Not Building a Sukkah

My daughter, Sarah, moved back to Berkeley just about a year ago. It was right around the High Holy Days. Yesterday afternoon when she called it was about Sukkot, the harvest festival that follows Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. Weeks ago she had asked about our old sukkah and expressed some interest in using it to build the traditional holiday hut at her house. I explained that it was more of a sukkah kit – just a bunch of wood with the potential to be a sukkah. And, at the moment, it was jammed between our house and the fence, probably crawling with spiders and definitely threatening to put splinters into any hands that might dare to touch it.

She was still interested. So now, on erev Yom Kippur, just a few days before she would need to have her sukkah ready for the holiday, she called to say she wants the sukkah. But she doesn’t know if she’ll have time to get it, or build it, or decorate it.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked, innocently. “You could come and get it now. Or at least take a look and see what you’ll need to make it work.”

She said she’d come. An hour later, Sarah arrived. We greeted each other. I admired her new jeans and her phone rang.

Before she arrived I was baking for the holiday. But now the challah dough was rising, so I didn’t really have anything I had to do at the moment. Sarah was standing in the entry hall, still talking with her friend Mimi on her phone. I overhead her say, “Oh, Mimi, that’s so disgusting. I’m so sorry.” But when I made a face that asked, ‘Is Mimi okay?’ Sarah waved me off with a gesture and expression that said, ‘No, it’s nothing, she’s fine.” The conversation continued. I was obviously not part of it. So I wandered outside to find my gloves.

By the time Sarah caught up with me in the backyard I had pulled part of the sukkah out from between the house and the fence. I was covered with spider webs and bits of leaves and schmutz. The piece of sukkah I had found was an ungainly square of two-by-twos held together with triangles of plywood at each corner. Sarah took one look at it and declared it was not going to work. “I don’t know how I could get it to my house without a truck,” she said. “Zoe said she’d help me, but she’s out of town on the one day I’m free to work on it. I don’t think my roommates will have time either. I think I’d just better forget it.”

She helped me put the piece of sukkah back between the house and fence. Now we were both full of spider webs and leaves.

Picking the sticky bits from my hair and clothes, I felt profoundly disappointed. Without realizing it, I had created a whole fantasy in which my old sukkah rose like the phoenix in Sarah’s backyard, complete with table spread with a colorful cloth and covered with holiday food and drink. The roof of my fantasy sukkah was piled with palm fronds and the sides were decorated with garlands of paper flowers, fruit, and leaves. Someone had placed a string of tiny lights around the entryway. (In my fantasy it was nighttime.) There were candles on the table. Everything glowed.

But instead, Sarah and I were standing in my kitchen trying to figure out what to do now.

“When are you meeting Mimi for dinner?” I asked, again, innocently.

“I think we said 5:30,” she said.

“It’s already 4:30,” I said. “And you still need to go to the market?”

“Yeah, I’m supposed to get us something to cook.”

“Well, I guess we should go then,” I said.

We went.

I live just a few blocks from a little business district with a produce market, coffee mart, bakery, butcher, flower stand, and gift store. I love walking there to do errands, even just to buy an onion or a loaf of bread. It makes me feel European.

We walked directly to the butcher shop, bypassing the fresh produce and flowers, although I secretly enjoyed just seeing them as we breezed past. Sarah took a number from the dispenser when we entered the butcher shop and looked at the fresh fish while we waited our turn. “They have Cajun-style catfish fillets,” she said, pulled her cell phone out of her bag. “I’m going to call Mimi to make sure she likes catfish.”

“I don’t know how observant she is,” I offered as she dialed. “But catfish isn’t kosher.”

“She’s not kosher,” Sarah said with a touch of irritation in her voice. Then Mimi answered.

Sarah’s number was called right after she finished talking with Mimi. The man behind the counter asked, “How can I help you?”

Sarah pointed into the cold case and said, “Could I please have two of those catfish fillets?”

I saw a strange look pass over the man’s face. I would have described it as revulsion if I’d been asked in that moment to characterize the expression. I would have been wrong.

“You’re the first person to say ‘please’ since 9 o’clock this morning,” he said. All I could see of him was his face, the case came up above my chest and he was not very tall. I recognized him from other visits to the butcher but I’m not sure he’d ever waited on me before. He wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes.

Sarah and I looked at each other and then back at the man. “Really?” I said. “That’s terrible!”

“Yeah,” he said, weighing the fish as he spoke. “I guess everybody’s just too busy.”

“Well, Mama,” Sarah said half to me and half to the man,” I guess you must have raised me right.”

I reached over to pat her on the back.

“I think the pat on the back should be for you Mom,” the man said. “Don’t you think?”

Sarah paid for her purchased, thanked the man once more, and we were on our way home. We left the butcher shop talking about what the man had said. Are people really too busy to say ‘please’?

Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. We Jews spend the day reflecting on where we fell short in the past year and praying for forgiveness. Many of the readings attempt to remind us that the way we conduct ourselves matters, particularly when it comes to how we treat one another.

I thought about the man behind the counter at the butcher shop this morning as we prayed. Often the difference between being a mensch and being a putz comes down to taking the time to notice the humanity of each person we encounter. A simple ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ acknowledges that, despite our differences, we are all just people on this planet. I may take on bigger challenges as I consider my goals for the coming year, but I also plan to say ‘please’ more often. Nobody who serves people all day long should have to wait seven hours to be noticed.

L’shana tova!