from the diary of a clothing gemach coordinator
They say that everyone has his own inner biological clock.
Some people are early birds and get up naturally with the
sun. Others are night owls and are most productive after
midnight. Then there are summer clock people and winter clock
people. I have found, interestingly enough, that comes the
month before Pesach, I run on a different clock
altogether.
My pre-Pesach clock usually runs on a twenty-one-hour day or
thereabouts. Since I believe in preparing for the holiday
only thirty days before, I only start right after Purim,
which leaves me with a very intensive schedule of juggling an
already busy life with a meticulous regimen of top-to-bottom
and side-to-side cleaning. An overhaul. And since I only have
that much koiach, I become worn out more quickly than
usual. If I usually go to bed at eleven, comes pre-Pesach, I
am pooped by eight, and have to go to sleep.
But there is a blessing to it: I need less sleep, and after
my energy has been recharged, I'll get up at whatever hour my
twenty-odd-hour-day has prescribed and keep on going until my
new store of energy is fizzed out. So if you happen to be
looking at our windows, you may see the lights on at four,
three or two a.m., and not because I'm burning the midnight
oil, but because I am already up, bursting with Divinely
provided new energy.
(end of introduction)
So this finds me a week before Pesach, practically finished,
and ready to help out a married daughter at the very far end
of town who will be traveling for Pesach. I have come to
organize the family clothing but I see that a lot needs
washing, some needs ironing, and some is wet.
"I'll take it all home to me by cab and process it," I
promise her, sweeping everything into five large garbage
bags. Then I order a cab. He honks outside and I shlep the
bags and dump them into the trunk and plunk myself inside.
Since I've been up since three a.m., I am glad for the padded
seat. I recline and tell the driver, "Panim Meirot."
This guy is clean-shaven, and I don't mean his chinny-chin-
chin. He is shaven all over, a baldy, but, I say to myself,
it's better than an Arab driver. And at least, there are no
earring/s to go with the hairless coiffure.
I relax my weary bones and look at the passing Eretz Yisroel
countryside whose beauty never ceases to arouse me, when,
about ten minutes along, he addresses me.
"Panim Meirot?"
"Yes." Isn't that what I said?
"Number One. Down there?"
"Yes."
"Listen, lady, it's none of my business, but there's a sign
there: NO MORE CLOTHING ACCEPTED UNTIL AFTER PESACH. I don't
want to snitch on anyone, but I was sent there last week by
some lady who loaded up the back of the cab with clothing and
told me to deliver it to the yard at No. 1. And that's when I
noticed the sign. For me, it was already too late."
I begin laughing hysterically. "Don't worry. It's O.K. It's
me, I mean, I'm the one who lives there, and the clothing in
the back is not for the gemach, it's laundry I'm going
to do for my own daughter."
I am still laughing and laughing. This is one for the books,
or, meanwhile, for the newspaper (also for our family
newspaper). This guy is protecting me from myself. How sweet,
how Jewish, how considerate, how honest and decent. Who would
have expected such caring from a skinhead cabdriver!
"I run a network of clothing centers," I begin to explain
conversationally. "Our yard is a drop-off center from where a
team of women sort the clothing and send it on. But three
times a year, it turns back into a normal yard. You'll see.
It's beautiful. I have flower planters outside and there's a
swing. And no clothing. The three times are Pesach, and
Succos, of course, where we make a two-room succa the
length of our house."
He's waiting for the third, and I provide. "The third time is
Purim, when my husband brings over the beginners from
Yeshivas Ohr Somayach, a group of 30-40 guys. He sings
gramin, they drink and eat and drink, and they all end
up in the yard where my husband writes out `Amolek' which
they erase by dancing all over it."
By this time, we are getting chummy, and the driver nods
appreciatively. "I know about gemachs. I've seen the
whole listing in your chareidi phone book. It's
amazing! In fact, my sister also runs a gemach of
respirators." It's my turn to nod encouragingly.
"Isn't it wonderful what Jews do?"
"Sure is. We're a wonderful people; you just have to squeeze
us, sometimes, to get the best out of us."
WOW! A real mussar lesson. "You surely keep a
seder, don't you?" I ask hopefully. He looks insulted.
"And you don't eat chometz all Pesach?"
"Chas v'shalom!"
"Then you're really `one of ours!' " I am still laughing
intermittently. "Listen, I have to tell this story to the
family. What's your name? It's unbelievable and I want it to
sound real, authentic."
He smiles. "I'm Kobi. That is, Yaakov."
I don't have to instruct him where to turn in (by Panim
Meirot 3) to get to my building, which is off the main
street. He marvels at the normal looking (beautiful, to me)
yard and wishes me a "Chag samayach.."
So that's my funny gemach story for the day, and my
husband, who suffers the most from my extra-curricular
`hobby,' can't help laughing as hard as I did.
But there is a bittersweet note to our laughing. This cabbie
was considerate and thoughtful. He's seen the yard at its pre-
Pesach worst when you've got to creep or slither at a snail's
pace on all fours to get to our front door (luckily, we have
another entrance, too). There are times when I just fling
myself on top of the mountain and maneuver my way there. This
can happen at any given time of the year, but especially a
week after Purim (when, don't forget, it was all cleared of
packages), until my husband says: "Enough!" and puts up a big
sign:
NO MORE CLOTHING UNTIL AFTER PESACH.
The rest is a psychological study of human nature. We have no
statistics on the people who see the sign — and respect
it. I can only tell you what does happen:
1) People send children, often those who can't read. 2) They
come in the dead of night, when it's too dark to see the
sign. On purpose? 3) They've come by cab and don't know what
to do. So they do. Then they call up anonymously the next
day and ask to be forgiven. 4) They dump it indiscriminately.
After all, with such a mountain, what difference will 3-4
(huge) packages make?
When it gets impossible (see above), we just bar the front
gate. Then, in the middle of the night, with our bedroom
facing the front, we hear: Plop, plop, plop, over the top.
Too bad we can't hire some Bar Kochba robot to automatically
catapult those packages right back.
At this point, we order the recycle company to come and pick
up our shmattes, and quickly make a marathon sorting
soirree to make sure nothing new or valuable gets throw away.
But we dump, dump wholesale and finally clear the yard for
the third time this year.
The sign is still up, of course, but that only stops a
percentage of people from dumping their packages into our
private domain. After all, the rationale now is: It's ONLY 3-
4 packages, and it's a gemach. They WANT our stuff!
Or do we? Most gemachs stop taking clothing at Purim. Most
only accept when they are open and some don't accept local
stuff at all.
I could have stopped at the end of my story way back, when I
got home with the laundry. But I've been meaning to draw up
an "Al Cheit" list for the Nisson New Year, applicable
to all those who take advantage of people who run
gemachs or are just plain inconsiderate, sorry —
thoughtless. I know that it can be adapted with a few changes
to any kind of gemach run by volunteers, be it from
their home or from an office. I was going to itemize it, but
decided to leave it up to your own imagination, conscience,
discretion.
In other words, be considerate of those people, yes, they are
people, who run the various gemachim; don't make them work -
or rather, volunteer — beyond the time they have
allotted for this chessed. Adhere to the rules, and
appreciate the fact that they are there.
On second thought, I would really like to end on a much more
positive note and thank all the people who call first,
apologize, and really want to help in the distribution. The
point of the story was to thank that unlikely cab driver, and
the real message is: Mi ke'amcha Yisroel who are as
full of mitzvos like a pomegranate and who are all,
really and truly, very well-meaning at heart! I do so believe
it!
May the all-around chessed be a merit for all of us
and speed up the geula sheleima!
