Of Mice and Men

Of Mice and Men By Fred Owens I lay awake early this morning thinking of great titles...... just the titles alone of these great books, they knock me out. Of Mice and Men, A Farewell to Arms and From Here To Eternity.  From Here to Eternity is a bit funny, because it doesn't seem to have anything to do with the book, but it is so vast. A Farewell to Arms  makes me weep. Of Mice and Men is so humble, the mice come first. War and Peace was written by Tolstoy, the greatest writer of all. The title is so plain. Tolstoy has no style, he just tells the story. To Kill A Mockingbird. You can imagine the conversation Harper Lee had with the editor about this title. "Seriously, Miss Lee, nobody wants to read a book about killing birds. We need to revise this." The Shooting at the Wal-Mart in El Paso. I was shocked but not surprised. I thought for a brief moment that of course nothing like that would ever happen here in Santa Barbara. We are safe from this madness here in Santa Barbara. But it could happen here. Any place, a school, church, hospital, stadium, busy street or any place that crowds gather. I heard President Trump's speech yesterday morning. His tone was somber, but his words were not reassuring. I blame him personally more than anyone else for these tragic deaths. Only the killer himself is more to blame, but Trump has fanned the flame of angry rhetoric too many times. He has inspired others to these evil acts. Enough. I called Art Najera, a friend of mine in Santa Barbara, a retired orthodontist in his eighties, a vigorous and kind man. Art grew up in El  Paso, the third of six brothers. Art has two sisters as well. Four of his brothers still live in El Paso and Art goes back to visit from time to time.  I asked Art what he thought about the shooting, but I think I caught him unawares and he made no comment. I will see Art again on Wednesday at the Kiwanis lunch meeting, so I might ask him again. Art, what are we doing wrong here?  A Letter from England Maureen McCue is my classmate from St. Michael's College at the University of Toronto. She has lived most of her life in England, working in film and video. She keeps me posted on Brexit affairs, and gives her observations on American turmoil. She writes: Dear Fred, It is always interesting to read your Frog Hospital blog. In my small pond in my garden here in Cornwall I had hundreds of tadpoles which remained small for months and then nada. Whether any got to maturity and hopped off I have no idea. I would love to have seen whether they were frogs or toads and had one or two take up residence. Re the next US presidential election, so sickening is Trump it is hard to believe anyone takes him seriously but I fear he will win again as the Democrats have boxed themselves into a corner on immigration. Unless they concede that a country has a right and a duty to limit immigration (hopefully with a humane and sensible policy) then the next election is lost to them. Looking at it from outside the country the candidates appear weak, woke and wacky. I say this with a laden heart. Biden seems more of Hillary and a man whose time has past. Is there no youngish vibrant candidate who can win? I went to a music workshop yesterday having joined a choir ( a glee club really) and the teacher who is an opera singer liked my voice and has offered to help me with lessons. No one ever told me I had a decent voice and I fell into this choir thing by serendipity so I am pleased that a retirement hobby might be something I am good at. As I am living in a Celtic region there are lots of music festivals and competitions. It has been something of an unexpected boom living here. The tourists are piling in down here and my small narrow road is full of cars these days. There is lots of backing up and scrunching against a granite wall to accommodate traffic. It does not last forever so about 5 weeks to go. I received a gold medal (a tie pin really) in the mail this week from St Mike’s. I thanked the Vice Chancellor as it is a thoughtful commemorative gift. I plan to pin it to my favourite jacket. All the best and good luck navigating the LA freeways, Maureen Harvey Blume suggested this story from 2004. He said it should be published more widely. What happens after the Rabbi dies? Moshe Holcer, 1912-2004 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, 8 years since I came on a regular basis. 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. NOTES: • 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. [Marty has passed away since I wrote this, but I would still say his whereabouts are unknown.] That's all for this week.  Stay cool, Fred -- Fred Owens cell: 360-739-0214 My gardening blog is  Fred Owens My writing blog is Frog Hospital