2001 - United Synagogue Youth

ShalhevetThe Mitzvah of Happinessby Anna HuttThe kitchen smelled likeHamentashen and apples were scattedacross the table. A dozen “ChagPurim Sameach!” cards hung fromdecorated baskets as my mother andI filled them with goodies. Once thebaskets were full, we loaded them intothe car and began our afternoon adventureof delivering Shalach Manot.Previously, my family had sent thesePurim gift baskets to our friends; however,this particular year, we had decidedto find the names of a few elderlysynagogue members and visitthem instead.The drive to the retirement homewas a long one, leaving me plenty ofDrawing by Tarah J. Hyatt.time to wonder apprehensively aboutwhether or not these people wouldbe happy to see us or annoyed. What would we say to them? We had never met them before! And,more importantly, was there really even a point in doing this? After all, what could a basket of goodiesdo for an older man or woman?My wondering was cut short as we pulled into the retirement home parking lot. My mom andI carried the Shalach Manot into the building and began finding the rooms of the residents whosenames our Rabbi had given us. Most of them were not in their rooms as we stopped by; there was agroup activity going on downstairs and the majority of the people in the building were participating inthat. We left several baskets at the doors of the residents.When we came to drop off our last Shalach Manot, we knocked on the designated room door,expecting no answer. Just as we were placing goodies by the door, it creaked open and a frowningvoice called out, “Who’s there?” Explaining ourselves and delighted to actually see the recipient ofShalach Manot, my mom and I handed our basket to a tall, elderly, thin man with glasses. His handsshook as he received the gift, and still not smiling he examined us for a moment and then asked us tocome in.It took only a glance around the man’s empty-looking apartment room to realize that he mustlive alone. A few pictures hung on the walls, a newspaper lay open on a clean coffee table, and a fewchairs filled the room, only one of which looked like it had been used in the past decade. Making hisway into the suite, the man asked for our names and my age once more. He thanked us bluntly for thegift and disappeared for a moment into the tiny kitchen in the back of the area. Upon returning, hisstony frown had softened somewhat, and he held in his hand a small, gold-framed picture. “This is36