rabbi.author

A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER

My memories of this day and weekend of 50 years ago are the same yet different from most people’s. The same in that I share the same experiences as the rest of the country (and world) watching the events unfold on TV. Yes, I do remember where I was when I heard JFK had been assassinated. Yes, I remember watching as Oswald was gunned down. Yes, I remember the catch in my throat when John, Jr. saluted his father’s coffin. 

But my memories are different from other people’s, too, in that they are intertwined with other memories that are far more personal. Yes, I was mesmerized by the TV, but it wasn’t at my house. It was at my parents’ best friends’ house, where I was helping babysit their children, whose mother was in the hospital after suffering an aneurysim. She was fortunate: it leaked instead of burst. It was repaired successfully repaired surgically, and today, fifty years later, she is still with us, living in Florida not far from my parents.

But I have an even more powerful and personal connection with November 22, 1963. It was my cousin Peter’s 15^th birthday. We got together as planned at his house, a modern split level in West Roxbury, a neighborhood of Boston, to celebrate the day. But instead of singing “Happy Birthday” and opening gifts, the family sat in front of the TV and tried to comprehend the enormity of what we were witnessing.2

Six-and-a-half years later, Peter, too, was dead. He suffered massive brain damage caused when a speeding station wagon skidded on a wet road and slammed into his VW bug. He had parked on the shoulder until the storm passed. The impact was so hard that his seat belt was pulled from its mooring. Ironically, one of the physicians who consulted on Peter’s case also treated JFK .

Peter and I were first cousins, once removed. His mother and my paternal grandmother were sisters. We all lived in the same house, a three-family Queen Anne Victorian my great-grandfather (the grandfather Peter was named for) had bought around 1907, in Roxbury, then a new “streetcar suburb.” Peter’s family lived on the first floor; my grandmother and great-grandmother and aunt lived on the second; my parents and I on the third, in the attic apartment originally designed for the housekeeper. My great-grandmother, grandmother, and great-aunt all became widows within about three years of each other.

Peter was five weeks older than I am. We shared the same gene for red hair, as did my great-aunt. Whenever my mother would take the two of us out for a walk in the stroller, people would stop her and say, “Oh, how cute. Are they twins?” And my mother would answer, with a straight face, “No, they’re five weeks apart,” and then walk on before the questioner could react. (They would also stop my then twenty-one year old mother and ask her how much she charged for babysitting.)

 We moved from Roxbury when I was about four years old. But Peter and I still saw each other frequently. We were like twins.

Even the most universal and shattering event can have a personal dimension that overshadows it. I can never think about JFK’s assassination without thinking about Peter.

I still miss him. Happy 65^th birthday, Peter.

MY WORDS OF WISDOM ON FACEBOOK

I decided to take the easy way out. Instead of writing a new blog entry, I would just cut-and-paste a few random status updates from my Facebook page. Of course, culling through all the posts (and I didn’t bother with comments I’ve made about others’ messages) took far more time than it would have to compose a new entry.

I know that not everyone who reads my blog is a Facebook friend, so these may be new to some of you. I have to admit, though, I was surprised at just how few there were, especially considering all the time I waste … I mean, spend … on FB.

Random thought of the day: If we don’t accept “God told me to do it” as a defense in a criminal case (unless the plea is insanity) or for acts of terrorism, why do we (well, some people anyway) accept it as a valid reason to run for political office?

Puzzle of the day: why is marijuana a controlled substance when there is a far more addictive product sold openly on the streets by roving bands of preteens? I refer, of course, to Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies.

Pet peeve of the day: the phrases “Jewish synagogue” and “Jewish rabbi.” Are there any other kinds?

Thoreau: “Beware all enterprises that require new clothes.” Schneider: “Beware all events that require panty hose.”

There are 2 things in a description of a movie that will guarantee I won’t see it: vampires & zombies. 3 things: vampires, zombies, ghosts. Make it 4: horror. Ok, 5: graphic violence. Unless, of course, the words “Star Trek” or “Star Wars” are in the title. [In the comments that followed, I noted “Of course, always exceptions: I loved ‘Topper’ (both the original movie & classic TV series). Add ‘comedy’ or ‘humor’ or ‘parody’ to any of my dislikes, and I may reconsider. And I’m addicted to ‘Game of Thrones’ (books & TV series) despite its containing just about every genre I’m not a fan of.”]

I am so tired of being parked between two SUVs in a busy parking lot, and not being able to back out because I can’t see around them to look for approaching cars. If I ever own a store or mall – highly unlikely -I will have a section designated for oversized vehicles. Violators will be sentenced to six months of driving a Mini-Cooper.

Saw “The Big Year.” Am now inspired to lose 50 lbs., go to a gym, get both arthritic knees replaced, find a way to cure my spinal stenosis, conquer my fear of heights, learn to tolerate extremes of heat and cold, & find an extra $50,000. Think I’ll go to Cape May instead.

THE UNLIKELIEST OF FRIENDS

Kristin Battestella (http://jsnouff.com/kristin/), who is young enough to be my daughter (or am I old enough to be her mother?) writes erotic vampire horror romances. That’s four out of four genres I don’t write or read. She plays ice hockey. I hate all sports, participatory and spectator, and am allergic to any form of physical activity, except bird watching, which I can do from the car or a window. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her dressed in any color except black; if I wear black, it’s as background for something colorful. Halloween is her favorite holiday; mine is any one when I can sleep late and not have to cook.

MaryAnn Diorio, who is much closer to my age than Kristin, but is a grandmother, has a Ph.D. in French and Comparative Literature, and has taught Italian. I’m lucky I’m fluent in English. According to her website (www.maryanndiorio.com), in 1979, she accepted the call of God on her life to become a writer. Since then she has written extensively, and much of it could be classified as Christian inspirational. I write humorous Jewish mysteries and non-fiction. She has a D. Min. in Christian Counseling. My earned doctorate is in education, although I do have an honorary D.D. from the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, along with all my classmates on the 25th anniversary of our ordination. She is a life coach. I could use one.

So why do the three of us meet on a regular basis for lunch? Lunches, by the way, that last 2-4 hours.

I have no idea what we talk about for that long. But talk we do. And talk. We are the most unlikely of friends, but I do consider them friends. Obviously, we must have something in common, besides being published writers, especially as writing is one of the things we seldom discuss. (Outside, that is, of the obligatory “How’s the writing going?” question.)

We met originally online. We’re members of the NJ Writers Network, an informal group that offers free panel discussions to libraries and other groups that will allow us, in turn, sell our books and give us some PR.
Living as we all do in South Jersey, wedged between New York and Philadelphia, we were tired of all the writers’ events that are skewed more toward the Central and North Jersey/NY metro area. So Kristin began a group called the South Jersey Women Authors. We are more of a support group than one that presents programs – although sometimes, the NJAN panels may be all women – and we try to share events and other marketing opportunities with each other.

For some reason, Kristin, MaryAnn, and I were the only three who seemed to be available to meet for lunch in the general Cherry Hill area. One time, when we tried something different, Kristin and I were the only two who showed up for dinner in Deptford, although we had a larger showing on a different evening date in the same area. There’s a group that gets together in Vineland, but it’s usually on a Friday too close to Shabbat for me to get there. And a Monday AM breakfast group in Deptford, but I need to be at my day job then.

It was fortuitous that Kristin, MaryAnn, and I met. I can’t imagine any circumstances other than our being writers that would have led to our friendship. But, as I said before, our talks together range far wider – and deeper – than writing. Religious and philosophical beliefs, family, genealogy, personal health issues, nothing is off the table (except the food, as our server hovers nearby and clears off the empty dishes).

If I had to come up with one reason for our improbable friendship, it would be respect. We may have different backgrounds and life experiences and belief systems, but it doesn’t matter. We value each other’s opinions. We may disagree, but we allow each of us to have her views. We don’t argue or proselytize; we discuss. And we laugh. What else can we want from friends?

THE LIFE AND LEGEND OF JOSEPHINE SARAH MARCUS EARP

A caveat: I’m not an historian. My eyes tend to glaze over when I come to lists of unfamiliar names, places, dates. Everything I know about Jewish cowboys, I learned from “The Frisco Kid”: that there weren’t any.

Of course, there were. After all, Google came up with 2, 990,000 hits in .46 seconds. Many of them, though, were about a specific cowboy or had subject lines like “How the Jews Tamed the West.”

Growing up in the early days of commercial TV during the 1950s and 1960s, I, along with just about everyone else with a TV, watched Westerns. “Bonanza” was my favorite, but I also liked “The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp.” Many years ago, read that Wyatt Earp’s wife was Jewish. Here was information almost as exciting as finding out that Michael Landon, aka Little Joe, was born Eugene Maurice Orowitz, grew up in Collingswood, NJ, and became a bar mitzvah at Temple Beth Shalom when it was still in Haddon Heights, NJ. (Both communities are very close to the town of Marlton, NJ, where I have lived since 1981.)

“The Legend of Wyatt Earp” is an apt title. It is very difficult to distinguish fact from fiction when it comes to the Earp Family. And it is even more difficult to find accurate information about his wife.

Fact: She was born Josephine Sarah Marcus in 1860. Or maybe it was 1861. In Brooklyn, NY. Or maybe not. No birth certificate has been located, not unusual when many children were still born at home with the aid of midwives. And it would be about another twenty-forty years before birth certificates were routinely registered with the state of NY. One source even speculates that she was born in Prussia.
Okay, so the supposed “facts” of her birth are, at best, murky. But it is known that her parents were Jewish immigrants from Prussia, and she was the middle of three children, an older brother and younger sister, plus another half-sister from her mother’s first marriage. And it is a fact that she did die on Dec. 19, 1944, and her cremains are buried in the Jewish Hills of Eternity Cemetery, Coma, CA, next to those of Earp, who died Jan. 13, 1929.

Almost every other purported fact about her life is either conjecture or outright fabrication. Sadie or Josie – she used both names, although the public knew her as Sadie – spent a great deal of time and money in her last years aggrandizing Earp’s reputation, along with hers, and making sure that biographers and film makers followed suit – or she would threaten them with a suit.
One of the major problems is that much that is known about Sadie comes from two sources, both of which have been discredited as, at best, inaccurate, and, at worst, as deliberate hoaxes. Stuart Lakes’ 1931 biography of Earp, Frontier Lawman, was heavily redacted by Sadie; and the 1976 memoir I Married Wyatt Earp, edited by Glenn Boyer, based on Sadie’s doubtfully truthful autobiography, was withdrawn from publication by the University of Arizona Press in 2000 because of the numerous historical discrepancies scholars had uncovered.
Let’s take a look at the basic outline of Sadie’s life and the various versions of it.

When Sadie was eight or nine years old, her family moved from New York to San Francisco, where her father was a baker. According to Sadie, they lived in a prominent Jewish neighborhood. According to census reports, they lived in an ethnically-mixed area reminiscent of the Lower East Side slums.

She became enamored of the stage, and she and her girlfriend, both students at the McCarthy Dancing Academy, ran off to join the cast of “HMS Pinafore,” staged by the traveling company of the Pauline Markham Acting Troupe, known for its scantily-clad dancers, a detail Sadie left out of her account. She also didn’t mention that Markham herself was best known as a burlesque dancer.
It’s unclear when she left San Francisco and eventually arrived in what was then the Arizona Territory. She says she was eighteen, but she also says it was easy to run away: “I left my home one morning, carrying my books just as though I was going to school as usual.” By the age of eighteen, she would have no longer been in school and would likely have been working at a much younger age. Other hints, including her brag that she matured early, have led many to believe she was only thirteen or fourteen when she left home.

Other interesting information that leads one to believe she arrived at the age of fourteen, not eighteen: Acting at that time was often a euphemism for prostitution. In 1874, when Sadie was thirteen or fourteen, Johnny Behan, a saloon keeper, gambler, and politician – he was sheriff of Yavapai County from 1871-73, was known to frequent a brothel. In 1875, his wife divorced him because he had become involved with a prostitute named Sadie Mansfield, in Prescott, Arizona. This Sadie was also fourteen years old; she was born in New York, and her parents were from Prussia. Census reports place Johnny Behan and Sadie Mansfield in Tip Top, Arizona, in 1880, the same period when our Sadie claims to have been working for him as his housekeeper in Tombstone.

It’s likely that Sadie said she went on the stage at age eighteen because that was when the Markham Troupe went to Prescott, Arizona – the home four years earlier of prostitute Sadie Mansfield, same age, same birth place, same parental place of origin. In her memoir, Sadie wrote in great detail about going by boat, yet the troupe traveled to Prescott by train. She also describes meeting a famous Indian scout of the time, Al Sieber – or Zieber, another Prussian, which she does not mention – who saved the stage coach from an Indian attack. Sieber was attached to an Army troop in the area and did rout an Indian attack, but in was in 1875, when Sadie was fourteen or fifteen, not eighteen. She also talks about Sieber’s buckskin outfit, but he wore buckskin only for promotional photographs.

I’m not going to go into detail about her relationship with Johnny Behan, how she claims she became homesick and returned to San Francisco, how he followed and asked her father’s permission to marry her, how she refused his offer. Later in her life, she told some Earp cousins that she returned to San Francisco for the grand opening of the Baldwin Theater – in 1876. She didn’t explain how she could return if she hadn’t left yet. It’s impossible to know what really happened, but she did eventually return to Tombstone, used the name Josephine Behan when she was living as his common-law wife, by which point he was sheriff of Cochise County, got swindled by him out of $300 and a diamond ring to build them a house, and met Wyatt Earp at just about the time that Behan, who had continued his philandering ways, developed a serious relationship with another woman.

Are your eyes glazing over yet? And we haven’t even gotten to the part where she meets Wyatt Earp, and the account becomes even more convoluted.

Basically, Sadie and Wyatt met. Did Johnny Behan introduce them? Possibly. Maybe even probably. At the time, Wyatt was living with a common-law wife, Mattie Blaylock, who later died of an overdose of laudanum. According to romantic legend, Mattie, depressed over Wyatt’s leaving her for Sadie, killed herself. More likely, she overdosed because she was an addict. Wyatt had been previously married, legally, but she died in of typhus during her pregnancy less than a year after their marriage.

A lot of details of how Sadie and Wyatt met, how and when their relationship developed, when she moved in with him, and even whether they ever married are shrouded in deliberate misdirection. Sadie threatened Stuart Lake, Earp’s first biographer, with a law suit if he revealed anything about her time in Tombstone or about her relationship with Johnny Behan in his book. In fact, she’s not even mentioned in the book that started the whole Earp craze.

Everyone knows about the Gunfight at the OK Corral. Or thinks they do. Actually, everyone knows a different version of what happened. Sadie had her own version – she heard gunshots, ran out of the house in such a panic that she forgot to put on a hat, was relieved to find Wyatt unhurt. The shootout occurred in 1881. There is some evidence that Sadie had once again returned to her parents’ home in San Francisco and wasn’t even in Tombstone at the time.

What is known, more or less, is that Sadie did return again to San Francisco. Earp later followed her, and the two set off to make their fortune. By 1882, she was using the name Josephine Earp. She claims they were married by a riverboat captain in 1892, but no marriage certificate has ever been found. They stayed together until his death in 1929.

Actually, the rest of the story is pretty straight forward. After leaving Tombstone, Wyatt never worked again as a lawman. During the forty-seve years Sadie and Wyatt were together, they traveled throughout the west, following the gold and silver rushes, even as far as Alaska. They ran saloons, gambled, and sought a fortune that never materialized. Eventually, they settled in Los Angeles, where they hoped to cash in on the new film mania for the Wild West. His legend was born. Sadie’s life was relegated to, at best, a footnote. Even a new biography of Sadie, Lady at the O.K. Corral, by Ann Kirschner, has been criticized as being more about Wyatt than Sadie.

As an autobiographer, Sadie was an excellent fiction writer. Earp’s cousins, who were helping her with the writing, gave up because she was so evasive about her early years. When the book was published in 1976, it became the fourth best-selling book published by the University of Arizona Press. It was almost twenty years later that questions about its accuracy arose, and in 2000, as mentioned before, the book was taken out of the University’s catalogue.

In her later years, Sadie devoted herself to preserving her version of the Wyatt Earp legend. She was prone to depression, paranoia, and other illnesses, and in her last years developed dementia. Her relationship with her sisters-in-law was acrimonious. She did, however, seem to have remained close with her own family. There are anecdotal reports that Wyatt joined her at a Marcus family Seder in 1896. It’s entirely possible, as Sadie and Wyatt did live with her parents for a while. One of the sources of the story is Henry Fonda, who recalled once talking with an old man who said that when he was a young child, he had met Wyatt at his own family’s seders in San Francisco at the turn of the 20th Century.

According to biographer Kirschner, Wyatt had more Jewish friends than Sadie did, and Sadie was, at best, indifferent to being Jewish. There is some evidence that her parents belonged to a Reform synagogue in San Francisco, and Wyatt and Sadie are buried together in the Marcus plot, with her parents and brother nearby.

Other than those conflicting and contradictory stories, it’s all true.

SOME RANDOM THOUGHTS ON THE FOUR QUESTIONS

Some people get “brilliant” ideas when in the twilight area between falling asleep and waking up, or between sleeping and awakening. They are often forgotten – or reevaluated as inane – when the person is fully awake. For some reason, many of mine pop up while I’m in the shower. It doesn’t mean that they really are brilliant, but at least I’m less apt to forget them.

This morning, I began to think about the Four Questions. I’ve no idea why. It’s been decades since I’ve been the youngest at a Seder and “required” to recite them.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Passover Seder ritual, one of the centerpieces is the recitation by the youngest of the Four Questions. They are designed to involve the children in the Seder and as an introduction to the rest of the Seder, although they are never directly answered.

1. Why is this night different from all other nights? Why on all other nights do we eat any kind of bread, but tonight we eat only matzah?

2. Why on all other nights do we eat any kind of vegetables, but on this night we eat bitter herbs?

3. Why on all other nights do we not dip [the vegetables into salt water], but on this night, we dip twice?

4. Why on all other nights do we eat either sitting or reclining, but on this night, we recline?

Just like the Hagaddah, I’m not going to answer them. The Questions (and answers) are not what I was thinking about while soaping up. It was the language of the Questions that interested me.

When I was the youngest, I asked the Four Questions in English, until I learned how to read Hebrew. Then I would say the recite the Questions in Hebrew and my younger cousin did them in English. When he started Hebrew school, he took over the recitation and I was allowed to stay in the other room with the overflow relatives and escape to the basement rec room as soon as possible to watch TV.

In my husband’s family, it was traditional for the youngest of each generation, no matter how old, to recite the Four Questions. My father-in-law and his twin brother were the youngest of five, and continued to ask the Questions for years. We still ask my father-in-law to say them – in Yiddish.

And here’s what I was thinking about this morning: why did he learn the Questions in Yiddish, not in Hebrew? A few thoughts, which may or may not be accurate:

Yiddish was the lingua franca of Eastern European Jews for centuries. Hebrew was used only for study and prayer. Even most of the Hagaddah (the book with the order – which is what the Hebrew word “Seder” means – of the ritual meal) is written in Aramaic (with the notable exception of the Four Questions), the language of the Talmud, not in Hebrew. My father-in-law’s generation, even those born in the US, knew at least some Yiddish. By reciting the Questions in Yiddish, he and his cohorts could understand what they were saying. Those of my generation, who did go to Hebrew School and learned how to read Hebrew, did not necessarily (or usually) understand it, so we were reciting essentially meaningless words. But mine was also the first generation to receive Jewish educations after the establishment of the State of Israel, and the renewal of Hebrew as a spoken, modern language. Today, the Yiddish would be as incomprehensible to most Jewish kids as the Aramaic and Hebrew were to my friends and me – and to my father-in-law.

Even though I wrote a book about Yiddish slang and expressions, I don’t speak Yiddish. I can understand it, though, to some extent. And in Yiddish the Four Questions is translated as “Di Fir Kashes” – which has the implication of “conundrum,” or “difficulty.” Even though “kashe” can be – and often is – used for question, the Yiddish word for question is “frege,” and the child, on introducing his (in “those” days, it was always “his”) recitation would begin with “Tate, ich vil bei dir fregen di fir kashes” – “Daddy, I am going to ask you the four questions.” I wonder if the wording is to avoid using “frege” twice in the same sentence (in English, the words are “ask” and “question”) or if the word is to indicate that these queries are not idle or frivolous but worthy of serious consideration.

I have no intention of answering my own perhaps idle or frivoulous thoughts, but offer them to you for serious consideration. And whoever asks the questions at your Seder in whatever language, I wish all my Jewish friends a Zissen Pesach (in Yiddish, a sweet Passover).

2013 REVIEW OF 2012 NON-RESOLUTIONS

A year (plus 2 days) ago, I posted here a list of  non-resolution resolutions that seemed possible for me to keep. It’s now January 3, 2013, and I’m finally taking a look at the list to see how I fared.

1. Update this blog weekly. Okay, monthly. Well, more often than every six months. I’m already off to a good start, as today’s Jan. 1.

It’s now Jan. 3, 2013. I did update fairly often, and did some guest blogging as well. But it’s a good thing “stop procrastinating” wasn’t on the list.

2. Work regularly on the third Rabbi Aviva Cohen mystery, Yom Killer. Then, when Unleavened Dead is published (from my mouth to God’s ears; kenahora;tu-tu-tu), the next book will be ready to go into production.

Unleavened Dead is now published, and selling fairly well. I do need to do more readings and signings – hint, hint. But Yom Killer is still in the same state it was a year ago: unwritten.

3. Go birding more often. I’m already off to a good start on this resolution, too, as I spent the day at the Forsythe NWR (aka Brig). And I plan to take a detour to Corkscrew Swamp and Ding Darling NWR on Sanibel Island when I drive from my parents’ house in Boynton Beach to Orlando for Sleuthfest in February.

I did get to Corkscrew Swamp and Ding Darling. But I also had arthroscopic knee surgery a few months later. The torn meniscus is gone, but so is all the cartilage. And the shots didn’t work this time. Walking on uneven surfaces is not the best therapy for arthritic knees. And my favorite spot – the above-mentioned Brig, an 8-mile drive through loop, was decimated by Hurricane Sandy. It’s open for walking only; I don’t think I’ll be doing it any time soon. I haven’t even filled my feeders for a while.

4. Don’t buy any more books about birding until I read the ones I’ve already bought.

Yeah, right. I’ll stop buying them when they stop publishing them.

5. Don’t buy any more Kindle books until I read all the ones on my to-be-read list.

See above comment re: birding books.

6. Don’t buy any more DVDs until I watch all the ones that are still shrink-wrapped.

The box set of the entire series of The Prisoner is still shrink-wrapped.

7. Don’t TiVo any shows or movies unless I am really going to watch them within the next six months.

Done. We got a free upgrade on our TiVo (all it cost was the price of a new HD TV), and all the taped shows were deleted.

8. Place resolutions 4, 5, 6, and 7 into the unrealistic category.

Done.

9. Watch season 2 of “Homeland” and “Game of Thrones.”  (Try and stop me!)

Done.

10. Read Game of Thrones. All 5 volumes. Or 6 or 7 or how many are published by the time I get through the ones already in print.

Done. Next task is to download them all onto Kindle so I can re-read them without getting cramps in my hands.

11. Get to Israel this year. It’s been too long. And try to go during the height of the bird migration.  I’ve already started googling “birding tours in Israel.”

See above note about arthritic knees.

12. Stop obsessing about my ranking on Amazon. It’s meaningless. Except when it’s a high ranking.

This was written before I had a new book published. But I am down to checking only 2-3 times a day. Except when it’s more.

So, no need to write new non-resolution resolutions this year. I’ll just keep plugging along. And I will definitely get moving on Yom Killer.

Happy 2013 to you all.

POST 9/11 BUSINESS AS USUAL – UNFORTUNATELY

My younger son just called to ask me if I know of any 9/11 commemorations in the area today. He was dismayed that there were none on his college campus. I looked on-line and couldn’t find any listed. The only suggestions I found for Patriot Day (not the same as Patriots’ Day in MA, commemorating the Battles of Concord and Lexington and observed through the running of the Boston Marathon) were to lower flags to half-staff and have a moment of silence at 8:46 AM.

This futile search reminded me of another column I had written in the aftermath of 9/11. It was published in the Burlington County Times, on March 18, 2002. Although the examples cited are dated, the sentiments remain the same.

******

It’s now just over six months since the terrorist attacks of September 11. Shortly after the horrific events of that day, President Bush called for a return to normalcy. Of course, for the families and friends of the victims, life will never again be normal, but for the rest of us, it’s business as usual. Unfortunately.

The Republicans, led by Vice President Cheney, have blamed former President Clinton for the attacks, saying that he did not do enough to curb terrorism. The Democrats, of course, blame the Republicans for not having acted on tips that such an attack was imminent. It’s politics as usual.

The residents of New York City are at odds with each other about how to use the former World Trade Center site. Should the Towers be rebuilt? Should there be a complex of smaller buildings? Should the site be developed into a park dedicated to the victims? It’s urban development as usual.

The survivors of the attacks are at loggerheads about the compensation that has been offered to them. Should they accept the government’s offer and forfeit the right to sue? Or should they take their chances on the court system? It’s the litigious society as usual.

Kenneth Feinberg, who is in charge of the reimbursement fund authorized by Congress, is in the unenviable position of having to decide who gets what. Should Social Security survivor benefits be deducted? Should life insurance policies? Is a 26-year-old single man or woman who earned a six-figure salary worth less than a 26-year-old married man or woman with two children who earned a six-figure salary? What about the 26-year-old single mother who barely made minimum wage? Or the 62-year-old grandfather approaching retirement? How can a value be put onto a human life? It’s moral dilemmas as usual.

And then there are those who believe that no amount of money could ever compensate the families for the loss of loved ones, so we shouldn’t cheapen their memories with money. And there are those who agree that no money should be given, but for a different reason: why compensate the families of people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? It’s resentment as usual.

Some families who lost loved ones at different places are angry. Those whose relatives were killed at the Pentagon or on Flight 93 feel that those stories are being lost in all the attention being paid to the World Trade Center victims. Those whose relatives were on the airplanes that hit the Towers and the Pentagon feel that the media, by focusing on the heroics of those on Flight 93, are by implication calling the others cowards for not resisting. Those whose family members were lost in the Pentagon feel that their memories are being slighted because they were military personnel not civilians. It’s publicity as usual.

The same airline passengers who refused to fly after September 11, driving some airlines to the brink of bankruptcy and others over the edge, are now complaining that they have to arrive at the airports early to go through security checks. They’re complaining when flights are delayed or airports closed because of terrorist threats or security breaches. They’re even complaining about the cutback in food service. It’s “don’t inconvenience me” as usual.

Right after September 11, Americans opened their wallets – and their pantries and garages – as never before. Dog kibble, bottled water, blankets, latex gloves, and other materials were donated in such quantities that warehouses are still filled with thousands of items that weren’t needed. And we gave an estimated $1.2 billion to the American Red Cross and other relief organizations large and small, local and national. But the distribution of the monies has been mired in controversy – how should it be spent? Who should coordinate the efforts? Should the donations be used only to help victims of September 11, or can they be used to help victims of other disasters, both natural and war-related, as well? It’s money-grubbing as usual.

And there are the problems that are now facing non-profit organizations, who have seen their donations shrink after the largesse of September 11. Is it really charity if you give to an emergency fund and then do not contribute to a different fund at your usual level? Yes, those who had never given before and did make contributions after September 11 were generous. But those who deducted their September 11 donations from the amounts they generally give to other groups were not. It’s selfishness as usual.

It’s true that we cannot live at the same level of alertness, stress, and sadness as we did right after September 11. But, somehow, I don’t think this is what President Bush meant by “normalcy.”

Reflection on 9/11

The following column was published in the Philadelphia Inquirer on September 11, 2003. I could have written it today.

On Tuesday morning, Sept. 11, 2001, I was driving to work as usual. Around 8:30, after hearing that all the routes to my office were clear, I switched from KWY to a music station. I kept switching back and forth between two classic rock stations trying to find something I liked, preferably from 1968. In the meantime, my brain was in its classic stream-of-consciousness overdrive, part of it paying attention to the road while the rest of it was engaged in random ramblings. “Next Wednesday’s Rosh Hashanah, so I better make sure I’m caught up at the office ….

“…. What should I make for all our guests for lunch? Chicken? Whole? Cutlets? Apricots or mushrooms? Nuggets for the kids ….

“…. Kids… Better get the invites for my son’s birthday party in the mail ….

“ …. Mail … wonder if the order from Amazon will come today? ….

“…. When are my library books due? I’d better call ….

“…. Phone calls … call and find out when I can pick up the key for the classroom ….

“…. Better email the instructor and find out when he wants me to visit his class ….

“….Why does my ABS warning light keep going on? Why does it keep going off? Where’s the manual? ….

“….Better clean out the glove compartment ….

“…. When can I get to a car wash? The car’s filthy ….

“…. Filthy, better get the house cleaned before the company next week. Gotta get the dining room table cleared off ….

“…. Where to put the unfinished jigsaw puzzle? Under the couch?….

“…. How many people? 8-9-10… oh, 12. Do we need a booster? Better plan to open the extra table ….

“…. Should I get cut flowers or a plant for a center piece? ….

“…. Maybe I should put some new flowers in the flower boxes on the front porch ….

“…. But something keeps digging them up ….

“…. Cat was in the backyard this morning, stalking the birds….

“…. Too sleek and healthy looking to be feral ….

“…. Why do people let their cats roam freely? They wouldn’t let their dogs out unleashed ….

“…. Or would they? ….

“…. Cats are my favorite animal, but not when they trespass in my back yard with murderous intent ….

“…. Check ‘net for statistics on numbers of birds killed by cats, life expectancy of outdoor vs. indoor cats ….

“…. Statistics … have to remember to compile the registration figures for the dean ….

“…. When’s the faculty meeting?….

“…. What time’s the back-to-school night? ….

“…. Where’s my Palm Pilot? Stop groping in your bag while driving ….

“…. Driving …. this traffic’s driving me crazy ….

“…. When are they planning to start the Rte. 73 overpass?….

“…. Rte. 73…. wonder when L. L. Bean is opening? ….

“….. Oops, here I am at the office. Oh, good, there’s actually a parking spot near the door.”

I walked into the lobby, said a casual “good morning” to the receptionist, who snapped back, “What’s so good about it?” Two hours later, our building was closed, and my thoughts on the drive home were very different. I was embarrassed by the banality of my earlier ones.

On the drive home, I kept hearing the voice of an Israeli student berating her classmates: “You Americans are so complacent. Now you know what we Israelis go through every day of our lives!”

I kept seeing the second plane slam into the side of the building, with the resultant fire ball.

I kept seeing the towers tumbling.

I kept switching from station to station, searching for the latest news, not Janis Joplin.

I worried about my friends who work in Lower Manhattan. “Is Carol, who is a deputy commissioner for New York City, okay? Is she helping with the rescue efforts? Do Phyllis and Henry, who are financial analysts, work near there? I know Paula, who lives on the Upper East Side, is on maternity leave, but where does her husband Drew work?….

“….And my kids. Have they heard? Is school canceled? How is my 8-year-old reacting? He must be terrified. How can I make sense of this for them when I can’t understand it myself?”

All truisms are trite because they are repeated time and again. But life does go on. I am back to my trivial thoughts. I’m planning this year’s Rosh Hashanah The traffic on Rte. 73 is still heavy, and L. L. Bean opened on schedule. Something is still digging up the flowers in my boxes.

But I’ve never again used the phrase “trespassers with murderous intent” about cats.

A VERY DIFFERENT GUEST BLOG

Today’s “guest blogger” is my younger son, Ari. Since the summer of 2007, just before he turned 13, he has attended Camp Ramah, a Jewish overnight camp under the aegis of the Conservative Movement, in Conover, WI. He went to Ramah Wisconsin rather than to the Camp Ramah in the Poconos because the Tikvah (“Hope”) special needs unit in Wisconsin is geared specifically for children and young adults on the Autism Spectrum. For the past two summers (2011 and 2012), he has been in the Atzmaim (“Independence”) unit, for high school graduates. The program’s participants work at jobs in the nearby town of Eagle River while participating in camp activities as members of the staff, living and eating with staff, and learning valuable life skills.

A few weeks ago, we made the trek to camp for visiting day (Philadelphia to Detroit to Green Bay by plane, followed by a 3-hour drive to our motel in Eagle River, and then another 20 minutes to the camp – basically, arrive in the Middle-of-Nowhere, North Woods, WI, turn left, and keep driving). Many staff members, including the camp director and the former director, who is still involved in the camp, visited the parents waiting to enter the camp property. Both the current and former directors came separately to our car and told us the same story:

The previous Friday night, Tikvah and Atzmaim campers led Shabbat evening services, and Ari had been asked by the staff to speak during services about his experiences at camp. (We had known about the honor, as Ari had mentioned it when he had called us the previous Wednesday.) A thunder storm was approaching, so the services were moved from the lake front to an indoor community room. It was crowded and hot, not exactly ideal conditions for speaking without a microphone. During Ari’s remarks, not a sound could be heard in the room. When he finished, 650 people, many with tears in their eyes, gave him a standing ovation.

Here is a copy of his speech. (When necessary, I have translated the Hebrew terms in brackets.       

Shabbat Shalom [Peaceful Sabbath].

Tikvah. This common Hebrew word, meaning “Hope,” has been used all throughout Jewish history. It can be found in so many places that the Israeli national anthem takes the word for its title: HaTikvah. The word has also meant a lot to me in my own life. Six years ago, I came to Camp Ramah in Wisconsin with almost no hope. I had struggled at other summer camps and was pessimistic about my chances for success. In 2007, my father told me that he wanted to send me to an environment that was friendly for people like me. He found the Tikvah program here and as they say: Vizohi Rak Hahatchalah – This was only the beginning.

When I first started Tikvah I was the only person standing in my circle. But during my summers here I began to see myself growing and changing in positive ways. Tikvah helped me make these changes – not by forcing a new perspective on me, but by helping me realize my own potential. It took a growing circle of people here to guide me to that conclusion. The Tikvah tzevet [staff] I had over the years -Ralph Schwartz, Barak Lanes, Joseph Eskin, and especially Daniel Olson -struggled with me in some areas. But for every hard time there was a learning experience for me, and possibly even for them. 

The circle gets bigger with all of the friends who supported me too. They were my Tikvah aidah [unit] mates, of course. They shaped my summers by sharing brilliant ideas for Tikvah Lunch Theaters, and filling my free time with fun antics. They are my friends for life.

The circle is completed by all the Machon aidot [units] that spent their summers with Tikvah. Without Machon ’07, ’08, ’09 and ’10, many fun things like the plays we did, the sports we played, and chaver [friendship] time in particular would not have been nearly as fun.I would like to ask anyone who has ever been in that circle – Tikvah campers, Tikvah staff, and Machon chaverim, past and present – to rise. Na Lakum [Please stand.] *PAUSE* Look how big this circle is! I realize now, six years later, because of all of you, that my time in Tikvah was one of the best times of my life. Na Lashevet. [Please sit.]*PAUSE*

If Tikvah was designed to help me feel comfortable in my own skin, Atzmayim is helping me discover an even bigger circle: the adult world. I was nervous to begin this program because I was so comfortable as a Tikvah camper. After much encouragement from Ralph Schwartz and Margaret Silberman, however, I was willing to give it a shot. I now work at the Olson Memorial Library in EagleRiver, which has friendly staff and provides an easy-going environment. Working at the library really has been a benefit to me, and it helped me get a job at a radio station back home.

My work at the library would not have been as successful without the daily social and job skills class we have led by Scott Rosen. Scott is a very helpful individual who is full of insight and knowledge, and he has helped to fuel my summers in Atzmayim even when I was having a difficult time. Indeed, in both Tikvah and Atzmayim, the tzevet [staff] have been truly exceptional.

On behalf of all members of the Tikvah program – past, present, and future – I would like to conclude by saying that Camp Ramah in Wisconsin has become a large part of all of our lives. The members of this community here have encouraged all of us to make a name for ourselves in the world. I am so proud of my affiliation with CampRamah and have so many moments and memories that I am excited to share with an even bigger audience. Of course, the most important audience is already sitting right in front of me. Todah Rabah L’Kulam Sh’Yoshvim Po [Many thanks to all of you who are sitting here], for making us the people we are today, as well as the people we may become in the future.

Shabbat Shalom.