OSRUI

 My Days with Union Institute, (which became) Olin-Sang Union Institute, (which became) Olin-Sang –Ruby Union Institute, (which became) Rolysnubang Union Institute 

                                                                           By 

                                                                     Ron Klotz 

 

I guess I should start at the end.  From 1970 to 1972 I was Assistant Director of our camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin.  These were Jerry Kaye’s first years as Director.  Well, one winter afternoon, sitting in our office on Monroe Street in downtown Chicago, bored, I laid out all of the letters in the name Olin-Sang-Ruby and rearranged them.  Rolysnubang was the result.  From then on, I answered the office phone with, “Rolysnubang Union Institute, can I help you?”  I swear, no one ever came back with, “What did you say???”  I don’t know what that means. 

My family had been involved with Union Institute from the beginning.  My aunt Lill Garber was on the Union of American Hebrew Congregations’ committee that approved buying the Carnation family farm in Oconomowoc, in 1953, to create the first UAHC summer camp.  My cousin Judy Garber and her future husband Jerry Block were campers that first summer and participated in building the outdoor chapel next to the Bayit (then called the Big House).  My other cousin, Ralph Garber, attended the camp early on as well.   So, it was assumed, rightfully so, that I would also go to camp in Oconomowoc (I love spelling that name).   

But UI (Union Inst.) only accepted campers that were at least 12 years old.  My camping days began when I was 8, in 1954 at a YMCA camp.  Then, three years at Camp Chi in the Wisconsin Dells.  Chi is a Chicago Federation summer camp.  Finally turning 12 in 1958, I walked through the gates of Union Institute with a duffel bag and a baseball mitt.  51 years later I was still spending my summers in a UAHC, then URJ, camp.  From 1958 to 1963 I was a UI camper.  In 1963, my senior year in high school, I was interviewed for a summer job by then Director (and my mentor) Irv Kaplan.  He offered me my pick of two jobs, one to be on the maintenance crew and one to be a Counselor-in-training.  I asked what the maintenance job entailed and he said, “Fixing things, hauling garbage, and things like that.”  I said, “I think I’d like to be a Counselor–in-training.”  That began my ten summers on staff at the camp.   

In 1965 I was a senior counselor and campcraft specialist.  Now, never having really planned or organized a camping trip; never having pitched a tent made a bed roll (although I had been on such outings), It was strange that I should teach those skills.  But I did.  I took many groups for overnights out in the wilds of the woods of Oconomowoc (there's that name again).  In 1966 the camp sent me to a Red Cross school to learn to teach sailing and canoeing.  I was a senior counselor and small craft specialist.  In 1968. Once again, the camp sent me to a Red Cross school to become a Water Safety Instructor so I could be the Waterfront Director that summer.   

1969 was really the beginning of my camp leadership days.  Union Institute had so many campers they needed to create extra space in camp.  The summer before, as an experiment, a small group of campers and staff, led by Bob Ourach, camped out down the hill from Chalutzim for two weeks (I think).  The next summer, 1969, that experiment became Kibbutz Ha Tzofim.  It was a three-session summer for 30 campers (x3) and 8 staff.  I was the Unit head.  Two interesting things about that summer.  Rabbi Allen Smith was the interim director of the camp as Irv Kaplan had left to make Aliyah and Jerry Kaye was yet to be hired.  Smitty, as he was called, told me to buy what I needed for the unit.  We eventually found 9 inexpensive umbrella tents and one used 8x10 army tent (for my stuff and supplies).  We were in business.  The summer before when I was on the waterfront (not like Brando), I had built a platform thinking that we would create a pontoon boat.  That never came to be, but we had the platform.  I dragged it down to Tzofim and used it as the floor for what became our kitchen tent.  That kitchen, built under a tree, consisted of the floor, a tarp spread over the branches, a sink that emptied into a ditch we dug, a water hose run from Chalutzim down to our site, and an old wood burning stove that someone had given to the camp.  Oh, we also had four port-o-potties.  Our big project (besides just making meals), in addition to all of the regular camp programs (Chugim, Shiur/Sicha, Ivrit, sports and swimming), was building a small chapel for the unit.   

Another interesting development happened that Spring before camp.  Smitty called me and told me that he was unsuccessful in hiring a waterfront director, would I agree to splitting my time between Tzofim and the waterfront.  I would do anything the camp asked of me, so I said sure.  But I told Smitty that the only way I could do both jobs was if he found assistant directors for each.  He did.  I spent nine weeks that summer in a small tent with an Israeli Shaliach (representative) named Moshe Pashtan.  It was great.  He was great.  And it was a great summer. I worked my you-know-what off.  I was 23 years old and it was all good. 

Pashtan convinced me to go to Israel after that summer and Smitty managed to get me enrolled in the Chayim Greenberg Institute (Machon Greenberg).  I met my wife, Juca, there, studied Hebrew for 10 months, and then returned to be Kallah Unit Head.  At the end of the summer of 1970, I was hired to be Jerry’s assistant director.  I was Kallah Unit Head in ‘71 and ‘72; Chalutzim Unit Head in ‘73 and ‘74.  In 1975 we left Olin-Sang-Ruby Union Institute for Union Camp Institute (which became the Myron S. Goldman Union Camp Inst....which became known as GUCI) in Zionsville, Indiana.  I was the GUCI Camp Director for the next 37 years. 

That’s a lot of mac and cheese. 

1969, A Lot in Common With 2024

 Dear Family and Friends:                                                                        Nov. 2024 

I went to Israel to study in September, 1969.  A lot of things happened that year.  The best was that I met my future wife, Juca.  The worst was that the Vietnam war was raging.  People were being drafted left and right.  The previous January, just as I was about to be drafted, I luckily got a job teaching in an inner-city school in Chicago.  About that same time our government instituted a draft lottery for the coming year, 1970.  They drew birthdays out of a hat (actually, I think it was a shoe box).  All those born on the first birthday drawn were number 1; the first to be drafted that year.  My birthday came up number 199.  All of the draft counselors in Chicago advised that anyone with a birthday drawn higher than 145 should give up their deferment, and enter the lottery, because 145 birthdays worth of people would fill the ranks of the military and the rest of those in the lottery were done, never to be drafted.  On December 31st I gave up my teacher’s deferment and entered the lottery.  But the military didn’t stop drafting people at birthday 145.  They stopped at 194.  I was 199.  Juca and I were married on December 27, 1970.  Four days later I was exempt for life from military service.   

I am thinking about this because in those times our country was very divided.  Most of us younger people were demonstratively against the war.  Many left the country and moved to Canada.  On the one hand there was 1967’s summer of love.  We were urged to come to San Francisco and wear flowers in our hair.  The play, “Hair” told us it was the dawning of the age of Aquarius.  Peace was going to guide the planets and love would steer the stars. Flower power, free love, burning draft cards, and Woodstock was the younger generation’s counter culture reaction to what was happening in Southeast Asia.  Dr. Leary preached, “Turn on, tune in, and drop out.”  Many did just that. 

On the other side of the generation gap the popular slogan was, “America, love it or leave it.”  My own parents could not understand my protests against the government.  The best example of this turmoil was the Democratic National Convention in Chicago the summer of 1968, which led to the trial of the Chicago 7.  You can Google all of this and even watch a Netflix movie of the trial. There was little confidence in our government and absolutely none in our President, Richard Nixon (who later resigned because of the Watergate scandal).  Our country was plagued with doubt, anger, division, and even rebellion.  It was a terrible time. 

Somehow, we managed to live through it all.  Somehow, we continued to be a nation (however divided).  Somehow, we survived.     

Juca and I have a wooden sculpture that sits on our piano that says in Hebrew, “Gam Zeh Yavor,” meaning, “This too shall pass.”  That was the hope in 1969.   And, so it is these days.  Now we need to, once again, bring on the age of Aquarius.   

“Be strong, let us strengthen one another.”                                                                       

 Ron 

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