The Scribbler on the Roof

HEBREW SCHOOL

8/28/08
Ted Roberts
2110 Aftonbrae Dr.
Huntsville, AL  35803

Naturally, there was no Hebrew Day School in my youth.  No sooner had you finished your compulsory public school (an unjust law, said my advanced libertarian friends) when you jumped into the streetcar and clickety-clacked to Hebrew School.  Full of peril, like our older brothers being airlifted from the Battle of the Bulge to the invasion of Iwo Jima.  My analogy is an accurate one.  Hebrew School was a great impediment to our athletic ability.  No napping, a brief recess, and by the time it was over, darkness had shrouded the synagogue and it was impossible to play football in the pitch black playground.  Home we went (streetcar and car pool) to painfully linger on the joys of our Christian friends who had been on the playground since 3:15. 

The classes were small, which meant that our teacher - who could spot an aleph instead of a beth at a hundred yards - never lost visual control over passed notes, whispers, or rude gestures.  As I’ve told you in other Hebrew School vignettes, he was armed with a ruler - and it wasn’t for measuring.

And as this wasn’t bad enough, there was always a girl or two in class.  Great, you’d think.  Even we twelve year olds knew that they possessed physical differences that would brighten our social lives in a year or two.  Besides, they were good to sit next to because it cut down on the teacher’s back swing with his cutlass of a ruler.  Didn’t want to clip a feminine ear.  But those girls, they set a high bar for the lesson.  Naturally, they weren't absorbed by football, baseball, soccer, basketball, lacrosse, track, or anything that demanded the freedom of the great outdoors as we were locked in our penal cells.  I mean it.  Betty Ann Green got 10 out of 10 of her vocabulary assignment (including hatzylim = eggplant; the most impractical word in the entire Hebrew vocabulary).  Most of us little boys hated eggplant anyhow.  We playground athletes were lucky to get, say 4.  The girls won all the medals. 

And the girls, understanding the value of rarity and blessed with a more mature view of the social world, were delighted.

There was another advantage (besides civilizing us pagans).  Since the synagogue or temple couldn’t afford one class for each age group, we were frequently mixed up with older kids who knew the ways of the world beyond hatzylim.  Much more biological knowledge was disseminated around the classroom than eggplant propagation  After all, a few of the seniors wanted to sit next to the girls.  Silly, I thought. 

I’ll never forget the day Melamed (teacher) told the blandest version ever told of David and Bathsheva.  She was not bathing, just catching a few rays.   And David - well, he was taking a census of Jerusalem roof tops.  No physical relation was implied, but then he couldn’t deny that the Lord punished his census taking by taking the child.  Probably adopted, said our teacher. 

(Our teacher, a master of evasion, had a similar problem with Joseph and Potiphar’s wife.  She was tired and wanted to nap and she hated to nap alone.)

But now, benefited by hindsight, I understand his challenges - and his spiritual mission.  I disrecall his name, but no matter - G-d knows.

To make matters worse, my permanent seat (8 chairs removed from Marianne Greenberg, naturally) was next to a window overlooking the playground - ah, the skills and muscles that I was under-exercising due to that two hours of frozen concentration, except when I ducked and wiggled away from that ruler.  Oh well, there are skills other than athletic and of far more value in my adult life.  And Marianne Greenberg ain’t what she used to be.

FATHERS DAY ADVICE

8/26/08

Ted Roberts

2101 Aftonbrae Dr.

Huntsville, AL  35803

FATHERS, YOU’RE NEVER TOO OLD TO INSPIRE

I used to be a father.  I still am, and now I’m a grandfather, too.  But it’s a load I can  handle because the job description is just about identical.  It calls for inspiration - of young minds and young hearts; especially grandkids who are remote and therefore consider themselves safe from my constant inspirational messages. 

Yes, despite TV and video games and blackberries and cell phone and an environment humming with electronic messages - we Jews honor and cherish words printed upon paper.  We still are the People of the Book.  Give us a pencil and a piece of paper, and we’ll find something to say.  

So, I write a lot of letters to my grandkids.  For only 42 cents (it goes up every year - no competition will do that every time) you’re allowed a large number of words written on paper.  And a wise grandfather, besides council, advice, and family gossip, can include a candy bar, a stick of gum, a newspaper clipping, or a baseball card to lure the young mind into the civilized joy of correspondence.  What teacher ever taught successfully without incentives?  It’s a trick I learned years ago from the Crackerjack people.  They marketed candy with cheap, fragile toys.  I market family pride.  

History hints that Socrates - you’ve heard of the Socratic School - kept a big jar of black olives beside his desk to reward precocious students and I do the same with my letters.  

I use wiles of all kinds to encourage my younger kin to rip open their envelopes with frantic enthusiasm.  “Wonder what he sent this time?  Maybe if I write back today, he’ll send me another Hershey bar.”

Yes, Hershey bars are great.  Nice and flat - but they have their disadvantages in July unless you live in None and your granddaughter hangs out with her kids in Anchorage.  Kids love letters with or without sweet bonuses.  They love their name in big, bold letters on the envelope.  They love the ritual of sorting through the mail and throwing the discards on the floor before finding THEIR letter.

And like I say, I rarely write without including something that is either amusing, edible, or ethically fortifying.  My favorites are clippings from my local newspaper (human interest stories, we used to call them).  So educational!  Encourages kids to read and observe the world outside of home and school.  And if you pick your stories with care, you can package amusement and even morality in your envelopes.  For example, I just mailed off to eight grandkids a story of a 65 year old lady who wrote a confession to her high school principal; she cheated in a high school writing course 47 years ago!  My small audience loved it and marveled at her delayed, but full confession.  

They were full of questions:  “Did she have to take the class over?  Did she get a punishment?  Did they send her a new report card?  I assured them she was not punished and maybe - because of her honesty - they renamed the auditorium in her honor.

But my kids usually award the family Pulitzer Prize to the vignettes I call “Pet Saves Family”:  the collie who pulled Jamie out of the river.  The cocker spaniel who barked and alerted the family to their smoldering home.  And of course the whole category of dog-finds-missing-child story.  We humans, even after we’ve lost the glow of childhood, still  have a soft spot for animal rescue stories.  It goes back in history to the gabbling geese who saved Rome.  A story probably told in a grandfather’s letter of 300 BC.  

We don't’ always need burning homes and swollen rivers.  Kids of the right age (say over 3 and under 10) love any animal story.  Naturally.  They love animals.  There’s a kinship there of smallness, innocence, helplessness that we just don’t understand.

Just this month I mailed out a tearjerker that couldn’t fail to worm the juvenile heart.  A 2-column report of a 3-legged dog - yes, a handicapped mutt who had lost a race with a truck and forfeited one of his four limbs - found a lost child.  The sheriff and an army of searchers failed, noted the article, but the dog, only 75% effective, found the missing child.

The returns from my young readers have been overwhelmingly enthusiastic about this theme.  More! they cry.  They want more.  But that’s not so easy.  I’m at the mercy of the newspaper industry, which is attracted to war, corruption, crime, and disease rather than the uplifting genre of “Pet Finds Child”.  

Besides the inspirational value, there’s a selfish payoff to my letter writing campaigns:  I like the return mail.  And maybe decades from now when I’m old and my pen trembles on the paper; and my poor old grinders are loose and wobbly, my mail will be full of attentive notes sweetened with easy to chew Hershey Bars.  Bread on the waters, you know.

SIMCHAS TORAH

                                                                                    4/19/99

                                                                                    Ted Roberts

                                                                                    2101 Aftonbrae Dr. SE

                                                                                    Huntsville, AL  35803

 

 

 

 

DO THE HORA WITH YOUR TORAH ON SHAVUOUS

 

Do you know that old midrash about the giving of the Torah?  How the Creator, having dotted the last “i” and crossed the last “t” of his masterpiece, offered it with pride to the nations of the world? 

But a chorus of rejection almost drowned the heavenly choir, who were harmonizing in the background.  “Oh, thanks a lot,” said mankind, “but not right now.  Maybe next year.  No time for it - too hard.  All those rules.  Nope.”  So spoke the Jebusites and Amalakites; the Stalagtites, too. 

“Besides,” they added, “we got these big stone likenesses of Baal, Astoreth, Isis, and Marduk.  And thanks to them, our grapes and corn and olive trees are doing just fine.  But come back next millennia.  Maybe we’ll take another look.  Thanks a lot for your time.  And have a great day.”

“NO SALE?” uttered the maker of grapes, corn, and olive trees with astonishment.  Well, HE reasoned, I DID make a free will world.  What do I expect?  Blind obedience? 

At that point he took a second look at the Tribes of Humanity.  Hmmm, he reflected, how ‘bout that raggedy band of ex-slaves wandering the Sinai without a grape or olive tree to their name? 

He summoned the Archangel Michael.  “Your mission, Michael, is to negotiate a contract with those Israelites.  You know the deal.” 

And since the Heavenly Hosts, unlike the tribes of humanity, are not blessed with free will, Michael saluted and in a majestic flap of his wings cruised down the airways of Heaven to meet Moses at Sinai.  “I’m here,” he tells the awestruck prophet, “for the pre-nup agreement.  If you and I can settle the details, HE who made all forms of life, even lawyers, will give you a peek of his glory and hand deliver the law.”  Moses shielded his eyes and flopped down prostrate in the sand. 

“OK,” says the Archangel, “here’s the deal.  You follow these few simple rules in HIS book and the Good Lord, who rewards obedience, gives you the Torah and dubs you his Chosen People; which means Canaan and its well-watered valleys are yours.  And none of that sticky black stuff will pollute the water table.  The Boss says he’ll just tilt the slab of the earth and draw all that sludge off to the South.  Let the Saudis worry about it.”

Moses, still brushing himself off and peeking through his fingers at the Archangel says, “Uh you mentioned rules.  How many?”

“Six hundred and thirteen,” says the celestial negotiator. 

“Wow!  I don’t know - that sounds like a deal breaker.  Maybe me and Miriam and Aaron could handle it, but the 12 tribes - like all G-d’s creatures - chase pleasure like the desert hare.  They mate like Egyptians, eat and drink like Stalagtites, and gratitude is not their strong suit.  They’re already bragging about how they swam the Red Sea and found their way through heat of day and dark of night to this Holy mountain.  I remind them about his ‘mighty hand and outstretched arm’.  Remember the cloud and the pillar of fire?” I say. 

“Oh yeah,” they say, “that was nice - great sound and light show.  The kids loved it.” 

“Listen,” continued Moses the shepherd, “I’m not sure my flock of rambunctious rams and ewes could hit 50% on the Mitzvah scale.  What happens if they’re tempted by the voluptuous lady next door or a nonkosher vulture drumstick, or a cheeseburger or a soccer game on Shabbos. . . . .this ain’t Heaven, ya know.  Angelic, we’re not.  Like what if we obey 612 of those rules instead of 613?  Do we still get the Torah?”

“I guess so,” said Michael, who reflected this assignment was a lot tougher than hanging around Heaven and shouting hallelujah at proper intervals.. 

“Okay, what if we only observe ONE commandment?  Are we still the Chosen people?  Or are there 613 levels of covenant depending on level of observance?”

This IS difficult, thought Michael.  How could the Tent of Blessing cover this one and not that one.  They were like a net full of fish from the Red Sea - pure and impure.  But all fish.  They were the chosen people - score keeping would come later.  So, the preliminary discussions were successfully consummated and later ratified by the Almighty. 

So reflect on your good fortune.  On Shavuous you should rejoice that the Torah is yours, whatever your flaws.  But don’t get cocky.  Next year, a couple of months before Yom Kippur, you should maybe devote some serious attention to your mitzvah scorecard.

 

Why I Left Home

3/31/09

Ted Roberts

2101 Aftonbrae Dr.

Huntsville, AL  35803

WHY I LEFT HOME

I shoulda known better, but I carelessly left home decor out of the prenup.  A single line; that’s all I needed.  Any significant changes made to walls, floors, or windows must be approved by the groom, who is clearly the party of the second part.  That’s why my vacations are determined by my wife’s decorating cycle.  To stay is either to be painted or nailed to a wall.  When I see the painter’s truck pull up in the driveway, I’m backing out of the driveway.  I wave as we pass and make a huge rut in the driveway.

Tell me why a certifiably sane housewife spends a fortune for a dining room wooden floor; then covers up this extravagance with a $200 rug.  It’s the style, you know.  Listen, if I paid 6K for some oak lumber, I want the world to know it.  Sorta like pasting a movie poster over a Picasso.  And that’s only the beginning.  Remember upon this 6K wooden floor stands chairs and tables and cabinets.  So, two burly floor installers have to move all the furniture before they ever rip up your old rug (cost $300 in 1946;  you know it’s precious).  (Be sure to pick two bulky guys with no hernia history.  They sue, you know, as sure as mosquitoes bite.)  

The chairs, the table, no problem.  The cabinet, however, celeret, secretary, whatever your choice of terms, is crammed with crystal and assorted do dads.  I say, open the celeret doors, tilt it at a gentle 45 degree angle and funnel all the contents into a sturdy cardboard box.  My wife says, take every dime store trinket out, wrap it in newspaper, and ship it to Ft. Knox for temporary storage.  I say OK, let’s not pour them in a box, let’s move the piece of furniture with all that Chazeraia in it to an adjoining room.  She raises her voice and three goblets crack.  I run out the front door to the car, then directly to the airport.  

But the living room isn’t enough.  Next she brings in two creative carpenters.  I can tell they’re creative because they smell like Jack Daniels.  They’re for new kitchen cabinets.  For two days they play Wagner’s Gotterdainerung without any instruments except hammers.  And they want to make sure the neighbors can enjoy it, too.  

The house is a mini Katrina of buckets, boards, and the frustrated Wagnerians except for the newly floored dining room, which looks like Pompeii after the eruption.  The house is full of strangers carrying buckets and boards who don’t even know my name except for my signature on a check.  

And of course the new floor yearns for accessories to match.  The decorator, whose taste I hate, is of the “book stand” school.  To you decorator dummies that means that lamps, statuettes, even ashtrays sit on a stack of three books - always three - never two or four.  Never mind the content - the color of the binding is everything.  If Shakespeare had done Macbeth in a dark blue binding, it would never have made the list of classics.  

If this woman had her way, Western culture would be not much more than lamp stands.

In our living room - previous to this remodeling revolution - we had two large windows.  Glass, of course.  Where you could enjoy G-d’s world of trees and squirrels and birds beyond the house.  I could even watch the cat scamper to the tip top limb of the Sycamore tree.  You could even open the window to let the cat jump in or holler at your neighbor.  My wife, who had been seduced (I use the word loosely) by a silver-tongued shutter salesman, violently disagreed.  All her friends were installing shutters - and at a cost that Obama, Paulson, and Geithner would love.  Two shutters put about 800 bucks into circulation.  Suddenly, the shutters, which seemed frozen in a closed position cut us off from our Garden of Edenish backyard.  a direct violation of the Talmudic injunction to unite man with nature.  So, I ranted.  No good.

All of this took weeks - and a house full of strangers.  I found a guy propped up in my bed reading the National Enquirer.  And the corned beef and bagels I planned for lunch?  Oh, they ate it.  Next time it’s Las Vegas for sure.  

TAKE BUBBE TO LUNCH

                                                                                    1/15/98

                                                                                    Ted Roberts

                                                                                    2101 Aftonbrae Dr. SE

                                                                                    Huntsville, AL  35803

 

 

 

 

TAKE A BUBBE TO LUNCH

 

My old Bubbe on my mother’s side wore high-top shoes and black dresses that covered her shoe tops.  She moved in a mist of cologne that simulated, with incredible fidelity, the scent of stewed chicken and onions.  Or maybe she didn’t wear cologne - maybe she carried that tantalizing scent honestly - due to long hours over a dutch oven full of chicken and onions.

 

 

“Let’s go see Grandma,” my mother would say.  That’s another thing that’s changed - the title itself.  We never called her Bubbe.  How old fashioned - that was a word for Greenhorns - not first generation Americans like my mama.  My pals all used the term “grandma” except my flaky friend, Herb, who called his mother’s mother “Noodles” - short for her Noodle Kugel.  Herb’s favorite meal.  But even Herb never said “Bubbe”. 

 

A visit to Grandma meant I would be put through a personal inspection accenting posture, cleanliness, and general physical health.  To go or not to go.  On one hand there was that oniony chicken or maybe homemade Gefulte fish.  (Even Sarah, Rebecca, and Rachael - all mothers in Israel - didn’t make homemade Gefulte fish  At least it’s not recorded in Genesis.)  On the other hand, if I had even the slightest sniffle, I might end up on Grandma’s couch with her rubbing chicken fat on my chest.  If I was lucky, her supply of schmaltz had been used up frying onions, and my poultice was Vick’s Vaporub.  Vick’s had a piney scent of menthol that came off after a couple of days of steady bathing before and after meals.  The chicken schmaltz took a week, unless it was rancid.  And then you were branded for life (or at least until you escaped adolescence) and picked up a nickname like “Schmaltzy”.

After the rubdown, the conversation would go as follows:

 

Grandma:                                                                        “Teddy, have a nice bowl of chicken soup - you’ll feel better.”

 

Teddy:                                                                        “I feel great, Grandma.  Besides, it’s July - the tires are melting on my bike.  It’s 98 degrees in the shade and. . . .”

 

Grandma:                                                                        “Uh, Teddy, it’s either the soup or another chicken schmaltz rubdown.  Your choice bubbele.”

 

Teddy:                                                                        “I’d love a bowl of chicken soup, Grandma.  And gimme a bowl to go for my little brother.”

 

At Grandma’s house, there was always a lotta chicken by-products - soup, fat, fliegeles - to be consumed.

 

This symbiotic relationship between Bubbes and the chicken species I understood even then.  Grandmothers cull the herds.  If chickens were left alone, they’d over populate their natural range; thereby reducing drumsticks to the size of matchsticks.  And if not for the frying, stewing, and baking of fowls, Jewish grandmothers would have been on the phone all day with nervous daughters-in-law.  “So what will you cook for Irving’s supper tonight that he won’t hate like last night?  Oh, sure he called me - MY BOY IS SUFFERING.”

 

Unlike the bubbes of today who read Cosmopolitan and have no time for chickens, my grandmother NEVER took me to a baseball game or fast food restaurant.  And not once did she ask for a play by play account of my date with Sharon McKovsky.

 

Ah, how the years work their transformations.  Now, I have neither a grandmother or bubbe, but I’m married to one.  Four grandchildren with no respect for a Zayde’s sensitivity to age, call my wife “Bubbe”.  And sometimes with a nod of modernity - “Bubs”.

 

Of course, the only thing worse than being the hubby of a Bubbe is the title of Zayde.  That’s where I draw the line.  A Zayde is a guy with 2 or 3 teeth who plays pinochle and smokes a pipe.  The last grandchild who called me Zayde got a rigged, plastic dreidel for his Chanukah present that was inscribed “you lose” on ALL sides.  Zayde - I’m not ready for. 

 

My old Bubbe had two sayings I’ll never forget; number one, “Always wear clean underwear.  You never know, G-d forbid, when you’ll be in an accident” and number two, “If you gotta talk about your problems, tell ‘em to a stone in the backyard”.  Not an attitude appreciated by psychotherapists or repentant druggies, or the self confession junkies of our blabbermouth society.

Like I say, Bubbes ain’t what they used to be.  Times have changed.  See if you don’t agree with the following chart:

BUBBE PREFERENCES

                    THEN                                               NOW

Favorite clothes: Dracula’s cloak-only longer      pantsuit/jogging suit

Favorite song:    My Yiddisha Mama              Wind Beneath My Wings

Favorite singer:  Molly Picon                          Celine Dion

Favorite food:    Tsimmus (mostly                  Pizza w/sundried

                          (potato-light on carrots)       tomatoes

 

Favorite drink:   Hot tea                                  Perrier, with a squeeze

 

Favorite

 expression:        Oi Vey                                  Charge It

 

Take your Bubbe to lunch today.  I wish I could take mine.  And if Zayde wants to go, tell him to bring his wallet.

BRIDEGROOM, WHERE'S YOUR LAWYER?

9/25/08

Ted Roberts

2101 Aftonbrae Dr.

Huntsville, AL  35803

BRIDEGROOM, WHERE’S YOUR LAWYER?

I wonder when our traditional wedding ceremony was mandated as the official seal of marriage.  Don’t laugh and call me uneducated.  You can wade through all of Adam and Eve’s courtship and find not a single word of wedding ceremony.  Same for Abe and Sarah and Isaac and Becky.  You won’t see a single word of a rabbi, the wedding meal, the raspberry sorbet, or even the price of the caterer.  Only the bare necessities are mentioned.  “And he went into her and she conceived” Jacob, Simon, Judah, or whoever.  What a commendable, simple system.  How did we complicate it?  Let’s revive the good ol’ days.  I pointed out to my rabbi.  He turned away briskly and said he had a wedding to perform.

Parents, especially the bride’s folks, would save a fortune.  I’m sure they’d vote my way.  Think of it; no thank-you notes.  My lovely wife still claims the Rosenfelds hate us because I’m 30 years late on a thank-you note.  I say a Walmart salt and pepper shaker doesn’t deserve a thank-you note.  She says it’s a one liner.

But to be serious (which I am one hour of the 24) where are our historians when we need them?  Who was the hochem who obviously worked for the bride’s family and somehow introduced all this wedding hullabaloo as a prerequisite to “and he went into her and they conceived”?  Zerububble the scribe?  Or maybe his cousin.  

Though my own wedding was a few weeks after Abraham's, I negotiated madly with my in-laws.  “Look, I’ll run off with Gwendolyn thereby economizing on the 150 seated dinner, an out-of-tune band, and a couple of gardens worth of Calla Lilies.  And we’ll split the savings.  The rabbi’s study will be our wedding hall.”  They approved after negotiating a 60/40 deal.  Me and Gwendolyn jumped in the car.

All was going well until my wife asked earlier, “Where are we going?”  “To our wedding,” I replied matter of factly.  The bride, however, immediately noted the lack of twelve bridesmaids, a twelve-piece band, and only an assistant associate student rabbi.  

Her nuptial instinct began ringing like a bookcase size cell phone.  “This is no wedding,” she bristled.  This is a ‘he went into her and conceived’!!”  Minimally, she insisted on a neutral third party observer, what our Christian friends call the preacher and we call the officiating rabbi.  

No, of course I’m kidding.  Well before my own imprisonment - sometime after Bible time and before Las Vegas wedding chapels - problems arose.  “Hey, we gotta tie this knot legally,” said the world’s first bride.

“A waste of time, he answered.  “Can’t we both just agree we’re married?”

No, that wasn’t good enough.  Every time the groom wanted to check out Jerusalem hot spots the new bride screamed and hollered.

Clearly, a sober third party, objective witness was required.  Furthermore, unemployment was high at the time.  And for a basket of figs or a cluster of grapes you could buy this service - a witness.  Many biblical scholars connect this witnessing trend with the popularity of the prophets.  It was their time, but business was bad.  They needed a sideline.  It was a perfect sideline to preaching for  copper coins on dusty crossroads.  And they were renowned for their honesty.  If the prophet said you were married, well, that settled it.  And like all human affairs, the service grew from a six-word ceremony, “OK, I guess you’re married now” to costuming, speeches, ceremonial marching around the groom, lacy veils so the groom wouldn’t be constantly reminded that the bride had a bad wart two inches southeast of her right eye, and stomping glassware before dining on plastic chicken and green peas.

  

Then there was that genius who offered the bride a legal certificate - the ketubah, they called it - proving beyond all doubt that the groom, the party of the first part, was committed to certain obligations.

Again, like all the affairs of humanity, marriage grew from the simple to the complex.  Nobody walked into their bridal chamber without a couple of lawyers and a ten-page ketubah in triplicate.  

Mark twain, jewish Libertarian

Mark Twain, Libertarian

The first of the bloggers, Mark Twain was a Libertarian maybe a half century before the term was invented.  I call him a blogger because he routinely kept a journal commenting on his wacky world. I call him a Libertarian because in his journals and books - highwaymen, burglars, gangsters  penitentiary inmates and politicians fall into the same professional category.  He hated big government like a midnite toothache and proclaimed this opinion in thousands of pages of observations that  filled his inflammatory books.

Most of us know of his skepticism of the human and divine and bureaucratic.  But I just learned of another facet of this quirky American original.  He was a devotee of what his age called “machinery”.  They meant technology.  He invested much of his fortune in start-up endeavors that featured mechanical solutions to previously labor intensive jobs - like type setting.  (Come to think of it, his English literary contemporary, Rudyard Kipling had a touch of the same mania.)

Sam Clemens, even back then in the late 19th century had a healthy, clear view of the economic impact of technology.  He thought (maybe too optimistically) that the laborer himself would “shed his Luddite views.”  Listen to this quote from a letter to his friend and colleague, William Dean Howells: “Every great invention takes a livelihood away from 50,000 men - and within ten years creates a livelihood for half a million.”  How apt an opinion for 2008.  All this from a 2005 bio by an author named Ron Powers - a Pulitzer prize winner who I never heard of due  to the lure of that cyclopean eye that sucks me into the den instead of my library upstairs.  My New Year’s resolution was to correct this minor flaw.

Like Mark Twain, who had an aphorism for every occasion, reforming is so easy, I  do it every day.

CAN WE TAK ABOUT SPRING

4/5/07

Ted Roberts

2101 Aftonbrae Dr.

Huntsville, AL  35803

 

 

CAN WE TALK ABOUT SPRING

 

Pesach is over.  We have commemorated our deliverance and cherished the last sweet lingering thought of who would we be - where would we be - if the Lord God of Hosts had not led us through the wilderness. 

We have eaten the last matzoh ball and just yesterday finished up the saucerful of chopped liver remnants.  So, what’s to look forward to, now? 

 

Nature lovers, cheered by those first shivering daffodils answer, “SPRING”! 

 

I open the fridge and see that pitiful saucerful of chopped liver, one lonesome matzoh ball, and cold Tzimmus from the second Seder and I, too, think SPRING! 

 

About a week after Passover - unless you live in Rejavik, Iceland - the Creator’s greatest miracle is on its way - SPRING! 

 

Elijah, the guest at every Seder table, heralds the Messiah, they say.  It’s a comforting thought, but sadly, after 3,300 years of Seders, we’re still waiting for the Annointed Peacemaker who the prophets tell us will restore our body and soul and portfolio of hi-tech stocks.  But don’t knock the prophet.  Every year - without one failure - he has brought us the Messiah’s understudy - SPRING!  He has never missed.  Not once.  There is always Spring!

 

Elijah shows up at the Seder with a daffodil pinned to his lapel and next thing you know here comes the revival we call Springtime.  He hasn’t missed once.  He’s Barry Bonds at the plate and every hit is a home run. 

 

But that’s the problem with miracles like Spring - especially annual miracles.  They’re too regular.  Maybe the Creator should have teased us with a random season of rebirth that only popped up now and then.  Or maybe like leap year - every four years.  It involves the same emotional conundrum as kissing your wife.  Once a day is a thrill - three times a day is a bore.  It’s an old human flaw.  Regularity breeds contempt. 

 

If I could have a brief soliloquy with my Creator - if he still encouraged chats with Abraham, Moses, Job, and Elijah like in bible times - I’d have a few suggestions to make about that time of year when lawn mower salesmen rejoice; when the sap rises in the tulip tree and in the hearts of young lovers.  It’s Springtime, flingtime, singtime, ringtime.  But if the Creator of seasons gave me a few minutes of his time, I’d ask Him to spice up our life with a little suspense. 

 

I’d inquire, “Sir, why must Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall follow each other so consistently”?  It never fails.  Not once - I mean never has Summer come before Spring.  So predictable. So dull.  Why not surprise us once in a while.  Wouldn’t the world gasp at your power if say, just one year out of six -  SPRING FOLLOWED SUMMER!!  And along the same lines - once in a while let’s just skip Winter.  Get the idea?  Why this boring consistency?

 

Then there’s this infinite universe we float around in.  No end - no beginning - no sides. No top or bottom to box in our small, dizzy earth.  We stand in our backyard and look out into it.  Stars, planets, galaxies light up the sky.  And rarely, about as often as a surge of spiritual ecstasy moves our hearts in synagogue, do we pebbles on the beach of time say WOW!  What a mystery. Starry nights, what a light show put on by the Master empressario!  Gasping with awe, we rarely understand that we’re not looking at specks of light, but the elements of your imaginative mind.  Why waste such grandeur every night? 

 

Now here’s my idea.  Show the moon’s radiance only monthly and light up the entire heaven only once every ten years.  The grandeur of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, sounded on the hour like the cuckoo clock on your wall, soon turns to boredom.  And who can thrill at the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay over breakfast, lunch, supper, and a midnight snack?  You’re overdoing it.   Too much at once for feeble human minds.

Ted Roberts

2101 Aftonbrae Dr.

Huntsville, AL  35803

 

 

CAN WE TALK ABOUT SPRING

 

Pesach is over.  We have commemorated our deliverance and cherished the last sweet lingering thought of who would we be - where would we be - if the Lord God of Hosts had not led us through the wilderness. 

 

We have eaten the last matzoh ball and just yesterday finished up the saucerful of chopped liver remnants.  So, what’s to look forward to, now? 

 

Nature lovers, cheered by those first shivering daffodils answer, “SPRING”! 

 

I open the fridge and see that pitiful saucerful of chopped liver, one lonesome matzoh ball, and cold Tzimmus from the second Seder and I, too, think SPRING! 

 

About a week after Passover - unless you live in Rejavik, Iceland - the Creator’s greatest miracle is on its way - SPRING! 

 

Elijah, the guest at every Seder table, heralds the Messiah, they say.  It’s a comforting thought, but sadly, after 3,300 years of Seders, we’re still waiting for the Annointed Peacemaker who the prophets tell us will restore our body and soul and portfolio of hi-tech stocks.  But don’t knock the prophet.  Every year - without one failure - he has brought us the Messiah’s understudy - SPRING!  He has never missed.  Not once.  There is always Spring!

 

Elijah shows up at the Seder with a daffodil pinned to his lapel and next thing you know here comes the revival we call Springtime.  He hasn’t missed once.  He’s Barry Bonds at the plate and every hit is a home run. 

 

But that’s the problem with miracles like Spring - especially annual miracles.  They’re too regular.  Maybe the Creator should have teased us with a random season of rebirth that only popped up now and then.  Or maybe like leap year - every four years.  It involves the same emotional conundrum as kissing your wife.  Once a day is a thrill - three times a day is a bore.  It’s an old human flaw.  Regularity breeds contempt. 

 

If I could have a brief soliloquy with my Creator - if he still encouraged chats with Abraham, Moses, Job, and Elijah like in bible times - I’d have a few suggestions to make about that time of year when lawn mower salesmen rejoice; when the sap rises in the tulip tree and in the hearts of young lovers.  It’s Springtime, flingtime, singtime, ringtime.  But if the Creator of seasons gave me a few minutes of his time, I’d ask Him to spice up our life with a little suspense. 

 

I’d inquire, “Sir, why must Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall follow each other so consistently”?  It never fails.  Not once - I mean never has Summer come before Spring.  So predictable. So dull.  Why not surprise us once in a while.  Wouldn’t the world gasp at your power if say, just one year out of six -  SPRING FOLLOWED SUMMER!!  And along the same lines - once in a while let’s just skip Winter.  Get the idea?  Why this boring consistency?

 

Then there’s this infinite universe we float around in.  No end - no beginning - no sides. No top or bottom to box in our small, dizzy earth.  We stand in our backyard and look out into it.  Stars, planets, galaxies light up the sky.  And rarely, about as often as a surge of spiritual ecstasy moves our hearts in synagogue, do we pebbles on the beach of time say WOW!  What a mystery. Starry nights, what a light show put on by the Master empressario!  Gasping with awe, we rarely understand that we’re not looking at specks of light, but the elements of your imaginative mind.  Why waste such grandeur every night? 

 

Now here’s my idea.  Show the moon’s radiance only monthly and light up the entire heaven only once every ten years.  The grandeur of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, sounded on the hour like the cuckoo clock on your wall, soon turns to boredom.  And who can thrill at the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay over breakfast, lunch, supper, and a midnight snack?  You’re overdoing it.   Too much at once for feeble human minds.

 

Don’t you see that if you rationed out your galactic glory, five billion men, women, and children would stare at diamonds, not rhinestones.     What radiance - what transcendental authority, they’d say.  "We need to follow in His ways."  That’s what we humans would say - just like your prophet, Micah.  Micah, who stood on a dark Judean hillside and watched your shining face every night - and still saw majesty, not pinpoints of light.  But most of us  don’t have his imagination.  Help us by rationing out your wonders.  And that’s exactly the point I’m trying to make about Spring!  I’d say once every three years would be just about right.

 

DON’T PLAY WITH SNAKES

I like spaghetti with meatballs and I like La Boheme too.  It’s hard not to like Italians.  Just take a quick look at their contributions to western culture:  hot fenneled flavored sausage (Kosher of course) as well as Giacomo Puccini. who inarguably wins the Grand Opera trophy for eternity: unless there’s a Puccini ancestor scribbling away somewhere in a Neopolitan loft.  Who could live without Butterfly, La Boheme:  sausage or maybe veal marsala.  And there are other culinary and musical gifts galore from this great hearted people.

However, my respect meter for things Italiene took a hit last week when I read that their former president, Francesco Cossiga revealed that an earlier Prime Minister Aldo Moro signed a secret pact with a conglomeration of International terrorists.  The deal?  Leave us alone and we grant you asylum and freedom of movement in Italy.  This goes back to the late  ‘70s says Cossiga.  The compact was an obvious one.  We’ll give you an operating zone, free of interferance - just don’t blow up any Italians.  But what contract could cover ALL the thugs?  Oops, they  missed one.  A local group called the Red Brigade.  And wouldn’t you know it, a crude, twisted form of pseudo justice prevailed - because the local boys, the Red Brigade, murdered Moro.

This piece of factual information, this speck of history: the admission by Francesco Cossiga was not reported in any of the media that blankets the US and assails our eyes and ears with tidal waves of “who gives a damn” information. Maybe some obscure blogger put it out on the internet, but I missed it. I  only saw it on the front page of the Rochester Jewish ledger - a small corner of the media world.  Yes a speck of  factual history, but what a kindergarten lesson in diplomacy.  If you play with snakes you’ll be bitten.

Chosen People, Politically correct?

   

    Ted Roberts
    2101 Aftonbrae Dr. SE
    Huntsville, AL  35803

THE CHOSEN PEOPLE; POLITICALLY CORRECT OR NOT

A Bar Mitzvah teacher’s life is not an easy one.  There’s blessings and Haftorahs and speeches that must be hammered into the heads of kids who’d rather be on the basketball court or at the mall. 

But even more challenging is the concept of tribal (not quite the right word) ethnic (no good either) religious (maybe) pride.  Pride is definitely the right word.  Not arrogance, but pride in our solitary uniqueness as the People of the Book - oops, may as well say it - CHOSEN people.  As politically incorrect as a blubber burger at a Save-the-Whales convention.  How to explain this concept to a 12 year old colt who wants to jump every fence his parents and I set up?

How to explain that there’s a value in rareness.  Don’t be ashamed.  This is no doctrine of superiority.  Rather one of obligations.  You gotta be - I tell the frisky colt - “a light unto the nations”.  It’s really unfair.  He’s bound by a covenant signed three millenia ago - 8000 miles removed from the USA.  A covenant literally sealed in blood by a wandering band of Israelites who had no clue - couldn’t faintly imagine - about him and his world to be.  The yoke and blessings of Torah are his.  He’s a member of the Country Club, bound by all its by-laws, without application or interview. 

To make this point about exclusivity to a shocked 12 year old, I use a parable that springs from a periodic discussion between me and my intellectually sprightly wife.  It’s about ethics and responsibility.

“Sweet wife,” I say, “may it never happen - G-d forbid - but what if our Rabbi stole a watch from the local jeweler?”

My wife gasps in disbelief.

“Now, equally incredible, pretend that I do the same.”  I continue, “who is guiltier?”

My side of the argument maintains that there’s an imbalance of guilt here.  The rabbi has weightier responsibilities than me.  When he stands at the pulpit - when he speaks publicly for the congregation, he waves our flag.  He has not only betrayed his private covenant, but has weakened the faith of his followers and embarrassed Judaism because he’s a public figure.  I, too, have disgraced my faith, but not as widely. 

The wife disagrees.  “You’re both fallibly human,” she says.

This debate bubbles in my head as I try to explain this politically incorrect phrase, “Chosen People”, to my students.  Aha, I see an analogy.

“Let’s pretend,” I say to the student, “that the rabbi bought a new shirt and the clerk at Walmart (this always gets a laugh because our rabbi dresses like Elijah in his wilderness period) makes a mistake with the change.  He gives him $10 too much.  And our rabbi walks out of the store with an extra ten in his pocket.”  The child, like my wife, is shocked.  “Just pretend,” I say.

“Now, let’s assume your father does exactly the same thing.”  Again, wide eyes in disbelief.  “Just pretend, OK.  Got it?  Well, now you do the same thing.  (Of course you wouldn’t shop at Walmart, but just pretend once more.)” 

I pause and let the child’s mind linger awhile on the parallelism of the three criminal situations.  “OK, are all three equally guilty?” I ask. 

Usually, the kid gets it right - to my way of thinking anyhow.  The rabbi is most guilty.  He’s a public personality with heavy ethical obligation.  The parent is next because he’s damaged his children who look to him for leadership.  The child is less culpable of all because he or she is only responsible for his own immature, juvenile soul.  I ask the bar mitzvah candidate to restate his hierarchy of guilt. 

When the student finishes intellectually digesting and then verbalizing the solution to my puzzle, I’m waiting with the final flash of insight to reveal the heart of the chosen people concept.  One more tale I tell. 

“Now, let’s say you and a schoolmate who is not Jewish each receive $10 too much in change.  You need the tenner for a present for your old bar mitzvah teacher (the ultimate charity).  So you keep it.  Who’s guiltier - you or your pal?”  Without hesitation most of my charges reply that there’s equal guilt. 

Then I remind them of the covenant - the obligation to be a light unto the nations.  “See, like the rabbi you’ve got a heavier load to bear.  That’s what it means to be CHOSEN.”

Try it on your 12 year old.  Better ask your wife first.