We all have negative bias to some degree. We tend to notice and focus on what's wrong in our day, our lives, our country, more than on what's right. The experts tell us this has a biological, evolutionary basis.

That is, back in the day it was much more important to notice the hungry saber-toothed tiger than it was to smell the daisies. It was, of course, a matter of survival.
But the same instinct today does not always serve us so well. Yes, noticing what's wrong may prompt us to correct it, to improve our lives and those of others. But negative bias can also cause discontentment, excessive worry and anxiety. We tend to take so much of what's good in our lives for granted that we barely notice it and therefore do not get nearly the pleasure and satisfaction from the good things that we might. Oftentimes these are small, everyday things that we simply take as a given, a baseline, and we don't even think to be thankful for them. Yet, as many other experts tell us, a little bit of gratitude goes a long way toward the well-being of the person being grateful.
Here's a small example: In America today, it's pretty safe to say that almost every residence—apartment or house, urban, suburban or rural—has indoor plumbing with hot, running water. And of course we take it for granted. We go to the sink or shower and have the option of turning on the hot or cold water, or combining the two to get the exact temperature we want. Who even thinks about it?
My very dear friend does. She's in her eighties now and lives in a beautiful home. But when she was newly married her husband was in the United States Armed Forces stationed in post-war Germany. They lived in a cold-water flat. If she wanted hot water for bathing, she had to heat it on the stove in a huge pot. They were only there about two years, but she told me that since then she has never taken hot running water for granted. Every time she gets into the shower, she says a short prayer of thanks.
That little story had a profound effect on me. I can't say that I remember to say a prayer of thanks for my hot shower every day, but I do sometimes. And believe it or not, it changes my outlook for the day. And my friend's story made me cognizant of so many other things that are just part of life and that we hardly notice, but that really are rather extraordinary, especially given a bit of historical perspective. For instance, it was late summer in LA one day and and the outside temperature was 108 degrees. Yet here in my study it was a delightful 75 degrees, because of course, I had the air-conditioning on. But when I was a girl in the 50's growing up in New York, I didn't know a single family that had air-conditioning! And yet here we are, and yes, I am profoundly grateful.
Yesterday I spent one and a half hours riding bumper-to-bumper on the 405 Freeway coming home from the west side of LA. That same trip at 11:00 at night would take me 30 minutes. Certainly cause for frustration, right? But I didn't want to go there, so instead I took some deep breaths and said a silent prayer of thanks to my little green car for its great power, its comfort, it's air-conditioning. I said a prayer of thanks to God that I have a car at all, that I live in a place where I can drive instead of crowding into the subway and hanging onto a strap, and that I had found my wonderful calligraphy teacher all those years ago and was coming home from class.
I'm not any saintlier than the next person. I'm not saying that I do this sort of thing all the time, only that when I do, it makes a huge difference in how I experience my day. Negative bias, as I've said, can lead to better lives: If I were a city planner sitting in that traffic, dwelling on the awfulness of it might prompt me to come up with some ingenious solution to find a better way to move people in LA from point A to point B. But I'm not that person, and so my little exercise in seeing the good instead of the bad made for a much more pleasant ride and subsequent evening.

Here's another example: Most of us think of going to the supermarket as a chore. The parking lot is too full, they never have the brand of yogurt we want, the freezer aisle is, well, freezing, and there are just too many choices. Do I want Granny Smith apples or Red Delicious or Washington? Medium or large, organic or conventional? From which country or state of origin? Do I want white rice or brown? Basmati, long grain, or sushi rice? And don't even get me started on the coffee and herbal tea offerings! It's exhausting, right?
Except... have you seen the pictures circulating on the Internet of the supermarket aisles in Venezuela? Oh, Dear Reader, the shelves look nearly empty! They resemble a store here in America that's on the final day of its "Going Out of Business" sale. But in Venezuela the food shortages are business as usual. Inflation is rampant, money doesn't go very far, and people line up for hours waiting for a store to open, hoping to find a few basic necessities for their families. And this is not because of some massive drought or crop failure. This is not the Irish potato famine of the 1800's. No, this is entirely created by an increasingly oppressive, authoritarian government that has crushed its own economy. This is the antithesis of The United States of America.
Which brings me to the holiday coming up in a very short time: Thanksgiving, a uniquely American holiday. Many people think of it as a day to thank God for all the blessings in their lives. And that's fine, but I have always thought of it as a day to thank God for America, for the very concept and existence of America, and for the blessing of being an American.
Yes, I know our country has problems, divisiveness, political rancor and dysfunction. Those are things we all want to work on in our own ways, and so of course, we need to be aware. But on the national macro scale just as on the personal micro scale, this negative bias doesn't always serve us so well. And especially now, as Thanksgiving approaches, I want to focus on the miracle that is this country. For all its faults, it is the nation of the Declaration of Independence, the founding document that became the template for individual liberty such as the world had never seen before. And yes, for some that liberty has been a long time in coming, but our founding principles have made it possible.
And so on a personal note, here is a partial list of my thank you's to America, and to God for the privilege of being born here:
Thank you, America, for providing a safe haven for my maternal grandmother, who barely survived a pogrom in Russia and came through Ellis Island in the early 20th Century. She is one of those who literally got off the boat and kissed the ground.
Thank you, America, for the fact that though my paternal grandmother was taken out of school at the age of nine and put to work in a Lower East Side sweatshop, all fourteen of her grandchildren went to college.
Thank you, America, for giving a new life to my in-laws after the Nazis murdered their families.
Thank you, America, for the fact that though my uncle was unabashedly fired from his job as an accountant at a major U.S. corporation in the late 1930's when they found out he was Jewish, today such behavior against any minority is not only illegal but is looked upon with abhorrence by decent people everywhere.
Thank you, America, for being the sort of place where a football player can raise over $15 million dollars for hurricane victims in less than a week.
Thank you, America, and thank you, God, for this amazing country with its supermarkets full of food, its malls full of "stuff" and its plethora of books to help us organize and purge our "stuff". Thank you, America, for the trivial decisions of whether to buy a 12 or 14 pound turkey, whether to ask for a paper or plastic bag at the market, and which brand of sneakers to buy our kids.
Thank you for the fabulous interstate highway system, the urban corridors of concrete and steel, the stately halls of Congress, the magnificent mountains and the fertile farmland.
Thank you for being the birthplace of the technological revolution, of countless, miraculous medical advances, of the automobile and of the palm-size piece of glass and steel that puts more information at my fingertips than all of the libraries of the world combined.
Thank you for my right to vote, to worship as I please, to pursue my dreams and help my family pursue theirs. Thank you for being "conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." Thank you for being the shining beacon on the hill.
God bless America. Have a joyous Thanksgiving, everyone!

That is, back in the day it was much more important to notice the hungry saber-toothed tiger than it was to smell the daisies. It was, of course, a matter of survival.
But the same instinct today does not always serve us so well. Yes, noticing what's wrong may prompt us to correct it, to improve our lives and those of others. But negative bias can also cause discontentment, excessive worry and anxiety. We tend to take so much of what's good in our lives for granted that we barely notice it and therefore do not get nearly the pleasure and satisfaction from the good things that we might. Oftentimes these are small, everyday things that we simply take as a given, a baseline, and we don't even think to be thankful for them. Yet, as many other experts tell us, a little bit of gratitude goes a long way toward the well-being of the person being grateful.
Here's a small example: In America today, it's pretty safe to say that almost every residence—apartment or house, urban, suburban or rural—has indoor plumbing with hot, running water. And of course we take it for granted. We go to the sink or shower and have the option of turning on the hot or cold water, or combining the two to get the exact temperature we want. Who even thinks about it?
My very dear friend does. She's in her eighties now and lives in a beautiful home. But when she was newly married her husband was in the United States Armed Forces stationed in post-war Germany. They lived in a cold-water flat. If she wanted hot water for bathing, she had to heat it on the stove in a huge pot. They were only there about two years, but she told me that since then she has never taken hot running water for granted. Every time she gets into the shower, she says a short prayer of thanks.
That little story had a profound effect on me. I can't say that I remember to say a prayer of thanks for my hot shower every day, but I do sometimes. And believe it or not, it changes my outlook for the day. And my friend's story made me cognizant of so many other things that are just part of life and that we hardly notice, but that really are rather extraordinary, especially given a bit of historical perspective. For instance, it was late summer in LA one day and and the outside temperature was 108 degrees. Yet here in my study it was a delightful 75 degrees, because of course, I had the air-conditioning on. But when I was a girl in the 50's growing up in New York, I didn't know a single family that had air-conditioning! And yet here we are, and yes, I am profoundly grateful.
Yesterday I spent one and a half hours riding bumper-to-bumper on the 405 Freeway coming home from the west side of LA. That same trip at 11:00 at night would take me 30 minutes. Certainly cause for frustration, right? But I didn't want to go there, so instead I took some deep breaths and said a silent prayer of thanks to my little green car for its great power, its comfort, it's air-conditioning. I said a prayer of thanks to God that I have a car at all, that I live in a place where I can drive instead of crowding into the subway and hanging onto a strap, and that I had found my wonderful calligraphy teacher all those years ago and was coming home from class.
I'm not any saintlier than the next person. I'm not saying that I do this sort of thing all the time, only that when I do, it makes a huge difference in how I experience my day. Negative bias, as I've said, can lead to better lives: If I were a city planner sitting in that traffic, dwelling on the awfulness of it might prompt me to come up with some ingenious solution to find a better way to move people in LA from point A to point B. But I'm not that person, and so my little exercise in seeing the good instead of the bad made for a much more pleasant ride and subsequent evening.

Here's another example: Most of us think of going to the supermarket as a chore. The parking lot is too full, they never have the brand of yogurt we want, the freezer aisle is, well, freezing, and there are just too many choices. Do I want Granny Smith apples or Red Delicious or Washington? Medium or large, organic or conventional? From which country or state of origin? Do I want white rice or brown? Basmati, long grain, or sushi rice? And don't even get me started on the coffee and herbal tea offerings! It's exhausting, right?
Except... have you seen the pictures circulating on the Internet of the supermarket aisles in Venezuela? Oh, Dear Reader, the shelves look nearly empty! They resemble a store here in America that's on the final day of its "Going Out of Business" sale. But in Venezuela the food shortages are business as usual. Inflation is rampant, money doesn't go very far, and people line up for hours waiting for a store to open, hoping to find a few basic necessities for their families. And this is not because of some massive drought or crop failure. This is not the Irish potato famine of the 1800's. No, this is entirely created by an increasingly oppressive, authoritarian government that has crushed its own economy. This is the antithesis of The United States of America.
Which brings me to the holiday coming up in a very short time: Thanksgiving, a uniquely American holiday. Many people think of it as a day to thank God for all the blessings in their lives. And that's fine, but I have always thought of it as a day to thank God for America, for the very concept and existence of America, and for the blessing of being an American.
Yes, I know our country has problems, divisiveness, political rancor and dysfunction. Those are things we all want to work on in our own ways, and so of course, we need to be aware. But on the national macro scale just as on the personal micro scale, this negative bias doesn't always serve us so well. And especially now, as Thanksgiving approaches, I want to focus on the miracle that is this country. For all its faults, it is the nation of the Declaration of Independence, the founding document that became the template for individual liberty such as the world had never seen before. And yes, for some that liberty has been a long time in coming, but our founding principles have made it possible.
And so on a personal note, here is a partial list of my thank you's to America, and to God for the privilege of being born here:
Thank you, America, for providing a safe haven for my maternal grandmother, who barely survived a pogrom in Russia and came through Ellis Island in the early 20th Century. She is one of those who literally got off the boat and kissed the ground.
Thank you, America, for the fact that though my paternal grandmother was taken out of school at the age of nine and put to work in a Lower East Side sweatshop, all fourteen of her grandchildren went to college.
Thank you, America, for giving a new life to my in-laws after the Nazis murdered their families.
Thank you, America, for the fact that though my uncle was unabashedly fired from his job as an accountant at a major U.S. corporation in the late 1930's when they found out he was Jewish, today such behavior against any minority is not only illegal but is looked upon with abhorrence by decent people everywhere.
Thank you, America, for being the sort of place where a football player can raise over $15 million dollars for hurricane victims in less than a week.
Thank you, America, and thank you, God, for this amazing country with its supermarkets full of food, its malls full of "stuff" and its plethora of books to help us organize and purge our "stuff". Thank you, America, for the trivial decisions of whether to buy a 12 or 14 pound turkey, whether to ask for a paper or plastic bag at the market, and which brand of sneakers to buy our kids.
Thank you for the fabulous interstate highway system, the urban corridors of concrete and steel, the stately halls of Congress, the magnificent mountains and the fertile farmland.
Thank you for being the birthplace of the technological revolution, of countless, miraculous medical advances, of the automobile and of the palm-size piece of glass and steel that puts more information at my fingertips than all of the libraries of the world combined.
Thank you for my right to vote, to worship as I please, to pursue my dreams and help my family pursue theirs. Thank you for being "conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." Thank you for being the shining beacon on the hill.
God bless America. Have a joyous Thanksgiving, everyone!

Did you know that December 28th is Pledge of Allegiance Day? Did you know there was such a thing? Well, neither did I, but I'm glad there is. That's because, as adults, we don't get much opportunity to think about — let alone recite — the Pledge, do we?

We get to sing the national anthem at major happenings like sporting events and presidential debates (which may be said to have other things in common as well, but that's another story.) But when do we get to recite the Pledge?
When we were children, we recited it every morning in school. We didn't necessarily contemplate it, but it was a sacred ritual. We didn't necessarily understand all the words, but we knew it by heart. We might even have been certain, until the fifth grade, that it said " one nation, invisible…", but it didn't matter. What we knew, maybe from our parents, maybe from our teachers, maybe just from breathing the air, was that it was a privilege to live in the United States, and that pledging allegiance was something we were proud to do.
In the neighborhood where I spent my young childhood, most of the kids had similar backgrounds. Our parents were first generation Americans, our fathers had fought in the War, and almost none of the grandparents spoke English. They spoke either Yiddish or Italian. I remember there was one Presbyterian family on our block. The grandparents spoke English; I couldn't wrap my mind around the concept. To me all grandparents came over in steerage from places they didn't want to talk about, so their children and grandchildren could walk down the street without fear, could be assured of enough to eat, could call themselves American.
My husband had a very different background. His parents were Holocaust survivors and he was born in South America. When his mother went into labor with him, she walked to the hospital with her hands in the air so the soldiers wouldn't shoot her; there was a revolution going on and she was breaking curfew. My husband came here when he was eleven and became a citizen at sixteen. His appreciation for the flag of the United States is visceral, because he knows all too well what its absence can mean.
Pledge of Allegiance Day is not a federal holiday. The banks won't be closed, nor will the post office. There won't be fireworks and barbecues, nor many turkey dinners with all the trimmings. But we do have an American flag flying next to our front door, and I will just stand there on December 28th with my hand on my heart, and quietly recite the pledge. And that will be enough.

We get to sing the national anthem at major happenings like sporting events and presidential debates (which may be said to have other things in common as well, but that's another story.) But when do we get to recite the Pledge?
When we were children, we recited it every morning in school. We didn't necessarily contemplate it, but it was a sacred ritual. We didn't necessarily understand all the words, but we knew it by heart. We might even have been certain, until the fifth grade, that it said " one nation, invisible…", but it didn't matter. What we knew, maybe from our parents, maybe from our teachers, maybe just from breathing the air, was that it was a privilege to live in the United States, and that pledging allegiance was something we were proud to do.
In the neighborhood where I spent my young childhood, most of the kids had similar backgrounds. Our parents were first generation Americans, our fathers had fought in the War, and almost none of the grandparents spoke English. They spoke either Yiddish or Italian. I remember there was one Presbyterian family on our block. The grandparents spoke English; I couldn't wrap my mind around the concept. To me all grandparents came over in steerage from places they didn't want to talk about, so their children and grandchildren could walk down the street without fear, could be assured of enough to eat, could call themselves American.
My husband had a very different background. His parents were Holocaust survivors and he was born in South America. When his mother went into labor with him, she walked to the hospital with her hands in the air so the soldiers wouldn't shoot her; there was a revolution going on and she was breaking curfew. My husband came here when he was eleven and became a citizen at sixteen. His appreciation for the flag of the United States is visceral, because he knows all too well what its absence can mean.
Pledge of Allegiance Day is not a federal holiday. The banks won't be closed, nor will the post office. There won't be fireworks and barbecues, nor many turkey dinners with all the trimmings. But we do have an American flag flying next to our front door, and I will just stand there on December 28th with my hand on my heart, and quietly recite the pledge. And that will be enough.

I have always loved Thanksgiving. I love gathering with family and friends, decorating my autumnal table, and serving the turkey and all the trimmings.

And I've always thought of Thanksgiving as a special opportunity to thank G-d for America, for the miracle that it is, and for all that it has done for the Jews.
I find myself thinking about this more than ever now, with my new book, Lily of the Valley – An American Jewish Journey, about to be published. Lily, the first of five generations of Jewish women in the book, survives a pogrom and comes to the Goldena Medina, the Golden Land of her dreams. She might not have been able to afford the turkey, but she surely would have embraced this holiday in gratitude for America and its promise for a better life for her children.
Today as we watch the horror and turmoil engulfing so much of the world, how can we be anything but grateful to G-d for this country, grateful that we are here, that America has given us so much? America has even given us the ability to take our freedom for granted. But let's not.
Happy Thanksgiving , everyone!

And I've always thought of Thanksgiving as a special opportunity to thank G-d for America, for the miracle that it is, and for all that it has done for the Jews.
I find myself thinking about this more than ever now, with my new book, Lily of the Valley – An American Jewish Journey, about to be published. Lily, the first of five generations of Jewish women in the book, survives a pogrom and comes to the Goldena Medina, the Golden Land of her dreams. She might not have been able to afford the turkey, but she surely would have embraced this holiday in gratitude for America and its promise for a better life for her children.
Today as we watch the horror and turmoil engulfing so much of the world, how can we be anything but grateful to G-d for this country, grateful that we are here, that America has given us so much? America has even given us the ability to take our freedom for granted. But let's not.
Happy Thanksgiving , everyone!

Spring is here and the stores are already full of beach towels, pool toys and picnic baskets. The days are long, the SoCal nights are balmy, and thoughts turn to Memorial Day and backyard barbecues.

This year, as it happens, Memorial Day falls on the second day of the Jewish holiday of Shavous, so the barbecue will have to wait. But I can't help thinking about Memorial Day–in a rather unusual context.
There's a song that keeps running through my head. It's on my 1940's playlist, an original radio broadcast recording from World War II by Gene Autry. It's called "Praise The Lord and Pass the Ammunition." The title by itself has at times been used satirically, even derisively in recent years. That's a shame, really, because if you listen to all the words, you realize the song has a very strong, uplifting message.
The title is actually just the first part of a sentence, the second part of which says: "and we'll all stay free." It turns out that this was uttered by a chaplain on a US naval ship taking fire during the attack on Pearl Harbor. A legend grew surrounding that line, " Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition, and we'll all stay free!" And from that legend came the famous song, written by Frank Loesser.
The lyrics tell the story of the " sky pilot" ( chaplain) , who steps up when the gunner is hit, then the gunner's mate:
Up jumped the sky pilot, gave the boys a look
And manned the gun himself as he laid aside The Book,
Shouting:
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition and we'll all stay free!
The song came out in 1942, but it was not till the 1950's that the truth of what actually happened came to light. The ship was the USS New Orleans and the "sky pilot" was Chaplain Howell Forgy, a Lieutenant stationed on the ship on that December morning in 1941. As he later recalled, the ship was docked when the attack by the Japanese began and all the electrical power wasn't on. So the men had to form lines in a bucket brigade to lift the ammunition up . He formed part of the line and tried to cheer the men on. When he saw they were getting tired he uttered his famous phrase, " Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition." He modestly claimed in later years that that was all there was to it.
Maybe so, and it's an inspiring story. But the song itself, apocryphal though it might be, is rousing. It goes on to quote the sky pilot further:
Praise the Lord and swing into position!
Can't afford to sit around a- wishin'
Praise The Lord, we're all between perdition
And the deep blue sea!
And later:
Praise The Lord, we're on a mighty mission!
All aboard, we're not a- goin' fishin',
Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free!
There are many versions besides the Gene Autry one. Several add a line:
Praise The Lord and swing into position!
Can't afford to be a politician!
Hmmm.
Every rendition, however, has a catchy, melodious tune and escalates to the satisfying crescendo at the end : " And we'll all stay free!"
Sometimes, even in legend , there is great truth. As Memorial Day approaches, the song is a reminder to me of the courageous men and women who have fought- and those who continue to fight- so we can all stay free. So we can have a backyard barbecue. Or not. So we can worship for a religious holiday. Or not. Or so we can pack a picnic and brave the freeway to the beach.
And it is a further reminder that though we must always have faith, sometimes we need ammunition, too. That seems as relevant today as it was way back then.

This year, as it happens, Memorial Day falls on the second day of the Jewish holiday of Shavous, so the barbecue will have to wait. But I can't help thinking about Memorial Day–in a rather unusual context.
There's a song that keeps running through my head. It's on my 1940's playlist, an original radio broadcast recording from World War II by Gene Autry. It's called "Praise The Lord and Pass the Ammunition." The title by itself has at times been used satirically, even derisively in recent years. That's a shame, really, because if you listen to all the words, you realize the song has a very strong, uplifting message.
The title is actually just the first part of a sentence, the second part of which says: "and we'll all stay free." It turns out that this was uttered by a chaplain on a US naval ship taking fire during the attack on Pearl Harbor. A legend grew surrounding that line, " Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition, and we'll all stay free!" And from that legend came the famous song, written by Frank Loesser.
The lyrics tell the story of the " sky pilot" ( chaplain) , who steps up when the gunner is hit, then the gunner's mate:
Up jumped the sky pilot, gave the boys a look
And manned the gun himself as he laid aside The Book,
Shouting:
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition and we'll all stay free!
The song came out in 1942, but it was not till the 1950's that the truth of what actually happened came to light. The ship was the USS New Orleans and the "sky pilot" was Chaplain Howell Forgy, a Lieutenant stationed on the ship on that December morning in 1941. As he later recalled, the ship was docked when the attack by the Japanese began and all the electrical power wasn't on. So the men had to form lines in a bucket brigade to lift the ammunition up . He formed part of the line and tried to cheer the men on. When he saw they were getting tired he uttered his famous phrase, " Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition." He modestly claimed in later years that that was all there was to it.
Maybe so, and it's an inspiring story. But the song itself, apocryphal though it might be, is rousing. It goes on to quote the sky pilot further:
Praise the Lord and swing into position!
Can't afford to sit around a- wishin'
Praise The Lord, we're all between perdition
And the deep blue sea!
And later:
Praise The Lord, we're on a mighty mission!
All aboard, we're not a- goin' fishin',
Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free!
There are many versions besides the Gene Autry one. Several add a line:
Praise The Lord and swing into position!
Can't afford to be a politician!
Hmmm.
Every rendition, however, has a catchy, melodious tune and escalates to the satisfying crescendo at the end : " And we'll all stay free!"
Sometimes, even in legend , there is great truth. As Memorial Day approaches, the song is a reminder to me of the courageous men and women who have fought- and those who continue to fight- so we can all stay free. So we can have a backyard barbecue. Or not. So we can worship for a religious holiday. Or not. Or so we can pack a picnic and brave the freeway to the beach.
And it is a further reminder that though we must always have faith, sometimes we need ammunition, too. That seems as relevant today as it was way back then.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. It sometimes comes just a month or so after all the Jewish holidays. They entail umpteen three and four course meals. It takes weeks to recover.

But still, I must make Thanksgiving.
It’s not just about the turkey, although, of course, we serve that, along with the sweet potatoes, cranberry, et al. But I serve turkey at other times as well.
And yes, it’s about the Pilgrims and the Puritans, but that’s a history lesson, and for me Thanksgiving hits closer to home.
Some say Thanksgiving is a day to thank G-d for all our blessings. Well, yes, but so many people I know, myself included, do that in daily prayer.
So what does Thanksgiving really mean to me? As an American Jew, born and bred here, I view it as a day to thank G-d for the blessing of America and what it has done for the Jews. American has been the most welcoming country for Jews in the history of the world. It saved my grandparents from the pogroms, persecutions and dire poverty of Eastern Europe. It welcomed my in-laws after the Nazis destroyed their lives.
On Thanksgiving I do think about the Pilgrims landing on Plymouth Rock. But I also think about that ship carrying twenty-tree Jews fleeing the Inquisition in Brazil in 1654. The ship was headed to Holland but was blown off course and landed in New Amsterdam, later known as Manhattan Island. Despite Governor Peter Stuyvesant’s objections, the Jews were allowed to remain and established the first organized Jewish community in North America. Later would come more Sephardic Jews, then the German ones, then the Easter European wave at the turn of the last century. Then would come the refugees of the Holocaust, then the Soviet Union, then the Iranian Revolution. And on and on as with so many other refugee groups from so many places. It still goes on today. They find not streets paved with gold but a land of golden opportunity.
As we serve our golden brown turkey on burnished golden party plates this year, that is what I will be thinking about. We’ll have a fire crackling in the fireplace and “Over-the-River-and-Through-the-Woods”-type music playing on an i-device. We are so blessed with all this, even more so to be surrounded by family and friends. And unless we are crazy enough to line up for some midnight store opening for Black Friday, we will sleep soundly at night. Our bellies will be full. We will feel safe.
Back in September a few of my grandchildren spontaneously started singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” They had a contest to see who could remember the most words. I sat there smiling but with a lump in my throat. Here is another generation singing, “Oh, say does that banner yet wave…”
Thank G-d for America.

But still, I must make Thanksgiving.
It’s not just about the turkey, although, of course, we serve that, along with the sweet potatoes, cranberry, et al. But I serve turkey at other times as well.
And yes, it’s about the Pilgrims and the Puritans, but that’s a history lesson, and for me Thanksgiving hits closer to home.
Some say Thanksgiving is a day to thank G-d for all our blessings. Well, yes, but so many people I know, myself included, do that in daily prayer.
So what does Thanksgiving really mean to me? As an American Jew, born and bred here, I view it as a day to thank G-d for the blessing of America and what it has done for the Jews. American has been the most welcoming country for Jews in the history of the world. It saved my grandparents from the pogroms, persecutions and dire poverty of Eastern Europe. It welcomed my in-laws after the Nazis destroyed their lives.
On Thanksgiving I do think about the Pilgrims landing on Plymouth Rock. But I also think about that ship carrying twenty-tree Jews fleeing the Inquisition in Brazil in 1654. The ship was headed to Holland but was blown off course and landed in New Amsterdam, later known as Manhattan Island. Despite Governor Peter Stuyvesant’s objections, the Jews were allowed to remain and established the first organized Jewish community in North America. Later would come more Sephardic Jews, then the German ones, then the Easter European wave at the turn of the last century. Then would come the refugees of the Holocaust, then the Soviet Union, then the Iranian Revolution. And on and on as with so many other refugee groups from so many places. It still goes on today. They find not streets paved with gold but a land of golden opportunity.
As we serve our golden brown turkey on burnished golden party plates this year, that is what I will be thinking about. We’ll have a fire crackling in the fireplace and “Over-the-River-and-Through-the-Woods”-type music playing on an i-device. We are so blessed with all this, even more so to be surrounded by family and friends. And unless we are crazy enough to line up for some midnight store opening for Black Friday, we will sleep soundly at night. Our bellies will be full. We will feel safe.
Back in September a few of my grandchildren spontaneously started singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” They had a contest to see who could remember the most words. I sat there smiling but with a lump in my throat. Here is another generation singing, “Oh, say does that banner yet wave…”
Thank G-d for America.

Election Day is fast-approaching. This election is what’s commonly known as “the midterms.” It’s been a difficult political season. Dire events are unfolding in the world. Control of Congress may be at stake.

It’s important for every adult citizen to become as informed as possible and to vote his or her conscience.
But there’s something even more important here, something too often lost in the political melee.
And so, a story. Thirty years ago. November 6, 1984. The incumbent, President Ronald Reagan, was running against Walter Mondale.
I had four children, the youngest just turning a year old. I was teaching parttime and had a housekeeper who was a political refugee from a war-torn country south of the border. She spoke no English but I, an English and Spanish teacher, speak fluent Spanish. It was my custom to take the baby with me when I drove the girls to school. Then I’d come home, play with him, put him down for his nap and go teach a few classes. But this morning was different. After driving the girls to school, I was going to vote. So I asked my housekeeper to play with the baby and put him down for his nap at the appointed time.
She then did something wholly unprecedented. She grabbed my arm and her eyes welled up.
“Please. Señora,” she begged me in Spanish. “Please don’t take the girls to school. Please don’t go to teach. Please, please, stay home today!”
I looked at her in astonishment. Why shouldn’t we go out? “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
By now her tears were spilling out. “There’s an election today,” she said. “There’s going to be a revolution. They’ll be shooting people in the streets!” She was gripping my arm for dear life. She meant every word.
I put down my books and the child’s backpack I was carrying. We were all a little late that day. What on earth must this poor woman have been through, I wondered, as I gave her a brief civics lesson (in Spanish). I told her that I knew there was an election today, that I was going to vote. The whole country would vote today, I explained. The loser would concede defeat, probably late tonight. The winner would be inaugurated in January. If Mondale won, the two men would ride together in a limousine to the inauguration. Either way, the two candidates would shake hands, smile and part ways.
There might be some distress, some angry feelings. But there would be no shooting, no revolution. We fought our Revolution some 200 years ago, I explained, and we created the world’s first true democracy, the United States of America. And the mantle of power passes peacefully.
I told her she had nothing to worry about. She looked at me with doubt but faint hope, as if wondering if this could really be true. She finally let us go. I took the kids to school. Then I voted, as I do every year. My husband, I knew, had already been to the polling place on his way to work.
Ronald Reagan, as we all know, won a second term. Sometimes it’s a Republican, sometimes a Democrat. But the mantle passes peacefully.
As Election Day 2014 approaches, I find myself thinking back on that long-ago conversation. With all the rancor of our current politics, we often forget about what’s right about this country. Every day we see evidence of how much the world still experiences the change of power with bloodshed, as that poor woman did. But we are America, a beacon of light in a dark world. I pray we never forget that.

It’s important for every adult citizen to become as informed as possible and to vote his or her conscience.
But there’s something even more important here, something too often lost in the political melee.
And so, a story. Thirty years ago. November 6, 1984. The incumbent, President Ronald Reagan, was running against Walter Mondale.
I had four children, the youngest just turning a year old. I was teaching parttime and had a housekeeper who was a political refugee from a war-torn country south of the border. She spoke no English but I, an English and Spanish teacher, speak fluent Spanish. It was my custom to take the baby with me when I drove the girls to school. Then I’d come home, play with him, put him down for his nap and go teach a few classes. But this morning was different. After driving the girls to school, I was going to vote. So I asked my housekeeper to play with the baby and put him down for his nap at the appointed time.
She then did something wholly unprecedented. She grabbed my arm and her eyes welled up.
“Please. Señora,” she begged me in Spanish. “Please don’t take the girls to school. Please don’t go to teach. Please, please, stay home today!”
I looked at her in astonishment. Why shouldn’t we go out? “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
By now her tears were spilling out. “There’s an election today,” she said. “There’s going to be a revolution. They’ll be shooting people in the streets!” She was gripping my arm for dear life. She meant every word.
I put down my books and the child’s backpack I was carrying. We were all a little late that day. What on earth must this poor woman have been through, I wondered, as I gave her a brief civics lesson (in Spanish). I told her that I knew there was an election today, that I was going to vote. The whole country would vote today, I explained. The loser would concede defeat, probably late tonight. The winner would be inaugurated in January. If Mondale won, the two men would ride together in a limousine to the inauguration. Either way, the two candidates would shake hands, smile and part ways.
There might be some distress, some angry feelings. But there would be no shooting, no revolution. We fought our Revolution some 200 years ago, I explained, and we created the world’s first true democracy, the United States of America. And the mantle of power passes peacefully.
I told her she had nothing to worry about. She looked at me with doubt but faint hope, as if wondering if this could really be true. She finally let us go. I took the kids to school. Then I voted, as I do every year. My husband, I knew, had already been to the polling place on his way to work.
Ronald Reagan, as we all know, won a second term. Sometimes it’s a Republican, sometimes a Democrat. But the mantle passes peacefully.
As Election Day 2014 approaches, I find myself thinking back on that long-ago conversation. With all the rancor of our current politics, we often forget about what’s right about this country. Every day we see evidence of how much the world still experiences the change of power with bloodshed, as that poor woman did. But we are America, a beacon of light in a dark world. I pray we never forget that.

Last year on Memorial Day my granddaughter and I went to the gas station to blow up an inflatable boat for the kids to use in the pool. A haggard-looking man with a sign and a cup sat near the air pump.

I gave him a few dollars and wished him a good day.
My granddaughter, appropriately being raised not to talk to strangers, asked me why I spoke to him and gave him money. Without thinking about it, I said the following.:
“Today is Memorial Day, when we honor the memory of soldiers who have died fighting for our country. It’s correct not to talk to strangers but it’s broad daylight, there are lots of people around, and he doesn’t look like he would hurt anyone. We don’t know his story. We don’t know why he’s sitting here with a sign asking for money for food. Maybe he’s a veteran who fought for our country and now he can’t walk or has some other disability, like what’s called post-traumatic stress disorder.
What we do know is that we are going home to a barbeque where no one is counting the hamburgers. Maybe he’ll eat a little better today because I gave him a few dollars. We are very blessed and we should always remember that. “

I gave him a few dollars and wished him a good day.
My granddaughter, appropriately being raised not to talk to strangers, asked me why I spoke to him and gave him money. Without thinking about it, I said the following.:
“Today is Memorial Day, when we honor the memory of soldiers who have died fighting for our country. It’s correct not to talk to strangers but it’s broad daylight, there are lots of people around, and he doesn’t look like he would hurt anyone. We don’t know his story. We don’t know why he’s sitting here with a sign asking for money for food. Maybe he’s a veteran who fought for our country and now he can’t walk or has some other disability, like what’s called post-traumatic stress disorder.
What we do know is that we are going home to a barbeque where no one is counting the hamburgers. Maybe he’ll eat a little better today because I gave him a few dollars. We are very blessed and we should always remember that. “