Battle of the Trees as appeared in the Binah

I’m the type of person who loves nature. Just the thought of traveling to the mountains, walking through the forest and communing with the trees brings out the positive endorphins and makes me feel calm and serene. I grew up in the big city (yes, San Francisco really is a city), surrounded by concrete, with postage- stamp size backyards boasting a few shrubs and a couple of blades of grass.

Every once in a while, my mother would decide to grow some flowers in a window box, but they never lasted long.  Even the geraniums, which we were told were had a weed-like tenacity and could survive anything, including my mother’s care, withered away before their time. We lived with plastic flowers, rather than the real ones, which is probably one of the reasons I crave nature.

As a teenager, I would walk the ten long city blocks to Golden Gate Park to explore its hidden lakes and sprawling meadows, and (oh, how I hate clichés, but this one describes it perfectly) taking the time to smell the flowers.

My husband, however, grew up in the suburbs, in a house (yes, a real house, not an apartment) with a large front and back yard, replete with squirrels, racoons and other interesting critters. Lots of trees, plenty of nature, which is probably why (you guessed it) as a teen he would closet himself in the library, and viewed parks or nature walks as a complete waste of time. After all, ןf you can read about it in a book, or see it in a picture, why spend time actually going there to experience it?

Many years ago, one of our children drove my husband and I down to Massada. The view from the top of the mountain is so spectacular that there are no words in the English language, or any other language, that can begin to describe it. The sheer magnificence takes your breath away.  I stood there, the wind blowing in my face, unable to speak (which is extremely unusual for me) when my husband commented, “Why can’t they just put all this in a museum, or even better, a book, so we wouldn’t have to waste our time coming up here?”

Our children are more or less divided on this issue. Some see anything having to do with the great outdoors as a complete waste of time. Others look for every opportunity to get out of the city and enjoy the beauty of nature. No one really comprehends the other mindset, but we’ve agreed to disagree on this.

All this brings us to the issue of trees. As mentioned, I love looking at trees, my husband doesn’t, and my kids are divided on the issue. All that’s fine, except when it comes to the one particular tree that is right under our living room window. It’s an olive tree, and my husband is highly allergic to olive tree pollen, as are several of our children.

And just to make life interesting, every apartment that we ever lived in had an olive tree in close proximity. Hashem really does have a way of testing us!

And all that brings us to the battle of the open window. Half of our family loves open windows. Air. Sun. A light breeze. The other half doesn’t. And when that air is full of pollen, it’s more than a matter of dislike. It’s a matter of being able to breathe. Which means that as soon as spring has sprung, the battle’s begun. Between giggles and exaggerated sighs of exasperation, the windows would either be flung open or banged close. Throughout the month of Nissan, half the family would be sneezing from the pollen, while the other half would be coughing from the lack of ventilation as they cleaned for Pesach.

They say that there is a resolution for every conflict (actually I just made that up, but it sounds true, doesn’t it?). So although the olive tree is still spreading its pollen beneath our living room window, thanks to the wonders of air conditioning, the  window is no longer a point of dissention.

I’m trying to think of a moral to this story. Something related to Tu BiShvat and its being the Rosh Hashanah for the trees.  But all I can think of is how much fun we had battling over the open/closed window, and that sometimes disagreements can make one closer.

It’s all about how you go about doing it.

It's All a Game of Cards as appeared in the Binah

Have you ever had a senior moment? It’s so, hmm… one minute. There’s a word for it. I know what I want to say; it’s on the tip of my tongue. Not upsetting, no, but… Oh, this is so frustrating. Ah, right. Frustrating, that’s the word I was looking for: frustrating.

The truth is, senior moments are not only frustrating, they’re also scary. Could this possibly be a sign of something that I dare not even think about, let alone mention? And when we do speak about it, usually in whispers, we discover that we all share the same fear.

I always thought that occupational therapy was all about improving fine motor skills. Doing things with the hands. Rolling out clay, threading beads, intricate handiwork. But recently, I learned that an occupational therapist also works on improving memory skills.

Twice a week I attend Tikvah for Parkinson’s four-hour rehabilitation program. One of our activities is Occupational Therapy. The last few weeks we’ve been working on various strategies for improving our memories. Last week, we played a game that had us laughing until our bellies hurt, while challenging our memory skills.

Ayala, our occupational therapist, placed eight cards in a circle. Each card had a different picture: a candle, a funny looking bird, a mushroom, a shovel, the sun, scissors, a cute duck, and a chair. She gave us a few minutes to memorize how the cards were placed, and then turned them over. Then she pointed to various cards and asked us what they were.

We flunked that assignment. Every single one of us.

Afterwards, she asked us if we could think of any strategies to help us remember how the cards were placed. One of the ladies suggested that we incorporate the cards into a story.

Ayala added that the more ridiculous the story, the easier it will be for us to remember. So me, being a writer (who loves anything silly and ridiculous), came up with the following story based on the cards: Come, my children, let’s gather around the light of the Shamesh of the Chanukah menorah (CANDLE) as I tell you about a Chanukah miracle. Once upon a time (isn’t that how all stories begin?) a very funny looking bird (BIRD) ate a poisonous mushroom (MUSHROOM). He became so sick that he died and was buried (SHOVEL) in a shallow grave. Everyone was sad, yet, the sun (SUN) continued to shine.

At this, one of the women quipped, “Of course the sun was shining. That’s because everyone rushed to finish the funeral before shkiyah, so there would be one less day of shivah.” We all cracked up.

On a side note I am a big believer in FUN. Laughter makes everything sweeter. And so, while we do physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy and all kinds of other things to keep us healthy, we also share jokes and laugh.  Yesterday, one of the ladies (in all seriousness) said, “If people knew how much fun we have in our Parkinson’s group, they’d also want to have the disease.” 

Enough digressing. Let me continue with my strategy cum story:  But then, a woman came and with tremendous mesiras nefesh grabbed her sewing scissors (I demonstrated with the pair of scissors that I was using for my needlepoint) (SCISSORS) and pried open the grave. But the bird was gone. Instead, out popped an adorable duck (DUCK) who immediately jumped on to the lap of the story-teller, who was (obviously) sitting in a chair (CHAIR).

It was a silly story, one that really makes no sense, but the crazy thing is that afterwards, when Ayala turned over the cards, all of us were all able to recall every single one.

But now the game became even more challenging. Each time one of the ladies named the correct item, Ayala replaced the original card with a new one, which meant of course that we had to change the story. The sun was replaced with an electric lightbulb (ah, they didn’t manage to make the levayah during the day, which is why they turned on the lights) the candle with a carrot (the carrot that we use to check that the oil is hot enough to fry the sufganiyot on Chanukah), and the scissors turned into ice cream (the bird who ate the poisonous mushroom, was buried by the light of an electric bulb, escaped the grave and then ate an ice cream cone. Lo and behold, it turned into an adorable duck). The story grew sillier by the moment, but it served its purpose. None of us forgot a single detail.

Forgetfulness is not all bad. After all, no one wants their minds clogged with endless unimportant details? Or with old hurts and grievances. But it’s good to know that when we do need to remember, there are proven, albeit silly strategies to jar our memories.

Just remember to use them.