Seder recalls family memories

OZZIE NOGG

Soon, Jews everywhere will celebrate the Passover seder, a ceremony often described as the most universally observed of all Jewish ceremonies. No matter what our level of religious observance during the rest of the year, the seder, in the words of the poet, Heinrich Heine, "lulls and soothes. Even Jews who long since turned from their faith ... are touched when the well-remembered chants reach their ears."

Why? Perhaps it's because the Passover story is filled with so much collective history. The Exodus from Egypt marks the birth of the Jewish nation, after all. It symbolizes freedom. It brought us to Sinai, the Torah and our covenant with God.

But Passover and the seders hook my soul and psyche because of personal history. The seder speaks to the child in me.

Every year, right after Purim, my grandmother would paint her pantry. Eventually, the layers of white paint got so thick that the cupboard doors wouldn't close all the way. And the paint never quite dried. If you pressed your fingernail into it - months later, at Rosh Hashana, say - you could still make a small curved impression. It was faint but you could see it. This never failed to fill me with wonder.

Into that magical pantry went the Passover dishes - clear and green and fragile. My grandmother let me help her stack them on the shelves.

I remember my mother and grandmother cleaning the house before Passover. They schlepped pots and pans down to the basement and schlepped other pots and pans up from the basement. They scoured every surface in the kitchen. They dumped chametz (leavened products) crumbs from drawers, shook them from pockets and beat them out of rugs.

And all the time, they laughed. While polishing silver. While ironing curtains. To me, preparing for Passover looked like forced labor in a house of bondage. But to my mother and grandmother it was pure joy.

I also remember searching for chametz on the night before the seder. In our shadowy, almost-dark house, my brother and I put small pieces of bread on the windowsills and then - by the light of a candle - we led our parents to the leaven. Solemnly, using a feather, Poppa swept the crumbs into a wooden spoon. Then Mother wrapped everything up in a cloth and put the whole bundle outside for the night.

In the morning, with much ceremony and many benedictions, we burned the chametz to ashes. Poppa told me that when the chametz went up in smoke, so did our evil inclinations. I didn't understand what he meant at the time. But I remember his words.

In my childhood, setting the seder table was a serious business. Plates had to be strategically arranged on the lace cloth so as to cover up the indelible wine stains from past seders. A chipped goblet? Give it to a family member and not a guest.

My special seder responsibility was to make the salt water for the eggs, and the significance of the assignment was not lost on me. I measured and mixed and trembled. And when mother gave the water her taste-test, she always, always said it was perfect.

The seders of my youth were combinations of order and bedlam. Poppa recited every single word. We wiggled and squirmed. When I carried my bowl and pitcher around the table so the men could wash their hands, I felt absolutely indispensable. And later, when everyone said, "This salt water is perfect," some tiny, undiscovered bit of chametz in me swelled with pride.

Who could really describe the food? The first taste of matzo. Poppa's five-alarm-grated-by-hand-with-some-of-his-knuckle-in-it chrain (horseradish). The knaidlach big as tennis balls. The potato kugel. The strawberry ices topping a cake that rose a foot tall from its silver platter.

I pitied the hungry, wandering Israelites who had to settle for manna from heaven. Then we sang the Hallel. My spoiled cousin, Benji - as usual - found the afikomen (dessert matzo). A few new stains were on the lace cloth.

And finally, "Chad Gadya" and the verse about the Angel of Death. Oh, how those words terrified me. But curled up, half asleep in my grand-mother's lap - wrapped tight in her arms - I sang bravely. And then the seder was over.

So. That was then and this, as they say, is now. I'm a grown-up, which means I now must create memories for my children and grandchildren. I do my best. But at Passover time, quite honestly, I'd much rather still be the kid.

Ozzie Nogg is a storyteller and free-lance writer who lives in Omaha, Neb.

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