Category Archives: Musings

just that — musings on the world around me

It was Fifty-Years Ago Today…..

Basements are the modern-day equivalent to the genizah. Genizah, (Hebrew root g-n-z) originally referred to the act of putting away or hiding. The word eventually developed to refer to the actual place where things were deposited, which I think is a perfect example of synecdoche.  Genizahs are temporary holding places for Hebrew texts, prayer books, scrolls, anything containing God’s name until the time that they can be buried. Yes, we Jews bury our holy books. Amazing concept to treat a document as lovingly and respectfully as we do a loved one whose earthly purpose is no more.

Back to yesterday and the basement where I was tackling dust bunnies that had grown to Harvey-ian dust rabbit proportions. Decades-old tins of Kiwi shoe polish, metal skewers for shish kabobs, loose screws (so that’s where they all go when I am distracted!) I opened a cabinet door and fell down the rabbit hole of time: the cards we received when Elliot was born; photos; letters from and to my mother and other relatives; a caricature a college roommate did of me freshman year; a letter from my paternal grandmother to my mother after my parents divorced in which she referenced the weather, a boy I was dating, fabric she had

bought to make me a dress, commenting that she had so many slips of papers she would, “have to find a new hiding place for them, but then I’ll forget to look for them.” Makes me smile to realize I had done much the same thing: hidden away her letter, forgotten it, only to find it again.

The greatest finds were my schoolwork from third and fourth grade. Stacks and stacks of spelling tests, math tests, geography and science tests.  Cotton seeds are planted in late spring. The early Georgia Indians were buried in mounds I wrote in not too badly rendered script.  Each week’s exercises were stapled together and placed into a construction paper folder whose covers we decorated with the theme of the week. My father’s signature appears in the lower left hand corner. The coming week’s menu was vintage cafeteria: Pot roast on Monday, fried chicken for Wednesday. Of course fish sticks for Friday. I don’t know what “Pop Eye” salad* was, but loved the reference to Thursday’s dessert: “Red Tokay Grapes.”  Never had peach cobbler as good since.

The piece de resistance was an example of early Darvick fiction. Titled Kitty in the Garden, it was sweet and subversive. “This little kitten is looking for a mouse. He looked in the garden.  He looked in the house. He didn’t find a mouse. Kitty’s master told him to stay in the house. He went outside and found a mouse. He ate it.”                              

                         Signed: Debby Berkowitz, Jan. 6, 1964                                         

 

 

 

 

* On a whim I looked it up.  Sheesh. You can find anything on the internet. Including a school cafeteria recipe for Pop-Eye Salad. If only John Dunne had had access to Wikipedia. He would have known where to find the past years and who cleft the Devil’s foot.

 

Looking Back … at some memorable stories

I feel like I’m in one of those tea cup rides at the amusement park. Time is the teacup and some unhand hand keeps turning the steering wheel ever faster and faster. Can the end of 2013 really be a fortnight away? Is it really going to be 2014? I have my 2014 calendar. The little countdown thingy on my son and his fiancee’s wedding page tells me there are 96 days to go. It’s time to start reading the book for January’s book club meeting. Are you like me in wondering where the heck did this year go?

Well, I know it went somewhere and I have the columns to prove it. Thought that this week I’d share a few of my favorites from 2013.

Dust Pan Memories—a dust pan cobbled together out of a broomstick and an old oil can holds more than you think it might

Retelling the Passover Story—celebrating the Exodus in Sedona’s red rock country

Cellular Memory—who knew the memories that could be unlocked in a yoga pose?

Nuit Blanche—inspired by a sleepless night

Heart to Heart to Heart—one of my favorites all year

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother—a happy birthday toast to my brother Daniel

One Walk; Two Insights—that pretty much tells it like it is

I Love Leo’s

Boston had Cheers. Detroit and environs has Leo’s Coney Island, a restaurant chain whose Greek salads cannot be beat. Not in New York. Not in Chicago. Not in LA.

Not nowhere, not no how.

It’s not just the food of course. Leo’s is the place where you watch the kids you drove to soccer practice become waitstaff and then young adults who come home on break and nab their favorite booth with their high school friends to catch up. Leo’s is where you see friends you haven’t seen in years, or since last week. Sometimes you see a local celebrity — Mitch Albom or a sports star (shows you my bent; I spot the authors, not the hoopsters.)

Nothing changes at Leo’s and that’s what makes it so good. You know the waitresses by name; they know exactly how you want your salad; you can count on the buzz of conversation around you and the intermittent cries of “OH-pa” and the nearby flash of warmth that ISN’T menopausal as another order of saganaki cheese goes up in momentary flames.

Yet within that sameness, you are keenly aware of the passing of time. I see fellow synagogue members with whom I’ve worshiped for years. Folks get heavier, older, wait to be seated while holding on to a walker or their younger daughter’s arm. Or holding in their arms a new grandchild. The three-generation tables are the ones that always make me smile. In come the guys putting up orange traffic cones for the latest road renovation and the plaid-skirted girls from the Catholic school a mile over.

Last week, my daughter Emma and I were there for one last Leo’s lunch before her flight back to the BIg Apple from the Big D.  We have been “lunching at Leo’s” for going on 16 years. At least.

After we placed our orders—two small Greeks, extra peppers (her), hold the peppers (me), grilled whole wheat pitas for us both—in walked a mom I carpooled with when our girls were in nursery school. I knew her right away. She didn’t recognize Emma any more than I recognized her daughter, but it was great to catch up for a moment. Was she also thinking of the day our girls played beauty parlor and Emma came home missing the middle part of her bangs? One week, I bumped into one of Emma’s grammar school friends who was there with her mom. I had a momentary pang of envy upon learning she had graduated from nursing school and has returned to the Detroit area. She lives a ten minute walk from our house. If only….

Leo’s is a classic American success story and maybe that’s what I love as well. Brothers Peter and Leo Stassinopoulos arrived in the 1960’s determined to make the American dream their own. Family recipes in tow plus heaping helpings of hard work and determination. Forty-one years and forty-nine restaurants later Leo’s Coney Island isn’t just a restaurant chain, or the place where everybody knows your name. Leo’s is an institution. Our institution.  Meet you there for a Greek salad any day. 

Like (FB)  if you love Leo’s!

Harold Berry z”l, Of Blessed Memory

Cutting this week’s His Lens/My Pen monthly post short in honor of a man I interviewed for This Jewish Life. I just read that Harold Berry has died.. That makes three now who shared a cherished moment of their lives with me, and are no longer of this earth. Mr. Berry welcomed me into his home, recalled experiencing a “molten moment” in Israel’s history. As one might imagine, the moment he describes has many conflicting interpretations and ongoing ramifications for all parties involved. I set that aside for now to recall a moving conversation with a wonderful man. May Harold Berry’s memory be for a blessing always.

On the Knife-Edge of History                                                                                                                 The Story of Harold Berry

From the time I was six years old, my Hebrew teachers continually impressed upon my classmates and me how great Israelis were. By the time we were teenagers, we had grown weary of their claims of greatness. “If they’re so great,” my friends and I would mutter to one another at the back of the classroom, “why do they need our help so much?” Our sarcasm was rooted in adolescent cynicism and perhaps faint resentment at the large amounts of time our fathers spent in helping the Jewish homeland become a state.

Over the years, however, my teachers’ refrain took root in my psyche. Coupled with the fact that my mother, father and grand- parents raised me on the Zionist dream, I became unabashedly committed to the idea of the restoration of the Jewish people in Israel. The dream didn’t become reality until I was in my early twenties, coincidentally the age my son was when he and I jour- neyed to Israel in the wake of the Six-Day War.

Our trip was a two-week whirlwind sponsored by our local Federation. By the end of those 14 days, we knew just how great the Israelis were. On the go from sunrise to sunset, we saw Israeli flags everywhere. We saw the carnage in the wake of the battle, the total ruination that drove home what the Israelis had actually done when confronted by a crisis of survival. I will never forget the spirit of life and relief that permeated the air. The state was suffused not with the glory of might but the glory of life-affirming survival. Everywhere we went, from the Sinai to El Arish, from the West Bank to the Galilee in the north, Israelis were gathering up captured tanks, loading them on flat railroad cars. It was a flash of history that many do not see. Unbeknownst to us, there was an event of even deeper historical significance yet to come.

Although we couldn’t wait to wash away the grit of the road when we arrived in Jerusalem in late afternoon, I felt it was only right to go to the Wall first. We joined the throngs of people making their way to the plaza where the last remnant of the outer wall of the Second Temple still stood. Mind you, there wasn’t this nice sanitized plaza and neat little checkpoint booths you see today. Instead of modern lighting, bare bulbs had been strung up catch-as-catch-can, nothing permanent or secure-looking about any of it. We tried to get close enough to touch the Wall, but it was impossible. We were just two hungry and tired specks in a mob of sweating, pushing people. We were so worn out that all we could do was turn around and head in the general direction of our hotel.

Then I caught the phrase “Tishah B’Av” in the blur of a pass- ing Israeli’s Hebrew and understood why there were so many people shoving to be close to the Wall. Tishah B’Av acknowledges the destruction of the First and Second Temples. As it happened, my son and I were present when, for the first time in nearly 2,000 years, the Wall was under Jewish sovereignty on the eve of this mournful holiday. We, sons and grandsons of passionate Zionists, were present on the very twilight when the Jews’ holiest site was once again in Jewish hands.

On the way to our hotel, ready for a good shower and some dinner, I glanced into the doorway of a barbershop in the Arab quarter of the Old City. An Israeli soldier was slouched in a battered wooden chair, getting a shave. What an element of trust there had to be for an Israeli soldier to have laid his rifle by his dusty boots and exposed his throat to the blade of an Arab barber! It was the kind of moment when something cataclysmic could have happened and didn’t. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that knife and the scene framing it in the dusky alcove in the Old City epitomized the entire span of events of the next 40 years, as if in the aftermath of the Six Day War, all of Israel’s fate was on the knife edge of that blade.

To be in Israel at the time my son and I were there was to be in a country at a fluid time in its history. At that point, the Arabs were in complete shock over all that had happened. The Israelis’ victory had not only stunned the Arabs but the Jews as well.

Who the hell had expected the Israelis to win? Despite what our teachers had told us year after year, despite all the prayers and Bunyanesque rhetoric of ten-foot-tall Israelis, they were might- ily outnumbered and outgunned. Yet in a desperate move of self-preservation, they had charged the door and the door had come right down. I think the Israelis were as astounded as the Arabs when the door collapsed. It was as if in those early days the Israelis were saying, “Well, what do we do now?”

Right after the war, the situation was liquid, like molten steel before it hardens. You would have hoped something could have been reshaped. The tragedy was the Arab reaction. I always had the feeling the Israelis would have gladly given back something had someone reached out in peace. There is historical precedent for the exchange of populations after war. The Arabs’ reaction was, “No recognition. No peace.” So the situation hardened, and Israel has since been faced with this decades-long occupation. People think life goes on. Well, it does, but not always as well as it could have. Once you lose an opportunity, that mol ten moment, it is gone for good. Such possibilities don’t come around too often. And today, nearly four decades later, what Israel is left to work with is steel.

I often think back on that evening when my son and I were two mere specks in a crowd we later learned was 30,000 strong. It occurred to me the next morning that I had been present at something as historic as witnessing the signing of the Treaty of

Versailles, as defining as being upon the grassy knoll on Novem- ber 22, 1963. And because I was there, my zayde was there and so was my bubbe and my parents and all the teachers whose arrogance I now realize was an unfulfilled hope, that one day the world would see them as they saw themselves—victorious, independent and 10 feet tall.

Thanksgivukkah, 5774*

When I first heard of the great cosmic calendrical concurrence of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah, I admit I didn’t give it much thought other than a cursory: Boy it’s coming early this year! I’ve been most focused on the fact that our daughter will be home soon. And not for some little drumstick of a four-day weekend, but for a gobbling-good span of six whole days and nights. It will indeed be good to have Emma with us to light our menorahs and have a small Hanukkah party with the few friends remaining in town for the holiday weekend.

But I thought the mashup of calling it Thanksgivukkah a bit kitschy.

I’ve never cared for the Chrismakkuh label. Hanukkah is not a “Jewish Christmas” despite the two holidays’ proximity on the calendar page each December. Christmas celebrates the birth of Christianity’s Savior. Chanukah commemorates an epic battle fought by Jews determined to preserve their religious heritage and way of life. Part of that religious heritage holds that the Messiah has not yet arrived. So the whole Chrismakkuh idea, although it sells a sleighful of merchandise, always reminded me of the one-hand-clapping koan. (Which has nothing to do with one-hand-clapping Kohens.)

But if there is to be a twinning of American and Jewish holidays, Thanksgiving and Hanukkah are a much better fit.  Hanukkah is all about preserving religious freedom, one of our country’s founding principles. We Jews have much to be grateful for as American citizens. I recognize the good fortune of having been born at this time in history in this particular country. When we light our menorahs each year, it is a blessing that we can fulfill the mitzvah, the commandment, of placing them in the window in order to share the light of the holiday with all who pass by. Not all Jews in this 21st century are as fortunate.

Too, there is the thrill of experiencing a confluence of holidays that will not occur again for another 70,000+ years. That’s pretty spectacular. Just think, Thanksgivukkah might send the phrase “once in a blue moon” right to the linguistic dustbin. Imagine folks a few decades from now greeting one another after a long hiatus, “So good to see you, Caleb. It’s been like what? Since Thanksgivukkah since we’ve been together?”

*5774 is the current year on the Jewish calendar.

A Rainbow of Ribbons … and Causes

This week’s plan was to share my dismay over the phenomenon of aligning colors with causes, syndromes and diseases. Wherever I turn, it seems one group or another has claimed a slice of the color wheel for their cause. So, I’m sure it’s no cosmic accident that before I sat down to write this column, I received a Caring Bridge post from a dear friend’s daughter—a beautiful young woman whose recent double mastectomy was just the first step in her cancer treatment. Her post rebuts those questioning the commercialization of all things pink, and who have come to call the month just past, Pinktober.

I didn’t know from Pinktober last October when our plane was approaching Phoenix.  From the air I saw sizable quadrants of the city festooned in pink; streets the pink shade of ballet shoes, wound through the city. And then I realized—Breast Cancer Awareness month. From the air, the city was veined in Breast Cancer Pink. It gave me an uneasy pause about the cause.

Some time later I was running errands and saw bright teal ribbons tied to every lamppost in town. The ribbons had been printed with words in support of ovarian cancer awareness. Purple, I now learn, is the color associated with domestic abuse awareness. A quick trip to Wiki’s ribbon awareness page informs me that light blue is for twin-to-twin transfusion awareness, denim blue is for genetic disorders awareness and purple is not only for domestic abuse awareness but 28 other conditions and causes including lupus, migraine, and testicular cancer awarenesses.

The article I planned on writing was to focus on my ambivalence over the colored ribbons and disease awareness. Because I happen to love color.  Enormously.  I was one of those kids who swooned in ecstasy when gifted with the granddaddy set of 64 Crayola crayons.  I loved the words as much as the colors: cerulean, periwinkle, burnt sienna, carnation.  I insisted my mother play name-the-color with me: she would streak one of my precious waxen sticks across drawing paper for me to identify. I wavered between red-roange and orange-red but nailed midnight blue and cadet blue and could discern the subtleties between orchid, thistle and lavender. I still can, although many names have gone the way of all flesh. The excitement I get from seeing and using beautiful colors is a wonderful gift from God. Put me in a field of delphinium or lupine and you may never see me again. Even nutritionists have come around to the way I’ve always fed my family—striving to make each meal a rainbow.

Researching the article I planned on writing, I came across the concept of Blue Dread. Seems the Roman Empire feared and despised the color blue, associating it with blue-eyed Celtic and Germanic invaders who used indigo to paint their bodies and hair, giving them an unnerving ghostly appearance in battle. In culture upon culture red evokes power and aggression. Archeologist/ethnologist Ann Varichon notes in her book, Colors, that the insulting howlers Hogwarts students receive are sent in bright red envelopes. Color is so much more than disease awareness!

But then came last Monday’s link to Casey’s Caring Bridge site and her entry weighing in on those denouncing everything Pinktober. She copped to agreeing with some of the complaints, even those from breast cancer survivors who denounce the focus on breast cancer’s for-profit aspect, companies that do not disclose what they do with their funds and the reality that most breast-cancer awareness campaigns ignore metastatic disease.

But then she wrote about how glad she was that Knowledge of early screenings helped me find my tumor at such an early stage and preserve a good prognosis. Campaigns … inform young women that they can get breast cancer at such early ages and about the importance of screenings. Breast cancer patients are no longer ostracized. Purchasing products adorned with a pink ribbon may be a way for someone to give when they don’t know another way… Some amount of proceeds to charity is likely better than none. Possibly most importantly, awareness month brings people together. All in all, I wish companies would rethink some of their products and how they use awareness marketing, but I’m thankful for all the support I’ve received. 

The article I set out to write might have begun much the same, but will end differently than planned. I might still rue this modern-day melding of colors to causes, but recognize how important it is to increase awareness of today’s foes and invaders. I acknowledge how fortunate I am that my color choices center around the blessed ordinary: clothes, wall paint, food. I am grateful for research that helps saves lives, and continue to support friends who participate in the walks each October. Most of all, I send out a special note of love and awe to my young friend who has met her diagnosis with courage, humor and determination to prevail.  To you, Casey, and to life, in all its glorious colors.

Three great books about color:

Mauve: How one man invented a color that changed the world by Simon Garfield.

Indigo: In Search of the color that seduced the world by Catherine E. McKinley

Colors: what they mean and how to make them by Anne Varichon

An exhibit for those living in Boston: Think Pink, Museum of Fine Arts

An easy recipe for a purple side dish: Saute onion and thinly sliced apples in a bit of olive oil till soft but not mushy. Then, add shredded/chopped red cabbage and cook till just bright and still crunchy.  Season as preferred. Enjoy eating a PURPLE food!

I invite you to send this column with friends and family who have taken up a color and cause. Please feel free to use the comment space below to share your thoughts on the issue.

Show and Tell is for Grownups, Too!

A week or so ago I had the pleasure of participating in a program at the Northville First United Methodist Church sponsored by the Read The Spirit team. As regular readers of this site know, David Crumm is my publisher and one of the creators of Read The Spirit online magazine, which is devoted to all matters of faith, religion, spirit and soulful kiruv (pronounced kee-roov, it is one of those untranslatable Hebrew words that means the act of bringing folks together.)

The evening was the last in a four-part study group the topic of which was shared American values. The book anchoring the group’s study is Dr. Wayne Baker’s United America, which will be released nationally on January 1. The somewhat cumbersome but totally descriptive subtitle—The Surprising Truth About American Values, American Identity, and the 10 Beliefs That a Large Majority of Americans Hold Dear—gives you a context for the weekly discussions.

The overall goal, through Wayne Baker’s ongoing work and his new book, is to engage in civil dialogue and exploration of the many shared values and perspectives that remain between and among us.

That’s true. Still. Despite the media’s color-war distillation of our citizens into red or blue camps. Despite Congress’ appalling lack of cohesive efforts for the greater good. Despite the myriad of issues that we allow to set us apart instead of acknowledging what unites us. As Wayne’s research at the University of Michigan has shown, we still have core values that vast majorities of us hold.

As part of the United America pre-publication roll out, the Northville group was involved in four evenings of workshop experiences that might accompany a “group read” of the new book. The evening that I visited the Northville series was given over to the kind of heartfelt sharing I haven’t experienced since I was in kindergarten.

Participants had been asked to bring a memento from home that reflected a value they held dear. One man brought in the patch that had been sewed to his father’s work uniform. His father was a postal worker, “at a time when being a postal worker was a true profession.” Holding the patch aloft, he recalled a man who never missed a day of work, who never complained, who embarked upon his 92-mile route in rural Minnesota through snow, blizzards and all the rest. He was a bit shy in his sharing this palm-sized embroidered badge, but I know I wasn’t alone in my admiration for this man, long-gone, but whose example to his son remains as shiny as the brass buttons on his gray wool uniform.

Someone else brought in coins from the 1850’s, and through them gave us a history lesson. There were no presidents on coins at the time, but instead images of Lady Liberty, the American bald eagle, a shield, laurel branches. There were no mottoes on coins until 1865, when the Civil War was winding down. The country was reeling from the self-inflicted devastation, and this is when the phrase In God We Trust made its first appearance—on a two-cent coin. “There is a shield on the coin’s flip side,” Mark said. “The North wanted to make a statement—that we trust in Providence. Not Presidents. Not other humans. It was a statement that Americans were united by a force outside of human representation.”

Others who stood before the group shared beloved items, including wartime love letters—and a beautiful prayer rug from Persia (today’s Iran). That rug, and others, had been been brought to America by the family patriarch, a Methodist missionary who got his young family out of harm’s way at a time when local Muslims were bent on cleaning house of all the country’s Christians. “This rug reminds me of love and respect,” said his great granddaughter. “And the courage to take action in the face of danger.”

One woman brought a 5-inch-thick binder containing the genealogical record of her Norwegian forebears dating all the way back to—are you ready? 1250. Her pride was tempered with a bit of anxiety over whom would one day receive this precious legacy.

Because that’s the whole point of it all—the sharing and the passing down of what we value. We may pass along the heirlooms and mementos that are dear but more importantly, we pass down what we hold dear: honor, perseverance, duty, love, kindness, concern for those less fortunate. The passing along of our values may be the most important show and tell of all—showing our loved ones, through our actions, precisely what we value. And telling them—with patches, rugs, letters and coins—where they came from and what we pray they take with them as they go forward.

And here’s a great essay about a grandfather’s transistor radio and the prominence it played during Hurricane Sandy last year.

Care to read more about Wayne’s work with values? Check out his department within Read The Spirit, called Our Values.