Every year when Yom Kippur is near, a memory comes to all in
our family of the miracle Hashem once did for us.
Long ago, [until 120 with not far to go!], when I was about
17 years old, we lived in Rochester, New York. In those
years, we had no refrigerator but we did have what was called
an ice box. The ice man, driving a horse and wagon, came
regularly to deliver large hunks of ice to his customers. We
would put a sign outside on our fence telling him how large a
piece of ice we needed that day. The ice man would bring it
into our house with a pair of huge tongs and deposit it in
our ice box, get paid and leave with a smile. Children always
gathered around the wagon to watch, and beg for a handout of
some chips of ice to suck on.
Under the ice box we put a large pan to catch the water which
melted from the ice. It was my brother Yosef's duty to empty
the pan regularly. To those of you who don't remember that
far back [or were not told about it by the previous
generation], let me assure you that this system worked quite
well [including the free icicles].
One year, after a busy day, we all prepared ourselves Erev
Yom Kippur to go to shul. Dressed, ready, feeling the
holiness of the day, we waited while the candles were lit. In
the dining room was a round wooden table covered with a lace
cloth. On the table stood my mother's and grandmother's
candlesticks, which now shone brightly.
Some hours later, we all came back home. My father opened the
door, stepped into the kitchen, glanced into the dining room,
and suddenly, gasped out loud. My mother and grandmother,
frightened, entered quickly behind him and both of them cried
out, "What happened? What is this?"
This was followed by their expelled breaths, as they
exclaimed in relief, "Boruch Hashem!" Tears fell as the
adults grasped the miracle that Hashem had done for us.
You see, two or three candles had apparently fallen onto the
tablecloth, setting it on fire. The burning cloth had slid
off the table onto the wooden floor, but the fire went no
further.
Amidst the hurried preparations for Yom Kippur, the meals and
so on, my brother had forgotten to empty the pan under the
ice box and the floor was awash with enough water to
extinguish the fire. Even the table was hardly damaged.
We laughed and cried and thanked Hashem for watching over us.
We never forgot His goodness and to this day, we remember His
countless kindnesses and protection always.
Postscript: When we tell this story over, as we like to do to
commemorate the miracle, people ask us: "But didn't you have
fire insurance?"
Insurance? Which shomer Shabbos family had a steady
income in those days? We barely had money for food, let alone
insurance!
