What do a Skverer chassid and an Amish farmer have in common besides their mode of dress?
O ld meets new in York, perhaps more than in any other city in England. Bus routes weave around ancient city walls, the quaint marketplace thrives just a short distance from a designer outlet mall, and supermarkets jostle for space along a riverbank marked with bridges, stone buildings, signposts to history. In the middle of
A msterdam — city of old, of stone, art, passion. Light from old-fashioned streetlamps spilled into dark, rain-swept corners. People huddled in the narrow roadsides. Everywhere the quiet lap of the canal. I was drinking it in, a city I’d never been to before. Here for the day as a tourist, hungry-eyed. We saw the canals,
“Y our son is wonderful and we want him here.” The principal tapped his pencil on the table while my husband and I waited for the inevitable caveat. “We’re just worried that he’s not reaching his potential. We’ve decided that Tuli can come back next year as long as he’s working with a therapist.”
T he November sun is strong, but there’s a chill in the air I hadn’t expected. Autumn has crept up from behind in its mixed-up glory, blustery clawing tendrils and floaty leaves sashaying down to earth. I berate myself for not bringing sweaters as I lock the car, strap the baby in the stroller,
I s a child being raised in Flatbush, I was surrounded by girls whose fathers learned in places like the Mir, Chaim Berlin, Torah Vodaath. Me? I was the daughter of a baal teshuvah from some hick town called Saratoga Springs — a place no one knew about. Blank stares were de riguer, and I
