Memories Sweet And Sad
Reading “My Name is Freida Sima” (front page essay, Oct. 28) brought tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks as I recalled my Bubbie, who called me “Bubbele,” and how she sewed up my torn pants like new when, as a preteen, I fell off my bike and tore them. And how she said in Yiddish, when I introduced her to the young woman who was to become my wife, “Oy, mein kind, du bist azar dar.” And I remembered the wonderful Jewish dishes she used to cook and bake. So delicious!
And that led me to think of my parents – my father, who taught me the importance of working hard, how to hit a baseball and ride a bike and grow tomatoes in our backyard and pick the lilacs to adorn our home; and my beautiful mother, who tended to my needs and encouraged me to get a strong education.
And then I smiled and actually laughed aloud through the tears as I thought of my wonderful uncles and aunts. My mother was the eldest of nine children. To help support her family, she had to leave school in the 5th grade. I fondly recalled how my Uncle Irving taught me to respect my parents and others; how my Uncle Buddy helped me hone my baseball skills; how my Uncle Harold taught me to work in his drugstore while I was in high school; and how my Uncle Benny set an example for me to gain an advanced college degree.
And I again found myself laughing aloud while the tears still flowed as I recalled the wonderful family Passover Seders, and how proud I was when I found the hidden matzah, the afikoman, for which I was rewarded.
So many wonderful memories, but alas, some sad ones too: The early death of our son, David, in his twenties in a car accident – no fault of his own – while returning home after doing a mitzvah to help a friend. And the premature death of my lovely wife during a surgical procedure. But I was thankful for the 45 years we had together. More tears…
So many memories, thanks to reading “My Name is Freida Sima.” I’ll miss her story after the final installment next month – just after I turn 90.
George Epstein
Los Angeles, CA
Shameful Endorsements
It’s shameful that you gave your endorsement to Chuck Schumer and Jerry Nadler for their respective reelection bids (editorial, Nov. 4).
To say that Schumer took “great political risk” to oppose the Iran nuclear deal is ludicrous; it was obvious that President Obama “approved” his vote against the deal in exchange for Schumer’s commitment to forgo trying to convince fellow Democrats to do likewise.
And given his reputation as one who has great rapport with his colleagues and often attempts to influence their votes, Schumer’s silence was particularly egregious.
The claim that Nadler undertook “sincere risk analysis” before voting in favor of the deal is equally absurd. Obama made it clear behind closed doors that there would be grave consequences for Democrats voting against the deal. Phil Rosenthal, a brilliant observant Jew, decided to run against Nadler solely due to Nadler’s vote in favor of the deal. Why wouldn’t you give him your endorsement?
Arlene Ross
Forest Hills, NY
Quick To Judge?
Although I was disappointed with your Nov. 4 endorsement of Donald Trump, I realize it is your prerogative to recommend to your readers whomever you see fit. What bothered me, however, was the following sentence:
“It is inconceivable to us that the [FBI] investigation [into Hillary Clinton’s e-mails] would have been reopened so close to the election absent the discovery of evidence of serious wrongdoing.”
Especially now that FBI Director James Comey has one again said there was nothing found in the e-mails that indicate any need for further action, it seems you were a bit unseemly in your haste to declare it “inconceivable” that the investigation would have been reopened had there been no “evidence of serious wrongdoing.”
As a friend of mine said to me, “If there was something all that damning about the e-mails, WikiLeaks would have released it already.” I don’t know much about these kinds of things, but one thing I feel very strongly about is that in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave we withhold the stain of absolute certainty of guilt before the examination of evidence is completed.
I would think Jewish law also works that way. We as Jews should be very sensitive to the dangers of ‘knowing” someone is guilty just because he or she is being investigated.
Alan Howard
Brooklyn, NY
Children And Shul
Rabbi Steven Pruzansky (“The Joy of Torah,” front page essay, Oct. 21) cautions one not to take a child to shul only on Simchat Torah and Purim. I agree, but I come at it from the perspective of someone raised in a three-day-a-year Jewish household, as were the other Jews I grew up with.
It is more important to take children to shul on Simchat Torah and Purim than Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur if one is not so frum so that they can see the truth of Tevya’s observation in the song “To Life” from Fiddler on the Roof: “God would like us to be joyful even when our hearts are panting on the floor. How much more can we be joyful when there’s really something to be joyful for?”
Well, there is always something to be joyful for.
When I was young we rarely went to shul. When we did attend, it was a traditional Conservative synagogue on Long Island. This was a common experience among my peers. On the High Holy Days we went to shul. The rest of the year we hardly went at all, until a year before a bar or bat mitzvah. Then we were told we had to. I guess that was so we would not feel out of place there. But we did feel out of place.
Two or three days a week we came home from school at 3 p.m., did our homework, rushed dinner, and were picked up by a carpool to attend two hours of Hebrew school. And when we were taught something at Hebrew school, and asked our parents why we didn’t do what we had been taught, the stock answer was, “When you grow up you can do it.” Yes, but how? We really didn’t know. We went to Hebrew school so that we could have a nice party and get presents at the end.
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were the prototypical Jewish holidays for us, and they were not joyful at all. We spent a short time learning about Sukkot, so we knew we were supposed to live in a sukkah, and then they’d parade us through a dark, dingy sukkah decorated by someone else (we never participated in putting it up or decorating it). We would looked at each other mystified, wondering why anyone would want to live in that!
As young children on Simchat Torah, we were brought to shul at night, given flags, and marched around while all the adults looked on proudly. I never understood why. We never went during the day – we’d miss school! After we passed the age of cuteness, we did not have to go at all.