If this year’s Passover seder goes according to plan, we won’t just sing “Dayenu” and “Go Down Moses.” We’ll also sing “Old Black Joe,” “Goodnight Irene” and a tricky swing arrangement of the Rice Krispies jingle, “Snap! Crackle! Pop!”
Robyn and I will be flying to New Mexico for our third annual bluegrass seder. It takes place at the home of my brother, Rob, who lives in the hills east of Albuquerque.
This is high desert country. Piñon trees and choya bushes line the arroyo that runs for miles behind Rob’s house. Mama owls might chase you if you hike too close to their perches. But the trek is worth it, just to see the sun shine on the Sandia Mountains.
My brother and his wife, Barbara, are devoted fans of old-time and bluegrass music (they met at a banjo-fiddle festival in West Virginia years ago), and their home is always filled with music, usually fretted, plucked or bowed.
Though Rob is proud of his Jewish heritage, he doesn’t observe Jewish religious practice or mark any holidays. Except Passover. Like many on the margins of Jewish life, he still grasps the importance of this holiday. The fact that we worked to make it a family affair adds to the celebration.
Our New Mexico visits aren’t just about the seder. Mornings start with locally roasted coffee and my favorite breakfast oddity: bagels and cream cheese topped with roasted green chilies.
The days are filled with hikes and shopping at the local co-op, where I stock up on New Mexico salsas. Nights are about music (Rob and Barb are equally adept on guitar, mandolin, fiddle and banjo).
My 14-year-old nephew Kerry is a kick-ass rock drummer, but he still appreciates the acoustic sounds favored by his parents.
Crowding around the table are friends of Rob and Barb’s. Few are Jewish, most have never been to a seder, but I’m always happy to expose them to a taste of Judaism. I think positive experiences like these inoculate non-Jews from buying into anti-Jewish or anti-Israel lies.
For the seder meal, we usually throw together a mezcla of Crock-Pot dishes, soups, salads and sides, most with a dash of local spice. I always lead the seder, careful to include all 14 steps (even though the red beet horseradish I prefer as maror is impossible to find in the Land of Enchantment).
The best part, though, is the music.
We punctuate the haggadah with song, many with themes of freedom, others just great bluegrass tunes. Barb’s friend, Marge, is a song savant, with astonishing recall of hundreds, maybe thousands, of lyrics. She sings and teaches them well.
It’s in the nature of a bluegrass soiree to let one song flow into the next. No leaders, no followers, no designated harmonizers: just an ad hoc musical community. After four-plus cups of wine, we’re never at a loss for a Beatles tune or Pete Seeger favorite.
At the end of the evening, there’s something so comforting about singing along with the last of the pickers, while watching my son clown around with his cousin in the corner. Someone’s finishing off the box of chocolate-covered matzah. Rob and Barb have begun tackling the mountain of dishes, the dogs are scratching on the door to run wild in the arroyo. It’s all family and it’s all good.
The weekend goes by quickly. Once I’m back home, I get over the spell and prep for those daily battles with casual carpool and crotchety editors. I am back to fretting about bills and the craziness of the world.
We read in the haggadah that we must experience the Passover story as if each of us personally had come out of slavery and into freedom.
I don’t mean to compare my life to slavery (although sometimes I sense Thoreau’s “quiet desperation” in the background). But my annual seder in New Mexico does feel like a mad dash for freedom.
I may not see my family for another 12 months. Thankfully, we figured out a way to make sure we don’t let more than a year go by without getting together.
Rosin up the bow, bro: We’re on our way.
Dan Pine can be reached at [email protected].