My Poppa was a son of the shtetl. Lithuanian trained, an old-world Rabbi, he came to America and embraced it. Baseball. Watermelon. Fibber McGee and Molly. At home, at the table, he spoke Talmud and riddles. He gave answers and expected us to supply the questions.

Years ago I listened but did not grasp the value of Poppa's gifts. Today, I claim his quiet teachings as a priceless legacy. His words echo in my stories. So, too, does the comforting voice of my mother and the whispered lullaby of my Bubbbie. In my stories I try to honor their memory and sustain our tradition.