Nature

 

Dear Friends and Family:                                                 September 2024 

I have been amazed at nature’s calendar.  It’s September and the seasons are changing, just in time.  It’s always, just in time.  That’s the point.  Why is it always just in time? 

I’m sitting on our screened-in porch this morning, quietly drinking a cup of coffee, when I see a squirrel run across the yard.  It is carrying a nut in its mouth. So, it stops, stands up on its hind legs, looks around, and proceeds to bury the nut.  Then, just to mark the spot it urinates a bit on it (I guess so it can find it later when it needs the nut).  Maybe this is not so remarkable, but who showed that squirrel the calendar?  How does it know that the seasons are changing and it’s time to get ready for winter? 

The other day, on the local news, it was announced that we should all turn off any outdoor lights on our houses that night.  Why?  Because around three million birds were to be flying south over our area and the lights might distract them.  Who sent out the memo saying, “Pack up, we’re heading out tonight (and pay no attention to those yard lights the humans forgot to turn off)?”  Did three million birds receive a text telling them, “Tonight’s the night.  We’re getting an early start and should be in Florida by the weekend?”   

On my bulletin board I have pinned a sheet that tells me when each Jewish holiday begins from this year through 2029.  We can figure it out.  We can plan in advance (although I never do).  But this nature thing is a bit of a miracle.  Not just that it happens, but that it happens every year.  No calendars, no printed sheets, no emails, no texts.   

Well, it looks like it’s time to get the furnace checked, remember to unscrew the hoses from the outdoor spigots, pull out the heavy socks, gloves, and make sure the car’s antifreeze is up to snuff.  The squirrels are certainly telling us something.  Luckily, we don’t have to bury a nut in the ground...and mark the spot.  The squirrels, the birds, and that calendar sheet on the board are announcing, loud and clear, that Rosh Ha Shannah is right around the corner.  

Ready or not.  Here it comes.  And it’s just in time. 

 Shannah Tovah.        

 Ron

Dear Family and Friends:

 It was a strange time. The year was 1973, a few months before our son Jeremy would make his grand entrance into the world. Juca’s and my camp gig in Wisconsin had just ended. A year earlier I had stored all of our stuff (furniture, etc.) in the attic of the camp’s Bayit (main building) as we took off for Israel, and now had brought it down, packed it into a U-Haul, and we were about to trek to Cincinnati for our second rabbinic school year. But before we left Chicago, we stopped to see my Grandpa Klotz who was in the hospital. I never thought that that would be the last time we would see each other. It was. 

 My Grandpa, Max Klotz, was an amazing person. He came to the States from Tarnov, Poland in 1906, as did millions of other Eastern European Jews fleeing Pogroms. His three brothers already lived in Chicago, so that’s where my gramps settled. His grandfather had been the Rabbi of Tarnov and, of course, the family was quite Orthodox. Like so many others, he traded his “Old country” Judaism for America.

 A few years later, when my dad came along, he realized that without a connection to the Jewish community, dad wouldn't really have much of a Jewish identity. My grandmother’s side of the family had all come from Prague and founded a classically Reform synagogue on the West side of Chicago, with other Czech Jews. Grandpa Klotz joined and immediately became the most Jewishly learned congregant at B’nai Jehoshua. His classical Hebrew was spot on.

 So, we visit at the hospital and among many other things he said to me, “Al Tashlichaynu B’Eyt Ziknaynu.” “Don’t cast us aside when we are old.” I never have. 

 A few weeks later, Grampa died, and a week after that Jeremy was born. 

There were no sirens, no tornado warnings, but I was caught in a vortex of time, of changing generations. It was like I was standing still and the generations were twirling around me. 

 Now that I am in my late 70’s, I much more understand my grandpa’s words. But the reality is, he didn’t have to say those words to me. I think of him often, I remember him well. I used to tell stories on Shabbat at our camp in Zionsville. I usually began with the words, “A long time ago, far away, across the ocean, in a small town in Poland, Tarnov...” That was my way of honoring his “Zikaron,” his memory. 

 Yes, 1973 was a memorable year. But it really wasn’t strange. These things happen to everyone. 

 Ron

Thank God the Corned Beef is Safe

 Once in a while I get the urge for matzo balls, corned beef, etc., so I jump in the car and head up to Indy, to the most famous, best, and maybe the only deli in Indiana. I’ll pack up a cooler and bring back sandwiches, soup, a dinner or two. We’ll be in deli heaven here for a day or two. That’s what happened last week. 

 I wasn’t paying much attention, but as it turned out I was heading to Shapiros just as the Indianapolis Colts were playing their first pre-season game. That’s not really important except that they play at Lucas Oil Stadium which is two blocks from the deli. It was just luck that the game had already started when I drove past the stadium. I pulled into Shapiro’s parking lot and noticed about 10 police cars there. The cops were having lunch before having to return to traffic control when the game ended. After I placed my order in the take-out line, I went to sit down and wait for it to be filled. Standing next to where I was sitting, at the start of the cafeteria line, stood an impressive Sheriff in full uniform, gun, baton, cuffs...the whole megillah. I looked up at him and smiled and asked (jokingly, of course), “Are you guarding the corned beef?” Turned out this officer had a sense of humor. 

 The sheriff smiled and assured me that the corned beef was safe. We started to talk. It was interesting. He’d been on the force for 40 years and told me he was sick of it. We talked for a few minutes about the joys and challenges of retirement. Then I asked him why he wanted out, and he responded that the nature of the job in Indianapolis had changed radically. He said crime is rampant, that here had been two homicides in his neighborhood recently, and that cops these days were under the microscope. The respect that used to be associated with the position just wasn’t there anymore. Wow. I was amazed at how candid the police officer was with me, a complete stranger. He didn’t paint a pretty picture. But, at the end of the conversation, he reached over and shook my hand, thanked me for listening, and said, “Hey, I’m not walking away for another five years. It’s important work, and deep down, I do like the job.” 

 

On the way home, with the cooler packed, Paul Desmond playing on the CD player, I couldn’t help but think about that Sheriff. I thought about how dedicated and committed a person has to be to continue doing a very difficult and challenging job...and in this case, a dangerous one as well. It’s not often you meet a stranger who opens up to you and gives you important things to think about. It’s funny what can happen when you least expect it, while you wait for the matzo ball soup. When I talked with the officer I didn’t think fast enough to say, “I’m glad the corned beef is safe, but who's guarding the pastrami?”

 Ron

The Poet (revisited)

I've been going back to old posts (don't ask me why).  I am blown away at seeing that the blog has been opened over 75,000 times.  People have visited from all over the world.  

Here's a post from almost 30 years ago.  Brings back a warm memory on a cold January day.

                                                                                                   March 1991



Dear Family and Friends:


It has been a long time since I've written, I'm sorry.  This winter's been
rather rough and depressing, filled with the dread of war, a classmate's serious illness, you get the picture. But the promise of spring is almost in the air and I am encouraged by the
thought that in a short time the little yippers will be back, noisy, messy,
full of life and hope, and laughter (and maybe even a few tears).

Yesterday the Indianapolis community lost a unique member.  He was a black poet
named Etheridge Knight, 61 years old who died of cancer.  I normally would not
burden you with such sad news, but Mr. Knight was an acquaintance of mine, an
unusual and uplifting sort of fellow, whose life and words bring me a feeling
of joy even at this time of loss. 

I met Etheridge last year in a downtown bar called the Chatterbox.  It's a
place I used to frequent to hear local jazz musicians jam late into the night.
It was anything but high class (kind of a wide hallway with tables and a
postage stamp sized bandstand), but the music was hot and the beer was cold.  I
often went to listen to Jimmy Coe, a favorite tenor sax player who, at 62 years
of age, could blow with the kids, had played with the greats including Charlie
Parker, and represented (to me) the totality of the history of black jazz.  But
he should be the subject of a letter all his own. 

 One night very late, I'm listening to the quartet, Jimmy Coe introduces Etheridge Knight who takes the mike to read poetry against the background of a quite blues number.  I kind of laughed to myself, thinking we were flashing back to Greenwich Village in the
late 50's, when beatniks held poetry readings to jazz accompaniment (I admit to
spending time on the north side of Chicago, in my youth, in such coffee houses
listening to existentialists, and wishing I was old enough to grow a goatee).
At first, as you can tell, I didn't take this scene very seriously. 

But when Etheridge began to speak, his words commanded an immediate respect.
It was apparent that the audience felt it was hearing something important.
Knight recited poems that he had written while in prison.  He'd spent seven
years in a federal penitentiary (I never had the nerve to ask him about his
crime), and spoke of the freedom of the soul and the shackles of society.  From
the midst of despair, drug addiction, incarceration, he wrote of life and love,
music and creativity.  He blew me away.

Later, I was lucky enough to be able to sit and talk with Etheridge.  We had a
drink.  He got a kick out of the fact that I was a Rabbi wearing gym shoes and
an old army jacket.  As parents always do, we started talking about our kids.
Then a bit of magic happened.  The poet leaned over and, in a lowered voice,
told me that he had something special to share with me, a poem that he had
written to his daughter, while he was still in prison.  He paused, and then
recited to me personally a heartbreaking poem of the anguish he felt as a
father, deprived of seeing his child grow up.  He blew me away again.

I saw Etheridge Knight many times after that night, always at the Chatterbox.
As he walked by my table he would usually nod and say "Rabbi..." To which I
would reply, "Poet..."  We'd smile at our "titles."  Now that he is gone, I
can't help but think of his style, his spirit, undaunted, wounded, smiling
through the tears.  It makes me think of spring and the coming onslaught of the
little yippers and how happy I am that this place will once again be filled
with them.

Ron

Passover in Three acts---revisited

A PESACH PROTEST IN THREE PARTS

PART ONE

The other night I dreamt of a Seder long gone. My restless sleep carried me back to the days of my childhood. There we sat around the candle lit table, white napkins, unleavened squares, white-hot horseradish, cool red wine. And the rowdy group of us gathered there to laugh and remember, to pay tribute, and to argue and even doubt. In the midst of that foggy dream sat my uncles and aunts, sneaking bits of matzo before it was time, recalling lost family members and their antics at Seders of old. My cousins and I sat at the far end of the table. In a dreamlike way we smirked at the nostalgia of the older folks, watching my Papa hold up the bread of affliction and tell our story. It was a good dream, and now that I'm the Papa I'm beginning to understand most of it. 

When we sang our slightly off-tune, out of sync Dayanu in my dream, I came to realize that, although I joined in and sang out, I did not feel that it really was "Enough," for me, that is. My Jewish journey had been but a short hop at that point. I felt little connection to the Israelites wandering in the desert. Heck, I was more interested in the unfolding season at Wrigley Field than the journeys of our people. But on a long winter's night there's ample time for the mind to play. With no regard to my desires, my dream dragged on, like a blender mixing family memories with the Haggadah's stories of our people in the wilderness. 

My rebellion and rejection of the simple connectors of that holiday became my walls of identity. I was ME, different than any who had journeyed before. In dreamlike fashion, I drifted away from my family scene, still smelling the Seder smells, and hearing the Pesach melodies. I'd become a participant at a distance, a half-hearted, gefilte-fish-eating skeptic. I remember thinking that this night was not so different from ALL other nights. There had been Seders for centuries. Other doubters sat with their families wondering how they fit into the grand scheme of our wandering ancestors. Maybe that was my connection. I was heir to the Jewish throne of alienation, bound to all those who had come before me who had sat on the sidelines, unable to take the step and get out there and play in the Jewish People game. Tossing about, as my dream became nightmare-ish, visitors began to appear.

My visitors looked like any of the other kids in the neighborhood. One of them, the girl, had a bright knowing gleam in her eye. The other two were just regular kids; a simple boy and then the very quiet one, who seemed to just be tagging along. Staring me down, my bright-eyed female all-of-a-sudden companion challenged me. "Don't you realize that God has given us these laws and observances?" she scolded. 

I defensively countered with, "What do you mean 'Us?' Maybe God commanded you, but certainly not me! And, how can you be so sure anyway?" 

"Why, look in your heart." She said, "Do you think your life starts with you?" 
With that, a light flashed and a fog descended. We were floating on a cloud. A breeze began to blow, dispersing the cloud. My hostess, her companions and I had been transported to a barren and rocky place. With an outstretched hand she presented a most unusual scene. I witnessed a line of people following an old man through the desert. They looked disheveled. I heard their grumbling, saw the fear in their eyes. The old man stopped. He turned to speak to them.

"My dear ones," he said. "I know that you are weary, and frightened. We have left all that is familiar to us, our homes, our friends, our old ways. Be strengthened in the understanding that it is the one God who has commanded us to build new lives in a new land. Know that because we have faith, because we are brave, because we have each other, we will endure. We are the birth of a new People. Our new homeland lies before us. God protects us. Because we have begun this journey, the world will never be the same. Our ancestors will remember what we have done. We shall be the inspiration for future generations of Jews in their own journeys. So begins the greatness that will be; a free people, living in their own land, speaking their own language, in covenant with the one God." 

I tossed in my sleep. I wanted to shout out to that band of ragged pioneers. "We do indeed remember the words that God spoke to you." I wanted to show them all that I understood the words "Lech Lecha," and that those words still held meaning to millions of Jews (maybe not so much to me on this day of advanced skepticism). In my heart, in the midst of my dream, I wanted so to encourage that band of ancient freedom fighters. My frustration was enormous and my hosts sensed my discomfort. The smart one understood.
"You're beginning to get it. Hold that feeling," she instructed. "This is just our first journey. There are others to see." 


PART TWO

The simple one asked, "Where to next?" The other one followed quietly along. 
The wind kicked up. Our magic fog-carpet floated us along, depositing us in a large auditorium. This was a familiar place. I tossed and snored and looked around. Slowly, while the lights were dimming, I realized I was in the Chicago Theatre. The movie was about to begin. I'd been there so many times with my mother, I could smell the popcorn right there in my bedroom. The plush seats and ornate sculptures on the walls of this old, magnificent theater comforted me. Turning to my hosts to ask just what the heck was going on, the wise one signaled me to "Shush and watch the screen." 

But as dreams would have it, the movie reels were out of order. It didn't start at the beginning.

We saw a ragged bunch of European Jews walking slowly across the screen, pushing carts filled with belongings. They sang of Anatevka, their village, as off they marched to unknown destinations in new worlds. I remembered the saga of Tevye the dairyman. He had problems with his daughters Tzeital and Hodel. I remembered Golde and her dreams, and the tailor, Motle. I remembered the Pogroms. "But what has any of this to do with me, I thought? It's a movie. Ancient history. After all I'm dreaming of the Chicago Theater." 

Now the most incredible dreamlike thing happened. Tevye turns to talk to the Jews behind him, but instead he’s looking right at me. 

"Nu, nudnik?" He said. "You think you're not part of this poor journey? Why this is the very community that gave birth to your great grandparents. Our trouble, our experience, our faith and nostalgia are the cornerstones of your Jewish life. Like you, I sat at my family's Seder table and heard the story of our Peoples' flight from Egypt. I never expected to lead my own community from a kind of slavery to a hope of freedom in new lands. We lived in a little Jewish town…not exactly a suburb, but a very Jewish place. When Shabbat or Passover, or any other holiday descended on our village, everyone shared the warmth of the holiday, every family, every person. We could hear the family in the next house singing Dayanu, a few moments before or after we sang it. We were each other's echoes. We wore the warmth of those communal feelings like a suit of armor to protect ourselves from the outside world. But the armor proved thin. It couldn't keep us safe."

"As you can see," he continued, "My family and I are forced to venture out into the unknown. Who knows what will be? One has a cousin in New York, another, an uncle on a Kibbutz in the Galilee. But what we do know is that this is not the first time our People have journeyed forth from their homes. What we do know is that we have faith in our God and the love of our families. Abraham and Sarah, Moses, Maimonides, many generations of Jews, no different from this one, have learned to face the trials and anxieties of challenges like ours. You'll face them too, in your own way, in your own time. God only knows what will happen to us …and he's not telling. But whatever happens to the poor Jews of Anatevka, the story of our journey will be etched into the identity of your generation."

Then Tevye turned his eyes to heaven. "Dear God. You have made me a poor milkman, but one who now understands the anguish of Abraham, the dilemmas of Moses. Give me the strength to lead my family as they led theirs…and if, along the way, we find some nice new Shtetle… like Shaker Heights or New Rochelle…even Skokie…well, who would mind?"

The old velvet curtain that once opened and closed the vaudeville shows of its time descended over the screen, ending this historic, if nightmarish, performance. My restless sleep had carried me over centuries and continents. But my hosts, the smart, the not so smart, and the quiet one were hardly done with me. Slowly they turned, inch-by-inch, it seemed, they raised their eyes to mine, silently questioning, "Now do you see your own connection to the journeys of our People?" 

I must admit the skeptic in me had weakened. Even I was a sucker for the Sunrise, Sunset nostalgia of our more recent past. But, there still lurked a question or two in my, “This-is-the-twenty-first-century,” and, “I'm-a-modern-Jew mentality.” I said, “I can relate to the journeys you've shown me. I can see how they have built the character of my generation. I can appreciate being a link in the chain of this tradition." They flashed a glimmer of a victory smile in my direction, until I added, "But what journeys are REALLY mine?" I still wondered. "Where is the drama and the challenge, and the hope of my generation's future? Do we have a 'Lech Lecha,' a Sinai, an Anatevka of our own

PART THREE:

And so I returned in my dream to that Seder of my youth. There my grandfather sat during the meal and told us of his younger days, coming to America. I heard him tell of the orthodox lifestyle his family had maintained in the "old country," and how America became his religion. The Yiddish, and the Jewish, he explained, was the old way, the greenhorn's way. He wanted to be "an American." We sat and listened to him admit to leaving all his Jewish practices behind him in Europe. He laughed as he recalled that even his name changed when he passed through the gates of Ellis Island. They couldn't pronounce his Jewish sounding name and he was happy to take on the new, Americanized pronunciation as his introduction to the New World. My grandfather's eyes always twinkled when he told this story.

"So Nu? How come we sit together tonight at a Seder table, if I left our Judaism on the boat?" he asked. We all knew, but would wait for him to answer his own question. "It wasn't that America could be our religion," he'd come to realize. "We needed to be Jews even in America. But what kind of Jews? That was the question." My grandfather was the wisest man I ever knew. He was the bridge from Anatevka to my Seder table. Now I remembered how he taught us. "We needed a new Judaism; special made for the modern world." He said. "That's how I came to talk to the Reform Rabbi at our synagogue, and that's why we are sitting at the Seder table tonight.”

When we opened the Haggadah in my dream that night, I had a minor revelation. We read of the four children, the wise, the simple, and one unable to ask. My dreamy hosts described to a "T."  "But what of the wicked one?" I thought. "What happened to the one who says "You," and not "We?" Well, there I was, to round out the foursome. And so the lesson was well taught.

I'd come a long way during that restless night. I'd dreamt of a Seder long gone, and the hardships and faith of our People. It was a good dream, one of my ancestors and my grandfather and me. It was a dream of OUR journeys, not someone else's. Now that I'm the Papa, I'm beginning to understand.

Hoping to, Once Again Raise the Blue "W"

Friends.  It's Spring training, MLB about to begin.  Here's an old post about my Cubbies.  I hope to be able to write a reprise soon.

Ron


Dear Family and Friends:

I have never in my life had the opportunity to say, “Tonight the Chicago Cubs may be World Series champions!”  Being a born and bred Chicagoan, Northsider even, and having been on this earth a long time, it’s remarkable that tonight might just be the night. Let’s see.  The last time the Cubbies were in the World Series was four months before I was born, 1945.  The last time they won the Series was two years after my Grandfathers arrived at Ellis Island from Eastern Europe, 1908.  I’m sure my grandparents couldn’t have cared less about the great American pastime, but I sure wish my Dad could be sitting next to me watching tonight, along with his best buddy (whom I called uncle) Roy Levy.  How many times they snuck away from work on weekday afternoons to catch the last few innings of games at Wrigley Field?  Impossible to calculate.  How many times my Dad fell asleep watching The Cubs on TV on Saturday afternoons?  Also impossible to estimate.  I remember once, Cubs playing on TV, Dad asleep in the couch, I changed the channel.  Dad immediately woke and said, “Hey.  I’m watching the game.  The Cubs are up by two.”  He was right.  He could watch the games in his sleep.  Remarkable.

Yesterday the editor of our local paper, Bob Zaltsberg of the Herald Times wrote a column about singer/songwriter Steve Goodman, z’’l.  Goodman, a native Chicagoan of my vintage and, I believe, a fellow camper at Union Institute in the early ‘60’s, wrote several songs about Chicago and the Cubs.  He’s best known for his “City of New Orleans.”  But these days his, “Go Cubs Go” is his biggest hit.  Zaltsberg wrote that “Go Cubs Go” is not Goodman’s best work.  He prefers “Last Wish of a Dying Cubs Fan.”  Also great.  But I’d like Bob Zaltsberg to think of this (maybe I’ll send him this letter); how do you measure “Best?”  Cub’s fans fly the blue “W” and sing “Go Cubs Go” after every win at Wrigley Field. Two nights ago the Cubs came back to win a squeaker 3 to 2 to keep them in the Series.  Afterword, approximately 50 thousand fans stood in the friendly confines of Wrigley and sang it.  How many were singing out on Sheffield Ave or on Clark Street is hard to guess.  I think when over fifty thousand people join together to sing one of your songs, well, that’s a lot of votes for best in my book. 

A friend invited me to watch the game tonight at a local watering hole, Nicks.  I can’t do it.  For some reason this is a personal thing.  I’d hate to be in a crowd if the Cubbies didn’t win (don’t want to use the “L” word), and I kind of want to relish in the moment (like a moment of silence) if they do.  I guess that’s not very baseball-like, since the sport is so communal.  But that’s how I feel.

So, Steve Goodman.  To quote your “Last Wish of a Dying Cubs Fan,” Yes they still sing the blues in Chicago.  But not this year and not for this Cubs team. And hopefully tonight Chicagoans and expatriate Chicagoans will hoist the blue “W” and join in the refrain, “Go Cubs Go.”   Win or lose, I’ll be singing a solo rendition and be most happy for a great season.

GO CUBS GO!

Ron

A Rose by Any Other Name...

                                                                   January, 2019

Dear Family and Friends:

I imagine that most of you have heard of this group in Israel called “Women of the Wall.”  They are fighting the noble fight for religious equality at one of the holiest sites in Jerusalem, The Western Wall (the last remnant of biblical King Solomon’s Temple).  In opposition to the ultra-orthodox who run the show there, the Women of the Wall want to be able to pray freely, wear religious garments (Kippot, religious head coverings, and Tallitot, prayer shawls), and read from our holy scroll, The Torah.  I am with them all the way.

But one of the things I do not understand is the name they have adapted in Hebrew.  They call themselves “Nashot HaKotel.”  In Hebrew, as in most languages other than English, words are identified by gender as well as number.  The word for man is ‘Ish’.  The word for woman is ‘Isha’.  The plural of Isha is Nashim not Nashot.  I understand that in Hebrew most IM ending words are masculine and most OT ending words are feminine.  So Nashim sounds like a masculine word even though it is not.  I guess the Women of the Wall wanted to feminize the name, therefore OT instead of IM.    My father used to say that you can call yourself anything you want.  You can spell your name Brown and call yourself Smith.  The Women of the Wall have the right to call themselves whatever they want, even by creating a new word.  We create new words all the time.  For example, if I would have told you to google something in 1970, you would have sent me off the funny farm.  Not so today (if you don’t know what a funny farm is, Google it).

 But I don’t understand the logic.

Yes, words in Hebrew have gender.  But that doesn’t mean that the things they represent have that gender.  The word for book in Hebrew (Sefer) is masculine.  But the book itself has no gender, only the word.  The word for hand in Hebrew (Yad) is feminine and even though the plural has the masculine sounding ending IM, it is feminine.  But hands are not masculine or feminine…they are just hands.  The word has the gender. To take this thinking to its illogical conclusion one could say that we should take the ‘man’ out of the word woman and the ‘men’ out of the word women.  And I guess we could take the ‘male’ out of female.  We would need to create some new words in order to make everyone happy.

 

So, here’s another question (or three).  Why does this even bother me?  And, what does it matter?  Also, how come you are still reading this?  I don’t know the answers to these questions.  Nashot HaKotel is OK with me.  But I imagine Mr. Ben Yehudah, creator of the modern Hebrew dictionary, might just be rolling over in his Kever (grave), which by the way is masculine.  Go figure.

Ron