9 writers hear messages from days gone by reverberating in their own lives
T he November sun is strong, but there’s a chill in the air I hadn’t expected. Autumn has crept up from behind in its mixed-up glory, blustery clawing tendrils and floaty leaves sashaying down to earth. I berate myself for not bringing sweaters as I lock the car, strap the baby in the stroller,
I s a child being raised in Flatbush, I was surrounded by girls whose fathers learned in places like the Mir, Chaim Berlin, Torah Vodaath. Me? I was the daughter of a baal teshuvah from some hick town called Saratoga Springs — a place no one knew about. Blank stares were de riguer, and I
L iving in Eretz Yisrael means not just living in a land filled with kedushah, but in a land saturated with our people’s past. Here in Ramat Beit Shemesh, we Anglo olim are just the newest population strata in an area known for its incredibly rich history, going back to the times of the Tanach —
G rowing up in Baltimore, we had Washington, D.C., in our backyard. We spent Chol Hamoed trips there, school trips there, and any-other-opportunity trips there. The result was that, despite its glamorous status as the nation’s capital, Washington became a big bore. Been there, done that. But my attitude changed when I entered the
O ld meets new in York, perhaps more than in any other city in England. Bus routes weave around ancient city walls, the quaint marketplace thrives just a short distance from a designer outlet mall, and supermarkets jostle for space along a riverbank marked with bridges, stone buildings, signposts to history. In the middle of
