Biting My Tongue and Making Me Handsome, Again

So there I was in the waiting room of a Mohs surgeon late Thursday morning. Two elderly ladies (and that’s coming from a 64-1/2 year old) were sitting at a table across the room. One was filling out Christmas cards when she turned to the other, apparently a nun because the nurses kept referring to her as Sister Mary, and asked her to pick between two Christmas cards to send to a mixed marriage family with a Jewish father. She refused to compromise and get a Happy Holidays card. The nun scrutinized the cards and said neither would be appropriate. I resisted offering my advice.

They continued talking. The card bearer said the husband was a wonderful man. Sister Mary responded that Jewish people are nice, it's just that they stopped believing in the most wonderful person their religion produced. Again, I bit my tongue. She did, after all, acknowledge that Jesus was Jewish. Too many people don't realize this.

They talked a little longer about the couple’s child, a seventh grader in a Catholic school in Manhattan, a very bright girl who receives three hours of homework every night, six hours over the weekend. The girl was being pressed to take some SAT courses and she's just in seventh grade, but I say nothing, the card lady said. To the nun, however, she worried that all that work might turn the girl off from school.

They retreated into silence. I kept quiet. I’m not sure which was more of a challenge, staying silent or sitting through four and a half hours of Mohs surgery, enduring progressive slicing into my nose. Three times. 

The procedure wasn't painful. Indeed, the total time under the scalpel was probably less than five minutes. The rest of the ordeal was waiting for each slice to be analyzed to determine if any more basal cells resided in my schnozzle. When no more offensive corpuscles showed their colors, the surgeon said it was time to “make you look handsome again.” I thanked him for using the word “again.” 

At Gilda’s prodding I took a selfie of my nose, pre-surgery. I took another after the bandage was put on, along with another bandage in the area between my left ear and sideburn where the doctor nipped off a piece of skin for a graft for my nose. Be thankful the policy of this blog is not to include pictures.

More Medical News: Didn’t tell you about this last week, but I’ve apparently pulled a muscle in my left leg. As I don’t exercise, and didn’t play tennis last Wednesday, I really cannot tell you how I did this. Only thing I know is that after driving into the city last Friday and parking the car, I felt a sharp pain in my left calf within two blocks of walking. After that, until even today, I have been limping along.

In temple on Saturday, concerned congregants (mis)diagnosed me. Do I take statins?, they asked. Yes. Then for sure you have a condition called myopathy and need to take Coenzyme Q10. As I had a previously scheduled appointment with my internist on Wednesday I resisted following any of their advice. 

My internist diagnosed the leg pain as a plantaris muscle strain or pull. There’s dispute about how important the plantaris muscle is, but one thing’s for sure, he said—injury is not related to taking statins.

On another note, daughter-in-law Allison reminded me that not everyone should ingest nuts. Those with allergies, such as OUR GRANDSON FINLEY, should avoid all things nutty. Yeah, I forgot to update y’all that his allergy tests revealed he’s allergic to nuts. 

On This Day, Time to Remember

On the eve of the Festival of Sukkot (tabernacles) which began today according to the Jewish calendar, the Jewish population of Ottynia, a small town in eastern Galicia, variably part of Austria-Hungary, Poland and Ukraine, was essentially eradicated six decades ago. Sources differ on whether it happened in 1941 or 1942. There’s reason to believe mass executions took place both years—October 5, 1941 and September 25, 1942—on the eve of one of the more joyful Jewish holidays, a time usually set aside to celebrate abundance and gratitude. 

It doesn’t matter. The “aktion” was the same: On that fateful day 61 and/or 62 years ago, German and Ukrainian beasts rounded up the Jewish residents of Ottynia and transported them by truck to a nearby forest where mass graves had been dug. They were lined up and shot. In all, some 1,400 souls departed. Though nearly 400 Ottynia Jews survived the war, Jewish life ceased to exist there. My father’s family lived in Ottynia. He had come to New York in 1939. All were slaughtered in Ottynia except his brother Willy who fled into the countryside.

Now part of Ukraine, Ottynia remains a not very hospitable place for outsiders, though one should hardly classify Jews as outsiders to Ottynia considering they had lived there since at least 1635. 

A cousin in France visited Ottynia and nearby Dora in the summer of 2011, searching for family records. Laura reported in an email that in Kolomya she met with the “last living Jew of Ottynia,” a 90-year-old man called Greenberg. He remembered my grandfather, my father and uncle. Twenty-nine members of Greenberg’s family died in the mass killings. "He was there and saw it. He saw the mass graves and the ground still moving.” 

In Ottynia Laura met an old woman who remembered our family name, Fürsetzer. But she found nothing more.

“What I was personally looking for, I found it in Dora, where my grandmother was born,” Laura wrote. “There, we met people who remembered her parents Chaim and Rivka Fürsetzer. We found the place where their shop was. We found the mass graves where they are probably buried. And most important, in the archives building of Stanislawow, we found a complete file showing that my grandmother had tried to save them by taking them to France in 1934, one year after Hitler came to power. She did not succeed but the file is still in the building, with letters, visas, everything.”

Last summer another descendant of Ottynia, a man from New Jersey, ventured back to his family roots. I came across his video on YouTube. Ottynia was never a garden spot of the world. It surely did not improve in the years under Soviet domination and as part of an independent Ukraine. There was little to make one empathetic to the life of our ancestors there.

At the conclusion of Sukkot services at temple this morning, I stood to recite the kaddish memorial prayer for my relatives from Ottynia. In front of me, arrayed on the steps leading up to the bimah, about 30 children sat, giggling, fidgety, happy, expressive proof the Nazis were not successful. I thought back to a time when children in the sanctuary of our synagogue were not very welcome. Dan was three, Ellie roughly six months old when we began bringing them to services. 

We sat in a makeshift back row of portable chairs up against the rear wall with other young families, among them the Lauchheimers. Michael Lauchheimer and I had attended summer camp together, he as a camper, I as his counselor. Together with other families we forced a change in temple protocol. No longer were children persona non grata. 

Twenty-three years ago, on the first day of Sukkot, Michael passed away. His friends still miss him.

Holiday Notes: Shopping, Woody Allen, Huckabee

Were you one of the 247 million Americans who trudged down to the mall over the 4-day Thanksgiving holiday to celebrate our collective good fortune by spending a record $59.1 billion? I wasn’t. Not that I don’t have lots to be thankful for, but I make it a point to abstain from the in-store frenzy. I didn’t even participate in the $1.5 billion Cyber Monday buy-fest. 

Perhaps because for 32 years I had to report on this ultra-patriotic shopping activity I developed a certain disdain for Black Friday, followed by Saturday and Sunday at the shopping center. Coverage of consumers fighting over Xboxes or big screen TVs or Ugg boots was all too predictable. Also predictable was the supposition that strong Thanksgiving weekend sales presaged an overall strong holiday shopping season. Yes, that could happen. But what usually transpired was a lull in spending that picked up only in the last 10 days before Christmas. Meanwhile, newspapers and electronic media wondered who would win the game of chicken between retailers who did not want to reduce prices and hurt their profit margins and consumers who wanted to wait until extreme discounts opened up their tight hold on their wallets. I’ll be very surprised if such stories don’t start appearing in about a week.

Too Awed to Ask: I’m a little behind in my reading, so I finally looked at a NY Times conversation with Robert De Niro printed November 18 in the magazine section. Written by the film critic A.O. Scott, the article highlighted a challenge many journalists confront when interviewing a famous person. Scott wrote, “I confess, however, that it took all my professional discipline to resist squandering the time I spent with De Niro on a recent Saturday afternoon in a slack-jawed fanboy recitation of his greatest hits. Oh, my God, you’re Jake Lamotta! You’re Johnny Boy! Your Travis Bickle! I’m talking to you.”

That paragraph reminded me of my year at Syracuse University earning a master’s degree in newspaper journalism. One of my classmates and best friends, Steve Kreinberg, got a freelance gig as a movie critic on the Syracuse New Times, an alternative lifestyle newspaper launched just two years earlier in 1969 (and still around today). After we laughed our way through Woody Allen’s Bananas in a suburban Syracuse movie theater—there is nothing that makes you feel more Jewish, and alone in the world, than guffawing at Woody Allen shtick when the rest of the audience is sitting cold, stone silent—Steve announced in the parking lot that he landed an interview with Allen the following week in New York City. Though Allen was in the middle of editing Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex* But Were Afraid to Ask, he agreed to meet Steve at his studio.

He drove down to Manhattan. When Steve returned he was uncharacteristically quiet. When the next edition did not run his interview I demanded an explanation. Sheepishly he admitted he lost all professional composure in the presence of the great man. He just kept gushing, “You’re Woody Allen. I love your work.” There’s only so many times he could say that before Woody determined this interview was going nowhere. 

Steve eventually recovered his moxie and went on to become one of the five question writers for the old Hollywood Squares show (the one that featured Paul Lynde in the center square). He was expected to write 50 acceptable questions per day, and yes, celebrities were counseled before each show on topics they would be asked. After Hollywood Squares Steve and his writing partner Andy became staff writers for Archie Bunker’s Place (Carroll O’Connor’s successor show to All in the Family) as well as for Herman’s Head, Saved by the Bell, Head of the Class, Nine to Five and Mork & Mindy. 

Funny, He Doesn’t Look Jewish: I’m always amused when out of left field a famous person has it revealed that deep in their past a Jewish gene lurks. Think former secretary of state Madeleine Albright (though how an intelligent woman like she could not figure out her parents chose to flee Prague in 1938 because of their Jewish origins is beyond my ken). 

Anyway, I was reading this week’s NY Times magazine when I came across this response from Mike Huckabee, the former governor of Arkansas, also-ran 2008 Republican presidential primary candidate, Southern Baptist minister and Fox News Channel talk show host. Asked how to celebrate the holidays, Huckabee said, “On Christmas Eve, we go to the service at our church, and when it’s over, we go out for Chinese food.” 

Funny, I didn’t know Huckabee was Jewish (for my non-Jewish readers, ask a Jewish friend why it's funny). 

Lift-Off, Deferred

A small story a couple of weeks ago indicated the European Union was considering closing part of its operations in Strasbourg, France.

Not too important a story to most people, but it rang a bell with me. Some 15 years ago Gilda accompanied me to Strasbourg for a speech I delivered to a European sporting goods association. Located in northwest France, Strasbourg is the main city of the Alsace-Lorraine region contested with Germany for decades. Its favorite food is sauerkraut, served with boiled meat. Andre Solter, the famed chef of Lutece, the famous New York French restaurant, hailed from there.

In Strasbourg, waitresses inputted your order and ran your credit card through portable terminals they carried with them to your table. Technology available 15 years ago in France has yet to be adopted in the United States.

But I digress. Today's blog, while inspired by Strasbourg, is another of my self-deprecating stories.

While in Strasbourg, Gilda and I attended Sabbath services at a local synagogue. It was an Orthodox service, so we had to sit apart.

Now, it is customary in most Jewish temples to recognize guests by giving them an honor during the Torah reading portion of the service. The gabbai (head usher, or sextant) came over and apologized, relating that all the honors had been dispensed except that of hagbah, the lifting of the two-poled Torah, a scroll roughly four feet tall and weighing anywhere from 30 to 60 pounds, for about 10 seconds. In some quarters, the spread of the hagbah lift—how many columns of text can be seen by the congregation—is a measure of virility. Anything more than three columns is a good showing.

As a rule, I don't do hagbahs. I don't feel strong enough to sustain even a one column lift. I fear I would drop the Torah, which, for those not familiar with Jewish practice, would demand anyone who witnessed the unfortunate incident fast for 40 days, the length of time it took Moses to receive the Torah from God on Mount Sinai.

No way was I going to subject Strasbourg's Jewish community to the possibility of a foodless 40 days. I respectfully declined the honor of hagbah.

Several minutes later a teenage boy performed the widest hagbah I have ever witnessed—at least 15 columns! The Torah he lifted, the Torah I had deferred an opportunity to lift, was barely 18 inches tall and weighed perhaps 10 pounds.

Oy, Have I Got Tsuris

Cheerios Are for the Birds: My blood sugar levels have been trending up so it’s time to eliminate as many sweet items as possible from my diet. That means the Multi-Grain Cheerios with 6 grams of sugar are out, regular Cheerios with just 1 gram are back in the cupboard. Only problem is, what do I do with an almost full Costco-sized box of Multi-Grain Cheerios?

The solution has been chirping away all day. The birds have previously shown they’ll eat matzoh, dried bagels and challah, even hard Chinese noodles, so I’m guessing they won’t mind bulking up on M-G Cheerios. They really are beggars, and you know the old saying about how choosy beggars can afford to be. I’ve discovered even the cheapest brand of bird food attracts as many aviators as the more expensive seed. So it’s crushed M-G Cheerios for all, and if the General Mills ad campaign is to be believed, my birds will have lower cholesterol in a matter of days. Of course, their sugar levels will soar as high as they can fly, but the birds get more exercise than I do, so that will counteract the effects of all that added sugar in their diet.


Tsuris Along the Souris: I’ll start feeding them the M-G Cheerios as soon as the lake under their bird feeders recedes. Every time we get a drenching downpour, as we did earlier today, our back and side yards become lakes. We’ve added dry wells for better drainage but they just became another item on the money pit of home ownership. Luckily we French-drained our basement and have a very good sump pump system so we stay dry inside. But the lakes keep us on our toes, wondering if it will ever rain long and hard enough for the water to lap against the first floor of the house.

It’s nothing, for sure, like what the residents of Minot, ND, are going through with the flooding of the Souris River. While watching news reports of their plight, I was struck by the similarity of the pronunciation of the river Souris name to a Yiddish word, tsuris, which means troubles, worries, problems. There’s little doubt the people of Minot have lots of tsuris from the Souris.


Case Closed: The federal government wants cigarette companies to include graphic pictures of the dangers of smoking on each pack of killers. The hope is smokers will see the effects of inhaling and stop, or at least reduce, their self-destructive acts.

My mother was a chain smoker. She even smoked in the hospital, even while recuperating from congestive heart failure, with an oxygen hose draped around her neck. It amazed us she could wangle, or bribe, a cigarette from the hospital staff. Smoking contributed to her partial dementia, exacerbated her diabetes (she had one partial leg amputation and was scheduled for another right before she died of heart failure), and was a major cause of her ill health.

Yet, I have no doubt graphic pictures would not have stopped her from lighting up. She was addicted. What’s more, she would never have seen the pictures more than once, for she placed her smokes inside a red leather cigarette case. Out of sight, out of mind.

I predict a boom business for companies that make cigarette cases. It will be like an updated scene from a 1930s movie, with sophisticated metal or leather cases vying with 21st century smart phones for recognition as the coolest pocket accessory.


Spread the Dirt: There’s an old Jewish custom to be buried with a measure of dirt from Israel in the grave. I couldn’t help but think of that when news reports surfaced of plans to scoop up five gallons of dirt from the ball field on which Derek Jeter strokes his 3,000th hit and sell commemorative ounces of the soil to star-crossed fans (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/22/sports/baseball/jeters-3000th-hit-will-bring-about-as-many-marketing-possibilities.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=steiner&st=cse).

Maybe it’s me (yes, for all you grammarians out there, I know it should be “I”, not “me”), but I find it rather crazy that anyone would pay hard-earned money for dirt Jeter, or any sports figure, politicians or celebrity of any form, walked on. Maybe if it was water he walked on I’d be more inclined to spring for it, but dirt? Really, people. He’s a ballplayer, not a god.


Heil USA: BMW North America is advertising its support of the USA Olympic team with a slogan “Drive for Team USA.” Am I mistaken, but isn’t BMW a German car company? Are they aware of what BMW North America is doing back in Bavaria? Is the company also supporting the German Olympic team?

Whatever. I find it all rather disconcerting and disingenuous.