Thirty or so years ago I found myself traveling with a friend from LA to Oregon during my spring break from UCLA.  About mid-way, my friend suggested we stop for the night at the home of her friend, Sequoia, who lived way out in the wilds of the Mendocino hills. With no way to announce our imminent surprise visit we tuned off the highway and bounced over a long stretch of unpaved dirt road. Forty-five minutes later a cloud of dust signaled our arrival at a rough-hewn cabin, where Sequoia’s six-year-old son, Sorrel, a somewhat feral being, greeted us energetically. Once the dust settled, literally and figuratively, we were invited in, where we flopped on a Persian rug. In no time we were frittering away what was left of the afternoon, chatting and sipping tea made of a hand full of fresh picked herbs. In the course of our conversation it was revealed that Sequoia had been born Susan “Shayndle” Finkelstein from Brooklyn, and was a New York Jew who had gone to the same high school as Barbra Streisand. 

The conversation turned to the contrast between city and country life and how the passage of time is noted differently. 

“Yeah, did you know that tonight is the first night of Passover?” I asked.

Sequoia eyed me suspiciously, and said, “Really?” Just to be sure she went to take look at the “women’s’ moon” calendar clinging to one of the redwood posts holding the place up. Yes, Passover would start at sundown, it turned out.  Sequoia said that she hadn’t observed the holiday in years, and how that was really kind of weird.  So I said, “Well, if you want we could have a Seder tonight.” 

“I don’t have any thing to make a Seder,” she said.   I looked around and it seemed to me that we had enough to pull it off—there was flour and water, an oven, plenty of herbs both bitter and sweet, eggs, fruit, honey, and wine and dinner makings

I stated the obvious: “We have everything we need.” 

Sequoia frowned, “But what about the Haggadah?” she asked. 

“I don’t think we’ll need one,” I replied somewhat cockily. “Are you into it?”

“Yeah, I am.”

'I don't have anything to make a Seder,' she said. I stated the obvious: 'We have everything we need.'

The maggid in me was awakened and I took the reins. “Okay then, if you go collect some eggs and stuff from the garden, I’ll get started making some matzo.”

She looked at me bemusedly and said, “Far out.  Sorrel has never been to a Seder. Wow, this is outtasight.”

Sequoia and Sorrel grabbed a basket and bolted outside.  Thirty minutes later they returned with eggs, parsley, horseradish root, baby carrots and beets, small heads of lettuce and some spring onions. While they were gone we got a fire blazing in the wood-burning cook stove and I made dough from water and home ground flour.  There wasn’t a clock available so I just worked as fast as I could to get it rolled out and baked within the 18-minute requirement.  The house filled with a toasty smell.  Sequoia produced a platter she had made that served as our Seder plate, which we filled with traditional ceremonial foods.

As dusk descended we sat back down on pillows and began to tell the tale of a slave people who rose up under the guidance of an unlikely leader to overthrow the firm grip of oppression.  We told stories and sang the lyrics we could remember.  Sorrell asked all kinds of questions, if not the Four Questions. We taught him with what we all had stored in our collective memory.  The Seder lasted long into the night. Sorrel passed out on a big pillow and when all the food and wine was gone we ended with the traditional tag line, “Next year in Jerusalem.”  But in our hearts we knew it would probably never get any better than what we had just created.

Passover arrives every spring with a big invitation to indulge in a great exercise of collective imagination and memory.  The truth is, every Seder is unto itself and every Seder is part of the whole. Every story needs to be told, every voice needs to be heard.  I never saw Sequoia or Sorrel again, but they remain a powerful part of my Passover memories.  I often tell the story of that home made Seder at this time of year.

May the source of everything strange, powerful and mysterious continue to open our hearts and mouths, and let us all be grateful that we are here to tell the tales.

Feature image used under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License 3.0. Unported. Attribution: by Fietsbel.