Late spring in Los Angeles: cool, foggy mornings, with sun breaking through around midday. The strawberries are sweet and luscious; the gardens are full of roses. It's the season of simchas. Our calendars are crowded with graduations and family parties, but most of all with weddings.
The other day, I got a sample of Pampers in the mail. It doesn't happen very often now, fortunately.
It was a Saturday morning in the middle of winter -- bright and sunny and cold, with a sky washed clean by the wind.
My daughter has always been the squeamish type. Once, when she was about 4 years old, we were talking about the exodus from Egypt -- the dark night of watching, when God told the Israelites to slaughter lambs and smear the blood on the doorposts of their houses so that the Holy One would "pass over" and spare their firstborn from destruction.
Every summer, my sisters and I, along with our husbands and children, spend a few days with our parents at Red's Meadow resort near Mammoth.
One of my favorite things to do is write children's songs. Over the years, I have written lots of innocuous little ditties for kids as a way of teaching them about Jewish holidays and rituals, ethics and values, and how to treat families and friends.