Ruth stared at the blank paper. “I don’t know how I ‘m supposed to do this,” she thought out loud.

Gordon looked up from behind his newspaper. “What are you trying to do?”

“I joined a writing group last week. I’m supposed to have one or two pages done by next week and I just can’t think of anything to write.”

“Well, what’s important to you?”

“I dunno’. You and the kids, I guess. But I really don’t feel like writing about us.”

“How about something on your breakfast club?”

Ruth swiveled back and forth in her office chair while chewing the nail on her right index finger. “I guess I could write about how we all met. That’s kind of a funny story.”

“Sounds good.” Gordon’s head was back in the newspaper; he was gone. Still, it was a plausible idea. She picked up her pen and began to write.

Writing Class  Essay  Dear Class   Dear Abby  First Draft   My Story
Ruth’s Journal #1

Three years ago me and my husband Gordon sold our home of 35 years and moved to Oregon. We had lived in New York all our lives. But we needed family and ours had all grown leaving our house empty of noise and fingerprints. Our youngest daughter and her husband moved to Portland the year before and begged us to follow. After much reflection, we did.

At first we thought we would be happy. But once all the hard work of moving and setting up was done, we realized how much we missed the friends we had left behind. Holidays came and went, yet seemed empty. Being with Lillian and Richard and the kids once a week was wonderful, just not enough.

Back in New York the synagogue was the center of our spiritual and social life. Most of our friends had come from this source. After some thought, we joined a synagogue in the Portland area. It wasn’t long before the social director sent around a flyer asking who would be interested in joining a new Havurah for seniors. A Havurah is like a friendship circle. Well, Gordon and I were certainly seniors, and in need of friends, so we signed on.

Seventeen couples showed up at the first meeting. Wow. What a crew. We were all seniors, for sure, but with vast differences. Those at the younger end were still in their 50’s, working, some with kids still at home. Quite a lively bunch. And then there were others. Eighties and nineties. Canes, crutches, oxygen tanks, wheelchairs. Nice people, but “What did you say! Speak louder, my hearing aid died.” Yes. We were different.

We decided to meet once a month, alternating houses. Four weeks later the host seemed relieved when only 14 couples actually showed. Time passed and we were down to 12 couples, then 10, and by spring only 6 couples were still involved.

That last meeting in June is when my world changed. It’s when the six women in the kitchen took a good hard look at the six men in the living room, and decided to permanently kick all the guys out of the Havurah.

That was two years ago. It was the beginning of our breakfast club, and the close friendships that changed Oregon from a West Coast state, to my home.

The End. By Ruth Sussman

Ruth read her essay several times and was quite pleased. After only a few corrections she closed her notepad and went to sleep.