MY EULOGY FOR SARAH KAUFMAN, 2006

When I was growing up, my bedroom window looked across the driveway to Sarah and Freddy’s kitchen window. The light was always on, or so it seemed. The kitchen was where you came to schmooze, have a glass of seltzer that came from one of those pressurized bottles kept in cases on the tiny back porch, or have a cup of coffee and a little something. She fed you, sat with you, listened, talked, and it felt like a place you belonged. As in my house, the front and back doors were in frequent motion, with the comings and goings of family and friends, checking up, checking in. And if the kitchen wasn’t alight with conversation, it was on the front porch, with Sarah in her big recliner, surrounded by green plants, her telephone nearby.

It was from that big recliner that Sarah knit and crocheted intricate patterns for her grandchildren, wrote reports, read her books, did the Sunday Times crossword puzzled in what seemed to me to be record time. She didn’t know how to be idle. Sarah was a teacher. The lessons had no plan, they weren’t composed. She taught by example: how to work hard, how to be committed to your community, how to care about your heritage, how to give of yourself, how to be generous. She worked tirelessly to better the lives of others through Sisterhood and Hadassah, and was honored many times over for her work.

Sarah loved to laugh but she didn’t tell jokes. She recounted true stories, with a glint in her eye, a smile on her face. She shared the gossip, gave a little, got a little. She was devoted to all of her family, and her friends were always there for her – Miriam and Abe (Winograd) were treasures to Sarah. And her neighbors, Fred, Georgine, Dick, and Eleanor, made sure she was always safe in her home.

Sarah Kaufman was blessed with a long life, a good life. I believe she lived to see 94 years because of her fierce determination and her independence. She just didn’t know how to kvetch, how to complain. Even as her body showed its weariness, her spirit never flagged. She maintained her grace and dignity, her kindness to those around her until her last day.

I’ve had a recurring dream for many years – in it I’m looking through my bedroom window, it's evening, there’s a light on over the back steps, Sarah’s kitchen is lit up. I see shadows, movement. I imagine she’s making stuffed cabbage or gefilte fish, or a big pot of soup, catching up on the latest news with a visitor. Or I see her in her recliner on the front porch, reading, waiting for me. I had that dream Friday night.

I will miss her.