairs, a directive

to clear the room for adult conversation.

We shlepped to the avenue to the five-and-ten,

noshed on bagels hot from Watson’s factory,

shmecked the scallion shmear and nova lox.

We ate a bissel homemade lokshen on Passover,

eggy strips enjoying their chicken soup bath

with constant companions, matzo balls and farfel.

What a punim always came with a shake of the head,

a face only a mother could love, such a shande.

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies (HGS) from Gratz College, where she teaches in the HGS graduate programs. The author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse, her work has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, Tiferet, Minyan, Jewishfiction.net, Michigan Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She serves as Director, Mercer County (NJ) Holocaust, Genocide & Human Rights Education Center.

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February 16, 2026 · 7:30 am

Diaspora

by Sxdni Small (Oconomowoc, Wisconsin)

My grandparents spoke Yiddish born of shtetls and teeming East side apartments,

Hebrew, Russian and English flowed too, from lips stretched thin on weary faces.

Voices of marketplace and shul, an ancient people in a new land,

ancestors who formed a treasure trove of tongues built from centuries of memory.

Herring in cream sauce and dense rye bread in a muggy Chicago apartment,

chocolate babka, deep and rich as whispered Yiddish lullabies,

sweet or savory kugel, a timeless dilemma.

Tzimmes, gefilte fish, plump kreplach, honey cake

calling for homage paid to the shrine of Ashkenazi gastronomy.

Windswept souls of Diaspora keen us home,

those who are still more than shadow.

I remember them, as they cannot.

Because they were, I rise.

Born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Sxdni Small grew up in a Jewish household where books and community organizing were household staples.  Sxdni is a member of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association.  For several years they helped proof and wrote articles for their synagogue newsletter.  Their pieces have also appeared in Milwaukee’s Jewish Chronicle. You can read their short story, “The Friendship Trip,” in the March, 2025 issue of Creative Wisconsin Magazine.

In their free time, Sxdni is also a devoted dog training geek and enjoys a soothing cup of honeybush tea while reading about what makes authors tick.  This is their first published poem.

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February 9, 2026 · 7:30 am

Long Grief

by Pam Adelstein (Newton, MA)

There used to be much to do. Recite the Mourner’s Kaddish daily. Phone calls, waiting on hold, forms, estate management. Sorting and donating Dad’s personal goods. Panicked phone calls and texts from my mother. Explaining my status as a mourner — taking the year off from dancing at celebrations, declining blindingly joyous events that chafed against my mourning soul. Friends checking in. Feelings to process. All the “firsts” — first Thanksgiving, first Father’s Day, first birthday, etc. — without Dad.

At the three-year mark, I am relieved that these urgent and important tasks are completed. Now, less urgent, less important tasks remain. Paperwork. Boxes to sort through. When I consider tackling these, my energy wanes suddenly, and I tell myself “Another time.” Honestly, who knows if that time will ever arrive.

My acute grief has evolved into long grief — not found in a psychiatry book, and not identifiable by observing me. I am my usual self, except when I am not. I have not discovered anything to do with this long grief, except to feel it. When I see my dad’s handwriting. When I gaze at a photo of his smiling face and deep blue eyes. When I hear his voice in my head. When I repeat his words and favorite phrases. When I try to better understand who he was. When I share an anecdote about him that makes me chuckle. When my birthday nears and I experience the pang of his absence, knowing there will be no happy birthday phone call from him this year — or ever.

Since his death, December triggers foreboding, and January brings me an uncomfortable cloak of vague sadness. Attempts to shove down feelings of not-rightness are unsuccessful. And then I remember, January is when my dad died of COVID complications. When my mom called the ambulance. When his oxygen saturation was in the 60s. When he was hospitalized. When he went to rehab. When rehab called to tell me that they were doing CPR and later called about his death on day 10 of isolation. When the visit I had planned on day 11 became time I spent with his body, saying goodbye. COVID is uniquely fraught for those of us who work in the medical field and who have lost loved ones to the disease. With each COVID surge, fraught feelings resurface. Images and memories intrude in my day. A complicated facet of my grief.

The Yizkor service occurs four times a year. It is a time for Jews to remember and honor loved ones and those who have died and been martyred. We recite parts of the service privately and quietly, and other parts aloud and together. I suppose this separate-yet-together praying brings comfort to many. For me, since my dad died, Yizkor has not brought such comfort. Instead, it spotlights that my father is no longer alive. Participating in the Yizkor service reminds me viscerally of the year I stood daily and recited every kaddish, feeling alone with the dissipating sound waves of my voice. In the time “before,” I took for granted the carefree privilege of leaving the sanctuary during Yizkor to shmooze in the hallway. Today I am part of those who remain in the service. I am a newbie. Most of those in the service are more experienced at this than I, their loved ones having died many years ago. During the private, quiet portion of the Yizkor service I wonder whether others feel like an old scar is pulled away. Do others feel tethered to a similar long grief?

Pam Adelstein is an active member of her Boston-area minyan. She lives with her husband and has two grown children. She enjoys hiking, yoga and kayaking, and works as a family physician at a community health center. Writing is a way for her to express the emotions around her work and personal experiences, connect with others, and be creative. Her writing can be found at Pulse Voices (search Pam Adelstein), at WBUR, Doximity, and STAT.

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January 12, 2026 · 7:30 am

Each morning

After The Composition by Lee Krasner (USA) 1949

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

Each morning I study remaining pemphigus

lesions, each a disk of genetic memory

on a roadmap. I scrape

at their composition, want the navigation

to be smooth and not parched haystacks

of eastern European DNA neglected 

by formerly fertile river beds. Those crusty

white outlines, old sienna or newer red

perfect cul de sacs, pushing themselves

against each other on shtetl streets,

saying Shalom Aleichem and expecting

Aleichem Shalom in return. Each one

different, each one the same.

Barbara Krasner has been grappling with a rare and incurable autoimmune skin disease that is known to afflict descendants of eastern European Jews. She found solace in the artwork of Lee Krasner. Barbara’s first ekphrastic poetry collection is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Editor’s note: To view The Composition by Lee Krasner, visit: https://www.artsy.net/artwork/lee-krasner-composition

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