WHAT GOES AROUND, COMES AROUND
Jul 31 '09
The Bottom Line The more things change, the more they stay the same.
By Barry D. Waldman
As is my usual routine this morning at the ripe old age of 71, I sat with my coffee, bagel, cream cheese and last evening’s Patriot Ledger. I do the paper the next morning so I have something to read with my breakfast. When I came to the puzzle, I broke out a blue ballpoint pen and went to work. As I was finishing it, a thought occurred to me--I’m using blue ink again as I did years ago.
For a very long time I used black ink. I did so because I was in the U.S. Navy as a recruiter and the forms I filled out required black ink. I carried that habit over in to civilian life for several years. Then one day I found myself using blue and it looked and felt better. OK.
Now I think of things I used to do, stopped doing, and now do again: I’m now wearing a hat again after over 60+ years of not wearing one. My father used to insist on my wearing one.
“But Pa, it’ll ruin my hair.” I was fifteen or sixteen and combing my hair was of paramount importance. One had to look cool. Especially in the ‘50s when a ducktail haircut, a large pompadour, pegged pants, and the shirt collar pulled up in back was the in thing to do.
“I don’t care about your hair,” he said, “just wear the hat so you don’t catch pneumonia.”
“But Paaaaa,” I’d whine.
“Sha! Wear the hat.” “Sha” in Yiddish means, “be quiet.” I stopped talking and set the hat very gingerly on top of my sleekly combed hair. It sat there very precariously, threatening to fall off in a light breeze. Pa would then come over to me, grab the hat by the brim and the back and pull it down with one yank. “Now you look like something,” he’d say. “Sure,” I thought, “but what--a nerd? A yutz? A Mama’s boy?”
I’d sulk out of the store he owned around the corner from our house and I was off to high school. Of course, as soon as I turned the corner and he couldn’t see me any longer I’d pull the hat off, stuff it in my pocket, and recomb the hair. I still have a full head of hair and I still recomb it after I take my hat off. The difference is that I now wear the hat all the way to the office.
After 50 or so years, I now find myself going back to the synagogue on a Friday evening. I don’t know why--it just feels right so I do it. An old friend who claims to be an atheist once asked me why I’m going back. “’Cuz I wanna go--that’s why.”
“Well, why do you want to go?”
“It feels good when I do. How come you don’t go?”
“Aaaah! Feh! When you die, you just become worm food. Why go through all that.”
“Fine,” I said, “you do it your way and I’ll do it mine. OK?” And the subject was permanently closed.
He and I never discuss politics, either. He’s a knee-jerk, card-carrying it’s-in-the-blood Democrat while I’m a Righteously Indignant Republican. After over 58 years of close friendship, we’ve come to a tacit agreement to leave politics and God out of our conversations. Those two subjects always start an argument and we’re too old to argue anymore.
I’ve gone back to eating things I did as a boy and young man. I love elbow macaroni and tomato soup. Not separately, but together. I cook the macaroni, pour a can of tomato soup over it--undiluted--add a lump of butter, some salt, pepper and garlic powder, mix it thoroughly and eat with a six-gallon glass of milk. A mechayah! That’s Yiddish for a culinary delight.
Another one is fried matzoh. You know, those corrugated cardboard crackers that are usually eaten at Passover by all the Jews who are trying to make up for a year’s worth of ignoring religion with eight days of constipation caused by the matzoh.
The recipe is simple: one egg for every two crackers. Break up the crackers into chunks and pour hot water over them. Then pour it off again after a minute or so, mix in the eggs and fry in butter. Turn it over when it’s nice and browned and serve it hot. Some like it with jam, jelly, or a shmeer of butter. I prefer it with just salt. Either way, noch a mechayah! (Again a culinary delight.)
Finally, I find myself talking to God again. Not that He answers me--well, not directly, anyway. I don’t think I ever didn’t believe in God. I just didn’t have time for Him ‘cuz I was too busy trying to get ahead. The only time I’d call on Him was when I was in trouble. I can just see Him now--sitting on the throne and looking down on me with one raised eyebrow. “Ah hah! Now you call on Me. Where have you been for the past six months when everything was going well? Who do you think made it all go well for you? Cho-chem. (That’s Yiddish for a very wise person. And the “ch” is made guttural at the back of the throat. However, when used with sarcasm it means you’re a dam’ fool. Goyim -- non-Jews--can never make that sound). We all learned it at our mother’s knee--or some other low joint. My wife, who is Roman Catholic and to whom I’ve been married for over 33 years, has been trying all our married lives and she still can’t do it.
Finally, I’m now not afraid of death. I had a very close call about four years ago. I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. While doing a PET scan they also found lymphoma. That’s me--always the over-achiever.
The lymphoma was dealt with quickly and completely. Day surgery and four rounds of chemo, which cost me, my hair. It came back darker and wavy. That’s called a chemo-perm.
The esophageal was another story entirely. Just before the surgery, while on the operating table, I said what’s known to Jews as the Sh’ma. That’s short for the Hebrew phrase, “Sh’ma Yisroel, Adonai Elohenu, Adonai Echod. Hear O Israel, the Lord our God--the Lord is One” This is the phrase that every Jew wants on his lips as his last words. Was I frightened? No, but I wasn’t taking any chances, either.
That was on February 15, 2005. When I woke up it was around the end of April or beginning of May. I came down with MRSA--Methicillin Resistant Staphylococcus Aureas. This is a nasty infection that usually kills.
The only thing I remember from that medically induced coma was a dream that I was in a very large, flat, dark place with nothing else there except a large, black triangle that was coming toward me. I watched as it came nearer. At the last possible moment it went to my left, I went around it and that was the end of it. Later, when I woke up and thought about it, I realized that it was Death coming for me and it wasn’t my time yet. You don’t have to believe this. I do and that’s enough for me.
So, am I afraid of death? No. Rather, I’m curious about it. Not curious enough to want to speed up the process, but curious just the same. What will it be like? Will it be like the movie with Meryl Streep and Albert Brooks, Defending Your Life? Will I go on to a higher existence? Will I come back as a mailbox or a saltshaker? Perhaps I’ll be a Boston Terrier. I’ve always liked Boston Terriers. I wonder.
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Epinions.com ID:
masonmaven
|
|
Location: Massachusetts, United States
Reviews written: 38
Trusted by: 9 members
About Me:
Opinionated old fart who calls 'em as he sees 'em.
|
|
|
© 1999-2009 Shopping.com, Inc.