December 12, 2007-Chanukah In Vermont

On the fourth day of Chanukah we went to our friend’s house in S____ . You’ve met him before—"The Vermont Jew"—and we trekked all the way up there to be a part of his annual celebration. He had told us for many years that he invites all the Jews he knows who live in Vermont and a few secular Gentile friends. “A good time will be had by all,” he promised, “so rent a car (four-wheel drive since you never know) and come.”

“And,” he added with a wink, “even though the house is not that big, there will be plenty of room for the two of you. As you might imagine, there aren’t that many of us up here.”

We weren’t concerned about that. We prided ourselves as being the opposite us people. And even if we were most comfortable among co-religionists, which we aren’t, Vermont has such a history of toleration—wasn’t it the first state to legalize civil unions?—that we knew our friend’s Gentile friends would make us feel right at home. But on the other hand, dour Calvin Coolidge was born and raised a scant 10 miles away and Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon religion, grew up in Sharon, the nearest town. We had better, we thought, keep our eyes open. Just to be sure.

We agreed to come to the party because the date for it corresponded nicely with a meeting we had scheduled in Boston. Thus, a plan began to take shape--take the train to the meeting, rent a car (an all-wheel drive), and then drive first to Vermont, stay overnight in an inn in Woodstock, and then the morning after the party drive back to the city.

When we told him we would finally make it there this year, I could hear the excitement in his voice in spite of the fact that there is scant cell phone reception in his town. Through the crackling in the connection I could make out his saying, “We so happy that . . . And if you want to you can . . . But then there is the . . . and latkes . . . all you can . . . with caviar, which I know is not . . . But if you like . . . applesauce . . . We have a neighbor who . . . he, though, may not . . . from his trees . . . which kind you’ll have to . . . know me and nature, however . . . You met them in the city, my cousins . . . remember, she works for Struck, Struck . . . and he . . . the biggest, as his mother used to . . . After all, we’re Jews!”

It was a beautiful drive through the mountains from Boston to Woodstock and we were happy to have the formidable car since at the higher elevations the snow was falling and beginning to accumulate. But the highway crew got right on it and cleared the way for us as if they were sent out to escort us to our hideaway. We arrived before long and settled into our charmingly chintzed inn and had a romantic dinner and much wine while snug at our table right by the fire. It was an evening right out of a New England cliché. We even had a fireplace in our room and made good use of it after tottering up the creaky stairs. We were so happily weary that we fell into an enchanted sleep, oblivious to whatever traffic noise there was just outside our wreathed windows.

The next day couldn’t have begun more beautifully. The sun glinted on the dome of the Universalist church right across from the inn and the rest of the picture-postcard town was covered in a blanket of new snow. But overnight the sidewalks had been cleared and we able to get about and complete most of our holiday shopping before lunch, which we devoured at the counter of the 1832 Barnard Country Store. Another magical setting where homemade soup never tasted so good!

And after that, it was time for another fire and a two-hour nap. We would be well rested for the drive over to S____ ; and although large parties with rooms full of strangers are not our favorite way to pass an evening in the country, we knew how much our being there meant to our friend; and we were feeling so relaxed and intoxicated by the beauty of the day and what we had so pleasantly accomplished that we were ready for even that kind of gathering or anything else that might come our way—even an unexpected blizzard.

But we were not prepared for what actually happened once we got there.

After pulling off and depositing our boots in the mud room, ladened with gifts for the children and our hosts, we made our way through the throng of Vermonters in their plaids toward two familiar faces—our friend’s New York City cousins who we had met for the first time a few months ago. L____ and R_____. How glad we were to see them! It would make things so much easier for us—less pressure to make small talk about the weather this time of year, the short days, how our car fared in all this snow, and the results of the hunting season: “So, did you finally manage to bag that doe?”

Thus we raced toward them—not for the usual New York talk about new restaurants and how crowded downtown has gotten with all those Europeans flashing their strong Pounds and Euros.

They had situated themselves right by the entrance to the huge farmhouse kitchen where most of the guests had gathered and right by where the bar was set up. Happily they recognized us as we did them and seemed thrilled to finally have someone to hang out with who was not much interested in talking about organic farming.

Rona almost ran to them. I lagged not far behind. “R____ , how nice to see again.” She exchanged a real New York hug with her as if R____ were a long-lost friend. “And L____ , you look so well. I didn’t know you would be here. How are you?” Rona was glowing.

But before I could even extend my hand in greeting, I could see his balding brow and face collapse into a frown, “Not so good, to tell you the truth.”

I stepped back as is my wont but Rona moved in closer. Before she could even ask him what was going on, he launched into a virtual monologue, “It’s my mother. She’s 87 and is in assisted living. She has a problem with her mitral valve but she’s too weak for treatment much less an operation. I’m an oncologist, as you may remember, but as a physician I know much too much when it comes to my own family. Especially my parents. My father died two years ago. He had Parkinson’s. That was very nasty. To witness that powerful man decline as he did. It broke my heart. You know how people who are not physicians have the ability to deny what is going on with regard to themselves and their loved ones and how that can protect them from the worst when their parents have an incurable illness? Well for those of us who are doctors, there is no possibility of denial. Not being able to deny what is really happening is essential to us when we are treating our patients, but it is a terrible burden when we see our parents suffering—when there is nothing we can do—as with my mother.” I could sense, poor thing, that he was about to burst into tears.

In spite of that, perhaps because of that, as surreptitiously as possible, I began to tug on Rona’s sleeve. I hadn’t come all this way to picture-postcard Vermont to lapse back into the very things in our own New York lives that we were frankly, for the weekend at least, hoping to deny. But here was this L____ person, who we barely knew, in pain to be sure, laying this misery off onto us.

Rona wouldn’t budge. And though I had my eye on the nearby bar, he continued, “You know how these things are. I’m not a cardiologist but I know enough to understand that even the slightest change in the heart can bring about catastrophic consequences. Take my mother as an example—until last month she was getting on reasonably well. True, she had trouble going to the bathroom herself. That’s why we moved her to assisted living. But still she had some measure of independence. Then just a few weeks ago the opening in her affected valve narrowed by much less than a centimeter and now look at her situation. She cannot get out of bed, and the aides have to bring her a bedpan every hour or two. The director is saying she needs to be moved up to the skilled nursing floor. And I can’t sleep at night, considering what I know about the consequences of her condition and what such a move will mean to her. She, after all, not too long ago, with my father . . .”

With that, especially with bedpan images floating in my mind, though I remained at Rona’s side, I began to drift away. As a Jew, my first thought was, How typical. You can bring a Jew up to Universalist and tolerant Vermont for Chanukah but you can’t take the Jewishness out of the Jew—for us it continues to be all about illness, dying, and death. No amount of draydlnig or, if you prefer, wassailing, will make any difference.

As L___ continued to Rona’s apparently rapt attention, I wondered what our Vermont friend’s Gentile friends would have reacted to L___’s “Not so good greeting.”

Considering where he had placed himself, right by the bar, I suspect they would have said, “Sorry to hear that, chap.” And added, without pausing or skipping a beat, “I wonder if they’re making any Martinis over there. I like mine very dry. Don’t you?”