I was known as a “good girl.” My seat was always right in front of the teacher and my hand always shot up enthusiastically in answer to her questions. My neatly written assignments were handed in right on time. So I was caught totally unprepared that morning, so many years ago, to hear my sixth grade teacher Miss Lewin’s public admonishment.

“Esther, I’m so very disappointed in you. What were you thinking”?

A frowning Miss Lewin then handed back my most recent composition clearly branded with a huge F circled in red several times for effect.

The topic we had been assigned had been about how we had spent the recent Chagim. And I had chosen to write about Sukkot. Actually, I had written an honest account of why I disliked Sukkot. I’m embarrassed to think I might have also mentioned that I hated Sukkot.

You see, for most of my 12 years Sukkot was a most difficult holiday for me and my family to celebrate with simcha. We lived in a small tenement apartment on the Lower East Side and we had no space for a Sukkah of our own. We were forced to walk about eight blocks to an acquaintance of my mom’s, shlepping bags of food and dishes with us so my father and brother would have a place to eat. There was no room for women in that Sukkah which resembled a tiny shack encircled by shower curtains and old doors; housed in a narrow, smelly alley between two buildings. I don’t remember when my mom and I ate. It was probably after we returned home after the men had finished their meal.

Then things got better. We moved to a huge apartment complex which housed a community Sukkah in a park between four 21-story buildings filled with Jewish families. But there were now different problems. For starters, we now lived on the fifth floor, a logistical challenge since my dad liked his food fresh and hot. Also, before davening was even over, I had to elbow my way into a crowd of women to stake out a good spot for the men in my family to sit, while avoiding the empty spot next to the guy already dissecting his smelly herring and greasy kugel. And of course, my mother would never think of using paper or plastic utensils for the Yom Tov meals. How would it look for the neighbors? And so my days went like this: down five flights to get seats, up and down the steps to get the fish, then the main, and finally the dessert, to the Sukkah in a reasonably short amount of time.

Mom worked in the kitchen as the short order cook and caterer and I was the designated delivery person. I spent each meal time toting dishes covered with dish towels to keep the food warm while simultaneously balancing a strange contraption consisting of three covered pots linked together in a metal carrier. If only we could have lived on the second floor like my best friend, Fraydie. She also had the advantage of having her window face the park with the Sukkah, and so she was able to lower her father’s meals up and down on a pulley.

Nowadays, I gaze with pleasure at the beautiful Sukkot in Teaneck and I smile at the families, men women and children, eating and enjoying the Chag together. I try not to complain about being tired as I walk the few steps to our deck to set the table with attractive paper plates. While it is true that I marvel at how times have indeed changed. I think I can appreciate the message my teacher tried to give me so many years ago. It was truly difficult for my family to celebrate the Chag as it should be celebrated, yet we worked hard and persevered. In retrospect, I realize how lucky I was to be able to run up and down those five flights to serve my father. I would gladly run up and down those five flights once again if only I could. Thank you, Miss Lewin.

Estelle Glass, a Teaneck resident, is a retired educator who is happily writing her own essays.

By Estelle Glass