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