TODAY I AM A FOUNTAIN PEN If you don’t recognize these words, it’s because you are a good deal younger than I am. Actually, I am not sure where they come from, but I know they refer to the words spoken by an imaginary Bar Mitzvah student as he stands on the bima to deliver his speech after the completion of his Bar Mitzvah ceremony. Obviously, he was thinking more about the gifts he would receive than the significance of this age-old ritual. He was trying to declare, “Today I am a man” as traditionally at age 13 a Jewish boy was declared an adult member of the Jewish community and was to follow the laws set down in the Torah and bear his own responsibility for his Jewish life. The actual Bar Mitzvah ceremony was not required, but the boy’s age was the determining factor related to his spiritual standing in the Jewish religious world. Since the time I grew up until today, the events following the Bar Mitzvah have included everything from some honey cake and wine in the social hall of the synagogue to a themed weekend event that hundreds of friends and family attend. (Not long ago I attended a Beatles’ Bat Mitzvah party in Malibu that began by walking through the Yellow Submarine!) But, gratefully, the actual requirements for the synagogue service have remained fairly stable. The Bar or Bat Mitzvah leads the Shabbat morning service and reads the portion for the week directly from the Torah scrolls. He/she reads the prayers in Hebrew, explains and comments on the Torah portion while conducting the service, as would the rabbi and/or hazzan. It is a glorious morning that is a milestone in a young person’s life. But today that experience is not just available for those entering their teen years. It is a life cycle event for adults of any age who are willing to commit to the time and study it will take to prepare for this undertaking. And, if you haven’t figured it out yet, whom do you think just signed up for the two-year Adult B’nai Mitzvah class at her synagogue? You guessed it. I decided this was the year to begin to check this item off my bucket list. Every time I attend a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, I feel that familiar desire to be able to chant from the Torah scrolls. Over fifty years ago, I would sit in on my then husband’s cantorial class at the Jewish Institute of Religion in NYC as he and his classmates were learning to follow the hand signals that told them which melody to chant. It was like stepping back in history to watch these young men hunch over the sacred scrolls while chanting the Torah text just like countless generations of Jewish men had done before them. At the time, I never imagined that a woman would be allowed such an honor, but today adult women as well as men are participating in classes that will culminate in just such an experience. Many of us who missed having a Bar or Bat Mitzvah growing up are opting for the two-year program that is now offered all over the country. The reasons for this late in life decision are varied. But for most candidates, it is a chance to fulfill this Jewish ritual that they missed out on when they were the “usual” age. As for why we missed it the first time around, we all have a different story. Some had parents who didn’t believe in being involved in Jewish organizations, others felt it was hypocritical to have a Bar Mitzvah just for the party and the presents, while many were not able to afford the lavish after synagogue extravaganza that their friends were having.. And, of course, there are the converts who chose Judaism as their religion and want to have a Bar Mitzvah as part of their commitment to their new spiritual community. When I attended a funeral of a 90 year old friend last week, I heard the rabbi tell us that one of the highlights of her rabbinical career was listening to this gentleman at age 85 reading from the Torah on the occasion of his Bar Mitzvah. That clinched it for me. I officially signed up for the class the next day. Be sure to watch my column for a Save the Date announcement as in my 76th year, I will be celebrating my Bat Mitzvah and you are all invited! 751 words November 12, 2012 (Linda Kaufman is a local musician, writer, realtor and Bat Mitzvah student)

BEING JEWISH IN NEW YORK

Being Jewish in New York is like being Iranian in Iran. There is no need to search for a Jewish presence as Jewish people and their unique culture dot the city, especially when you are staying on W. 79th Street, just a block from Zabar’s Jewish gourmet grocery. I can hardly wait to get to this famous Jewish landmark to order an “Everything” bagel with a schmear of cream cheese and wait for a stool so I can sit next to other breakfast eaters as their mid-week workday begins. The smell of garlic and onion in this compact bagel eatery is intoxicating. It reminds me of days gone by at Tabatchnik’s Deli across the river in New Jersey when I was a young English teacher just out of college. I try not to stare though I can’t help but wonder which of the customers are Jewish and if they eat here on a regular basis. I am always looking for another Jewish face or name which explains why I stand in the darkened movie theatre watching the credits roll, waiting for possible Jewish names to appear. There is something exhilarating about being around other Jewish people, especially in New York, the entry place in America for so many Jewish families. After breakfast it is only a quick ride through Central Park to the Jewish Museum. To think that there is a building located on Fifth Avenue that is dedicated to Jewish art, history and books. After seeing the exhibits, I linger in the gift shop, fingering the unique menorahs and dreidels and finally buying Jewish books that I have never heard of before. My favorite is Yiddish with Dick and Jane, a delightfully funny volume that is a parody on the original elementary school reading book. It seems that Jane is a realtor like me, hence the words, “Jane works in real estate. Today is Sunday. Jane has an Open House. She must schlep the Open House signs to the car. See Jane schlep. Schlep, Jane. Schlep. Schlep, schlep, schlep.” The story continues two pages later. “Jane likes Open Houses. She likes meeting new people. She even likes the schnorrers who come just to nosh. Nosh, shnorrers. Nosh. Nosh, nosh, nosh.” It’s no surprise to realize that twenty of the book’s 102 pages provide a detailed glossary of Yiddish words. Though I am laughing out loud at the outrageous story line, I suddenly realize this book could be a teaching tool for those unfamiliar with Yiddish expressions. I think of my many San Antonio Jewish friends who are so far removed from the world of my grandparents that they never learned the colorful Yiddish words that were the mainstay of earlier generations. Before long, it is time to head to the Lower East Side where there will be a Playwright’s Forum at a branch of the 92nd Street Y. I find it both unsettling and exciting to find my way around this fabled city during this five-day Jewish theatre conference that includes meeting Jewish artistic directors and playwrights from all over the country and hearing award-winning writers like Donald Margulies talk about the writing of Jewish-themed plays. Unsure of my ability to navigate beneath the city streets, I cab my way around to the different sections of the city, mesmerized by the various neighborhoods where countless Jewish names appear on storefronts. There is Goldberg’s Produce, Anatefka Bagel Boutique, Hymie’s Glatt Kosher Meats, all Jewish businesses located in lower Manhatten. As I soak up the Jewish presence that permeates the Big Apple (wouldn’t the Big Bagel or the Big Brisket be more apropos?), I make a special stop at Jonathan Adler’s shop on Madison Avenue, having read about this Jewish guy online who started out making pottery in his parents’ basement much to the dismay of his mother who wanted him to be a lawyer or a doctor. Little did she know that her talented son would one day be considered a fashion guru whose designer accessories are found in only the most upscale residences. I saw it all. East Side, West Side, all around the town. I leave satisfied that I have enjoyed a full dose of Jewish life for a few days. Landing in the San Antonio airport, I read from my Dick and Jane book as I wait for my husband to pick me up. “Dick and Jane and Sally go to Mother’s house. Mother kvells when she sees Sally. “Sally,” says Mother. “You look wonderful. You have not changed a bit.” “Yes, I have,” I think to myself. I appreciate more than ever how blessed I am to be living the American Jewish life right here in San Antonio.

WHO'S GOING TO RETIRE? NOT ME!

When my production of IN GOD’S HANDS closed after a six-night run, I drove home with my husband, content that the show had been a success. After a month of rehearsals, the play, for which I had written and played the music, opened on my 71st birthday, a tribute to the fact that Jimmy Stewart is not the only one who lived a wonderful life! I had to laugh when my housekeeper said to me, “You are the busiest retired person I know!” Of course, I corrected her saying, “I am retirement age, but I am not retired. I have too many things I want to do.” Just two days later while sitting in the Tuesday sales meeting at the real estate office where I am a fledgling sales associate, Phyllis, the office manager, a spunky 75 year old who had just returned from a trip to Florida to visit her brother, poked her head in the doorway and announced, “Don’t ever retire! I spent the past weekend with retirees in Florida who spend their days sitting around, albeit in a beautiful location, waiting until it is time for the Early Bird dinner. They had nothing interesting to talk about and were like the ‘walking dead.’” Though many in the room were far from retirement age, those of us who had already “been there and done that” nodded our heads in agreement, including our broker who heads up this busy office while collecting her Social Security checks. The summer before my 70th birthday, I decided to take Joyce up on her offer to help me get started in real estate if I would get my license, signing up for real estate classes as soon as my piano studio was closed for the summer. What a challenge it was to be back in the classroom after so many years, but it was exciting to pile up those A’s and then ace the two and a half hour state test in 30 minutes. But being a realtor out in the field does have its challenges. “Oh, my God. This place is a dump,” I wanted to exclaim as my clients and I walked in the front door of a home for sale in a prestigious neighborhood. “Who could live with such a screwed up floor plan? And those small bedrooms! You can hardly fit a dresser in them!” the yenta inside me wanted to scream out. But, instead, I remembered the non-critical dialogue I’d heard on HGTV. “What do you think of this place?” I asked cheerily. I was hoping they didn’t notice the words I had written on the MLS page about this property. But within moments, they looked at me and smiled, reading the words I’d written as they asked for the MLS print out. “It definitely is El Dumpo!” At least I have come further down the road than my mother who often concluded her damaging comments about my weight by adding, “But if there’s one thing I have learned in life, it’s to keep my mouth shut.”

IS THIS JEWISH MUSIC I HEAR?

I had a Kodak moment recently (or do we now call it an iPhone moment?). I was sitting at the piano in my synagogue playing the Shabbat music as the members of the congregation joined in song. I watched their faces as they sang the familiar tunes that many of them have been singing since they were children. They were anything but timid as they sang out confidently while their bodies swayed to the rhythm of the music. Though there were many unfamiliar faces, in a very real sense, they were all familiar. They were my San Antonio Jewish family. I felt like a proud grandmother who was kvelling as she watched her family singing together with abandon. I thought of my dad who made sure I learned how to play the piano even when it wasn’t easy to pay the teacher for my weekly lessons. I remembered his words to me as we drove to my first lesson. “You are going to take lessons from the time you are eight until you are sixteen, so don’t bring it up again.” It was the ‘50’s, and there was no further discussion. I can’t say that I was passionate about learning to play, but as the years rolled on, most of my friends had dropped out, and I became the lone musician at parties who could sit down at the piano and actually play songs that people could sing. My teacher was a Juiliard graduate but he was also the musical director for the Ernie Kovacs Show, so I learned how to play and arrange pop music in addition to the traditional classical repertoire. What really sealed the deal for me was when the head of a local ballet studio offered me a job to play the piano at her studio at $3 an hour. This was at a time when I earned $.50 an hour for babysitting! The summer before leaving for college, I worked at an NBC affiliate radio station as a receptionist, and because the property was quite far from my home, I brought my lunch to work. After I ate, I often I would head for the sound studio that housed a beautiful grand piano and would play until lunch break was over. One day, the lead musician in the Dave Edwards Trio, stood at the door as I was playing a jazz tune that my teacher was helping me arrange. On the spot he offered me a job to play on the radio with his trio five nights a week from midnight until 3 am. Who could believe it? At 17 I was going to be a professional musician on the radio! When I rushed home to tell my dad of this great honor, he gently reminded me that I needed to stay on course and begin college as I’d planned. He assured me I would have many opportunities in my life to play professionally, but the one thing he insisted on was my getting a college degree. I would be the first in my family to graduate from college. Though that moment happened over fifty years ago, I still remember it clearly. And, of course, he was right. Thanks to my dad’s insistence that I become a pianist, I have played the piano at various venues over the years. Interestingly, I have played mostly at houses of worship. Whether it was for the High Holy Days or as the main musician for one of my musicals that were performed at our local Reform temple, I have played everything from my own original music to the traditional liturgy as well as jazz standards with various musicians. The ironic thing is that neither of my parents belonged to a synagogue or was involved at all in the Jewish community. Though I knew I was Jewish, I learned nothing about Judaism or the life cycle events as I grew up. We celebrated no holidays other than Christmas as my dad owned a men’s wear store, and our livelihood revolved around the business generated by Christmas shoppers. To stimulate my desire to be a more creative musician, my dad would take me to Manhattan several times a year to listen to top jazz musicians. I am sure he had no idea that one day I would be using the skills I learned to write songs for Jewish –themed musicals. But I know my dad would be thrilled to be in the congregation if I was playing the piano on a Shabbat evening. I can picture him smiling at me and whispering, “Is this Jewish music I hear? It sounds fabulous.”

IN SEARCH OF FAMILY

As we all know, in the Jewish world, family counts for everything. We gush over our children, dote on our grandchildren and love to spend as much time as possible with siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. But sometimes, things go askew and we lose touch with treasured members of our extended family for many years. Such was the case with my cousin Vic. A first cousin to my beloved dad, Vic spent much time at our home in New Jersey while I was growing up as he had a difficult home life with a mother who was in and out of mental hospitals. As a young man, his father told him never to marry or he might pass on those flawed genes, and for many years after his dad died, Vic was the main caregiver for his mother since his brother Harry moved away and left him with this burden. When I left for college at 17, married the erstwhile rabbi and moved away, spending time with my cousin Vic became a thing of the past. But I never forgot how he always took the time to squire me and my girlfriends around to Di Lorenzo’s Pizza and other local hangouts even though he was ten years older than we were. I last saw him at my father’s funeral when I was 25 and he was 35. That was over 50 years ago. Recently I decided to google him and up popped his website – with his photo and a description of the large law office he headed up. Within moments, I called the number on the screen, and though the secretary answered, “Mr. Walcoff’s office,” she told me that he was living in a Jewish assisted living facility after awaking from a two -month coma last January, We began an email exchange that resulted in my going to see him in our home town of Trenton, New Jersey, last week. As the administrator took me to Vic’s apartment, I marveled at how fond everyone seemed of his elderly gentleman who struggled to get to his feet as I approached him. Bent over from the ten-month ordeal that was not yet over, he leaned on the walker that was next to his chair to come closer to me. When I looked into his blue Walcoff eyes (my dad’s eyes were that same Paul Newman blue), I recognized the delightful cousin who had been a wonderful part of my growing up years. We spent the afternoon together chatting and sharing as he guided me around the city to see my elementary and high schools, the three different homes we lived in and the cemetery where my dad and nana were buried, side-by-side. I couldn’t believe that he remembered the exact location of their headstones as he, too, hadn’t been there in fifty years. He took me for dinner at the Jewish country club where he was welcomed with great respect and attention as we parked at the front door. As I showed him, one by one, the pictures of my daughters, their husbands and my grandchildren, he quietly smiled while asking questions about each of them. He told me how he had been president of the Jewish Federation and his synagogue, Adath Israel, head of the local office of the United Way and a past president of the Jewish Community Center all while building an award winning legal office. As I listened to his telling me of his life’s achievements, I saw a man who was confident without being arrogant and successful without being boastful. When I asked him about my dad, he said what he loved best about him was that he was a non-conformist and a talented, creative man who was good at everything. He knew that my parents had a solid marriage even though my dad struggled with earning a living. Their home was always open, and he met the most interesting people there whenever he stopped by. He always felt at home there. I remembered that he helped my mom with financial matters after my dad died. He was family, and that meant he would help whenever he could. Hugging him goodbye later that night, I was grateful I had made the effort to see him this one last time. His life was a testament to those Walcoff genes that had traveled from a remote village in Russia over a hundred years ago so that future generations could enjoy the privilege of living in America. As I drove out of the parking lot late that evening, I knew that I had spent time with the last person alive who remembered my mom and dad and the home we shared together. In my mind, I hear my Hazzan’s words as I nervously begin to play the piano for Shabbat services. “It’s all good

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE A JEWISH CHILDHOOD

Cleaning out drawers and closets reveals amazing things. I found a shabby brown envelope stuffed with all my ideas for my first book (the one I’ve never written) called “It’s Never Too Late to Have a Jewish Childhood.” Though I first began gathering these tidbits about the positive aspects of growing up in a Jewish home to provide insight for my Christian friends, I see they may be more relevant today to a totally different audience. After reading that Chinese parents search bookshelves for information about Jewish home life, I realize I may have stumbled onto a treasure trove of usable information. As China rises on the world horizon as an economic super power, Chinese parents have become aware of the disproportionate success of Jews in medicine, science, communications, politics, law, business, writing and education. Chinese families are anxious to uncover the secrets of raising Jewish children in the hopes of creating the same results in their own offspring. Here are some chapter titles for my proposed twenty two chapter volume. Though I put a humorous spin on them, I think you’ll recognize some of the characteristics of a Jewish perspective on family life. 1. The Making of a Jewish Princess 2. Hooray! You’re Thirteen and We’re Going to Celebrate 3. B’Sharyt: It’s Meant to Be 4. Mitzvahs: The Mainstay of our Faith 5. The Sabbath: A Taste of the Holy Life 6. Scholarship: The S Word 7. Family Ties 8. Options: Avoiding That Boxed in Feeing 9. Meal-Time: The Forgotten Forum 10. Be a Father, Not a Friend Growing up in the ‘50’s in New Jersey, I can mainly offer the perspective that my generation experienced as we grew up with parents who were usually the first in their family to be born in the United States. It was a time when Jews first moved much more easily into the mainstream of American life, enjoying the perks that came from increased mobility and acceptance into society. Education was at the top of the list as was family support. It was a time when optimism ruled, and the “go for it” spirit prevailed. My home life centered around my father - an intelligent, fun-loving man who was decidedly the main figure in our family. If I asked why we were having tongue for dinner “again,” my mother’s answer was always the same. “Your father loves tongue. That’s why we eat it.” We had a traditional family hierarchy that was common at that time. My father was at the top of the decision-making process. Our life revolved around his menswear store, his likes and dislikes, the people that he enjoyed spending time with and his various and ever-changing projects. But this set-up was not a matter of control. It was an acknowledgement that someone had to make the final decisions, and in our family it was my dad. Though my father was the kingpin, the three women in the family had no problem speaking up when something disturbed them or they wanted a change in some aspect of our life together. He always listened to our often-diverse opinions, but once he made a decision, we all abided by it. And he was an honorable man. I watched him lose his business when a heart attack had him sidelined for over a year and spending the next five years paying back what he owed every vendor. “It’s not their fault I got sick,” he announced one day. Bankruptcy was not an option for this man with a strong ethical character. What seemed to be a constant in the homes of all my Jewish friends was the impressive amount of time that we spent together – eating, talking, vacationing. (Did I mention eating?) The dinner table, a contemporary beauty built by my father, was the gathering place for family and friends. We always ate dinner together and lingered after the meal to chat about current events, school happenings or general talk on every conceivable subject. Today’s Jewish families seemed to be more child-centered than adult centered, but the sense of family ties is as strong as ever. Just go to any Jewish life-cycle event and you will see the extended family present in full force for the simcha. What can Chinese parents learn from the way we Jews raise our children? Hopefully, we specialize in creating a loving, supportive atmosphere where each child has a strong sense of self and the confidence to pursue his or her dreams. Finally, after all these decades of enjoying Chinese food, we have something to give back to our Chinese neighbors. (Should I have included a recipe for brisket and latkes in my book? It couldn’t hurt.)

MY JESUS YEAR

If you didn’t get to hear Benyamin Cohen when he spoke at the JCC during Jewish Book Month, you missed a real treat. On a national book tour to promote his memoir, this delightful young man regaled us with snippets from his yearlong adventure exploring different churches as he sought to reconnect with his own faith. Seems crazy, no? But in his book, MY JESUS YEAR, he reveals his difficulty in finding a spiritual connection to God within the Orthodox religion he grew up in.Born into a family of “rabbinic rock stars,” our hero struggled from his youth with feelings of doubt and apathy concerning his Judaism. The church across the street from his home in Atlanta became the object of his desire as he wondered what life would be like without the endless rules that marked an Orthodox Jewish lifestyle. Moving away from home during his college years, he couldn’t shake his nagging attraction to things worldly and Christian, even considering a Big Mac with cheese as a rebellion against his totally kosher upbringing. But Jewish guilt kicked in and instead he visited a smoke-filled bar, exiting quickly after the smoke made him gasp for fresh air. With characteristic self-deprecating humor, he added, “Years later a doctor confirmed what every Jewish male already knows – we’re allergic to everything.” But his desire to look elsewhere for a meaningful religious experience could not be quieted. After obtaining the blessing of a rabbi who required him to wear a press pass and a kepah whenever he visited churches, the author set out on a Woody Allen-like journey. He first found himself in a 15,000 member African-American mega-church where his presence is announced by the bishop (a friend has tipped off the spiritual leader of the church that he will be there) and his face appears on the two huge in-house TV screens as the congregation whoops and hollers, “Bless you, brother!” His inner Jewish voice cries out, “Oh, God, forgive me.” As the four-hour service continues with spirited music, animated dancing and loud preaching, Benyamin wonders whether the Jews at Mt. Sinai receiving the Ten Commandments might have been the first mega-church. For the next year, he visits countless Christian denominations, awed by the different expressions of the original New Testament church that have sprung up in the last two thousand years. Completing his pilgrimage at the very church across the street from his boyhood home that first drew him to Christianity, Benyamin finds that it is a sparsely attended, dying church, hardly worthy of the fantasies it produced years before in his mind. It wasn’t the Garden of Eden after all. His journey completed, like Dorothy before him, he clicks his heels together and whispers, “There’s no place like home.” The prodigal son has satisfied his desire to explore Christianity and life outside the Orthodox confines, and happily resumes his place in the Jewish community. His journey has made him able to be the Jew he always wanted to be,“one who’s jazzed about his Judaism.” Though he chronicles a serious journey of faith, he does so with characteristic Jewish humor and honesty. In our family, there are those who are going the other direction, leaving their liberal Jewish upbringing and embracing a more orthodox Jewish lifestyle including becoming strictly kosher and “shomer Shabbas”(keepers of the Sabbath.) With two of my husband’s post-college single grandchildren opting for kosher living as well as my first cousin’s son and wife (a young couple with their first child) choosing a strictly Orthodox path, I am fascinated with their choices as they seek to find meaningful Jewish lives. The young people in our family who have chosen to be kosher say that it connects them to the generations before them who followed these same restrictions. A friend recently told me that his choice to observe the rules of kashrut is to imbue every act, no matter how insignificant, with a sense of the sacred. For one thing, keeping kosher is not as difficult as it once was. As I’ve learned from reading HADASSAH MAGAZINE, almost every city has restaurants that serve kosher meals. They also are running an ad for a Kosher Cruise (wouldn’t Kruise be better advertising?) during the Passover holidays. You can experience keeping kosher while “kruising “the high seas in a luxury ship. As I finish reading Benyamin Cohen’s book, I realize he never broke the rules of kashrut during his Jesus year. Since there are so many kosher restaurants available, I wonder if I should consider the opposite of what many in my generation did. Instead of keeping a kosher home, what if I only eat in kosher restaurants? It couldn’t hurt!

PRACTICING THE PRESENCE OF GOD

Last night I attended a class for single moms where I am a mentor. The teaching was on the story of Hagar from the Book of Genesis. Rather than concentrating on Sarah in this story of the beginning of the Jewish people, the teacher highlighted Hagar, the Egyptian slave. Hagar had no voice in the way her life was going and no husband to protect or provide for her. After being mistreated by Sarah while she was pregnant, she ran away to the desert. She was alone, pregnant and facing a grim future. But, as the Scriptures relate, the angel of the Lord found her and told her to go back and submit to her mistress as her son would be the father of a great nation. The story is told as if there is nothing unusual about an angel turning up to help someone out of a dire situation. What fascinated me was Hagar’s declaration after this amazing encounter. “You are the God who sees me...Now I have seen the One who sees me.” This simple but profound revelation is the core of a belief in God. At the end of the class I went up to the teacher and told her a truth that close friend Bobi Stern had told me many times before. She had heard a rabbi say that we are all living our lives in the presence of God and if we realized that, we would live our lives differently. This did not mean that God was snooping around, watching to see what we did wrong and then pouncing on us about it. It meant that we are never alone but have a loving God who is there for us in times of joy and sorrow. There’s no question that we would be more at peace and make better choices if we included what I call The God Factor. This is not to say that I don’t often forget about this truth myself when difficult situations arise. Hagar was to make another trip to the wilderness, this time at Sarah’s request. Her son was a threat to Isaac in Sarah’s mind, and she urged Abraham to send her and the boy away. Again, Hagar found herself alone and without food and water. As she put the young Ishmael under a tree to die, she began sobbing. It wasn’t long before the same Angel of the Lord appeared and spoke to her. (Not bad for an Egyptian woman who didn’t even know the God who had revealed Himself to Abraham.) Again, she was comforted and opened her eyes to see a well in front of her that would provide fresh water for her and her son. Throughout the Bible there are stories of what we would call miracles – God’s intervening in the events of people’s lives often by sending an angel to help them. But there are still miracles with us today. If you have ever read Small Miracles for the Jewish Heart, you will be amazed by how many present day stories there are about extraordinary happenings in the lives of ordinary people. As I watched the faces of these single moms light up, I knew the teacher had given these women what they came for – hope that things would get better and they were not alone. All of this took place in the context of community – people getting together to enjoy and help one another. And if there is one thing that Jews excel at, it’s creating a community. Beginning with Shabbat dinners and Passover seders in our homes, we have made the family the first and foremost “community” we are part of. But for those of us who don’t have the luxury of a nearby family, there is a new option: OurJewishCommunity.org. This is an online congregation that a young rabbi is leading according to a recent article in The Wall Street Journal. For her online Seder, Rabbi Baum’s guest list was about 400 though “it is not as if we will run out of gefilte fish,” she said. Another rabbi led his home Seder on a widescreen TV, not around the dining room table. His high-tech version was just another way to get his guests more engaged with the story of Passover. For Jewish young people who live in the world of iPads and YouTube, there are religious leaders who are attempting to connect with them through the technology that defines their lifestyles. Whatever the means, we all want to know that we are not alone and that someone is always there for us. If we don’t quite believe in “the God who sees us,” can we believe that there is something miraculous in the helping hand of a friend or the hug of a child? Our experiences may not be as dramatic as Hagar’s but they can be just as life changing.

THE POWER OF A DREAM

Searching for an idea for a new show, I came across the story of Joseph who dreamed that one day his father and brothers would bow down to him. His declaration of a time when the family order would reverse incurred their anger and caused them to turn against him. They eventually plotted to kill him and left him for dead on a desolate road. It must have been truly difficult for Joseph to hold on to that dream when his life was going the other direction. Yet years later when his family went to Egypt in search of food, they wound up bowing before Joseph who was now second in command to Pharaoh. Through the unique series of events that took place after his brothers abandoned him, Joseph’s dream came to pass. The beauty of that story is that Joseph wept when he saw his family again, welcoming them in their time of need. The dream was part of God’s way of providing for them during the famine in their homeland. Where do these dreams come from? The ones that pop up in our thoughts or in our hearts? The ones we read about or watch come to pass in other people’s lives? In my mind, there’s no question that Joseph’s dream as well as ours come from God. They are a way of showing us what our purpose is here on earth. As I write this column, I am working on having a song of mine professionally recorded so that I can send it to Oprah and, hopefully, find a top artist to record it. Did I mention that I am also revising my first play, Estherella, to send to an agent in hopes she will pitch it as an animated film? On Valentine’s Day I played the piano at a local Mexican restaurant. I brought the keyboard, the music stand and enough jazz standards to play for hours. I was the guest artist at a neighborhood hangout where I eat the taco special every Tuesday – 2 tacos for $1.50. Though I know I am a woman of a certain age, I felt like I did the summer after my senior year of high school. That summer I was the receptionist at our local NBC radio station and often played the grand piano in the sound studio during my lunch break. One day a young musician stopped by and listened to me playing and asked me to become the pianist for his group who were featured every weekday night from midnight ‘til 3 am on the radio. Ecstatic, I could hardly wait to tell my parents about this great honor. Within moments of explaining my sensational offer, my father nixed the idea since he didn’t want me to postpone starting college that fall. Looking back, I guess that was the right decision as I went on to graduate from college and entered the work force as a high school English teacher four years later. But I have never stopped loving playing piano and over the years have added songwriting to my musical palette. In the past twenty years I have written over a hundred songs for shows that have been produced locally. But the song that is my favorite is the one I wrote after reading Jamie Farr’s autobiography, Just Farr Fun. Leaving home at age 17, this actor who played Klinger on Mash, realized his boyhood dream of starring in a Broadway musical when he won the lead in Guys and Dolls at age 60. It took over 40 years for his dream to come to pass. My song, The Power of a Dream, is about the impossible dreams that some of us nurture, dreams that took root in our hearts often many years ago, dreams that we might have inherited from one of our parents, as I did. When I was awarded the trophy for Best Musical Score at the local Golden Globe awards, I heard myself proclaiming, “I’m not leaving the planet until Barbra Streisand sings one of my songs.” Being a successful songwriter is still my most cherished dream. Just a few years after that, I found among my mother’s papers a copyrighted song that my father wrote in 1949. Another Love is now framed and hangs on a wall in my home office. Who knew that my dad, too, was a songwriter? Though we began piano lessons together when I was 8 and he was 32, I never knew he had tried his hand at composing. Call it inspiration or foolishness, I am still holding on to my dream of writing songs that will be sung by top artists and/or be part of a movie score. That dream is what I think about when I have a spare moment. The CD of a popular book plays in my car as I drive from place to place. The author reminds us that we need to get up every morning excited about the day ahead as it is a gift from God that we must not squander. I hum The Power of a Dream as I exit my car at the office, wondering what I will wear to the Academy Awards when one of my songs wins the Best Song of the Year.

WHAT MATTERS MOST

I openly admit that I have Barbra Stresiand’s new CD continuously filling my Prius with music as I travel around the city showing houses. Her new album features songs by her long-time friends, Alan and Marilyn Bergman, and makes it quite clear that this singer/actress still has one of the most clear and powerful voices ever to grace a sound stage. Her phrasing is perfect, her whole notes amazing and her ability to sell the song’s lyrics are unmatched. The title song is David Foster’s What Matters Most, a gorgeous melody with an even better lyric. The last verse says, “It’s not how many summer times we had to give to fall, the laughter and the tears we gratefully recall. What matters most is that we loved at all.” As I sat in a back row of my synagogue last night, I soaked in the melodies in Hebrew the Hazzan was chanting. I don’t know all the words, but the melodies are part and parcel of who I am – a Jewish woman who loves feeling connected to her Jewish roots. Though I don’t know the names of many of the people who were sharing that service with me, it doesn’t matter. I know who they are. They are a replica of the Jewish community in New Jersey where I grew up. They are Jews who have been able to reap the huge blessing of living in a society that provides them with opportunities that were unheard of until our shared American experience. Last night was especially meaningful as all veterans and active members of the military were honored as Shabbat and Veterans Day occurred on one and the same date. As Rabbi called out the names and ranks of military people in the congregation, I was stunned by the number of men and women who stood up. Some were World War II survivors, some were present day members of the military and others were middle-aged men and women who had served their country in peacetime. And who could believe that the highest-ranking person honored was a Jewish woman! These were members of the American Jewish community who were willing to serve their country in the military whether in war or peacetime. I thought of the lyric that reminded me of what matters most. For these men and women, what mattered most was not just reaping the benefits of life in America, but being a part of the military troops that were willing to defend those benefits. I can’t recall a more touching moment than when everyone in the social hall rose to their feet, put their hands on their hearts, faced the American flags on the buffet table and sang My Country Tis’ of Thee together. It was definitely a “wow” experience. While getting dressed for synagogue just hours before, I had barely paid attention when the advertisement for a production of Fiddler on the Roof flashed across the television screen. I have often quipped, “What would be so terrible if I had written another musical like that which would be enjoyed by Jewish and general audiences for generations to come?” But on the way home, I realized that I, too, could have lived in fear of Russian Cossacks attacking my village if I had been born in a different time and place. My Russian maiden name of Walcoff would have made me eligible for such a life if I had not been born several generations later in a small New Jersey town. Checking my email before heading off to bed, I read an article in the New York Daily News that had been forwarded to me by a Jewish friend. It seems that anti-Semitic vandals had torched several cars in a heavily populated Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn. They painted a swastika on one vehicle, SS on another and KKK on a third. “It’s not so much that the cars got blown up,” said one of the local residents. “It’s the hatred behind it that’s chilling.” There’s no question that there are occasional outbreaks of hatred for Jews in our country, but, for the most part, as said New York Mayor Bloomberg, “New York (America) is home to more than 8(300) million of the most open and tolerant people in the world.” Before turning off the lights, I reminded myself of what matters most to me. It’s not buying that striking 2012 red Prius I have my eye on, or selling that $1.6 million dollar ranch in the Hill Country. It’s being thankful for the incredibly blessed life my entire family and I are living right now in San Antonio, Texas

I WRITE LIKE NORA EPHRON? THANKS!

Sitting at a luncheon table after a summer Bat Mitzvah, I started up a conversation with the woman seated to my right. Once we exchanged names, she remarked enthusiastically, “Oh, you’re the woman who writes like Nora Ephron in our local Jewish paper!”

Except for someone telling me they couldn’t believe how good I looked sixty pounds lighter (that could only be if I had actually stayed on Weight Watchers), those were the most energizing words I could ever hope to hear.

To be compared with my favorite Jewish female writer was a compliment of the highest order. The conversation that followed included praises of everything from Nora’s first novel and screenplay, Heartburn, to her latest book about the condition of her aging neck. Her stories are either gloriously autobiographical or the product of her soaring romantic fantasies. Whatever her choice of subject matter, it’s her style of writing and perspective on life that captivates me. We are Jewish soul sisters though we have never met.

The amazing connection that Jews feel for other Jews who are essentially strangers has always fascinated me. From the Jewish taxicab driver who drives me to the airport in Los Angeles to the Jewish bakery owner who bags my bagels in Detroit, I treat them like family, asking personal questions while trying to find out if we know some of the same people, namely other Jews.

Then the question arises, “How can people who choose Judaism when they are adults tap into the same family-like experience as those who are Jewish from birth?” For many non-affiliated Jews, this cultural connection is all that is left to their “feeling Jewish.”

The week following the Bat Mitzvah, I am back at Temple for another simcha. This time it is the conversion of a woman who has worked there for over twenty years. She is a talented graphic designer and computer wiz who is an indispensable staff member. As I watch this moving ceremony, I wonder why after all this time she has decided to convert.

When we sit down for lunch a few weeks after her conversion, I ask her about her decision. “I grew up in the Lutheran Church, but never felt totally connected there. The fact that the pastor ran off with another woman and left his wife and children didn’t help,” she added with a smile.

“If I could have converted to the Jewish culture, I would have done it years ago. Converting to a religion was the problem. But earlier this year, I had a defining moment that made me realize I wanted to be Jewish.”

“At a Friday night service, I became aware of an older man, sitting alone, crying as the service progressed. I went over to ask him what was wrong, knowing he had lost his wife to breast cancer a few years back. He tearfully told me that his son, who had a wife and three small children, was diagnosed with leukemia.

The next day the son died, and there was to be a minyan held the following afternoon. Since the father usually sat alone at services, I was concerned that not many people would turn up for the memorial prayers, so I decided to go. When I arrived, there were barely 10 people in attendance to conduct the service. It struck me that I wouldn’t have been able to be part of the minyan if they needed me because I was not a Jew.

The next day I told the rabbi I was ready to convert. The words from the Gates of Prayer for Shabbat and Weekdays that begin with ‘I am a Jew because…’ express perfectly why I wanted to be a Jew. Judaism embraces knowledge, not ignorance; hope, not despair; tradition; change; being responsible to and for the world and humanity and being one with God (the Universe).”

We agreed that for many people the religion they grew up with wasn’t the one that was right for them. But once they find where they belong, they feel totally at home. Thus, my question was answered.

It reminded me of the bumper sticker that I see around town, “I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as quickly as I could!”

Maybe her story isn’t as romantic as SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE by my favorite screenwriter Nora Ephron, but it has all the ingredients that fascinate those of us who see life as a journey that takes us to surprising destinations.

I heard on the nightly news that two Israeli students have developed a robot that cleans toilets and does windows. Are we surprised?

I’m going to call my new Jewish friend so we can have a good laugh about it.

OY! THE TWO LETTER POWERHOUSE

As I struggled to get out of my car after parking it on a hilly Austin side street, I involuntarily exhaled a rather loud, “Oy” as I almost lost my balance. My friend Nina who parked her car next to mine laughed out loud while commenting, “What would we do without Oy!?” We both agreed Oy! (which seems to need an exclamation point as part of its spelling) is often the only word that can adequately express the combination of dismay, annoyance or just plain frustration that occurs in our lives on a regular basis. Nina asked, “What do non-Jews say when such situations arise?” We stood in the parking lot of Katz’s Deli on Sixth Street in a light drizzle trying to come up with some English substitutes for the two-letter word that is probably the most well known of Jewish expressions. “Could they say ‘Oh, no!” or maybe ‘Oh, woe’? “ I wondered out loud.“How about ‘Dear me?” added my friend who is a Jewish writer like me. We both agreed it didn’t come close to expressing the depth of feeling that a spontaneous “Oy” can bring. “It’s the expelling of air that gives ‘Oy’ its power,” Nina said as we headed for the restaurant’s front entrance. “Somehow it offers the sense of relief that we need when it’s released from our gut.” As we enjoyed our deli lunches in this popular Austin eatery, Nina asked our waitress how the owner’s wife did in her first boxing match. Shocked, I listened while the young college student reported that Mrs. Katz, a twenty-five year old who had taken up boxing for exercise but was such a natural that her coach encouraged her to go professional, knocked out her opponent in the first 30 seconds of the second round. “Oy! You’re kidding!” I exclaimed, noting that Oy! can also be used to express surprise. Though I didn’t say it out loud, I could have easily added an “Oy! Was that delicious?” when I finished my tasty onion soup that used rye bread instead of sourdough in its recipe. Once home, I searched for my well-worn copy of Hooray for Yiddish by Leo Rosten and found it took the author two and a half pages to explain the many facets of Oy. In his inimitable light-hearted style, Rosten included a list of twenty-four uses of Oy, each with its own example. To sample just a few: “Pain (moderate): ‘Oy! That hurt.’ Pain (considerable): ‘Oy – oy!’ Pain (extreme): ‘Oy, oy, oy, gotenyu!’”Rosten also clears up the difference between Ah! and Oy! with this delightful example. “When you commit a sin, you love it and go ‘Ah….’ but then, realizing what you’ve done, you wail ‘O-o-oy!’ Though his first book, The Joys of Yiddish, was published in 1968, the many uses of Oy! have not faded but remain an active part of every Jew’s vocabulary. When I read on AOL News that Jerry Seinfeld had to be ordered by a judge to pay his real estate agent, Tamara Cohen, her $100,000 commission for the Upper West Side townhouse that he and his wife Jessica bought in February 2005, I shook my head and emitted a heavy “Oy!” Seinfeld had argued that the broker didn’t deserve the commission because she failed to show the brownstone on the Jewish Sabbath, the day the Seinfelds wanted to see it. Earlier Cohen had told the Seinfelds that she was Shomer Shabbos and could not work between Friday evening and Saturday sundown. However, the Seinfelds only wanted to see this property on a Saturday and made a deal to buy it without her though she had already shown them a number of other residences. I thought to myself, “You couldn’t wait one more day? Oy! Jerry. Shame on you!” Then there’s the matter of one Howard K. Stern, Anna Nicole Smith’s lawyer, who seems to have been involved in unethical behavior concerning his client and her case to get her hands on the huge fortune left to her by her late husband. As Nina’s mother lamented on the phone to her daughter, “Oy! Is there any chance he’s not Jewish?” But one look at this man makes it obvious that he could have recently graduated from Yeshiva University. But then there is the “Oy! Lucky me!” that I plan to be loudly emitting if I get a call next Monday from the staff at O Magazine telling me that I’ve been selected for the March Spa getaway with Oprah and Gayle. This groan of delight is Oy! in its finest moment. For sure, I couldn’t get through one day without that versatile, ubiquitous, absolutely irreplaceable Yiddish expletive - Oy!

THE NON-WANDERING JEW

I have finally learned the lesson that Dorothy learned so many years ago in “The Wizard of Oz.” And I don’t even have to tap my red shoes together to make it happen. For me, there’s just no place like home. Living in a family that loves to explore new places and new lands, I am the hold out who gets all excited about travel plans but when it comes to the actual trip, I never really enjoy it. The effort it takes to leave town to see new sights in unfamiliar places doesn’t work for me. I would get just as much pleasure from a book or DVD that shows the splendors of another location, especially if I am enjoying it with people I love. Yet a look back at our Jewish history shows that I am definitely in the minority. When Abraham, the father of our faith, began his walk with God, one of his first acts of obedience was to pack up his family and move from Ur to “God knows where.” He provides quite an example for those of us who don’t even want to travel on vacation to a different location. Sometimes the move was not of one’s own choosing as when Joseph wound up in Egypt through no choice of his own. But that move was God-inspired as he was able to provide for his estranged family who traveled to Egypt when famine struck their homeland years later. When I look back on my life, I see the many times I was uprooted as I followed a husband from place to place. Starting out in New Jersey, I moved for a summer to Newport, Rhode Island and then to Oceanside, California for two years. Following that, I was off to Milwaukee, Wisconsin for another two years and then wound up in Austin, Texas for the next two years. From there, I would spend twelve years in Florida and five years in Georgia, and eventually back in Texas for several years before heading to Tulsa and then Los Angeles. After a brief year and a half there, I moved back to San Antonio where I have been comfortably settled for over twenty years. The most amazing self-observation is that I still get excited when I read the section of Hadassah Magazine that spotlights Jewish life around the world. Who knew there were still Jews in Budapest or Oslo, Norway? Or that you can spend a week in Portugal visiting past and present places where Jews have settled? Even the Jewish community in Key West looks inviting enough to visit. One of the few places I will still visit is California, maybe because it felt like home when I first went out there some twenty something years ago to spend time with an old friend. It was the place where my dad had lived as a young single man and made me feel connected to him though he had died when I was in my twenties. And it was there that I first thought about writing songs, scripts and personal essays. But I must admit that what I love best now about trips to Los Angeles is the chance to sit at the Farmer’s Market and chat with the elderly Jewish folks who live in the Fairfax area. They remind me of growing up in New Jersey where a Jewish face was often seen in a neighborhood deli or a kosher bakery near my father’s store and people always had time to visit with one another. But mostly, I am content to explore areas near San Antonio with or without a real estate client next to me in my car. I recently closed on a house in Lytle, Texas, and told a friend who came along that we were probably the first two Jewish women who ever got out of their cars in Lytle, Texas. Yes, I am definitely a “stay put” Jew whose wandering days (unless it is a day trip not far from home) are over. But wait. I just got an email from a friend that touted the magnificent beaches and friendly people in Costa Rica. And another that told of the incredible hospitality of the Jewish community in that country. (And I know it is warm there right now as I sit writing this with a blanket over my legs. Well, maybe I could consider one more trip before I permanently implement my “no travel” ban.

THE SECRET LIVES OF JEWISH WIVES

Who knew that Jewish wives had secret lives?? I was shocked when I slipped into a seat at the JCC to listen to Iris Krasnow, the author of The Secret Life of Wives, and looked around at the capacity crowd. The oversized room was full of familiar women’s faces. I told myself I was there only because I was looking for an idea for a future Mishugas column, but, truth be told, I was totally interested in finding out how the two hundred women the author interviewed had kept a twenty or more year marriage together. If there was a secret to sustaining a marriage for the long haul, I wanted to hear about it. Though I have been married three times, this present and final marriage is going on 22 years, certainly a record for me. My first marriage collapsed when the erstwhile rabbi moved out after 8 years of wedded non-bliss, my second marriage ended after 16 years when my then husband was killed in an auto crash, and my present husband and I are still hanging in there after two plus decades. I was anxious to compare notes with the women in Krasnow’s research as well as with the other Jewish women in the audience. Is it possible there were some things I didn’t know that would guarantee a long-lived relationship? Drawing us into her topic, Ms. Krasnow bluntly stated that she had been married over twenty years and there were times during the same week when she absolutely loved her husband and also completely loathed him. It wasn’t that she was unstable, but that different situations brought about different reactions. She made it clear that she was a journalist, not a therapist, but she did learn much from the women she interviewed. For one thing, they chucked the chick-flick image of the perfect union where there Is only harmony after marriage. Being realistic about what to expect was the first step in building a solid marriage. As we all know, men and women are truly different in their approach to problem solving and also in their ranking of what’s most important. The women in her book built relationships over the years through honest and compassionate conversations and learned to eliminate spontaneous confrontations. It all came down to words: what we decide to say and when and how we choose to say it. Those of us in the room who were nodding our heads know that the Book of Proverbs is correct when it states, “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold.” The problem is it isn’t always easy to speak a word fitly spoken. How often do we speak without thinking or considering the reaction of our partner? How often do we have unrealistic expectations of our mate – expectations that don’t fit with his personality or goals or even his likes or dislikes? The women she interviewed had faced and conquered these problems. Gulp…I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. But as Jewish women, we mostly come from households where our opinions matter and we expect to be more of a partner than an order taker. We are not afraid to speak our minds though our tone of voice and timing might need some tweaking. All this reminded me of my first playwriting contest. I wrote a scene about Sarah, Abraham’s wife, when he told her they were moving, but he didn’t exactly know where. He said God had spoken to him to pack up his family and his possessions and move to “God knows where.” (This was undoubtedly the first time this expression was used!) Imagining her reaction was easy. First, she must have thought her husband was crazy, especially since no one before Abraham had ever claimed to have “heard from God.” And why did they have to move? She had just finished decorating their home in Ur, a great place to live at that time. Should she take her good dishes? Would there be a decent butcher and bakery where they were going? What about her housekeeper? Could she come along even though she wasn’t technically family? Did Sarah ever think this might be a good time to leave Abraham? I mean, how much mishugas was a wife supposed to put up with? My granddaughter is planning her wedding this coming fall, and I marvel at how her fiancée and she talk through the various questions that need to be answered. What date? What location? How many people can each of them invite? What kind of food should be served? Should they plan a honeymoon? Who will perform the wedding? The questions go on and on, and they have to talk them through and come to agreement on all of them. It seems to me that planning a wedding is the perfect classroom for learning to communicate. You are so much in love that you want to please your partner yet you still have your own ideas on what should be done. If you don’t agree, you must both be willing to compromise. Gratefully, my days of planning a wedding are long past. But I need to get back to writing my next book, A Husband is Not a Girlfriend. And I will do that as soon as my husband and I get back from Chico’s after looking for a new outfit for me.

EXPLAINING MISHUGAS

For those of you who didn't grow up in a Jewish neighborhood on the East Coast, I want to give a necessary definition of my blog name: Mishugas. Mishugas is the Yiddish word that we use to describe those habits, actions and thought patterns that seem peculiar to Jewish people. It might be translated "craziness," but that just touches the surface of this rich and complex concept. Mishugas is used to describe that Jewish way of looking at life that helps us know when we have encountered another Jewish person. It is also the name of the column I have written since 2000 for the Jewish Journal of San Antonio after having lunch with the editor. We were talking about what we wanted to be "when we grew up," and I blurted out that I always wanted to write feature articles or personal essays for a national magazine. Barbara Richmond, the editor of the Journal at that time, responded by asking me to write something for her, and if she liked it, she would publish it...That was 12 years ago this fall. Though my original plan was to write simply a humor column, over the years I have had the pleasure of commenting on everything from the Jewish love of Chinese food to my unabashed adoration of Nora Ephron's writing. My blog is where I am uploading my columns, one by one, so that I can share them with a wider audience. I also have a CD, Mishugas Live, which contains my reading of ten of my best columns interspersed with the music I have written over the years for local productions. My own personal Mishugas is my announcing to a room of Golden Globe attendees (our San Antonio theatre awards) as I received my second trophy for Best Musical Score that I will not leave the planet until Barbra Streisand sings one of my songs!