Fear and Shame Expunged Amid the Candlelight

The Friday New York Times ran a picture and promotional message about the lighting of the “world’s largest menorah” on Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn.  I thought about going with Gilda and eight-month-old granddaughter Cecilia to the Hanukkah celebration. Why not? We were scheduled to babysit and Cecilia lives close by, perhaps a half mile from the ceremony site. So why not go?

Then I thought about San Bernadino and I was ashamed. Ashamed to think I was ready to concede my freedom to terrorists. Ashamed that I was ready to alter my way of life because crazy people perpetrate obscene, crazy, lethal acts. Ashamed because I was ready to forget that life’s end can be random even without terrorists. Walking across West 43rd street in Manhattan Saturday night I was almost struck by a car. Should I not cross streets any more? Should I let my fears, my caution, overwhelm and negate my right to assemble peacefully to worship? Or attend a concert or sports event? Or just go out to eat or shop? How different was I from those who responded to a Times request for readers to convey how their lives have changed since terror entered our daily psyche: http://nyti.ms/1lzG0mF

Cecilia saved me from having to make a decision. Her bedtime presented a conflict neatly timed to keep me indoors in a neighborhood where unlike sections of Brooklyn just miles away stray bullets piercing windows and killing innocents are not the norm.

Still I was ashamed.

Hanukkah celebrates the victory of the few over the many, the victory of a separate culture over the homogenization sought by a dominant power. If there were any time to show the invincibility of that ideal, a time to visibly show the terrorists that we cannot be cowed into retreat into our safe caves, Sunday night at Grand Army Plaza would have been it.

In the end, Cecilia expunged my shame. Her afternoon nap lasted longer than normal. When she awoke we bundled her into her stroller, met up with Ellie and Donny in Prospect Heights and walked back to their Park Slope home past Grand Army Plaza with the celebration in full swing, if you can call an address from the Brooklyn borough president part of a celebration. We didn’t linger, but we were part of the hundreds gathered to commemorate freedom. 

Let the Gift-Giving Begin

With the lighting of the first Hanukkah candle tonight, the annual gift-giving holiday season officially begins, not to end until Kwanza arrives one day after Christmas. Our material world seemingly knows no bounds.

I’m no innocent in this gorgefest of trinkets, toys and trifles. I have a primal need to acquire, though I must say that since retirement I have vastly curtailed my personal material gluttony. I used to enjoy visiting stores not just because it was part of my job but also because I would go on a quest to find something to indulge my desires. Now I mostly relieve my bank account of extra cash by buying “stuff” for our kids and their mates, our grandchildren, grand nieces and grand nephews. 

We overindulge Finley and Dagny, buying eight days’ worth of presents for each for Hanukkah. To be honest, it’s a lot easier choosing presents—clothing aside— for four-year-old Finley than 17-month-old Dagny. Aside from buying for the second child who already has access to Finley’s stash of goods, it’s tough tiptoeing through the minefield of gender neutrality when it comes to toys for a young girl. 

If you haven't been following it, most recently spurred by Goldieblox’s controversial use of a parody of the Beastie Boys song “Girls” (http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/11/27/toy-company-pulls-beastie-boys-song-from-viral-video/), there's been quite a lively discussion on gender neutrality when raising a child. It's part of the overall debate on whether environment or heredity has more sway in a child's development. Last December, The NY Times ran an Op-Ed piece on gender-based toy marketing (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/23/opinion/sunday/gender-based-toy-marketing-returns.html?_r=0), followed by an interesting Letter to the Editor from a woman from Tarpon Springs, FL, which I will reproduce here: 

“I once thought that biological gender preferences were ‘ridiculous’ until I raised a girl and a boy born in 1983 and 1990, respectively. I raised my children — to the best of my feminist knowledge — without stereotypes and with a minimum of television.        

“But as a toddler, my daughter would mostly ignore the cars and trucks and spend hours with the dolls, while my son, seven years later, would discard within minutes his sister’s leftover dolls and find the cars and trucks — and most disconcertingly, form a gun with his pointer and thumb and shoot at things. His drive for toy guns, swords and light sabers knew no bounds, yet he has always been sweet and gentle.        

“The fact that toy marketers tap into biological preferences does not necessarily mean that we are being pushed back into an ‘unequal past’ or homophobia or ‘gender conformity.’

Our experience in raising Ellie parallels the author’s. Gilda was determined to avoid imprinting any feminist mystique into Ellie’s brain. She’d be raised as gender neutral as we could. No Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty stories for her, nothing to suggest that it would take a Prince Charming to fulfill her destiny. Ellie could play with any of her older brother’s toys, be they trucks or blocks, balls or Legos. She would not be given dolls, for sure no Barbies. 

Ellie did play with Dan’s toys, but it was obvious to Gilda’s friends she lacked a certain joie de vivre. At Ellie’s third birthday they took matters into their own hands, bestowing on her a torrent of dolls and frilly accessories. Ellie immediately transformed into a happy princess.   

Yule Be Sorry Edition

Pity the poor celebrant who is allergic to Christmas. Trees, that is. That tannenbaum—a real one, not an artificial evergreen—standing majestically in the corner of the living room carries mold and other allergens into the house, making sniffling or wheezing as common a holiday sound as carolers singing before your front door (at least in my Frank Capra version of the wonderful life we all live). 

Oh, and let’s not forget allergies also can be triggered by stress. Few times of year are more stressful than the end of year holidays. Notice I didn’t single out Christmas. As if they didn’t need more tsuris in their lives, Jews get agita from picking the right Hanukkah presents for their loved ones and from having to fight crowds in stores. The Chosen People don’t all buy at wholesale. Some of those fantastic retail discounts really are worth the ride to the shopping center. 

Of course, getting to the store is among the most dreaded activities. Today, for example, is a gridlock alert day in New York City. Moreover, according to a Consumer Reports online survey of 1,100 consumers, 40% rated “aggressive, thoughtless driving in parking lots” as among their most dreaded aspects of the Yuletide season. It trailed only “crowds, long lines” at 58% and “weight gain”, 41%. (Totals exceeded 100% because multiple responses were allowed.) 

Consumer Reports also found “60% of shoppers would rather receive cash as a present than a gift card. And 8-in-10 would rather receive something practical over something ostentatious as a gift.”

By the way, as irksome as seasonal music can be to some, only 14% said it bothered them, just slightly more than the 12% who said they dreaded “seeing certain relatives.”

One aspect of the holiday the CR survey did not measure was annoying commercials. Today I heard for the umpteenth time a spot for Hoodie-Footie pajamas, “the most talked about gift” of the year. For sure it was most talked about, given all the ad time the company has bought. It’s doubtful anyone but someone paid to talk about the hoodie-footie is talking about it.

I also have problems with an ad for a not-so-typical Christmas gift, that of an electric garage door opener. LiftMaster is advertising the ability to remotely access your garage from anywhere in the world just in case you realize from afar  your need to open or close your garage door. Don’t bother wondering why you could be halfway around the world before realizing your garage door may be open. Wonder instead why you are so detached from society that you don’t have a relative or friend who lives nearby whom you would not trust with your garage door code. 

Recalling Bike Helmets

One of the more exciting gifts our grandson Finley received for Hanukkah from his aunt Caitlin (Allison’s sister) was a helmet to wear while riding the tricycle she gave him for his second birthday a month earlier. He loves wearing it as he scoots around the basement. He even makes his parents wear their helmets as they watch him. I can’t tell you what brand it is, but I was immediately concerned when I saw a news release last week about a bicycle helmet recall because of the risk of head injury. I was concerned for good reason, as both our children survived nasty crashes.

Ellie’s head-over-handlebars tumble came shortly after I learned to ride. I was 40. Ellie was seven and had also recently mastered a two-wheeler. Gilda, Dan, his friend Aaron, Ellie and I loaded our bikes into the mini-van one Sunday afternoon and headed out to SUNY Purchase to ride around the perimeter car loop, a popular bike-riding venue. The boys and Gilda swiftly left Ellie and me in their wind-wake as we cautiously traversed the roadway.

About two-thirds of the way we came to the top of a steep descent. We gulped, then Ellie pedaled forward. And downward. And with increasing speed. She couldn’t hold her foot brake. Before my eyes, she flipped over and bounced on the pavement. Several times. Of course she cried, more from the trauma than from any injuries, which were almost negligible, thanks mostly to her helmet. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, she got back on her horse, I mean, bike, and we pedaled, sloooowly, to meet up with Dan, Aaron and Gilda, all the way Ellie alerting those ahead of us with her loud wailing.

Dan’s helmet-case was far more heart-stopping. After he turned 14, Dan said he no longer wanted to go to sleepaway summer camp. Instead, he desired to go on a mountain-bike tour of the West, beginning in Denver. We shipped him out on a Wednesday, one United Airlines ticket for him, another for his bike (United gave us two round-trip tickets as compensation for an aborted flight Gilda and I took from San Francisco to New York during which we had to slide down the emergency shutes. Here’s a link to that story: http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2011/04/on-wing-and-prayer.html). From the airport the group of some 20 teenagers were trucked to Estes Park, about 80 miles northwest of Denver, for their first ride.

Going down a mountain trail, Dan flipped over the handlebars and did a head plant into the ground. His eyes rolled back in their sockets. The whole right side of his body, from the top of his head to his ankles, was bruised, bloodied and skin-torn. Naturally, the trip leaders wanted to get him to the hospital right away. But a thunderstorm developed over the mountain; everyone had to lay prone to the ground to avoid being hit by lightning.

Later that night we received a phone call from one of the staff. You know something bad has happened when the conversation starts with assurances your son is all right now, that he’s resting comfortably in the hospital.

Hospital? How big a hospital? 14 beds? You call that a hospital? It took us several minutes to realize the Estes Park hospital was a trauma center mainly focused on skiing and snowboarding accidents in the winter and mountain-bike and hiking accidents the rest of the year, with the occasional lightning strike victim thrown in. Indeed, two other patients brought in with Dan that day had been blistered by lightning. We couldn’t have asked for better professional care.

Dan emerged from the plane ride back two days later swaddled in bloody, pussy gauze and bandages. To this day Gilda wonders how anyone would have tolerated sitting next to him. To prevent scabs and then scars from forming on his body, she followed the advice of a plastic surgeon to keep his injuries moist. She bathed him (Dan accepted without debate or too much embarrassment the reasoning that his mother was a nurse practitioner and had seen many a naked man). His only “trophy” from the accident was a small scar on his knee on a spot he purposely did not want moistened.

So we sent him out on Wednesday and he returned to us Friday. The tour group graciously refunded his tuition and Bell exchanged his helmet for a new one. Seems a helmet is good for only one crash. Allison has informed me Finley’s helmet is not from the company involved in the recall. Here’s hoping Finley has no need for a new helmet until he outgrows aunt Caitlin’s gift.

Kosher Style

Interesting article in the Dining section of the NY Times Wednesday on how the kitchen inside the White House was koshered in advance of the Obama administration’s annual Hanukkah party for some 550 guests (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/14/dining/making-the-white-house-kitchen-kosher-for-a-party.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=kurpradit&st=cse).

Now, I won’t go into how arcane and puzzling some of these preparations must appear to non-Jews, and even to many Jews. After all, to non-believers most religions have practices that seem outlandish, if not downright pagan. It’s hard getting around built-in biases that our own beliefs are sane while others are zany.

One of the main tenets of strictly kosher food is that meat and dairy products must not be co-mingled, neither in their preparation nor consumption. There are a mind-boggling set of rules, codified in the Shulchan Aruch, a mid-16th century compilation by Joseph Caro, that serves as a roadmap for observant Jews to follow in all aspects of their lives. (FYI, the literal translation of the term Shulchan Aruch is “set table.”)

The rules and precepts about kosher food, by the way, are mostly not from the Bible. They were formulated by rabbis and sages who lived before and after the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70 and the resulting Diaspora. They chose, for example, to interpret the Torah’s admonishment not to cook a baby goat (a kid) in its mother’s milk as a blanket prohibition on mixing and eating dairy and meat products at the same time. They also opted to place fowl into the meat category while keeping fish parve (a Jewish term signifying a food is neutral and can be eaten with either milk or meat).

Today’s observant Jewish family generally has several sets of dishes, flatware and cookware, as only glass utensils may be interchanged for meat and dairy use after proper washing. Crockery, china, even stainless steel, are thought to retain traces of food, so observant Jews have separate meat and dairy utensils. But two millennia ago, even less than 600 years ago when Caro compiled his seminal work, it was hardly common for households to be wealthy enough to afford multiple sets of dishes and cookware. Back then, it was sufficient to simply clean utensils after any use. With rising economic status, household possessions and customs changed, but Caro’s text did not.

Which brings me to a tale I heard several years ago from a professor at the Jewish Theological Seminary that puts in context the shifting laws about kashrut. As the story was told, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik (1903-1993), a renowned Orthodox scholar considered to be a leading arbiter of religious issues, was left to his own devices by his wife for about a week as she visited family in a different city. When she returned she was appalled to find her kosher kitchen compromised, with dishes, pots and pans used for both dairy and meat meals. How could the learned rabbi been so careless?, she demanded to know. Rabbi Soloveitchik replied he had consulted the Shulchan Aruch, which in 1565 made no mention of separate dishes, requiring only that utensils be cleaned after each meal.

So much for relying on centuries-old texts. And for being a typical male (at least of his generation), who paid no attention to what went on in the kitchen.

Religion on My Mind

Took down the sukkah today, threw out the lulav and etrog. Kind of a melancholy day, as it symbolizes the conclusion of the early fall Jewish holidays. Eight and a half weeks till Hanukkah.


Having violated several tenets of their religion, including not treating a prisoner with respect, and not washing a dead body while preparing it for burial within 24 hours, Libyans now seem to be debating what to do with the corpse of Col. Muammar el-Qaddafi. A resolution was said to be imminent.

Since Islamic law has already been shunted aside, why not cremate the body, brush the remains into a small can, place it in an airplane and disperse the ashes over the desert? That would surely please those who don’t want to make his grave a shrine, while pleasing his supporters as his ashes would be part of the Libyan landscape. A win-win for all.

It’s still uncertain who pulled the trigger that executed the Libyan dictator, and under whose authority, but it’s certain, according to the NY Times, that Libyans killed Muammar el-Qaddafi. According to the Associated Press, they killed Moammar Gadhafi. That’s the way The Wall Street Journal, the web site for NPR and the German publication Der Spiegel had it, as well. Newsweek, The Jerusalem Post, Time, The Financial Times, the British newspaper The Guardian, the BBC and, perhaps most critically, Al Jazeera English, trumpeted the death of Muammar Gaddafi. The Washington Post headlined Moammar Gaddafi’s demise; the Council on Foreign Relations informed everyone of the killing of Muammar al-Qaddafi, while the French paper Le Monde reported the death of Mouammar Kadhafi.

Whatever the preferred spelling of his name, he is dead. Libyans win the shooting prize for killing more dictators than any other Arab Spring uprising.

For the record, I have no problem with the summary execution of the maniacal despot. Nor do I see anything wrong with the desire of his once-cowed people to see first-hand his dead body. I don’t normally believe in capital punishment, mostly because of the possibility a wrongful execution could occur. But in Qaddafi’s case, as it was for Osama bin Laden, death did not come too swiftly or too soon.


As indicated earlier, the festival of Sukkot is over. As I walked in a procession around our temple on the first day of the eight-day holiday, holding my lulav and etrog (a lulav is a frond of the date palm tree with sprigs of myrtle and willow; an etrog is a fruit of the citron tree) while singing hosannas, I couldn’t help but think to myself how strange religious customs are. Lest you think I am blasphemous, our rabbi commented out loud the next day how this ritual makes it seem we have not evolved too far from paganism.

Whatever the religion, faith has a way of challenging our sensibilities, of tickling our senses of humor. I couldn’t help but shake my head in wonder when I read about the thousands of Polish Catholics who had recently gathered for a special Mass in Sokolka in eastern Poland. They came to celebrate what they perceived to be a miracle, the appearance on a communion wafer of a dark spot they believed is part of the heart of Jesus.

According to church officials, two medical doctors verified the spot as heart muscle tissue. Since Catholics believe the wafer transfigures into the body of Jesus during Holy Communion, it was not too unrealistic for true believers to reason the heart tissue belonged to Jesus.

I know it sounds far-fetched, but who am I to say they’re crazy. Indeed, I’ll end with a quote from Lane Filler, a member of the Newsday editorial board, in a commentary on the religious beliefs of the Republican presidential candidates:

“So let me get this straight. If you believe God spoke to people and angels walked the Earth thousands of years ago, you’re in a religion. If you believe God spoke to people and angels walked the Earth hundreds of years ago, you’re in a cult. And if you believe God spoke to people and angels walked the Earth on Thursday, you’re in a mental institution.”