A Post for Aunt Helen
On Fridays I called Aunt Helen.
My roommates and neighbors all knew about this. As they would be getting ready for Shabbos, they would hear me through the walls as I stood on the balcony and wished her a Happy Shabbat loud enough to reach her failing ears. As I would walk back inside, they would ask how Aunt Helen was doing. Surprised, I would ask how they knew with whom I was speaking. They would then mimic my voice, booming “HELLO AUNT HELEN!! …”
On Fridays I called Aunt Helen. I forget when I started, but it was probably a few weeks into my year here. I knew how long her days were; as she lost her mobility, she would still have books, crossword puzzles, emails, and television to keep her occupied, but time robbed her of eyesight recently, too. Calling her is the least I can do, I figured, and though I was inconsistent about it initially, it soon became a part of my Friday evening routine. I would tell her about my week. She would ask if I was coming over for Shabbos. I would tell her that I would try to visit soon. She would tell me she’s glad I am enjoying the year, and would thank me for calling.
It’s Friday today, but I cannot call Aunt Helen today.
Two Fridays ago I was in the middle of a camping trip up north with 11 of the guys. We arrived in Marron, where we would pitch a tent and spend Shabbos. I called Aunt Helens apartment and she didn’t answer. This is unusual, but I could think of reasons for this. I called again 30 minutes later and again, no answer. She is probably downstairs with the Coopers eating dinner, so I will not interrupt again. Being up north, I missed a voicemail from Anita saying that her mother had developed pneumonia and was in the hospital, should I be able to visit.
It would be a full week before I found this out, though. I called Anita the following Friday morning to see if I could return some camping gear I had borrowed for the trip. She said she would be available, and that I would be able to visit Aunt Helen, though she may not be up for it. Anita asked if I had gotten her voicemail and I told her I hadn’t. I soon came over and saw a gravely weakened woman who had trouble breathing, trouble speaking, and trouble staying awake. I was unsure whether she knew I was there.
This was a far cry for the Aunt Helen I got to know again this year. She often complained that she was not the same as she was when I last saw her, and she was ashamed of that, but thank God she still had a sharp mind, and that she did. I would ask her about growing up and she would tell me about her parents, and the store they ran in Depression-era Detroit. She remembered volunteering for the Jewish National Fund, collect tzedukah to go towards a potential Jewish state, and about feeling guilty about not doing more during World War II. She was an art teacher and several times related just how much she loved her students.
Anita bust out dozens of old photos at the Shiva. There were photo albums of Helen as a little girl with her sister Essie (my Grandma); pictures of a young adult Helen with her mother; pictures of her and Irv as a newly wed couple, of birthday parties the two of them held for a young Anita, and of the them visiting an older Anita following her move to Israel. There were pictures of the old house in Syracuse, and some from particular vacations, and entire albums of her entering into grandparenthood.
A few months back I mentioned to Aunt Helen how I had gotten in trouble at the yeshiva for sketching a number of the rabbis during class. She expressed interest in a sketch, and so I drew one up. I thought it would be nice to post that below.
Aunt Helen and Portrait
Aunt Helen and Eric
