Chum

The familiar scent of Pop-Pop Moe’s house welcomes me the second the door swings open – a mixture of old books, freshly baked challah, and the ocean air of Ventnor, salty and cold. My parents are right on my heels, their familiar presence a small comfort in this sea of nostalgia.

The wooden stairs echo beneath our footsteps, puncturing the air filled with familiar voices, until we arrive on the landing of the second floor. Jake’s laughter drifts over from the corner as he animatedly talks about a recent film, no doubt sharing all the behind-the-scenes trivia he’s dug up. Uncle Aaron’s deep voice booms a counterpoint, probably some joke about fishing. He’s always had that same timbre, which makes it hard to ignore, even if you wanted to. And then there’s Aunt Rebecca’s soothing voice, talking softly to someone about a traditional dish she’s been meaning to try cooking.

“Over there, sweetie,” my mom’s soft directive snaps me back to the present. She points towards the dining room, her gaze gentle yet urging. I start moving, my steps growing surer as the familiar setting wraps around me. It’s as if the room itself gives me a warm embrace. The vast dining table fills the side of the room, old and new sections joining to create a patchwork of wood. The white tablecloth draped over it contrasts sharply against the dark grain, a sea of pristine fabric interrupted only by the good silverware.

By one end of the table, Shelly is deep in conversation with Linda, his hands animatedly describing something – probably a memory of a tool he sold earlier that week. I spot the gleam of Linda’s jewelry, no doubt some of her own handiwork, as she listens intently. My Uncle Herschel – Shelly, to everyone who doesn’t want to get glowered at, is a tall, gruff man who looks exactly like you’d expect a coal miner from, like, the 1800s or whatever to look like. He’s got graying hair, scruffy stubble, and big, thick arms that look like they could strangle an elephant. My Aunt Linda, on the other hand, is tiny and willowy, and I think Vietnamese, with a love for big chunky 80s jewelry.

The candles cast a soft glow over the room, creating pockets of warm light. As my eyes roam, I can’t help but catch snippets of more conversations, drawing me into their orbits. But even amidst the comfort and familiarity, I’m all too aware of the undercurrents. The way eyes occasionally dart in my direction, filled with a mixture of concern and curiosity. The hushed conversations that stop when I approach. It’s clear they know something has changed, but they’re not sure what, and they’re not asking. Yet.

Pop-pop Moe’s dining room is steeped in the essence of our family history, like a fine tea. It’s in every wooden panel, every tiny creak in the floorboard. Each Rosh Hashanah, it transforms from an ordinary room in his house into the gathering place for our yearly celebration. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and Passover – those are the important holidays.

Although the dining area isn’t expansive, it’s always felt grand in the context of these occasions. The room’s boundaries bleed seamlessly into the kitchen, the only real marker of where one ends and the other begins is the minute change in floor tiling, from a faded beige to a deep chestnut, which I’m reasonably sure might just be like… weathering. At some point I think in the 80s or 90s these might’ve been the same tile.

In the middle of this territory stands the dining table, a wooden mammoth that has seen better days but refuses to give in to time. Its surface is scarred with countless nicks and scratches. It’s surrounded by chairs that don’t match in any way. Some are old and worn, with cushioning that has long since flattened, while others are newer additions, clearly brought in during one of Uncle Shelly’s attempts to modernize the space on Pop-Pop Moe’s behalf. Despite all that, the inconsistency of the seating arrangement is never a topic of concern. Instead, it’s a conversation starter, as everyone seems to remember who sat where last year, or the year before, or ten years ago.

The ever-growing size of our family necessitates an extra table that gets appended to the main one at this point – it used to be the “small children’s table”, but I’m the last kid in line, so now it’s just the Extra Table. It’s fascinating how it always fits just right, aligning perfectly with the original, the seams hidden beneath the starched white tablecloths – you can only tell because of how the edges of the table shrink away like a centimeter or two.

Arrayed on the table is a culinary tapestry; the gleaming apples, freshly dipped in honey, sit on a platter, their sweet, sticky sheen catching the ambient light. The challah, a masterful braid of dough, occupies a position of pride, with Aunt Rebecca bringing two loaves each year that she always makes the morning of. It’s arranged in a decorative spiral, like a snail’s shell, burnished (that’s a fancy way of saying “glazed”) with a golden sheen. The pomegranates, bursting with a riot of seeds, remind us of the numerous commandments we aim to honor. It’s said each seed represents a commandment, and while I can never quite remember all 613, the symbolism isn’t lost on me.

Finally, in terms of big hitters, there is gefilte fish. It sits, untouched, unloved, on a plate in the center of the table. I reach over and take two pieces. Various other odds and ends, presumably from Aunt Rebecca, dot the table, with more sitting on the kitchen countertops that will doubtlessly be brought over throughout the course of the night until my stomach is ready to explode.

Despite the array of dishes laid out, I find myself becoming easily sidetracked. There’s this persistent tickle at my ankles, the slightly rough texture of the tablecloth. The hum of voices weaves its way into my ears from the living room – the kind of chatter that only exists in places where memories are abundant. Aunt Rebecca’s laughter, light and airy, dances through the air, merging with Uncle Aaron’s deeper tones. He’s probably recounting his latest fishing trip, complete with embellished tales of the one that got away.

But then, there’s Jake, excitedly sharing details about his new drone’s flight patterns. That’s hard to ignore, especially with how passionate he gets about his new interests. I try to focus back on the table setting, on the meal that’s about to begin, but my attention splinters, casting itself around the room. The candles, their flames flickering and casting soft glows, transform everything, bathing the room in gold and amber, the actual lights themselves on half-intensity. It’s this soft light that does something strange to my perception: details seem sharpened, yet there’s an overlay of softness that makes everything feel dreamlike. Everything and everyone is touched by it: Uncle Shelly, standing tall and proud, no doubt keeping an eye out for a chance to land another dad joke, Aunt Linda, meticulously ensuring the settings are perfect, my parents sitting to my sides seeming less real than everything else.

Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Aaron continue to converse, with Aunt Rebecca’s gentle hands floating around as she illustrates her points, her fingers tracing figures in the warmth. Uncle Aaron’s usually intent face breaks into a smile and he glances my way, a momentary acknowledgement before he’s drawn back into the story. My Aunt Rebecca is my dad and Uncle Shelly’s sister – she could’ve been a big celebrity chef, but she decided to back out because she didn’t like the pressure. I’ve seen Gordon Ramsey cook, so I totally get it. She’s really tall and stretched out, with long, dextrous fingers and a sort of nervous energy that she channels through homemaking. My Uncle Aaron, on the other hand, is tall and broad-shouldered, with creased laugh lines on his face and straight brown hair. He’s an accountant, which I guess is something that makes enough money that Aunt Rebecca doesn’t have to work.

There are noticeable gaps at the table. David’s spot, usually filled with his energetic discussions about the latest software, is empty. Similarly, Abigail’s chair remains unoccupied. I can almost hear her fervent ramblings about a recent article she dissected, her voice rising in passion with every sentence.

I slide into my designated spot, flanked by Jake and Miriam.

“And the guy says, look, do you want the shovel or not?” Uncle Shelly damn near shouts, as I tune back in on the conversation halfheartedly. “I’m no maroon, you know, I know what a ten year old shovel looks like, so I tells him, I says “Is that blood on your shovel? Is that what you’re trying to do?”, you know, like a joke. But the guy flips his wig on me! Literally, I saw his toupee bounce.”

Beside me, Jake elbows me gently, a playful glint in his eyes. “Bet ten bucks he tried to get a discount on the next shovel,” he whispers, clearly having caught on to the pattern of these stories. It’s a running joke between us – ‘Shelly’s Tall Tales from Aisle Seven’. I try to suppress another laugh, not wanting to interrupt the story. Jake is sixteen, and he likes photography like I like soccer – an all-consuming interest that formed the bulk of his personality before turning thirteen, which he then had to rush to develop into the gaps left behind. I remember he was always about my height, since we were the closest in age, but over the past year he’s sprung up like a beanpole, easily the tallest person at the table.

Miriam scribbles something down on a napkin, her brows furrowed in concentration. I bet it’s a line for a poem or some introspective thought, but I don't peek - that'd be impolite. While she mostly keeps to herself during these family tales, I can tell they’re vital memories for her, cataloged for later reflection. Maybe even inspiration. She’s nineteen, and, bluntly, I don’t like her as much as I like my cousin Abigail, but not for any reason that I could tell you. I think we’re just two quiet people that bounce off of each other. We don’t talk much. She’s usually reading and not paying attention to the table at any given holiday, which I’ve always found a little disrespectful, if not for the fact that I’m basically doing the same thing just with no book.

From the corner of my eye, I see Aunt Rebecca nodding along with Uncle Shelly’s story, the light from the chandelier reflecting off her gentle, understanding eyes. She pours water into her glass, her movements careful and deliberate. I remember her saying once that these stories, as repetitive as they might be, help keep the connection to her dad alive – to Moe’s legacy. She takes a sip, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Uncle Aaron, meanwhile, seems more engrossed in his thoughts, probably contemplating numbers and balances. Still, every once in a while, he’ll chime in with a practical comment, his accountant mind always ticking. “Maybe you should put up a sign,” he suggests casually, tapping his fork against the side of his plate. “You know, ‘Shovels used in commission of a crime not welcome’,” he says, like it’s supposed to be a joke. I feel a slight itch in my stomach.

“Maybe you should have a police officer on duty,” Aunt Linda suggests quietly. “I think I got mixed up here, though, was there actually blood on it?”

“No, I was just fuckin’ with him,” Uncle Shelly says, belting into guffaws. “You should’ve seen his face, though! Anyway, I let him refund the shovel and he promised to never come back, so I said, good, I don’t want your business anyway!”

This is the dance of Shelly and Linda, the way they seamlessly balance and harmonize with each other’s energy. Their long years of matrimony have made them two parts of a whole, and it’s evident to anyone who observes their shared rhythm. The room is awash with warmth, bordering on stifling. I silently muse that Pop-Pop Moe must have cranked the thermostat up again.

My thoughts, however, are briefly interrupted by a gentle, insistent tug on my sleeve. Turning, I find Jake seated next to me, having stolen Miriam’s seat while she got up to go to the bathroom. The glinting controller of his new camera drone peeks out mischievously from his pocket. “Hey, got any advice for my new drone shots?” he whispers. His eyes sparkle with a fervor only a passionate hobby can instill. A pang of affection and amusement hits me, but the weight of the occasion and the thrum of ongoing conversations keeps me anchored.

“What makes you think I know anything about drone photography, nerd?” I ask, giving him a bump on the shoulder.

“Call it a hunch,” he says, and I try to ignore the twisting feeling in my gut.

“Later, kid,” I say, in imitation of Uncle Shelly. Instead of correcting me about the fact that I am the youngest at the table, he laughs, and gives me a slight noogie.

Around me, the tableau of my family unfolds. Conversations float and twirl like dancers, moving gracefully from one topic to another. Light banter about school, work, and daily life fills the room. We are, all of us, delaying the inevitable descent into the more profound topics that Rosh Hashanah brings. Once Pop-Pop Moe gets going on his annual recitations from the Tanakh, the atmosphere will change, turn introspective. But for this brief respite, it’s all about Shelly’s anecdotes from the hardware store, Jake’s exciting drone escapades, and playful, familial jabs.

The ambient noise around me begins to blur, a comforting background melody made up of distinct familial timbres. Jake’s youthful voice rises in animated storytelling, providing a stark contrast to the more subdued sounds of dishes being adjusted and silverware clinking. Shelly, ever the joker, throws in his robust laughter at regular intervals. It booms and echoes, the hearty sound a staple at these gatherings. I catch just the tail end of one of his jokes, missing the setup but getting the punchline, “… And I says, I says to the guy – ‘Screwdriver? I hardly know her!’ Awh haw haw haw haw!” The room responds with a blend of laughter and groans. It’s so typical of Uncle Shelly, always trying to lighten the mood.

Pop-Pop Moe’s eyes are alight with wisdom. The dim lighting of the room reflects off the slight glint of his old glasses. I see a myriad of emotions play in his eyes, each memory pulling him deeper into the past. The clinking of cutlery pauses for a moment as he taps his glass with a spoon, drawing everyone’s attention. The warm, inviting ambiance of our dining room combined with the richness of our holiday traditions always brings out stories from our elders. Especially Pop-Pop Moe, who never misses a chance to pass on a tale from the yesteryears.

“I remember Rosh Hashanahs from when I was about your age, Sam,” he starts, glancing at me with a knowing smirk. I instinctively straighten up, anticipating a tale of mischief or perhaps a lesson in disguise. No doubt he’s about to delve into some story of the Small family’s history, a gem from his treasure trove of memories.

“When I was fourteen, that must’ve been, oh, what… 1965, or maybe 66. Times were different, much simpler, you might say,” he starts, his voice taking on the gentle cadence of reminiscence. “You know, they didn’t have such marvelous prepared meals as this,” he continues, motioning to the lavish spread on the table. I note the hint of pride in his voice. He and Aunt Rebecca always took delight in ensuring our festive meals were a cut above the rest, and it showed. He told me once that he knew he shouldn’t be cooking on the Sabbath, but he always had the view that feeding his children was one of those times when it was important to “save a life” over abiding by the halacha.

His gaze settles on the far end of the table, where a plate of gefilte fish rests. “Oh, Yente – that’s your great-grandmother, my mother, she tried her best, but it wasn’t a Rosh Hashanah without at least two plates of gefilte fish down the hatch – consider yourself lucky that you don’t have to eat any!” He says, pointing to the dish, which I have already eaten two pieces of. I shoot him a guilty glance, the taste still lingering in my mouth. He catches it and laughs. “Oh…” He jokes, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

A chuckle runs around the table. Jake is already snapping pictures, probably wanting to document this moment, and Aunt Linda gives him a reproachful look for disturbing the ambiance. Miriam continues scribbling on her napkin. But Pop-Pop Moe continues, his voice a touch more solemn, “And so much borscht, almost drowning in it, but, then one day someone introduced me to matzoh ball soup, and I knew we could never turn back. I would work a dozen hours overtime at the hardware store just to afford it.”

Suddenly, he leans forward, grabbing a pomegranate from the fruit basket. “We could never have even dreamed of eating a fresh pomegranate back then, too,” he regales, prising it open with his thumbs like he’s done so millions of times before, revealing the ruby-red seeds inside. “Only heard tales of this exotic fruit, never thought I’d taste it one day. And now I can just go to the grocery store and pick one up!”

Everyone around the table watches him, a mix of amusement and fondness in their eyes. “It was a much different time,” he finishes, setting the fruit down, “I’ll tell you that very much.”

Everyone around the table stops speaking when Pop-Pop Moe has something to say. The clinking of glasses and the shuffle of chairs fill the void, as the ambient noise of the room halts, waiting for his words. The room, which a minute ago felt expansive with laughter, now feels intimate, hushed. For someone who’s often lost in thought, there’s an unusual clarity for me whenever Pop-Pop speaks. The years etched into the wrinkles of his face and the authority of his posture demand a certain reverence.

“I can remember when I was just a boy,” he starts, the twinkle in his eyes indicating a departure from the present, “listening to my own grandfather at this very table.” It’s a prelude, a habitual dance he does before delving into anything weighty. The mood tenses but in a good way, like everyone knows they’re about to be treated to a piece of wisdom, passed down through generations.

He continues, pulling us further into his orbit. “And now I sit here, among my own kin, and I see the eyes, the faces of generations past and future.” His eyes trace the faces at the table, each glance carrying its own silent conversation.

The seconds stretch on, each one pulsating with anticipation. “As it’s written,” Pop-Pop Moe finally says, the dramatic pause between his words hanging palpably in the air, charged with energy. There’s a shift in his tone as he transitions, launching into a recitation of the Torah from memory. The words, though they might’ve been dry or distant in another setting, come alive with emotion and vigor in his mouth.

“A psalm of Asaph; God is truly good to Israel, to those whose heart is pure. As for me, my feet had almost strayed, my steps were nearly led off course, for I envied the wanton; I saw the wicked at ease. Death has no pangs for them; their body is healthy. They have no part in the travail of men; they are not afflicted like the rest of mankind. So pride adorns their necks, lawlessness enwraps them as a mantle. Fat shuts out their eyes; their fancies are extravagant. They scoff and plan evil; from their eminence they plan wrongdoing. They set their mouths against heaven, and their tongues range over the earth. So they pound His people again and again, until they are drained of their very last tear. Then they say, “How could God know? Is there knowledge with the Most High?” Such are the wicked; ever tranquil, they amass wealth. It was for nothing that I kept my heart pure and washed my hands in innocence, seeing that I have been constantly afflicted, that each morning brings new punishments…” He says, continuing in a way that makes the air suddenly feel ice cold. Or is that just me?

Even in my usually inattentive state, the resonance of those words binds me to the moment, casting a spell that makes my spine tingle. Each syllable he utters, laden with profound significance, seems to have been carved into the very fibers of his being. The rhythm of his speech and the cadence of the ancient verses weave an intricate tapestry of shared history and identity.

When he reaches the passage about God causing us to suffer now so the fruits of our good deeds might be preserved for the future, a quiver moves through me. I find my hands clasped together, my knuckles white under the tablecloth. The wooden edge of the table suddenly feels pressing against my body.

Pop-Pop Moe’s voice rises slightly in volume, snapping me back to the moment. “Asaph’s message is very clear,” he says, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Even when plagued by doubt, we must remember: everything God does for y’Israel – the people, not necessarily the nation – for us, is good. Even when the path seems murky, the end goal remains the same.” As he rounds off, he rests his eyes on me again, and there’s a gravity to that look which feels like it carries the weight of the world. “We remember this on Rosh Hashanah, the time of preparation for judgment, that we should trust in God’s plan, even if it seems unclear or challenging. We can take the new year as an opportunity to look forward to a year of good will, to focus on the future, and to trust that our challenges will lead to a good outcome in our duty – Tikkun Olam – to repair the world.”

The atmosphere is heavy when he finishes, each person around the table processing his words, turning them over in their minds. I can hear the faint whistle of the kettle from the kitchen, and I’m hyper-aware of the rhythmic beating of my heart. The sheer intensity of the moment, the way his words seem to single me out, it’s a lot to process. It feels like everything and everyone is waiting for a response, but all I can do is take a deep breath, hoping it’s enough to ease the tight knot that has formed in my chest.

It’s not enough. But nobody’s looking at me, so I have to assume they didn’t get the message the way I have.

The room is silent for a split second. It’s heavy, that silence. But it’s lifted by Pop-Pop Moe’s sudden chuckle. “You know, our good friend Peter Parker pondered a similar question.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. “Jewish boy from Queens, you know.”

Whispers ripple through the table as the less comic-savvy members of the family try to piece together his reference. I try to sift through the knowledge in my brain, mentally thumbing through the pages of comics I’ve skimmed over the years. I know of Peter Parker by name – that’s Spider-Man, obviously – but any specific details elude me. My cousin Jake perks up, his fingers drumming excitedly on the table. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, processing the information.

Miriam leans over, her lips almost grazing my ear as she whispers, “He’s talking about Spider-Man, right?” I nod, still trying to figure out the context. I glance over to Aunt Rebecca, expecting her to be as clueless as me, but there’s a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

“Peter Parker, Spider-Man Vol. 2 #48,” Pop-Pop Moe adds with a hint of pride, straightening his glasses, the glint in them almost cheeky. “‘The Big Question’ – it deals with why the good sometimes suffer while the wicked seem to flourish.”

Jake’s enthusiasm is palpable now. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, eager to join the conversation, “Oh, I’ve read that one! That’s with the Indian lady who basically never showed up after that story arc, right?”

Uncle Shelly chuckles, a deep, warm sound, “Spider-Man, really? I remember when those comics first came out. Never figured they’d be the subject of a family dinner discussion.” He takes a sip of his drink, then continues, “But, if there’s a lesson in there, might be worth a read.”

My mom gently chides him, her fingers tapping her glass, “You’d be surprised how deep some of those stories can get, Shelly. You know, the kids these days really love their comic books, there’s a lot to learn from Naruto and, what’s it called, Demon Core, that’s the one I keep getting asked about.”

I pick at my food, feeling like I’m submerged underwater. The family buzzes around me, every chit-chat, every light-hearted joke, but I’m a step removed. Their words mix and mingle in the air, but my mind is with Spider-Man, with Peter Parker, and the weight of responsibility. “You all know how it goes by now,” Pop-Pop Moe says. “He decides that he has to do it, because there are simply problems nobody else can solve. You know, with great power comes great responsibility, that old song and dance.”

The room starts coming back to life, forks and knives hitting plates, voices overlapping in the usual familial cacophony. Yet, in the midst of the clamor, I catch Pop-Pop Moe’s gaze from across the table. For a moment, just a brief moment, everything else fades. It’s almost as if Pop-Pop Moe’s looking straight into my superhero soul. He shoots me a quick, knowing smile.

Shaking off the introspection, I join the ongoing chatter. The room is a cacophony of overlapping stories, playful teasing, and a sense of belonging that always seems to linger in the air during our family gatherings. As much as my recent experiences haunt me, there’s a visceral sort of relief that washes over me in these moments. I am distracted, yes, and not as present as I’d like to be, but it’s like the weight of everything else dims slightly.

All the while, I mentally brace myself for the next course of food. The food at Rosh Hashanah is delicious, but also vast in quantity. I’m convinced Pop-Pop Moe’s ultimate aim for the holiday is to ensure we don’t need to eat for at least another week. If nothing else, Rosh Hashanah here always guarantees a full stomach and an even fuller heart.

The soft glow from the candles casts dancing shadows across the pristine white tablecloth. Each flickering silhouette dances, alive, almost whimsically, amidst the animated chatter of our family. A tantalizing scent fills the room – the very aroma of tradition, of timelessness, of passed-down recipes that have been honed to perfection over generations. It reminds me of history, of continuity, of love passed down from every preceding generation, arriving in this moment.

I glance around the table, taking in the familial faces. Each of them seems to glow, caught in the amber hue of the setting sun that’s streaming in through the window. The laughter lines on Aunt Rebecca’s face, the way Uncle Aaron’s eyes light up when Jake shares a story of his new drone adventures, the calm and poise in Aunt Linda’s posture – it’s these nuances, these everyday yet significant details, that make me feel grounded, despite the turmoil inside. The rhythmic sounds of silverware chime in – forks and knives gracefully dancing with the plates, almost in harmony with the undercurrent of conversations.

Then, there’s a hush. The conversations mellow out, giving way to a familiar, sacred tradition. Prayers are about to begin. Uncle Shelly, with his gruff exterior that hides a well of sentimentality, takes the lead, starting the prayer over the wine. His voice is strong and steady, the words rolling off his tongue with practiced ease and reverence. Following suit, Pop-Pop Moe, the religious pillar of our family, leads the prayers over the bread, each word heavy with significance and respect for tradition. The prayers for Rosh Hashanah follow, filling the room with a spiritual warmth that seems to amplify the very essence of togetherness.

I close my eyes briefly, the resonance of their voices enveloping me as I pray along with them with a practiced tongue. For a brief moment, amidst the cacophony of family and tradition, my tumultuous world seems peaceful, undisturbed, just as it should be.