TASHLICH

      A friend sent me a video that pictured perfectly formed seashells, underwater flora, colorful fish, and other amphibians. Above the waves of the waters, delicate birds flew in unison. The background music played  “America the Beautiful.” Script floated above the animation, “from sea to shining sea.”

I thought about the repeat of “sea to shining sea” in light of ongoing findings that warn us of the depletion of certain species of fish and other marine life, how pollutants have affected these underwater creatures and the waters upon which they are dependent, and the effect of all this on our food chain. I considered this in light of the coming Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah,  and the practice of Tashlich – casting off our sins of omission or commission, our transgressions, bread crumb by crumb, into flowing waters. Sins cast to waters that flow from creeks and rivers and other tributaries to our shining seas. Crumbs infused with sins that our fish consume, that the angler catches and sells, and we hungrily devour. Sometimes we become sick, suffering the by-products of human pollution.

In the Middle Ages when the practice of Tashlich began, our sages rationalized about fish and their exposure to human sin and its consequences. Since fish lack eyelids, eyes always open and aware, the sages concluded that fish are immune to “the evil eye”– in this case, crumbs of sin. These guys, and they were guys, always seemed to find an angle – no pun intended. They, also, said the water had to be flowing.

We now know through scientific studies that lack of eyelids does not make immune the evils of pollution on our marine life, and, by extension, upon the waters that irrigate our crops and grasses and feed our livestock. We, in turn, feed and dress from the products of these plants and animals.

I ponder. Is not a sin cast-off to the waters as dangerous a pollutant as a plastic bag or bottle, spilled oil, human garbage? Pollute – “to make impure or morally unclean.” according to my vintage print version of Random House Webster College Dictionary, 1992. Are we not making our waters morally unclean by casting to them our sins? Sins ingested, infecting, and too often, repeated.

I wonder. How to continue this tradition – to cast off, to morally cleanse our personal slate of what we consider to be our individual sin(s)of the past year, and, yet, to not morally infect our waters and our peoples. How do we purify ourselves and the waters upon which all life depends?

Perhaps instead of casting sin to the waters, we could offer our learning. Let our new found insights flow to shining seas and to those who partake along the way. To offer a prayer of sorts, a holy and wholesome offering. “I now know and understand the extent of my transgression, and with this prayer, I offer to all who partake the wisdom I gained ——————– 

now you finish the sentence 

A friend sent me an e-card on July 4^th – a video that pictured perfectly formed seashells, underwater flora,colorful fish, and other amphibians. Above the waves of the waters, delicate birds flew in unison. The backgroundmusic played  “America the Beautiful.” Script floated above the animation, “from sea to shining sea.”

I thought about the repeat of “sea to shining sea” in light of ongoing findings that warn us of the depletion of certain species of fish and other marine life, how pollutants have affected these underwater creatures and the waters upon which they are dependent, and the effect of all this on our food chain. I considered this in light of the coming New Year and the practice of Tashlich* – casting off our sins of omission or commission, our transgressions, bread crumb by crumb, into flowing waters. Sins cast to waters that flow from creeks and rivers and other tributaries to our shining seas. Crumbs infused with sins that our fish consume, that the angler catches and sells, and we hungrily devour. Sometimes we become sick, infected, suffering the by-products of human pollution.

In the Middle Ages when the practice of Tashlich began, our sages rationalized about fish and their exposure to human sin and its consequences. Since fish lack eyelids, eyes always open and aware, the sages concluded that fish are immune to “the evil eye”**– in this case, crumbs of sin. (These guys, and they were guys, always seemed to find an angle – no pun intended. They, also, said the water had to be flowing).

We now know through scientific studies that lack of eyelids does not make immune the evils of pollution on our marine life, and, by extension, upon the waters that irrigate our crops and grasses and feed our livestock. We, in turn, feed and dress from the products of these plants and animals.

I ponder. Is not a sin cast-off to the waters as dangerous a pollutant as a plastic bag or bottle, spilled oil, human garbage? Pollute – “to make impure or morally unclean.” (my vintage print version of Random House Webster College Dictionary, 1992). Are we not making our waters morally unclean by casting to them our sins? Sins ingested, infecting, and too often, repeated.

I wonder. How to continue this tradition – to cast off, to morally cleanse our personal slate of what we consider to be our individual sin(s)of the past year, and, yet, to not morally infect our waters and our peoples. How do we purify ourselves and the waters upon which all life depends?

Perhaps instead of casting sin to the waters, we could offer our learning. Let our new found insights flow to shining seas and to those who partake along the way. To offer a prayer of sorts, a holy and wholesome offering. “I now know and understand the extent of my transgression, and with this prayer, I offer to all who partake the wisdom I gained ——————– now you finish the sentence ——-.”

PREJUDICE

I called my local hardware store early that chilly morning. I enjoy shopping in person at this particular store. But before heading out on this gray, damp day, I wanted to be sure what I was looking for was still in stock. I needed a portable heater. It was May, and the damp cold weather had continued for days. I was freezing, dressed in heavy sweats, and swathed in my winter quilt at night. The heat had been turned off in the high-rise building where I live. We’re a development built in the early seventies meaning we have a two-pipe heating and air conditioning system, not four, which, also, means it’s either heat or air conditioning. Once the heat is turned off and the air conditioning turned on, or vice-versa, we’re stuck. It would take days of draining pipes to reverse.

It was seven in the morning when I called. I knew the store would be open. It caters to painters and building contractors who come early to load their trucks with supplies. A man answered the phone with a firm assured voice. He sounded like his name would be something like Rob White.

“Yes, we have a few heaters left,” he said

“How much,” I asked

Between 40 and 80,” he replied

“I’ll be right there.”

Once I arrived, I asked at the Help Desk for the number of the aisle where I could find the heaters.

“Aisle sixteen on the left.”

            I headed that direction and looked for a Rob White, someone I’m used to relying upon to guide me through my hardware shopping. These guys wear red vests (and they are usually guys, the women generally assigned to housewares or the paint selection areas) and give the same attention to those looking for a certain size screw or a special type of light bulb, as they do to shoppers interested in one of the big outdoor grills that line the sidewalk in front of the store entrance. They are all business, sure of their knowledge. I wonder how they learned so much. Were they once former builders, fixer uppers in their own homes, or naturally inquisitive about how things work. Do they learn on the job?

There was no Rob White around. I looked in the aisles on either side of sixteen. Then a red vested man came through the aisle hauling a large box. He stopped with his unwieldy box across from the heaters. His skin was brown. He had bad teeth, was tall and skinny. His English was heavily accented – East African, I thought. He wasn’t what I would call, a cheery, how can I help you kind of guy. Where was Rob White? I wanted a Rob to help me. And then I felt myself flood with shame. I can do this.

I asked questions about each model and wondered. Can he explain to me, a not so handy person, the differences, the advantages and disadvantages of each model?  Will I understand him? Does he understand me? I will, can do this. I must.

I hated myself for first hesitating, for being judgmental, shamed for the recognition of my prejudice. For my wrongful assumptions about his capability. He never smiled. He did not have the robust sound of Rob White. But the Rob Whites don’t smile much either. He opened the box of the model he thought would fit my needs.  

“I need a demonstration, how do all these buttons work,” I asked.

He demonstrated. I sometimes had to repeat or reword my questions. I warmed to his knowledge and smiled. He still did not smile. He repackaged the heater. I thanked him. I’m still recoiling from my initial reaction. I’m still righting myself.

           

WHEN WE SANG

It was wartime. Everyone was patriotic, or that’s how I remember my childhood and my family. My father’s brother, Uncle Nathan was drafted. My father just missed the age requirement. Our neighbor, Sam Cohen was drafted but stayed stateside. My mother was a daytime Air Raid Warden. I remember the pale blue denim pantsuit she wore on patrol, her chunky mid-heel, lace-up black oxford shoes with short white fold down socks (ankle socks they called them then), her helmet. The sirens sounded, and she left home to patrol the neighborhood. She attended weekly classes to learn first aid treatment and practiced on my sister, Sally, and me. Her handbook lay open on the kitchen table, to be sure she was following the proper way to tend broken limbs. Sally and I were either complaining or giggling. 

During those years, our extended family gathered on a routine basis – most Saturdays at my maternal grandparents’ home in Baltimore on Pulaski Street. On Sundays, usually in the evening at our home on Columbus Drive - Pulaski and Columbus, prominent names of American history – Pulaski, a Polish military commander and American Revolutionary War hero. Columbus, who is attributed to have found the “New World,” our America.

We all had pianos. Uprights they were called. My Aunt Clara, my mother’s younger sister, was a concert pianist and a graduate of the Peabody Conservatory. Our living rooms were small in these two row houses where we all gathered. The upright piano in our home was against the wall behind which a staircase led to the second floor of two bedrooms and a den. The den housed a bookcase filled with a complete set of THE HARVARD CLASSICS and volumes of Book of the Month Club – where we sat together, and my mother read poems to us – Longfellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha, The Children’s Hour, Evangeline.”  Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven and Annabel Lee.” Emerson’s “The Snow-Storm.”

But it was downstairs where the family gathered – our family of four, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins on my mother’s side. Sally and I were given the job of passing out songbooks. Aunt Clara sat on the piano bench in front of the upright. She played. We sang. In unison.

We sang, “Over there. Over there.” “Those Caissons Go Rolling Along and Anchors Aweigh.” “From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli. “Off we go into the wild blue yonder.” We sang, often off-key, with gusto. We sang “America the Beautiful.” And after - hot tea, iced in the summer, and home baked cookies. This was years before I took and failed at piano lessons.

And then early one August evening came news of the Japanese surrender. We kids celebrated by taking pots and pans and their covers from our kitchen cupboards and banged them together, as we marched up and down Columbus Drive. My mother was upset at the destruction of cookware she had protected so carefully during the years of metal (and other) shortages. A neighbor reminded her, “Now you can buy new ones.”