Win-Win Situations.

Back when Ziggy was Ziggy and all was wright in my world, we would snuggle on the couch and watch the news until he would announce, “It’s time to make the donuts.”  He'd disappear into his study and write Ziggy’s Joke o’the Day, and then I would be summoned for the final edit.

Lying in state on the couch this evening, watching ANTIQUES ROADSHOW, I suddenly caught myself thinking it’s time to make the donuts.  Okay, then. This one’s for Ziggy.

There is nothing more challenging in the state of Minnesota than having to live with a displaced New Yorker. We are a surly bunch, feeling like we live in exile in a place where no one understands/appreciates/likes us. We tawk fuhnny, we wawk fast, we don’t put mayonnaise on meat sandwiches or eat hot-dish, and we know the differences between half-sour and dill pickles. We take our baseball very seriously, and we have a long standing love/hate relationship with ALL our teams, past and present.

My first love was Peewee Reese. I thought he was great. The BROOKLYN Dodgers were the best team on the planet. It was a personal affront when they went west, one which I will personally never forgive. Out of sheer four-year-old spite, I became a Yankee fan.

In 1969, the year of the miracles, I was in high school. I watched Neil Armstrong take that one small step for man in front of a teeny-tiny TV in Jerusalem. I listened to first hand accounts of the mud mess at Max Yasgur’s farm in Woodstock from my friends. But it was jumping up and down in the Wellington C. Mepham High School cafeteria when the Mets took the World Series in Game 5 that made me believe in miracles.

But the Mets are the new team, and they have their issues.  During the Subway Series in 2000, I bought a t-shirt for the senior son: THERE’S A REASON THEY CALL IT FLUSHING.  Need I say more? (Sorry, Dad.)       

Being a Yankees fan is forever. There is nothing to compare to going to the Bronx on a Sunday afternoon to sit in the bleacher cheap-seats of old Yankee Stadium where we could get a tan, read the Times, and occasionally crack a book. The game went on; we watched and we cheered as part of our very consciousness.  Life was on the field. And it was as close to heaven as you could get. You never lose the love for that bombastic, pompous, overstuffed pin-striped roster, and you just have to give yourself up to living with it. 

But here I am in exile on the tundra that is Minnesota, and you can’t help but love the scrappy Twins. An original Homer Hankie hangs in the study…even though one of the opposing Cardinals was a kid I occasionally babysat...and talked to on the phone right before Game 1 of the ’87 series.  They are so clean cut. One lives here in our little town; another I used to see in Lund’s supermarket in the Village where he always had time to reach cans on the top shelf for the little old ladies who knew his grandmother. They are nice guys, clearly good teammates, and community savvy. You want them for your neighbors.

I have always maintained that a Twins v. Yankees game is a win-win situation for me and any other New Yorker living on the tundra.  Either way, we see a team we love progress, and we have learned that here in the heartland of passive/aggressive to keep our otherwise acerbic opinions to our own small ranks. And that’s okay.

But I have to be honest, in my heart of hearts, in the deepest part of my soul, I hope they win.

Tip o’the Week

Love baseball? Support your local little league.

Free at last, free at last!

So I was sitting in the pew during Sukkot, reading something other than what I was supposed to be reading, but trying to learn more about my place as a widow in Jewish society. Granted, I’ve figured a lot of this stuff out on my own, but any insight is good insight. And then, I almost fell off my pew. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there it was in black and white.

A mature woman who is widowed or divorced and not under the control of her father can have all the non-adulterous sex she wants. Not only that, we can even take a lesbian lover since there’s no prohibition against female homosexuality in Torah, only male (and that’s the ol’ seed-on-the-ground issue.)

When I had stuffed my eyeballs back into my head, I immediately shared this with the other widows ...who had the same reaction I did. This was great news. Or so we thought until it was pointed out that to have all this sex we would need to find someone to have sex with, and to be honest, the pickins’ around here are kinda slim.

Still, this is an interesting concept. I guess I always presumed there was a “no sex without marriage” rule somewhere in Torah, but not only isn’t there a rule like that, Torah actually deals with bride price issues where pre-marital sex may have been involved. Apparently, it’s no big whup if the parties are unattached and consenting.

Which led me into my next search: bride price…and do I have one?

Now, all things considered, I am not without assets. I am, however, past (without a whole lotta hormore theapy that I really have no interest in) child-bearing age and I have adult (IMHO) children. Therefore, I’m sorry to say, I have no discernible value in the marriage market.

In other words, I am a free agent.

What a totally awesome, empowering statement on so many levels! What a concept! According to Jewish law. I am my own woman! I am under no one’s control. I can take all the non-adulterous lovers I want.

Or not.

[Note to self: at this time, I am excluding George Clooney and Alec Baldwin from consideration because I do not know either of them personally nor are they Jewish. They may be the epitome of good looks and charm, and they are both really, really smart, but neither one is here, so they’re off the table... for the moment.]

I wasn’t kidding when I said the pickins’ were slim. There isn’t a single guy I know with whom I would want go to dinner, much less to crawl between the sheets with. They just aren’t all that attractive. Picking a lover is more than whether or not he’s a hunky guy; he has to have a mouth attached to an active brain. My intellect has to be aroused. If the conversation is boring, the rest of it will probably follow suit.

What part of this is shocking? That I feel this way…or that I think this way? If you know me at all, neither. I've always been the practical, nuts and bolts type. You really have to work hard to sweep me off my feet. And to those of you who might be wondering...the answer is yes, I have been swept, and I've got the sons to prove it.

I want dazzling conversation and rapier wit. I want passion. I want the romance of Paris, the spice of India, the hot springs of Iceland, and none of the Bologna. I want an adventure.

Of course, should I ever feel a compelling need to do someone else’s laundry, I could just decide to remarry.

Tip of the week:

Only marry someone who laughs when you fart in bed.

Bonus tip 

Mom, do not read this to Dad. He'll get upset.

Exalted Guests....or WWJT: What would Jefferson Think?

Just to wrap up Yom Kippur for those of you who are curious about how I survived: I did and it sucked. I spent about as much time crying as I did not crying. It’s very hard to concentrate on atoning when you’re a functional waterworks. End of conversation.

This week the holiday fest continues with Sukkot (Feast of Tabernacles for my gentile readers). This holiday makes its initial appearance in Exodus, then again in Deuteronomy. Anyway, fast forward a few thousand years and you get people building these little booths covered with willow branches and cornstalks in their backyards. Anyway, one of the more interesting traditions is Ushpizin…the Exalted Guests.

Seven exalted guests are invited into the sukkah every night, and each night, a different one leads the way. Traditionally, the guests were the forefathers, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph, and David, but over the years, everyone debates just whom they’d invite. This year, I have a more dynamic table in mind.

I might keep Joseph on the list if for no other reason than to let him explain how an immigrant from an unpopular neighbor-state managed to rise to power under an autocrat…and how he views immigration here and now, but I want Jefferson and Adams there, too; Teddy (not Franklin) and his niece (yes, she was Teddy’s niece long before she was Franklin’s wife) Eleanor Roosevelt would certainly get an invite, as would Felix Frankfurter, and Bella Abzug. Yep. I’d want Bella there, hat and all. And I would ask them each, “What did you think was going to happen?”

Who wouldn’t want to hear Joseph and Jefferson argue on agribusiness, architecture and taxes? Jefferson, the guy who believed in reduction of government expenditures, a balanced budget, a decrease in the overall size of the national debt, AND alleviation of the tax burden….v. Joseph, the national master planner and possibly first income tax assessor. What a combo!

What could be more fun than listening to the framers of the Constitution rail on what is now considered free speech? I want to hear Justice Frankfurter, a founder of the ACLU, defend that idea in the face of lunatic fringe media in the midst of that discussion.

And speaking free speech and the lunatic fringe, what would John Adams say about the Tea Party? I’m sure the candidacies of Sarah Palin and Christy O’Donnell would positively shock him! Remember, this is the guy who wrote to his rather politically savvy wife, Abigail, saying, “I must not write a word to you about politics, because you are a woman.” Think of the debate between him and Bella, the woman who said “Our struggle today is not to have a female Einstein get appointed as an assistant professor. It is for a woman schlemiel to get as quickly promoted as a male schlemiel.” And in the middle would be Eleanor, ever the diplomat, making sure everyone listens to each other and directly addresses the issues  at hand.  

And finally, at the foot of the table would be Teddy “Square Deal” Roosevelt. From that perch he would hold forth on the importance of equal opportunity.

The point would not be for all the exalted guests to agree, but for everyone to discuss with passion and patience all matters of importance in between bites of blintz soufflé at a table beneath a roof of willows, corn stalks, and stars.

Chag Sameach  -  חג שמח

Tip O'the Week

Planning to sleep in the sukkah? 

Remember to put a weatherproof mat between you and the ground.

What if I swing a chicken over my head?

 Isn’t there some place in all this atoning where I get to laugh... even just a little?  No matter how serious things ever got in this house, all you had to say was "where's the kapporah chicken?" and we started laughing.

 

I stopped laughing a year ago; I was too numb to confront the holidays with much more than impotent anger. I was too busy trying not to set my hair on fire while trying to figure out how I was going to survive. Nothing prepared me for the reality of widowhood, and while I had a eight weeks to prepare (whereas my cousin Sylvia didn’t even have the space of a heartbeat..and is, therefore, my role model in all things widow weeds) I wailed that it was not enough. That was probably because I was in complete and total denial that this was really going to happen. I believed in the miracle. I believed that we would awaken from the nightmare next to each other in the same bed. I believed we would see in our 75th anniversary together. I believed...I believe.... אני מאמין

Last year, the only thing I atoned for was for not being smart enough to have been on top of what should’ve been my real world.

This year, it was different. Rosh HaShannah crashed into me with the weight of a freight train; I just wasn’t expecting it to be so hard. There was no “do I wear a tie?” debate, and no tayglach or matzah ball jokes. There was no little rush as when I would see him, wrapped in his big Fig-Newton tallis, saunter into the sanctuary, then pause to talk to his buddies before joining the rest of the family in Bud's Rosh HaShannah Row, the same row of seats we always occupy, even without Bud and Steve. 

And not even the annual 2^nd night dinner at Annie and Peter’s made me feel any better. I stared at the table picture posted on the fridge, the one taken several years ago when we were still all present, and the only thing I felt was disappointment that Steve would not be there to regale us with Steve-ness. 

I'm sure there is much to atone for this year. I’m pretty sure I’ve pissed off any number of people. I don’t think I was conscious enough to do it consciously, but if I did offend you, I will try, from the bottom of my heart, not to do it again.

I know I’ve scared more than a few of you, and for that I am truly sorry. Wrapped in my own pain, I probably didn’t come off as completely grounded at all times. And to tell the truth, I probably wasn’t, but it was never my desire to inspire worry. I cannot apologize enough for having my head implanted in such a way that I was looking past my tonsils and out onto the street. Steve called it "auto-cranial proctology." I will try to avoid it this year.

Promising you all that I shan’t screw up again this year would be pointless; I’m sure I will. I just hope that these are a new variety of screw ups and I’m not repeating the same old same old. I shall endeavor to find new and improved ways.

May you all be sealed in the Book of Life for a good, sweet year... גמר חתימה טובה

Tip o’the Week

The hardest thing to do on the planet is to apologize and mean it. 

 The second hardest thing to do is accept an apology and mean it.

 The third? To swing a chicken over you head and not get pecked.

 [Note about a Fig Newton tallis: my dad used to tell me that guys who wore those really big prayer shawls on Yom Kippur, a fasting day,  were really hiding Fig Newtons underneath them. ~ sjss]

A Happy, Sweet New Year - שנה טובה ומתוקה

A friend of mine happens to be in Poland on business. When he originally told me the name of the town in which the trade show is being held, it didn’t ring any bells. Later, though, when I thought about it again, I realized I did know the name of this town: Kielce. And not for good reasons. I asked what he knew about the town, and he came back, almost immediately with, “there was a massacre there.” Actually, there were two massacres there: a massacre of children during the war, and then a pogrom (yes, a pogrom)  after the war. Not a nice town. Someplace you would rather be from, and even then, you'd probably not want to admit it.

Anyway, he emailed to tell me he was driving through the town, came upon the memorial to the Jews of Kielce…those who died in the liquidation of the Ghetto, the massacre of the children, and finally the pogrom... and took a picture. I was very touched, and told him he’d performed the mitzvah of kever avot, visiting the graves, an important thing during this week leading up to the Yamim Nora’im. 

I’m not sure he fully understood the importance of what he’d done.

Lots of people know what happened in Kielce, but I am equally certain that those who have direct memories of the children who were murdered in 1943 as well the those who were murdered in the death camps, and in the pogrom of 1946 are fewer and fewer every year. That my gentile friend knew that there had even been a massacre there was almost a relief…that we were not the only ones to remember. That he’d stopped because he knew what had happened in that town, that he stopped to take a photo and send it to me were acts of kindness and remembrance for those who have no one left to remember, either collectively or individually. Jews touring the camps and monuments are not enough; the events need to be remembered by everyone who is repulsed by acts of genocide and wholesale destruction of cities, towns, and communities.

This week, I will perform the mitzvah of kever avot when I go to my husband’s grave. I will say El Moleh Rachamim, and I will place a little rock upon the headstone to show I’ve been there. I’ll probably catch him up on the news, and I’ll be sure to mention Favre is back in purple. And while I’ll listen closely to hear if he says, “F*#king Vikings, they’re just gonna break my heart again,” I’m pretty sure the only thing I’ll hear is the breeze in the trees, and the sound of my own heart breaking all over again. 

When we take a moment to recall those who came before us, they live again in that moment. Whether it’s the children of the Kielce massacre, a parent, a spouse, a sibling, they all take another breath as we invoke their names. In that moment they are more than memories; we hear their voices, see their smiles, and feel the hole they’ve left on our souls.

I will go on missing the salty sound of Steve’s running commentary on life. And I will go on, one ear cocked, just in case he has an opinion he’d like to share.

Tip o' the Week 

Take a moment to think on those who have gone on,

and remember that without them, you wouldn't be who you are. 

Up, Up, and Away

Not too long ago, a friend who has known me forever asked why I thought my “helicopter-in-every-garage” theory failed. Granted this theory was from fourth grade, but she remembered it as a hallmark moment in our speculation on the future.  Our teacher, Miss McAssey, had asked our class what differences we thought there would be in the year 2000. 

Now, this was in the fall of 1961. Alan Shepard had gone up, but John Glenn hadn’t gone around yet. The year 2000 was 39 years away; we’d all be pushing 50. That was very scary stuff for a kid who was just about to hit a double-digit age!  When it was my turn, I said that by 2000 we would all be driving helicopters instead of cars.  I believed this. I continued to believe this. When the whole Y2K thing was going on, I kept saying how disappointed I was that I hadn’t gotten my helicopter yet. Disappointed, but not without hope. I still believed that it was coming. 

Dutifully, I repeated the husband’s theory that helicopters fly, and cars drive. If your car breaks down, you are more likely to survive by pulling off the road than if your whirlybird falls out of the sky. Still, that never dissuaded him from saying things like, “you can’t fit your ‘copter in that garage if you don’t clean out the junk.” (Just for the record, I would like to point out that the junk in the garage was not, at that time, technically mine, although I suppose you can say it's all mine now. I wasn’t the one with the table saw, 3 ladders, the extra car, and defunct tools yet to be tossed. Oh, you know how that works.)

Anyway, I digress. I was talking about the helicopter-in-every-garage theory. Now, here’s the good news. 

It may be closer than you think. In July, Sikorsky Aircraft unveiled the Firefly, a full electric one-seater helicopter.  It runs on 2 lithium batteries, and right now, can fly for about fifteen minutes…more than enough to get me to the office and back. But just as cell phones once came in metal Halliburton cases, this will improve and I’m sure that they’ll add a little trunk in the back so I can pop over the Byerly’s for groceries after work.  What worries me most, though, is getting the guy who puts in bags in the trunk to grok the concept of weight distribution. I’ll have to watch him carefully. 

Meanwhile, I think it’ll fit in the garage, right beside my PT Cruiser. I may have to move the John Deere over a bit, but it looks like they’ll all fit…and I won’t even have to sell the RX-7 Radish Rocket to do it.

Yep, I am definitely making plans for my Firefly. I wanna be the first on my block to have one!

Turn, Turn, Turn

Let me begin by saying the weekend was a smashing success and I had a really good time on the Mississippi River cruise Saturday night. It was a picture perfect evening: balmy temperature, an almost full moon, Summit Red Ale, and lots of laughter. No one to dance with, but it turned out to be okay.  The kiddies dancing away on the upper desk had a really good time, too. And gee, wasn’t that the point? Oh, yeah; I should probably admit that I wore a black dress. It was cute. No babushka, though.

Now, on to the more serious business for today: the coming of Rosh HaShannah.

When I was a kid, the High Holidays always meant a couple of new dresses and a pair of shoes that were never broken-in enough for the mile walk to shul. The first day of the holiday was synonymous with heel blisters. Despite that, I really loved the walk, though. I loved to stop on the bridge over the parkway and count cars with my dad and brother. It was as much a part of the ritual of Rosh HaShannah as the sneezing from the goldenrod that grew everywhere. You walked with your family, even if your best friend’s family was walking 10 feet ahead of you, and somehow, you didn’t mind so much.   

Once you got to shul, however, any thought of staying with the family disappeared. Knots of kids hung around on the front lawn….usually looking for fallen chestnuts still in their spiny shells. Older kids sat on the metal staircase on the side of the building. Boys chased boys, girls screeched, and adults shook their collective heads, but still managed to smile at all these remarkable signs of life. You see, this was in the 50s and 60s, not all that much after we learned about the ovens of Auschwitz and Dachau.

I think getting ready for the High Holy Days was a much different experience for our parents and grandparents. They were still trying to come to some sort of terms with the death and destruction that was the Holocaust. We children were not unaware. We knew. I think I was six the first time I heard the name Eichmann. And we knew we were special because we were born, we lived, we breathed, and perhaps most importantly, we laughed. Not a day went by when we were not reminded that we were lucky to be alive and Jewish in America.

Getting ready for Rosh HaShannah this year, I wonder how much of that appreciation of being alive and Jewish in America has been retained, and how much has been squandered. As parents, did we do enough to instill in the boys the need to cherish the freedom that they have? Have they retained enough of their Jewish education to make wise choices in their observance of mitzvot?  I have to acknowledge that as much as I would like to know the answers to those questions, I really do not know how to ask them without it sounding intrusive, which is not the intent. I only want to be reassured that they know they are the inheritors of a line that goes back to that moment at Sinai when we all signed on the dotted line.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but this year, I definitely need to take a  turn inward to take a read of where I am and where I am going. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

Tip of the Week

Always break in your shoes before Rosh HaShannah.