“I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn”

                                                                                                     

                                                                                                           October, 1998


Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


The mood of camp has shifted dramatically from the noise and action of the summer to the cool and calm of fall.  The leaves started changing into their colors around the same time we were all putting on our High Holiday finery.  It’s a pretty time.  We started our camp introspection, thinking about what we’d like to do differently this winter and next summer, around the same time that our Jewish cycle stopped on the look-into-yourself-and-figure-out-how-to-be-a-better-person square.  This is our strength.  That we stop each year and examine ourselves, that we seek new directions or re-adjust our present ones.  I asked myself this season, why we Jews keep coming back to our synagogues on the High Holidays?  Why are they so important to us? 
One of the answers might be that we come seeking words of wisdom (but unlike the Beatles, we just won’t let it be…).  I think that we would like Rosh Ha Shannah and Yom Kippur to smarten us up.  Teach us something.  But, what?  Well, think about it.  We’re looking for direction, and to find direction into the future, we have to know who we are and where we have come from.  The Holidays connect us to our past, to our history.  The physical act of going to Temple links us to Jews all over the world.  And the service itself (and perhaps the rabbi’s words) speaks to our values, our relationships, responsibilities, our shortcomings, our dreams.  It seems to me that Temple is exactly the right place to come seeking words of wisdom. 
We all are wise in our own rights.  What words of wisdom would you share with others if you had the chance?  Here’s a list of wise words I came across; maybe one or more of them will speak to you: 

“I’ve learned that you can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk” - Age 7
“I’ve learned that if you want to cheer yourself up, you should try cheering someone else up” - Age 14
“I’ve learned that brushing my child’s hair is one of the great pleasures”  -Age 26
“I’ve learned that there are people who love you dearly but just don’t know how to show it”  -Age 41
“I’ve learned that the greater a person’s sense of guilt the greater their need to cast blame on others”  -Age 46
“I’ve learned that you can tell a great deal about a person by the way s/he handles these things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights”  -Age 52
“I’ve learned that making a living is not making a life”  -Age 58
“I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance”  -Age 62
“I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands.  You need to be able to throw some things back”  -Age 64
“I’ve learned that whenever I’ve decided something with kindness, I usually make the right decision”  -Age 68
“I’ve learned to believe in miracles.  I’ve seen several”  -Age 73
“I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one”  -Age 82
“I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn”  -Age 92

What words of wisdom would you use to complete the sentence;  “I’ve learned that…?”   Now, it seems, is the appropriate Jewish time to start composing them.  Shannah Tovah…All the best in 5759.

Ron

Wait, I've Been Here Before?

                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                           May, 1998


Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


They say that a tornado sounds like a locomotive.  Well, I certainly hear a similar thundering as opening day of Kallah Aleph races toward Zionsville under full steam.  It never seems that we will possibly get it all together in that small window of time between the Spring rains and the arrival of duffel bags, bug spray, hopeful Jewish children, and apprehensive Jewish parents.  Somehow we always make it.

As much as we are always looking ahead at Goldman Union Camp, this summer, our fortieth anniversary, we can’t help but look back.  Here’s a story made for the annals of the U.A.H.C. Twilight Zone.  Somewhere back during the first days of this camp, when it was a summer-long NFTY program, my first cousin, Ralph Garber, spent a summer here as Pool Director.  He was a NFTY Vice President.  I vaguely recall in 1958 or 59, my Uncle, his father, taking me on a trip to visit Ralph.  We headed out from Chicago into the wilds of Indiana, stayed overnight in downtown Indy, and spent the next day at camp with Ralph.  I really only remember swimming in the camp’s pool that afternoon (hey, I was only 12 or 13, give me a break).  The trip was a small episode that I never really much thought about again.

Scroll forward to about 1980.  I had already been the Camp Director here for five years when I discovered some 16mm movies in the camp Sifriya.  We still had a projector in those days as we used to show movies on huge 16mm reels in the Oolam on Saturday nights (the pre-video days). 

One of the movies I discovered was titled, “A Day In The Life Of an OVFTYite.”  When I finally got it to run, I saw that it was filmed here at camp in those early days, and it took the audience through a typical day and week at OVFTY camp.  It wasn’t until the Shabbat segment of the film that I started to hear that familiar Twilight Zone theme music in the recesses of my mind.  The film took us to Israeli dancing after song session in the Chadar (sound familiar?).  The camera stood stationary as the dancers hora-ed by.  To my total amazement, my cousin, Ralph danced from right to left across the screen.  I backed up the film and played the segment again, and then again.  The trip my uncle and I had taken came rushing back to me at that point.  I realized that this was that same place.  I had become the Director of the camp my cousin staffed 20-some years before.  That the pool I had swum in was, in fact, the Old Pool.

1958 was also the summer I began attending Union Institute in Wisconsin (I had already been a camper for a few years in other camps).  The thought of all these years in camp,
coupled with the foggy recollection of a visit to an older cousin who I very much loved and looked up to, during his summer at Union Camp Institute, fills me with
a sense of continuity, and even security.  I‘m proud to carry the banner for all that have forged the path before us, to lead this magnificent camp into the future, with an eye to the past.  I sense the “rightness” of it all.  And I am thankful to have been given the opportunity to work here in this camp with these people.

Soon the onslaught begins.  Three hundred children will descend on our little camp, expecting who-knows-what, but expecting.  And we will deliver.  We will also spend much time commemorating our past this fortieth camp summer of ours.  I guess that’s why God gave us two eyes; one to look back and one to look ahead.  But our campers keep us honest, focused on the what’s real and now and crucial.  Opening day 1998 thunders down upon us.  Bring ‘em on!

Ron

P.S.  We are jumping right into the 90’s here at G.U.C.I.  Enclosed is a post card for you to return to us with your e-mail address.  Next year G.U.C.I. staff letters will be sent by e-mail and posted on our website.  If you’d like to continue receiving these letters, please return the card ASAP.  Thanks.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

                                                                                                                            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

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

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!

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

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