A Gift of Dirt, Embarrassment and Shame

When I was four, I learned the convention of celebrating a person’s birthday with a unique gift reflecting their interests. As she liked houseplants, I gave my maternal grandmother a medium-size orange ceramic pot lovingly filled with dirt and wrapped with a yellow ribbon. For some unknown reason, this was a cause of great hilarity, which still causes me some confusion and, I’ll admit, pain.

Why pain? We all know that the longest-lived memories are those tagged to emotion. I did not feel shame, not sorrow, but disappointment and confusion. My family’s response was a betrayal of sorts. I had been told repeatedly that the best gifts were not related to their monetary value but gifts that recognized a person’s uniqueness and required thoughtfulness from the giver. The #gift of dirt was something that I had thought about for some time after observing my grandmother fussing over her plants. As a four-year-old without a bank account, this was something in my power to give. I had noted that a woman of my grandmother’s dimensions had difficulty getting down as close to the dirt as I could.

Don’t worry about my 4-year-old sentimentality. I’ll get over it in time.

I have another memory allied to my gift of dirt involving a much more valuable item – a five-dollar gold coin celebrating the coronation of King George the 5th which my grandmother gave me on my 13^th birthday. A complimentary memory - some months later she asked to borrow the coin back and I haven’t seen it since. This was, I regret, entirely in keeping with her character, a judgement I will reserve for another time.

Another emotion-tinged memory was the “tallis” – a Jewish prayer shawl, given to me by maternal grandfather on the occasion of my #Bar Mitzvah. I was close to Zedeh, who was a quiet gentle man, I well remember him for the shock of grey hair above his high shiny forehead which seemed to me to radiate intelligence.

Unfortunately, in the days leading up to my Bar Mitzvah, Ruben put his back out and was unable to attend the ceremony in the #Shaar Hashomayim (Gates of Heaven) synagogue. The Bar Mitzvah ceremony was to be the pinnacle of my 13 years of life, a point where after 2 years of study, I was to read from the bible scrolls in front of the entire congregation in the original Hebrew. I was also expected to explain my portion of the text while standing on the dais with the formally dressed elders arrayed as a backdrop to the spectacle. I had been preparing for months under the supervision of the synagogue’s canter. The Synagogue itself was the largest of the many Montreal synagogues with a formality conveyed by its high vaulted ceilings and multiple 20-foot-stained glass windows portraying a dozen classical bible scenes. I addressed the audience of a couple of hundred souls from the “Bimah” – standing on a stool so that I could see over the lectern on an elevated platform, at the front wearing the prayer shawl which had been presented by my grandfather.

The performance, as far as I could tell, was well received. I was so thrilled and relieved to have put it behind me, something I also did with my grandfather’s prayer shawl which I left on the deep mahogany bench in the synagogue’s first row as we went to the reception hall for the congregational refreshments.

“Tallis”

To my dismay, the “tallis” was gone when I returned to the synagogue to retrieve my belongings. My devastation washed over me as I was to go over to my grandfather’s apartment and chant my portion for him in a private bed side performance. Preoccupied with the many details of the celebration, my mother dismissing my sorrowful shame at having lost the “tallis”. In a bit of a rush, she suggested that I just borrow one from the synagogue as my grandfather would not likely know the difference.

After going to Rubin and Clara’s apartment, I donned the “borrowed” tallis and repeated the entire performance for my Zedeh. He listened attentively and complimented me. Then taking the tallis from my shoulder’s he carefully examined the fringe and declared “This is not the tallis I bought for you.” I survived the torrent of shame which washed over me but to this day, the exposure of my deceit revealed, and my mother’s complicity remain the most vivid memory of my Bar Mitzvah celebration.