Zimriya

I just returned home from Toronto's Zimriya -- a musical festival that hosts Jewish day school, Jewish high school and Jewish supplementary school choirs. My daughter is in her first year in her school's choir and I hope she continues with it until the cut-off, which is grade 6. To hear and see young children raise their voices in beautiful unity is most special.

Held in an acoustically perfect and beautiful modern concert hall, the Zimriya had a morning performance and an afternoon performance because there are so many outstanding Jewish children's choirs in Toronto. Today's performers all sang the famous songs of Naomi Shemer -- lyrical and lovely.

It was a reason for parents to sit and kvell and videotape or photograph. Or just smile and beam, as I do.

When the audience, together with the choirs en masse, sang "Oh, Canada," "HaTikvah" and "Yerushalayim Shel Zahav," it was as though Jewish angels were opening the gates of heaven. Beautiful and memorable.

http://www.cjnews.com/viewarticle.asp?id=5557&s=1

Writing from the Inner Self

I own a collection, a lovely eye-catching array of bound notebooks, whose pages have been filled over a thirteen year time span. I stopped writing in those books, my journals, the night I got engaged. That was about 11 1/2 years ago. I signed off the last page of the book -- how apropos that I'd reached a last page in a book, while closing off a chapter in my personal life, as well -- with "Chazak, Chazak v'Nitchazek." This is said when you finish reading a book in the Torah, and also start fresh.

Blank books were easily filled. Flowery scrawl dusted the pages with the vibrancy of youth, the streamofconsciousness always there for me. My motto of that time period was: "To read is human, to write is divine."

These days, however, the writing doesn't always flow. I look to my shelf and see a handful of books that are supposed to help me on my way in all matters literary. I have my standard thesaurus, Chicago Manual of Style, Merriam-Webster's dictionary. But then, I also have: The Pocket Muse: Ideas and Inspirations for Writing, by Monica Wood, published by Writer's Digest Books ( a prize I won in a contest) ; The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity by Julia Cameron ( a gift from my brother who tried to ease me on my way to writing); Ideas and Images: A Creative Journal for Authors, Artists and Lovers of Children's Literature, published by the Society of Children's Book Writers and Ilustrators ( a prize for my creative suggestion for a literary contest...of all things!); and lastly I own a book, bought by me in July 1991. It is called Writing from the Inner Self, by Elaine Hughes. It is a book that combines writing with meditation exercises and emphasizes the importance of looking to our inner selves as a source for our writing. The dust jacket reads: "...leads you to delve into your limitless supply of creative material, helping you dip into your memories, feelings, body sensations, observations, and imagination, and make something exist that was not there before."

I'd like to think that I do have a "limitless supply of creative material." Only problem is that the supply forgot to tell me where in Pearl's warehouse it's being stored! I'm waiting for some clues here...

If You Post It They Will Come

"Keep on posting and the readers will come."

So I've been told by a fellow blogger...

Should I believe him?

Taking Attendance

My office building is set in a bit of an industrial area, away from a main thoroughfare. But surprisingly there are some private schools housed within neighboring buildings. One of these schools, a private high school, is situated on the street behind our building, so students use our parking lot for overflow.

Crossing the lot this morning I took attendance of the students' vehicles: Lexus, Mercedes, Mercedes, (yup, two different styles) Volvo, BMW, Audi. It's like a luxury car showroom. I'd like to think that these cars belong to Mom and Dad, not to the kids, and that Mom and Dad demand the keys back at the end of the day.

Of course it is said that "Clothing don't make the man" -- so I'll take that and say that "Cars don't make a person, either." But when I see a 17-year-old driving a Mercedes or Audi, I just think that something is wrong with this picture.

Oh, wait, I see one of the students now getting back into his BMW. And what is that hanging from his mouth -- a cigarette, a lollipop? Oh, nope...it's a silver spoon!

Good Reads, or The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden go Walking Home

As a copy editor working in the trade fiction and genre fiction industry, I have an opportunity to do a lot of reading. As an English major in university -- all those years ago -- I had an opportunity to do a lot of reading. And unfortunately, due to both the school and work reading, I don't have the "cheshek" to do much reading after hours. Of course I love children's books and always will -- it's a pleasure for me to read to my three children and put on animated voices or act out scenes that I read. But in terms of reading books for my own pleasure, that's a rarity.

And for that reason, I'm more than thrilled that I can recommend two excellent reads that caught me and held me captive. They are each rather different from one another, but in the end they're both about the same idea: the human experience and the interaction with others to form that personal experience.

The first book is called The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. It is categorized as young adult historical fiction, but the story is appealing to anyone from age nine to however high you can count. It was written by Robert J. Avrech, an award-winning Orthodox Jewish Hollywood screenwriter -- he co-wrote Body Double with Brian de Palma, and was the screenwriter for A Stranger Among Us. More recently, he won an Emmy Award for his adaptation of the YA novel The Devil's Arithmetic by author Jane Yolen.

The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden is the first release from Seraphic Press, a publishing house started by Robert and his wife, Karen, in memory of their twenty-two-year-old son, Ariel, z"l, who passed away in July 2003 as a result of a long bout with cancer. The publishing house is committed to publishing quality fiction for Torah-observant young people.

I'd love to go into details about the book, but I'd rather you check out Robert's site www.seraphicpress.com or refer to www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com. Just believe me when I say it is a worthy read, and Robert Avrech is a lovely human being -- a true mensch who has undertaken a very valid, time-consuming and life-altering project to help honor the memory of his son. Ariel lives on in the character of the Hebrew Kid. And his spirit lives on in every new literary project that Robert and Karen are planning for Seraphic Press.

Another book that I've had the good fortune of reading and enjoying immensely is called Walking Home, by Gloria Goldreich, and published by MIRA Books, January 2005. Again, I refer you to www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com for story details. But in short, the book is about a young single Jewish woman who reaches a crossroads in her life regarding her job, her family situation, her social life. She has to make some decisions that will change the course of her life, and becoming a dog walker helps her to see things more clearly. It is a very moving story and some readers might recognize pieces of themselves and their friends and family in among the pages. It gets gold stars by me!

I hope that you will take my recommendations and seek out these titles.

After all, quality books by quality writers deserve quality readers as yourselves!

"Adon Olam"

[I'm more than annoyed. I just spent about 15 minutes formulating a blog entry, and somehow it got lost...and is now floating around in cyberspace. If anyone finds it -- there is NO REWARD.]

Earlier today I found myself humming "Adon Olam" and was hit by a recollection from my junior high school years.

I attended the city's largest Jewish day school, a Talmud Torah school, and by grade 6, the boys and girls were separated for most of the Jewish studies classes, including Tefillah.

While in junior high, we had shlichim come from Israel to be our teachers in Jewish studies. They were lovely people who, with their families, had to adjust to their three-year tenures in a new country, in a new climate, in a new school. They also had to adjust to the trials and tribulations of teaching teenagers.

Teenage girls, being hormone-induced, can be downright cruel between the ages of 12-16, and can be very trying on an adult. Such was the case with our Tefillah class in grade 8, I believe it was.

One day, while waiting for our teacher to get to the classroom and lead us in Tefillah, one of the girls started singing "Adon Olam" -- but not to one of the two standard tunes. She sang it to "Jesus Christ, Superstar"! And the words fit to the tune! Other girls started to join in. Now imagine: it's a Jewish day school, a moderately Orthodox Jewish day school, and "Jesus Christ, Superstar" is being sung when the teacher walks in. I recall her yelling at the girls to stop, and having to say it more than once to get them to shut their "pisks". But these girls found it a challenge... And in a Tefillah class the next week, one of them piped up with "Adon Olam" sung to the tune of "Rock Around the Clock" as done by Bill Haley & the Comets. Somehow the teacher managed to control the class, but I can only imagine what an earful her husband would get at night when she came home after teaching.

Having witnessed these "new" versions of "Adon Olam," I tested out the theory that you could sing "Adon Olam" to the tune of nearly any song -- I sang it to Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue"; to "Killing Me Softly" by Roberta Flack; to " Yellow Submarine" by the Beatles. Somehow the theory hasn't failed me yet.

Why not try for yourself. Find a favorite and familiar R & B tune, pop song, Broadway showtune, or Hassidic melody and adapt "Adon Olam" to it. And if doesn't work...? [shrug] ....well, at least you'll have made some beautiful music -- to your ears!

A Mitch Albom Story

Jewish World Review Feb. 1, 2005 /22 Shevat, 5765
He was alive, but saw ghosts
By Mitch Albom


A few years back, a friend named Sonya told me about her father, who survived the Auschwitz death camp but lost everything else, including his young wife and 2-year-old son. He had come to America after the war, started a new life, a new family, worked into his old age as a sign maker in Detroit.

"He reads your column," Sonya said. "He'd like to meet you."

I promised it would happen, then, of course, never followed up. Now and again, she would mention it, and I'd say, "Oh, sure, sure, let's make the time," but again, I fell short.

Last month, in the empty days between Christmas and New Year's, I finally went to see Sonya's father. At this point, he was in a nursing home, having broken his collarbone after falling on the way to the bathroom. His body was thin, almost skeletal, a boy's body under the sheets, but his face, round yet bony, thin lips, narrow eyes, revealed the weariness of a tortured life.

"Hello, I'm — "

"I know who you are," he said, smiling, his voice weak.

He was 91. Or 89. No one is sure. It really doesn't matter. Once I heard his story, it was clear that the remarkable thing about Harvey Vinton wasn't how long he lived, but that he lived at all.
He was born Chaim Weinstein in a small Polish town, and his real first name, in Hebrew, means "life." Yet from birth it seemed that name was to be tested. Three days after he came into this world, his mother died. He grew up poor, raised by his grandmother. In time he married and had a son of his own. He was a fine artist and found work as a sign painter and monument carver. Thanks to beautiful penmanship — today you would call him a calligrapher — several shops in his hometown welcomed customers beneath his handiwork.

Then the Nazis invaded Poland. Jews were rounded up, humiliated, forced to wear yellow stars, earmarked, by Adolf Hitler, for murderous extermination. One evening, Chaim was returning from work when his train was stopped by German soldiers. He never made it home. Never saw his wife or son again. They were butchered in one concentration camp, he was taken to another, then another, then another. Before the Nazis were done with him, he was a prisoner in 11 different pits from hell.

Auschwitz was the last.

There he slept inches away from other Jewish prisoners who, like him, were kept so hungry and filthy you could scrape lice from their arms as if rubbing off sand from the beach. At night, he might whisper a few words to someone, and in the morning, find that person stiff and dead. Corpses were everywhere; no one hurried to take them away. To reach the toilet — which was only a piece of wood — he had to waddle through ankle-deep human waste. He was weak to the point of collapse, every day, because there was no real food, only rotted scraps and potato peelings. And these were the quiet moments, before the sun woke the Nazi guards and their daily torture commenced.

The purpose of the death camps was to wipe out the Jews entirely, and Chaim was put to work on various tasks, sometimes digging ditches for the bodies of his slaughtered camp mates. Dead Jewish corpses were stacked everywhere, women, infants, old men, waiting to be tossed into a pit. Some of them, Chaim remembered, were still gasping, still alive in a pile of death. He yearned to help them. What could he do? Their minutes were numbered. His, too, he thought.

But Chaim survived. He survived with his hands. The Nazis, having discovered his unique penmanship, used him to write letters. They used him to paint signs or portraits in their houses. He was a possession for the officers, a Jew with a talent, and so, even though the guards would sometime sic the dogs on him, allowing them to chew his legs and chomp on his arms, they didn't let him die. They always pulled him out and used him elsewhere. In this way, he lived when most everyone else died. It was, for the rest of his days, his blessing and his curse.

One winter day in 1945, Auschwitz was liberated by Russian soldiers, and an emaciated Chaim found himself alone in a strange village. People were saying, "You're free. Go." He stepped into the street. The sky began to spin. Then he collapsed.

He woke up in a hospital, stricken with typhoid fever. It was a disease that killed nearly everyone who had it. But true to his name, Chaim lived through it. He was sent to another camp, this one for displaced persons. He met a woman there. They married.

A few years later he came to America.

A holocaust, for those who survive it, might be past tense, but it is never the past. Through his years in Detroit, through his 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s, Chaim Weinstein — who changed his named to Harvey Vinton out of fear that his Judaism would mark him again — woke up screaming. He had horrible dreams. He had dark, sullen moments. He couldn't help but tell his story to family or dinner table company, often to the point where someone would say, "Enough, stop."
Stop? If only it would stop. He read incessantly about the Holocaust, the death camps, as if studying might yield some answers, some peace. He watched documentaries. He watched "Schindler's List." He retained his skill at drawing and calligraphy, but he never allowed himself to truly practice his talent. His love of art had been corrupted by the Nazis, as had his sleep, his memories, even his name. He was alive, but he saw ghosts.

Last year, Harvey fell into a coma. The reasons are still unclear. But when he came out of it, four days later, he spoke of an epiphany. He said he had been watching a TV program on the Animal Planet network when something came over him.

"The way those animals interact, the intricacies, the details," he told his daughter. "How could there not be a G-d?"

From that point forward, he seemed a changed man. Smiles came more easily. His voice and tone were calmer. He stopped talking about wanting to die, although he insisted he was "ready."
And, as it turns out, he was.

When I saw him, he was terribly weak. He spoke only of his shattered collarbone, his love for books and his mother, whom he never met but whose photograph was on the bedside table, as if to study her face for an upcoming reunion.

"I don't know how much longer I'm gonna be here," he said, not worried, not sad, as if he were simply curious about the schedule. Before I left, he thanked me no fewer than five times for coming.

Chaim Weinstein/Harvey Vinton died this month, on Jan. 5. He was found in a bathroom, unconscious, and expired minutes later on the bed in which I saw him. He missed, by a few weeks, the 60-year anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. Perhaps he didn't need the reminder.

But we do. We need to go to the nursing homes, to the senior centers. We need to hear the stories that are slowly being silenced by age and decay. A child of Auschwitz would now be 65 or 70. An adult prisoner would be approaching 90. The mantra Jews recite for their 6 million Holocaust victims is "never forget." But to do that, we must never stop hearing the story.

Be at peace, Chaim Weinstein. I should have come sooner.

The Plum Tree

The following is a poem that was written by me several years ago, and published in a Passover literary supplement of our national Jewish community newspaper. I'd originally started writing an essay about the 50th anniversary of my father's arrival in Canada in 1949, but as all writers know, literary intentions often take a road less traveled. Such was the tangent my writing took that day.

I am very proud of this poem, which was in print, and which I've also presented at two local poetry readings, one of them for a Holocaust-related arts presentation produced by the Simon Wiesenthal Center's Canadian division.

One day I hope/plan to convert this poem into a children's book for young or middle readers.


THE PLUM TREE

i.

Young boy – a son and brother –
You are a mentor and protector
to so many.
Uprooted at an early age –
father deceased, mother struggling to raise
a young family.


ii.

The streets of your village
are awash with scholars
who study with the great rebbe –
Talmud, Mishnah, Chumash, Halacha.
You peer through the dusty cheder windows,
longing to join them.
You are too young yet.
And yet, you are too old…
The branch that your mother
and siblings cling to for support.
You must bear fruit for the others,
and labor to do so.


iii.

Nature can be merciless at times,
giving and then taking away,
wiping out traces of life and beauty.
In time, a dreadful storm comes,
wiping out that cheder, that village…
your dear ones.


iv.

But you, thank God,
have been able to root temporarily
in other places.
And slowly, slowly, you awaken
after that harsh, stormy winter.
Weakened, you are warmed by the sun;
your fragility begins to heal.
And you are replanted yet again.


v.

A husband. A father.
A mentor and protector once more.
You move silently into your verdant garden and kneel,
shovel and soil beside you.
You recall Leviticus 19:23.
“And when you arrive in the land,
plant all manner of fruit trees…”


vi.

You are giving back to the earth,
Enriching it with new life. A plum tree.
Roots clinging to the cool earth, the tree grows,
flourishes…its branches strong.
Over time it bears fruit, and more fruit.
You harvest from its sweet gifts –
again and again,
repeating the cycle each year.

And you remember your roots…


vii.

“And he shall be like a tree planted by
the rivers of water,
that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;
his leaf also shall not wither;
and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.”

Psalms 1:3

Things That Make You Go "Hmmmm...."

In having a conversation today with my soon-to-be five-year-old, I was explaining family relationships, and that made me think back to my childhood.

Just like I have two boys and a girl, I am part of a similar equation. At some point in my early school years, it hit me: How come I can only say "I have two brothers" but my brothers could each say "I have one brother and one sister"? I thought something was wrong there -- I felt somewhat cheated; they had one of each! It's something that made me say, "Hmmmm...."

Another thing that I've always said "Hmmmm...." about has to do with the travel ad campaign for the Bahamas. IT'S BETTER IN THE BAHAMAS. Okay, I wondered. Better than what? Better than Mexico, better than ice cream, better than winning a lottery? Give me some clues here? But the Bahamas Tourist Office never did.

And when I was very young, I took things very literally. For example, I thought "horseback riding" meant riding backwards on a horse. Worse than that, I thought that an orchestra conductor raised his baton, and based on how he moved it around, is how the orchestra played. I never realized they had the music in front of them on stands. I also remember being young, staring up at the clouds in the sky and looking for Hashem's throne. I pictured him, perhaps like a mall Santa Claus, sitting way up high and looking down on the world. And to that end, when I was in the schoolyard, I'd look up and think: "How can Hashem be looking down on me here, while looking down on my parents at my house?"

I still often look at things, my head askew, with the natural curiosity of a young child -- but this child is forty-three these days! -- and say "Hmmmm....."

Auschwitz Remembered Sixty Years Later, and Thus...A Blog of Silence

I Am a Lifetime Member of the Rat Pack -- oops, I Mean Brat Pack -- oops, I Mean Pack Rats!

Yes, 'tis true -- I am a lifetime member of a special club: The Pack Rat Club. Whatever my status -- single or married, young or old, daughter, wife or mother -- I have been a member in good standing for well over three decades.

Lookin' for a Fiddler on the Roof Broadway show ticket from August 25, 1990? Yes, I have it. Seeking that university essay on "Biblical Imagery in THE STONE ANGEL"? Yup, I've got that, too. I even have a list of favorite boys' names and girls' names that I compiled many many years ago, names that I thought that I might one day name any children that I might have. I think at least one of those names got picked when I gave birth.

I have all, and I mean ALL, the letters that were received from an American penpal while I was in my early to mid-teens. Maybe I have to thank G-d that the friendship (which averaged two letters per month) fell by the wayside after a few years. Who knows? I might've had to add an exclusive "letter room" to my house.

Is being a pack rat a sickness, an obsession, a form of entertainment or just a conversation piece? I don't know -- I've always just thought myself to be nostalgic, or called myself a sentimental fool.

Over the past few years, along with my husband's help and some heavy-handedness on my part, I've learned to comb through my "treasures," salvage what is REALLY important, and discard the rest.

I'm actually one of those moms who has kept EVERY little piece of art that my children brought home, not displaying every piece on the fridge door, mind you, but stashing the creativity in a bag. But those bags accumulated -- what with having three children -- so with hubby's help I saved "the best" and tossed the rest. SO who cares if I have 3 mock seder plates, or 3 Megillat Esthers, or 3 "Bruchim HaBaim" signs for my sukkah. Only problem? These days I have to find which bag I stored them in!

Yes, I'm still a member of this not-so-exclusive club, but I'm not keeping up so much with the other lifetime members; I don't go to so many of their meetings anymore, either. If I did, I'd just have to save the programs...and who's got room for those!?

**********************
Just a little poll:
If anyone out there has been reading this, do you think I have some start-up material here for a personal essay to be submitted to a daily newspaper? I'd up the humor, up the examples, etc. Would you find such a piece entertaining to read in a local or national newspaper?

Grab a Snack at the Blogeteria

I try to be simple but eloquent in what I say in my blog; I cannot spout politics or Halacha or too much about psychology or current events, so I try to keep things simple. Perhaps it sounds as if I'm pussyfooting around and being very cautious in what I tend to say, thus keeping private matters private, and maintaining a reasonally low profile in the blogging world. But I am content enough with my pearlies of wisdom.

But, man, have I been reading some "let it all out" entries that people feel the need to relay. Not everyone uses discretion, "shmirat lashon" or fine-tuning with their words. They let it all hang out! Of course, I don't have to choose to read these blogs, but some of them seem to draw readers in with their "shmutzy" tones, or revelation of family secrets, or their promiscuity. You can go from reading blogs that sound staid and idyllic to blogs that go deep behind the scenes...scenes I don't think anyone really needs to read about.

And I've learned about the underworld of bloggers -- the black (mad) hatters, the velvet kippot keepers, the wanna-lose-their-sheitel types -- in essence the ultra-Orthodox who have had it up "to there" with being fed Halachic truths, and maintaining lifestyles that are "yashar, yashar". These folks have discovered an outlet for their frustrations, their confusion, their anger and disgust with all they've been taught.

It is sad to read about these people who, in some shape or another are leading double lives as frummies to those around them, but are beginning to feel more secular in their hearts. In a way I'm pleased that they've found the blogging outlet a wonderful tool to use to rant about their disillusionment with Yiddishkeit, but I also feel sad that many people reach that point in their lives...and those closest to them do not even realize it. Instead, these people have to use mass media as a tool, and anonymous readers as an audience to help strengthen their belief of disbelief.

I will not name these bloggers, I will not point a finger, but I wish them all much strength to either come back to the path of the righteous, or continue on their path to....?

In Search of ... What?

So my deadlines for freelance writing and copy editing have passed. I met the deadlines and could then breathe a heavy sigh of relief, generally pleased with my output, my ability to correct the work of others as well as my own.

But now there are no immediate turnaround dates looming over my head -- no reference books to confer with, no style sheets to keep, no red pencils to sharpen or Post-its to write on. There are no word counts to try and adhere to, no reworking of sentences "just one more time," no accompanying letters to write to the editor.

Zip, nada, "kloom"!

And you know what, folks? I feel at somewhat of a loss. I don't quite know what to do with myself with this "free time." Of course, I have a family to look after, and I do, but after they've gone to bed, for once I, too, can go to bed. I don't have to lay out manuscript pages on the dining room table in just the right order, I don't have to lug out Webster's and Chicago Manual of Style from their places on an upstairs shelf, I don't have to put on my thinking cap, which I already discarded when I walked in the door after work!

I do have a story that I've been asked to write -- and I promised that I could only TRY to do so. Not because I don't have the time, but because I haven't written a short story since my teens probably. And believe me, that's quite a number of years ago! So I have the brilliant idea that's been given the green light; it's now just a matter of executing it, playing with the idea, shaping it and reshaping it till it feels just right.

So why am I addressing my blog instead of confronting head-on the short story, "The Face in the Mirror"?

Isn't It Funny?

I work in book publishing. I enjoy reading. I also write -- and sometimes publish -- poetry primarily.

Isn't it funny then -- not as in "ha-ha," but as in a great coincidence -- that the first poem I ever shared with the public eye was a submission for a literary contest put out by our public library. That poem, so simplistic as it was written by an eight-year-old, won 1st prize in my age category and was posted for all the library patrons to see. My prize? A lovely book.

I guess I've definitely met my calling: books, writing and publishing poetry...and considering myself a winner every day -- in every way!

What Would the Poskim Say?

This happened to me many years ago when I was much younger and not as enlightened. I will relay the situation, and I'd appreciate reading any follow-up Halachic insights or firm answers.

In my middle teen years, I once went to use an ATM that was in a supermarket. (Perhaps I should say that the supermarket is located in a neighborhood, surrounded by many apartment buildings in which senior citizens live.) I put in my card, requested $20 and when the money was spit out, I received my $20 PLUS another $60. The withdrawal slip only showed that $20 had been removed from my account.

I was somewhat stunned but looked around the machine on the floor to see if there were any dropped withdrawal slips, thinking that perhaps someone had dropped it and forgotten to take their money. The money had been spit out with mine; it was not in the slot when I started my transaction.

I didn't know what to do -- I'm an honest person by nature, but sometimes suspicious, and thought that if I go to the store manager and explain the situation, he might just pocket the money for himself and not contact the bank whose machine it is in his store. But then again, might one of the pensioner seniors have somehow left it behind? Or was the ATM just malfunctioning and it was my lucky day...and perhaps I should go back for some more good luck later in the day, and treat the ATM like a winning slot machine?

I took my $20 and that $60 and went home. I put away the "found" money and didn't use it for a long time. I can't remember if I used it all for personal reasons or perhaps gave some tzedaka with it.

I did get a response from a learned cousin of mine years later when I posed the question. If I recall correctly, I was told that it was sort of "open territory" money -- didn't really belong to the bank, so I was able to claim it for myself. Which I had done.

But as you can tell, I've never forgotten that experience, and still wonder about the rights and wrongs of it. If anyone can advise, thank you.

The Five-Year Plan...Not!

Life is funny -- you make schedules, you make plans, you book appointments, you chart routes both literally and figuratively. And you try to maintain those schedules, follow through with those plans, keep those appointments and try not to get lost when you take those decided-upon routes.

I know people who prepare budgets, discuss future schools for their t00-young children, simchas for their too-young children, vacations for themselves, home-improvement ideas for the exterior and interior of their home -- these are people with a five-year plan.

Is there something wrong with me if I don't have that kind of plan? If I can't make that kind of plan? I can't even plan for next week, or next month or later in the year -- how can I plan for the next five years?

Our shul requires families to book with deposit a bar mitzvah three years in advance because of competitive popularity of this particular shul -- how can I know three years prior, when my son is ten years old, what kind of/quality of simcha we'll be having, therefore which of the shul's several social halls I will want to use, whether or not my son will read the whole parsha or just haftorah, or even if we'll still be living in the area and attending that shul?

A lottery. The bar mitzvah dilemmas in the shul are settled by a lottery. Remember that infamous short story "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson...? Not sure I want to partake in this bar mitzvah lottery. Why, what am I -- a rebel with a CLAUSE!?

I'm always being told by people around me, "Pearl, gotta remember... zrizut." [expedience, speediness] In other words, adhere to the motto "The early bird catches the worm." I don't like worms and I'm not in the mood to catch any. So does that make me a bad person?

I've learned from personal experience that even the best-made plans encounter glitches -- life gets in the way. Whether it be due to illness or something far worse, whether it be due to acts of nature, whether it just be due to cold feet on your or someone else's part, "things don't always go according to plan."

So there you have it. In that cliche. Proof that I shouldn't make a five-year plan -- so why is everyone else not listening?

A Note from a Friend

This is an English language web site that describes a very sad, yet moving chapter inTaiwan's history -- about a Hsinchu husband and father during the White Terror period who had to hide from the government police -- for 18 years, hiding in a small space between two walls in his brother's home. Read it and weep! History is worth remembering....

http://shihruchen.blogspot.com

Deadlines, Deadlines

HELP! I'm trapped in deadline land. For over four weeks I've known about deadlines that I have -- to do freelance editing and freelance writing. Yes, I worked on my assignments, a little at a time; my spare time is limited, after all! I could have done more earlier; I should have done more earlier.

As a writer/editor, I wait for that creative muse to find me and hit me over the head. Sometimes she's busy with other folks, and can't get to me so fast. Other times, she's got the address, but just can't find me for the flurry of paperwork atop my desk, or the piles of "stuff" that block her way -- that might be a laundry basket, some unwashed dishes, coats that need to be hung up... But when we do meet up, often it's with that too-soon-for-comfort turnaround date looming over my head.

In this case, that date happens to be tomorrow! Will I get to sleep tonight, or will I have to take work off tomorrow to meet that deadline? Have I done as fine a job as I can possibly do with these two assignments? Time will tell. If I'm able to link you to my article in a future blog, I'll know that everything worked out okay...even if it was somewhat stressful to get there. And if my freelance editing piece passes muster, then all is good "in my book."

Walkin' the Dog

We moved into a new neighborhood not all that long ago; it wasn't because we were "movin' on up" -- we'd already had a lovely large home, not a starter home by any means. But we moved for our children to be closer to their school, to their friends, to a good shul that offered appropriate programs for them. Isn't it only normal for all parents to do things for their children's betterment?!

Lucky us, we managed to buy and move into a beautiful neighborhood that has some VERY EXPENSIVE, UPSCALE homes -- our home is one of the older -- and cheaper -- ones, but land around us is still being developed, and the nearby golf course is not being parceled off for that, thank goodness.

Anyhow, when we moved, His Royal Pug Highness, Tyson Pugsley, of course moved with us. Not only were we in a new neighborhood, so was this king of the canines! There were new trees, new mailboxes, new fire hydrants to sniff out. New routes to plan out. New parks to check out. He wasn't complaining one bit -- there were lots of new doggie pals for him to power walk with. But let me tell you, power walking with a dog is not the same thing as power walking with a person. You attempt to walk, and he uses everything in his power to stop you short in your tracks, with him at the other end of the leash, doing his thing.

But one of the nicest things for me is to be able to go out into this residential neighborhood in the early morning or in the latest of night, and walk, and feel safe, and not have to look twice over my shoulder or around the corner. Sometimes I meet another female midnight dog walker, and I think that she, too, is fearless. We're not pushing our luck here by doing the late-night solo stroll, we're just lucky to be able to do it SAFELY in our neighborhood!

It's 12:30 in the morning now, and I think I'll go take Tyson out for a breath of fresh air. Anyone care to join us...?

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