The Stories of Our Lives

We were a middle-class family, living on the edge of suburbia on a street full of second-generation Jewish families.

The address was 3736 Mackenzie Street. Our phone number was REgent 8 -7079. It was on that street that I spent my first eight years.

It was there that I created a neighborhood stir when, at age 7, I naively gave the ring from my Cracker Jack box to Elaine who lived next door. Our parents began planning the wedding.

And there was the time when my mother congratulated me for eating all my porridge on our back porch, only to be corrected by another neighbor who informed her that it was Barry who lived upstairs who had eaten it all.

I recall my father’s pride as he brought home his first new car—a blue 1959 Ford, later replaced in 1962 by a gold Galaxy 500.

I recall the fuss when, while playing in a huge field behind our homes, one of my friends found the entry to a tunnel which the Montreal Historical Society later confirmed housed 50 cannon balls sitting under our street, stored during the 1700’s, for use in the French-English wars.

Later, that field would be developed into mall. It was on his first day on the job there in July 1970, that I lost one of my best friends. Benny Segal, who was hired as a dishwasher at the Ben Ash Deli, was marched into a freezer by thieves and killed with a handful of others. I’ve never really recovered.

These are the places I remember.

All this came back to me last month as we paid a quick visit to Montreal so that Patte could obtain her Nexus/Global entry card at the nearby Canadian/US border.

We turned it into a family vacation. But more than anything, it was a chance, just after my 71^st birthday, to revisit places of my youth—or as the Torah calls it, to “redig old wells.”

There was the five story Orange Julep drive-in which still serves the best orange drink on the planet. And don’t get me started on bagels, smoked meat and fries.

We passed by only to learn that it is now a retro men’s store run by hipsters—selling the same clothing my grandfather did more than 60 years ago.

These are the places I remember.

From my high school to our synagogue, now an Armenian Cultural Center—from the cemetery where Leonard Cohen was laid to rest, to the stomping grounds of Pierre Elliott Trudeau.

And during those times of conversation with my wife, I realized that each person, each stop along the way has in some way made me who I am.

Indeed, this week’s Torah portion Matot-Masei, is all about life’s journey. As we approach the end of the fourth book of the Torah, the Israelites are about to enter the Promised Land. They can see it beyond the Jordan River.

But before the Israelites cross, without their leader Moses, he reminds them of the more than 40 stops along the way.

And how each one made the Israelites stronger.

There were babies born, and parents laid to rest. There were loves gained and hearts broken. There were times of doubt and weakness, there were times of victories and defeats.

And each place played a part.

Indeed, as I considered this week’s parashah, I wondered for each of us, what were the most significant rest stops which have led us to this day.

Where were we born? Who were the people—families and neighbors who surrounded us?

Where did we move to? What were our fears and doubts as we left the old neighborhood.

When we departed for college, or met our life partners, as we began our first day on the job, that time we were failed, and others when we succeeded—what were the major stops along our journey?

On the surface, this week’s Torah portion is a TripTik of all the places the Israelites visited en route to the Promised Land—but upon reflection, this week’s parashah leads us to reflect—what were the stepping stones along the way?

Last month, as we toured the city, as I pointed out business which remain and those which do not, I was stuck by the hold that these places still had on me.

On one hand, I was sad for what was no more. On the other, I was filled with light and a nostalgic tear for the journey traveled.

As our five-year-old granddaughter chomped into her kosher hog dog at the Orange Julep, she looked up, mouth full and declared, “Zaidie, this is the best hot dog I ever had.”

And I thought of my friend Benny, and my departed grandparents, nights eating with friends the best fries anywhere — and I shed a quiet tear of remembrance.

For this week’s parashah is not just about biblical places—it’s a call for each of us to look back at those steps along the way—as we plod a path to our next promised land.

For the journey is never over.

And for those steps we are unable to take, we turn to our children and grandchildren—who will carry our values and our story forward.

Indeed, these are the places they will remember, and for generations to come.