At the age of 11, if I remember correctly, I began to attend Hebrew School after public school on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and on Saturday mornings. We carpooled with family friends for the 40-minute drive to Temple Beth Emet, a young, conservative synagogue in Anaheim, CA. To amuse ourselves during the drive, I remember arguing with Alan about whether there was such a thing as a purple car; I never won the argument, but neither did he.

The synagogue was in an old home that had been converted to a simple sanctuary and classrooms. The old wood floors creaked, and the rooms were austere: our classroom had just a long table and folding chairs to sit on. Cantor Model usually taught us: he was an elderly man with thinning gray hair and a mustache, a sweet smile, and spoke with a European accent. We all knew that he adored us. Although I was excited about learning Hebrew, his enthusiasm further spurred me on.

I was fascinated by Hebrew; the letters whispered of mystery to me. I loved the fact that it was written from right to left and was (obviously) read the same way! I loved printing the Hebrew words carefully, trying to imitate the graceful and exotic symbols and words, and adding the dots and lines as vowels under the letters that made them readable to a novice like me. I learned the formal letters; I don’t remember if I learned writing in script during that time. Sometimes Rabbi Tofield would stop in to say hello to our class; I remember him as a quiet, gentle man.