Debbie Freedman

   Dear Friends and Family:  

At our Seder this week we read (as always) from The Song of Songs, "Arise my love, my fair one, and come away; For lo, the winter is past.  Flowers appear on the earth."  Well that is exactly what's happening and we are delighted to see the snows melt.  

But this reading always reminds me of Debbie Freedman.  She put the words to music and her melodies are with me, always.  Here's a staff letter I wrote about her over twenty years ago.  I miss her.  We all do.  We've got her songs in our hearts.  


                                                                                                                January, 1992


Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


Sometimes I marvel at the power of music.  In a very real sense it enhances and
helps us express our emotions.  We remember times in our lives by the songs of
the day.  Our music defines our generation.  And as we camp people all know,
music has a unique power to bring people together, to unite us, and help us
express our feelings of belonging to one community. 

Last night I took a magical mystery tour into a multi-generational musical
experience.  I joined about thirty other religious school teachers for a
rainy/snowy bus ride down to Indiana University to hear and participate in a
Debbie Freedman concert.  Multi-generational because most of the bus riders
were about my age, but waiting for us in the auditorium (unbeknownst to me)
were several camp staff members.  They greeted me warmly and I felt happy that
they had taken the trouble to come and hear someone whom I think has been so
important to our camps and our movement.
 
It was magical as well because Debbie Freedman, a musical pioneer in her own
right, was one of the first to write modern Jewish folk music.  She brought us
from "Hava Na Gila" to "Not By Might," from "Leaving On A Jetplane" to "Lechi
Lach."  I'd be the last to say that we shouldn't sing "The old songs."  But
Debbie Freedman writes the Jewish songs of our generation.  Her songs are sung
in every camp and Reform synagogue in North America.  What an impact she has
had.

It was emotional for me as well.  At one point, last night, she stopped to
acknowledge my presence in the audience.  You see, in 1973 Debbie was a
counselor and song leader in my unit.  She told the audience that I had been
her boss.  I was indeed her Unit Head, but I'm not sure who was the boss. 
Debbie was just finishing the music for her first album.  She was quite a
phenomenon.  She was pioneering new areas of Jewish music, and boy was it
exciting!  She was a demanding songleader who knew exactly what she wanted.  I
remember vividly how one day she stopped a special rehearsal of the entire camp
(we were learning her songs with all the harmonies in order to perform them for
ourselves in a gala musical tochnit erev) and when it was absolutely dead quiet
said to the entire group, "Klotz is not singing."  She got my attention.

For me, it was very special that she would remember and remark about those
years we worked together in camp.  And it was heartening to realize that we
continue to work toward the same goals today as we did then; she still creates
incredibly moving and educational Jewish music, songs of faith and peace,
prayers and lessons.  And me?  Well I'm still plugging away at camp too.  The
evening was both nostalgic and inspirational.  We'll sing Debbie Freedman's
songs for many years to come.  And believe me, she'll never catch me with my
mouth shut at one of her song sessions again.

Ron

Brotherhood Work Weekend

                                                                                                           May, 1991


Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


I had the opportunity, last week, to participate in a very special Havdalah
service.  Havdalah, along with the closing (Ne'elah) service on Yom Kippur have
always been my favorite services.  Last Shabbat was special.  Last Shabbat was
the brotherhood work weekend here at camp.  I'm sure that most of you have
never heard of this event.  Twelve years ago brotherhood members from our
Reform congregation in Toledo, Ohio asked me how they could help the camp.  It
seemed that they didn't have the budget to contribute financially to G.U.C.I.,
but were willing to contribute in other ways.  We came up with the idea of a
brotherhood work weekend.  It's really quite simple; a dozen or so members of
the Todedo brotherhood (now joined by some Indianapolis, Cincinnati, and Terre
Haute brotherhood members) come to camp on a Thursday night one weekend each
Spring, and work their asses off doing anything I ask them to do until Sunday
afternoon.  I'm talking electrical work, carpentry, landscaping, painting,
cutting wood, etc. etc.  Some of the men are quite skilled.  Others, like me,
carry the wood, shovel the gravel, and push the paint brushes.  If you have
been to camp in the last decade, you've seen their work: a new roof on the Beit
Am, new steps carved into the hill on the path to the boys' area, our soccer
goals, The lighting system in the Oolam, shelves and cubbies in each of the
cabins, benches in the Chadar Ochel, roof on the athletic shed, and many other
projects including this year's, a magnificent new deck/porch on our newly
remodled Avodah bulding. 

One of the special moments during each of the work weekends has been our unique
Havdalah service.  As we all know, Havdalah demarks the end of the day of rest
and the beginning of the work week.  But, on these weekends we work harder than
we do during our usual work week.  Havdalah might seem strange under these
circumstances.  The reality is, however, that the Havdalah service is very 
appropriate, because the type of work we are doing is unique, almost sacred. 
The brotherhood members understand that their labors are a Mitzvah; that they
are doing their part to make camp better for all of our kids.  The brotherhood
work weekend Havdalah is a religious thank you for the opportunity to be
together and to perform such an important Mitzvah.  Their spirit matches that
of our summer staff, and as such its uplifting to work with these men.

In just a few weeks our Unit Heads, specialists, counselors, Machonickim, and
Avodahnickim will gather to once again create our special kind of summer camp. 
In much the same way as that of the brotherhood members, our work will be
unique.  We know it will not be easy.  But each Shabbat we will remark at how
quickly our time together at camp is passing, and at Havdalah most of us will
give thanks for the opportunity given us to be together and do this good work.
Ron

The Poet

                                                                                                                          March 1991



Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


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 couple of close
friends about to divorce, 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

And Now, Here's Rabbi Klotz

Chanukah Gifts

 
                                                                                    December, 1990

Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


Ah yes; Chanukah is upon us once again.  And we all know why this is such an
important holiday, right?  The re-dedication of the Temple in Jerusalem, Judah
Maccabee and his gang kicking some Assyrian you-know-what in 164 B.C.E., the
miracle of the oil.  WRONG!  Come on, let's be honest...G I F T S is what it is
all about.  I've been thinking about some of the presents I've received and for
which I am most thankful.  Here is my list (and I'm checking it twice):

CHANUKAH

DAY ONE:  My wife Juca, with whom I will celebrate our 20th anniversary this
month.  That's twenty summers at camp, an inestimable number of weekends alone
while her husband runs off to Kansas, Missouri, Ohio, etc. to promote camp with
slides and stories, thousands of late night phone calls from teenagers hoping
for a summer job or seeking consolation for not receiving one.  And all the
while, making my house a home and raising two seemingly well-adjusted boys
(that in itself these days is reason to be proud).  Juca's the real Jewish
educator of the family, where it's hard to be, in the classroom and at home. 
Through the highs and lows, for twenty years its been "Me and the Juc."

DAY TWO:  My boys, Jeremy and Michael.  My constant source of joy, worry,
humor, sport, music, and laughter. A person couldn't ask for two better kids. 

DAY THREE:  Evelyn Klotz, who, for the past 45 years has put up with a most
rebellious and unorthodox son. And Arnold Klotz, whose memory is indeed a
blessing; whose face I see every morning when I see myself in the mirror, and
whose sense of humor continues to warm my heart.

DAY FOUR: My Reform Judaism, which has given me a creative way to practice an
ancient way of life and has been my link to both past and future.

DAY FIVE:  Goldman Union Camp Institute.  Everyone needs something to believe
in... I've got camp.  This place has been a constant source of inspiration.  As
the old Zionist song goes, "A place to build and be built by."  From G.U.C.I. I
have been given the gift of many, many good friends, and a few great friends.

DAY SIX:  Count Basie, Buddy Rich, Milt Jackson, Oscar Peterson, Ella
Fitzgerald, Mel Torme, Dave Brubeck, Paul Desmond, Charlie Parker, Stan Getz,
Cannonball Aderley, Sonny's Stitt and Rollins, Jimmy Coe, Gerry Milligan, Sarah
Vaughn, Frank Sinatra, Pete Seeger, Lee Hayes, Ronnie Gilbert, Fred Hellerman,
Bob Gibson, John Lennon, Woody Guthrie, Paul Simon, etc.; the music of my life.

DAY SEVEN:  My late night companions; McBain, Mitchner, Salinger, Tolstoy, Uris,
Wilder, Le Carre, and a hundred others whose words bring me comfort and
emotion, entertainment and introspection.

DAY EIGHT:  All my friends from Hollywood; from Brando to Hoffman, Bette Davis
to Mel Brooks, from Robert De Niro to Sid Caesar and Jackie Gleason, Coppula to
Reiner, Streep to Belushi, and almost everyone in-between who feed my not-so-
secret passion, the movies.

My "Special Gifts List" could go on, but after all, Chanukah's only eight days
long.  Say, how's your list shaping up?

Chag Sameach!

Ron

P.S.  Last year my kids gave me a Bears sweater.  God help me, I do love those
Bears.

Speaking of Sex

                                                                                           


                                                                                      November, 1990


Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


Gilda Radner's Roseanne Roseannadanna always ended her long monologues on
Saturday Night Live by concluding, "It just goes to show you, if it's not one
thing it's something else...."  In my experience, it's usually something else,
and you never know when that something else is going to happen. 

A few weeks ago, I was asked to be part of a panel of "experts" for a program
on teenage sexuality being held by Indianapolis Hebrew Congregation's youth
group.  The other two panelists were a local high school psychology teacher and
a nurse from the same high school.  I guess I was the Judaism and sexuality
spokesperson.  In any event, I went to the program confident that I was
somewhat of an expert, having worked lo these many years with teenagers at camp
(some of whom actually confide in me on these matters), having fathered two
strapling lads myself, and having read a fair amount on what Judiasm has to say
about sex and sexuality.

But one never knows when the teacher is going to be taught by the students, and
that's what happened to me that night.  We spoke at length that evening about
the "normal" teenager/sexuality subjects; making good decisions, peer pressure,
sexually transmitted diseases, etc.   It was when we began talking about
parent-teenager relationships that it happened.  The actual subject of the
moment was, "Why most teenagers feel uncomfortable discussing sex and their own
sexuality with their parents."  One of the youth groupers (who I'm proud to say
is also a member of our camp staff) raised her hand and offered one of the most
astute observations about the parent-child relationship.  She said,
"Perhaps kids have so much trouble speaking to their parents about sex because
we consider sex an adult topic and children are uncomfortable speaking to
adults about "adult" things." 

 From my perspective, this also points out that adults are uncomfortable hearing their children speak of things which are perceived to be out of character for kids.  Sex is an adult topic.  Kids are kids.  Therefore, teenagers are uneasy speaking in front of their
parents, just as their parents are uneasy hearing about and talking about sex
with their own children.  Yet it seems easier for a teenager to talk to someone
else's parents, and for a parent (like myself) to talk to someone else's
children about sex.  Why?  Perhaps it's very difficult for us parents to see
our own children grow up and begin dealing with those things which are part of
the "Adult" world.  It makes us feel old, and it reminds us that our children
don't need us in the same way they did when they were little.  And every parent
cherishes the memories of their chlidren as babies, toddlers, and youngsters. 
We parents would like you to grow up much more slowly.

I think that one of the reasons being a camp director is so interesting is that
there is so much to be learned each year.  I know that I teach others, and that
makes me feel good.  But inevitably, each summer, or at any given program or
meeting or class, I learn from you.  Its exciting.  You never know when someone
will say something that will blow you away intelectually, and provide you with
food for thought for weeks after.  "It just goes to show you..........."

Ron

The High Tech Age

                                   
                                                                                                      

                                                                                           October, 1990


Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:


I hope this letter finds you all safely back at school, dealing well with the
tensions and delights of campus life.  Camp is most beautiful now.  But even as
the leaves turn, our thoughts are turning to next summer and plans are
beginning to be made.  If you have any suggestions regarding our program,
procedures, etc. I'd love you to send them to me so we can consider them as we
construct what I hope will be another fantastic summer here at G.U.C.I.
Driving to camp this morning, I stopped for gas and was, once again, confronted
with yet another high-tech experience.  The station I usually stop at has
changed over to computerized credit card machines.  You put your card into the
machine, pump your gas (and, of course, marvel at the speed with which the
numbers roll around and add up in the dollars column), pull out your receipt,
and hit the road.  No muss, no fuss, no human contact.  Next stop, the bank
machine.  Insert card and punch in numbers, walk away with a crisp new twenty
dollar bill.  Again, no muss, no fuss.  No precious time lost saying things
like "Good morning," or "How are you," or "How about those Bears."  No tellers,
no attendants, just efficient machines.

Those of you who know me know that I feel our camp is a refuge from the
impersonal, high-technology, isolation-inducing world around us.  That, in this
age of high speed, high gloss, high fibre, and hi/bye relationships, the
community we build here is more valuable to us and our kids than it has ever
been in the past.  But the reality is that we can't avoid the technological
world, even here at camp.  Hey!  I'm writing these words on a word processor. 
The mailing list for these letters will be generated from our computer (which
happens to be about six years old and was recently referred to by a computer
expert as "An antique."), and the postage will be stamped on the envelope by
machine.  So what am I griping about anyway? 

Perhaps technology is not the culprit after all, but rather how we use it, or how we are seduced by it.  When we allow our machines to replace human interaction we not only become a slave
to the technology, but we forget how to participate in some of our most basic
human emotional needs, like conversations and creative intellectual discussions
(like arguing about politics etc.). We start to feel lonely and depressed.
But when technology becomes a means to further our contact and communication
with our fellow human beings, it can be a blessing.  Processing a mailing like
this would have taken several days B.C. (before computer).  I probably wouldn"t
have started writing these staff letters, as a matter of fact, I didn't write
to our staff before I mastered the word processor. 

 So I guess it's all in how we decide to use the technology and in how we refuse to be used by it.  That's it!  So the next time I buy gas, I'm going to use the credit card machine like
before, but I'll stick my head in the door and say good morning to the
attendant, for the sake of humanity.  And I'll be happy about our becoming a
high-tech camp--so we can keep in better touch--ya, that's the ticket.  So if
you want to, send me a FAX on our new machine at 317-873-3742 (no bull). 

You know, technology could be fun.

Ron