Hey Buddy, Can I Borrow Your Hula Hoop?

                                                                                                            June, 2015

Dear Family and Friends:

It has been raining off and on here for the past two weeks.  Today’s sogginess forced me to walk indoors on the track at our local YMCA.  Not just me.  The entire “Y” day camp population was there playing games, shooting hoops, even eating lunch on the four basketball courts.  Cute kids all over the place and a lovely din and racket.  I was reminded of blessing number seven in the Sheva Berachot recited during Jewish wedding ceremonies.  It equates the joy of bride and groom and the shouts of young people celebrating with the songs of children at play in the streets of Jerusalem.  That beautiful image resonates with me whenever I hit that spot in the ceremony under the Chupah.  Well, we certainly heard the songs of children at play on the courts of Bloomington this morning.  It was music to my ears.

On one of my loops around the courts a little fellow, maybe five years old, sitting near the track, looked up at me as I went by, pointed his finger at me and shot his imaginary finger gun.  He also made the universal noise all imaginary guns make, “P’shu, p’shu.”  I, being the responsible adult that I am pointed back, cocked my thumb and returned fire (along with the required sound effect).  On my next loop he was waiting in ambush.  Kneeling next to the curtain that divides the courts he fired when ready as I walked on by.  I was indeed caught by surprise and my imaginary return fire missed by a mile.

For a minute I thought, “Maybe, in this day and age, with so much real shooting going on in our world, I shouldn’t be playing such a game.”  It’s not very PC, right?   But, the heck with that, I decided to be ready for him as I rounded the turn on my next loop.  I would quick draw and shoot from a crouch just like Doc Holliday at the OK Corral.  But the kid surprised me again.  As I approached the court he was nowhere to be seen.  There were no shots, no sound effects.

 I glanced around and saw the little bandit.  No longer interested in our showdown, he had joined another little outlaw and both were trying to figure out how to twirl hula hoops and keep them from falling to the floor. They just couldn’t hula them fast enough.   At first I was a bit disappointed, having lost my rival to another.  But then I couldn’t help but smile and think, what if all the shooters traded their guns for hula hoops?  What if our imaginary shoot sound effects were erased by the giggles of hula hoopers trying to keep their hoops up over their hips?  What a silly thought.  

What a wonderful thought.

The sun finally poked through as I walked out to the car.  I’m sure my little adversary had not even the slightest memory of our YMCA duel this morning.  It was just a couple of imaginary shots at an old dude walking the track in his beat up Cubs cap.  Nothing important to remember there.  But for me, imagining the world doing the hula rather than killing each other on the streets of our cities or in its churches…well, that was a taste of the Messianic era we sometimes talk about.  Sweet.

Aloha,

Ron

Thinking of Springs Long Gone

Allow me a bit of nostalgia.  Been thinking about this as the warm weather has hit town.      


                                                                                           Feb. 1990


Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


I've been sending you these letters for a few months now, and I've even
received some responses.  They have been very positive, I'm happy to say.  I am
always happy to hear from you and if I stimulate some thought--all the better. 
These letters are just my own personal thoughts, with no hidden meanings or
agendas.

I'd like to tell you about something very important to me; fishing.  You
probably were not aware of the my interest in this sport, nor did you know that
I have been on several fishing expiditions in the past few years.  OK. I admit
it. I do not particularly like to fish.  But my son Michael does.  Somehow he
has become fascinated with fishing and wholly committed to the quest of
bringing in the "big one."  So for the past three years, for a week in the
spring before we gear up for camp, and for a week in August right after camp
closes, off we go with tent, rod and reel, all kinds of strange looking things
called crankbaits, spoons, etc., and a canoe, to threaten the gilled
populations of our local lakes.  I might add at this point, we are the worst
fishermen ever to buy a nightcrawler.  We have never brought in the big one. 
Not even the middle sized one.  "Why," you might ask, "would I invest so much
time and energy to something in which I am not particularly interested, and do
so poorly?"  The answer is simple.  Although I do not love to fish, I love to
go fishing with my son.  His enthusiasm for fishing gives us the opportunity to
spend two weeks a year alone together.  For that, I'm happy to call myself an
angler.

Michael is the expert.  He knows everything there is to know about fishing from
books, magazines, and even the fishing shows on TV (how is it that they are
able to catch twenty or so monsters in a half-hour show, while we haven't
landed one in three years?).  The biggest thing we have ever caught was me,
when Jeremy (he begrudgingly joins us on occasion) hooked my finger.  There we
were, out in the middle of a lake, the three of us in a canoe, and me with a
barbed fish hook embedded in my finger.  I was thinking that we must be doing
something wrong, as I ripped out that hook with a pliers.  Jeremy and Michael
admired their Dad's fortitude...(I almost puked).

Well, it's almost April and off we go again.  You know?  I can't wait. 
Michael's eyes are bright with anticipation.  He's planning the "safari" every
evening, with thoughts of different types of lures, a new reel, visions of
taxidermists dancing in his head.  I'm excited too.  We'll bring along our
Charlie Parker and Buddy Rich tapes (perhaps I can sneak some Bruebeck in there
as well).  We will talk about jazz, and high school, and the Bears, and----what
the hell, we will just have all that time to talk about nothing.  It doesn't
get any better than that.  I'd like to see Michael catch that big one, just to see the look on his face.  But if it doesn't happen, I really don't mind.

Now let me tell you how I felt last night watching Jeremy play tenor sax with
the North Central H.S. Jazz Band....well, maybe next time.

Ron

And Now For Something Completely Different; Sacrifices and Priests

                                                                                          March, 2015

 Dear Friends and Family:

I’ve never prided myself on being a biblical scholar, but these days I do find myself studying each week’s Torah (The Five Books of Moses) portion in order to prepare short “Divrei Torah” (literally, “Words of Torah;” lessons or sermons based on the portion of the week).  I am often asked to speak at Sabbath and High Holiday services at Hillel.  The books of Genesis and Exodus are easy.  They are filled with drama and family conflict.  Genesis begins at the beginning (…In the beginning God created…) with creation of the world followed by great C.B.DeMille-type stories of Noah and the flood, Abraham almost sacrificing his son Isaac, Jacob and Esau fighting over and tricking Isaac out of the father’s blessing and the first son’s birthright, Joseph, who’s brothers throw him in a pit and sell him, then slavery in Egypt and Moses receiving the Ten Commandments and leading the Hebrews for forty years in the wilderness.  Great stuff, no?  Anyone could relate these conflicts and experiences to modern-day life. 

But, just when one might begin feeling comfortable sermonizing on each week’s section of the Torah, we come to Leviticus.  Leviticus goes on and on with laws regarding institutions that no longer exist; sacrifices and the Jewish priesthood.  It has always seemed to me that this is the book we skip or at best skim.  I’m thankful that we are no longer a People who brings animals to the tabernacle or Temple so the priests can slaughter, sprinkle blood, and burn them up.  What kind of deal is that?  Nothing to learn, not even an Oneg afterwards.

Last week we attended Sabbath services at our local synagogue, Beth Shalom.  Lana E. led the service and gave the sermon, based on the first chapters of Leviticus.  I will forever be in her debt.  She demonstrated a different way of understanding biblical sacrifice and the priesthood.  Here’s my take on her words. 

It may be difficult for us to empathize with our ancient ancestors because we see them through 21^st century eyes.  Of course their practices seem at best strange to us.  But consider that Moses had just taken about 400,000 Jews out of Egypt, out of slavery.  They are no yet a People.  They do not know what it means to be moral, to be responsible, or to be accountable, at least not in a nation kind of way.  Neither does this People Israel have the leadership to show the way.  Lana taught that in order for the Jewish multitude to become the Jewish People it had to be taught how to acknowledge life’s experiences, both positive and negative.  The institution of these several types of sacrifices did just that.  There was a sin offering, a meal offering, a peace offering, a guilt offering, etc. The sacrifice was the action which taught our ancient ancestors that behavior was important and needed to be acknowledged.  Today if we sin we ask for forgiveness (Al Chet on Yom Kippur), if we wrong someone we ask for their pardon, if we fell blessed we recite Sh’Hechianu.  We try and repair the negatives and appreciate the positives.  A slave nation had to be taught right from wrong, that behavior was important, and that we should appreciate life.  A system of sacrifices teaches a People to observe, appreciate and acknowledge.

What of leadership?  Leviticus is crammed full of instructions for the family of Aaron, Moses’ brother.  They took on the duties of the priesthood, caring for the sacrifices that took place in the Tabernacle in the wilderness and the Temple in Jerusalem.  It seems more reasonable to understand that where no leaders have existed, and where they are desperately needed, a manual of operations for new leaders is a must.  In this way, Moses commands each detail of dress, behavior, and ritual to the fledgling priests.  They couldn’t Google, “vestments” to find out what a priest wears to work.  There were no sacrifice instruction books to refer to.  Had there been a Hebrew Union College back in those days, our priests might have studied there for five years and learned how to “operate” as leaders in the Jewish community.   They had no rabbis’ manuals to tell them how to help the people celebrate good things in their lives or make amends for wrongs that had been done. Leviticus is the manual.

Wow Lana.  Thank you.  You gave me so much to think about last Friday night.  I am so glad I didn’t stay home and watch Blue Bloods. 

Ron

Bloomington Weather

If you don't like the weather in Indiana just wait a few minutes...


                                                               TWO WEEKS AGO

                                                             LAST SUNDAY

                                                              IU WINS 5-4

Baseball vs. Hebrew

(sorry for formatting problems)

Dear Family and Friends:

When I was a kid I hated Hebrew. I remember my mother sending me to an orthodox after-school Hebrew class, but after a short while I refused to go. I wanted to play baseball (same thing kept me from piano lessons). Now that I think of it, I am surprised
that my parents didn't insist. No, they let me play ball.

Throughout my childhood I successfully avoided Hebrew classes. As a camper at Union Institute in Oconomowoc, in the late 50’s, there was no Hebrew to speak of. So,
no problem. But later on, during my staff years, from 1963 to 1974 Hebrew became an
integral part of the camp’s program. I was always able to find something that had to be
done during “Ivrit.” I remember talking Jim Marx, the camp maintenance person, into
teaching me to drive the tractor. That was my major out of Hebrew. Since I was the
only staff member who knew how to drive it, I was usually out mowing, clearing, doing
something to some part of the back little-used areas of camp. Funny, I always needed
to do that work during Hebrew. I also learned how to take care of the docks and all of
the boats. I remember negotiating with the camp Director and saying that I’d give up my
free hour to work on these projects but they needed more attention than a mere hour a
day. I asked if I could use the Hebrew hour in addition. I think the he was happy that
someone wanted to help Jim Marx. And so I was home free; no Ivrit (Hebrew).

That all changed in 1969. Rabbi Allen Smith convinced me to go to Israel for the school
year and attend the Hayim Greenberg Institute (Machon Greenberg). There I learned
Hebrew five hours a day, five days a week. My teacher, Ephraim, an Argentinean/
Israeli proved to be a creative and engaging instructor. He spoke no English. It was
“Roc Ivrit” (only Hebrew) in that class, and all of it conversational Hebrew. Learning
Hebrew in Israel was the way to go, but my roommates at the Machon were a major
factor as well. I lived in a suite of rooms with eight boys from Argentina, Columbia,
and Ecuador. They spoke no English, I spoke no Spanish. We had to speak Hebrew
all that year. Every word, every expression I learned in Ulpan (conversational Hebrew
class) in the morning, I used at home in the evening. I was the only North American
living with South Americans and my suite-mates kind of adopted me. They took me
along to play soccer on the weekends (I was obviously the weakest player…unless I
played goalie (remember all those wasted years playing baseball), taught me how to
play their brand of poker, introduced me to several bars in Jerusalem, etc. And it was
all in Hebrew.

 In 1972 Juca and I returned to Jerusalem for a year at the Hebrew Union College. I was in the rabbinic program. I made it into one of the higher classes because my Hebrew was pretty OK. But I could hardly read it, and had virtually no biblical or liturgical
Hebrew at all. I spent a good part of that year taking extra tutoring just to be able to
read out loud. That was no easy task for me.

But in January of that year I learned that I really could speak the language. Jerusalem was hit with a major snowstorm, 9 or 10 inches. We had just bought groceries andordered them to be delivered to our apartment in Rechavia. They never arrived. I
remember going next door to our neighbor and asking to use the phone to call Ha
Mashbir, the grocery to see what had happened to our food. For fifteen minutes I
argued with the manager of the store over the phone. When I got off the line I realized
that I had done so all in Hebrew. That convinced me that I could really speak.

 Over the years I spoke little Hebrew, just some to the Israelis who came to camp each summer. I infrequently led worship services so I wasn’t practicing like my HUC classmates who were working in synagogues and reading prayers and Torah every
week.

The irony of it all is that now I am a Hebrew teacher. That’s right. The kid who never went to Hebrew is now the teacher. A few years ago our Hillel Director here at Indiana University asked me if I would teach some of the adults in her conversion class to read
Hebrew. I agreed. That class is still meeting three years later along with four other
classes of adults all learning to read Hebrew and to understand the language of the
prayer book. In the process I’ve learned a lot too. It certainly has been good for my
Hebrew and things that I learned forty years ago bubble to the surface more often than
I would have ever have imagined. My students very much like our classes (or they
would have been long gone). Mostly I’ve learned that I love teaching Hebrew. Who
would have thunk it? I always loved being able to speak Hebrew, but never imagined
that I’d thrive teaching reading and classical Hebrew.  

I should have taken the Hebrew and piano lessons when I was a kid. Oh well, I was a pretty good baseball player.

Ron  

After all of the terrible things that have befallen our country in the past several months, the following Bloomington Herald Times front page picture brings a bit of hope for the future. 

Save Soviet Jews…N.F.T.Y. Social Action in the 1970’s

I wrote the following article and submitted it to the NFTY (North American Federation of Temple Youth) at 75 series.  Whether they publish it or not, I wanted to share it with you.  In addition:  Happy holidays to all.

Save Soviet Jews…N.F.T.Y. Social Action in the 1970’s

Jerry Kaye, who it seems, has been the Director of Olin-Sang-Ruby since before Moses descended with the tablets, and I actually started out together in the U.A.H.C. camp business in 1970.  I was the Assistant Director of the camp but also the Advisor to the Chicago Federation of Temple Youth (CFTY).  That summer, David Forman rambled through camp with a troupe of performers presenting songs and dramatic readings to raise awareness of the plight of Soviet Jews.  My awareness was raised…to a very high level.  I wanted to carry that ball to CFTY.  As I look back on it now, I recall that along with that emotionally dramatic presentation at camp, I also attended a Soviet Jewry rally in Washington D.C. with a few CFTYites.  In any event, we, in CFTY caught the Soviet Jewry bug and decided to create our own Soviet Jewry Caravan, to carry the message to the Chicago area Jewish community. 

In communications with the Student Struggle for Soviet Jewry, an organization from the  West Side Temple in Cleveland, OH. I gathered material on the backgrounds and stories of Soviet Refusnikim.  These were Jews who stood up for their rights and were refused exit visas to Israel.  Many were jailed.  For the first time we encountered names like Anatoly Sharansky, Ida Nudel, and Boris Kochubievsky.  My wife Juca and I listened to recordings of Theodore Bikel singing in Russian and Hebrew and an album of underground Russian songs smuggled out of Russia and recorded in Hebrew in Israel.  We transcribed the words so we could learn the songs.  Some of those songs, Adpusti Narod Moi (Let My People Go), Kachol V’Lavan, Ani Ma’amin, Artzi Artzi, B’Dumiah, and Bo’i Ruach would become the mainstays of our Chicago Federation of Temple Youth Soviet Jewry Caravan presentation.

I enlisted Rob Weinberg, then a CFTYite, and his brother Michael to develop and create the caravan’s music.  Both Rob and Michael would go on to be seminal camp song leaders at Olin-Sang-Ruby and at the Goldman Union Camp Institute in Zionsville, IN.  Don Rossoff helped as well.   Don was a Northwestern U. student at the time and a terrific flautist. 

In total, eight CFTY members joined the caravan and we put together a forty minute presentation of songs and dramatic readings.  Somehow along the way someone donated a spotlight, so the group included a tech person to run it.  The goal was to encourage synagogues to take up the banner for Soviet Jewry.  We thought we would be presenting our “show” to youth groups and schools in the area but soon found ourselves invited to perform for all sorts of adult audiences.  I even recall performing on the 60^th floor of the John Hancock building, surrounded by glass windows overlooking Lake Michigan while a thunderstorm outside underscored our songs. 

In all, during the years 1970 through 1972 we presented over forty Caravan performances in and around Chicago.  Our experience culminated at a North Shore Congregation Israel event where we sang and the recently released Boris Kochubievsky appeared.  We had presented his story during all of those performances, and there he was in the flesh.  Deep down we knew that we really had not been a major factor in his gaining freedom, but I think we all shared a bit of pride anyway. 

And who do you think laughed the hardest when Gilda Radner proclaimed on Saturday Night Live, “What’s all this talk about Soviet Jewelry, anyway?”  Only to be told, “It’s Soviet Jewry, not Jewelry…Jewry.”  And she replied, “Oh.  Never mind.”  I’m pretty sure it was the members of the Chicago Federation of Temple Youth’s Soviet Jewry Caravan.  Pretty sure.

 Rabbi Ron Klotz, N.F.T.Y. Life Member