Heaven Sent

I happen to live in one of the best neighborhoods ever with the greatest of neighbors. I have a special needs son and whenever there's an earthquake, fire or some pending disaster, they are always there - checking on us to make sure we're safe from harm. At night when they're home, they turn on their patio light. When I see that lit, I am at ease knowing someone is watching out for us. I have a specially equipped minivan, the main purpose of which is take my son to and from doctors' appointments. The van isn't driven every day, so...one of my neighbors drives it back and forth to work one day a week to keep it in proper running order. If that isn't "being there", then I don't know what is. All I can say is thanks - your thoughtfulness and kindness makes life much easier for us! Heaven must have sent you.

Appearances May Be Deceiving

Today, I had an appointment in Beverly Hills and on my way home I thought it would be a good time to stop at Kosher Club on Pico and LaBrea to pick up some goodies for Jewish New Year, which will begin on Friday night. I anticipated that, two days before the holiday, it would be crowded. The aisles at Kosher Club aren't wide enough to get two carts by one another, so there is a fair amount of jostling.

Everyone was very nice to me. As I headed down one aisle, a woman with a cart was about to start on her way up the aisle, and she backed up and let me pass, with a pleasant smile. I was also getting a few sidelong stares. I was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans but that is nothing unusual for Kosher Club, where women's garb runs the gamut from my outfit to long skirts and hair coverings worn by Orthodox women.

When I looked in the mirror over the restroom sink, I realized the reason for all the glances. My t-shirt was imprinted with the words, "Presbyterian Disaster Assistance", a souvenir from my week working in Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina. The word "Presbyterian" has probably never popped up at Kosher Club before. Everyone was polite because they thought I was an outsider.

As I was checking out, one of the managers came out of the office, and looked at me. I recognized him from my days as a Hillel director, when we spent a fair amount of money on Kosher Club's food. As I saw he was about to recognize me and call out, "Hi, Rabbi, how are you?", I took my cart and left the store. A Presbyterian rabbi might just be too much for the folks at Kosher Club to take.

Speaking of Schisms

Once the dust had settled on the pitch pipe schism both new churches of a previous post seemed to settle down in new digs. Of course, one had music pitched to a particular starting note and the other had songs sung in whatever key happened to sail by. Time passed and then for whatever reason, the church on Deveraux Street vacated its premises.
Alortha Aston bought the property. Single handed and in her late seventies she started remodeling the place to turn it into her dream home sunken tub and all. I only saw the place once and it was looking pretty good. So did Alortha, for that matter all decked out in her work clothes and tool belt. Not a small undertaking for anyone -- turning a spiritual home into an actual home though one would think they should already be one and the same. At any rate just as Alortha was finishing her dream house it burned down and she wound up living in a mobile home on the barren banks of Roosevelt Lake.
I never knew what started the fire. Maybe Alortha accidentally hauled out the pitch pipe once owned and used by her brother-in-law. The rivers of old schisms apparently run deep.
Either that or she wasn't the electrician she tried to be.
Life like electricity is a risky business.

It's No Secret

A couple of weeks ago, Mary Walker Baron mentioned a secret parking street near Dodger Stadium that a friend had told us about. Two days after that, our friend tried to park on that secret street, couldn't find a space and accused us of spilling the secret. Never mind that, of the fifteen people who read this blog only five of them live in Southern California and only two of those care anything about baseball. Also, we never gave the location. Apparently, just thinking about a secret while blogging gives it away.

Turns out it's true. We were early to last night's game but just barely got the last space on the secret street and had to walk about a mile, thereby earning all the junk we ate at the ballpark. I warn you. Do not think while blogging. It won't be a secret any more.

Go USC Trojans Apparently

We got to our seats, free Dodger dogs and beer in hand, just in time to remain standing for the National Anthem played by -- go figure -- the USC Trojan Marching Band. There in front of the band, clenched fist raised to if nothing more force victory from defeat's grasp, stood the horseless Tommy Trojan himself. Come to find out the My Town section of Dodger stadium was full of USC folk. And there I was just across the aisle up until that moment of getting it oblivious to the whole USC night at Dodger stadium thing. That's what I get for throwing away all of those solicitations from my Masters in Social Work graduate school. So we didn't get the nifty t-shirts or the lanyards or the little pennants. In fact, to make that aisle even wider, we couldn't even exit the closest entrance on account of we didn't have the right ticket.
That's okay. Most of the marching band wound up sitting in close to our section. I've never attended a ballgame with a Sousa phone before.
And no aisle is wide enough to take from me the fact that I knew - actually knew in person - one of the early Tommy Trojan drum majors. He wore the helmet and everything and I knew him. In fact, during my sophomore year in high school I lived with the aunt of said Tommy Trojan drum major. Alortha Aston's sister, Omega Watts' son Cloin was that very guy. Quite an accomplishment for a young man from Globe, Arizona, in a day and age when young men did not openly yearn to become a Tommy Trojan drum major much less actually realize that yearning. Luckily Cloin came from a family celebrating unusual names as well as unusual behavior. Cloin Watts doubtless got his musical ability from his uncle Loather Hamilton who defied tradition by using a pitch pipe in the church for which he was a song leader. That pitch pipe created such a stir that the church divided into those who supported the pitch pipe and those who refused to embrace it. One of the factions moved to another town. Through it all Cloin just kept his helmeted, feathered head high and marched on.

Break's Over

Sometimes you just gotta step back and take stock. Stores do it on a regular basis. I used to help my Aunt Cassie take inventory at Brayton's Commercial Store where she worked for years. I was a regular after school fixture. During inventory time I got to read the numbers off of the shoe boxes and count the number of yardage frames left unbroken while Cassie logged what I reported. It was as awesome task. Sometimes the store even closed for a day or two so inventory could be completed. The job was that important.
So close up shop for a day or two and put your life marks in the ledger. Make sure they accurately reflect what you've done, what you've got, and what's on the to do list.
Without inventories Brayton's owner -- an affable guy named Sky Thurber -- would never have known the true life of his store.
Inventories tell us what to reorder and what to forget about.
All you need is a clip board and a sharpened pencil.
It's that time of year.

Missing The Point

In this summer of screaming and cavorting during which we turned what should have been and indeed what deserved to be a critical debate on social justice and social need into a carnival midway I think the main point was lost.
We don't need more health insurance. Health insurance is neither a fundamental need nor a fundamental right.
What we need is health care.
Health care is the issue and the need not health insurance.
There. I said it.