Sunday, November 12, 2017

Tears in Sutherland Springs

By Fred Owens
I received four deeply personal emails from friends in Wilson County. They each live only a few miles from the church in Sutherland Springs and they each know of people who were in that church last Sunday when the shooting started.
I've known Wilson County since I went down there to work at the newspaper ten years ago. I stayed for 18 months and made many friends. They still send me the newspaper every week, so I keep up.
Jack. No last name. He does not like his name and business used. I would have to ask his permission,  and I  expect he would decline. His message to me was private. He employs well over two dozen people in a manufacturing business some ten miles from the church where the killer shot the people. Jack knows the Holcomb family that lost so many members. He knows the road that goes by the church, and the trees and the sky and the weather. Jack has lived most of his life in south Texas. In his email he gave me news of various people who were in the church or related in some way.
Then Jack ended his message by writing: "Thank you for your prayers. We all in Wilson County have heavy hearts and this will stay with us all our lives."
--- "heavy hearts and this will stay with us all our lives."  That's what he said and I know the man. He is  friendly, courteous and not inclined to emotional display.
Elaine wrote to me, a woman my age, we discuss family news  on the email and debate politics. Her views are fairly conservative and mine are not. We were having just such an argument last Sunday morning when the shooting started. She had just written, after a disagreement, "but we're still friends, right?" and I replied yes, of course.
Elaine has spent her life in Wilson County. Actually she grew up in Karnes County, just a few miles away.  Elaine is the oldest of nine children, and from that role of being the oldest, she has developed a good habit of giving direction to people. She runs a business with a staff of 25 or so.
But she wrote in her email, after the tragedy,  that she can't sleep. She wrote, "Al and I do appreciate your comments. Things will never be the same here. I wake up in the morning (when I can sleep) and then realize all over again that this horrible thing really did happen to our friends and neighbors."
She can't sleep. That seems to be a small thing, but to me it's huge -- to be robbed of the peace that comes over Wilson County on a quiet evening in November.

Lois is the oldest of my friends in Wilson County. She writes a breezy column for the newspaper most weeks, and talks about old times on the farm where she grew up.

She wrote:

Yes, it was horrible, IS horrible. When you are in the midst of something like this, it changes you. It has changed me. This week, since Sunday, every day my mind goes over and over, how the people in the little church must have felt, the fear, the horror, etc. and the First Responders who had to go in there after, to retrieve the wounded and those that had expired. Even thinking about it now, brings tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat. Those families and friends will never be the same. They will have to live with this all their lives. I knew no one personally that was killed, but some of my friends did..they had kinfolk and friends.
The whole county has been traumatized -- Floresville, Stockdale, La Vernia, and Poth. 
I have been depressed all week, but I am better now. Life must go on. But I am still sad.The people of Wilson county are strong, loving and help each other.

Lois reads the Bible every day and she does not get depressed. It takes a calamity of this proportion to rob her of the joy of every single day. She said she was depressed all week and now she is better. I believe that. She has great strength. She keeps on praying and sharing the consolation that comes to her.

Nanette is the editor of the newspaper in Wilson County, has been the editor for ten years now.

She wrote:

Sunday’s act was the slaughter of the innocents, and it was evil.

The power of good will prevail. We are seeing it daily, the love and compassion that are being poured out on the survivors, our communities, and the world around us. Good will continue to prevail, as long as there is love. And there is abundant love here, despite the horrific events of last Sunday.

The slaughter of the innocents, 26 people, young and old, in a church deep in the heart of Texas, all heads bowed in prayer, and they died. I don't call them victims. I believe I will never use that word again.  They were all innocent.

Those are the emails I got from four friends who live very near to the church in Sutherland Springs where the shooting started last Sunday morning.

I'm going to tell those four friends something good, because I watched this all on TV. The whole nation was watching it, and what they saw and what they felt is that Wilson County is a very good place to live, and the people who live there are good folks from top to bottom.

The national media circus overwhelmed the area with a hundred satellite trucks and two hundred pushy journalists, but they're gone now, gone to the next disaster.

Wilson County is left to itself once again, and they will deal with this as they must.

Thanksgiving comes in less than two weeks. The people of Wilson County will cook turkeys and watch football games and eat too much just like the rest of us. They will bow their heads and give thanks for what they have, and they do have a lot to be thankful for.

With heavy hearts and many tears, we give thanks.

until next time,


Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens
My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Saturday, November 04, 2017

A New Song

By Fred Owens
I was humming a tune, a nice little ditty that I had composed. Then I realized I wrote the song twenty years ago. It's time  for a new song.
Seven Years since I left LaConner and moved to California

Seven years ago, I closed up Hedlin's Produce Stand for the winter. I packed up my 1993 Red Toyota and drove out of LaConner, leaving that blessed town once and for all, heading for sunny California.

Seven years in California. I miss my friends in LaConner. I miss the Skagit Valley and all those green fields, but I am much happier in Santa Barbara. I love the blue skies. I love wearing shorts and sandals. If I start to complain about anything, I just head for the beach with a towel and a book.

A Democrat, but not a proper Democrat

I have this unfortunate tendency to think freely and wander off the reservation. I keep writing what I honestly think, and then I delete it.  I cannot seem to get it right. The situation is too confusing. But let me try with a few common progressive goals that I support.

I support an increase in the minimum wage. I support the forgiveness of student loan debt. I support the estate tax  -- you can call it the death tax if you want, but I support it.

I support legal abortion. I support legal marijuana. I support same sex marriage. I oppose the death penalty.

Those are fairly standard positions for a Democrat like me, but when we get to cultural issues I am somewhat of a dinosaur.  I admire Christopher Columbus, Robert E. Lee and Mickey Mantle. Yes, I have read Howard Zinn. Zinn serves as a useful corrective to the main story, but he is not the new gospel of truth. Don't give me new myths and don't ask me to believe in new idols.

I have never respected the political judgment of  actors. I intensely admire the film work of Meryl Streep, George Clooney and Matt Damon, but off screen they have nothing  to say.

If I was a Democrat running for Congress in 2018 I would keep my distance from Hollywood. Don't go to their parties and don't accept their money. It's getting very toxic in La La Land.

Enough of that.

Garden News. I made $532 in October doing garden work for my seven customers. I charge $20 per hour and I work several hours each day. Last week I pruned the Cecil Brunner hedge rose for the Swiss people. Next week I will strip the ivy off the back fence at a rental property. It will take me two hours to strip the ivy. I know that because I already did it once earlier in the summer. Then the darn ivy grew back again. I suppose I can look at that as job security.

Every week I go to work at the pre-school garden. It is great fun working among the little tots. I trim the trumpet vine, I dead head the geraniums, and I look about for what needs doing. The last time I was there they had spilled straw all over the parking place in front of the school. They buy bales of straw to strew around the play area as a protection against injury. They unloaded the new bales of straw in the parking area, leaving heaps of little straw pieces all over the place -- that took a half an hour to sweep up.The pre-school also has a topiary giraffe. I trim that as needed.

Next comes the Italian garden, built in terraces on a hill side. It is three stories from the street to the top of the garden in the back yard. I worked there yesterday and I loaded six cans of green waste and carried those six cans down two flights of stairs to the street where they will get emptied on trash day. That was a bit strenuous.

That's my work. Do I love gardening? A little. You could say I love it a little. My customers are very nice people, but honestly, I just need the money. This is no easy way to make a living. I get hot, tired, dirty and dusty. I tell people that I do gardening work and they imagine it's a cool job. It's not.

The Writing Workshop

I read four very short stories at the writing workshop last Saturday. Bathsheba Beckons is my favorite story, about an old farm hand and his romance with the owner of the farm. I stole the plot from Far from the Madding Crowd,  but my reading put them all to sleep. I was reading it out loud and the other writers were struggling to stay awake and pay attention. Well, what could I say to that? I liked the story and they did not.

However, I read three other stories as my turn came up -- Berkowitz, about a doctor advising a depressed patient, The Woman with Scars of her Face, about a woman with scars on her face, and The Ten of Swords, where a man goes to a psychic to discover why his ex-wife stole all his money. These three stories were received with enthusiasm .  The other writers made sharp and interesting criticisms of this phrase and that phrase, criticisms that will make useful improvements in the three stories.

My Struggle

It may seem natural to you, but I had the hardest time writing the newsletter this week. I typed then I deleted. Then I typed some more, then I deleted. I felt so confused and conflicted -- but I realized it was not me, it was the culture I live in. Trump won the election a year ago this week, and our nation has become confused and conflicted. I cannot fix that. I can only write down what I see, and this is a painful exercise.

Just the same, be well, and have a good week,


Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens
My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Sending Manuscripts to the Editor

By Fred Owens

I mailed a check to the new editor. Then I will send her several manuscripts, short ones and long ones. She will read what I send her and then we will have a discussion as to their worth and ultimate destiny....... this could be fun..... One manuscript is a memoir of 30,000 words called the Falcon Journal. I wrote this in 2005 in two weeks at a campsite in Falcon State Park, located in Starr County, Texas, on the banks of the Rio Grande River.... My girlfriend Laurie read the Falcon Journal and said she liked it a lot........ Another manuscript is a novel of 41,000 words called Push the Bus which I wrote in 2007 but did not complete until last year. The novel takes place in the same campground where I wrote the Falcon Journal, so we have a connection -- a short novel and a short memoir, both set on the banks of the Rio Grande River in Texas.

Mabel, the old woman who lives across the street, likes to read every thing I send her. I print out a manuscript and walk across the street and give it to her and she reads it. She likes me, but she doesn't like me that much, so her opinion has a degree of detachment..... Well she liked Push the Bus quite a bit and she told me so two times. I had been concerned that she would be offended by the salty language. There is one character in the novel who is named Tucson and he cusses a blue streak from morning until night. You get used to it after a while.

Mabel grew up on a ranch on Montana and she said she had heard that kind of language before, so it was no account to her.

Talking with Stuart Welch, former owner of the Rexville Store near LaConner

Stuart Welch, my good friend, is an expert on everything. The words "I don't know" never pass his lips. If I ask him a question, he will have a ready answer and he is often right. We discussed the upcoming World Series. In a previous conversation, more than one month ago, Stuart stated that the World Series would be between the Houston Astros and the Los Angeles Dodgers. "Stuart, you were right about that!"

Stuart and I discussed the World Series because it is "normal." Normal is getting to be important because the world is getting very weird -- fires and hurricanes and the fury of potential wars. The weirdest thing of all is that man in the White House. You can say a lot of things about Donald Trump, but nobody thinks he's normal.

I miss normal. I need normal. I'm a Democrat but I wish Dwight Eisenhower was President. He wasn't the greatest President of all time, but he was normal and he had a good smile.

Some of the world is still normal, like the Santa Barbara Kiwanis Club. The Santa Barbara Kiwanis Club has been meeting every week for lunch since 1922. It used to be all men, now it's about half women. The club has evolved over the years, but it is quite normal. I belong to the club and all the members are more normal than me and I like that.

And my girlfriend Laurie is having new vinyl windows installed in her home. Six new windows and two sliding doors. Getting the whole house done. Using a local contractor. Installing new vinyl windows is a good thing and very normal.

So maybe the world isn't going crazy, although Ireland got struck by a hurricane and the woods are on fire in Santa Rosa in northern California....... Santa Barbara is safe so far, and has been spared the wildfires, but it is bad luck to even say that, so erase that thought.

You can drive only two miles from Laurie's house and see the charred black scars on the old palm trees where the Painted Cave wildfire leapt the freeway in the high winds and destroyed 427 buildings. That was in 1990, but you don't forget something like that.

And we are not lucky in Santa Barbara because the fire could strike anytime and everywhere you look  it is dry and combustible.

Unfortunately, wild fires in October are normal, although many people would dispute that and declare a connection with increased drought as a result of climate change. I'm not getting into that discussion.

To repeat:

The World Series is normal.

The Santa Barbara Kiwanis Club is normal.

Wildfires in  October in California are normal.

Donald Trump is not normal. Definitely not normal.

Blowing Hot and Cold

I'm blowing hot and cold on this manuscript. It's a memoir I wrote in 2005 called the Falcon Journal, because I wrote it at Falcon Dam on the Rio Grande River in South Texas. I had a winter camp site right on the banks of the river. I could see Mexico on the other side of the water. I could see the twinkling lights of the little village in Mexico.

I wrote about the birds, because South Texas is a big winter attraction for birdwatching folk. The tropical birds come this far north. The northern birds come this far south. There are more species of birds in South Texas than any other place in the country, and the birds congregate along the banks of the river.

I didn't even have binoculars or a guide book. I just liked camping there under the acacia tree. I left out crackers for the road runners.

I wrote the journal -- about my second grade teacher, Sister Virgina. I had a crush on her. I wrote about the Roman philosopher Marcus Aurelius. I wrote about my girl friend Gail Murphy and the trip we took to Mexico in 1970.

The journal is spare and strong and rooted in a place -- Falcon Dam -- that made me whole. That's why Laurie and Mabel liked  reading it.

I said I was blowing hot and cold on this manuscript while I am reviewing it. I always feel that way. Why would anybody want to read it? I ask myself that question.

I prefer the living room

I sit on the couch in the living room with my laptop. I keep it plugged in because my battery is iffy. I set the laptop down on the coffee table when I need to stand up and do something.The coffee table was custom made by Laurie's grandfather, made from maple or ash -- she's not sure about that -- but it is a very sturdy coffee table and not cluttered with magazines and old fishing reels and ceramic what-nots. A very uncluttered coffee table, I would say. A very tranquil, un-busy coffee table.

I have imagined writing in a proper writer's study, with a desk and a lamp and a bookshelf lined with treasured volumes. A window to look out of, or an aquarium. A radio. An easy chair. A door that closes and shuts out the world so that I might focus on my writing.

But the truth is that I don't really like to work in a quiet, austere environment. I prefer the living room, which has a front door, so I can leave. I prefer the living room because my three housemates are coming and going and I might say hello and have a brief chat. I prefer the living room because it has the TV and the radio. And it's near the kitchen where there is food and coffee.

I like the sound of traffic, so I keep the front door open. I can hear the crows cawing this time of year, they are busy feeding on the pecan tree in the back yard.

In short I prefer working in a sea of distractions. I had ADD before it was cool. I have the attention span of a gnat in heat.

thank you for reading this,


Tuesday, October 17, 2017

too much news

By Fred Owens

Too Much News!  Northern California is in flames.  Las Vegas is grieving. Puerto Rico is starving. Houston is struggling. And Hollywood is the heart of a deadly scandal.

The scariest thing is  having Trump in the White House. He is not a steady hand. He does not have the voice of assurance.  He does not give the impression of calm strength. He is doing an awful job of it.

But the kids see their own terrors. They don't watch the network news. They don't read newspapers. They seem to be uninformed. But I'm wrong to say that.  It's more like they know differently and the world looks different to them. They don't see the same dangers. They don't seek the same solutions.

Kids meaning people under 40. They have apps. Apps are OK. I don't use any myself, but they don't scare me. I did use Lyft the other day -- it was easy.

I want to thank Harvey Weinstein for making life difficult for all the men in America. You can't tell a joke these days. It's like going through security at the airport and making a bomb joke -- you can't do that. So, thanks to Harvey, any statement about your relations with the women in your life must be made with complete sobriety.  No jokes, especially no smirks. Premature apologies might be rejected. Saying nothing might work, unless they notice you're saying nothing. ..... Thanks, Harvey, you really screwed things up for the rest of us.

No Proof Reader. Jim Bertolino, creative writer, esteemed poet, frog pond watcher, and good friend, said I need a proofreader. Well, I sure do.

I write this newsletter. I read it over at least three times, and then I send it out. Some errors always escape detection because, as everybody knows, you cannot proof your own work.

The solution is for me to get my column connected to a larger organization. Send it in to the Acme News and Weather Report, 750 words every week, for payment of $85, and they can proof it. You get almost zero errors that way. But there is no Acme  News and Weather Report and there is no $85, there is only me.

Pam Smith used to proof my copy at the Wilson County News and she was bulletproof, having served as an English teacher for many years before coming to work at this newspaper.

That was more than ten years ago. Since that time I have been stuck on my own, broke, lonely, and poorly spelled.

(journalistically lonely  -- I have a fabulous girl friend)

Some day it will get better.

I called Stuart Welch, formerly of  Rexville. Stuart ran the Rexville Store outside of LaConner for more than 15 years. Seven days a a week, 12 hours a day, he rarely took any time off, except for golf.

I called him from Santa Barbara because Stuart is an expert on everything. The words "I don't know" are simply not in his vocabulary.  I asked him who will win the NLCS, either the Cubs or the Dodgers. Then I asked him if it was a good deal to order Milgard windows from Home Depot and have the Home Depot crew install them. The windows are for Laurie's home in Santa Barbara -- six windows and two sliding doors. The existing aluminum frame windows are more than forty years old and single pane.

Stuart did not answer when I phoned this afternoon. I left a voicemail with the two questions and said I would call back in the morning.

#Me Too and the Republican Rebuttal

#MeToo is flooding my feed on Facebook. A cascade, a deluge. I read them with fascination and sympathy -- highly credible statements of harassment and assault, hundreds of them.

But what I noticed was that none of these statements came from Republican women. They have not jumped on the bandwagon. They don't seem to agree with the thrust of this movement that was sparked by the dismal record of Harvey Weinstein's very bad behavior.

These Republican women might have a different take on the problem and they might say something like the following -- "This kind of disgusting behavior is a problem in California. The Hollywood crowd has always been depraved and corrupt. But here in Missouri our men respect us. And we respect them.  You can't trust these Hollywood people. they do not project the honest moral qualities that make America a good country. What Harvey Weinstein did is typical of how people behave in the movie business, but it doesn't happen here in Missouri."

#MeToo and the NRA

The NRA rebuttal to #MeToo is easy to imagine. It goes like this:

"Are you scared? Are you vulnerable? The smart thing to do, the way to become truly empowered, is to put a handgun in your handbag. Put a pistol in your purse, because when you're packing heat, men will respect you, or else."

#Me Too and the White Nationalists

This is a sad and ugly thing -- white nationalists have inserted themselves into the dialog and here is what they have to say:

"Everybody knows the Jews run Hollywood, so you can expect beasts like Harvey Weinstein to do their evil deeds. He is typical of that crowd. But we respect our women and protect their honor."

The reactions depicted here, from the Republican women, from the NRA and from White Nationalists groups will be deployed in the coming days.

It will be quite a battle. Be prepared to rebuke these rebuttals.

Thank you,


Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens
My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Monday, October 09, 2017

Having Coffee with Billy Frank

By Fred Owens

Goodby Columbus! It's not your holiday anymore and your day is done. We call it Indigenous Peoples Day now. So I will tell the story about how I had coffee with Billy Frank in 1985.
I used to live in LaConner right near the Swinomish Reservation. My kids went to Head Start on the Reservation when Toni Ann Rust was the teacher. So the kids got to know each other, town kids and reservation kids.
At that time, in the early 1980s, Rosie and Earl James lived across the street from us in town, with their two girls, April and Ginger. I do not know why they didn't live on Res itself, but that doesn't matter  -- they lived across the street from us, and their two girls often baby sat for our two children, and sometimes we would come over to their house for a meal.
I also got to know Roger and Matilda Cayou, Rosie's mother and father. They had a house on the Res so we would go over their for meals sometimes or just to watch TV.
Earl James, Rosie's husband, came from a tribe in Canada, the Lillooet people.
He married Rosie, and his younger sister Gail married Rosie's younger brother Vincent. To repeat, the brother and sister from Lillooet married the sister and brother from Swinomish. Too confusing for me. I just figured they were all related. And the Cayous weren't Swinomish, they were Samish. Also confusing, but they were just good friends to us, so it didn't matter.
The Wilburs were another family on the Res. I got the feeling that the Wilburs were a big deal, but I never asked too many questions. I knew Jimmy Wilbur when he was a deacon at St. Paul's, the little Catholic church on the Res.
Jimmy also had a sweat lodge out on the sand spit, right there at the foot of McGlinn Island. There was a ranch house he lived in and the sweat lodge was in the back, built of branches and covered with old  blankets and canvas tarps.
I said to Jimmy one day, "You ought to invite me to your sweat lodge sometime," and he said, "Sure, why don't you come this Sunday afternoon. Bring a pair of shorts. We'll have the sweat and then we'll have a salmon dinner afterward."
That sounded good to me. Jimmy was working with troubled Native American young men who had drug and alcohol problems, in trouble with the law and often not welcome on the Reservation.
The sweat lodge was for their healing. I could use some healing myself, so I showed up and the fire outside the sweat lodge was roaring hot and the stones were glowing red.
Jimmy said, "Go inside and take the farthest seat in the back, that's the seat of honor. That's because you're the oldest man here today."
So I went inside and it was dark and I would much rather be sitting near the door because it was going to get very hot in there.
They brought in the glowing stones, red like fire, and then closed the door and it got dark black, not like the kind of dark where you get used to it after ten minutes. This was black, dark like the sun don't ever shine again. And it got hot in there with the steam. I practically could not breath. It was ferocious. Hot. I sweated a lot.
Jimmy invited me to say some words,  we went around the lodge each in turn -- there were maybe six young men and they all said their words, and gradually it became a little less hot.
Then it was over and they opened the door and the light came back in. Whew!
Time for salmon dinner in the house. I sure felt good.
This was maybe 15 years ago. I don't know where Jimmy is now, but I thank him for the sweat lodge experience.
Now we are going back further in time to when I had coffee with Billy Frank in 1985.
At that time I represented sport fishing interests in the Pacific Northwest and Billy Frank was the chairman of the Nisqually Tribe and most people considered Billy to be the chief spokesman and leader of tribal fishermen in the region. He was the man.
I couldn't make an appointment to talk with Billy, but I could drive the ninety minutes down to Nisqually and hope he wasn't busy.  Billy often occupied a booth at the coffee shop right off the Res and right next to the freeway. That's where he met people and Billy Frank knew everybody from the Governor on down to the local hot dog salesman. He was a friendly and open-hearted man.
I got there and saw him in the booth with one other man. I came up to the booth and introduced myself. "Hi Billy, I'm Fred Owens with the Northwest Fishing Forecast."  I gave him a copy of the little newspaper. He looked at the paper and swept his arm and said, "Have a seat, let's talk."
I told him my father taught me how to fish, and he said it was the same with him.  I said I liked fishing on a river, but a lake was pretty good and he said same with me.
I said I came from the Midwest and they didn't have tides or saltwater back there, or salmon. It was all very different. Billy said he had never fished in the Midwest nor ever been there. So that brought things to a pause.
We didn't have a lot in common. His education and mine. Not the same. But there was plenty of time -- Billy was never too busy to talk to a friend and we were already friends.  We looked out the window and talked about birds, then football teams, then children, then TV shows.
I represented sports fishing interests at that time. Interests that were opposed to his tribal views. I did not come down to Nisqually to debate him or negotiate anything. Just human contact. Start from there. Billy knew that.
I was in his territory, in his booth, at the coffee shop next to the Nisqually Reservation, at the south end of Puget Sound, near to Olympia, the state Capital. Billy made me feel welcome. I admired his courage and friendly nature. He smiled. We shook hands and I left.

Billy Frank Junior was born in 1931  ..... This is the link to his entry on Wikipedia ..... He was 15 years older than me. He passed away a few years ago. He was well known in Washington state. He had many friends from the Governor on down to the local hot dog salesman. And he was a great fisherman.
Happy Indigenous Peoples Day!
Subscription Drive.
A $25 or $50 subscription to Frog Hospital comes with the promise that I will try my best. I have been writing this journal since1998. I have written some hundreds of issues of this journal, and some of it has been very good indeed and I would like to continue writing this, and I would like you to send me a check for $25 or $50 or punch the PayPal button.
You can find the PayPal button on the blog. Go to Frog Hospital.Or make out a check to Fred Owens and mail it to:
Fred Owens, 1105 Veronica Springs RD, Santa Barbara, CA 93105

thank you very much,



Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens
My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Monday, October 02, 2017

The Joys of Being a Grandparent

The Joys of Being a Grandparent

By Fred Owens
My daughter Eva and her wife Lara went through a lot of trouble having this baby. Nine months of pregnancy for one thing, and then they had to buy baby gear and go to classes and read books. Also they had to get good jobs, get married and buy a house in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle.
(These infants should just be delivered by Amazon Prime. Just call them up, order a baby, and have it delivered in two days. I'm sure Amazon is working on just that.)
Then after the delivery, which is quite an effort in and of itself,  they have to take care of the little fellow for the next 18 years, day and night.
All that and I get to have a grandson. It was easy for me and it's much better than Christmas.
Walter Finnegan Chatterjee Owens was born July 29 right after midnight. He was born with a full head of hair and a serious expression on his face. He will become a man of substance and good character, and we will have a lot of fun together. We expect to take him to the zoo soon enough. I wonder what his favorite animal will be -- the giraffe, slow and tall? the golden monkey scampering?
His parents call him Finn. He will part of the generation that builds Stage Three Zoos. Stage One were the kind where animals were kept in cages and they paced back and forth and often went mentally off range from that unnatural confinement.
Stage Two Zoos, what we have now, are for more natural and far less confining.... but still I think we can do better than that. Finn will be part of that progress, building Stage Three Zoos, if they are even called zoos at that point, viewing animals free from harm.
Of course, mimicking nature is a limiting concept. At our zoo in Santa Barbara the lions are caged right next to the giraffes. Set them all free, set the lions free, set the giraffes free and see what happens -- the lions will stalk and kill and eat the newborn baby giraffes.
I told Finn when I first held him in my arms, "It's a good world you were born into, but we need your help because some problems we could not solve and we're hoping you might make it right."
Finn brings hope. Walter Finnegan Chatterjee is his name. Walter for strength, Finnegan for the singing  and Chatterjee for his great-great grandfather who came from India.
Puerto Rico and Texas
The national media has little imagination. They pick a dominant narrative and stick with that story.  Take Texas, please. Take it.
Seriously, I mean consider the Texas hurricane, Harvey drenching Houston in endless flooding rain. The narrative, adopted by right and left, is that of people helping each other and volunteers coming to the rescue, taking matters into their own hands. Self-reliance at work, the way it should be. The Cajun Navy makes a good story.
But that story got old, so the national media came up with another narrative for Puerto Rico when Maria struck -- the story was people crying and begging for help, waiting for the government to come and fix things.
Well, Puerto Rico got the short end of this. In fact, this isle was blessed with many redeeming acts of courage, compassion, and generosity. Folks with a roof still intact invited unknown neighbors to bed down in their shelter. People with only ten gallons of gas shared half of that  fuel with the people across the street. Injured children were dug out of fallen buildings by passing strangers.

The Puerto Ricans fed stray dogs and hugged their children. They propped up one board on top of another and began rebuilding their homes. They are rebuilding right now and not waiting for instructions from FEMA.

But these many miracles did not fit the dominant narrative. Instead we saw videos of people crying with their hands out.
Puerto Rico deserves better. Puerto Ricans are strong and self-reliant. If they got nothing -- nothing! -- from the mainland, they would still recover and survive. They will rebuild their island. It was a paradise and it will be again.

The national media needs to get this right and tell the whole story.

(This is not to excuse Trump's behavior in dissing the mayor of San Juan. You can count on Trump to take a bad problem and make it worse.)

The Trump Scenario. Trump's strategy is simple: a determined and cohesive white minority can dominate a diffuse and disorganized multi-cultural majority.
He needs the support of his base, but does not need the Puerto Rican vote, or my vote, or yours. We can see that strategy at work in Trump's lazy response to Hurricane Maria.

Gardening News. No news this week.
Writing News. I might be working with a writing coach/editor to get help on my memoir of childhood.  I don't need any help. I know exactly what I'm doing, but I got challenged by my son Eugene. He said I was too stubborn to ask for any help with the writing. Well, I can't pass up the dare, so I sent the manuscript to a woman who works at the University of Southern California. . She will read what I have written and I will listen to what she has to say about it. Furthermore I will actually make the changes that she suggests. So there!

Subscription Drive.
A $25 or $50 subscription to Frog Hospital comes with the promise that I will try my best. I have been writing this journal since1998. I have written some hundreds of issues of this journal, and some of it has been very good indeed and I would like to continue writing this, and I would like you to send me a check for $25 or $50 or punch the PayPal button.
You can find the PayPal button on the blog. Go to Frog Hospital.Or make out a check to Fred Owens and mail it to:
Fred Owens, 1105 Veronica Springs RD, Santa Barbara, CA 93105

thank you very much,

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens
My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Saturday, September 23, 2017

It's Time for a Jewish Story, being the high holidays

It's Time for a Jewish Story, being the high holidays

By Fred Owens

I talked with my brother Tom, married to a Jew as it happens, and he paid for his daughter's Bat Mitzvah  -- we all went bowling after the ceremony -- but my brother and I didn't talk about that..  We talked about taking a hike this afternoon. Where he lives the weather is cool enough for that. And he said it's another good day and the world is not coming to an end  -- that seemed to be an oblique reference to the mad confrontation with North Korea. He didn't need to explain the comment, being my brother, we  can speak in short hand.

I said the world is not coming to an end today because there are too many library books out there being past due.

He said, you're right, we need closure on a lot of things before the world can end.

So it won't end. And that means we get another year to party, hence the holiday.

Marc Zappa
Marc Zappa was in my dreams last night. He was sitting in his front yard rolling a joint. He invited me to partake..... such a good friend for so many years. Eight years ago he and Kathy Woelke came with us to see the Leonard Cohen concert in Seattle. My date was Patti Detzer. I rented a room in Patti's farmhouse for two years, but I only went out with her that one time..... such a story, speeding down I-5 in the dark of evening, sitting in the back seat with Patti. Marc drove a black Saab. Kathy told jokes and stories. The Leonard Cohen concert was wonderful..... I haven't smoked pot in years. The stuff they grow now is much too strong.

I used to pick daffodils with Zappa. He used to offer me what I called a ten dollar joint, meaning one toke would space me out and I would work much slower and make less money, about ten dollars less .... Being paid for piece work... Lots of Zappa stories ...

I could also tell a few good stories about Patti Detzer, but she would track me down and hurt me. She prefers to tell her own stories.

But we're getting closer to the Jewish story, so pull up a chair, get comfortable and give us a listen:

A Jewish Story

By Fred Owens

dedicated to the memory of Moshe Holcer, 1912-2004

You’re Not Even Jewish
or How I came to Study Torah in the First Place
They asked me why. Why are you learning Hebrew? Why are you going to Torah class at a synagogue?  You’re not even Jewish.
But why is a dumb question. There is only one important question – Is it a good thing?
If it’s a good thing, then why doesn’t matter. If it’s a bad thing, then stop doing it.
I learned that ethical questions matter most of all. That’s the heart of Jewish teaching.
It was the summer of 1992, I was living on Blakeslee Street in West Cambridge and working as a landscaper.  And I was totally miserable.
I had just broken up with Helen. Her last words were, “Never call me again.” I was heartbroken, tormented, losing sleep, drinking too much, phoning friends late at night -- I didn’t know what to do.
But I had recently joined the Tikkun group, and we met on Sunday mornings for discussion. I had new Jewish friends  -- Daniel Gewertz, a film critic, Harvey Blume, a writer, Lois Isenman, a biologist, Diana Lobel, a PhD student in Jewish Studies, Debbie Osnowitz, with porcelain skin and a brilliant mind, Helene Benjamin,  who had an impressive collection of Teddy Bears in her Brookline apartment, Ted Pietras, in real estate in Boston’s South End, and Marty Federman, who was director of Hillel at Northeastern University.
Living in Boston was an ethnic opportunity for me. There were Irish gangs, Italian neighborhoods, and Armenian restaurants. I should have gone Irish, but that would have been too easy. Instead I picked the hardest one – Jewish. I was going to learn it and figure it out.
 Tikkun is a Jewish spiritual/political magazine founded by Michael Lerner who coined the phrase "politics of meaning." Hillary Clinton invited Lerner to the White House shortly after Bill Clinton became President. Lerner seemed likely to become a spiritual adviser for the Clintons -- possibly like Bill Graham had been for previous Presidents. But Lerner's presence at the White House caused a storm of controversy, and I still don't know why. He was a little hippy-dippy and lefty-lefty, but not very extreme. His views were not that unusual.
Anyway, in 1992, living in Cambridge, and wandering around town looking for something to do, I happened to notice that Michael Lerner was giving a talk at Temple Beth Shalom -- the famed "Tremont Street shul" near Central Square...... Never having entered a synagogue in my life, I dropped in that evening, I liked what I heard, and I liked the people I met, so I joined the group. They never said you had to be Jewish and I wasn't.
We met on Sunday mornings at people's house and apartments, maybe 12-15 people each week, and we discussed topics based on an article in Tikkun magazine. It was very interesting. The people in the Tikkun group were impressively articulate -- I mean, this was Boston. I never said much at the meetings, but listened in wide-eyed wonder and they called me, behind my back but kindly, "the space-case from Seattle,” because I was newly arrived from the West Coast.
That seemed apt. I was relatively in-articulate compared to my new intellectual companions. I felt just as smart and just as well read, but I have never had the ability to "hold forth" at meetings like this.
So I went to the Tikkun meetings and listened. The talk was really cool. I liked the rhythm of it. I wore clean clothes, but my shirt was always wrinkled -- I didn’t have an iron. It’s not that people were dressed for the occasion, but I felt conspicuous with my wrinkled shirt.
The meetings kept me from suffering – remember, I was heartbroken, obsessively reviewing the very wrong things I said to Helen – and she wouldn’t talk to me, not now, not ever. So the Tikkun meetings kept me from suffering for three hours every other Sunday morning. That wasn’t enough, but it helped.
One day --I was not really looking for a solution, but more or less on a dare -- I found the Judaica section at the Cambridge Public Library. I picked out the books in Hebrew.
It was very bold of me to even look at these Hebrew books. Loud booming voices were shouting from thunderous clouds, “Thou Shall Not” – you don’t look at these books, you shall not pass, it’s not for you – go back to being a landscaper, pick up your trowel, LEAVE THESE LETTERS ALONE.
I heard the voices, but I didn’t care. I was in too much pain. Kill me, so what!
I took the books home -- a Hebrew grammar, a Hebrew-English dictionary and a text of the Torah in Hebrew and in English – home to my furnished apartment on 42 Blakeslee Street in West Cambridge. I opened the books on the kitchen table and began to learn the 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet.
In a way, it was easy, 22 letters in 22 shapes representing 22 sounds. How hard is that?
I learned the letters in a day. By late afternoon I was picking out words in the text. And I was drawing the letters on a big sheet of paper. I really liked their shape and the way they flowed.
It was love. It was infatuation. I was so absorbed. Hours passed in delightful study, and I never thought of Helen. I was almost happy. Relief! I could fill up my day.
 Although it was a little weird because, like I said, I’m not Jewish, and what if the Jewish cops find out and come over to my apartment and pummel me with sticks.
Oh, the Jewish cops wouldn’t do that. They don’t even care. Well, they do care. Of course, they want you to study the text in a respectful manner, but otherwise you’re welcome to it.
Except they don’t say that. They don’t say anything -- there are no Jewish cops.
But what about the booming voices from the thunderous clouds? Well, yes, those are completely real. The voices of divine spirits can put you in a world of hurt or shower you with blessings and diamond lights.
The divine spirits are real. I found out that night, after the day when I learned the 22 letters. I had the most incredible dream. I dreamed of black letters in a sea of golden flames.
I never had such a dream in my life, but that night I saw the letters in my dream, living, breathing and on fire.
The letters are alive! Shining black in a sea of gold-red flames!
When I woke up the next morning, I was astonished and full of wonder. And there was no one to tell.  I wasn’t going to waste this vision in casual talk. I never told anyone about this dream. There are some things you just know, but if you talk you just waste it.
I kept this dream to myself. The letters kept me warm, and I did not feel so lonely.
 One Sunday at the Tikkun meeting, Diana Lobel was reading a Hebrew text, and I looked over her shoulder and began saying the words aloud. She said, “You know Hebrew?” I said, “I’ve been studying.” She asked “With who?” I said, “By myself.”
She said, “Come to my class. We meet on Sunday night at 7 pm at Beth Shalom.”

I was going off the deep end, going to Tikkun meetings and then Torah class, and I was doing it because it filled my heart and mind in a good way. That was the ethical teaching – it wasn’t wrong to do this.  I got strong. I didn’t need to explain this, or apologize, or ask permission. I loved to learn and there was no limit.
So I began learning with her group – not such a big group, only three students, me, Bobby Vilinsky and a very strange, very thin young woman who seemed to have wandered in off the street.
Someday I will write a book about Bobby Vilinsky. We became great friends, and we often discussed his disastrous experiences with women or his latest digestive issues. He was an artist of great intensity and poverty.
Diana Lobel was a PhD student in Jewish Studies at Harvard. She had the pale look of a scholar, but she had bright, black curly hair. Diana had a way of seeming so unworldly, as if she did nothing but study and pray -- but that was not true, she was very worldly at the same time -- if she was paying attention. She often surprised me in that way.
We spent several weeks on the first verse, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” She said the whole of the Torah was contained in the first verse – or she may have said that, I’m not sure. But it sounds like something a Jewish scholar would say – that the whole of  the Torah, and all of the Law, and a vivid description of all time and all creation are contained in the first verse – so we studied it, from every angle, and believe me, there are many angles  -- more than you can imagine. The depth was incredible.
In the fall of 1993, after I had been in the Tikkun group for more than a year, Lois Isenmen invited the group to her house in the suburbs for a Shabbat dinner, the traditional Friday night meal.         
I had been doing her yard work, so I called her that week.
“Lois, do you want me to come and rake the leaves?” I asked her and she agreed.
The leaves fell from towering oaks in Lois her back yard. The yard sloped downward steeply from her red brick home. I raked up all the leaves and determined to build her a leaf-mulch pile down in the corner by the back fence. “If I drag all those leaves up the hill, into the truck and then off to the landfill that would cost too much money. What do you say if I make you a leaf pile and leave them here?”
Lois was wary. I could see her struggling with the notion. Sure, she could save money, but it would seem unfinished -- a pile of leaves left in the yard, when leaves are supposed to go away, leaving the grass bare to freeze and go brown in the winter. “Look,” I said, “I will make an attractive and tidy pile of leaves, it will look organic……way down in the corner, by the fence.”
“All right,” she said.
 It was November in New England, and I was “raking leaves for liberals” as I liked to put it. Making a few dollars, enjoying the fresh air, working in Cambridge and neighboring towns, raking leaves and resenting the affluence that surrounded me. “Why don’t they rake my leaves? What am I, some country bumpkin, blew in from the sticks?” I would mutter as I raked.
Lois lived in Newton, a Boston suburb, in the home where she grew up. I knew Lois from the Tikkun group. We shared our tarnished ideals every other Sunday, and this week in November, instead of the Sunday meeting, Lois invited us to a Shabbat dinner at her house on Friday night.
She was a biologist at Harvard at some institute – I can’t remember the name, but she was a Fellow -- what a lovely title, I thought.
I told her, “I work on a big scale, in the garden growing flowers, you work on a small scale growing bacteria in a dish, but we’re in the same line of work when you get down to it.”
Lois didn’t buy that comparison. She liked me, but she was wary.
For Shabbat dinner, in Lois’s dining room, it was formal, with a nice table cloth, but very relaxed. We were seven of us, all friends, seemingly unpartnered. Marty Federman was married, but even when we met at his house his wife did not appear... Lois had a relationship with another scientist, but she did not share any details.
So we were all single, as far as the group was concerned. But this week we would share a blessing and a meal together as a family.
We were all in our forties, except Gladys Damon who was probably past seventy.
Every Shabbat is special and it felt special that evening, as if our parents were there, because we had grown up by now, being past forty, and become our own parents, and because we struggled through a week of six days, fighting and lying, trying to make a living, and it was time for some good food and good company, no matter how the week had gone.
As we gathered at the table, Marty Federman, the most rabbinical of our group, deferred to Diana Lobel, the most devout. She said the blessing and lit the candles, and we began to pass the chicken, the broccoli, the rice, and the salad.
After we had filled our plates Diana said, “I would like everyone to take a turn in speech. Fred is the newest, if not the youngest member of the group, I would like him to pose a question for the group and then have each one of you answer from your heart.
I was embarrassed at being singled out as “new.” But I spoke, “I have been raking leaves all week. I am justified in my labor. See these hands – that’s how I labored. So, my question is, who is Jew and how are you justified?”
I turned to Marty Federman, well-fed, bearded, warm and deep, not a show-man or a comic, even a little shy. “Marty, who is a Jew, and how is a Jew justified?” I asked him.
“How do I justify myself?” he said. “I have studied this week, and searched for the one essential Yiddish word. If you only knew one word in Yiddish …. it would be? ….”
He made a long pause, you could see people wanting to guess – “Heymish…..Heymish, meaning homey and homelike…. That’s all of Yiddish in one word,”
Everyone nodded – home and family are the center of Jewish life.
“I am the director of Hillel at Northeastern University,” he said. “Many of my students are questioning their Jewish identity, so this is a good question for me. I’m a Jew because my mother is a Jew. We all know that’s the law. But some people say you’re a Jew if you do Jewish things. That’s a little broad for me, but I like the idea. Tonight we are all Jews,” he said, looking at me directly. “We are all Jews because we are gathered together on Shabbat for a meal and a blessing and the good company.
“Being Jewish means being part of a family argument that’s been going on for 3,000 years. We talk, we argue, we keep each other warm.
“And how do I justify myself, you asked. I wish I could justify myself. But why should I spoil the evening by telling you how worthless I feel and making a false show of humility. Your question is too hard.
“I will just say what’s on my mind. Don’t laugh….okay laugh, I can’t help it. This is it, No matter how much I study and how much I pray I still think that Moses looks like Charlton Heston. I can’t shake the image.”
No one laughed. This was very embarrassing, because everybody at the table knew that Moses looked like Charlton Heston.
“He’s such a goy!” No one said that, but Charlton Heston was such a goy. And as Moses! Such a mental pollution.
“It is awful to contemplate,” Marty said.  “God punished the Jews by making them wander forty years in the wilderness. He allowed the Temple to be destroyed twice and his chosen people were put into exile for centuries, subject to persecution and humiliation. He allowed many terrible things to happen to them. But when God made Moses, he made him look Jewish, or maybe like Al Pacino or Robert DeNiro.
“Still the image of Charlton Heston as Moses cannot be erased for people of our generation.  Such is the power of Hollywood -- founded and led by Jews  -- in creating false images that defy the First Commandment. Sin and sin,” Marty said and he took a sip of water, he was finished.
“You could write a book,” I said. It was dark outside, the chandelier lights twinkled, we stirred at the table, passing the broccoli and the rice, picking up dinner rolls, taking a sip of wine. I looked up from the chicken on my plate and noticed Diana Lobel, my Hebrew teacher, wreathed in an unworldly halo -- there was nothing on her plate. Even her glass of water was untouched. This disturbed me. We’re humans, we’re supposed to eat.
But the conversation continued.
Daniel Gewertz, film critic by occupation, was the next to speak. He was younger than the rest of us, closer to thirty.  His build was athletic and tall. I picture him wearing a Hawaiian shirt in the summer time, although I don’t know why I say that. He was a handsome fellow, but he seemed so unsure of himself.
“Who is a Jew, you ask. I wonder about myself at this time of year with Hanukah and Christmas coming up,” Daniel said. “I get anxiety. I don’t know what to think. People wish me Merry Christmas. And the music, Silent Night and All Ye Faithful, it’s everywhere, Season Greetings…The whole experience makes me cringe.
“It’s the way I was brought up. My parents were secular, never at temple, no menorah, nothing in our house that said Jewish. I think they would have skipped the whole thing.
“At Christmas we had a tree and decorations and a plastic lighted Santa Claus doll and I got presents. It was crazy. I knew we were Jewish. I was seven-years-old playing on the living room rug with a Lionel train, but I didn’t enjoy it that much.
“My parents laughed and shared drinks with friends and neighbors during the holidays -- just like everybody else. I mean, why not? We didn’t look different or act different. My Dad had a white-collar job, we lived in a suburban neighborhood. We had BBQs in the summer. We went trick or treating on Halloween, so why not have a Christmas tree too?
“I cannot disrespect my parents, they did so many wonderful things for me, they were such good people. But you just know, even when you’re only seven, when something isn’t right, and for me the memory never goes away -- every year in December it’s the same.”
That was Daniel telling his life. I heard this with wonder. For me, growing up a Catholic, Christmas was the most uncomplicated joy and pleasure. I knew that Christmas could be hard for people with bad families—being stuck at home with awful relatives and such. Or a lonely time for lonely people. But I never thought of it as being difficult for Jews. Hearing Daniel say it directly was quite a different experience.  Obviously it was difficult for some Jews. They cringed – that’s what Daniel said.
“But I’ll go out for Chinese this year like I always do,” he added.
Harvey Blume nodded. He was the most talented conversationalist in our group, but he had been quiet the whole evening. It was November and he was still tan, he had a burnished skin tone -- he hadn’t been to Florida, he didn’t work outdoors, but then I remembered – Harvey was on the street. His tan was not a matter of exposure, but an act of will. Harvey lived for the street and the drums.
So he and I did this rap thing, which made it kind of fun.
“Harvey, what’s your take?”
“My take? You’re the man with the rake. Figure it out yourself.”
“Well, I don’t want no fake. Are you a Jew?”
“Who’s asking?”
“You got a Brooklyn attitude, my brother,” I said and I smiled.
 “Yeah, now you got it. I’m from Bebop Brooklyn. On the street, with a drum, with the people, of the people and by the people -- we’re all on the street.”
“And you’re justified with a drum, so is it good to be a Jew?” I challenged him.
“Good, bad, but always interesting,” he said and he smiled.
Harvey lived in East Cambridge. He had written a book about a pygmy who was captured in Africa and taken to be an exhibit at the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904. Ota Benga was the name of the pygmy and the title of Harvey’s book.
Now the room was going quiet, like we were coming to the end.
Then Diana began to speak. People relaxed because Diana had sat in the center of the table, as a guiding spirit, and now she would hold forth in a good way.
 “Here in Genesis it says there was a famine in Palestine and Jacob said to his sons, ‘I have heard that there is grain in Egypt. Go down there and buy some for us, so that we may live and not die.’
“It was a fateful choice. The whole history of the Jews hinges on this one verse. You want to yell from the audience, a hundred generations later – Don’t go – don’t go to Egypt. There’s nothing but trouble down there – slavery, corruption, idolatry, people worshipping monkeys. Don’t go. Stick it out in Palestine. The rain will come back and there will be more crops.
“But Jacob said it is better to live and not die. You can spin that, explain that, write a book on that, or a poem or a song. Fine. Interpret it as you will, and yet the meaning is plain – it is better to live and not die.
Jacob said that …….”
“Stop,” I said. I interrupted her. “Your plate is empty, you haven’t eaten anything.”
Diana looked at me, surprised. The whole table was silent. I couldn’t stand it. I was angry at her and she was my teacher! How could I be angry at her?
It was the food. “You don’t eat,” I said. I couldn’t explain. Words failed me. I picked up a piece of broccoli, picked it off my plate, and threw it at her.
Not at her, but I kind of tossed it or lobbed it over to her plate. Even so, such a physical act was deeply disturbing.
Food is food, you have to eat. Diana was not thin but she was becoming a little transparent. Some parental instinct in me wanted her to eat, for her own good and for my sake too. Eat, for God’s sake. I work in the fields where nature brings us food. My hands are callused. We don’t live by the spirit, but we need bread too.
Except I didn’t say anything. The dining room was tense. But Diana looked at me again, as if she understood. She smiled. She picked up the piece of broccoli and ate it, and she said “Thank you.”
Oh, I felt better. Like I had done something very wrong, but she said thank you, and that was that.
 The verse was about food, and it’s better to live and not die, and here she was not eating and how can you live if you don’t eat?
And it was over.  Table talk passed on to other things. Marty and Lois were huddling. Harvey got up to clear some plates. We might be moving back to the living room for dessert.
Then Gladys Damon spoke. “I have something to say.” Gladys was close to seventy or past it, from Manhattan’s West Side, but now retired in an apartment tower in Jamaica Plain. She was stylish, wore a tailored skirt, had good legs. She spoke in a honeyed tone with a good-natured irony.
For her, the plain meaning was only the beginning. It was better to live and not die and she would say sure, but she reminded me that refinement is what made life better.
“This happened to me during the war in 1944. My parents sent me to Smith College, one of the Seven Sisters. You know – Bryn Mawr, Barnard, Vassar, Radcliffe -- all those precious college girls from good families. I could pass, I don’t mean that how you think, but I had nice clothes, good sweaters and shoes.
“And to find a husband and get married, yes, but they hinted, the faculty suggested, and even said so, that we could be what we chose to be.
“I formed surprising friendships with girls who were very different than me.
“But it was war time, and we heard the news from Europe. In May of 1944, the Jews in Hungary – up to that time they had been safe – were being transported to Auschwitz to be murdered. More than 400,000 Jews were put on the trains.
“It was hard to find notice of this in the news. We heard news of stirring military action and home front preparedness -- that was the story -- marching to victory, rumors of the coming invasion of France, profiles of Eisenhower and Patton, the great leaders, but of the slaughter to come in Hungary, it was like a dark whisper. Letters came from Eastern Europe, reliable reports of the real story. We didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it, and yet I knew it was true.
“I knew it was true because it was far, far worse than anything I could have imagined -- this death and horror.
“But what is so hard for me to describe is the silence. We read those letters, but we were silent, we did not ask questions. We just sat there. We did nothing.”
Gladys was speaking without irony.
“We did nothing to save the Jews in Hungary. Roosevelt did nothing, Eisenhower did nothing. My parents, my friends at school, we did nothing. The Hungarian Jews were loaded on the trains. We knew it was their death and we did nothing.
“It was the most important moment in my life, and I failed.”
.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
Years later I still remember the silence that followed her remarks. It had been a good dinner and we enjoyed being together. In mid-November the night air was frosty and it began to snow as we said our goodbyes and walked outside to our cars. “Lois, thank you for such a lovely evening, you have such a nice home,” someone said.
I walked outside and noticed her privet hedge and how it badly needed a trimming. But that’s me, a landscaper and gardener, I can’t help noticing things like that.
But I thought about Gladys and how she said she did nothing. Not true. Her life was a triumph. It was better to live and not die.
A D’Var Torah
Where there is no bread there is no Torah, where there is no Torah there is no bread.
D'Var Torah means “a few words, a little lesson.” D'Var means “word” and Torah is that long hand-written scroll you see in the photo.
The Torah is the first five books of the Bible -- Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Numbers -- did I get that in the right order?
When they read and chant out loud from the Torah at a service, they have one person doing the chanting, and one or two others following closely to watch for mistakes. If the chanter mispronounces a word or something like that, then they back up a little to get it right.
So, did I get it right? I'm not Jewish, but I studied at the temple and I learned a lot of things. It's very complicated. It seems to be the delight of Jewish tradition to make things complicated rather than simple.....That makes for good mental exercise as well as spiritual development.
During those years of Torah study, I worked as a gardener and as a freelance writer. I worked with my hands on some days, toiling in the garden. On other days I wrote and used my mind. I found a saying from Pirkei Avot, a Jewish book of wisdom goes:
 "Im Ein Kemach Ein Torah, Im Ein Torah Ein Kemach." That means, "Where there is no Bread, there is no Torah, and where there is no Torah, there is no bread."
This saying answered the question, "What should I do with my life?" I should not choose between writing and gardening because I need both. I work on the land with my hands, because that is the source of our sustenance. And I write and study because I need to seek and serve the truth.
You don't choose one over the other -- Bread and Torah, Livelihood and the Spiritual Path -- both are essential for a good and balanced life.
The Korrect Keppah
Ted Kaptchuck is on the faculty at the Harvard Medical School. He wrote a book called "The Web That Has No Weaver" -- it's about Chinese medicine and it's a very good book.
Ted was a member at Temple Beth Shalom when I went there in the early 1990s. As you recall, I wrote that I first attended this temple to hear Michael Lerner give a talk. Basically, I liked the vibrations in this place, so I stayed for the next three years..... and why? Because of people like Ted Kaptchuck. Sure, he is a most distinguished author and a learned fellow, but also he was just kind of a cool guy......Ted used to pray up front in the sanctuary, up near the altar, but over to the side, even against the wall, always on the right side .... so he was sort of in front of us, but not in front....
Hey, that was a teaching -- Ted standing in front of us, but not in front of us. It's right from the book of Chinese Medicine -- the resolution of contradictions -- the realization of the underlying harmony.
But mainly I learned from Ted about wearing a hat. At a temple a man is expected to cover his head. I don't know why. They keep a basket of yarmulkes by the entrance in case you need one. If you don't put one on, someone might kindly hand you one.....It is not strictly, absolutely necessary for a man to wear a hat at the temple, but it would make them happy, so I did......Except I didn't like it. You can call them a yarmulke or a keppah, but if you ask me they're a beanie and they look stupid......I'm quite vain, and I did not like the looks of it.
But I wasn't about to SAY anything, I just took it as humbling experience, until I noticed Ted up front (but not up front) swaying and praying, and he was NOT wearing a yarmulke, he was wearing a black beret --- totally cool..... So that's it, I said to myself. You don't have to wear the beanie, you just have to cover your head..... So I bought a black beret like Ted's -- and it was cool.
Mornings with Maimonides
 Reading Maimonides is a superior way to begin your day. He was a philosopher, legal scholar, and physician -- his fame was worldwide, his authority was respected by Moslem and Jew alike. .... 1135 to 1204.
He was born in Cordoba in Spain into a distinguished Jewish family. Cordoba was at the height of cultural glory, but when Maimonides was almost a young man there was a change of regime, and a group of rabid Islamic fundamentalists stormed out of Morocco, conquered Spain, and established a harsh and intolerant regime. Many Jews and Christians were forced to convert to Islam at that time.
It was a difficult time for Maimonides and his family. They fled to the city of Fez in Morocco to live in a more tolerant climate.
But even in Fez, the persecution continued, and it is said, by some but not all historians, that Maimonides feigned a conversion to Islam in order to save his life.
Not willing to continue as a false Moslem, Maimonides traveled to Cairo in Egypt where he lived for many years. During those times Jews and Moslem lived together well. They sometimes shared a business together, such as goldsmithing. The Jew would go home on Saturday, his Sabbath, and the Moslem would go home on Friday, his Sabbath, and that way the shop could stay open seven days a week -- a pleasant arrangement, don't you think? But the Jews at that time, although prosperous and widely travelled, were a formally dependent people. They must pay a certain respect to the Caliph and they must, in certain ways, recognize the superiority of Islam.....That live and let live arrangement lasted until 1948 when the Jews declared independence, they would no longer bend a knee to the Caliph  -- and the fury continues since that fateful year of 1948 -- I wonder what Maimonides would say about that ...... I have a friend, an email correspondent, whom I never met, but he's a Jew and he was born in Cairo, and his family was expelled from Cairo in 1948, all the Jews were kicked out of Cairo, where they had lived for several hundreds of years, since the time of Maimonides ..... but they were kicked out so, naturally they migrated to Palestine, now Israel...... But my friend, an Egyptian Jew, has a more complicated story  -- before moving to Israel, they sojourned in Italy, where he acquired Italian citizenship as a young boy -- they then moved to Israel and that is where he grew up. Now this man owns a vineyard in the Judean Hills, called Domain du Castel. He makes fine wine and he hopes to stay on this land forever, but ----- BUT, he still keeps his Italian passport, because he knows he might not be able to keep his vineyard for all his days  --  for now, he does not bend his knee to the Caliph  -- do you think he should?

What happens after the Rabbi dies?
 Cambridge, Massachusetts, 2004. It snowed all night, unusual for early November. The streets were slushy. I got to Beth Shalom on Tremont Street sometime after 10 a.m., about midway through the morning service.
 The crowd was small. Jack Diamond and the other old guys are gone now. Jack used to go from man to man and woman to woman, around all the pews, and shake everybody’s hand -- every week. Otherwise I never talked with him.
 This week’s parsha was “mayim-chayim” or living water, from Genesis, about the time when Isaac was digging the wells.
 This was the passage I liked. Not that old family trouble about Jacob and Esau, but before that, when Isaac was a young man. He sowed and reaped a hundred-fold. He did such honest work in the fields, and all he got was few lines in the Bible. That’s what I was thinking.
The shul looked clean and fresh. I had not been there for six years.
People had gotten older. David, the cantor, had a touch of grey, a rounder face, but the same sweet voice, although still a little harsh on the high notes.
Ed, the president of the congregation, was a little bald now and he grew a mustache. He remembered me and greeted me warmly.
Beth was leading the service, carrying the Torah scroll through the congregation, singing “Mizmor l’David.” She looked up with a big smile and said, “What brings you back?”
I touched the scroll and brought my fingers to my lips, then I smiled back at her.
Still, I had this feeling of being a stranger, the odd man out. What was I doing there?
A feeling that wouldn’t go away, even though I learned that every one at Beth Shalom had the same anxiety of being out of place.
Beth finished taking the Torah around the congregation. Then David, the cantor, began to sing Adon Olam -- lord of the universe or God almighty or something like that, but it’s important, and always sung at the end of the service, only this time David sang it to the tune of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” So everybody smiled.
You can’t be really serious unless you make it laugh once in a while.
The service ended and we went downstairs for Kiddush. Kiddush refers to the blessing over the bread and wine, but, by extension, it means the meal itself, a social time.
Only the rabbi is gone now. Reb Moshe was 92 when he died. That was only three months ago.
Moshe was gone and so was the lemon vodka. That was his special brew, always at the Kiddush table in a half-gallon jug, as if sent in a cloud of vapor straight from Russia.
The vodka had a very pale lemon color, and just a little bit of sugar. Moshe had black diamond eyes and we could drink shots of neat vodka with him -- after the blessing, along with whitefish salad and bagels and other snacks.
But he has gone now and so was the vodka. Just fruit juice and some insipid wine, which I did not want.
It was the Egalitarians who did that. Moshe died and the Temperance ladies took over -- no vodka and no whiskey anymore. That was old-time.
I looked around the table. I saw Ari, the oceanographer, he had a young baby. I saw Ted Kaptchuk, a doctor of natural science, he had the same iron-grey beard. It was all very familiar.
The food was okay, all catered now, egg salad, pickles, challah bread.
I sat with Ed on the bench against the wall, near to where Moshe used to sit. Benny sat on my other side. He has a tough hawk’s nose that matched his pointed irony. He wore a black beret.
Diana Lobel came up and gave me a huge hug. She was my Hebrew teacher and she was very glad to see me, after this long absence. She had gotten thinner -- too thin, she never eats. Diana is so unworldly.
She told me she was getting tenure at Boston University and about to publish her book on Judah Ha-Levi, the medieval poet.
She asked me about various people. Harvey Blume? Yes, I knew he was in Brooklyn. Harvey had selected Beth Shalom as the shul he wouldn’t go to, which is a kind of status.
Marty Federman had been the Hillel rabbi at Northeastern University, but I had no news of him.
Ted Pietras was still selling real estate in the South End.
Then Diana moved off to another table. She rarely goes anywhere, but when she does, she floats around.
That left me with Ed and Benny on the bench, and I felt bold, like I could hold forth, so I concocted a legend about the making of the lemon vodka, how Rev Moshe mixed it carefully as a way of teaching, because for Moshe everything was a teaching, and the lemon was oval, like an egg, meaning birth, but the lemon was also bitter because life can be that way. So he added a bit of sugar to make it sweet.
And still the vodka was clear as ice, but now flavored.
That was my interpretation, and I paused. Ed and Benny’s faces were blank. They didn’t get it.  I knew what they were thinking -- “Hey, the space case from Seattle is back in town.”
But I wasn’t finished. I was bold. The lesson was about Isaac, who was a farmer, and I, alone in this group, had worked the land and known its rewards, and yet such work leaves you with few words.
Isaac was a good husband to his wife and to his land, but he was always ignored and passed over.
His son Jacob had no use for farming. Jacob lived by his wits. He schemed against his brother Esau, stole his patrimony and became a hero for that.
Was that right? The irony was so rich.
Ed and Benny didn’t get it. I had to scrap my campaign to make Isaac more important among the Patriarchs.
Is it my fault that I get these ideas?
I had a small talk with Janet Zimmern, because a long time ago we had dinner together -- some very good seared tuna at a nice restaurant in Harvard Square.
I always looked at Janet in a certain way, but she would only go out with me that one time.
At the end of the meal we sang the 23rd Psalm. Diana came over to say goodbye. She said how much she missed Moshe. I assured her that the shul seemed as good as it ever was. She sounded afraid. She said there had been tension between the Egalitarians and the Traditionalists. I said there has always been tension -- that it would be all right.
 I said, “Moshe believed in us, as much as he believed in anything. And if he believed in us, then we ought to believe in ourselves too. We’re his children. We can keep it going.”
Then I left.  I drove back to Helen’s house out in the country, where I was staying, wanting to tell Helen all about Beth Shalom, but frustrated. This was an experience I simply could not share with her. Words and gestures that meant so much to me, meant nothing to Helen.
She made dinner, some beans and rice that she had cooked the day before, plus some chard and other vegetables.
We ate by candlelight. The woods were still but for the bird song and a rushing brook, and the stars were shining in the sky.
There is still no solution. Moshe is dead. Helen doesn’t understand me, and Isaac gets no respect.

  • Temple Beth Shalom is still on Tremont Street, and still pleasantly divided between Egalitarians and Traditionalists.
  • Ted Kaptchuk wrote a book on Chinese Medicine, The Web That Has No Weaver.
  • Diana Lobel wrote a book on Judah Ha-Levi, a medieval poet, Between Mysticism and Philosophy: Sufi Language of Religious Experience in Judah Ha-Levi’s Kuzari .
  • Harvey Blume wrote a book about an African pygmy, who was imprisoned and brought to the St. Louis World’s Fair of 1904 and put on display in a cage, Ota Benga, the Pygmy in the Zoo.
  • Ted Pietras is still selling real estate in the Boston area.
  • Marty Federman’s whereabouts are unknown. ........ I wrote this story a few years ago. Only recently, a few months ago, I got a notice that Marty had died, so, in a way, his whereabouts are still unknown.               
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Medicine, The Web That Has No Weaver.
Subscription Drive.
A $25 or $50 subscription to Frog Hospital comes with the promise that I will try my best. I have been writing this journal since1998. I have written some hundreds of issues of this journal, and some of it has been very good indeed and I would like to continue writing this, and I would like you to send me a check for $25 or $50 or punch the PayPal button.
You can find the PayPal button on the blog. Go to Frog Hospital.Or make out a check to Fred Owens and mail it to:
Fred Owens, 1105 Veronica Springs RD, Santa Barbara, CA 93105
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens
My writing blog is Frog Hospital