Belated Memorial Day Thoughts: Freedom & the Fiddler on the Roof

I hope it isn't too late to post about Memorial Day. It was a big Jewish holiday this weekend so I couldn't post, but Memorial Day is a special day and I try to honor it with more the just hamburgers and taking advantage of low low prices on mattresses. Sometimes there is a trip to somewhere special, other times it is an extemporaneous lecture on liberty and the Constitution.

A few years ago I took GoofBoy to an elementary school production of Fiddler on the Roof. (This wasn't on Memorial Day, but it is in the spirit of it - just keep reading.)  The play had all of the virtues of that genre of production. GoofBoy walked out humming the tune "Tradition."

"You liked it buddy?" I asked.

"Yeah, but one thing bothers me. Where was the fiddler? The play is called "Fiddler on the Roof" but there isn't one."

GoofBoy believes in truth in advertising, he gets that from his mother.

"It is a metaphor, the fiddler on the roof is ridiculous and could fall at any moment but he is up there anyway. But isn't that kind of how life is?"

GoofBoy nodded.  "Now, I have a question for you.  Did you like the play, did it make it seem nice to live in the shtetl?"

"Yeah, Dad, it really did."

"Well it wasn't! It was poor and dirty and dangerous.  I've told you this before, be grateful every day of your life that your great-great grandparents - who I never even met - got their tuchases out of Russia and came to America!  They went from the worst place in the world to best!"

I'm on a roll now, and nothing will stop me.

"Remember in the play, the blessing for the czar?  May hashem bless the czar and keep the czar far away from us! In America it is the opposite.  When America first started there were only a few Jews and they wrote a letter to George Washington asking if America would treat the Jews fairly.  George Washington wrote back to them..."

I am yelling, choking up, and reciting from memory all at once - I don't wait for GoofBoy to answer.

"For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection, should demean themselves as good citizens."

"And then to finish up, just to show he really meant it, he quoted the Prophet Micah and wrote: May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while every one shall sit under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid."

"Buddy, I won't tell you America is a perfect country - it isn't.  I'm happy to tell you all about mistakes it has made.  But it is an awfully good country, be grateful for it."

"So, life is hard and unpredictable no matter where you live.  We are all Fiddlers on the Roof.  But at least in America - not everyone is trying to knock us over all the time just for being Jewish."

I believe firmly in bringing things around full circle.

"Dad," GoofBoy looked up, "Are you going to turn every single question I ever ask into a history lecture?"

"You can count on it."

Little Goofs Read from the Torah

Memorial Day weekend was also the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, which celebrates the giving of the Torah. It is a big thing for Jews (and really for Western civilization). It was extra-special for the Goof Clan, because GoofBoy read Torah the Saturday afternoon, just before the holiday began.

It is traditional for Jews at 13 to read from the Torah before their congregation and establish their commitment to Judaism as an adult. But kids don’t have to wait until they are 13 – they can read the Torah to the congregation before that. It should be emphasized, that reading the Torah out loud isn’t just a matter of Hebrew fluency. It also requires learning a special trope that is just for the Torah. My synagogue has a wonderful and unique program run by a member who volunteers his time, in which kids learn to read from the Torah and are given the opportunity to do so. They get prizes when they reach certain milestones – after their first reading, third reading etc.

An important component of the program is to teach trope to other kids. So on Saturday mornings at our synagogue we have a group of children teaching one another to read from the holy text of the Jewish people. It is as inspiring as it sounds.

GoofBoy is an enthusiastic participant. One of his motivations is that he is a bit behind Carpool Buddy, who has a mom and dad who can help him. For me this is yet another area where GoofBoy has surpassed me completely. Regardless, everything about this makes me proud of him. That he is learning his way around the central text of the Jewish people, that he is self-motivated to do this, and that he actually reads hard stuff out loud in public with aplomb.

Oh, and one more thing. When I was bar mitzvahed, several hundred years ago I fought and complained and refused to study. For me, and unfortunately most Jews, the bar mitzvah is a one off – the kid studies for that particular event but does not acquire the broader skill of reading Torah. My parents (the GrandGoofs) were terrified that I would flub the whole thing because of my refusal to prepare. No problem with GoofBoy – he already knows how to do it. In two years when it is bar mitzvah time he’ll own this. Anything involving a 13 year old is bound to be stressful, but this will take one small piece of that away.

GoofGirl’s Trial by Fire
GoofBoy is a natural leader and innovator. One of the great things about Torah Club is that younger siblings are inspired to learn to read the Torah watching their elder siblings. GoofGirl is too young to join the program, but she can’t wait and kept begging her brother to teach her.

So, Sunday morning – during Shavuot – GoofBoy acquiesced and began teaching his sister. She was a ready student (she knows Hebrew pretty well too.) Still, any beginner makes mistakes with the trope. Usually the teacher gently corrects the student. But GoofBoy had a different idea for motivation. Every time his sister made a mistake, he shot her with a Nerf gun. That was more fun for everyone (I think GoofGirl started flubbing it on purpose). GoofBoy is going to propose Nerf Gun firing squad as a regular Torah Club teaching method.

While Mama Goof is Away, I am allowed to do laundry

The kids got home and saw clothes hanging and said, shocked, "Daddy, you did laundry! Are you allowed to?"
"Why wouldn't I be allowed to do laundry?"
They were suspicious, "Does mommy know you are doing this?"
Mama Goof is in LA, not for fun, more on that in some other post. I am pretty good at single parenting - for a disorganized guy. We monitor the little Goofs screen time pretty carefully, so we bend a bit when one of us is away. I'm a pretty lousy homemaker, but I can get by - except for one thing. Mama Goof does not trust me to do laundry. She’ll tolerate my minimalist efforts to prepare food (veggie chicken tenders and cucumber slices for dinner anyone?) But not laundry, she trusts no one and especially not me. Her mania is to the point that she left the detergent bin empty to prevent me from even trying.






A few years ago that would have dissuaded me, but no more. I told her I was going to do laundry no matter what, so she may as well give me instructions and thereby at least mitigate the damage inflicted on the family wardrobe.
The basic mistakes of male laundry involve the failure to distinguish between different phylum of clothing, efforts to press the engineering capacities of the washer and dryer to their maximum capacity, which are then exacerbated by a general sloth (the vice that is, not a very slow animal with lots of epaulets – although that would be pretty cool).

I promised Mama Goof that I would separate lights and darks, when in doubt use cold water, put anything really nice to the side, and hang to dry if I wasn’t absolutely certain. I promised to pay close attention and not let clothes ferment in the appliance after their cycle was complete.
I explained that I understood that Kenmore washing machines are not Corvettes or pickup trucks. Pushing them to their limits is not fun and could result in flood or fire. No shortcuts, I would do modest sized loads of laundry and not do experiments to see just how hot the dryer could get.
But this wasn’t enough. For Mama Goof, laundry is more a Faustian affair. Washers, like imps, are not to be trusted. But dryers are demon-powered machines that derive their heat from the fires of Tarturus. They are just looking for excuses to destroy clothes. If GoofManor ever has a poltergeist, it will enter through the dryer. Dryers are not to be trifled with; to do laundry is to dabble in the dark arts.
I promised to do everything my wife said, but still MamaGoof wasn't sure. She stared into the distance for a moment then said, “Before putting something in the washer and after taking it out of the washer – just shake it out.” She demonstrated.
“What, that’s it?” I said, incredulous, “That is the big mystery behind doing the laundry. Are you that concerned I can’t shake the clothes out, and then there might be a wrinkle? If I don’t shake the clothes out, does it make them more prone to shrink?”

She nodded sadly, knowing that I would inevitable forget to shake the clothes out. But I haven’t forgotten to do it – I’ve been very careful. I don’t want to know what happens if the washer imps and the dryer demons link up.

But GoofBoy goes to 11

GoofBoy turned 11 recently. Eleven is big - like ten but more so. It puts you squarely into double digits and into your second decade. I’ve written before that seven is the beginning of a golden age for parents. Eleven, I fear is the glorious sunset, before the long dark night of puberty descends.

Still, at seven GoofBoy is pretty awesome. Sure, he gets mad and frustrated with himself and with the limitations we put on him. He gets anxious. He forgets about homework assignments and then panics. (This is far better then I was as a kid, I didn’t forget – I just didn’t do homework. Now, ironically, I am a grad student and a writer – my life is homework. My hobbies are blogging and exercise – more homework.)

But still, he is a great kid who just takes most of what comes his way really well. He loves comic books and computer games. He loves to play ball and to dance. He wants to go fishing and camping. Whatever is going down, GoofBoy is in.

We went to a local middle school play – he loved it. I let him stay up a little late to watch the ball game, he’s happy. I make him a quesadilla, and he says it is as good as mommy’s (obviously a lie, but I appreciate it.)

When he appeals to me for dessert, he does it humbly. “Dad, I’d like to split that chocolate diamond with my sister. I’m not complaining, but you know you haven’t given us dessert in four days.”

And that’s another thing, he includes his sister in his planning. He looks out for her, is thrilled to go to her activities at school and encourages her. Sure, sometimes they spat – but not often, all things considered.

We haven’t gotten his birthday party organized yet, but he’s ok with that. Also his plan to gather dozens of friends and battle across a school building with Nerf weapons may require legal counsel.

When I told him that while he and his sister are away this summer mommy and I will go to the beach and be in walking distance to our beloved Dogfish Head Brewery, he responded, “That’s good. You guys deserve it.”

And he’s getting smart. He read Moneyball (and says he understood it) and can ask about and understand some pretty serious concepts.

At 11 I see the terrific person he is becoming – sweet, sensitive, and smart. But I also know that person is about a decade away because the other thing about 11 is that 12 (with all the attendant chemistry) is right around the corner.

Call me "Runs with Cheetahs"

GoofGirl recently went on a school trip to the zoo. She came home very excited, but also angry that the zoo did not have ocelots. To end her tirade, I told her my own, very special zoo story

“Before you were born, mommy and I lived in an apartment not far from the zoo…”

“Is this the one about the cheetahs, you always tells us this story?” GoofGirl interrupted.

“But mommy is here now and can confirm it, because every word is true!” I continued, “We lived exactly one mile from the zoo. So sometimes in the morning I would run to the zoo visit a few animals and run back. You know the first animal near the entrance?”

“The cheetah!”

“Exactly, and if you get there before they had their breakfast they are very interested in things that run by. One time, I was running along their pen and the cheetah started running next to me.”

“He must have been pretty bored, because you run really slow,” GoofBoy chimed in.

“Well it was still cool. He hissed and leapt at me. Even though there were bars, it was a little scary. Anyway, I ran back to our apartment and told mommy all about it. I was jumping up and down, I was so excited.”

“That is completely true,” MamaGoof said.

“It happened more times. Not every single time I ran to the zoo, but pretty often.”

“I didn’t really believe him,” MamaGoof said, “Your dad does make stuff up.”

“One night, we went to a reception at a hotel near the zoo. We had some wine. Walking back to our apartment, the gates to the zoo were open. Usually they are closed at night. So we went in, we could see the silhouettes of the giraffes and elephants in the dark. It was a weird night. It wasn’t raining, but there was thunder and lightning.”

The little Goofs looked skeptical, but mom nodded her assent.

“We went over to the cheetah area. We couldn’t see anything, but I started running back and forth. I had been drinking wine. Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning and in that instant mommy and I saw a cheetah running alongside me.”

The little Goofs looked to mom. “I saw it. It really happened. You can believe your father, on this one. He ran with the cheetahs.”

GoofBoy at the Plate

I cannot remember a baseball game that made me feel so good. Maybe it is because I am an Orioles fan, and even in their good years they often lost in the end (I was at the seventh game of the 1979 World Series when I was GoofBoy’s age – something like that stays with you.) Of course my own athletic endeavors were irrelevant – I was never any good or on a team that was any good.

When GoofBoy’s baseball team won on Sunday, it was big. They had won the week before, against a team that they clearly outclassed. Nice, since they’d lost their first two. But this game was different. The teams were evenly matched, if a ball was in play, it was fairly likely to result in an out. The other team jumped to an early lead. But GoofBoy’s team clawed back – a run here and a run there.

GoofBoy had been having trouble making contact. But he connected and got a single and his first RBI. Nice. Later he walked and scored the winning run.

In the field GoofBoy isn’t fast or flashy. But he is smart and observant. In the previous game, a coach had ordered him to slide into third. GoofBoy didn’t, explaining later to me that he had watched the other teams third-baseman who wasn’t tagging – just stepping on the base which only counts in a force play. I was impressed, but told him to listen to his coaches.

GoofBoy plays the responsible positions. The outfield, at this level, is mostly about back up and containing the damage. GoofBoy is always in the right place. He’s also at first base, which he handles with steadiness and he LIKES playing catcher. I “liked” playing left field because it made it extremely unlikely the ball would arrive in my zip code. I knew I would probably drop it if it got anywhere near me and that it was highly probable that it would hit me in the neck (this happened several times.) GoofBoy, on the other hand, can’t wait to get hold of the ball – he wants to be where the action is and is confident he is up for it when it comes.

On learning GoofBoy was catching, I reacted the only way I could. I handed him a book, a copy of Roger Angell’s book Season Ticket and told him to read “In the Fire,” which begins:

Consider the catcher. Bulky, thought-burdened, unclean, he retrieves his cap and makes from the ground (where he has flung them, moments ago, in mid-crisis) and moves slowly to his workplace. He whacks the cap against his leg, producing a puff of dust, and settles it in place, its bill astern, with an oddly feminine gesture and then, reversing the movement, pulls on the mask and firms it with a soldierly downward tug. Armored, he sinks into his squat, punches his mitt, and becomes wary, balanced, and ominous; hi sbare right hand rests casually on his thigh while he regards, through the portcullis, the field and the deployed fielders, the batter, the baserunner, his pitcher, and the state of the world, which he now, for a waiting instant, holds in play….

I am perhaps not the most useful father – reading enormous amounts about baseball did little to make me a good player – but it is all I have to offer (and awesome blog filler). GoofBoy has already surpassed me athletically in every possible way except brute strength – and that’s coming within five years.

When the GoofBoy’s team held onto their lead for the other side’s last ups the parents burst into cheers. Our team had triumphed over a team of little Jewish kids (although in fairness, since our time is a bunch of little Jewish kids too, I guess that still counts as awesome.) Every single kid had played a part in our victory – and we parents liked to think that we played a part as well.