The Secure Dinosaur

I sometimes wander into my kids' empty bedrooms, staring at their neat beds and undisturbed papers, and wonder where the time went. We spent about a thousand weeks with our kids before they moved out, yet it feels like they went from three to thirty in about a year and a half. Now they’re living in Israel, trying to live their life while getting some sleep between the sirens.

Our friends call and ask how we're doing.

“Okay, Baruch Hashem.”

Thank G-d we can keep in touch using today’s technology. Otherwise, we empty-nesters would always be standing in our kids' still and quiet bedrooms, biting our nails…

Tonight, however, we’re not alone; we are hosting their friends, Nachum and Sara, for Shabbat, and I’m focused on being a good host.

“Would you like a tour of the kitchen, Sara?” She’s curled up on the couch, as Nachum is still at shul. Lifting her head a fraction of an inch off the pillow, she answers, “Why? I’ve seen it.”

“What I meant is I can show you what is milchig, fleischig…”

“That’s okay.”

She plunks her head back down. She isn’t budging.

“How about pillows? We have many pillows, fluffy, not so fluffy. We have more pillows than Mozambique has vowels.”

“What?”

“Never mind, would you like more pillows?”

“Nachum would; he likes lots of pillows.”

I jump off the couch, grateful for the diversion, and take two pillows from the linen closet, tossing them on the bed.

We invited another young couple for the meal because these guys probably view us as dinosaurs, cute dinosaurs, dinosaur dolls, and I want to keep the table talk lively, moving, and bubbly, like rapids on a river.

We’re serving yummy, healthy food. Today’s youth are big on eating healthy, unlike when I was their age, we boiled a bird in a gallon of grease, poured orange marmalade on it, and called it Sweet and Sour Chicken.

“Hey Sara, I made Peoria Rice.”

“You mean Persian Rice.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I meant.”

Sara spoons it out onto her plate and tastes it. “Mmm, it’s delicious,” she enthuses, and means it.

My wife, Basha, made chicken soup, and we are slurping it up like lizards in the Amazon.                                                                                      

“It’s awesome.”

“Basha made the challah and the hummus, too.” Everyone is ripping and dipping.

“Amazing.”

As an aspiring writer, I want to tell our young guests that English is rich in adjectives and that there are other words to express one’s enjoyment. I consider placing a thesaurus on the table, but I control myself.

Instead, I ask, “How did you two meet? Was it through a matchmaker?”  

Nachum met Sara at a Shabbaton. He talked, and she listened. Then, he asked for her phone number, and believe it or not, she refused him. However, she was charmed the next week as she watched Nachum interact with a special needs teen in his open, engaging manner. She gave him her number after that Shabbat.

“How about you guys? How did you two meet?” Sara looks from me to Basha.

“Oh, I was in a motorcycle accident,” I said, this with a straight face.

“—Really?” She thinks I’m serious.

“Yeah, I lost control, crashed, and woke up on Basha's kitchen floor.”

“Were you alright?”  

“No! I busted my jaw and couldn’t talk. When I asked for water, Basha’s mom thought I said “daughter.” One thing led to another, and now—”

“—And now you’re empty nesters!” interjected Nachum.

“Please don’t say that, besides, it’s 4 a.m. in Israel right now—who knows what my kids are going through?”

Nachum waves this off and begins singing. He pulls out a full-size Israeli flag from out of nowhere—I mean, like "Abracadabra," it appears—and walks toward me, still singing, and drapes the flag over my shoulders. Taking me by the hands, we whirl, twirl, spin, and sway.

“Am Yisroel Chai, Od Avinu Chai…!”

Without missing a beat, we move into the living room, where the others join us. We link hands, dance in a circle as we belt out the song, and stamp our feet, sailing over the rooftops like figures in a Chagall painting. I’m so happy. The sky fills with smiles, and I’m sure my kids and grandkids are safe and secure.

When Shabbat ended, Nachum nailed that pure white [and blue] flag to the wall of my carport, where it remains, flapping in the breeze, waving to me.

Hello, Mr. Feldheim, do you recall the joy, unity, and sense of security you felt when Nuchum wrapped you in this flag? Remember this: Whether you live in Los Angeles, Miami, Persia, or Peoria, no Jew is more at home or less alone than in the Holy Land.

Sholom Feldheim has published his cute, comical sketches and stories in HaMizrachi and Mishpacha magazines. One of his stories aired on National Public Radio’s “The Public Storyteller.” He lives in Florida with his wife, where they enjoy yoga, bicycling, and cooking. He can be contacted at legacywriter999@gmail.com