Miriam Hammerman
I want to thank
Rabbi Hamilton and Kehillath Israel for the gracious invitation that this
funeral take place here. I know my mom
would have really appreciated it. KI was
always close to her heart – even at times when it wasn’t as close to mine. And when she was no longer a fixture here and
moved to Nahanton Woods, she belonged to Mishkan Tefilla for many years and
loved that congregation too. And now,
here we all are, together. And the fact
that the certificate of occupancy for this building was received at almost the
very moment of my mother’s passing, gives almost a bashert quality to our all
being here today. It truly closes a circle, for my family and undoubtedly for
others.
This coming week, Jews
throughout the world will read of the death of the matriarch Sarah. Strangely, the title of the portion is Hayye
Sarah – the life of Sarah.
א וַיִּהְיוּ חַיֵּי שָׂרָה, מֵאָה
שָׁנָה וְעֶשְׂרִים שָׁנָה וְשֶׁבַע שָׁנִים--שְׁנֵי, חַיֵּי שָׂרָה.
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1 And the life of
Sarah was a hundred and seven and twenty years; these were the years of the
life of Sarah.
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Two things of note
– first, that a portion describing death has a title connoting life – and
second, that the word for “years of” – shnay – also means two. Shnay hayye Sarah, then, can literally mean,
“the two lives of Sarah.”
When I think of my
mother’s 95 years, I can really describe it as two distinct lives. Her final chapter -the past decade – was very
painful for her and those who love her, and her decline from Parkinson’s was horrible
to witness and even more horrible to live.
She lost the gift of words, a bad enough fate, but even more cruel for a
pianist, she lost the gift of her hands.
In a sense, the day her Steinway was sold and moved from her home in
Nahanton Woods was the beginning of the end.
But the last chapter played out over six years, four residences and two
states. The care she got was excellent,
particularly at the Jewish Home in Fairfield – but she was a shell of herself
and, worst of all, she was keen enough to realize it.
Thursday
afternoon, I received the call that she had breathed her last – it was a shock
but not a surprise. I had seen her the
day before and she seemed noticeably weaker, her will to live ebbing from her. But she still had enough life left in her to
allow me to feed her one last guilty pleasure - a Drakes Yodel. She loved chocolate until the end. And when she died, classical music was playing in her room.
And so now, from
the moment of her passing, we are liberated to look back at the whole life of
Miriam Hammerman – to put that final chapter in its proper place, but to look
at it all.
And when you do,
you can find two distinct lives, in fact,
Shnay Hayye Miryam. And almost
right in the middle, the dividing line, was my father’s tragic death.
Seven weeks from
now, just at the conclusion of Hanukkah, we will mark my dad’s 40th
yahrzeit. She was young when he
died. But what could have been the end
for her was instead a new beginning. She
never wallowed in self-pity. She picked
herself up and built a life – a new life
- a second life, as it were. She
traveled – a lot. She learned how to invest her money and did well at it. She spent time with
family and friends. She loved elder
hostels and never stopped challenging her mind – especially when it came to
learning more about her Jewish heritage.
She even had a couple of boyfriends, but never wanted to remarry. She reveled in seeing her grandchildren and
at the end, great grandchildren. She
followed the news assiduously. She was a
CNN junkie long before cable news became a thing. She stopped watching, but news such as
yesterday’s out of Pittsburgh would have greatly troubled her.
And she cultivated
her music. For the first half of her
life, she developed and honed her art, practicing many hours each day as a
child, and giving up everything else.
Then as a concert pianist she most often accompanied others. In fact, that’s how she met my father. A girlfriend of hers was supposed to
accompany him at a concert he was giving in the area, but she had to back off
at the last minute and she reluctantly agreed to take it on. They met and as she recalls, he gave her
really hard music to learn. It was not
love at first sight, although she admitted that he was very handsome. So the night of the concert arrives and they
get to the hall – and there’s no piano.
He did the whole thing acapella and she was relieved. And it was nice
but she figured that was it. Until a few
weeks later, she attended the first big convocation at Brandeis, where Eleanor
Roosevelt spoke, and there he was!
And the rest was
history.
Life number one
was filled with music – and it was also filled with challenges. It's not easy
being the spouse of clergy, while raising three children, including one with
special needs. But she did it effortlessly, assisted by her two best friends,
her Steinway, and Filene’s Basement.
My mom always had
a bag in her hand, usually to return.
She had the whole system gamed.
She knew where to properly bury items in piles of clothing, so that you
could go back a week later and everything would be marked down.
She had the gift
of New England frugality down to a science.
Which is why I didn’t hire a rabbi to do this service. For one thing, I know she was very proud of
me, and for another, I came prepaid. She
was a saver – never wanted to waste anything.
Anything in her refrigerator that was about to go bad – she froze. She would freeze eggs. She would freeze so many items that I used to
joke that if I opened her freezer we would find Ted Williams in there.
But when she
wasn’t at Filenes, she was just being a great mother – she was always there for
me, my biggest booster and biggest fan – as I’m sure all her friends will
attest. Her coffee table was also known
as the Museum of Josh.
She knew what the
life of clergy is like and that my schedule was not my own. As her health declined during her last years
in Newton, I tried to get up to see her maybe every other week. She always thanked me when I visited – but I
always wished I could have done more.
Mom had a great
sense of humor – though often overshadowed by the Hammerman side of the family,
she was pretty funny herself. Once, when
she was looking at assisted living options, we were in my car and we decided to
check out Newbridge. I called them on
my speaker phone and was explaining to the person there that I was looking to
bring my mother by to see some of the units – and then suddenly, on cue, she
blurted out, “I’m the mother.”
And she had a
great laugh. I always liked to make her
laugh, which is another reason why the past few years have been so hard. She did smile until very recently, whenever I
would visit.
And I should add,
that she was a big Red Sox fan. Right
now, I can imagine her and my Brooklyn born Dad having interesting World Series
conversations up there.
In her first life,
maybe the biggest favor I ever did for her was to get the measles as a
kid. When the doctor made a house call,
he noticed her smoking and slapped the cigarette out of her hand and said, this
must stop now. And she did. She was able
to will herself to get rid of a lifelong habit. And it might have saved her
life. About a decade after my father
died, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and the decision was made to
have one lung removed.
She survived the
surgery and lived the last three decades of her life with one lung. Aside from occasional huffing and puffing,
you would never have known. Any time she
had a respiratory infection, it was scary.
But she truly defied death. She
feared death and was often preoccupied with matters of health. Her health lectures were constant - and sometimes comic. For our anniversary, she once gave us an electric toothbrush. Every time I would visit her, she would show me the “when I die” file
that she kept, and planned meticulously.
Decades ago, she was suggesting caterers for the shiva. But the fact is, she never gave in to death,
and for as long as she could, she never stopped living.
She kept on
playing, for a while doing concerts of duets and chamber music. She taught many students and in only one case
did she fail – with me. I wish I had
taken piano more seriously.
וַתִּקַּח מִרְיָם הַנְּבִיאָה,
אֶת-הַתֹּף--בְּיָדָהּ.
Like the Miriam of
old, my mother took the instrument, went out and made music.
My mom loved
family. She took care of her mother of
blessed memory, who also lived most of her adult life as a widow. She was a loving sister to Ernie of blessed
memory and her sister Eleanor was also her best friend.
She became a
family matriarch of sorts, for my cousins on her side, and on my dad’s side as
well. She was so proud of Lisa and Asher
and their family, and until it just became too difficult, she loved going to Israel
to see them, and when they came here. And she got to see Adereth several times,
and then often via Skype, and her great grandchildren Neriya and Ohr Ariel –
who visited last year, and through photos, videos and Skype. When most of her words evaded her over the
past couple of years, she would always want me to test her on the names of her
grandchildren and great grandchildren – and she never did forget them.
She and my brother
Mark had a special relationship, and when my father died, she did not miss a
beat in assuming his leadership roles at Humanity House, which she had helped
my father to found, and later to the Barry Price Center. Although it was very hard for them to
communicate with each other at the end, she was always very concerned about
Mark, who, in large part thanks to her, is in a very secure place now.
And she also had a
very special relationship with Mara and Ethan and Dan and was so proud of
them. She beamed at her grandsons’ b’nai
mitzvah, came to every birthday and brought back exotic gifts from her trips –
including the most cherished item, a sheepskin rug from Morocco. On those rare Shabbats when I was off, I
often took them up to Boston with me to spend the weekend with her, and get a
glimpse into my childhood. And when it
came time to move her into a new apartment, I knew I needed Dan with me,
because no one brought a smile to her face more than Dan. She wrote a letter to him for his bar mitzvah
– saying that even when he entered this world he had a beautiful melodious
cry. You’ve blossomed into a
well-rounded individual with wonderful values and interests,” and she talked
about how she loved sitting with him in the morning and reading the New York
Times movie reviews together. She said,
“I’m very grateful for the time we have together.” She wrote to Ethan as well, saying, “You
bubble with enthusiasm in all that you do.
I treasure the time you came over to me and sad, “I want to bond, Grandma. Let’s watch this TV program together.”
She loved her
family and she loved being Jewish. Every
week while growing up, I was entranced as she would wave her arms and bless the
Shabbat candles, always adding special prayers that God bless her loved ones. Even when all other words evaded her, she
remembered the candle blessing, nearly perfectly.
For a few years,
she kept a diary sporadically, jotting down impressions and quotes that she
liked.
She wrote there of her family, after describing her 75th birthday celebration: “You
are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
And “I have loved and been loved.
All the rest is background music.” She taught us all how better to appreciate all the music – background and otherwise.
And she wrote, "Turn your wounds into wisdom." That wisdom is most helpful now.
May your memory be
for a blessing, Mom.
1975 - Following the fall of Saigon, the State Department requested HIAS' assistance with the resettlement of Vietnamese, Cambodians, and Laotians. That year, HIAS found new homes for 3,600 in 150 communities in 38 states. While not the first time HIAS had assisted in the resettlement of non-Jews, the organization's assistance with this large-scale refugee crisis garnered a special thank you from President Gerald Ford. HIAS continued to assist refugees from Southeast Asia through 1979.
In 2001, HIAS celebrated our 120th anniversary with a "HIAS Day" festival in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Two days after the joyful celebration, Al-Qaeda terrorists attacked America, throwing the entire U.S. immigration system into turmoil. HIAS mobilized its network to continue serving refugees, despite extreme delays in the arrival process brought on by increased security measures and the reorganization of the Immigration and Naturalization Service into the Department of Homeland Security.
Starting in the 2000s, HIAS expanded our resettlement work to include assistance to non-Jewish refugees, meaning we became involved in the aftermath of conflicts from Afghanistan, Bosnia, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Ethiopia, Haiti, Hungary, Iran, Morocco, Poland, Romania, Tunisia, Vietnam, and the successor states to the former Soviet Union. We began to work in countries where refugees fled to identify those in immediate danger to bring them to safety. We realized that there were many refugees who would not be resettled and that it was important for us to help.
HIAS continues to resettle the most vulnerable refugees of all faiths and ethnicities from all over the world. We facilitate the application process for the most vulnerable refugees who can be resettled in countries around the world. In the U.S. we work with local social service organizations around the country to welcome refugees and help them integrate into their communities and build new lives. 