60
NOVEMBER 5, 2020 | The Jewish Home The Jewish Home | OCTOBER 29, 2015
I N
11
M E M O R Y
Dearest Mrs. Strickman, a”h By Rachel Sandler
I
sit in my house and listen out. It’s quiet. Very quiet. The background music that has been part of our lives for 21+ years has faded. I feel a gaping void. And as I sit, I replay the music in my head and my heart. I hear welcoming sounds as we joined you as pioneers on our block. Your warmth penetrated and the music of your words as you told me that you got the best neighbors still reverberates in my mind. I hear you telling me how great my kids are. You never stopped telling me, and you never stopped telling them. I hear you encouraging me to make a Friday night group for the girls on the block. I hear you asking me for advice when Ari was born. (As if you needed my advice!) You were so grateful. You never forgot any favor I did no matter how easy it was, yet all the chassadim that you did were not important to you and quickly forgotten. I felt so secure. I knew you were there for me for the little things. When Chumzy fainted on yom tov and I was alone with the kids, in my panic, I ran first to you before calling Hatzalah and you calmly did what needed to done with tefillos and assurances playing in my ears. You had lots of tips, and shared them with me, and I hear your voice in so many of my everyday activities. I hear you telling me to give you the boys’ shirts as I was getting ready for a sibling’s chasunah because you wanted to iron them. I didn’t care so much. But you did! You were always there with an encouraging word, with a bracha and a compliment. I hear your voice as we got into a taxi on Shabbos Shuva with our baby who was injured. You had no idea what happened, but accompanied us to the car with brachos and tefillos. And when we returned, your trademark “chasdei Hashem!” envel-
oped us. When we had simchos, you burst into the house with your sleeves rolled up, and got things moving. We felt your simcha for us at each milestone. I hear your voice saying, “Why are you taking away our stop sign?” We all knew it was an illegal stop sign, but you were adamant. You knew we needed this to protect the kinderlach on the block, and you wouldn’t let it go without a protest. I hear your honking as you were careful every time you left the driveway to make sure no child was in the way. You cared. I hear your voice as you welcomed your children, einaklach, parents, siblings, relatives and friends. Your house was bubbling over with warmth
A few months ago, I observed you sitting outside on Shabbos morning. Every single person who went by received a compliment, a bracha, a kind word. You were weak. Yet your words were specific to each one. You spoke with humor and with simcha. Everyone left feeling your love. You were constantly asking about cholim who were much less sick than you were. You told me how you daven for them. And as weak as you were, when someone who you felt was a talmid chochom came by, you stood up to the best of your ability. You loved to give, and you loved people. This last year did not change that. It was hard for you to feel that lack of strength. But you, along with your husband, Rabbi Strickman, shl-
You loved to give, and you loved people.
and love. It pulsated with happiness and life. I hear you, as I would meet you in the driveway coming home from a trip to Brooklyn. Your kibbud av v’aim inspired even your little neighbors, who saw and heard to what length you went to care for your parents. And yet when I would comment about your open home and your kibbud av v’aim, you would brush it aside with a humble “chasdei Hashem”! I hear your voice overcome with love and emotion as you would tell me about your family simchos. Your children and children-in-law were one and the same. They were all “yours.” You took such pride in them and appreciated each and every one for who they were.
ita, continued to give over beautiful positivity. You needed to get out after months of Covid lockup. You told us you were going to Amazing Savings and invited Tzirel, who looked bored, to come along. You continued to see what you could do for others. You would not let me come into the house to help you. You told me that you didn’t want to take me away from what I was “busy” with. Occasionally, you allowed Tzirel to come and help you, and weak as you were, always spoke with humor and simcha in your voice. The brachos you showered upon her far surpassed the small effort the favor entailed. You were still giving. I hear the excitement in your voice when you heard that the girls could
go to camp despite the governor’s decrees. You wanted to hear all about it and how it was working out for them. “Let them have a good time!” Your musical background continued, and as always, Rabbi Strickman was the harmony. You told me over and over what a tzaddik he is, and his answer was always, “Shony, I thought we said we are keeping it a secret!” with a twinkle in his eyes. His positive encouragement and dedicated care gave chizuk to us all. The days leading up to your petirah were challenging. As we continued to daven, the music was still pulsating from your home! Shemini Atzeres came, and we did not want to accept what we found to be true. It was yom tov, and we tried to swallow our tears. The life and singing that radiated from your house pushed us to channel our emotions. We felt like we were hearing the singing of the malachim! How appropriate. You were the music of so many of our lives! The shiva reflected how beloved you were. Covid or not, everyone felt bereft. I watched as the nonstop flow of visitors kept on coming. A non-Jewish neighbor from down the block passed by. He asked someone “Where is the lady who sits here?” I watched as his face fell. He was overcome. He did not know your name. But he knew that you were the lady who always greeted him with a friendly word. As I sit and reflect, it is quiet. Suddenly, I hear sounds of laughter. Sounds of camaraderie. Sounds of life. Your children are back to visit. And in their voices, I hear echoes of the music that you played! With much love, Rachel Sandler
