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.