May 1997
Dear GUCI Staff:
Art Linkletter wrote a book years back that was titled, “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” Even if you’ve never heard of Art Linkletter or seen his TV show (a hit in the ‘50’s) on which he interviewed children and played to their cute answers, you have to relate to the title of that book. It certainly speaks to a Camp Director.
A few weeks ago I was visiting Temple Israel in Columbus, Ohio. It was to be a typical Sunday morning; Ron gets up very early, drives three hours to Sunday school, talks about camp, shows the video (no complaints from me about not having to lug around the slide show, tape player, etc), and hits the road for home. But on this particular Sunday A.M. an interesting addition to the norm came up under the heading of. “Kids Say the Darndest Things.”
I arrived at Temple Israel a little early and met the Rabbi a while before the camp assembly was to begin. He told me that they were about to start the morning T’fillot with the 5th, 6th, 7th graders and asked me if I’d care to lead them in prayer. I said, “Sure,” not really thinking much about what that might involve. In about two minutes we were in a small chapel and in marched the classes. With the help of the songleader, we had a nice morning T’fillah. I took the liberty (what the heck, I was the leader, right?) to ask some questions to the group as a means of introducing different portions of the service. We talked about prayer as a way of saying “Thanks,” and as a way of expressing praise. But, when we got to the idea of prayer as petition, asking for things, one of the 5th graders indeed said the darndest thing. I asked, “If we use prayer to ask for things, what do we hope for?” Many hands went up. Some kids said we hope for health, or we hope for peace, etc. All good answers. But one little girl raised her hand and when I called on her, she taught us all the lesson of the day. “What we hope for, “ she said, “Is hope.”
Could that 5th grader have understood the depth of her comment? Did she realize that many of us turn to prayer as a source of encouragement; that just coming together as a faith community, singing, reading in unison, hearing words of Torah, gives us strength and hope. I’ve thought about this a lot. I think she knew exactly what she was saying. We pray for emotional strength. “We hope for hope.”
I’m glad I got up early that Sunday morning to learn this important lesson. It has stuck in my mind. The thought gives me comfort. That a 5th grader had this idea and shared it made it even more special. Well, kids do say the darndest thing. It pays to listen to them.
Ron
Thursday, May 1, 1997
Saturday, March 1, 1997
Reminder of Tarnov
March 1997
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
At the recently held NFTY National Convention I had several reasons to be proud. First of all the mere fact that the convention brought together 850 NFTY high school students was inspiring. Singing, praying, just feeling their energy and spirit was great. I had the opportunity to lead a few workshops during the convention. One was on the Torah portion of the week and one was on the idea of spirituality. In each, the kids knocked me for a loop with the depth and sincerity of many of their comments. We compared the Israelites building the tabernacle with our own attempts to bring God into our lives. We discussed how and where we feel holy, and what prayers bring out a sense of uplifted spirit in us. These were personal revelations, no wrong answers here. I found the groups to be eager to share their feelings, and anxious to encounter what the rabbi (that would be me) said Judaism said about X, Y, or Z. I think, Jewishly speaking, I turned a few kids on. I know that I myself walked away from the convention encouraged.
I went on the bus with our Ohio Valley region kids to the Holocaust Museum. Two dramatic things happened there. As we entered the building our group was loud and happy, making the typical teenage tumult one would expect of them. But, the instant we started on the tour of the exhibits the kids snapped into a serious and quiet demeanor. I saw several helping each other at difficult times during the experience. I most definitely felt the spirit of Goldman Camp working here. Our NFTYites were full of “Ruach” one minute, then appropriately serious and even comforting to each other the next. I was proud of them.
At one point in the Holocaust exhibit I saw something I had missed on my last visit to the museum. It was a wrought iron gate standing behind a glass enclosure. I read the explanation card, kind of amazed to see that it was the front gate from the synagogue/cemetery in what used to be the Jewish shtetle of Tarnow (pronounced Tarnov) Poland. You see, my Grandfather, Max Klotz came to this country in 1906 from Tarnow, Poland. And what’s more, it’s told in our family that his grandfather was a rabbi. I looked at that gate and realized that it is certainly possible that my great, great grandparents, their son, and grandson (my Grandpa Klotz) may very well have walked through that gate going to shul. In my minds eye, I saw my great, great grandfather’s hand on the iron latch, opening that very gate so a small boy, my grandpa could enter the synagogue. Talk about feeling connected!
I felt proud that America housed this unique tribute to our people, proud that our kids respected it so, and proud to find my great, great grandfather’s gate in the middle of it all.
Ron
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
At the recently held NFTY National Convention I had several reasons to be proud. First of all the mere fact that the convention brought together 850 NFTY high school students was inspiring. Singing, praying, just feeling their energy and spirit was great. I had the opportunity to lead a few workshops during the convention. One was on the Torah portion of the week and one was on the idea of spirituality. In each, the kids knocked me for a loop with the depth and sincerity of many of their comments. We compared the Israelites building the tabernacle with our own attempts to bring God into our lives. We discussed how and where we feel holy, and what prayers bring out a sense of uplifted spirit in us. These were personal revelations, no wrong answers here. I found the groups to be eager to share their feelings, and anxious to encounter what the rabbi (that would be me) said Judaism said about X, Y, or Z. I think, Jewishly speaking, I turned a few kids on. I know that I myself walked away from the convention encouraged.
I went on the bus with our Ohio Valley region kids to the Holocaust Museum. Two dramatic things happened there. As we entered the building our group was loud and happy, making the typical teenage tumult one would expect of them. But, the instant we started on the tour of the exhibits the kids snapped into a serious and quiet demeanor. I saw several helping each other at difficult times during the experience. I most definitely felt the spirit of Goldman Camp working here. Our NFTYites were full of “Ruach” one minute, then appropriately serious and even comforting to each other the next. I was proud of them.
At one point in the Holocaust exhibit I saw something I had missed on my last visit to the museum. It was a wrought iron gate standing behind a glass enclosure. I read the explanation card, kind of amazed to see that it was the front gate from the synagogue/cemetery in what used to be the Jewish shtetle of Tarnow (pronounced Tarnov) Poland. You see, my Grandfather, Max Klotz came to this country in 1906 from Tarnow, Poland. And what’s more, it’s told in our family that his grandfather was a rabbi. I looked at that gate and realized that it is certainly possible that my great, great grandparents, their son, and grandson (my Grandpa Klotz) may very well have walked through that gate going to shul. In my minds eye, I saw my great, great grandfather’s hand on the iron latch, opening that very gate so a small boy, my grandpa could enter the synagogue. Talk about feeling connected!
I felt proud that America housed this unique tribute to our people, proud that our kids respected it so, and proud to find my great, great grandfather’s gate in the middle of it all.
Ron
Saturday, February 1, 1997
Sunsets
February 1997
Dear GUCI Staff:
I’ve always had a special feeling, a fascination with sunsets. For me, no matter what the day brings forth, a dramatic sunset is a sign of hope. As I think about it, I realize that I’ve gone out of my way to watch sunsets wherever I’ve been. Sunsets are glorious spectacles of elapsing time dramatically punctuated by their slowly changing color schemes. They inspire me with their magnitude, make me feel small and part of something big, all at once.
When I was a Unit Head at Olin-Sang-Ruby up in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin I had a private Erev Shabbat ritual. At a certain point during Shabbat dinner, I would quietly leave my unit and walk out back of the Chadar Ochel. There I would take my seat, all alone, on a wooden storage box and watch the Western skies turn to fire as Shabbat descended. I liked to think that the colors in the sky were the train on Shabbat’s royal gown. Later I’d think about the prayer in the evening service which credits God with causing the evening to fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. It’s hard to feel Shabbat peace when you are a camp staff member with ongoing responsibilities, but those Shabbat sunsets out back of the Chadar Ochel were my fifteen minutes of Shabbat Shalom. I was a Unit Head for six summers. Every clear Erev Shabbat I managed to make it to my designated sunset spot. I remember the calm and the beauty of it.
Last spring, Juca and I spent a week on the West coast of Florida. We joined all the others in that beautiful place each evening quietly watching the sun touch down on the water. We always thought and sometimes remarked at how quickly the sun went down. It seemed to plunge into the Gulf and disappear. One almost expected to hear it sizzle. But what came next was the clincher. After the sun was gone, a full half-hour of reds turning to purple turning to wisps of pastels. Someone told me the colors are just the sun’s reflection off of the air pollution. “Finally,” I thought, “something good from pollution.”
Yesterday I spoke to my son Michael on the phone. It was a big deal for me because he’s away, far away studying for the semester in Tel Aviv. That was the first time we had spoken since he left. It’s true that I hear his voice speaking the words he writes me on the e-mail, but in my heart, not my ears. So it was great to actually hear him yesterday. He had a lot to tell me, but one of the stories was about going to the beach to watch the sun set. I think he told me this because he knows that I am moved by the thought of it. And now I have these thoughts too; thoughts of my son in Israel, celebrating his independence, touching his Jewish roots, growing up, sitting on the beach taking it all in, in Technicolor.
Each evening we bless God for making the evening fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. And in our hearts a special blessing for alowing us to witness this greatness; and living to hear our children tell of this majesty, from 8,000 miles away.
Ron
So now it's 2015, fifteen years later, and I'm still looking at sunsets with awe. As Thanksgiving approaches, being in the sunset years of my life, I can't help but be thankful for two wonderful and successful sons, two amazing daughters-in-law, two (I can't say enough about) granddaughters, and, in all caps, JUCA .
Here's a sunset (a bit enhanced) from our porch in Bloomington...Awesome!
Dear GUCI Staff:
I’ve always had a special feeling, a fascination with sunsets. For me, no matter what the day brings forth, a dramatic sunset is a sign of hope. As I think about it, I realize that I’ve gone out of my way to watch sunsets wherever I’ve been. Sunsets are glorious spectacles of elapsing time dramatically punctuated by their slowly changing color schemes. They inspire me with their magnitude, make me feel small and part of something big, all at once.
When I was a Unit Head at Olin-Sang-Ruby up in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin I had a private Erev Shabbat ritual. At a certain point during Shabbat dinner, I would quietly leave my unit and walk out back of the Chadar Ochel. There I would take my seat, all alone, on a wooden storage box and watch the Western skies turn to fire as Shabbat descended. I liked to think that the colors in the sky were the train on Shabbat’s royal gown. Later I’d think about the prayer in the evening service which credits God with causing the evening to fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. It’s hard to feel Shabbat peace when you are a camp staff member with ongoing responsibilities, but those Shabbat sunsets out back of the Chadar Ochel were my fifteen minutes of Shabbat Shalom. I was a Unit Head for six summers. Every clear Erev Shabbat I managed to make it to my designated sunset spot. I remember the calm and the beauty of it.
Last spring, Juca and I spent a week on the West coast of Florida. We joined all the others in that beautiful place each evening quietly watching the sun touch down on the water. We always thought and sometimes remarked at how quickly the sun went down. It seemed to plunge into the Gulf and disappear. One almost expected to hear it sizzle. But what came next was the clincher. After the sun was gone, a full half-hour of reds turning to purple turning to wisps of pastels. Someone told me the colors are just the sun’s reflection off of the air pollution. “Finally,” I thought, “something good from pollution.”
Yesterday I spoke to my son Michael on the phone. It was a big deal for me because he’s away, far away studying for the semester in Tel Aviv. That was the first time we had spoken since he left. It’s true that I hear his voice speaking the words he writes me on the e-mail, but in my heart, not my ears. So it was great to actually hear him yesterday. He had a lot to tell me, but one of the stories was about going to the beach to watch the sun set. I think he told me this because he knows that I am moved by the thought of it. And now I have these thoughts too; thoughts of my son in Israel, celebrating his independence, touching his Jewish roots, growing up, sitting on the beach taking it all in, in Technicolor.
Each evening we bless God for making the evening fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. And in our hearts a special blessing for alowing us to witness this greatness; and living to hear our children tell of this majesty, from 8,000 miles away.
Ron
So now it's 2015, fifteen years later, and I'm still looking at sunsets with awe. As Thanksgiving approaches, being in the sunset years of my life, I can't help but be thankful for two wonderful and successful sons, two amazing daughters-in-law, two (I can't say enough about) granddaughters, and, in all caps, JUCA .
Here's a sunset (a bit enhanced) from our porch in Bloomington...Awesome!
Tuesday, October 1, 1996
The Smells of Autumn
October, 1996
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
I took a little walk today. "So?" you might say. Believe me, this was a
memorable walk. When I get home from camp in the afternoon, I usually workout
on our treadmill and sometimes even hit the healthrider. But today I wasn't
feeling so great; kind of tired, knocked out, maybe getting a cold. So I
decided to skip the routine and just go for a stroll around the neighborhood.
It's October and the trees are decked out in all of their splendor; the best
show nature has to offer. And if my old neighborhood has anything, it's big,
old trees that can dazzle the eye during these couple of weeks of color. So I
took a little walk.
So I'm strolling down the sidewalk trying to take in the orange and reds, the
dull browns, and fading greens. I'm tired but feel that this is important
since I know that in a week or two all will be bare. It's as if I need to
capture this technicolor spectacle so I can rewind to it when the cold winds
whip through the empty branches, when I need a reminder of the softness of
nature. In other words, I'm trying to take in as much as I can with my eyes.
It was just that kind of moment when my stroll transported me to other times
and other places. I had been so concentrated on my seeing it all, that I
wasn't ready to be kidnapped by the smells of autumn.
I walked under a canopy of yellow when the first smell hit me. It was sort of
dusty and pine-driven. In two or three short steps I was taken away, all the
way to Jerusalem. I was walking down Jabotinsky, coming home from HUC to our
apartment on Rachov Harlap, sitting on the Mirpeset with Juca, carrying flowers
for Shabbat. It must have been that pine smell that reached out to me with a
25 year-old arm and pulled me back all that way. I followed my nose into a
personal twilight zone, transported to a time when all was beginning. I hardly
even noticed the smells of Jerusalem back then, and certainly didn't realize at
that time that someday I would be remembering them with a warmth and a smile
and a, "Yeah, I remember that time - it was good." When I got home I told Juca
that I had smelled it and that it had made me remember. She understood exactly
and even described that very smell to me. She knew. That was my first smell
of the evening.
A little farther along my stroll a second olfactory sensation materialized.
This second sniff-trip, wasn't nearly as esoteric as the first. This was more
dry and dusty than piney. It took me farther in years but not in miles. I
must be strange, but in an instant I was back in high school struggling on a
dusty football field. For me, football was more than sounds and movements.
For four years the taste and smell of it filled me. I lived for it and used it
to prove myself to myself. Today my nose reminded me of that young time. It
was a time of accomplishment and camaraderie, of controlled trials and tests of
the spirit and body. In a flash I was back there, my father watching from the
sidelines, my mom, worried in the stands. Playing football was one of the
hardest things I've ever done. I was proud to have done it pretty well and am
often reminded of the challenge of those days. Again, I had no idea that the
smell of the season would stay with me all of these years to carry me back
there today.
If I had to put more than just a nostalgic spin on today's trips, I would have
to say that these diverse memories symbolize my own makeup. To combine in
one's nostalgia both locker rooms and the streets of Jerusalem, blends an
American childhood with an expanding Jewish identity. I can hear the Twilight
Zone theme song ringing softly in my ears.
It's funny, I just started out to take a little walk around the neighborhood, but ended up journeying to the far corners of my life. When I returned home, I unpacked a few smiles I'd picked up along the way.
Ron
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
I took a little walk today. "So?" you might say. Believe me, this was a
memorable walk. When I get home from camp in the afternoon, I usually workout
on our treadmill and sometimes even hit the healthrider. But today I wasn't
feeling so great; kind of tired, knocked out, maybe getting a cold. So I
decided to skip the routine and just go for a stroll around the neighborhood.
It's October and the trees are decked out in all of their splendor; the best
show nature has to offer. And if my old neighborhood has anything, it's big,
old trees that can dazzle the eye during these couple of weeks of color. So I
took a little walk.
So I'm strolling down the sidewalk trying to take in the orange and reds, the
dull browns, and fading greens. I'm tired but feel that this is important
since I know that in a week or two all will be bare. It's as if I need to
capture this technicolor spectacle so I can rewind to it when the cold winds
whip through the empty branches, when I need a reminder of the softness of
nature. In other words, I'm trying to take in as much as I can with my eyes.
It was just that kind of moment when my stroll transported me to other times
and other places. I had been so concentrated on my seeing it all, that I
wasn't ready to be kidnapped by the smells of autumn.
I walked under a canopy of yellow when the first smell hit me. It was sort of
dusty and pine-driven. In two or three short steps I was taken away, all the
way to Jerusalem. I was walking down Jabotinsky, coming home from HUC to our
apartment on Rachov Harlap, sitting on the Mirpeset with Juca, carrying flowers
for Shabbat. It must have been that pine smell that reached out to me with a
25 year-old arm and pulled me back all that way. I followed my nose into a
personal twilight zone, transported to a time when all was beginning. I hardly
even noticed the smells of Jerusalem back then, and certainly didn't realize at
that time that someday I would be remembering them with a warmth and a smile
and a, "Yeah, I remember that time - it was good." When I got home I told Juca
that I had smelled it and that it had made me remember. She understood exactly
and even described that very smell to me. She knew. That was my first smell
of the evening.
A little farther along my stroll a second olfactory sensation materialized.
This second sniff-trip, wasn't nearly as esoteric as the first. This was more
dry and dusty than piney. It took me farther in years but not in miles. I
must be strange, but in an instant I was back in high school struggling on a
dusty football field. For me, football was more than sounds and movements.
For four years the taste and smell of it filled me. I lived for it and used it
to prove myself to myself. Today my nose reminded me of that young time. It
was a time of accomplishment and camaraderie, of controlled trials and tests of
the spirit and body. In a flash I was back there, my father watching from the
sidelines, my mom, worried in the stands. Playing football was one of the
hardest things I've ever done. I was proud to have done it pretty well and am
often reminded of the challenge of those days. Again, I had no idea that the
smell of the season would stay with me all of these years to carry me back
there today.
If I had to put more than just a nostalgic spin on today's trips, I would have
to say that these diverse memories symbolize my own makeup. To combine in
one's nostalgia both locker rooms and the streets of Jerusalem, blends an
American childhood with an expanding Jewish identity. I can hear the Twilight
Zone theme song ringing softly in my ears.
It's funny, I just started out to take a little walk around the neighborhood, but ended up journeying to the far corners of my life. When I returned home, I unpacked a few smiles I'd picked up along the way.
Ron
Sunday, September 1, 1996
Staff Returning to Camp
September, 1996
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
The last staff letter I wrote to you was bursting with the anticipation of a
summer to be. Now I write to you from the quiet of my office during the lull
of time between the summer that was and the Rosh Ha Shannah that is almost.
Thoughts of this past summer will warm me long into the winter; it was that
good. The sparks that illuminated our Goldman Union Camp flame this summer
came from many directions. They joined and burned brightly. From our youngest
Garin campers (third and fourth graders) overcoming homesickness and leading
the community in beautiful Friday evening Shabbat T'fillot; to a rowdy and
rambunctious Avodah unit painting the camp truck at 2:00 A.M., camp shined a
radiant, youthful, Jewish light. It was a summer of beginnings and renewals.
We welcomed many new staff members, including six great new Israeli friends.
And we welcomed back several staff family members who returned to camp after
being away for years. Julie Waterman (whose homecoming actually started in
'95), Judy Abramson, and Danny Nichols came home to G.U.C.I. this summer. They
not only added their talents, enthusiasm, and energy to our collective pool,
they gave much more, a sense of G.U.C.I. history to our staff. In addition, a
visit from Ian Silver, a ten year Avodah reunion led by Linda Ross, drop-in
visits by Jim Bennett, Danny and Jason Gottlieb, faculty stints by Sandford
Kopnick, Lee Freedman, and Mark Glickman, and Adam Morris' return engagement as
a unit head, this time in Garin, were constant reminders of the rich heritage
our staff inherited here at Goldman Camp. This summer's staff stood the test
of time and took its own place in our camp's history. I am proud to be a part
of it.
There were many personal lights shining this summer as well. I cannot really
express how meaningful it was for me to work with my sons Jeremy and Michael,
together on our Leadership Staff. I admit to some (perhaps more than a few)
emotional moments watching them work with their kids and fellow staff members.
I was proud of their individual struggles to achieve all that we hold dear in
our thoughts and feelings of camp. As the Camp Director, I loved working with
Mark Covitz and this summer's Leadership Staff. But as a Camp Director who is
also a father, it was a special gift to be given a summer like this with my
boys.
I learned a lot this summer. A fellow named Mike Melon, an H.U.C. student,
came by for a few weeks to learn about camp. I think he did that, but in turn,
taught me a thing or two about being open and inviting to kids. I watched him
walk into an established camp society, toward the end of the summer, and
immediately find his place among the staff, Leadership staff, and campers.
Important lessons.
And then there was Danny Nichols who taught us how to sing. He brought back to
G.U.C.I. a renewed spirit and emotional energy which, I believe, will be with
us for years to come. He really linked the best of our camp's past to a
renewed spirituality of today and had a profound affect on us all. Danny wrote
a kind of rockin' tune to the prayer we use to begin each day, "Baruch Atah
Adonai Elohaynu Melech Ha Olam, Sh'Natan Lanu Hisdamnut Letaken Et Ha Olam.
Blessed are you Adonai our God, King of the universe, for giving us an
opportunity to make this a better world." So many bright, shining, and smiling
camper faces told me that we had done just that; this summer, here in
Zionsville.
I hope that 5757 brings you many bright lights and smiling faces.
Ron
Wednesday, May 1, 1996
Standing on the Teachings of Those Who Came Before
May, 1996
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
It's May. The sounds of racing motors at the Speedway are always a sure sign
that camp is about to commence. As we are about to, once again, embark on the
grand challenge here in Zionsville, my mind wanders into the misty memories of
camping's past. To me, it is important to acknowledge how our past helps shape
our present, and, in turn, our future. Goldman Union Camp Institute is built
upon the foundation of years and years of camp staffs, rabbis, educators, and
directors. Their ideas and energies paved the way for G.U.C.I. 1996. Their
passions led us to this point, we take over from here.
It is impossible for me to psych myself up for what lies ahead without thinking
of those who taught me the joys of Judaism and camp as I was growing up. My
counselors at Union Institute in Wisconsin, the Levys, Merle Singer, my rabbis,
Lorge, Wolf, Mahrer, my unit heads, Jerry Litsky, Gene Levy, my director, Irv
Kaplan, all stand with me as I begin again to build what will be our camp
community this summer. So do the hundreds, perhaps thousands of campers and
counselors from those fourteen years up north and twenty-two down here.
When I begin to open the pool this spring, Jim Bennett and Mike Weinberg will be
minding the filters with me.
Joe Eiduson, Linda Ross, Marty Zinko, Joel Block, Amy Wolf, Jon Stein, Andrea Lerner, Bruce Lustig, Danny Gottleib, Mark Lerner, and Shirley Idelson will be driving the truck along with all the others who have painted and swept out the Oolam, mopped the cabins, carried the canoes,
helped plan orientation.
When I first look out at Eagle Creek lake this summer, I'll think of Brad Lander arguing, pushing me to implement a canoeing program.
As we count tents for Anaf's Kesher program I'll remember Mark
Glickman, out with 100 Anafers at Morgan-Monroe in a thunderstorm.
When we begin talking about counseloring I'll remember the lessons Simcha Bob and
Sandford Kopnick taught the counselors in their day.
When our Program Director, Mark Covitz and I began planning orientation, Steve Goodman, Mike Weinberg, Jim Bennett, Lee Freedman, Rachel Hertzman, Sandford Kopnick, Josh
Bennett, Mike Moskowitz, and Jay Moses were sitting on the floor in my office
with us, if only in spirit.
I gain a tremendous sense of confidence and strength at the thought of so much creative energy collected over the years, adding to our own strengths, propelling us into another camp season. I can only imagine how many images of former songleaders will appear (if only in my
mind), strumming their guitars in the shadows of the chadar during Shabbat song
sessions.
We share a fine heritage, the history of our people and the history of those
who taught it to us. But now comes the time to roll up the sleeves and get to
it. Now we take our place in the lineage of Jewish communities, of camp
staffs, of the creators of the history of Goldman Union Camp Institute. This
will be our summer. We will build it. I am sure that we will uphold the high
standards set for us by our rabbis, program directors, and counselors of the
past. In doing so we add our own creativity and passion to the collective
pool. The spirit of the community we create this summer will build the
future. It seems only natural to think that years from now some unit head will
reflect back on what we may have given him/her this summer; that someone will
conjure up a misty memory of a warm Jewish feeling received at G.U.C.I during
the summer of 1996. It is our turn. This is our challenge. Thank God for the
opportunity.
Ron
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
It's May. The sounds of racing motors at the Speedway are always a sure sign
that camp is about to commence. As we are about to, once again, embark on the
grand challenge here in Zionsville, my mind wanders into the misty memories of
camping's past. To me, it is important to acknowledge how our past helps shape
our present, and, in turn, our future. Goldman Union Camp Institute is built
upon the foundation of years and years of camp staffs, rabbis, educators, and
directors. Their ideas and energies paved the way for G.U.C.I. 1996. Their
passions led us to this point, we take over from here.
It is impossible for me to psych myself up for what lies ahead without thinking
of those who taught me the joys of Judaism and camp as I was growing up. My
counselors at Union Institute in Wisconsin, the Levys, Merle Singer, my rabbis,
Lorge, Wolf, Mahrer, my unit heads, Jerry Litsky, Gene Levy, my director, Irv
Kaplan, all stand with me as I begin again to build what will be our camp
community this summer. So do the hundreds, perhaps thousands of campers and
counselors from those fourteen years up north and twenty-two down here.
When I begin to open the pool this spring, Jim Bennett and Mike Weinberg will be
minding the filters with me.
Joe Eiduson, Linda Ross, Marty Zinko, Joel Block, Amy Wolf, Jon Stein, Andrea Lerner, Bruce Lustig, Danny Gottleib, Mark Lerner, and Shirley Idelson will be driving the truck along with all the others who have painted and swept out the Oolam, mopped the cabins, carried the canoes,
helped plan orientation.
When I first look out at Eagle Creek lake this summer, I'll think of Brad Lander arguing, pushing me to implement a canoeing program.
As we count tents for Anaf's Kesher program I'll remember Mark
Glickman, out with 100 Anafers at Morgan-Monroe in a thunderstorm.
When we begin talking about counseloring I'll remember the lessons Simcha Bob and
Sandford Kopnick taught the counselors in their day.
When our Program Director, Mark Covitz and I began planning orientation, Steve Goodman, Mike Weinberg, Jim Bennett, Lee Freedman, Rachel Hertzman, Sandford Kopnick, Josh
Bennett, Mike Moskowitz, and Jay Moses were sitting on the floor in my office
with us, if only in spirit.
I gain a tremendous sense of confidence and strength at the thought of so much creative energy collected over the years, adding to our own strengths, propelling us into another camp season. I can only imagine how many images of former songleaders will appear (if only in my
mind), strumming their guitars in the shadows of the chadar during Shabbat song
sessions.
We share a fine heritage, the history of our people and the history of those
who taught it to us. But now comes the time to roll up the sleeves and get to
it. Now we take our place in the lineage of Jewish communities, of camp
staffs, of the creators of the history of Goldman Union Camp Institute. This
will be our summer. We will build it. I am sure that we will uphold the high
standards set for us by our rabbis, program directors, and counselors of the
past. In doing so we add our own creativity and passion to the collective
pool. The spirit of the community we create this summer will build the
future. It seems only natural to think that years from now some unit head will
reflect back on what we may have given him/her this summer; that someone will
conjure up a misty memory of a warm Jewish feeling received at G.U.C.I during
the summer of 1996. It is our turn. This is our challenge. Thank God for the
opportunity.
Ron
Friday, March 1, 1996
Random Acts of Love
March, 1996
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
We all know that, "Al Shlosha D'varim Ha Olam Omed. On three things the world
stands; on Torah, on Avodah, and on Gimilut Hasadim, acts of loving kindness."
We may interpret these three suspenders of the world in different ways. Torah
could mean our Jewish heritage and history, it could mean the morality and
ethics taught by our Rabbis throughout the ages, it could mean adherence to
tradition as the structure of life. Avodah could be work or worship, or even
just the willingness of a person to roll up his/her sleeves and join the rest
of humanity in building our world (how many of us felt that for the first time
when we came here to be Avodahnikim). And then there is Gemilut Hasidim.
Maybe you've seen the bumper sticker that shouts, "Practice random acts of
loving kindness." Perhaps in this day and age, this third pod in the world's
tripod is the most important.
It seems to me that we live in a time when it is very easy to insulate
ourselves from others, to go about our business, attend our classes, watch our
videos, protect ourselves. But when I think about what's really important, I
can't find anything to top helping someone who needs it. I'm not talking about
volunteering at the local soup kitchen, or building houses with Habitat for
Humanity. Those are outstanding things to do, and should be encouraged. But
I'm thinking about more basic acts of kindness, the ones that could be a part
of our lives everyday, the ones that are right there in front of us if we
choose to see them. I'm talking about developing a personal philosophy that
pledges oneself to being a helping person. I'm not forgetting, "Im Ain Ani Li
Mi Li," for a minute. We all have to care for ourselves, protect ourselves.
You know that I feel strongly that we are, each of us, our own personal ace in
the hole, our own best friend. But what a world it would be if, each morning,
people woke up thinking, "I have many things to do today, let's see who I can
help along the way."
We live in a difficult world. It seems filled with O.J.'s and Menendez
brothers, suicide bombers, and Louis Farrakhans. Easy to let all that get you
down. It's better, though when we realize that there are millions more Gimilut
Hasadim doers than those who would destroy the good of the world. There has
never been a better time for "Tikkun Olam," fixing our world. Last summer we
learned that eventually "Shalom Yavo, Peace will come." And we dedicated
ourselves to that idea by singing, "Sh'Yatchil Iti! LET IT BEGIN WITH ME!" We
can each help to make this world a better place by imbedding the idea of
practicing random acts of loving kindness into our everyday thinking. We
should be eager to help each other, we should be looking for opportunities to
make others happy, to show our love for our families and friends, to realize
the qualities rather than the imperfections in those we know, to just be a good
friend, parent, son or daughter, sister or brother.
It's March. In a short while camp will be upon us. Think of the opportunities
for "Gemilut Hasidim" that present themselves during a summer here. I am
thankful we are given such a chance to help others. From helping homesick
campers to teaching unit heads, we are blessed with opportunities to give.
Those opportunities exist for you as well, at home, in school, in your
fraternity or sorority houses. Hey! You can do it. Call your Grandpa, out of
the blue, for no reason. You'll feel the warmth of a beautiful, random act of
love.
Ron
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
We all know that, "Al Shlosha D'varim Ha Olam Omed. On three things the world
stands; on Torah, on Avodah, and on Gimilut Hasadim, acts of loving kindness."
We may interpret these three suspenders of the world in different ways. Torah
could mean our Jewish heritage and history, it could mean the morality and
ethics taught by our Rabbis throughout the ages, it could mean adherence to
tradition as the structure of life. Avodah could be work or worship, or even
just the willingness of a person to roll up his/her sleeves and join the rest
of humanity in building our world (how many of us felt that for the first time
when we came here to be Avodahnikim). And then there is Gemilut Hasidim.
Maybe you've seen the bumper sticker that shouts, "Practice random acts of
loving kindness." Perhaps in this day and age, this third pod in the world's
tripod is the most important.
It seems to me that we live in a time when it is very easy to insulate
ourselves from others, to go about our business, attend our classes, watch our
videos, protect ourselves. But when I think about what's really important, I
can't find anything to top helping someone who needs it. I'm not talking about
volunteering at the local soup kitchen, or building houses with Habitat for
Humanity. Those are outstanding things to do, and should be encouraged. But
I'm thinking about more basic acts of kindness, the ones that could be a part
of our lives everyday, the ones that are right there in front of us if we
choose to see them. I'm talking about developing a personal philosophy that
pledges oneself to being a helping person. I'm not forgetting, "Im Ain Ani Li
Mi Li," for a minute. We all have to care for ourselves, protect ourselves.
You know that I feel strongly that we are, each of us, our own personal ace in
the hole, our own best friend. But what a world it would be if, each morning,
people woke up thinking, "I have many things to do today, let's see who I can
help along the way."
We live in a difficult world. It seems filled with O.J.'s and Menendez
brothers, suicide bombers, and Louis Farrakhans. Easy to let all that get you
down. It's better, though when we realize that there are millions more Gimilut
Hasadim doers than those who would destroy the good of the world. There has
never been a better time for "Tikkun Olam," fixing our world. Last summer we
learned that eventually "Shalom Yavo, Peace will come." And we dedicated
ourselves to that idea by singing, "Sh'Yatchil Iti! LET IT BEGIN WITH ME!" We
can each help to make this world a better place by imbedding the idea of
practicing random acts of loving kindness into our everyday thinking. We
should be eager to help each other, we should be looking for opportunities to
make others happy, to show our love for our families and friends, to realize
the qualities rather than the imperfections in those we know, to just be a good
friend, parent, son or daughter, sister or brother.
It's March. In a short while camp will be upon us. Think of the opportunities
for "Gemilut Hasidim" that present themselves during a summer here. I am
thankful we are given such a chance to help others. From helping homesick
campers to teaching unit heads, we are blessed with opportunities to give.
Those opportunities exist for you as well, at home, in school, in your
fraternity or sorority houses. Hey! You can do it. Call your Grandpa, out of
the blue, for no reason. You'll feel the warmth of a beautiful, random act of
love.
Ron
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)