Bonding Between Males by Kiss and Hug

Here’s a question intended for just male readers. Do you kiss the adult male members of your family (on the cheek, neck or lips)? Do you kiss your close male friends when greeting them or saying goodbye?

I cannot recall if my father did. I’m sure he kissed me when I was young, but did he continue to show such affection after my bar mitzvah, after I was 13 and presumed a man by Jewish custom? I cannot recall. Neither can my brother or sister.

Hugs. I cannot recall him hugging me as an adult. Bearhugs upon greeting or departing are common among men. They show affection beyond a strong handshake. I don’t recall receiving any bearhugs from my father or his brother, the sole survivor of their immediate family’s annihilation in the Holocaust. I don’t recall ever seeing them hug. Or kiss. Or hug or kiss any of their childhood friends from Ottynia who emigrated to America before and after the Holocaust.

Some years ago, at least a decade I would imagine, I became indoctrinated into the custom of kissing while embracing some of my close friends. It was awkward at first. Like my first time driving on the left side of the road in England. We hug. We kiss each other’s cheek or neck in a much more meaningful manner than the peck on the cheek one dispenses to a female friend. 

I don’t hug and kiss all of my dear male friends. They or I sense it would be awkward. Neither party wants to initiate the exchange. So we shake hands firmly. Or just fist bump. 

It was only after I was initiated into the kissing club that I started to kiss and hug my now 40-year-old son and son-in-law. I sense my son is still a little uncomfortable with it. 

I am sure psychologists or relationship therapists could provide explanations why most men have not embraced the kissing embrace. I won’t insult them by offering my analysis. 

I will, however, strongly suggest this world would be a far better and friendlier place if we all did a lot more fraternal, not sexual, hugging and kissing. 

Celebrating a Bar Mitzvah 55 Years Ago Today

Fifty-five years ago today I became a man, at least according to Jewish tradition. I celebrated my bar mitzvah on February 10, 1962.

Like today there was snow on the ground, between three and six inches. It crunched as I walked the three and a half blocks to our Orthodox shul where I was to share the morning’s glory with Mark Fortgang, another 13-year-old I casually knew from the playground of Public School 254 on Avenue Y in Brooklyn. 

Unlike Mark, I attended a Hebrew day school, Yeshiva Rambam. But being a timid fellow, I deferred, as he did, reading from the Torah (the first time I finally read Torah was at our son Dan’s bar mitzvah 29 years later). We split reciting the haftorah while I complemented my transition to adulthood by leading the musaf service, having spent months preparing with our synagogue’s cantor, Willy Cohen, who lived two doors down our block of attached row houses on Avenue W.

My father was so enthralled with my prayer recital that he 

had me audio tape it for friends in Israel. He borrowed a reel-to-reel tape recorder for me to chant into. The tape was converted into records. But when we played the discs before sending them overseas we heard a disturbing background noise. It was the voice of our neighbor Charlie talking on his ham radio set. His transmissions apparently came through our contiguous row house electrical lines. We had previously experienced interference from Charlie on our television set, but this was beyond the pale. There was, however, nothing we could do about it.

Even though it was the dead of winter, the bar mitzvah party began at 9 pm at the Aperion Manor on Kings Highway, the same catering hall where my brother celebrated his bar mitzvah four years earlier. After hors d’Ouvres guests feasted on an appetizer of Sweetbreads Regence with rice followed by roast prime ribs of beef, stringbeans amandine, Idaho souffle and derma Farci (you don’t find stuffed derma, or kishka as it is known in the Yiddish vernacular, on too many bar mitzvah party menus these days). In case you’re wondering how I recall the food selections, it took me a couple of hours but I finally located a copy of the menu inside a box of old photographs.

For the party I wore a rented tuxedo sports jacket, burgundy with black stripes. Very chic. I liked the way I looked. My ears didn’t stick out too far that night. I think I had a good time. Hard to say from the commemorative album, though in all honesty, I and most of my peers were really awkward looking. To the music of the Perry Colen Orchestra, I partnered with Adina Berzon for the first dance, a twist, if I’m interpreting the picture in the album correctly. Upon further review, my ears did stick out. Ah, well …

The Aperion Manor is long shuttered, and so is Yeshiva Rambam elementary school, but the neighborhood I grew up in has mostly stayed the same. The houses are well kept. I have no way of knowing if the residents are predominantly Jewish as they were back in the 1950s and 1960s. My parents’ home was purchased by their next door neighbor, a Greek family. 

A few years ago Gilda and I drove by my parents’ home on our way to Coney Island. As we stopped to survey the street, we were recognized and invited to see how the neighbor had changed the inside of the house. She had modernized the kitchen, the first floor bathroom, and the basement where my brother and I slept as teenagers and where my mother transformed the open layout into a party spot for our sister’s sweet 16. 

Now that Ellie and her family moved from Brooklyn to Omaha more than a year ago, no one from our immediate family lives in Brooklyn. Only memories, almost all good, reside there for me. 

Blame Me for Saturday's Snow and Other Observations

Most of you in the Northeast are probably pretty tired of all the snow this season. I can’t say I’m happy about it but I have to reluctantly acknowledge some responsibility for this weekend’s dumping. You see, snow seems to fall wherever I am when I celebrate the anniversary of my bar mitzvah. 

Even before this February of perpetual snow I could have told you February 21 would be a snow day. February 21 commemorates the Jewish calendar date of my bar mitzvah 53 years ago. The Saturday in Brooklyn in 1962 that I became a man I awoke to snow, maybe three to six inches deep. When I decided to celebrate my bar mitzvah 30 years later in White Plains it snowed 20 inches. 

I had not planned to celebrate my bar mitzvah this year but my brother Bernie intervened. He turns 70 on Tuesday; late last year he decided to commemorate the 57th anniversary of his bar mitzvah on Saturday, February 21. Naturally, Gilda and I traveled down to his home in Rockville, MD, to share the moment, which you might recall from the second paragraph, was actually the true anniversary of my coming of age. Bernie’s real date is next Saturday, but as to why he chose to push up the celebration that’s a story for another time. 

Anyway, snow fell in the Northeast, a dusting in most places except six to 10 inches across the DC metro, where I was, effectively shutting down the region. For those who favor long-term planning for future years, keep in mind my bar mitzvah falls on the portion of the Torah reading titled Terumah (Exodus 25-27). 

Some observations that have been on my mind lately:

New York drivers are becoming more lawless and dangerous. Based on my six times a week drive to and from Manhattan I can report more motorists are going through red lights and more are making left turns from the right lane …

News stations were agog Sunday and Monday with reports the Islamic extremist  group Al Shabaab of Somalia is encouraging attacks on American shopping centers, particularly the Mall of America in Minnesota, similar to what its adherents did at an enclosed mall in Nairobi, Kenya, in 2013. 

Security, naturally, has been heightened, but I wonder if Al Shabaab will pick its targets based on the concealed weapons laws of each state? NRA members no doubt are locking and loading in anticipation of defending the homeland ...

The debate over gay marriage rights elicited a petition against homosexual unions by the Alabama Policy Institute, a group dedicated to “free markets, limited government and strong families,” and the Alabama Citizens Action Program, which promotes an “ethical, moral and responsible lifestyle based on biblical standards.” 

Biblical standards? Does that mean polygamy is okay? Or the public stoning of adulterers? Or arranged marriages only? Or not eating pork? 

Do those groups realize biblical standards often parallel sharia law? 

News of the Last Few Days

Reason to Celebrate: Sorry for the delay in reporting on my jubilee bar mitzvah day last Saturday. You can exhale now—all went well, especially Ellie’s singing. As usual, she emotionally charged the congregation, even bringing one woman to tears, according to our cantor.

As mentioned a few days ago, my secular birth date is March 6, a day I usually have associated with the fall of the Alamo. But thanks to an article in today’s NY Times, I can now relate March 6 to a happier occasion, the anniversary of the first sale by the National Biscuit Company (Nabisco) of an Oreo sandwich cookie in 1912. To control my blood sugar and triglycerides levels I no longer indulge in Oreo binges, but I just might buy a package to put out for the poker game I’m hosting that evening. Hopefully my friends will be kind enough to let me win for a change.


Hearing My Age: Overall, I thought the Academy Awards Sunday night was a feh, or in today’s word, meh, show. No real excitement. If the academy brain trust was trying to convince a younger audience that going to the movies was more special than watching a DVD at home or on your computer, they could have picked actors more readily identifiable with their demographic. Heck, even Adam Sandler, for all his adolescent movie persona, is 45.

As for Billy Crystal, what I could hear of his opening act was okay, but let me be honest, I couldn’t hear half of his lyrics either because he didn’t sing loud enough or the band overwhelmed him. And speaking of the band, the breakaway shots showing the band playing before commercials were really bad.


Playing Hooky: The bar mitzvah weekend was capped by a Saturday afternoon visit from our niece Julie, husband Matt and their children Maggie and Harrison. The kids were interested in playing with Finley who found it fun to be entertained by bigger folk just eight and six years his senior. Maggie, however, soon retreated to the couch and wasn’t feeling up to staying with us during dinner. She felt a little warm so Julie asked if we had a thermometer.

Under the mouth it went. By the time Dan found Finley’s Exergen Temporal Thermometer, the one you scan across the forehead, Maggie’s temperature clicked in at 101.2. The Exergen quickly recorded a temp just 0.1 degrees higher. By the next day Maggie was diagnosed with pneumonia, but she’s doing better today, glad to report.

Meanwhile, the Exergen lived up to its advertised claims as being easy to use and virtually mistake free. A far cry from a temperature-taking incident when Ellie was a little older than Finley’s two and a quarter years. We were using a rectal thermometer back then. Gilda stuck it in and during the three minutes it was supposed to reside in Ellie’s butt, my dear wife fell asleep. So did Ellie. When they awoke about two hours later, Ellie whimpered, “Mommy, the thermometer is still in my tushy.”

Yes, the Exergen Temporal Thermometer would prevent any such mishaps from occurring. But had such technology existed back in the 1980s we might well have missed such classic movies as E.T. and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, as Elliott and Ferris would not have been able to fake their illnesses to play hooky. Off they would have trooped to school.


Passing a Compliment: About 10 days ago Ellie complimented me for being “prolific.” At least I took it as a compliment. Anyway, it’s hard not to find something to write about when there’s so much going on and, with a discerning eye, so much worthy of comment or just simply noting.

Take, for example, a recent headline of an Op-Ed piece in the NY Times: “How to Halt the Butchery in Syria.” How could I not point out the irony of the author’s name: Anne-Marie Slaughter!?!

As long as we’re on the subject of Syria, the plaintive cries for help by those opposed to the Assad regime are heart-rending. But I wonder why it seems the cries are aimed at Western ears when it should be fellow Arabs that should be the first responders. It’s not as if Arab princes and potentates do not have the money or the means to provide relief.


Bottled Up: The economy is said to be improving, but the other day, for the first time in a long time, I noticed someone culling through the recycling bins on our cul de sac looking for redeemable bottles.


Back Page: Okay, after several comments from loyal readers wanting to know why I haven’t written about Jeremy Lin of the Knicks, let me remind people I am not a basketball fan. I did try a few times to see what all the hype was about, but every time I tuned into a game, Lin either was on the bench because the Knicks were way ahead or the Chinese-American sensation was in the middle of a not very productive stretch where he turned the ball over repeatedly and looked just plain overmatched. Still, there’s no denying the Knicks are playing better because of him.

P.S. I hope everyone noticed—no gratuitous Lin-puns.

Bar Mitzvah Jubilee

Tomorrow I will celebrate the 50th anniversary of my bar mitzvah, the coming of age ritual Jews the world over celebrate for 13-year-old boys and, in many communities, for girls, as well. As I did half a century ago, I will wear the tallit, the prayer shawl, my parents bought for me as I chant the haftorah and lead the congregation in the musaf service. I will be just as nervous as I was the first time.

I'm not overly observant, though I think I am spiritual and religious in my own way. But that’s a discussion for another day.

Here's what I remember from that first entry into adulthood: Frustrated trying to buy an off-the-rack suit for me because I was too thin for any to fit, my father took me to a custom tailor not far from his factory on Broadway near W. 4th Street. He picked out two fabrics for sports coats. I didn't like either pattern, but this being late 1961, my truly rebellious days had not kicked in. Besides, I didn't fit into anything ready-made. Every few weeks I would take the subway to Manhattan for another fitting until the jackets were ready shortly before my bar mitzvah day, February 10, 1962 (my sectarian birthday is March 6; according to the Jewish calendar, my birth coincided with the weekly torah reading of Terumah, the segment devoted to the building of the Mishkan, the tabernacle, in the desert. My haftorah portion deals with King Solomon’s construction of the First Temple in Jerusalem).

Though a good Hebrew student, I was not confident in my ability to read from the torah as most bar mitzvah boys did, so I didn’t. Truth is, I suffered from stage fright. Still do, though I’ve learned to overcome most of it, and even enjoy speaking before groups of any size. Singing, however, still gives me the willies. I’ve taken some precautions this time, asking Ellie to sing several prayers.

My father was proud of my performance; he subsequently had me audio tape it for friends in Israel. He borrowed a reel-to-reel tape recorder for me to chant into. The tape was converted into records. But when we played the discs before sending them overseas we heard a disturbing background noise. It was the voice of our neighbor Charlie talking on his ham radio set. Our homes were attached row houses; his transmissions apparently came through our contiguous electrical lines. We had previously experienced interference from Charlie on our television set, but this was beyond the pale. There was, however, nothing we could do about it.

My bar mitzvah party was held at the Aperion Manor on Kings Highway in Brooklyn, the same catering hall where my brother celebrated his bar mitzvah four years earlier. For my party I wore a rented tuxedo sports jacket, burgundy with black stripes. Very chic. I liked the way I looked. My ears didn't stick out too far that night. I think I had a good time. Hard to say from the commemorative album, though in all honesty, I and most of my peers were really awkward looking. I danced the first dance with Adina Berzon, a twist, if I’m interpreting the picture in the album correctly. Upon further review, my ears did stick out. Ah, well...

It snowed the night before my bar mitzvah. Three to six inches. Fifteen years ago when I last sang my haftorah in synagogue it snowed 20 inches. As I mark the jubilee year of my bar mitzvah, it’s not supposed to snow, just rain Friday night, followed by a windy Saturday. My father used to say rain was a good omen when embarking on an auspicious undertaking.