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When I was very young, one of my favorite television programs was The Magic Garden, a delightful, low-budget, subtly psychedelic, locally aired show that featured adorably pig-tailed songstresses, Carol and Paula, singing, dancing, and playing make-believe in the titular Magic Garden. The garden offered a treasure chest of dress-up clothes (The Story Box), giggling flowers who told corny jokes (the Chuckle Patch), and, at its center, the Magic Tree. Each episode, the tree would suddenly play a mystical windchime-y tune, and a gift bag would slowly descend from its branches.

And let me tell you, it was thrilling.

What was in the bag was almost irrelevant, although it could be anything from a babushka to a sock puppet to a glockenspiel—some kind of prop to add to the imaginative play in the garden. But really, it was more the idea that trees provide and delight and surprise. That trees were, are, in fact, magical.

I’d already realized this of course, as an avid young climber of trees—starting with the small pink-petaled magnolia in front of my house, then gradually moving to the larger, branchy crabapple tree, and finally reaching mid-height (as far as I was allowed) into the giant oak that bordered my grandparent’s yard, from which one of its branches still dangled a charming old tire swing. I’d linger in my perch, surveying the land, the fragrant spring breeze grazing my cheek. That no enchanted gift bags appeared bearing roller skates or maracas seemed beside the point. I had all the magic I needed, sheltered within the majestic leaves.

Crabapple tree and Me

The festival of Tu B’Shevat specifically honors fruit trees, and the crown jewel in my grandmother’s garden was an actual Royal Anne cherry tree, whose misshapen, red-yellow fruits looked nothing like the perfect crimson orbs from the grocery store, yet were infinitely sweeter. Its huge bounty left plenty for Grandma’s homemade cherry borscht, a rare and treasured family delicacy. Until I was an adult, I had no idea the original was made with beets.

I imagined and created whole worlds in those trees—alone and with my friends—nascent seeds much like the ones nestled into the earth long ago that gave rise to those gentle giants, stretching, growing, blossoming into stories I’d later write.

Magic.

In every possible way, trees sustain us. Nourish us. Shelter us. Literally, breathe life into us.

UNTIL THE BLUEBERRIES GROW, by Jennifer Wolf Kam, illus. by Sally Walker, Published by PJ Library

It’s been a long and devastating few months by anyone’s measure, yet Tu B’Shevat is about renewal. Beginnings. Possibility. Hope. And fruitfulness. Even when it feels as though none of that exists.

How do we move forward when the world feels as though it’s on its head? How do we breathe deeply when we’re in a continuous state of bearing witness? Like trees, we start as tiny seeds of life, and grow and change, passing through the seasons. As we evolve, we offer life the fruits of our efforts. Perhaps, too, we search for new seeds—of inspiration, to heal, or again, to start fresh, planting dreams and possibilities.

Unlike trees, we have the ability and opportunity to engage with the world in an active way—to dig our hands into the proverbial and literal earth and build, create, and nurture. To alter our landscape through bold ideas, empathy, and compassion.

So here’s to the New Year of the trees, and Chag sameach. Plant a tree if you can—or just enjoy one nearby and take a moment to exhale. After all, there is much work ahead.

If you’re lucky enough to find it, enjoy some cherry borscht on me.

And may all your efforts bear fruit.

Cue windchimes

For all things Tu B’Shevat, visit PJ Library’s hub.

I was never a theater kid (my mother will claim I saved my theatrics for her), but in the 4^th grade, I found myself cast in the Hebrew school Chanukah play, in my small suburban Long Island synagogue. I wasn’t the star—some other child donned a fake beard and played the important role of Matityahu, father of Judah the Maccabee, hero of our Chanukah story. Another classmate, whose name is lost to time, portrayed the daring and brave Judah.

I wasn’t shy and in fact, relished the spotlight. As luck would have it we were arranged in size order, and owing to my medium height, I happily landed at the end of the front row in full sight. Dressed in a floor-length floral bathrobe, my hair in long braids interwoven with ribbon, I played the part of an incensed Judean townsperson who could shake my fist with the best of them.

Our exasperated, but idealistic junior choir director, a woman with flyaway gray curls, appealed to our 1960s-era flower child parents with a Chanukah score based on Beatles music. The opening number was a take on Yellow Submarine. It went like this:

In the town of Modiin,

lived a special group of Hasidim.

All the Jews were asked to bow,

but Matityahu said, Jews don’t kowtow!                               

We all live in the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin…”

Alas, no photos exist from our Chanukah extravaganza, but here’s me at the same age.

This is 100% true.

Chanukah, also known as the Jewish festival of lights, commemorates the miraculous victory of an outnumbered, outflanked band of Jewish warriors against the powerful forces of King Antiochus. Encouraged and empowered by Matityahu of Modiin, the Jews, led by Matityahu’s son, Judah Maccabee, rose up against their oppressive Seleucid rulers. In 164 B.C.E., the Jewish people returned to Jerusalem, cleaned and rededicated their holy Temple, eventually lighting a makeshift menorah as the original had been stolen.

And so it goes that only a small cruse of oil was found to light the menorah—enough for only one night. A miracle celebrated each year on Chanukah is that this small amount of oil lasted for an astonishing eight nights. At its core, however, Chanukah is a miraculous story of strength, determination, and perseverance. The Jewish people, just like the light in that ancient menorah, persisted.

Back in 1980s Long Island, more songs followed in our little Chanukah spectacular, Judaized versions of All You Need is Love, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (which referenced the band of Maccabees), Get Back (Judah was a man, they said he was a hammer…), and a full-throated play on All Together Now, during which the Jews cleaned the reclaimed Temple in Jerusalem. I wish I remembered more songs and lyrics because they were brilliant.

What I do remember is that after the show, my grandmother, an imposing figure—5’8” in flats and a single raised eyebrow that might’ve sent old Antiochus into the hills—gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“That was lovely.” She held up a plump manicured finger. “And important.”

I was certain I’d been one heck of an ancient Judean, but important? Anyway, I’d already turned my thoughts to the following night, when I’d light the menorah with my family, feast on latkes and chocolate gelt, and hopefully get some of the presents I’d been not so subtly angling for over the past month.

I found out much later that Grandma said something else too.

Until the Blueberries Grow, by Jennifer Wolf Kam, Illustrated by Sally Walker

My grandmother, whose family fled the pogroms of Eastern Europe, and whose in-laws (my grandfather’s family) lost entire branches of their family in the Shoah, said this to my mother: “The true miracle is that 40 years after the Holocaust, that stage is filled with beautiful, healthy children singing openly and proudly about being Jewish.”

A miracle indeed. And now it’s been 78 years.

We are here again. Surging antisemitism. Fear. Disbelief. War. Just when we think we’ve forgotten the words, they return to us, clear and vivid—inherited memory. But we also remember, just like the Jews in ancient Modiin, we don’t bow—not to idols, not to fear, not to terror. And we continuously search for the light.

My memory is hazy and maybe I’m making it up, but I believe we ended with a junior choir Hebrew school rendition of Here Comes the Sun. Whatever Chanukah lyrics we belted out to that famous Beatles tune are also lost to time and memory—but the message remains clear and resonates now as much as it ever has.

Light over darkness.

While scrolling through Instagram, as one does, I stumbled upon a well-known quote by Rabbi Yitzchak “Irving” Greenberg. He says, “The proper response, as Chanukah teaches, is not to curse the darkness but to light a candle.”

Viewed through the increasingly foggy lens of the past, with some added clarity that comes with adulthood, I think our little retro pop-culture Hebrew school production was a light—a beacon to our parents, our grandparents, and especially to our children. A reminder that in and after the darkest of times, there can and will, against the greatest of odds, be light.

This week, as Jews around the world light the menorah with friends and family, the candles burning brightly into the night, and lift our voices to sing openly and proudly as Jews, Chanukah remains a forever testament to that miraculous truth.

All Together Now…

Grandpa, Grandma, and Me

I was recently invited to a Temple Tots Chanukah Author Visit for my picture book, UNTIL THE BLUEBERRIES GROW. There was, of course, the requisite apple juice in tiny cups, bits of challah, and prayers, as well as an acoustic guitar singalong on the carpet. The song? A jaunty little tune, with a refrain that went something like, “Keep spinning until you land a gimel.”

Keep spinning until you land a gimel.

I turned this around in my head. Yes. Yes. It was simple yet brilliant advice.

Especially as it pertains to writing.

Let me explain.

The song celebrates the popular Chanukah game of Dreidel, which involves a spinning top (the dreidel/sevivon), bearing four Hebrew letters: Nun, Gimel, Hay, and Shin, which reference the miracle of Chanukah, Nes gadol haya sham—A great miracle happened there (in Israel the shin becomes a peh, for po, which means here. A great miracle happened here.)

A pot of tokens or better still—chocolate Chanukah gelt (coins) sits in the middle of the players. The rules are simple. Spin the dreidel and…

Nun: You lose

Hay: You take Half of the pot

Ben and Zayde sit beside the light of the glowing candles. (Illustration by Sally Walker)

Shin: You put a piece back into the pot

Gimel: Winner takes ALL.

A gimel is a win.

So…Keep spinning until you land a gimel?

It means keep trying, or in the words of a famous Disney clownfish, just keep swimming. Until you reach your goal.

There exists the now ubiquitous advice—Life is a marathon, not a sprint. Meaning, as Dr. Angela Duckworth describes in her TedTalk on grit, that life is about stamina and persistence.

This is most certainly the case with writing.

Writers don’t have the thundering crowds along the racecourse to shout words of encouragement and offer colorful hydrating drinks. We usually have a few cheerleaders–our family, our friends, our treasured critique partners–and bottomless pots of coffee. Sometimes, however, there are less cheers, or they grow faint, or are drowned out by assertive cries of self-doubt.

Sometimes—I’ll even say often, we don’t finish the first marathon. Even the second or third. We peter out halfway through because life takes over, we’re distracted by competing responsibilities or circumstances, or we’re just…tired. Occasionally, we go so slow any movement or progress is almost imperceptible. In darker moments, we throw up our hands, toss our sneakers into the our closet, and quit.

But the thing about writing, like everything in life really, is that the only way to NOT succeed is to stop trying.

To stop swimming.

Gimel

To stop spinning if you land on Nun.

Chanukah commemorates both the miraculous victory of a small band of Judean warriors (the Maccabees) over their powerful Seleucid oppressors, as well as the small cruse of oil that, against all odds burned brightly for eight nights.

Stamina. Perseverance. Grit.

There are no guarantees, of course, and there will always be people who find more success. Because Dreidel, like life, is a game of chance.

I’m no statistician, but I’ll bet that even if it takes dozens of games (and a few plates of latkes), eventually, if you keep playing, you’ll land on gimel.

So. Your turn. Take a spin. And Happy Channukah!

For more on Chanukah, visit PJ Library’s Hanukkah Hub

For Chanukah book recommendations click here.

Not long after my grandmother died, I was a flower girl at my grandfather’s wedding to his new wife, Rose. I wore a Winnie-the-Pooh dress and a small corsage of roses (intentional?) along with my new step-cousins (Rose’s granddaughters), who, at five and eight years old, bookended me by just over a year in either direction.

There was trepidation on both ends of the aisle.

So soon after Molly’s gone.

At the wedding, Rose sat me down on the ottoman next to her.

“I want you to call me Mama.” She took my hand into her own soft veiny one. “Mama Rose. Just like my girls.”

Mama Rose seemed nice, but I missed my grandmother, and my dad was still so sad.

Already, I had only vague memories of Grandma Molly. Nebulous images, blurring with each passing day.

Strawberry blond hair whipped into a soft beehive.

Velvet furniture covered in plastic.

A musical photo cube.

Warm hands, and wet kisses on my forehead.

Grandma Molly and me

What I did remember was my grandfather’s new apartment, a spare one-bedroom, the velvet furniture in storage, a refrigerator with a jar of pickles and a container of deli mustard, although the musical picture cube remained.

I’d wind it again and again, the tinkling tune moving in time to photos of my grandparents. I studied Grandma’s smile, trying to remember. But I was young and remembering was hard.

A few months later, we celebrated our first Pesach (Passover) together as a blended family. An odd blending really, because my father barely knew Rose’s children, and no one seemed overly excited about the recent nuptials, except for Grandpa and Mama Rose.

My father wore a stiff smile as we crammed into the modest, but tastefully decorated Forest Hills, Queens apartment. Grandma Molly was no longer there—and someone new and unfamiliar sat beside Grandpa, doling out his food, touching his arm, laughing gently at his jokes.

I joined the cousins and my little brother at the “kiddie table”, a small card table pushed up against the new Formica dining set. We each had a small plate of matzah, a dollop of charoset, and a single round nugget of gefilte fish, with a half-filled glass of grape juice.

“What’s that?” I pointed to an extra small cup of grape juice on the table.

“It’s for Elijah,” said the younger of my two new cousins.

“Elijah only drinks wine,” said the older cousin. “That’s juice. Probably in case one of you spill.”

“I won’t spill,” said the younger one. She turned to me. “Will you?”

“No.” But suddenly that was beside the point. “Who’s Elijah?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” said the younger cousin, wide-eyed.

“Shush,” the older one said to her sister. “Elijah comes to every house on Passover and drinks wine. You have to leave the door open for him or he can’t get in.”

“He’s a ghost,” said the younger cousin.

“If he’s a ghost,” I said, “why can’t he move through doors?” I’d watched enough Casper and Scooby-Doo to know something was off.

“He’s not a ghost,” said the older cousin. “He’s a…proppit.”

“A puppet?” I said.

“No. A proppit. A Jewish person from olden times. He brings good luck, but only if you give him wine.”

“What if you forget?” I said.

“Then he won’t come,” said the older girl. “And you have bad luck.”

My heart clunked inside my chest. This was terrible. I didn’t remember Elijah from last year’s seder. Did we forget the wine? Had he skipped us?

I had an idea.

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“You can’t see him.” The older cousin shrugged.

“What do you think he looks like?”

“I guess if you could see him, he’d look like…Judah the Maccabee. Do you know him?”

“Yes.” So Elijah probably had long dark hair, armor, a shield. Maybe wore sandals like my Uncle Irving. I could work with this.

I ran over to my mother. “Where’s Elijah’s cup?”

She smiled. “Where did you hear about Elijah?”

I pointed to my new older cousin.

“I see.” She motioned to a silver cup that sat apart from Rose’s China dishes. “I think it’s this one.”

I assessed the cup. “More wine,” I ordered.

My mother raised an eyebrow but poured a few drops of Manischewitz.

“Good?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to open the door for him?”

“Yes, please.”

I pulled open the apartment door, then settled back into my folding chair.

“I opened the door for Elijah,” I announced to the cousins. “And I gave him more wine.”

Also? I was going to catch Elijah.

Well. Not actually, catch him, but…catch him in the act. As a little kid, I suspected I might see things grown-ups couldn’t. And if I saw Elijah, I’d make sure he stayed longer and drank extra wine.

He brings good luck.

I listened with half an ear as my grandfather read from the Maxwell House Haggadah, dipping my finger in grape juice with the pronouncement of each plague, nibbling matzah as the adults sang and prayed.

But I had my eye on the door.

Until the Blueberries Grow, illus. by Sally Walker

Every so often I checked Elijah’s cup.

Full.

Peeked out the apartment door.

Nothing.

Called down the hallway. “Eliiiiijaaaahhh.”

From across the hall, a dog barked.

Where was he?

“Does Elijah know Grandpa’s new address?” I whispered to my mother.

“I’m sure he does,” she said.

“Elijah has to go everywhere,” said the older cousin. “Even New Jersey.”

I needed to be patient. Except I wasn’t. Because the more time that went by without Elijah’s visit, the less likely we’d have good luck. And my family, my dad especially, needed good luck.

But the seder ended, dessert was served and Elijah’s cup was as full as ever.

“Maybe he doesn’t like the wine,” said the older cousin.

I slumped onto the couch, the rainbow cookie I’d snagged, no consolation.

My mother joined me. “How’s the cookie?”

“Elijah didn’t visit. He didn’t like the wine.”

“Who told you that?”

I pointed to the older cousin.

“He’s a proppit,” I said. “He goes everywhere but not here, and now we’ll have bad luck.”

“A proppit? Bad luck? Who told you—” Her eyes moved across the room to the older cousin, then back to me.

“First of all, it’s prophet. Someone who delivers an important message. And it’s not that Elijah brings good luck, it’s that Elijah’s visit means…” She held my hand. “Better times ahead. For all of us.”

“He wasn’t here,” I said. “I checked his cup. I even called out his name down the hallway.”

“He was here.”

“How do you know?”

She nodded across the room, towards my father. He sat with Grandpa and with Rose, talking, smiling, finally…laughing.

I ran over to my father and curled up beside him.

Perhaps Elijah had visited after all. Maybe he’d just had enough wine—maybe he’d already been to New Jersey.

But he’d slipped in, undetected as always, and offered us all a hint of a new beginning.

For more on Passover, visit PJ Library at Passover for Kids | PJ Library

Be sure to download your free Passover Text Set for Until the Blueberries Grow

Mama Rose, Grandpa and Me.

It’s Tu B’Shevat, the Jewish New Year of the trees, which understandably has me thinking about, well…trees.

When I was very young, one of my favorite television programs was The Magic Garden, a delightful, low-budget, subtly psychedelic, locally aired show that featured adorably pig-tailed songstresses, Carol and Paula, singing, dancing, and playing make-believe in the titular Magic Garden. The garden offered a treasure chest of dress-up clothes (The Story Box), giggling flowers who told corny dad jokes (the Chuckle Patch), and, at its center, the Magic Tree. Each episode, the tree would suddenly play a mystical windchime-y tune, and a gift bag would slowly descend from its branches.

And let me tell you, it was thrilling.

What was in the bag was almost irrelevant, although it could be anything from a babushka to a sock puppet to a glockenspiel—some kind of prop to add to the imaginative play in the garden. But really, it was more the idea that trees provide and delight and surprise. That trees were, are, in fact, magical.

I’d already realized this of course, as an avid young climber of trees—starting with the small pink-petaled magnolia in front of my house, then gradually moving to the larger, branchy crabapple tree, and finally reaching mid-height (as far as I was allowed to go) into the giant oak that bordered my grandparent’s yard, from which one of its branches still dangled a charming old tire swing. I’d linger in my perch, surveying the land, the fragrant spring breeze grazing my cheek. That no enchanted gift bags appeared bearing roller skates or maracas seemed beside the point. I had all the magic I needed, sheltered within the majestic leaves.

Crabapple tree and Me

The festival of Tu B’Shevat specifically honors fruit trees, and the crown jewel in my grandmother’s garden was an actual Royal Anne cherry tree, whose misshapen, red-yellow fruits looked nothing like the perfect crimson orbs from the grocery store, yet were infinitely sweeter. Its huge bounty left plenty for Grandma’s homemade cherry borscht, a rare and treasured family delicacy. Until I was an adult, I had no idea the original was made with beets.

I imagined and created whole worlds in those trees—alone and with my friends—nascent seeds much like the ones nestled into the earth long ago that gave rise to those gentle giants, stretching, growing, blossoming into stories I’d later write.

Magic.

In every possible way, trees sustain us. Nourish us. Shelter us. Literally, breathe life into us.

UNTIL THE BLUEBERRIES GROW, by Jennifer Wolf Kam, illus. by Sally Walker, Published by PJ Library

It’s been a long two years by anyone’s measure, and Tu B’Shevet is a celebration of renewal. Beginnings. Possibility. Hope. And fruitfulness.

So happy New Year to the trees, and Chag sameach!

Plant a tree if you can—or just enjoy one nearby. And, if you’re lucky enough to find it, enjoy some cherry borscht on me.

Cue windchimes

For all things Tu B’Shevat, visit PJ Library’s hub.

Want to learn more about why trees are magical? Stop by here.

Be sure to download your free Tu B’Shevat Text Set and Gardening Text Set for Until the Blueberries Grow!

I was never a theater kid (although my mother might claim I saved a steady stream of theatrics for her), but in 4^th grade I found myself cast in the Hebrew School Chanukah play, in my small, suburban Long Island synagogue. I wasn’t the star—some other kid donned a fake beard and played the important role of Matityahu, father of Judah the Maccabee, hero of our Chanukah story. Another classmate, whose name is lost to time, portrayed the daring and brave Judah. I wasn’t shy—and in fact, relished the spotlight. As luck would have it, we were arranged in size order, and owing to my medium height, I happily ended up on the end of the front row in full sight. Dressed in a floor-length floral bathrobe, my hair in long braids, interwoven with ribbon, I played the part of an incensed Judean townsperson, who could shake my fist with the best of them.

Our exasperated, but idealistic junior choir director, a woman with flyaway gray curls, whose name, alas, I’ve also forgotten, appealed to our 1960’s-era flower children parents with a Chanukah score based on Beatles music—the opening number a take on Yellow Submarine. It went something like this:

In the town of Modiin,

lived a special group of Hasidim.

All the Jews were asked to bow,

but Matityahu said, Jews don’t kowtow….                               

We all live in the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin…”

This is 100% true.

For those who aren’t familiar with Chanukah or who need a refresher, the Jewish festival of lights commemorates the miraculous victory of an outnumbered, outflanked band of Jewish warriors against the powerful forces of King Antiochus. Encouraged and empowered by Matityahu of Modiin, the Jews, led by Matityahu’s son, Judah Maccabee, rose up against their oppressive Seleucid rulers. In 164 B.C.E., the Jewish people returned to Jerusalem, cleaned and rededicated their holy Temple, eventually lighting a makeshift menorah as the original had been stolen.

Alas, no photos exist of the play, but here’s me at around the same age

And so it goes that only a small cruse of oil was found to light the menorah—enough for only one night. The miracle celebrated each year on Chanukah is that this small amount of oil lasted for an astonishing eight nights. Chanukah, at its core, is a story of strength, determination, and perseverance. The Jewish people, just like the light in that ancient menorah, persisted.

Back in 1980s Long Island, more songs followed in our little Chanukah show, Judaized versions of All You Need is Love, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (which most definitely referenced the band of Maccabees), Get Back (Judah was a man, they said he was a hammer…) All Together Now (in which the Jews worked to clean the reclaimed Temple in Jerusalem). I wish I remembered more songs and lyrics because honestly, they were oddly brilliant.

What I do remember is, after the play, my grandmother, an imposing figure—5’8” in flats and a single raised eyebrow that might’ve sent old Antiochus into the hills, came over and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“That was lovely.” She held up a long, plump, manicured finger. “And important.”

I was certain I’d been one heck of an ancient Judean, but important? Anyway, I’d already turned my thoughts to the following night, when I’d light the menorah with my family, feast on latkes and chocolate gelt (coins), and hopefully get some of the presents I’d been not so subtly hinting at for the past month.

But I found out much later that Grandma said something else too.

My grandmother, whose family fled the pogroms of Eastern Europe, and whose in-laws (my grandfather’s family) lost a large portion of their family in the Shoah, told my mother that, “The true miracle is that 40 years after the Holocaust, that stage is filled with beautiful, healthy children openly and proudly singing songs about being Jewish.”

A miracle indeed.

My memory is hazy and maybe I’m making it up, but I feel like we ended with a junior choir Hebrew School rendition of Here Comes the Sun. Whatever Chanukah lyrics we belted out to that famous Beatles tune are also lost to time and memory—but the message remains clear and resonates—particularly given the challenges we’ve all faced, as a global community, in the past two and a half years.

While scrolling through Instagram, as one does, I stumbled upon a well-known quote by Rabbi Yitzchak “Irving” Greenberg. He says, “The proper response, as Chanukah teaches, is not to curse the darkness but to light a candle.”

Viewed through the increasingly foggy lens of the past, with some added clarity that comes with adulthood, I think, in a way, our little retro pop-culture Hebrew School production was a light—a beacon to our parents, our grandparents and especially our children. A reminder that in and after the darkest of times, there can and will, against the greatest of odds, be light.

This week, as Jews around the world light the Menorah with friends and family, the candles burning brightly into the night, Chanukah remains a forever testament to that miraculous truth.

All Together Now…

My grandparents, Sally and George Schneider, with yours truly

Be sure to download your free Chanukah Text Set for Until the Blueberries Grow!