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Marcia Stark Meth / Emmy Stark Zitter / Miriam Stark Zakon

Home sweet home… Home is where the heart is… There’s no place like home… Home, it seems, is where the clichés are. There are loads of expressions and clichés about home. And that makes sense. Language reflects human needs, and the need to find a home, to have a home, to return home is basic to us all. But just because something can be discussed in well-known, even hackneyed phrases doesn’t mean it can’t also inspire new ideas and thoughts.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Marcia describes her… Dream Home 1867 54th Street: A tiny piece of Gan Eden on the edge of Boro Park. My mother’s dream home after 18 years of moving around Boro Park from apartment to apartment. Also my father’s dream home. I remember Daddy pruning the roses that grew on the trellis separating our backyard from our neighbor’s. He would lovingly pick the grapes from the vines winding around a chuppah-like arbor that had a white, wrought iron glider underneath. He actually tried to make wine from those grapes. We pretended to like it (even though it tasted like vinegar!). And my dream home too. As a high school senior, I finally found a place where I could invite my friends for a Shabbos afternoon without fear of being mortified by creepycrawlers scurrying out of the woodwork. I remember lying on a lounge chair in our postage-stamp backyard one Sunday afternoon, reading a book, then looking up and thinking, “Wow, this is the life. Someday, iy”H, I hope to have a home of my own with a backyard where I can sit and read a book surrounded by such quiet beauty.”BaruchHashem my dream came true. Or did it? After 16 years of marriage, after three apartments and one town house in two states, my husband and I finally moved into our own dream home. And for the more than 27 years since, we two Brooklyn-bred kids have been blessed to live in a lush, green Maryland suburban neighborhood. I even have my own quiet, tree-circled backyard — visited on occasion by families of deer and other wildlife. 

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