Eastward 2022
Harry & Rose Kaplan Scholarship awardees
Prose AwardFirst PlaceMudpies
by Kayla Felman Here it goes again. My mother’s eyes fell back into that all too familiar crease as she began to tell the story I had heard hundreds of times. Although my mother didn’t talk about her childhood a lot, this one story was a well-known tale in my house. It always starts the same way, describing a perfect summer day at my mother’s childhood home: 17173 Strawberry Drive, Encino, California. My mother explains how she was spending the morning at her neighbor’s house when she had the brilliant idea to make a mudpie. They gathered multicolored flowers from the garden, long leaves from the surrounding plants, a plastic container from the sandbox, and a rusty pair of garden scissors. As part of the preparations, my mother held the leaves on either end as her neighbor trimmed them. Accidentally, her neighbor cut a bit too close to my mother’s hand and cut off the tip of her thumb. Screaming and crying, my mother ran across the street to her house, looking frantically for my grandmother. Upon seeing the blood dripping down my mother’s hand, my grandmother brought my mother straight to the pediatrician. As the doctor examined my mother’s thumb, my grandmother declared matter-of-factly, “You can use the skin of my thumb if you need it to fix my daughter’s.” And that’s where the story ends. My mother never mentioned whether the doctor was able to reattach her thumb tip. My mother never talked about whether she needed stitches, a skin graft, or surgery. My mother never told us the rest of the story. Everything that happened after that was irrelevant. All that mattered was that my grandmother had offered her own thumb to save my mother’s. *** In third grade, my grandmother passed away. Although I wasn’t mature enough to understand where my grandmother had gone, I could sense the blanket of darkness that had descended over my house. My aunts’ and uncles’ eyes were always red; their eyes were stained with tears. The next day, my mother woke me up, explaining that it was time to go to the funeral. Although I was still young, I remember the way people spoke about my grandmother. In my uncle’s speech, he focused on my grandmother’s strength; she had escaped the Holocaust and spent her childhood in a displaced person camp. Then, my aunt spoke about my grandmother’s dedication to the Jewish community, highlighting that my grandmother donated a lot of money to the local Jewish school. My cousin recalled how my grandmother would always wake her grandchildren up with delicious pancakes infused with love. Finally, I watched as my mother walked up to the podium. I had never seen my mother so vulnerable. I shifted in my seat, preparing to hear another one of my grandmother’s great accomplishments. I expected to hear about how my grandmother left Poland and integrated into a completely different culture. Maybe my mother would tell everyone how my grandmother rose from the depths of darkness and created a family. I was ready to hear about my grandmother’s role in building the Jewish community in Encino, California. But, as my mother stood in front of the crowd, I saw the image I knew all too well: my mother smiled kindly, she looked into the eyes of her audience, and then she began telling the mudpie story. I sat there confused. At my grandmother’s funeral, when my mother had only a few minutes to talk to encapsulate my grandmother’s impact on the world, she told everyone about a childhood memory on a summer day so many years ago. Why didn’t my mother discuss one of my grandmother’s much more significant accomplishments? But, perhaps, that was my grandmother’s greatest accomplishment. And I am not sure if she even realized that on an ordinary summer morning on Strawberry Drive, she left the greatest most enduring impact of all. second placeLetters
by Chana Guelfgat The End. The end of a strenuous, stressful, and exhausting day. Hair sprawled out over the pillow, the lights dimmed, alarm set. Slowly, slowly, the stars came out, and ever so gently the soft hum of breathing filled the room. “She’s asleep,” Little ‘o’ whispers to Capital ‘I’. Then, like little mice secretly milling around, all the letters swirled together, taking their places as the dance began. With a twinkle in his eye, Capital ‘I’ ceremoniously clapped his hands and the symphony began. A mix of Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach overcame the letters as they skipped to their places. As they passed their fellow alphabet-members they couldn't help but share smiles and exchange winks. Their excitement escalated as they danced for hours. (More precisely, 8 hours). Hands and feet coordinated perfectly. With the grace of a Russian ballerina, Little ‘o’ wrapped his dangly arms around Little ‘v’ and they tiptoed carefully across the glossy sheet of paper. With the clicks and clacks of their shiny shoes, the letters swung around each other, eyeing one another. They knew the message. Only they knew what she would wake up to read. When Capital ‘I’ clapped again they instinctively switched partners. Like a dream come true, they stomped along with the music, allowing it to lift them up to greater heights. Higher, higher, and higher. From the corner of his eye, Little ‘e’ could see Capital ‘I’ carefully examining his pocket watch and then tucking it gently back into his pocket. No! Not yet! It can’t be over! This dream of a sort can’t be winding toward the end! He shut his eyes and erased this sad thought from his mind, but then he heard the clap, this time with a heavy heart. Capitol ‘I’ clapped his hands in a double beat. Clap-Clap Clap-Clap Clap-Clap Clap-Clap. The music slowed, and as the violin played its last string and the piano shared its last note, the letters finally fell into place. Capitol ‘I’ stood at the front, beside him Little ‘l’ with his friends Little ‘o’, ‘v’, and ‘e’ joined together. Skipping like joyful dancers were Little ‘y’, ‘o’ , and ‘u.’ With all the letters aligned now, Capitol ‘I’ signaled their que. They reached out their arms, ready to link together into words. Squeezing their eyes shut, they prepared to sing the finale of the Note-Making Ceremony. “Wait for me!!” squealed Exclamation Mark. He waddled into place right beside Little ‘u.’ “And us!” In came the famous twins, M&M, and the less-well-known-but-deserving-of-honor set of twins, A&A. Quickly and efficiently, as they were known to be, they arranged themselves in a M-A-M-A pattern. “I’m here…I’m here.” Huffing and puffing, Large Heart ran in, climbing over the twins, settling into his classic lopsided position. “All ready!” he announced. “Woohoo!” “Yay!” Now it was time. 5:59 AM. “I’m nervous, Capitol ‘I’”, Little ‘v’ whispered. “Shush! We’re on display! Any minute now! You’ll be fine!” They stood there with bated breath. 6:00 AM Beep. Beep-Beep. Beep. It clicked off pretty quickly, the light turned on, her feet slipped into her fluffy slippers, and she trudged toward the door. “Uch! She missed us!” “No. Wait and watch.” Oh! I forgot my glasses. No wonder everything’s so blurry! She hustled back to her nightstand and there it was. I love you ❤️ MAMA |
Art Award
"Picking Flowers" by
Zahava Schwartz 
"Human Emotions" by
Ahuva Horowitz Poetry Awardfirst placeThe Things We All Have?
by Bayla Hamburger We know what that’s like. She didn’t. She never saw the smiling face of her mother The marvelous sun as it takes away the light that shines on the world The dancing trees in the harsh wind The intense movie that draws her in The reflection of herself looking back in the mirror Or the home she knows so well. We know what that’s like. He didn’t. Not the exquisite taste of chocolate mousse The rich flavor of quality ice cream The sweet taste of a sticky taffy The flavor of his mother’s chicken soup The oily taste of a good pizza Or the sour flavor of a pickle. We know what that’s like. She didn’t. Not the smell of her mother’s favorite perfume The smell of the cinnamon in her kitchen The smell of the salty water at the beach The smell of chocolate cookies in the oven The smell of her brothers dirty diaper Or the smell of the rain that hits her window. We know what that’s like. He didn’t. Not the touch of a hug from his best friend The feeling of a soft blanket across his lap The rough fabric of an old shirt The itchy feeling of sandpaper The squishy slime that stretches so far Or the comforting feeling of his parent’s hand in his. We know what that’s like. She didn’t. Not the feeling of joy when listening to her favorite song The sound of her friend’s voices as they tell a story The laugh of a sibling The sound of the birds singing in the morning The loud crash of a glass shattering on the floor Not even that dreaded alarm in the morning. They have none of these things. The things we take for granted. The things they were deprived of. The things that we know so well. To be able to see tall mountains from far below The sight of your brothers little face A rainbow that paints the sky Or the stars that shine so bright in the night To be able to taste some salty potato chips The sweet flavor of cotton candy The sour taste of a grapefruit Or a strong coffee that wake you up To be able to smell steaks cooking on the grill The oak trees in the spring The crisp autumn air Or the intense smell of spoiled milk To be able to feel the touch of a sharp cactus The feeling of a warm coat wrapped around you The grass on your bare feet Or the harsh wood on a tree To be able hear the cry of a baby The sound of a car’s engine The loud squirrel eating an acorn Or the howl of a wolf as it looks upon the moon We have all of these things. The things we take for granted. The things they were deprived of. The things that we know so well. |