Mosaic Mnemonics

Throughout most of my childhood, my father and I would go to Synagogue together every Sabbath morning. We usually frequented a Synagogue named Beth David, which was located about half-a-mile from our home, but on the rare occasion, we would trek out to Beth Emeth, the Synagogue at which my parents were members, but which, at a mile-and-a-half away from our home, was too distant for us to attended more regularly. (We did not travel by car on the Sabbath.)

Now just about midway between our house and Beth Emeth, we would come up to a main intersection which had the only traffic light in our journey. Over the years, my father would tell me that he didn't know whether this intersection was closer to our home, or closer to the Synagogue, but that whether we were walking to the Synagogue, or back home, whenever we would reach this street, it always felt like we were more than half-way there. So this intersection always gave us a pleasant psychological boost on our relatively long walk.

When we hit this intersection, on one of the first occasions we walked to Beth Emeth -- I would be about five years old -- my father told me the name of the main street we were crossing: Sheppard Avenue.

Now, since, as stated above, our trips to Beth Emeth were rare, it was several months before we made the journey again. So when we revisited that main intersection, my father, curious as to my powers of memory, asked if I could recall the name of the main street we were crossing. My response: "Moses Street". Moses Street?!  But my father understood the association I had made: he quickly realized that I had learned about Moses in school, and that Moses was a shepherd.

My father beamed at me in appreciation. If I had started to recite the Magna Carta by heart, I don't think my father would have been any prouder. He was absolutely radiant as he reminded me of the actual name of the street and helped me clarify the link my mind had made between the two names. And of course, even years later, every so often we would pass that intersection, and my father would ask me if I could recall the name I had once given that street. Over time, however, this vignette gradually faded from my memory.

Fast forward forty years. It is a Friday; I am living in Jerusalem, and need to do some errands in my neighborhood. (In Israel, Friday is Unofficial Errand Day.) I set out, and in mind, I go over the various errands that I need to do, and the location of each. I decide that I will first tend to the one that I need to do on Rachel Street. A ten-minute walk later, I'm at my destination. But I look up at a street sign, and notice that I've made an error, and that the name of the street is actually not Rachel. Its actual name?

Bethlehem Way.

(Genesis 35:19: "And Rachel died, and was buried in the way to Ephrath, which is Bethlehem.")