When you’ve belonged to a smaller community for generations, it takes just about that long to feel truly connected somewhere else

Our recent move from Cleveland to Baltimore has provided more than a few surprising perks.

No one here has seen my wardrobe; I get to wear my “vintage” clothing, and they’re new again. When we have company I serve my same-old recipes and no one realizes that these are the only dishes I know how to make well. I don’t have to prove I can cook anymore; the city has wonderful takeout, and, as part of the new me, I sometimes use (gasp!) paper plates during the week. Did I mention the hot cups?

Moving from one community to another, however, makes me feel like I’m part of neither. My everyday ritual, and the comfort it brings, has to be established anew. I spend a lot of time trying on fresh identities; some fit better than others. When you’ve belonged to a smaller community for generations, it takes just about that long to feel truly connected somewhere else.

There was a time in Cleveland not so long ago when if you walked into Unger’s or (the now-closed) Lax and Mandel Bakery, both on South Taylor Road, and saw a strange face, that person was either passing through or had come to visit — and you usually knew who or why. You knew all the people at the counter or waiting in line at the register by name — and they knew you. And so did the people helping you from behind the display case. We still had three shuls for two Jews though because… why not?

I misjudged how long it would take to get from there to here. That applies to driving, cultivating new friendships, and figuring out how to use the stove in this condo. I’ve mastered some and am working on others. I love getting lost in a grandchild’s eyes, yet finding things — including myself — has become my full-time job.

I know the humidifier was on the second shelf of my upstairs hall cedar closet in Cleveland but I have no idea if I brought it here and, if I did, where I put it. I’ve also been known to search for a word mid-sentence and find it seven hours later when it wakes me at 2 a.m.

Being relatively new here, I introduce myself wherever I go and I’m constantly being asked the same questions: “Do you like Baltimore?” and “Do you miss Cleveland?” What am I supposed to say? I don’t have to let go of one to appreciate the other. Sometimes the answer is yes; sometimes, no. Sometimes both. The “How are you adjusting?” question is usually met with my deer-in-the-headlights gaze.

I see familiar faces and cannot remember if I know them from here or from there (why don’t they wear name tags?) And while they’re talking to me in an of-course-you-know-who-I-am manner, I’m doing mental cartwheels waiting for the aha moment of recognition. More often than not, I make generic conversation to mask my blank memory.

I’m learning all kinds of ways to navigate where I have to go, both mentally and physically. When I leave the house, my husband sends me off with a bagful of breadcrumbs suggesting I drop a few out the car window along the way so I’ll eventually find my way home. Just call me Gretel.

Inevitably, when I get to Reisterstown Road, I make a left instead of a right. I look for telltale markers to tell me where I am and if they ever repaint the outside of the pink house on the corner of Clarks Lane and Cross Country Boulevard, I’m finished.

The city is doing a lot of repair work on the local streets and when I see a “Detour” sign I hyperventilate and have to force myself to remember my breathing exercises from labor — it’s only been 36 years. The GPS and Waze are my best friends. My car knows its way back to Cleveland by itself — it would be easier for me to drive back there than to try and figure out how to circumvent these local winding streets, which keep changing names.

Because we’re living nearer to our children and grandchildren we’re experiencing and developing different relationships with them at various stages of both their lives and our lives. I’m close to some and closer to others. We’re attending birthday parties, graduations, school and social events that weren’t easily possible before because of distance — and it’s a delight. (Of course I want to come to your school’s four-hour long student production!) At warp speed I’m transformed from being me to becoming someone’s mother or grandmother.

Leaving the familiarity of Cleveland means not being there to share in the happy occasions of family and friends in that city, which can sometimes be sad. Not being able to share in their sorrows is especially painful, yet I have come to realize that distance is only about geography.

With the arrival of each invitation to yet another grandchild’s school function, I keep reminding myself how lucky I am and how many people would love to be in my shoes. I do not take any of it for granted.

At a grandson’s recent haschalas Gemara event, I watched in absolute wonder as the fifth-grade boys of Talmudical Academy paraded onto the stage. Over 100 shiny faces stood there on the risers, singing with gusto and measured abandon, many wearing their requisite Shabbos shoes and white shirts, mostly tucked in. (The one who was standing in the middle of the highest tier, with the laughing eyes and cutest smile, singing on key? He’s ours.)

As a child of survivors I was overcome with the realization that I was watching, firsthand, our revenge on our many enemies throughout history. Here I was, in the company of almost 500 other parents and grandparents, as well as the spirits of those who were watching and listening through the echoes of time. I was grateful for the dim lights because I could barely see through tear-filled eyes. I kept blowing my nose (just a sniffle, of course) and judging by the other sounds in the room, I wasn’t the only one.

As each child shuffled forward individually, I couldn’t help but notice as some of the rebbeim, unexpectedly and spontaneously, kissed each Gemara before handing it to his student. That moment in time got caught in my throat.

The following Sunday morning we were treated to a granddaughter’s siddur party at Bais Yaakov. Each class was featured alone (we were the 10:15–11 a.m. slot) and we were clearly able to see the seven-year-old faces of the future mothers of Klal Yisrael smiling, singing, gesturing and dancing their way into our hearts. More tears. I could barely understand a single word, nevertheless, that experience alone was worth the expense of moving. (Though the used tissues and re-applied makeup were not in the original budget….)

Then came Grandparents’ Day. What a remarkable undertaking and how beautifully organized and fabulous it was — though it was a real test of endurance and crowd control. There we were, the young and young wanna be’s maneuvering our way up and down four (!) narrow flights of stairs, through a maze of other grandparents looking for the too-small numbers on doors, trying to be in two or three classrooms at once and sitting in crowded classes on rickety folding chairs. Did someone in the school administration not get the memo that this event was for Grandparents?

The experiences of sharing these events bring us new meaning and fill our hearts with much joy. I continue to celebrate each day with a very grateful heart. Whispered hopes fill my dreams as I watch new seeds take root. It makes belonging to this new geography a blessed and welcome reality.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 646)