California Dreamin'

                                                                                                                        March, 2016

Dear Friends and Family:

When you get to a certain age, I guess its “normal” to start viewing the reruns of your life.  Today I thought how lucky I am to have had five incredible highlights in my adult life.  Here they are: 1. the day I married Juca, 2. the day our son Jeremy was born, 3. the day our son Michael was born, 4. the weekend Jer and Melissa were married, and 5. the beautiful weekend last September when Mike and Steph were married.  I’m not forgetting when our granddaughters Zoe and Maya made their debuts.  Those were high times as well.  

Last September Juca and I flew out to San Francisco, met our sister Helenita and brother-in-law Gilson at the airport for what was to be a magical weekend.  Everything about the wedding weekend was beautiful, unusual, and inspirational.  It all started with our car rental.  Mike had asked me to rent a minivan to help schlep people and things from the hotel to the venue and back.  I stepped up to the counter and spoke to the older gentleman filling out my forms when he asked me what the occasion was and where would I be going.  After explaining, he said that it seemed to him that I would need more room than just a minivan and that he was going to upgrade the reservation to a full size van….no extra charge.  Does something like that regularly happen?  I don’t think so.  Turns out he was right and the van was a great help. 

The wedding weekend centered around Santa Rosa, California; about sixty or so miles north of San. Fran. We found ourselves in Petaluma, smack-dab in the middle of the most beautiful rolling hills of California wine country.  It was certainly clear this was not Indiana.  Beautiful.  Everything about this wedding experience knocked my socks off.  It began with a rehearsal dinner at what may be the best Italian restaurant I’ve ever been to.  Listen, growing up in Chicago, I’ve been to a lot of them.  Nothing like this.  The meal was out of this world.  But being there with our whole family and meeting Steph’s family topped it all.  Let me say a word about Steph’s family.  What a bunch of fun-loving, warm, appreciative, sense-of-humored people.  It was an absolute pleasure to celebrate with them.  They said so many wonderful things about our Mike and thanked us so much for raising such a wonderful person that I was bursting with pride (but thinking about it I understand that we become the good people we are because of and in spite of our parents).  Toasts were made, stories told. It was a festive, no, joyous evening.  Just as the rehearsal dinner had been at Jer and Melissa’s wedding. 

The next afternoon we bussed out into the middle of wine country to a farm which was the wedding venue.  The family met for pictures and just before the ceremony we read the Ketuba (Jewish Marriage contract) to begin the proceedings.  Steph and Mike created a remarkable Ketuba that not only pledged their love and respect for each other but also spoke of making the world a better place and honoring and respecting family and friends.  It took Juca and I a couple of hours a few months earlier to translate the Hebrew text.  We each sat with a dictionary and were blown away by the beauty of the poetry and the depth of the ideas in that Ketuba.  While the family was gathered in that private place, all of the wedding guests were being bussed in from Santa Rosa and up to the top of one of the hills on the farm where the chupah (wedding canopy) had been set and chairs arranged.  We were taken by tram up to that wind-swept hilltop where a bluegrass band played as the wedding party marched in.  There were so many moments during the next thirty or forty minutes of the wedding that will stay with me forever.  Walking Mike down the aisle, Steph arriving in a magnificent wedding dress brought to the hilltop in a white pickup truck, Juca, Helenita, and all of the women in Steph’s family gathered by the side of the chupah reciting the Shehechiyanu (a prayer of thanksgiving), sitting in the front row looking at Mike and his bride flanked by his best man, Jeremy…that’s a picture etched in my heart, hearing the wedding vows that Steph and Mike had each written, so personal, so loving, so them.  It just seems right to me that those moments were the absolute highlight of the event, even though it kept on getting better and better.  Dinner on another hilltop outside in the California sun; toasts at dinner and a great rap song/toast sung by Steph’s mom and aunts.  Remarkable.

To top off the evening the party was held in what was called a barn, but it really was a beautiful party room with stage, dancefloor, etc.  Here’s the kicker.  Steph works in the music industry.  The band that played was (and called themselves) Jerry Garcia’s Other Band.  I can’t describe the thunder and lightning that was that band.  No one could help but dance to the music.  You just couldn’t stand still.  It was phenomenal.  What a night.

So seeing these reruns, thinking of all of the blessings that have come my way, my family’s way, kind of says to me that if I made my exit tomorrow (don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere) it would be OK.  That’s how good it has been.  Can you imagine being on that hilltop with Juca, Jer, Mellissa, Zoe, Maya, Mike, Steph, our family from Brazil, my cousins, our friends, Steph’s great family?  Regardless of belief, how could anyone help but whisper “Shehechiyanu, V’keyamanu, V’higianu La Zman Hazeh,” being thankful for life and living, and being present at that most joyous time?

Ron

Chag Chanukah Sameach

Check this out on Youtube:

https://youtu.be/W7_WwPh6_wg

Sunsets, Once Again

                                                                                                            February 1997

Dear Family and Friends:

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, eighteen 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!

EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW AGAIN… (Or) THE TUNE CAME BACK, I THOUGHT IT WAS A GONER

                                                                                             October, 2015

Dear Family and Friends:

Working with Jewish college students on a big campus is always interesting. Or, maybe I just find things interesting...as they say: “Whatever.” I am fortunate to advise a group that leads a once-a-month all music Shabbat service. Like so many other Jewish outfits we call it “Shabbat Rocks.” Our leader couldn’t be with us so I filled in the other night when the group got together to plan this Friday's musical service. As most know, I'm no song leader and certainly not that kind of musician, but I've worked with a lot of great ones and have a sense of what's good and what may not be. So I led the meeting but the group made all of the musical decisions. It was a good meeting.

Michelle Bennett, Jim and Amy's youngest was great.  She stepped up to the plate to suggest tunes and put together the program. She's a freshman here at IU. At one point toward the end of the evening as we discussed the final prayers of the Shabbat service, she told us that she had learned a new melody, call and response, for the Aleynu. She began, “LET US ADORE,” we responded, “Let us adore,” she, “THE EVER LIVING GOD,” us, “The ever living God,” she “AND RENDER PRAISE...” us, “And render praise...” and so on. I was floored. When I asked Michelle where she learned this new tune she replied that Dan(ny) Nichols had taught it to the campers and staff at Goldman Union Camp Institute last summer. I could only smile.

You old timers in the crowd may be able to put the melody to the call and response Aleynu Michelle taught the other students. It is the one we all grew up with in our classically Reform synagogues. Here it was again. Now it was new.

Thinking back on it, it seems to me that Dan Nichols, phenomenal Jewish songwriter, performer and (always) song leader, one of the greats at creating new and exciting Jewish music, is taking our camps, synagogues, teens, college students and adults back to the future (I wonder if he has a musical flux capacitor), creating new music and remembering the music that was. Evidently, some of that music may be again. He's guiding our Jewish communities toward new musical experiences with two eyes looking forward and one looking back. I loved that the group thought it was a cool version of the prayer. Am I reading more into this than I should? Probably.

When we actually had the Erev Shabbat service a nice crowd gathered and sang with gusto.  I was assigned the D’var Torah (short sermon) which came just before the old/new Aleynu.  Since it was a music service I decided to lead a few folk songs instead of talking about the Torah portion of the week.  I explained that it seemed to me that our world is in quite a bit of turmoil what with situations in the Middle East, Europe, and here.  I said that when I sat in those college student seats the world unfortunately was also in great turmoil and we sang songs that expressed certain hopes for peace, solidarity and equality.  Civil rights, Vietnam, poverty etc. were our themes.  Then we sang.  First it was for solidarity, “We Shall Not Be Moved,” Then for peace, “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” Then for hope, “This Little Light of Mine.”  I’m happy to say that, once again we sang with gusto…and the banjo sounded pretty good as well.

Then came Michelle to teach the Aleynu.  I was transported back even farther than the time of “We Shall Not Be Moved,” when I was a youngster and, at least for me, there was no turmoil; just my family and me in our little B’nai Jehoshua synagogue on 20^th and Ashland, standing and singing the prayer together.

 Now it’s new.  Thanks, Michelle. 

When Friday rolls around, have a rockin' good Shabbat.

Ron

The waves roll and so does G.U.C.I.

                                                                                                            October, 2015

Dear Family and Friends:

“The waves roll out and the waves roll in.”  Bob Gibson sang it and I’ve been thinking about it lately.  You old folk music fans out there may well remember the late, great Chicago folk singer Bob Gibson.  His voice rings clear in my memory and this sea chanty speaks to me.

 

Last week I attended the retirement luncheon for Susan Dill.  Susan just completed her 37^th year as Secretary/Registrar at our beloved Goldman Union Camp Institute.  She wondered into my office in January, 1978 looking for a job.  I was desperate to find help.  In those days Union Camp Institute (that was our name back then) was a two person operation; Director and Secretary.  My secretary had retired leaving me on my own to run the office, recruit campers etc.  I needed help, badly.  Susan had never been a secretary before and I had hardly been a camp director.  She began that January and we worked side-by-side for the next 34 years.  We grew into the jobs together.

1978 was a time pre-computer when we actually dictated, typed, proofed, re-typed with carbon paper and finally mailed letters.  It was a time consuming process but one that demanded attention to language, punctuation, spelling etc.  Mass mailings went out after stamping each envelope with an addressograph metal plate, each with the name and address of a family on the mailing list.  It often took two or three days to stamp the envelopes, stuff them with letters run off on the mimeograph machine and then stamp each in the post office’s electric postage machine which sat out in the outer office (we had to take that machine in to the post office each month to deposit funds into it so it could stamp postage onto envelopes).  In this time of emails and blogs, can you imagine that it could take a week to send a mailing to a few hundred families?  What about packing and shipping several thousand camp brochures to the synagogues in Ohio, Indiana, West Virginia, Tennessee, Missouri and Kansas?  We did it all, sometimes hoodwinking family members to come in and help stuff envelopes or pack up brochures. 

Susan quickly became much more than a secretary.  She was my sounding board for ideas and programs.  She has the ability to react just as any mother might to a new policy or program.  If Susan frowned at an idea (I had plenty of them and she frowned many, many times) I immediately knew that parents around the region would as well.  In those days camp was small, simple and broke.  We squeezed every dollar and stretched every budget line.  We made it work.  Together we built Union Camp Institute into the Myron S. Goldman Union Camp Institute.  Susan was the voice of reason and confidence on our end of the phone.  She helped calm countless worried, Jewish parents who had dropped children off at camp and received their first “homesick-come-and-get-me” letter.  She was a friend and mom to countless staff people over the years.

 

We also became part of each other’s families.  We celebrated together and even did some mourning together.  When I retired Susan spearheaded a great retirement party for me.  I was very grateful.  When Susan retired all I could do was go up to Indianapolis, declare October 1^st Susan Dill Day and say thank you for all she has done for me, for us, and for our camp.  Not much in comparison, but heartfelt.

So eras come and eras go.  Susan marks the end of the pioneer spirit of Union camping.  She served with great dedication and love.  And it didn’t hurt that she had a great sense of humor to boot.  We often talk about making the world a better place.  Few have done as much as Susan, in her quiet way, to make that a reality.  Decades of campers and staff are better for having worked with, learned from, and laughed with Susan Dill.

Man, the waves certainly do roll out, but thankfully they also roll in.  G.U.C.I. rolls on. From strength to strength.

 

That’s the way I see it,

Ron

A Yom Kippur Laugh

The High Holidays are coming up...pretty serious stuff.  Here's a reprint just so we don't take ourselves too seriously.

A Yom Kippur Laugh

                                                                                       September, 2012


FOR ADULTS ONLY  Please skip this if you are offended by certain language

Dear Family and Friends:

Well, footballs are ascending and leaves are descending.  Must be Fall.  Almost everything about this time of the year is great, except that the Cubs are 34 games out of first with just a few games left in the regular season .  In Chicago we like to say, "Wait 'til next year,"  but maybe this time we should be saying, "Wait 'til the Messiah comes."  But we'll keep the faith for the boys in blue.  All Northsiders and Northside refugees (like me) will, I expect, be wearing our  Cubbies caps, blue with the red C, next April when spring training once again ignites our  hopes and fills our daydreams with visions of post season victories.

Shannah Tovah, hopes for a sweet new year to all of you who celebrate at this time of the year.  the High Holidays are a wonderful time in the Jewish community.  But we don't go to parties or shoot off fireworks to mark the new year, we begin to redirect our lives in order to be better people in the year to come.  That all culminates on the most solemn day of the year, Yom Kippur,  our day of atonement (ten days after Rosh Ha Shannah, the Jewish New Year).

I had the honor to lead synagogue services again this year for Hillel here at Indiana University.  Hillel is the Jewish Students organization on campus.  Literally hundreds of students attended our High Holiday services.  

It is not unusual for me to get up early on Yom Kippur morning, have a cup of coffee (strictly against the rules, I know), and read the paper just to quietly get my head ready for the heavy morning worship service soon to commence.  This is the day of our confession.  Pretty solemn.

I once told a Ba'al Shem Tov story called "Why the Ba'al Shem Tov laughed three times."  As a matter of fact when Danny Nichols and I were editing the great camp music CD we called, "L'Vracha, For a Blessing," and realized we had space left over on the CD, I recorded that story into a mic sitting in his living room.  Anyway, it's a great story about how looking at the brass buttons (one was missing) on a rich man's coat reminded the great rabbi of his parents and their love for each other, and it caused him to laugh several times during Shabbat services.  This Yom Kippur I laughed more than three times.

Just prior to leaving for Hillel last week to lead Yom Kippur morning services, my wife handed me a red envelope that had just come in the mail.  I knew it was a Rosh Ha Shannah card, and I was right.  But the front cover of the card rocked my world.  To paraphrase, it said in bold red letters, F*CK YOU, YOU F*CKING  F*CKER.   Inside was the nicest wish for a Shannah Tovah  a sweet year for me and my family. The card was from a friend, a young rabbi, someone who had worked at camp for years....AND IT MADE ME HOWL.  All day long, whenever there was a break in the reading at the synagogue, I thought of that card and could not suppress a smile.  I felt so like the Ba'al Shem Tov, but on the opposite side of the fence.    Irreverence at its best.  Hey, whatever floats your boat, you know...that floated mine.

SHANNAH TOVAH,

Ron

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