Category: personal

Chanukah Latke Adventure

My Potato Head, Frenchy, Monsieur Pommes Frites, Pomme de Terre Tête controls Hanukah at Duckpond. He supervises the LATKES from start to finish. Then …

So, when I opened the bag of potatoes and he saw potato blight, he went nuts. These potatoes could not be grated. They were soft and mushy. He went nutsy cuckoo.


Off to Publix. With many watching, he wandered into the potato bin and made his selections. He felt them and talked with a few. I had the charge card.

Signed, sealed and delivered. I paid. I carried him. I carried the precious cargo: the potatoes.

What a happy camper. He was ready. Add a menorah, a dreidel, and some chanukah gelt and we were ready. Then he did a “ready for my closeup, Mr. Demille.”

Happy Chanukah.

 

Burlington VT Knows Hate

Ohavi Zedek Synagogue in Burlington VT was the site of an anti-semetic attack in 2009. First they went to Temple Sinai. Then they went to the Chabad. Everyone knew about it and few came, not Peter Welch, not Bernie Sanders, and not Pat Leahey. Miro Weinberger, the Mayor, a Jew, also passed. I went and cried, too upset to even make a lot of photos. And I can still hear the kid yelling hateful slogans he didn’t know the meaning of and had been taught to say.

My friend Stan Greenberg, who is blind, said he came to “Bear Witness” and to protect the shul against evil thoughts. He brought his dog, Ernie. “They’ll come through me,” he said. “I’m not moving.”

Clowns who follow the haters made fun, showing the absurdity. But as good intentions as they had, the stench of the haters and the sound of their chants could be smelled and heard. Nothing could make it go away.

Rabbi Joshua closed the Thrift Shop. He went back to his study. No mitzvahs today.

We try to live in peace, but we have little to do with what others do. We try to do our best to be kind and giving, to be thoughtful and loving. But sometimes it don’t work. Killing those who would kill you first may be morally correct, but killing those who haven’t had a chance to live and don’t know why they are dying and cannot do anything about it, never is.

 

 

 

No Thanksgiving

Not that Thanksgiving was ever one of my favorite holidays, but today’s Thanksgiving hurts more than any and means less. The deaths in Israel and Gaza of innocent people, old and young alike, leaves me bereft. I grieve mightily for the losses on both sides and the absence of dignity and purpose in the entire affair.

My heart breaks for the living, as well as the dead, parents, siblings, friends, associates. I cannot imagine what it feels like to have lost someone or not to know if someone was lost. The sorrow and sadness keeps me awake at night, despite feeling personally safe and despite not personally knowing anyone who died. I see the destruction in my dreams and hear the cries. I can smell the fetid air and taste the pollution on my tongue. No one feels safe and everyone knows it.

I know the pain of isolation and aloneness, the despair of not having family or friends, of being hated. I never learned to hate, though I did learn to be hated. I learned love through my wife. No god ever shined countenance on me or gave me peace and no hater ever said they were sorry or tried to renew a friendship or family relationship. My life was destroyed, but I got to leave with my head up, some trinkets and a spouse. Where do they go and with whom.

Stripped of my career, legacy and heritage, I was left only with my self-esteem and a loving, caring wife. At least I had that. What will they have: more fear of annihalition, complete destruction, obliteration. Who will care for them in sickness and in health? Who will they trust to protect them?

No one will come to our table to share a harvest feast. We don’t eat turkey or tell the story of the Native American Wampanoag people. There will be no arguments about who made the best stuffing or gravy and no collapses on the couch to watch football games. Just some Osso Bucco and a glass or two of red “whine”.

I can only hope that tomorrow some hostages on both sides are released.

Passport Renewal

Not that we are going anywhere, but our passports needed renewal because we had run out of blank pages. How do you like that? We had been to so many places that required a stamp, that we didn’t have enough pages if we travelled again.

Sadly, I had to send in the passport to get a new one. I didn’t make a copy of the pages to remind me where I have been. I can remember, but who knows for how long. And, at 76, this is probably my last passport. Perhaps they will return it and I will have to rely on my fading memory.

But the best thing was making the photos, pictured above to use. They provide a list of requirements: size, color, pose, lighting, background, expression, attire. They also provide a crop tool.

To fill out the application on your computer, you need Adobe Acrobat. I downloaded it, gave them a credit card, and got a clean copy so no-one could complain about my handwriting. Today, I will have to cancel my 7 day trial (why doesn’t AARP have a discount for this?).

I used my studio lights and a white backdrop. Printed on my semi-professional printer. Cut on a paper cutter and used an exacto blade on the edges. The final results will be mailed to the Government and copies stored in my portfolio.

This saved me no money, because …. But it did save me a trip to UPS or Staples or a photog. Now, I just have to deal with the anxiety of having my pictures rejected for some technical reason like the wrong size, expression, lighting or clothing.

Neurosurgery Counter Service

So, as we age, so does our back, maybe faster than our brains. Pain, pain, pain from every step. Stairs always a challenge. Getting up. Sitting down. X-rays. Rolling over in bed. Putting on pants. Wiping my ass.

CAT Scans. MRIs (a real joy for those of us with claustrophobia). How about an epidural? And there is always a surgical option. Want some pills. No, I drink for pain relief.


Every step of the way, Sharon sat next to me. It was as if she was the patient, asking questions, feeling the pain, sharing my emotions. Even though she has her own problems, nothing would make her happier than knowing I wasn’t as disabled as I am.

Dr. Brett Schlifka informed her, as if she was the patient. And, she did her own independent research. Great teammate.Great doctor. Smart. Caring. Talented. Likes his patients.

I learned what I could learn, rejecting the shots and surgery, accepting the suggestion to do physical therapy. Rejecting the opioids; living with the pain. So far, so good. Call me back, Brett said the other day. “Call when you need me.”

A back is a back. I have spinal stenosis. Have to be careful. Don’t fall. Maintain my posture. Respect my limitations. The only good thing about living in FL is the pool. And my life, not worth living without Sharon.