A Year of Kaddish

And so I returned to say Kaddish last night, the yahrzeit or anniversary of my mother’s passing a year ago. On the English calendar, her death came August 6, but the date on the Hebrew calendar was the 16th of Av, and not wanting to mix metaphors or symbols, I am choosing to observe the Jewish ritual according to the Jewish calendar, which began at sunset Monday night.

It’s an interesting drama that unfolds over a year of mourning. My obligation, according to Tradition, was to say Kaddish for 11 months, not a year.  Why not a year? The reason goes like this: the soul spends some time purifying itself before entering the World to Come. The maximum time required is 12 months for the most evil person, but to recite Kaddish for the year would imply your parent needed a full 12 months of purification. To avoid that implication, the Sages decreed that one should recite the prayer for only 11 months.

So last month, I finished saying Kaddish, but the year of mourning had not ended, and restrictions remained, like not going to concerts, including the free summer jazz series Monday nights in Hartford’s Bushnell Park. The last one, which I plan to attend, is next Monday. (Anyone want to join us?)

I continued to go to Shabbat services, but my twice-daily attendance at weekday minyans dropped to a morning here, an evening service there, and when I went, I refrained from saying Kaddish.

This morning, after davening Shacharit, Rabbi Adler approached me.

“A lot different saying Kaddish today than the first time?”

“A lot,” I said, nodding. In fact, I had thought about that very question while leading the service. For starters, though I had felt sad heading off to shul last evening – even noticed a hint of a tear in my right eye as I rode down the driveway onto Fern Street, it wasn’t the same kind of sorrow or sense of loss I felt a year ago.

I thought about how fluently I was able to daven today compared to a year ago, and the comfort I got from having that oversized Art Scroll siddur in front of me as shaliach tzibbur or prayer leader. And I thought about some of the other repercussions the year offered, like the question I’m exploring this summer about whether to switch my synagogue membership from the Conservative Beth El, where I’ve been for more than a decade, to the Orthodox Beth David, which has in many ways become my new spiritual home.

My mother, Pearl Felson, was not a very religious woman, not in the Torah-observant sense, at any rate. Indeed, one of the last times we went out to dinner – for my birthday a year ago May in Oakland’s Jack London Square – she ordered a cheeseburger, though she only bought kosher meat at home. Her real value was family and she kvelled over the lives of her three sons, their families, her nieces and nephews and their families, and all the other relatives and friends scattered across the globe. Mostly, she stayed in touch with all of us during long, meandering phone calls. I thought about that too, as I rode my bike home last night. This past year and how we’ve all honored her memory – she would have been proud of us. She’s probably kvelling to all the other departed loved ones up there in the World to Come. Her mother, her father, her brother, her aunts and uncles, her cousins, her friends. She’s no doubt the one with the apron wrapped around her waist, pouring tea around the kitchen table.

It was an inauspicious beginning to the end last Sunday night, the night that began my last day of eleven months of saying Kaddish. We were sitting outside on a warm New England summer evening — eight of us from our so-called Gourmet Club, a group of friends who get together for dinner every few months for what is now going on more than 20 years. That somehow was a comforting way to begin my last day of saying Kaddish. I excused myself a little before 8 o’clock to make the minyan.

When I got to shul, two men were sitting around, waiting for the 8:20 p.m. start. I made three. Another walked in and another. I went up to the bima, opened the oversized ArtScroll siddur or prayer book that prayer leaders use to page 232, the start of the afternoon service, and placed the tallit or prayer shawl next to the book. I wanted to be ready to lead as soon as the tenth man walked in. By 8:20, there were only six of us. The rabbi made a few phone calls on his cell phone, but it was Sunday night in late June. No one answered. And so we davened silently and by ourselves. Because we didn’t have a minyan, neither I or the other mourner could say Kaddish. I felt disappointed. This wasn’t how I envisioned the end of my eleven months unfolding.

I knew — or should I say, I had faith that we would be okay for shacharit, the morning service, on Monday, as mornings for some reason rarely lack a minyan. But I was worried that come Monday evening, we might not have a minyan again for mincha, the very last afternoon service I would daven or lead as a mourner, until, of course, I say Kaddish again next month, on my mother’s yahrzeit,  the one-year anniversary of her passing.

And so I did something unusual — for me. I reached out to friends, inviting them to join me at the minyan Monday night, hoping to ensure we would have at least 10 there. I emailed Sam, David, and Michael, the three other men who I had left at our summer dinner, asking if they were free Monday night. [Unlike Beth El, my egalitarian Conservative synagogue, where women count as part of a minyan, a Beth David minyan requires 10 men. And while I could have hedged my bets and just gone to Beth El for the last time, I had been going to Beth David so regularly that it just felt right to end among the men in this new community of mine.] Then, I thought who else I could ask, who at Beth David, might be willing to come. Because I didn’t want to rely on my three dinner comrades, since two of them are devout secular Jews, and all three would identify as religious skeptics. Fortunately, three other names came to mind and I called or emailed them. I felt good about taking the initiative and being pro-active. Maybe this was another lesson from on High, I thought. Build it and they will come.

I got up early Monday morning and, though, my bike ride to Beth David takes only minutes – it’s only 3-1/2 blocks away – I rode slowly, breathing in the warm summer morning air and thinking about the past 11 months. The cold days in the winter, the days turned dark before 5 o’clock, the times I searched for a shul or minyan when traveling in places like Key West, Youngstown, Ohio or New York. The days of angst when I was juggling between two different synagogues.

I got to shul, as I normally did, early – two others were already there, and I put my tallis on and then wrapped my teffilin. When the clock struck 6:30, I began chanting the morning prayers from the bima, facing the Ark, my back to the minyan. The morning service ended and I went about my day’s work.

I returned a little after 8 p.m., hopeful that we would have a minyan. There was one guy out front and two inside the chapel, including one of the guys I had called. That was a good sign.  Another few walked in, then a few more. We had 10, a minyan, and at 8:20, I began davening mincha. With my back to the room, I could hear the door open; someone else had come in. And again, I heard the door open. And again. We did it, I thought, feeling pleased and grateful. More than enough.

When I had asked Rabbi Adler the day before if there were any customs associated with the last day of saying Kaddish, he shook his head. “Just daven (meaning, just lead the service) and do it with a lot of kavanah,” the Hebrew term for spiritual intentionality or real soulful focus. And so I did. One friend, recalling the end of his 11 months, said he could barely make his way through the last Kaddish, so emotional was he. That didn’t happen to me, but I felt as though I was coming to an end, to a finish line of sorts.

I finished saying Kaddish, the final prayer of mincha, and I turned to Rabbi Adler, who was standing nearby.

“You’re done,” he said. I took the tallis off and handed it to Adam, the other mourner in the minyan, whose mother died way too young just a few months ago. He would daven ma’ariv, the evening service. The rabbi announced for those who didn’t know that I had just completed the 11 months of saying Kaddish, and as I returned to my seat, one of the guys I’d asked to come hugged me, others shook my hand, all offering me a “Yasher Koach,” a traditional remark loosely translated as “More Power to You.”

When it came to saying Kaddish for the ma’ariv service, tthe rabbi announced, as he normally does, “Kaddish.” For the last 11 months, either by myself or with other mourners present, I’ve said that ancient Aramaic prayer. This time, strangely, I didn’t say it. I just listened. And I realized that I had walked through a passageway.

The Jewish process of mourning is fascinating in the way it treats time. It begins between the time of death and the burial. Afterwards, there’s the period of sitting shiva, the seven-days when one stays home, pulled away from work and everyday life, a time to reflect and be consoled. From there, one moves into sholoshim, the 30-day period, when one returns into the community and heads back to work, often symbolized by taking a walk around the block. But it’s a time that is still seen as a fragile period. And then, there’s the 11 months, the sholoshim or first 30-day period included in that longer extended time. Yet it doesn’t end there.

Though I’ve honored the obligation of  saying Kaddish three times daily for the past 11 months – more or less, the tradition recognizes one more month of mourning, without saying Kaddish. Perhaps it’s seen as a time to think back on the past year, on the absence of life without Mom; but also, perhaps, it’s a time to think about what’s next going forward. And maybe, as a friend suggested the other day, what else I might commit to in such an intense way to for the next 11 months of my life.

Whatever the future holds, I will say this:  last Monday evening, as I rode my bike home, I was not feeling mournful. I was feeling shalom and shalem; at peace and complete. I felt fulfilled for what 11 months ago felt like such a daunting obligation.  And I must say, I also felt proud. For as I rode home, I couldn’t help but punch my arms into the air skyward, quietly shouting, “Ya-hoo! Ya-hoo!”

“You don’t need to explain,” one of the guys said to me the other night. He was making sure we had a minyan for the next morning. His statement came as I was about to explain why I wouldn’t be there the next morning, this morning.

It happened last night. I was outside shul, unlocking my bike after ma’ariv, and as he walked by, he stopped and asked a simple question: “Len, will you be here tomorrow morning?”

I paused to think for a moment. “No,” I said, and then began to stutter my reason why I would not be there, when he said, “You don’t need to explain.” The response stuck to my gut and then shot up to my head like some kind of ah-hah moment.

I’d heard a variation on those same words, once before, when I was juggling back and forth between Beth El and Beth David. I had been at Beth El Shabbat morning, but was on my way to Beth David for the end of Shabbat late one Saturday afternoon, when I met the gabbi who also was walking back to shul along Dover Road. “Were you at Beth El this morning?” he asked. I said I was and began to explain how I decided when to go where and why. “You don’t need to explain,” he said. Or maybe he said, “You don’t need to defend yourself.” I’m not sure, but the point was the same. I didn’t need to justify my whereabouts or my decisions or my thinking.

What I also heard between the lines was that we are all responsible adults and we treat each other as such. My personal spiritual story might be interesting, but it doesn’t need to be justified.

I’m taking this revelation – something I’ve always known but don’t always act as though I do — as one of the blessings I’ve received from nearly a year of daily prayer. Put another way, I’m taking this message as a concrete example of what it means to see God as greater and holier than before, an expansive view, which, in part, is what the Kaddish is all about.

I began to think about where else in my life I find a need to explain myself when it’s unnecessary. Ironically, in this last week of my 11 months of saying Kaddish, one of my loyal corporate clients, Aetna Inc., asked if I was available to cover a very early-morning shift, editing and updating its website for employees. For a moment, when I received the email-request, my default reaction was one of angst. I had envisioned this last week, attending shul every morning and evening, kicking it in to the finish line, as I once did when I ran the quarter-mile in high school. I had thought about going in very early or after services, but both were problematic. In the end, I said, yes to Aetna, except that I couldn’t come in next Monday until a couple hours later than my normal start, Monday being the last day I’m saying Kaddish and I wasn’t going to miss that. But, here’s the kicker: I didn’t explain why I needed to come in late on Monday. And guess what? They said that was fine. No questions asked.

I’m not saying there aren’t times when we need to explain ourselves. Of course, there are. But one of the lessons I’m coming away with over this past year is to stand more assuredly in my space. It’s how the Mussar masters define humility: occupy a rightful space, neither too much nor too little.

We were sitting in shul, waiting for the tenth man to make a minyan one evening recently. Mincha, the afternoon service, was scheduled for 8:05 p.m., which gave us nearly 10 minutes before shkiah, or sunset, as we reached closer to the summer solstice. This week , for example, the afternoon service doesn’t begin until 8:15 p.m.

I am forever learning something new within the world of ritual and prayer, especially at Beth David Synagogue, the Orthodox shul I daven at most mornings and evenings these days.

In walked the tenth man, and we were set to go. Tradition has it that one of the avelim, or mourners, leads the service. And if more than one is present, there’s an intricate practice of splitting the service, having one, for example, do mincha and one do ma’ariv, or one daven Monday morning and another Tuesday morning. Normally, the gabbi, the one in charge of running the service, coordinates that. But he was away at a conference in Serbia that week, and so us commoners were left to rule on our own.

One of the guys who arrived that evening is a longtime member and someone who also is saying Kaddish for his mother. But he doesn’t come regularly. He and I were the only mourners that evening, and since I’m the new kid on the block, my nature was to defer to him.

But apparently he knew I’ve been coming regularly, and so, he insisted that I daven, that I lead the service. “It’s your place,” he said. I asked him a couple days later when I next saw him what he meant by that, and he explained. “This is where you daven regularly. I’m not saying Kaddish everyday.” If I came in to your house I wouldn’t presume to sit in your chair. I wouldn’t take your place. It’s the same here, he went on.

It got me thinking later about the concept in Jewish ritual of makom kavua, a fixed place for prayer. Traditionally, one has a special or set place, your seat in which to pray. When the process of mourning begins, tradition has it that one moves to another place to symbolize the deep change in your life, that things no longer are the way they used to be.

My fellow davener’s kind gesture, insisting that I lead the service, as has been my custom – more or less – was in someway an extension of that concept. Showing honor, respect and support for the sacred places where one finds comfort and connects with God.

As I rode off on my bike that evening, I thought about other places in my life where I touch the sparks of holiness. One is a path along Trout Brook where I walk and run our two dogs. I cross over a couple blocks of sidewalk and through a busy intersection; and there I am — in the midst of a grove of maple trees, grassland and a gurgling brook, separated from everything. Sometimes, I even feel like I could be hundreds of miles away in a wilderness or in the Green Mountains of Vermont or the granite tops of Yosemite.

As it happened last night, I returned to the minyan at Beth El, the other synagogue in my life. It was the second Tuesday of the month, which meant Beth El’s monthly board of trustees meeting, the last meeting before this Sunday’s annual meeting. For me, it also represented a closing chapter: after three years on the board, I’d decided not to stand for another two-year term. So last night was my last board meeting. In the chapel before the meeting,  I took my designated seat, four rows from the bima, left side, next to the center aisle, the place I had chosen when I returned from California after sitting shiva last summer.

I admit, it felt a little bit like re-visiting my old high school since I haven’t been attending weekday services there much anymore. One of the regulars even said, “Welcome back,” when I walked in.

I took my seat, waiting for the service to begin, and I wondered if I’d be asked to lead part of the service like I used to when I was a regular. Then I recalled my recent experience at Beth David, and I said to myself, Why should I expect to lead? There are probably other mourners here leading the services in my absence. I settled back in my seat only to hear Beth El’s gabbi call to me from the back of the chapel: “Len, you want to do mincha?”

“Sure,” I said, walking to the bima and feeling honored.

I woke up around three this morning, but could not fall back asleep. Finally, around five, I think I dozed off, but it didn’t feel like quality sleep. That French Press coffee (caffeinated) that I had with dinner at 2T must have done it, I thought. Or maybe it was the call with a friend and teacher from Vancouver after 9 o’clock last night that got me thinking in the middle of the night.

Whatever, when I woke again and looked at the clock, it was six o’clock, the time I normally get out of bed to go to minyan. For a moment, I thought, I’m going to be tired all day if I get up now. And I turned over, burying my head in the pillow, hoping and praying before official prayer services began that I might get some quality sleep. I’d skip the minyan this morning. But another voice, the voice who pushes me, who believes I can suck it up and follow through, yanked me from my false slumber.

I got up. I got dressed. I grabbed my tallis bag and my tefillin bag. And I was out the door and on my bike, riding to shul. I felt better after leading most of the service. It was warm and sunny outside when I walked out.

I’ve been thinking lately about what it means to stick with a commitment, to follow through, especially for the long haul, now that I’m rounding third base, as it were. The 11 months of saying Kaddish is nearing its end. The 16th of Tammuz marks my last day, which corresponds to June 28. It may be a mitzvah or a commandment to say Kaddish daily in my circumstance, but how does that play out when we live in a world where feeling commanded by a Higher Authority is not a given? There’s a concept in something called neo-traditionalism called “voluntary obligation.” Which sounds like an oxymoron, but it may be what got me out of bed this morning. I know there are other places in my life where, commanded or not, I could benefit from  feeling moved to push harder, climb higher, be a better person.

I had an event to cover yesterday, listening to people reminisce about growing up in the North End of Hartford. Sponsored by the Jewish Historical Society of Greater Hartford, the event spanned two sessions: an afternoon for those who graduated from high school between the 1930s and early 1950s; an evening for those who graduated between the mid-1950s and 1970s.

Going to the evening event meant skipping the minyan, no matter which shul I attended, and I was prepared to do just that. But then, as I finished dinner, I realized that the first part of the program, which I had sat through in the afternoon, would be no different in the evening. Same slide show, same introductory talk, same comedian who had grown up in the North End. It was only the speakers at the end of the program, people who had grown up there, who would be different and who I wanted to hear.

So I went to Beth El, partly because its service started 10 minutes earlier than Beth David’s and it was closer to the Emanuel Synagogue, where the North End event was being held.

Each shul has its customs. At Beth El, as the ma’ariv or evening service nears its end, just before Kaddish is recited, the prayer leader reads a list of names for whom yahrzeit or the anniversary of death is being observed. The yahrzeits are observed based on the Hebrew calendar. I stood up, prepared to say Kaddish, and listened as Rabbi Howard Sowalsky read the names, paying little attention to them. Then to my surprise, I heard my mother-in-law’s name. “Irene Rosenblum.” I wondered for a second, could there be another Irene Rosenblum. Yes, there could, but then I realized it was her yahrzeit. She had died on June 1, 2005. My father-in-law, my wife, Julia, and her brothers all observe the English date, and though we received something in the mail from Beth El a month or so ago, reminding us of the upcoming yahrzeit, we didn’t pay much attention to it.

But I was glad to be there last night to say Kaddish, not just for my mother, but for my mother-in-law as well. I smiled and shook my head, thinking what were the chances. Especially since my ritual of late has evolved into going more and more to Beth David, just three blocks from home for morning and evening services.  And had I gone to Beth David, I would not have heard my mother-in-law’s name because their custom is to read all the yahrzeits for the week at one time (I don’t recall if it’s Sunday morning or Shabbat afternoon).

I drove away from Beth El, still smiling, still shaking  my head in disbelief. Correction: shaking my head in belief. That must be true, because as I drove away, I said to myself, “This is why I believe in God.”

We’re into counting these days. I’m not talking about the question that people ask me now and again: “When are you done saying Kaddish?” I’m talking about Counting the Omer, the ritual done each night from the second night of Pesach to Shavuot, the next major festival on the Jewish calendar.

The way I see it, part of the count is a way of also keeping track of any growth we’re making from our symbolic, and hopefully real, exodus from Mitzrayim, to the point of revelation. At our seder, we made the point that the exodus from Egypt is more than a historic or Biblical event; it’s something that we are commanded to do every year, to examine the places in our lives where we feel ensnared or trapped and realize that we too can leave those narrow places.

It might be easy to lose track of what day in the count we’re at were it not for the many reminders all around me. Besides the Hebrew calendars we have in the house, I get a “Counting the Omer Reminder List” from Torah.org daily which arrives in my e-mail Inbox. I’ve also added an app on my smartphone called Sefirat HaOmer, which tells me the day and even provides the prayer or blessing recited. Today, by the way, is the 16th day of the Omer. There’s also a reminder that plays off the fictional TV character, Homer Simpson, called The Homer Calendar.

But there’s another count, and that’s how many times a week I make it to a minyan to say Kaddish. Whether I attend Beth El or Beth David, the two shuls I go to most often, I go nearly 14 times a week. Morning and evening, although with the change to Daylight Savings Time, I’ve missed the last couple Shabbat services Saturday afternoon and evening, which now begin around 7 p.m. Otherwise, I go.

So in that respect I’ve been faithful to fulfilling my obligation. On the other hand, I haven’t been very good about following the advice one rabbi gave me early on: “What I tell couples is to check in with each other regularly and ask, ‘how’s this working for you?’” Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. We do check in with each other regularly. I just haven’t let up on going to services.

Last night I decided I would. At least, for this morning. I didn’t set my alarm, and so this morning, though I still woke up about 6 o’clock, as I do most days, I turned over in bed and slept for another hour or so. Instead of quietly slipping out of bed, quickly dressing and carefully exiting the house as the sun is rising, I got up that hour later, made coffee, and scanned the three newspapers we still subscribe to while eating my oatmeal.

Then I went to work. I looked at the clock at one point, noticed it was 8:15, and thought, they’re done, no matter which minyan I might have attended. And today’s service was a bit longer because not only is it a morning when the Torah is read, but there were extra prayers to mark Rosh Hodesh, the new month of Iyar.

I’ll return to shul this afternoon/evening and go tomorrow morning and Shabbat the following day. But as I count the days between festivals this spring, I’m reminded that to others in my life there are other things that count as well.

“Sounds like you’re having an affair!” We were sitting at Starbucks. I was telling a friend my dilemma when he interrupted to offer his take. We were not talking about another woman. We were talking about another shul.

As many of my friends know, I’ve long been fascinated with other shuls and independent minyanim. Even before I began saying kaddish. I was curious how others do it, and by that I mean, how they pray and create spiritual space on Shabbat or any hectic weekday.

Trying to balance home life, work life and my obligation to say kaddish daily offers its own set of challenges. My synagogue, Beth El Temple, holds weekday services at 7 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. It’s 2.2 miles away, according to Google Maps, and takes about five minutes by car. But what was I to do on a night, for example, when I had another evening engagement? Sometime last fall, I discovered, a way to meet both commitments. Beth David Synagogue.

At least to date, when the sun still sets earlier, especially during the autumn and winter months, I have been able to attend services much before 7:30 p.m., because Beth David provides a full mincha service just minutes before sunset. It’s followed immediately by the evening or ma’ariv service. The synagogue is three blocks from my home, where I also work. I can get there in a minute; in nice weather, I can ride my bike, walk or jog over there. In the middle of winter, when services were starting around 4:30 or so, it provided a nice break from my desk.

My friend laughed, shaking his head. “Classic stuff. You’re trying to justify why you’re cheating on Beth El. What about on the days when they need you for a minyan? Don’t you feel bad?”

“Believe me, “ I said, “I feel the guilt. Jewish guilt, ” I said. “But there’s more,” I said.

I like the services at Beth David. I like walking there and back home on Friday evenings, as Shabbat arrives. I like walking back there late Saturday afternoon for their seudah shleshit, a traditional third meal between mincha and ma’ariv, when a couple hauntingly lovely z’mirot or songs are sung, as Shabbat is about to depart and the new week is about to begin. I like the more complete repertoire of Psalms chanted in the mornings during Pesukei’ D’Zimrah.

On the other hand, I still go to Beth El. I go every Shabbat morning.  I go two or three other mornings a week, and an evening or two.

But then, I told my friend, something happened about a month ago that really changed the relationship.
He leaned in closer. Took a sip of his coffee, wondering what the juicy details could be.

They asked me if I wanted to daven. To lead part of the service. Since I’m an avel, a mourner. By then, I had been going to services at Beth David enough that I was able to confidently say yes. And from my experience leading at the Orthodox shul in Oakland last winter, I knew I could do it. I did it a few times during the afternoon and evening services and parts of the morning service as well.

“Jeeze,” my friend said. “You’re in deep.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “It’s stressful. I feel like they both expect me to show up.”

He laughed again. “Who would have thunk? You’re quite the catch.”

My barber, who I can’t quit, try as I have for more than a year, called me last week: “Lenny,” he cried into his voice message, like a subdued Stanley Kowalski calling for Stella. “How the hell are you?”

It’s been five months since I tried to tell him I had made a decision: I was going elsewhere for my haircuts. It was between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, that time on the Jewish calendar of teshuvah, of committing to examining your life and making change, or literally, of returning – returning to what? To God? To what really matters? To a way of being that you have fallen short of becoming?

Admittedly, leaving your barber, albeit the guy who has cut my hair for 20-plus years, may look like small step toward change. But, I reasoned, you need to start somewhere. And if not now, when? I had actually thought of much more significant change I wanted to commit to. I had even brought a big-change goal to a one-day workshop called “How To Say No By Saying Yes to What Matters Most,” led by my friend, Guthrie Sayen, a life coach.

But when I told the group my big-change idea, Guthrie smiled and then said: “For the purposes of this workshop, can you think of something a little more manageable?” So I thought while the others announced what they wanted to say “No” to. When my turn came up, I said: “I’ve been trying to leave my barber for several years. But it’s hard. I’ve been seeing him for years.”

We worked on what Guthrie called the Positive “No” Model, which included staying connected to what nourishes and anchors one, standing up for one’s self and connecting to the world. Within a week of the workshop, we were supposed to actually speak our Positive No.

I walked into Ralph’s barbershop, actually a hair salon. I didn’t do a very good job of explaining that I didn’t like the way he cut my hair anymore. It had been a couple months since my mother had died, and I used that as an excuse to explain why I hadn’t been coming around regularly anymore.

My God, I thought. Has it come to this? Using my mother’s death to try to leave my barber? He looked at my hair, annoyed at whomever the barber was who had last cut my hair. “They just chopped it in the back,” he exclaimed. “It’s going to be months before it grows back.”

I shrugged and gave a look that said, “I know. What are you going to do?” I felt the discomfort of saying, “Look, Ralph. I’ve decided to get my haircuts elsewhere. It’s nothing personal.” And instead I took the easy way out: “Well, I’ll see you around.” And that was the last time I saw him.

Then last week, I heard his voice message. Maybe, I’ll give him a call, I thought. I looked in the mirror at the back of my head. Maybe he was right. Maybe it should be a little longer in the back.

This small episode in my life came to me as I thought about my commitment to blogging about a year of saying kaddish. Like Ralph, you, my loyal readers, my be wondering, how the hell am I? Or where have I been. Am I still saying kaddish? Yes. And what’s been going on over the last month? Well, Ill tell you. Lots to tell, in fact. Lots to catch up on.

More to follow. Stay tuned. I promise, I’ll be back.

Today would have marked my parents’ 59th wedding anniversary. They made it to 58-1/2 years. “Not bad,” as my mother, who had a knack for the understatement, might have said. Or “pretty good, don’t you think?”

I’ve heard the story of how they met and got married hundreds of times, and it got told a lot last August after the funeral and during shivah to the delight of everyone, not the least my father who relishes its telling.

My dad was a Holocaust survivor. He and his brother, Don, were the only survivors in his family. When the war ended, they made their way to America from Poland or what is now the former Soviet republic of Belarus. Their destination was San Francisco, where Auntie Katie and Uncle Reuben Ungar lived. Katie was my paternal grandmother’s sister. She had immigrated between World War I and World War II, and my father remembers hearing his mother saying she hoped to get more members of the family out of Poland during those interwar years. But U.S. immigration quotas of Polish citizens were low and the number who wanted out was high.

When my father arrived in San Francisco, he got a job selling Watkins products and later plastics, as in plastic table clothes, house to house. When other opportunities knocked on his proverbial door, he traveled north to Petaluma, Calif., where he peddled his wares from ranch to ranch and to a nickel-and-dime store. One thing led to another. Before long, he was selling in Portland, Oregon.

Portland was good to him. After first taking a room at the YMCA, he found a room to rent in a Jewish family’s home, when one day his life changed for good, though he didn’t know it at the time. Another Jewish family, the Sliffmans, across the street invited him to the wedding of their daughter, Shirley, on Christmas Eve 1950. And who knew?  Maybe he might meet a nice Jewish girl at the wedding.

The groom was a nice Jewish boy named Ben Benson from Toronto, Canada. Also at the wedding were Ben’s parents, Rose and Joe Benson, and his sister, Pearl, who had planned to spend the week in Portland before returning East to her job in Toronto.

That night at the wedding Stan met Pearl. “Would you like me to show you around town while you’re here?” Stan offered. “Sure,” she said. “That would be lovely.” They went out once. And then again and again and again.

A week later, New Year’s Eve, Stan proposed. In some ways, it was a perfect match. Stan was an immigrant to America. Pearl had grown up speaking Yiddish at home. And in a sense Pearl served as a bridge to this new land for Stan. As his Aunt Katie in San Francisco said, “Canadians are half European and half American.”

Six weeks later, on February 11, 1951, they got married in Vancouver, British Columbia at the home of one of Pearl’s aunt’s, Ann Cohen.

The newlyweds settled in Seattle, where I was born along with my two brothers. Seven years later, in 1958, we packed our station wagon and moved to California and the San Francisco Bay Area.

And as they say, the rest is history.