An hour after I got home from a month-long business trip to China last fall, I was hungry again – hungry to go back. Last year, I hankered for the excitement of living alone abroad, for the challenge of communicating in a new language, and for the autonomy of having nobody else’s opinion to consider in making my decisions. (Of course, it’s cold comfort to have complete control of the remote when there’s nothing on television in English).
‘Tis the season – the season for overeating, celebrating and gathering. It’s also the season of giving praise, whether to your mother-in-law (ok, to my mother-in-law) for her delectable stuffed cabbage, or to your children for decorating the sukkah with such creative flair, and to God – for His gifts, forgiveness, and patience with us.
On September 11, 2001, after my Manhattan offices at the Jewish Federations of North America were evacuated, I walked across the street to pick up my friend Wendy from her office, and the two of us headed uptown to get my husband Michael from his. We planned to camp out at Wendy’s Upper West Side apartment until the Long Island Rail Road began running again. We made one stop along the way at the supermarket, to pick up the necessities we thought we would require if we couldn’t leave for a few days.
I remember exactly where I was when I heard that the Space Shuttle Challenger had exploded 73 seconds after lift-off just before noon on Jan. 28, 1986 in Cape Canaveral, Fla. School was closed for parent-teacher conferences that day, but we had been assigned to watch the launch on television for homework. I was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching the shuttle climb higher and higher and then … disaster. There was an explosion of smoke, the plume splitting into two, and then the trail of destruction lingering in the skies.