A dream come true

When you have dreams at age 88, it’s a good idea to seek fulfillment with efficiency. None of us, of course, are fortunetellers, but some things are known to be true. We all know that men plan and God laughs. So, as my husband, the man called Sabba or Sabba Rabba, saw the double eight looming, he shared his vision. We, our entire clan, would gather for a festive Shabbat, extending from Friday afternoon through Sunday morning, and sooner rather than later.

We no longer live in the shtetls of our ancestors in Weequahic and Bed-Stuy, where a mere flight of stairs separated us from many of our nearest and dearest, and numerous others were within easy walking distance. Our family today is spread out between Israel, California, and numerous points in the eastern United States. We have students at Hunter and Harvard and pregnant moms from Cambridge to Manhattan to Givot Eden. We have young marrieds, ancients like the two of us, and quite a few in between. United by our genes, we are all proudly Jewish and politically on the same page, which makes us a noncontentious, amiable group. Sabba’s idea resonated with all of us. We would try to pull it off.

Logistically, because it includes the largest number of family members, the New York metro area made the most sense to search for a venue. The dates would have to be cleared from everyone’s work schedules before we embarked. That took a while. Many months ago we came up with January 16-18, 2026, which I feared would be the date of the blizzard of ’26 or the flu epidemic of that same date. Even I, a highly ranked contender for Earth’s most passionate pessimist, didn’t expect both. So it wasn’t really a blizzard but enough snow to do the impossible, give me more gray hair! And it wasn’t flu, it was merely two strep throats, and two flu look-alikes. But we prevailed in spite of it all, although the threat of a closed Ben Gurion Airport meant our Israelis would have to be photoshopped into our planned motzash photo shoot.

We found the venue and it was perfect. We had envisioned a Borscht Belt style place with rooms for everyone and a sensibility of endless kosher food, certainly not cooked by any of us, with lots of space for our entertainment and davening ideas, located immediately off a major highway, with reliable snow treatment and easy accessibility. We discovered a hotel in Tarrytown, New York, that met all of our parameters. Even now, after the fact, we claim to have made the best choice. As we left, one of our young families, Momma, Poppa and four kids, sent us a photo of themselves splashing and swimming in the indoor pool, which they had all to themselves!

The hotel is fervently Jewish, so we had supplies for Shabbat, including sefarim, candles, Havdalah sets, and the knowledge that no one on the staff had to be taught any of the ritual procedures. They knew about kiddush and challot and seudot and oneg and melave malka. We were not traversing into the unknown. They knew what to do, and when, and we could focus on our togetherness and our own family style of commemorating Shabbat, which is joyful singing and participation.

With dates cleared and logistics de facto, we could focus on enjoying and sharing each other. Our babies, from Sophie to Elchanan to Yaelie, to Tamar and Jonah, aged from 11 months to 2 years, could engage with each other and all of their aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and greatgrandparents. Our sabra toddler, Nael Beeri, and his parents remained in Israel and were sorely missed. Our older kids had enormous freedom and fun, interacting with each other and with all of us. In whichever direction I looked there was a beloved family member to spend time with and kvell! I personally can attest to many multiples of truly amazing delicious hugs and kisses. There we were with our progeny, normally seen mostly on Facetime, and rarely seen all together in person. Talk about nachat! Talk about boundless bonding. Talk about joy. Talk about a dream come true! Talk about plans to do it again and praying that God is still not laughing!

And now only the magnificent memories prevail. They are beautiful. They are simply perfect. Every single piece of our Shabbat together will always be known as Z’man Simchateinu. What could be better than that?

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of nine. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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