Camping Out

Ellie and Donny went camping upstate this weekend. Ellie’s also has climbed mountains and done some rappelling. I don’t know from where she got this outdoors gene. Neither Gilda nor I could be considered the camping-out, outdoorsy type.

During her high school years Ellie and her friend Danielle decided they’d go camping at Bear Mountain. I wasn’t too keen on two teenage girls going alone but I really wasn’t in a position to ground them. Nor was I in a position to offer advice. Not that I didn’t try, but you know how teenagers, particularly teenage girls, are. They didn’t want to hear any of my suggestions.

I did, however, offer a cautionary note when I overheard Danielle say she would use a bag of marshmallows as a pillow. Whoa, I said. That would not be a good idea. Were you not aware that bears are attracted to food? The last place you want to have your head resting is on a bag of bear-enticing marshmallows. 

A few years later Dan and Ellie decided to travel cross-country. Dan’s school ended earlier than Ellie’s so he drove her Jeep out West where she would join him. In Sequioa National Park in California, Dan attended a park ranger’s talk when he suddenly bolted from the campfire and headed straight to the Jeep. The park ranger had just finished admonishing campers to leave no food in their cars as bears commonly ripped off doors to get to the the goodies inside. Dan knew he didn’t leave any of his food inside the Jeep but he alertly remembered Ellie had a cornucopia of sweets stashed around the interior. 

Back to Ellie and Danielle. They didn’t encounter any bears but around 9 pm they heard noises in the woods. The noises became voices, no less a reason to be wary. That is, until the voices turned out to be a boy scout troop. It wasn’t quite like Snow White encountering the Seven Dwarfs, but they definitely were calmer knowing the scouts were around.

Getting back to the opening of this blog, I might have left the impression that at least my genes could not possibly have influenced Ellie’s outdoorsmanship. Actually, we have pictures of my mother horseback riding, while my father grew up in a small town in Poland where he was part of a Jewish scouting organization. Maybe the gene skipped a generation (I’m fairly certain my brother and sister also lack the outdoorsman gene which resurfaced in Lee’s daughter Lauren. As part of a corporate exercise—she works for North Face—Lauren climbed Half Dome in Yosemite via the cable route, amazing herself as well as her parents with her fortitude). The extent of Gilda’s and my mountain climbing activity has been confined mostly to scaling Masada in Israel four or five times, as well as making our way to the top of some man-made structures such as The Vatican, the Il Duomo in Florence and the Eiffel Tower.

Lag Ba'Omer: A Time To Be Outdoors

How fitting that today would be a beautiful spring day when lots of families are outside reveling in the sunshine and cool air. Today is the day Jewish children are encouraged to play outdoors. It is Lag Ba’Omer, the 33rd of the 50 days between the festivals of Passover and Shavuot (Lag, in Hebrew letters, is the equivalent of the number 33.) 

As a child I was taught the significance of this day harkens back to the time when Jews were once again rebelling against Roman rule some 60 years after the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed in the year 70 CE and the desert fortress Masada fell in 73. The remnants of the Jews, under the leadership of Rabbi Akiba and the general Bar Kochba, challenged Rome between 132-136. On this day it is believed Bar Kochba’s army achieved a significant, though temporary, victory. To commemorate this triumph children were encouraged to go out into the fields with bows and arrows and to play games.

As youngsters in Brooklyn my brother, sister and I were a little too urbanized to go around shooting arrows on Lag Ba’Omer. Instead, on the Sunday closest to the actual day our Hebrew school, Yeshiva Rambam, organized a family outing to Cunningham Park in Queens. It meant not only a day of fun but also freedom from 9-12 Sunday school.

We'd assemble at the school on Kings Highway and East 31 Street to pile into yellow school buses with our fathers and mothers for the ride to the park. It was one of the few times kids would see their parents dressed informally in public. No ties, no white shirts and, this being the 1950s, hardly any jeans or sneakers. But in their open collar short sleeve sports shirts the fathers looked less formal or fearsome. Mothers wore skirts with bright blouses. No pants. They might have adored Katherine Hepburn, but they were not movie stars with the confidence to challenge societal sensibilities.

Once at the park it was like a scene from an Oklahoma land rush in an old western movie. We'd race across the lush grass to stake out a spot for a blanket, hopefully a small plot of land shaded by the leaves of a tall tree. Then the games would begin. Baseball for mostly the kids from the older grades and their fathers. Organized races for others: Wheelbarrow races. Three legged races. Eggs on spoon races. Potato sack races.

When it was time for lunch we would retreat to our respective blankets. My mother would unwrap cold hamburger sandwiches. Maybe they were meatloaf, though I never recall her ever baking a meatloaf for dinner. Active in her youth, even a horseback rider, mom kind of lost the feel for the outdoors as we grew older, though she did claim to have taught her three children to play ball. Dad surely didn’t. He had no concept of any sport.

A few years before mom  passed away we kidded her that we never barbecued in our back yard in Brooklyn. She disagreed strongly, asserting we would eat tuna fish sandwiches at a table in the yard. That to her was close enough to be called a barbecue.

More games followed after lunch. My father usually napped. On the ride back to the school we would sing “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Or, more than likely for kids my age, we would fall asleep, perhaps dreaming of Bar Kochba smiting the Roman legions.

Reflections on Contradictions

Just back from a 10-day visit to Israel, some quick reflections...

I must be getting old.

Six times I’ve been to Masada. Six times I climbed the snake path to the summit where Herod built his palace and fortress retreat more than 2,000 years ago.

On the seventh time, I rested. I took the cable car to the top and back. Once on the plateau where 900 Jewish rebels martyred themselves rather than submit to Roman rule in 73 CE, I opted to sit in the shade after an hour while Gilda and our friend Gemma trekked on toward the southern flank of the desert promontory overlooking the Dead Sea.

On my first visit 45 summers ago, I slept overnight in a barely inhabitable hostel at the base of the mountain, rising pre-sunrise to climb the rocky trail before the desert heat would make the exercise incalculably difficult. Today, a modern visitor center—complete with a McDonald’s!!!!—greets all who come. I resisted the lure of a kosher quarter pounder and fries, instead choosing from the cafeteria fare three of Israel’s signature foods: hummus, falafel and schnitzel.


Ice Capades: Israelis have wised up, at least as far as ice is concerned.

In years’ past, I would be given a cube or two of ice with my soda. Now, they willingly filled a cup to the brim with ice.


Cinematique: Israelis love going to the movies, but they’re in no rush to get to their seats.

Seats are sold on an assigned basis so you know in advance where you’ll be. Moreover, commercials and previews last about 20 minutes before a feature film starts, so a 10 pm post time gives you plenty of leeway to settle in before 10:20.

If you’re watching a comedy, like Bridesmaids (in English with Hebrew subtitles), be prepared for two-stage laughter. The first stage starts when those reading the text get to the punch line before the words are actually spoken.


A Matter of Taste: Gilda loves salads, but Israeli salads were so enormous they almost got the better of her. They burst with flavor and freshness.

Though our nation can point with pride to the efficiency of our food distribution network, Israeli produce more than matches our output. Indeed, comparing the taste of Israeli cherry tomatoes to those sold in U.S. supermarkets leaves an American feeling decidedly inferior.


Who Knows: There must be an explanation, but I don’t know it.

At the Western Wall plaza, a holy site to all Jews because of its proximity to the Temple Mount, religious authorities, and some self-appointed vigilantes, do not permit men and women to stand together and pray. They don’t allow women to walk around with exposed shoulders.

Yet, along the tunnel tour that hugs the Western Wall along its northern path, at the point closest to where the Second Temple stood, the sexes freely co-mingle in prayer, with no one monitoring female attire.

Religion—go figure!