With Stones to Mark

Posted on 10/23/2009 10:00:00 AM
The cemetery I walked through the other day has a large Jewish section. I love to walk around here and look at the pebbles placed on the headstones. I'm not Jewish, religiously or ethnically, but there are some Jewish customs that I find so meaningful and poignant that I compulsively follow them anyway. One of them is the tradition of placing a stone on a grave when I visit. I think the most well-known example of this tradition is that last scene from Schlinder's List - a movie I was completely moved by for reasons I won't go into here, but simply cannot watch again due to the fact that I am not capable of experiencing those emotions again. Basically, my opinion about Schlinder's List is if you haven't seen it you should; it will change you forever. But if you have seen it you can't watch it again, because you've been changed forever.

/digression

I was curious to know how the tradition got started and/or what it symbolized, other than to tell visitors that followed that others had also visited the grave. So I consulted my resident anthropologist and religious historian, Dr. Google (PhD) and found the following meanings. Enjoy.

When the tradition started, grave monuments were mounds of stones. Visitors added stones to "the mound" to show we are never finished building the monument to the deceased.

Symbolically, it suggests the continuing presence of love and memory which are as strong and enduring as a rock. One name for God is "The Rock of Israel." So the rock is a reminder of the presence of the Rock, Whose love truly is stronger than death.

It is a sign of respect for the dead and stems from the symbolism of making sure the burial site is noted by a stone marker. While adding a small stone doesn't really add a permanent marking to the site, it has evolved to be one way in which an individual indicates participation in the process of marking a grave.

It may be the end result of the custom of writing notes to the deceased and pushing them into crevices in the headstone just as notes are pushed into the Western Wall in Jerusalem. When no crevice can be found, the note is weighted down with a stone. In time, the paper disintegrates or blows away, leaving only the stone. Thus, some began to think that the leaving of a stone was the custom... and so it became the custom.

There is a belief, with roots in the Talmud, that souls continue to dwell for a while in the graves in which they are placed. In the Eastern European folk imagination, these souls - even those that were benign in life - can take on a certain terror in death. The stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer and the plays of the Yiddish theatre, rich in the mythology of Eastern European Jewry, are filled with these types of hauntings: souls who returned, for whatever reason, to the world of the living. The practice of leaving stones atop a grave can be explained as a response to these beliefs. More than a simple marker of one's visit, stones on the grave are the means by which the living help weigh down souls to remain where they belong -- in the grave where they do no haunting.

Another beautiful answer to the stones on graves question takes its cue from the inscription on many gravestones: the five-letter Hebrew abbreviation taf, nun, tsadi, bet, hey, which stands for "teheye nishmato tsrurah b'tsror haChayyim." This phrase is usually translated as "May his soul be bound up in the bounds of eternal life" - a phrase wishing for eternal life for the departed.

Tsror (the fourth word of the Hebrew phrase) can also be translated as "pebble." So suddenly, the phrase takes on a more nuanced meaning, based on the historical significance of pebbles.

In ancient times, shepherds needed a system to keep track of their flocks. On some days, they would go out to pasture with a flock of thirty; on other days a flock of ten; the third day with fifty. As memory was an unreliable way of keeping tabs on the number of the flock that day, the shepherd would carry a sling over his shoulder, and in it keep the number of tsror, or pebbles, that corresponded to the number in his flock. That way he could have an accurate daily count. When we place stones on the grave, and inscribe the motto above on the stone, we are asking God to keep the departed's soul in God's sling. Among all the souls whom God has to watch over, we wish to add the name, or the "pebble," of the soul of our departed.


references here

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Welcome Back to the Land of the Living

Posted on 10/22/2009 06:04:00 AM

I've always had a thing for cemeteries. I'm not sure whether it's the peacefulness of the place, or whether it's just inbred. I used to have an uncle who was a funeral director so I spent a lot of time immersed in that world when we visited. Maybe I just like the fact that other people think it's weird. When I was in high school, I used to go on dates to the cemetery. No to do anything illicit, just to walk around and talk. The best dates were with guys who weren't creeped out by that -- the cemetery OR the talking -- but instead thought it was cool. (For the record, neither I nor those guys were cool; I'm completely aware of that now.) The other day, I took The Caterpillar and went walking. It was early morning, peaceful and a beautiful day. I plan to post quite a few of the photos I took over the next week or so. Because I can.

Cemeteries always have beautifully kept grounds.


Interesting buildings.


A place to sit and contemplate.


Callbacks to Robert Frost poems.


Mausoleums that make me wonder why anyone would ever choose the very top spot, but there is always someone who did.


Cool corridors.


Clever topiaries.


Silent sentries.


Some deep dark corners that aren't really meant for the public to see.


And geese. Every cemetery - back here, at least - is filled with Canadian geese. These were just coming in for landing.


Not a bad way to spend a morning when you need some solace.


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There's No Intelligent Life Here

Posted on 10/21/2009 08:39:00 AM
On the list of Things I Don't Need Or Want But Bought Anyway Because It's Funny (actually The KoH bought it, but still, he bought it "because it was funny" - we are so made for each other):


Because who doesn't want their waffles in the morning to remind them of their favorite television characters from thirty-five years ago?


And yes, I realize a movie just came out, but still.


On a WAFFLE?


I'll also have you know that once you put butter and syrup on them and cut them into pieces that can easily be picked up with a fork and eaten, you can't see the characters at all and if you're six, that'll be an issue. And if you're two and you have a six-year-old sister who's throwing a fit for this reason, you'll want to get on the bandwagon and throw a fit about it too.


So save your money.

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To Gillian on Her 9th Birthday

Posted on 10/20/2009 03:36:00 PM

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Hats Off to Fall

Posted on 10/19/2009 11:00:00 AM
A few photos from a recent trip to Pennsylvania. Who loves their sports? Pennsylvanians do, that's who!



I'd post the twenty-five other photos I took of the thematic content of Making Something From The Fall Harvest/Celebrate Pennsylvania's Sports Teams that we saw that weekend, but it got monotonous just looking though them. You get the idea.

In other news, the corn is as high as an elephant's eye and I finally found a photo appropriate for that 70s Action from The Pioneer Woman's website:


Except for the *I shudder to even type this* crocs on my daughter's feet, and the fact that the little one is a girl, this could very well be a photo of me and my brother taken by my grandfather's Polaroid camera back in 1979. Oh how he loved to use that camera.

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Comfortable

Posted on 10/18/2009 05:24:00 AM In:
I wish I could sleep this peacefully in a bucket.



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Excitable Ice Cube

Posted on 10/17/2009 06:16:00 AM
This ice cube formed in the our freezer the last time I baked made ice. The KingofHearts suggested I post this here and see if anyone could explain the phenomenon responsible for this.


Rejected explanations:
  • ice stalagmite formed while our freezer was defrosting
  • another version of the stalagmite theory: steam formed on the roof of our freezer and then dripped down, when we put something hot in the freezer
  • I put a particularly sexy bag of edamame next to the ice cube tray and it got excited

But of course, with a couple of seconds of consultation with Professor Google, I have already figured that out. How did we ever settle bets without the Internet?

Ice spikes grow as the water in an ice cube tray turns to ice. The water first freezes on the top surface, around the edges of what will become the ice cube. The ice slowly freezes in from the edges, until just a small hole is left unfrozen in the surface. At the same time, while the surface is freezing, more ice starts to form around the sides of the cube.

Since ice expands as it freezes, the ice freezing below the surface starts to push water up through the hole in the surface ice. If the conditions are just right, then water will be forced out of the hole in the ice and it will freeze into an ice spike, a bit like lava pouring out of a hole in the ground to makes a volcano. But water does not flow down the sides of a thin spike, so in that way it is different from a volcano. Rather, the water freezes around the rim of the tube, and thus adds to its length. The spike can continue growing taller until all the water freezes, cutting off the supply, or until the tube freezes shut.


This has been your physics lesson for the day. Remember your homework is due Monday and there might be a pop quiz on this material before the final exam.

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Intricate Fence Post

Posted on 10/16/2009 06:45:00 AM In:
There are about a hundred tiny pre-Civil War-era towns surrounding the Washington, D.C. area. One of my favorites is Ellicott City, Maryland because once, years ago I went there with a colleague for a conference and he drove us. He was an odd little psychologist who refused to use a computer or drive on a freeway. And yes, it did take us about ten days to get to that conference, thank you for asking. But despite the fact that I thought I might have to pack a lunch and scout out hotels before we arrived for the keynote address, he managed to show me a back way into Ellicott City that I've always used since. Instead of hopping off the interstate and driving through the modern section of town, then following State Park signs to the historic center, you come down this very steep hill along a two lane road that empties out into the bottom of the old main street where the mill once stood. As you do, if you look at the houses along the side of the road, you start to see the years peeling away. Toward the top there are some 90s and 00s McMansions, followed by smaller development homes built in the 80s, a little further down there are 60s and 70s track houses, deeper still a few 40s and 50s suburban-type homes, and so it continues until you reach the old city center and you have stone buildings built into the side of a hill in the 1780s, using the stone from the hill as the back wall. It's the closest thing to time travel I've ever experienced.

One of the old homesteads in the old section of town had an intricate fence, which is long since gone, but these fence posts still stand, keeping watch over their domain and taking due note of everything that happens with those cold, pietistic eyes. I wonder what all this lady has observed in her long life.


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She Loves Me Not

Posted on 10/15/2009 07:16:00 AM
In the grocery store with The Caterpillar, I uncharacteristically picked up a bunch of sunflowers at the checkout stand. I love fresh flowers, but I seldom purchase them due to that pragmatist part of my brain which constantly tells me that it's a waste of money and I should purchase things like health insurance with my pennies instead. But for whatever reason, I went ahead and bought these.

Aren't they pretty?



And then when The Caterpillar - who had been particularly cranky throughout the whole shopping trip - screamed that scream that makes my left ear bleed, I gave them to her to distract her. And then when I took them away to put her in the carseat, as in "NO NO NOT THE CARSEAT THERE COULDN'T BE A WORSE TORTURE IN THE WORLD THAN PUTTING ME IN THE CARSEAT DON'T PUT ME IN THE CARSEAT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!" that carseat, I was so tired of the whole outing and frustrated with the child that I gave her back the flowers in order to just make it home without having to control the urge to swerve into oncoming traffic.

So I'm sure you've already guessed what happened next.





There's a reason why I don't usually buy flowers.

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She Said It, Not Me

Posted on 10/14/2009 05:55:00 AM
Our dishwasher broke the day before yesterday. This has forced me to do the dishes BY HAND. WITH A WASHCLOTH. IN THE SINK. FOR TWO DAYS NOW. I keep commenting about how I feel like a pioneer woman whenever I wash a dish but no one thinks that's funny except me. After the first night when all the dishes were clean, this pioneer woman did what any good pioneer woman would do and went on the internet to order the replacement part for her dishwasher. What follows is the pre-dinner conversation in our kitchen last night:

Me: "Oh, I got an email today saying that that part had shipped so we should have it in a couple of days."

The KingofHearts: "Oh, good."

The Dormouse: "That means that Momma has to wash the dishes by hand for only two more days!"

The KoH: "Why does Momma have to wash the dishes? Why doesn't The Dormouse or Daddy wash the dishes?"

The Dormouse: "One: because I'm too little and I don't know how. And Two: because you're lazy!"

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Pick Up Six

Posted on 10/13/2009 05:50:00 AM
This post has been sitting in the drafts section of my blog for two weeks now. I've tried to write it over and over and I keep getting interrupted every time I try to sit down and write it. There are a lot of ways in which your life changes when you have kids... for better and worse. But I often think that the most obvious of them all is my inability to FINISH ANYTHING I START.

I've had a book sitting on my nightstand (only one of many, actually) that I've been trying to read for the better part of a year now. The KoH complains that the reason I never finish books is because I read slowly. But I beg to differ and counter with exhibit A.

This is pretty much how it goes each time I pick it up:


*house is quiet, kids are happily playing in another room, I have a minute to sit in my room and read. I sit back on the bed, get comfortable, switch on the light, and open to page one*


Introduction

"An island surrounded by land," wrote Ross Bastos of his country, Paraguay. For me, it is a remarkable observation not so much because it is true but because it comes from a Paraguayan. Throughout the travels described in this book, I met few Paraguayans who say their country in relatives terms: for most, there was, quite simply, no other world than their...


"Mooooooommaaaa!"


Me: "What?"


"She hit me ON PUUUUUUURPOSE!"


Me: "Well, what did you do to her?"


"I took her toy away."


Me: "Then give it back to her and maybe she'll stop hitting you." (Did I mention, I'm simultaneously going for that mother of the year award?)


*back to my book*


"An island surrounded by land," wrote Ross Bastos of his country, Paraguay. For me, it is a remarkable observation not so much because it is true but because it comes from a Paraguayan. Throughout the travels described in this book, I met few Paraguayans who say...

*Crash*


"I'm okay in here"

"Do I want to know what you're doing?"

"No."

"An island surrounded by land," wrote Ross Bastos of his country, Paraguay. For me, it is a remarkable observation not so much because it is true but because it comes from a Paraguayan. Throughout the travels described in this...

*phone rings*


"Hello?"

"I know it's your day off but I got an error message on my computer and then after I clicked 'yes' I couldn't type with my keyboard anymore."

"What the error message say?"


"I don't know; I didn't read it."


*after several minutes of googling, we figure out how to turn off StickyKeys and everyone moves on with their lives*


"An island surrounded by land," wrote Ross Bastos of his country, Paraguay. For me, it is a remarkable...


*flush*

"Moooooommmmmaaaa, she just put a whole roll of toilet paper in the toilet!"

*a fair amount of plunging is completed and hands are washed and the bathroom door is locked*


"An island surrounded by land," wrote Ross Bastos of his country, Paraguay. For me, it is a remarkable observation not so much because it is true but because it comes from a Paraguayan. Throughout the travels described in this book, I met few Paraguayans who say their country in relatives terms: for most, there was, quite simply, no other world than their own.


*wait... is it true? Did I just read a whole paragraph? I did! I just read an entire paragraph without being interrupted. Woo hoo! I did it! Maybe I can read this book after all. This book has been on my nightstand for nine months and I just now read through a whole paragraph. I think I'll try for two.*

As I traveled around Para...

"Moooooooom! She's climbing on the..."

*crash, thump*

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Is it any wonder I went to the grocery store for TWO THINGS last night and I FORGOT ONE OF THEM? This may also be the reason the dishes are half done, the kitchen floor is half swept, there's a load of whites that's been sitting in the washer for two days and I never return any one's phone calls when they leave a message.

There are a lot better tributes to children on their birthdays around that you can read. Like this or this. If it wasn't outright plagiarism, I'd just take this and post it here as my own. I can't remember why, but that seems wrong. So I will have to come up with something on my own. Do they have ghostwriters for blogs? Because that would come in particularly handy right about now in my life. Also ghostPrimaryprogramwriters, ghostlaundrydoers, ghostkitchenfloormoppers, ghosthaircurlers, and ghostmakeupappliers.

But until I can convince The Dormouse to write her own sixth birthday tribute, this is what you get.

This month, not only did The Dormouse gain a year, but she also lost something:


This wiggly tooth has been threatening to come out for about three months now and she could. not. be. more. excited. I'm told that six is a perfectly appropriate age to begin losing teeth, but somehow I remember being much older when this particular right of passage touched my life... like between nineteen and twenty. Six is entirely too early for this event, isn't it? I have instructed her to keep all of the rest of her baby teeth, because I simply can't face what comes after, namely, grown-up teeth. It is entirely too early for grown-up teeth, I say! But as apparently, I have disobedient children who refuse to obey my orders to STOP GROWING UP ALREADY, we had to start this life's ritual:

The photographing of the tooth:

The putting of the tooth in a special tooth-fairy-attracting pillow:


And the replacement of the tooth with monetary value.


Aside: I'm just the vaguest bit uncomfortable with this practice. Help me out here; doesn't it seem to set a poor precedent??? Like this is the first step in the long chain of events that teach her to price out her body parts and will end with her one day being surprised by police waving a search warrant while she's holed up in the basement watching a live auction on Ebay as people bid on the kidney she's trying to sell? Perhaps I am overreacting.


This day was marked by anticipation,


"Can I open my presents now?"

"It's 5:45 am."

"You're right. I guess The Caterpillar would enjoy watching me open presents, I'll wait for her to wake up."

excitement,

"Good morning Ms. Bus Driver, did you know it's my birthday? Well it is. It's my birthday, Ms. Bus Driver."

humility,

"They all sang Happy Birthday to me in music class today. It was SOOO embarrassing."

with a healthy expression of shock and surprise, just to make sure we knew she wasn't taking it all for granted and intended to do it again next year,

"Cupcakes at school and a cake at home? This is all just too. much. for. me." *thows back of hand against forehead in Miss Scarlet-esque drama*

We wanted to give her a party with her friends, but life has been complicated lately. In the end, we decided to have just a nice family dinner at a restaurant she likes where she got...


sung to by taxidermy specimens...

...her very own birthday cake...


...her very own birthday candles...


...kissed by a moose (what? you don't get kissed by a moose on your birthday?)...


and a host of birthday wishes from strangers at other tables -- because whenever we go out for dinner in a public place, whoever has the misfortune of being seated near us becomes her best friend. Just ask the guy who found out her birthday was coming up and gave her $5 the week before last.

On the way home she decided that she should be blindfolded while opening her presents and then have to guess what the present was while she opened it. This practice will definitely be continued in future years because it is totally hilarious... especially when she opened up her cards blindfolded and tried to guess who had sent them by feeling them.

She did have a pretty good haul, despite not having a mob of first graders over for the melee. Parental guilt is a powerful thing.

As she's gotten older, I've expected things to get easier. And in one sense, they have. She's easier to communicate with. She does things on her own more. That's nice. But it occurs to me that the parenting I do now matters more than anything I've done so far. And because of that, there's a greater potential for screwing it all up. I'm trying really hard not to do that, but The Caterpillar still requires a lot of our time and I have to remind myself almost daily that just because The Dormouse can wait for our attention these days, doesn't mean she always should.

This is the girl who made me a full-time mother. This is the girl who made me believe I was capable of the kind of love I experience every day now. I'm not sure I can ever repay her for those things. I'm not even sure I'd know how. There are a lot of lousy things about being a parent but it's this that makes up for them. This assurance that your life is somehow bigger than all the unread books, the unmet life goals, the unanswered phone calls, that master's degree you never finished. In the grand scheme of things, I realize that none of that stuff really matters in the long run. And it's all because of her.


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Washington, D.C. Metro, United States
Married, 40ish mom of two (or three, or four, depending on how you keep score) who stepped through the lookinglass and now finds herself living in curiouser and curiouser lands of Marriage, Motherhood, and the Washington, D.C. Metro Area.

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