Cat Callers

Sara the Cat is an only cat. She was not born without siblings, but once she came to live with us, she rarely saw other humans, let alone other creatures. She has heard the cats next-door through the walls (they might actually be good friends who chat regularly, chi sa?), and smelled them maybe after L came back from looking after them when their flatmates went away. But she is THE only cat, and enjoys it thoroughly.

Today, however, I think was the first time that she met Mocha and Cartesio whisker to whisker. We neighbours were exchanging seasonal conversation on the landing, and Mocha decided to pop her head in our front door, as seen above. After a cautious exchange of sniffing, Mocha then dashed back inside her own home.

Cartesio, however, was not so shy. Sara the Cat had retreated under the bed at the far end of the flat, to recover, I suppose, from the shock of this meeting, and to reflect upon what it all meant. So our marmalade friend swaggered into the living-room, and had a good look round. After inspecting the underneaths of both sofas, he then headed for the bedroom. I heard a sound a bit like crackling gas escaping suddenly from a valve, and ran to see if Sara the Cat was ok. She was fine. Cartesio had vanished.

A few minutes later, L came back from the landing and reported that Cartesio had found his way home. Phew. I guess Sara the Cat was reminding us all of the lockdown, and that now is not the time to make new friends. After all, we are already blessed with her.

Pastor Martin Stöhr z"l

During my end-of-year tidying of files on the desktop, I found this wonderful photo of Pastor Martin Stöhr, Angela Davis & my father. I'm not sure exactly when or where it was taken (or who by) - I'm guessing in the early 1980's, probably in Germany, most likely at an Evangelische Kirchentag. Out of all my parents' friends from their interfaith dialogue in Germany, I think I loved Martin the most. We lost touch a few years ago and, looking at this photo, I wondered if he was still alive. I was sad to find out that he died just a few weeks after my mother. And I remembered a conversation I'd had with my father many years ago, when at a conference where Martin was speaking. "Martin is so kind, and so good, and so smart," I said, "how could he possibly believe in something like Jesus?" My father replied, "did you mean what you said about him? So kind, so good ...?" "Of course!" I responded indignantly. "Well," said my wise father, "if believing in Jesus is part of what makes him into this person that you love, why do you question it?"

I hope I can continue to learn this lesson, going beyond tolerance to acceptance. It's hard to remember, but this photo will help me. I hope that I can bring some of it to 2021, and add to the blessing of Martin's memory.

Desert Island Texts Revisited

 

The princess of procrastination strikes again. During an ambivalent attempt to catch up on some important paperwork, I came across this brief piece written for the column "Desert Island Texts" in the Jewish News back in 2014. Obviously it had to be shared before I could get back to my to-do list. You're welcome.

"Desert Island Texts

Having benched gomel for surviving the stormy waters and making it to the desert island, I would then congratulate the lucky fish that would be wearing my glasses in the future. Since I have inherited my father's dreadful eyesight, the text I desire would have to be one stored in my memory. Since I also appear to have the memory of a Swiss cheese, the text should be short and sweet. What comes to mind immediately is the midrash in which Abraham explains to his father Terah why all the idols in their shop have been smashed. Abraham says that the biggest idol was responsible, and Terah is furious. "Are you making fun of me?" he asks his son, "they cannot do anything, they are just stone and wood!" "Aha!" cries Abraham, "your ears should hear what your mouth is saying!"

Terah was in the idol business, and it was convenient for him to ignore the reality of the situation. His acknowledgement of the inanimate nature of these so-called gods was instinctive, and it was only the shock of Abraham's actions that forced this realisation to the surface. Terah chose not to be conscious of the reality, but the truth was always within him.

So it is for the rest of us. How many false gods do we have that lead us astray, consuming our attention and our energy? How many of us choose to ignore thoughts and feelings that deep down we know are important but may disrupt our comfortable lives? And where will we find the iconoclast who will return us to the heart of the matter?

I choose Abraham. His punchline shocks me each time I hear it. Wherever I am, whatever I do, I carry it with me as a handy mnemonic for those times when I can't see the wood for the idols."

PS and yes that's why I named the blog thusly.

Team Applesauce

Minor health issues meant that our first household attempt at traditional Chanukah latkes had to wait until our digestive abilities had recovered a modicum of strength. That day was today! 

L was also introduced to sour cream for the first time (it is NOT the same as yoghurt), and I made some applesauce. We are now resting on the sofa, thoroughly sated and currently feeling quite proud of ourselves.

As you can see, I am prepared to eat latkes with either topping - the German applesauce of my maternal ancestry and the dairy delight of my father's Polish heritage. If, however, I am forced to choose, then it must be Team Applesauce. Mahlzeit!

The Last Day of Chanukah

When I was young, I asked my father why Chanukah was such a big deal. I'd learned somewhere that the presents were mainly so we wouldn't feel bad about Xmas, which left us with a lot of candles, and fried potato latkes with applesauce. Although we got some chocolate coins from Sunday School, we never played dreidel. I'm not sure why, but most likely because there wasn't a spinning surface available in our flat. The rooms and halls were carpeted, the bathrooms were tiny and the kitchen floor was tiled (which messed up the spin). O, and the dining-table was for dining. And homework.

Along with the historical and religious origins of the festival, my lovely father explained to me that most religions, and a lot of pre-religious cultures, had rituals at this time of year in the northern hemisphere. People were sad and scared because it was dark. They wanted the sun to come back, and tried to encourage this by lighting lights. I thought it sounded a bit primitive. He pointed out that it works. Every year.

Tonight we lit the last of the lights for this year. 2020 is almost done (although, of course, 5781 isn't even half-way yet), and there has been a lot of darkness all over the world during this period. We are scared, and sad, and very very tired. We hope the sun will return. Whether it reappears in the sky or not, each of us still has a Divine spark within, and surely that can and must be a source of light for ourselves and each other, every day we walk through this world.

Chag urim sameach - Happy Festival of Lights.

 

Farewell Dame Barbara

The news that Dame Barbara Windsor has died has really touched me. She was neither relative nor friend, I was just a fan. Unusually, I did actually meet her once. I was called in at the last moment to substitute for a shiva service in North London, for somebody I'd never met. After the service there was a small reception, and although everyone there now knew who I was, I didn't know a soul. And then I recognised her over by the sandwiches. Channelling my late father (who would sail right up to just anyone and introduce himself), I decided to go and say hello. I have always been a fan of the Carry On films (I liked her best in Carry on Spying, her first one I think), but my opening line, in the worst geeky fangirl way, was something like, "My mother would never forgive me if I didn't come and say hello, she is such an Eastenders fan!" Dame Barbara accepted this graciously and we ended up having a really interesting conversation about Hattie Jacques, a comedienne & former colleague from the Carry Ons. It was only a brief chat, but having presented myself in such an awkward way, we were able to have a very normal conversation. Because of this she became real to me, and not just a national treasure I knew from the telly. So I am really sad to hear of her death. She was suffering severely from Alzheimer's, so I'm glad she will suffer no more. My heart is with her family and friends at this time.

BBC report

 

Happy Chanukah!

According to the label, this was my first Chanukah. Most likely in East Hampton, NY, where my dad was the rabbi. It was our first Chanukah as a family. What a fine moment that must have been (I don't remember that much of it tbh!).

There is much darkness at the moment. Tonight, in our families of birth and of choice, we begin a community effort to bring the light back. Join us!

Chag Chanukah sameach!

Dahl Was an Antisemite But His Family is Sorry

An article by Gabriel Pogrund in the Sunday Times today reveals (in a somewhat caustic tone) that although Roald Dahl died an unrepentant antisemite, his family members are a bit embarrassed about that and have put an apology up on the Dahl website.

Pogrund quotes such gems of Dahl's as:

"There is a trait in the Jewish character that does provoke animosity, maybe it's a kind of lack of generosity towards non-Jews. I mean there's always a reason why anti-anything crops up anywhere ... Even a stinker like Hitler didn't just pick on them for no reason." (Roald Dahl in 1983 in an interview with the New Statesman quoted in the Sunday Times - original article not available online)

The article suggests that the apology may have been made in order to protect the Dahl brand, which makes millions of pounds in profits each year. I was also rather distressed to read that some people believe the Child Catcher character added to Ian Fleming's original story of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang reputedly by screenwriter Dahl expressed antisemitic themes and stereotypes in its representation.

Dahl is dead. His descendants have made an apology. I don't think this means we should or can forgive Dahl - that's impossible since he is definitely dead. It is good to know that his family is embarrassed by the prejudice that clearly existed in their famous relative. 

What then might the purpose of the apology be? Why should it not be sincere? Could it be a marketing ploy, as Pogrund suggests? If not, perhaps the family needs to do a little more than bury a brief message on their website (you may find it here). Some kind of visible involvement in the fight against hate speech? Public donations to organisations that teach tolerance? Or maybe even sponsorship of an initiative within the Jewish community. What would Miss Honey say?!