Relocation After Trauma
After the survival of our family’s traumatic events months before, I moved myself and the kids to the northeast from Florida in August 1998.
It began with a call from an old friend, Rabbi Adler, who had relocated his family to West Hartford, Connecticut a couple of years earlier. I had stayed in contact with Rabbi and Leslie Adler after they moved.
���We heard what happened to you. Why not move to West Hartford? There is a Solomon Schechter Day School here for the kids, many synagogues and lots of activities,��� Rabbi Adler told me.
I had always been enamored with the northeast. With its history, quaint towns, small states that make it easy to travel between, four defined seasons and a richness of higher education that is hard to match in other areas of the country. Plus my uncle Rodney lived in Boston.
I flew to Connecticut and spent time with the Adler���s. They showed me around town and I fell in love with the area.
My mind was made up. We would relocate as soon as the kids finished school that year. I would make it work.
I was looking forward to moving to a town where being Jewish and a multi-racial Jew was easy. We certainly did not look like other families in the community but I didn���t care. My children deserved the best education and life experiences I could possibly provide.
The Jewish community represented forty-three percent in our new hometown. Markets carried fresh kosher meats and deli products. Instead of the frozen meat delivery we had grown accustomed to living in Jacksonville that arrived every six weeks from Atlanta. There were nine synagogues in West Hartford and most amazing, schools were closed for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
Our first home on Brace Road was a 1920���s soft blue two-family colonial home with white shutters. It had conservative landscape with two unassuming edged bushes in the front and soft emerald green grass.
We entered through one of the two doors at the front of the house, each leading to the upstairs or downstairs apartment. We walked on the honey stained oak floors, and took in the three bedrooms, one bathroom, a sunlit study, living room, dining room, eat in kitchen and utility room.
We found our way around the quaint town, visiting the nearby heavily treed parks, Noah Webster Library, town hall, an ice cream shop and Toy Chest toy store.
My goals were clear. No matter the struggle, my kids would stay active within the community.
Seasons began to change. The heat and humidity would rapidly give way to our first autumn in New England. I was in awe at the auburn and orange leaves that surrounded us on every street. I could barely drive. The vivid colors were nothing like what I had seen in books or magazines. Witnessing the brilliance in person, I knew I was home.
I found a job quickly after school began, through a temporary agency. Winter arrived with an unpredictable force. I tried to budget for monthly oil deliveries for our heat but often juggled bills to pay for heating oil.
I bought us all inexpensive down comforters and the kids, heavy coats, hats and gloves.
We never seemed to get warm that first winter in Connecticut. I splurged on sleds I could not afford and neighbors told us about the best sledding spots. We tried our hand at whizzing down the park hills.
Spring eventually arrived. Luminous green buds stretched out to full size leaves on all the trees. The grass grew in a plush green forcing the dulled brown back into seclusion. In town, spring sports had started, though it was still a bit cold for us. Despite frequent rain, everyone was outdoors.
With the warmer weather arriving, we were again, walking into West Hartford Center. I watched the kids’ t-ball and soccer games. I breathed in the fresh spring air and felt an energy that was palpable throughout the town. People had seemed to hibernate along with the animals during winter, but now neighbors were wearing a smile and holding conversations once again.
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