Bronzed love

Twelve years ago, I started dating this cutie.

Youth and red hair, how I miss you both.

Four years later, we became man and wife.

I was totes excited about it.

He makes me laugh today just as much as he did then.

And we continue to celebrate over delicious food, as we did on our honeymoon.

My travel agent friend surprised us with a table for two on our cruise.

Tonight, we celebrated our eight-year (bronze) wedding anniversary with food (hello, honey & bacon cornbread and fancy-pants S'mores), laughter, and happy smiles.

I'm grateful for these past eight years and look forward to the next eight years and beyond...

Storytelling Sunday: My Preeeeciousss #1

(Sorry, I can't look at the word "precious" and NOT say it like Gollum.)

Inspired by Cheri's post at Scrap Dreams, I found Sian's Storytelling Sunday and decided to make a layout for my Things We Love album about a collection that's precious to me. I'll eventually create the layout, but the memories flowing through my heart, I had to put fingers to keys as soon as the inspiration hit (though it took me six months to actually hit the "publish" button).

Looking at these seashells, I can still feel the warmth of the sun beating on my face, the cool breeze of the ocean tickling my hair, the sound of the seagulls playing a symphony in my mind. New Smyrna Beach in Central Florida is my happy place. It's where I spent some of the most memorable, most enjoyable days of my high school and college years. But these seashells are a reminder of something more precious than the beach: They're a reminder of a very specific moment in time, shared by someone who I can no longer see, save the pictures in my albums and my mind.

Collecting these shells in New Smyrna while in college, only a few months after my friend Jennifer passed away, a precious memory was jogged. I remember writing the story down and sending it to her parents: It was my favorite summer, the one between my junior and senior year, the one when everything was perfect, the one when I got to spend endless days and nights with the first boy I ever loved and two of my BFFs on the Florida sand, in the Disney pools, down the streets of a nearby city, and in countless arcades, ice cream shops, and theaters. One summer day, lying out on the beach, enjoying the sensation of tanning and the trashy magazine I was reading, Jennifer got up with her water bottle and started mosying along the beach. When I finished reading about Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock, Jennifer was still walking up and down the beach... filling her water bottle with seashells. She wasn't collecting just any 'ole shells, though; she had to find the perfect ones. Thirty minutes later, we were ready to leave, but Jennifer had no interest in going yet, for she had yet to fill her bottle to the very top, which she was determined to do. At first selfishly motivated by my desire to get back on the road, I started helping her search for pretty shells to add to her bottle. The smile on her face upon achieving her goal was worth the extra time getting crispy in the sun, and I was happy to have contributed to it.

I don't know what ever happened to that bottle, if it was found among her precious things after her passing. My collection, which was first in a bottle, then a plastic apple, and now a plastic baggie, waiting for me to do something meaningful with it, will forever be precious: a precious reminder of a precious time I wish I could get back, a precious reminder of a precious friend who was taken too soon.

Another year older, another year more wonderful

We welcomed my most favorite season this year, as we often do, with the celebration of Hubby's birthday. This was a milestone year, but I was made to promise that I wouldn't make a big spectacle about it (read: no parties). I dutifully kept my word; however, I couldn't let the weekend go without a slightly big deal about this wonderful guy.

The weekend started with a visit from my father-in-law, which allowed Hubby to cross an item off his bucket list: Drive a BMW.

I organized a few family members to go in for one "big" gift this year. As if there were any doubt where Hubby's college loyalty lies, his new desk chair responds in style.

My main gift this year was a labor of love. Being married to an introvert, I understood the "no party" rule (as for me, I'm going to be swinging from the chandelier on this milestone birthday), but I thought that unfairly excluded the people who love and wanted to celebrate their son, brother, nephew, cousin, or friend. So I reached out to everyone that would have partied with us (this included only family and friends who already knew it was Hubby's birthday, thereby not breaching any "Don't let anyone at work know when my birthday is" rules) and asked them to email me with letters, stories, memories, pictures - anything they wanted to contribute to let Hubby know how special he is to them.

Adding Facebook stalking and computer contact-book hacking to my list of skills, I emailed as many friends and family members as I could find. For several weeks, I emailed back and forth with a great cast of characters - some who I know and some whom I only know of - from Hubby's life, as I laughed and sniffed at their outpouring of love.

Using a random day off from work (thank goodness Sukkot fell before Hubby's birthday!) I enjoyed a ten-hour scrapbooking marathon to compile all the wonderful contributions received. Based on the reaction I got the morning Hubby opened his scrapbook, I fear it may be hard to ever top this present.

After enjoying everyone's stories and memories a second time, through Hubby's eyes, we went to see the Wizard (of Oz, that is) in 3D. (At least the glasses hid the tears I shed upon seeing Judy Garland sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" seemingly right in front of me.)

We ended the special birthday weekend as one always should - with cake. 

Happy birthday, babe! I'm so glad I get to spend your next _0 years and beyond with you.

© Take a Second Glantz

An unexpected answer

18-year-old Cheryl with Aunt Ruthie and cousin Ellen
(along with Uncle Sam and cousins Ricky and Allen)

At last night's Women's Passover Seder, the leader posed the question, "Which woman/women from your life had the biggest influence on you (Judaically speaking)?" The first participant spoke about her mother. Pondering the question for myself, my mind turned to my own mother. No doubt, she has influenced me in many ways, the vast majority of which I'm truly grateful for, but she'd be the first to tell you that she had little to do with my present-day observance of Judaism. The next participant spoke about her grandmother. And so my mind turned to my 95-year-old Gram from the Bronx and my Grandma Lil, who I only knew for a few years before Alzheimer's transformed her into a stranger. I learned a LOT of Yiddish from Gram; I didn't realize how much I knew until I started having regular conversations with Jewish people outside my family. "You probably don't know all these words I'm using. They're Yiddish," an older someone from my community once said. "Actually, I do," I responded in surprise. But how? I thought to myself. And then I remembered how my Gram, when I was younger, would give me a rough English translation after every Yiddish word and phrase she used. Eventually - unknowingly - they became part of my vocabulary. According to my dad, I would have learned equally as much about Jewish cooking from my Grandma Lil, but by the time I was old enough to understand, let alone appreciate, the meaning of her keeping a Kosher kitchen, she was too far gone for me to learn from her. She did take me to synagogue for the very first time, but I was so young that the only thing I remember about the experience was the Stella Dora cookie I ate there. Her sister, my great-aunt Rose, popped into my mind next, as I remembered that her kugel was the first one I ever tried. Aunt Rose, Uncle Arnie, and their daughter Barbara gave me my first taste (that I can remember) of Jewish observance, as I watched Barbara's oldest son, who wore a kippah (yarmulke), wash his hands and say a blessing before our meal. Would my answer then be my aunt? Or would it be my Great Aunt Ruthie or my cousin Ellen, both of whom introduced me to the rituals of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur? As I discussed it with Hubby later in the evening, I realized that while these strong Jewish women were definitely influences, my answer was surprisingly not them.

We're on a camel!

The woman who was the biggest influence on my Jewish identity was a young college student who was virtually a stranger to me. Last minute, Rachel was "randomly" placed as my third roommate on our Birthright Israel trip. Nervous about accidentally offending our other, Orthodox roommate with my lack of knowledge about Judaism, I relied on Rachel to answer my questions about keeping Shabbat, which she did with the utmost patience and respect, never once making me feel as stupid as I was afraid I sounded. At services, she explained the unfamiliar prayers that I now say from memory every weekend. She unlocked for me what I thought could only be accessed with a key given to you at Hebrew school.

Rachel and I remained friends after we returned to the States. Continuing to live Jewishly together on the University of Florida campus, Rachel helped me host my very first Passover Seder, guiding me through the foreign rituals, and helped me navigate the dining hall so that I didn't accidentally eat anything I shouldn't. After college, Rachel introduced me to Temple life, and years later, I was by her side as a bridesmaid in her Jewish wedding, as she was by my side at mine.

Had I had a roommate who was not as open as Rachel, not as patient and understanding and nonjudgmental, I might not have had the same Jewish experience, might not be living Jewishly the way I do today. And so it is to Rachel that I raise my Manischewitz, with sincere gratitude for her selfless sharing of knowledge and the hope that I can pay it forward.

Then & Now

Then & Now

Moi circa 2001

December 2001
Ten years ago I had just come back from a Hillel conference in Washington DC. I remember feeling a renewed commitment to Judaism, as well as excitement about my future involvement in the Jewish community at the University of Florida. At the same time, I was studying to become an English teacher, enjoying the company of new friends, and exploring a relationship with this really cute TA of mine. I went home (Orlando, FL) to spend the holidays with my family and then went to NYC to celebrate my grandmother’s 85^th birthday.


December 2011

Reunited with Rabbi Andy, 2011

Life, in many ways, has come full circle. I just came back from the Union for Reform Judaism Biennial in Washington DC, where I enjoyed the company of new friends and experienced a renewal in my commitment to Judaism. It reenergized me to do my newish job as the Community Relations Coordinator for the Columbia Jewish Federation, a type of job I wanted to do after grad school but ultimately forwent in lieu of a teaching career and a life with that cute TA, with whom I celebrated my sixth wedding anniversary last week. I thought the ship of professional involvement in the Jewish community had long sailed, but, as the saying goes, it’s apparently never too late. The icing on this circular cake for me was reconnecting at the Biennial with the man who is largely responsible for my involvement in Jewish life. After taking my seat to hear President Barack Obama speak, I turned around and happened to see my Hillel rabbi, the one who sent me on my trip to DC ten years prior. As I write this, I am in a place I now consider one of my homes with my (married into) family and am looking forward to calling my Grams to wish her a happy 95^th birthday.


December 2021
I have no idea what the next ten years hold, but I hope I’ll be able to look back with the same awe, fondness, and gratitude as I feel for the past decade of my life.


Happy Chanukah, Merry Christmas, and best wishes for a safe, happy, and healthy New Year!

Pausing to remember

My cousin Allen passed away Sunday night after a courageous battle with cancer. Cancer sucks.

After hanging up with his son, who reminds me so much of Allen, I fought to suppress the natural way minds sometimes drift, trying not to put myself in their shoes...losing a father, a husband. I tried not to dwell on the questions that scream from deep within: Did I adequately express how grateful I was for all he did for me? Did he know how much I loved him? I tried not to feel guilty about not saying goodbye in person. Instead, I tried to focus on the memories, of which there are gratefully many.

I remember playfully smack talking with him while watching the UNC-FSU game. It was a surprise when I transferred to UF and started rooting with him. I remember the way he compassionately gave me a heads up about my great aunt's Alzheimer's after not having seen her for several years, softening the shock. I remember the way he opened his home to not only me, but also my friends when we needed a break from campus, and how he wouldn't let us leave until we had packed a snack (or ten) for the road. And I remember, because he was so good at saying it, that he loved me.

Allen wasn't a first cousin - we laughed over dinner as we attempted to figure out his title once..."Second cousin once removed...by marriage. Or something like that." - but to Allen it didn't matter how we were related; all that mattered is that we were.

Goodbye, Cousin Allen. I hope that in Heaven the Yankees always win.

Take a "Glantz" at this!

In lieu of spending time here today, I would like to introduce you to my SIL's blog, Crazy Mom of 3. She's new to the blogosphere, and I'm so excited that she chose this as her outlet to record the hilarious stories of my beautiful nieces and nephew. Welcome to this fun and supportive community, Crazy Mom. Happy blogging!

Hope everyone has a fun and safe holiday weekend.

An impromptu tribute

Filling out my 2010 Census today (there's nothing like waiting 'till the last minute), I approached the question about race. I paused, warm memories of Mrs. Overbay flooding the forefront of my mind.

They have my phone number, I thought. And my address. They're going to call if I do it.

Let them, I finally decided, checking the "other" category and writing in "human."

It wasn't about being a rebel. Or sticking it to the man (though that's always fun). It was about my favorite teacher and one of the lessons she taught me when I was a mere 12 years of age.

Mrs. Overbay (who later became Dr. Overbay, but said we should continue to call her "Mrs." because she worked longer to obtain that title), was the perfect middle school teacher. She taught high school toward the end of her career, which I have no doubt she was great at too, but she will always be a middle school teacher to me.

When I was in her class, I remember thinking how quirky, but how very cool she was. We didn't always see eye-to-eye, mainly because she called me out on my BS, but she was the one I turned to when my pre-teen angst got the best of me at school. And she was always there with a soft shoulder, a koala bear hug, and words of wisdom that I would think about not only in that moment, but also for years to come.

Several years later, I saw Mrs. O in a different light when I completed my community service project by being her aide. I saw that there was a purpose for all of her quirks - even going into the closet to scream - and it was those afternoons with her that ultimately led me to my decision to teach middle school, not high school or college like I had always thought I would.

Even though I was older, Mrs. O still gave me advice to think about as I graded her students' papers. And even though I was past the prime of my pre-teen angst, I still talked to her and entrusted many of my secrets to her understanding ears.

I kept in touch with Mrs. Overbay through my college years. The card I received from her in response to my graduation announcement is one I held - and still hold - most dear. When I started my internship in graduate school in a seventh grade class, the grade that introduced me to my favorite teacher, I received word that Mrs. Overbay had been hospitalized. I attempted to visit her during my spring break, but she was too sick to receive visitors. The doctor kindly took the letter that I had put in my purse just in case I couldn't see her. Whether or not she ever read it, I don't know, but I'd like to think she did. In it, I told her how I was interning for a seventh-grade class. Because of her.

A few weeks later, as my internship came to an end, Mrs. Overbay died. When I went to her funeral, I told her that all the gratitude I received from my students in those final days were indirectly for her, because she helped me to become the teacher that I was. I thanked her for the kindness and respect with which she treated her students and silently vowed that I would do the same.

Though I'm no longer in the classroom, Mrs. Overbay still comes to mind when I talk to my friends from middle school, when I think about my former students, when I engage in political debate, when I try to find a country on the map in my mind, or when I'm doing my job in trying to better education. My Facebook status today says, "Writing 'human' as my race on the Census. That one's for you, Mrs. Overbay. ♥" If the number of classmates who marked that they like my status is any indication, I'm not the only one who still thinks of her and loves her. I hope she knows.

image source