On a rainy Wednesday, the 80 year old man stays home……

When we are home in the evening (which is almost all the time), we usually watch something (a film or a series episode or two) on TV. When the pandemic first locked us down, we were watching old movies on YouTube, and live theater either on YouTube or on the many theater websites (such as the National Theater of London) which were streaming their first rate productions. As time went on, we drifted to films and series that we found either on-demand on cable stations or on Netflix and the like.

We have seen some good productions, and a bunch of not quite so good ones, and occasionally we would decide that something was not worth any more of our time.

And we try to keep up with some new offerings. This is why we watched the 8 part Netflix series “1899” which premiered only a few weeks. It is a current hit on Netflix, and, to tell you the truth, I have to wonder why.

What I am about to write will contain some spoilers. But don’t let that stop you. This is a confusing series (neither you, nor – I would guess – the cast has any idea what is going on), so the spoilers will help, not hurt if you want to watch the show.

So, a ship carrying prospective immigrants from Europe is on its way to the United States in 1899. There are first class and steerage class passengers and never the twain are to meet, but of course they do. There are also many members of the crew, from the captain down to those who shovel coal in the bottom of the ship.

Four months earlier, there was another ship, owned by the same company, which disappeared. No sign that it sunk, no news of its passengers. But strange messages from the missing ship arrive on the 1899 ship, which changes course to effect a rescue. They reach the ship. It is a floating wreck and no one seems to be aboard, dead or alive, except for a young, pre-teen boy, who looks like he has never missed a meal and whose clothes look like they have just been laundered.

The captain decides to tow the ruined ship back to Europe. The passengers rebel. Strange things begin to happen on the newer ship. There are some mysterious deaths, and then one by one and in groups, passengers act as if they are in a trance, moving like lemmings, jumping into the sea to their deaths.

The remaining passengers blame the problems on the boy and push him overboard, but a few days later he shows up again alive. No one can figure that out. It deepens the mystery. He carries around a mysterious black pyramid, which opens like a 3-D Rubik cube, and he has a relationship with a strange green bug, which seems to know how to open locked doors.

Certain of the passengers and crew members find trap doors, leading to tunnels, which in turn lead them off the ship and they see that they are on dry land – sometimes in Scotland, sometimes elsewhere. When they crawl back onto the ship, they are back on the ocean. What had seemed barely believable now has become impossible to believe.

There is an answer after all. The answer is that nothing we are seeing is real, but rather it is one of a series of simulations created by the mind of one of the passengers and lead characters in the show. There are two others who know it’s a stimulation and who are trying to get her back to reality, but most of the characters are themselves simulations, who live and die on this and other ships over and over again. They are trapped in her mind, and her mind is locked onto these simulations.

Ah, those in the know say. 1899 is a philosophical series, talking about reality and God and all that. We breathed a sigh of relief when the series ended, and wondered what to watch next.

Edie sees a bunch of friends in her various Zoom groups. They often recommend shows; sometimes we follow their advice (with mixed results). Two of her friends told her to watch “The White Lotus” on HBO, now in its second season. “The White Lotus” is nothing like “1899”. It doesn’t play with reality; it is not science fiction. But what is it?

A resort on a small island off the coast of one of the Hawaiian islands. The passengers come by motor boat. There is a newly married couple – he is very rich and we learn in the first ten minutes that she will die before the week is out. There is a family composed of a 50-ish year old man convinced he has testicular cancer, his career-successful wife, their two high school/college age kids and a friend of one of their kids. Their daughter and her friend just want to do drugs, and their son play games on his video device. There’s a rather heavy single woman, who needs affection. There is the obsequious hotel manager, and his aide who, on her first day in training, has a baby in his office. You get the picture? We will not see episode 2.

Anything else for today? When I was getting dressed this morning, I thought of something I should share. It was a moment when my whole view of the world changed. It involved 7th grade and my old friend Eddie Stein, who I am sure doesn’t remember this life changing event.

We were on the playground at recess. He and I were doing something when I realized that he was wearing the same shirt he was wearing the day before. A shock. And I asked him about it. He looked at me like I was crazy and told me he always wore shirts for at least two days in a row, that his mother would never let him wear a new shirt every day. He was as shocked as I when I told him that my mother would never let me wear the same shirt two days in a row.

As I said, this was a life changing event. I knew Eddie’s mother. A very nice woman. Seemingly sensible. Yet she gave her son instructions that were opposite those that my mother gave me! OK, so at 12, I was not very wordly, I guess. I’ll accept that. But it had never occurred to me before that every sensible mother did not have the same opinion as to how their children should be raised and how they should run their lives. My world opened up on that playground. And my mother’s infallibility was no more.

At age 80, I have been watching World Cup games for the first time. Well, I admit that I don’t sit and stare at the TV, but I have it on as background while I do other things, looking at it from time to time. Today, I was only able to see the last 20 minutes of the American 1-0 victory over Iran. Of course, I was happy with the victory – why should I root for any team but ours? But I have also been following the protest demonstrations in Iran, and their unfortunate repercussions on the futbal field.

We all recognize the horror of the Iranian regime domestically, as well as its interference in the Middle East, and its apparent alliance with Russia in regard to its invasion and destruction of Ukraine. But there is more to Iran than an intolerant Islamist regime. Persian history is a fairly glorious one and important, and – even under the current regime, the Iranians have been able to maintain a modern and sophisticated state. Even though I remember little of what it said, Roman Ghirshmann’s book “Iran” convinced me that Persia was once the center of world civilization, and it influences us even today. I once read another book, whose name is long gone from my memory, about the restructuring of the government of Iran after the fall of the Shah, and I remember from that book that the transformation of the country into a theocratic autocracy was not at all inevitable. It was a result of a set of unfortunate (in hind sight) decisions made along the way by well meaning jurists and other public servants, that led to unanticipated results. And clearly, from knowing and knowing about Iranian-Americans, we all realize that not every Iranian is one with the Ayatollah.

Now, serious protests, especially against the treatment of women, are going on in Iran. The World Cup team showed surprising sympathy with those protesting. The Iranian government countered immediately and strongly, suggesting that any further protests would be met with severe consequences not only to the players, but to their families back home. With this in mind, although I wanted an American victory today, I also want the Iranian team to come out of the tournament in one piece.

The game was hard fought, to be sure. And 1-0 is not a rout. And I was overjoyed to see that, after the game, American and Iranian players put their arms around each other, smiled at each other, and congratulated each other on a good game.

This gives one hope.

The second thing worth mentioning today is that I had a terrific lunch with two of my college roommates, Doug and Eric. Doug has been 80 for a couple of months now, and Eric still have a couple of weeks left of being 79, and clearly needed our advice. Doug and I live in DC, but Eric lives in Annapolis, so we met half way, in Bowie, just off Route 50 at a First Watch restaurant.

I really had a nice time. For one thing, we did not talk about politics and we did not talk about our health, and we did not talk about our age. We didn’t even repeat 60 year old stories from college that we have each heard twenty times. We talked about our families and especially about our children and grandchildren (in great detail) and we talked about the traveling we had done over the years and the traveling we hope to do in the future. Eric talked about his Panama Canal trip, his Nile River trip, and his trip from Buenos Aires to Barcelona. Doug about his trip to Uzbekistan and India. I talked about trips to Tunisia and Jamaica.

The food at First Watch is, I think, always good. Do you know it? It is a breakfast/lunch chain that I first became acquainted with in Indianapolis in 2019. That’s the time Edie and I were meeting two sets of cousins for brunch at 12 p.m. We were driving home from St. Louis. One set of cousins was driving south from Michigan to Chattanooga. At 12:30 p.m., my phone rang in the car and my Indianapolis cousin asked me how we were doing. I told her we were right on time. She disagreed and said we were already 30 minutes late. Now I ask you: who in their right mind would have have put Indianapolis in the Eastern Time Zone?

Yes, there is a third thing to talk about, but I know you have other things to do. It can wait.

It is now Monday afternoon, and I am in recovery mode. Thanksgiving, birthday, house guests. All good, but when you are 80 ……….

Well, yesterday ended with a bang and a whimper. For those of you who are not in this area, you may not know that early yesterday evening a two seat, one engine airplane crashed into an electric power station tower, knocking out power for about 100,000 PEPCO (that’s short for Potomac Electric Power Company) in Montgomery County, MD. The plane, which was to land at a nearby small airport in Gaithersburg, not only crashed into the tower, but got stuck. Power went out, and all wires that could cause a shock had to be grounded. The pilot and passenger, both men in their sixties, were seriously injured, but couldn’t be removed until the airplane was stabilized, so that it would not fall during the rescue. The entire rescue took about 7 hours, and the physical damage is now being repaired. Our house was not affected, but I know several people who were. The picture of the plane stuck on the tower looked like it came from a graphic novel.

OK, accidents will happen. But it gets you thinking about our entire infrastructure. If a small, single engine plane could do this, think what an enemy, or terrorist, or deranged attacker could do. We have the power to cut off power to almost any country in the world, if we wanted to. And other countries, and non-governmental organizations as well, could do the same.

But no one would really do that, would they? Nine months ago, we would have answered “no, we don’t think so”. But when you look at Vladimir Putin, who seems to be enemy, terrorist and someone deranged, and Russia’s actions in Ukraine, your answer today might be very different. And of course, it is not only electricity – it could be water, or gas, or food, or even air.

Life is fragile, whether you are 8 or 80. We have no idea what the future might bring. Or how to prepare for it. But we stay alert, improve our technology, and train our people on proper responses, right? Oh, we don’t?

On a lighter note, you want good Thai food? Not too hard to find in this area, and we found a new one for lunch today as we took Michael and Wendy to the airport. We went to Neramitra, a two minute drive from National Airport. I had roast duck red curry…..it was excellent. The hostess and waitresses were Thai, and their English was limited. We asked why the restaurant was called Neramitra, and the answer was “Surprise”. That was the answer from the hostess three times to the same question.

Neramitra does not appear to mean “surprise”. So maybe it means “I don’t know”. One thing seems clear, and that is that Google doesn’t know, and if Google doesn’t how could a waitress at a restaurant in Arlington VA be expected to know?

Finally, we did see another film last night. “Where the Crawdads Sing”. On Netflix. Edie and Wendy had read the book, which they liked, and didn’t think the film was as good as the book. I thought the film, although not hard to sit through, was not very good. And I don’t know what I would have thought of the book.

The plot concerns a young girl (Kya), youngest of several siblings, living in the marshes of North Carolina, whose family leaves the family house one by one, leaving her to fend for herself. She is a very young girl, but she does fend for herself, never going to school, somehow keeping her house together and getting enough to eat. She is taken by the nearby small town as a fool. She attracts two boy friends. One (Case) is, at the same time, engaged to someone in town, and one (Tate) leaves town to attend college and stays away for years. Case is found dead in the marsh, and the Kya is accused of murder, tried, but exonerated. Tate returns to town and “marries” (not officially) Kya and they live to a ripe old age. She in the meantime has become a respected artist and expert on marshland animal life, and publishes several illustrated books. That is the general plot.

When the film ended, I looked up to see where it was filmed. Nothing is being filmed were it is set. This film was made in Louisiana. Louisiana has marshes with live oaks and the like. But I have never seen live oaks in North Carolina. And, in the film, people tend to “go over to Asheville”. In real life, Asheville is a long day’s drive from the coast.

Secondly, there was no case again Kya for the murder. In real life, she would not have been brought to trial. She was at a book party in Greenville the night of the murder, there were no fingerprints or footprints. No one saw her that night with Case. He died when falling through a grate on a metal observation tower – he could have been pushed, but he could have just fallen, etc. She had to be found not guilty and she was.

Finally, she turned into a sophisticated lady, being taught to read and write by Tate, and finding ways to look like she would be at home anywhere. That, too, stretched credulity.

If someone thought differently, let us know.

Well, there were pretty scenes of the Louisiana bayou country, just like there were beautiful scenes of Georgia in Ozark, of North Carolina in Three Billboards in Ebbing Missouri, and beautiful scenes if Lithuania in The Forgotten Battle that I mentioned the other day about the end of Nazi rule in Holland.

So it goes.

Yes, now I am 80. It was a difficult journey. When I went to sleep on November 25, I was still 79, and assumed I would simply wake up and be 80. I had overcome most of my negative thinking of what being that age portended, and was ready to accept it. But sometimes your outer placidity simply seems to disguise some inner turmoil that you didn’t know you had.

I woke up at about 3 a.m. That, in itself, is not that unusual and typically I would be back asleep within a few minutes. But this time, being up really meant being up. And I began to think. Not about my age or birthday, but about the busy week I had ahead of me. I have my usual activities, plus a couple of lunch dates, plus – and this is the big one – I am to deliver the Dvar Torah (sermon) at the Adas Israel Havurah service next Saturday. And I spent two hours working, with my eyes closed, on the Dvar Torah, getting absolutely nowhere. And then I fell asleep again.

So, you say, no big deal. Up for a couple of hours. It happens. No worry. But then, after I went back to sleep, I had “the dream”. And this is where my birthday anxiety must have gotten the better of me. My house was filled with people I didn’t know. I was sitting in one room on my computer trying to get things done, when six men in suits and ties walked into the room and started an animated conversation which I couldn’t follow, but couldn’t ignore. Then downstairs, Edie was with twenty or so people; I don’t know what they were doing, and didn’t know who they were or why they were there. I looked at my watch and saw it was 2 p.m. in the afternoon, and I knew we were having the family over for brunch at 11 a.m., but clearly they didn’t come. Where were they? I asked Edie, who told me that the brunch was cancelled, as was our planned dinner out, but that we were going to my daughter’s house at about 4 to have a drink. I became very agitated and angry.

And then I woke up.

The actual birthday celebration was fine and went on as scheduled. Our two daughters and their families came at 11, just as they were supposed to. Although there was some sniffling and one hoarse voice (hence a few masks), everyone was in good spirits. And our old friends Mike Bobroff and Wendy Olk, who are visiting from St. Louis, were there. Edie made pancakes – normal pancakes and, at my birthday request, matzoh meal pancakes (which I like year round) which I eat with cottage cheese and maple syrup. Could not have been better (although I was still a bit foggy from my night time activities).

Last night, Michael, Wendy, Edie and I went to Estadio, a Spanishy restaurant downtown, and one of our favorites, for an excellent dinner. And to set off my 81st year in good stead, in the crowded Estadio neighborhood (it’s at 14th and Church Streets NW, for those who know DC), where parking is always at a premium, I found on on-street space two cars from the restaurant’s front door. As my kashrut keeping is limited to my house, I was able to enjoy a bowl of mussels, as well as a roasted beet salad and patatas bravas.

We watched a Netflix film when we got home. Titled “The Forgotten Battle”, it’s a Dutch film that premiered about a year ago. It has a fictionalized plot, but is based on the World War II Battle of the Scheldt, and apparently is historically quite accurate. This battle, not spoken about much here in the U.S. of A., was between German and Canadian troops. About 10,000 soldiers and civilians were killed, but the Canadian victory permitted Allied ships to land on Dutch soil, leading to the expulsion of the Nazis from the Netherlands. It’s a brutal film, but with an interesting plot and good acting. Rotten Tomatoes and I both give it 100%.

So the birthday was good, and all turned out well in this best of all possible worlds.

(Sorry for any typos)

Short term memory goes first. Let’s see how much I remember from last night’s Thanksgiving dinner.

Raw carrot sticks, celery, bell peppers and radishes

Pistachios

Red and green grapes

Crackers

Parsnip soup

Turkey

Stuffing

Pumpkins stuffed with short ribs and more

Corn pudding

Red cabbage

Brussels sprouts

sweet potatoes

Kale

Chocolate brownies

Apple ginger cake

Pumpkin pie

Prosecco

White wine

Sparkling water.

That’s all I remember.

Most of us have a lot to be thankful about. Not only am I thankful for my family and friends, but I am thankful to have lived to the age of almost 80 (2 more days, God willing, as they say).

And having a day when the entire country can think about the things that they are thankful for and hopefully find ways to express their gratitude is clearly something to be thankful for.

But…..isn’t it time to separate an annual day of gratitude from a pretend story about the friendship between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans with whom they first came into contact? When I was growing up, I learned that Thanksgiving was to celebrate this wonderful joint meal – gratitude for what we had today was not on my grade school menu (or if it was, it was very secondary).

Let’s forget the Pilgrims on Thanksgiving Day. And, to those Native Americans, who note Thanksgiving Day as a day of mourning, let’s forget that, too, on this day.

Let’s remove the real or supposed history and just celebrate the day to be thankful for our present, not our past.

And all through the house…….

So, the thing is…..I really don’t like holidays. I am trying to think if there is any holiday that I like, and I really don’t think there is. Oh, when I was working or in school, I liked getting a day off. That part of a holiday is good. As is having free parking on city streets. But that’s about it.

OK, if a holiday means some sort of a family or friend get together, with people I rarely see and like seeing, that’s good. But that is separately from a the holiday – it can happen at any time. But when there’s a holiday, there are additional expectations that take time and energy and that are, from my perspective, usually not necessary.

This is true for religious holidays (when expectations to attend services or take or refrain from certain actions frustrate me) and secular holidays. I like more normal life, I like what (little) I may want to do day to day, I like my habits. I don’t like them to be disrupted.

I should clarify one thing. I am not against the existence of religious or secular holidays (just like I am not against knowing that today, Nov 23, is National Espresso Day). I like thinking about them and having them in the back (or middle, or even front) of my mind as the day goes on. But I want my observance to be limited to my mind. I don’t want to have to change my use of time.

That’s it. Not much more to say on the topic. I just don’t like holidays.

We all know how important one’s health is. And when you are lucky enough to reach the age of eighty (God willing, as they say), you want to preserve your health a bit longer.

As we all know, this has been even more than a usual challenge over the past three years because of the Covid epidemic. Over 1,000,000 Americans lost their lives to Covid, most of them over the age of 65. Of course, many of those had other serious health conditions, and many did not take the simple precautions of getting vaccinated.

What we have learned over the course of this pandemic is that we don’t know nearly as much as we would like to, and that the medical world, although its professionals clearly understands the disease better than the normal person, they also don’t know nearly as much as they would like to.

When the pandemic first revved up, we took all sorts of precautions. And we avoided the disease. Is this because we were wearing masks? Is it because we were vaccinated? Because we never got closer than 6 feet to anyone? Or because we spent more time at home and hardly ever went out, and even less often went inside when we went out (why does no one say we were careful not to be inside-out?).

Then things, loosened up, then tightened up, then loosened up again, and now threatens to re-tighten. We (the human race, to be more clear) are confused.

For example, we got the most recent vaccine. Did we need to? Is it helping? Does it protect against the current main variations? I don’t know the answer to any of those questions.

How about masks? Should we still be wearing masks and, if so, when? Walking on the street, going into a store, going to a sports event, a concert, when we are in line at the bank or the post office, when we are with friends or relatives in their houses, or in our houses? I don’t know.

And, speaking of masks, do we still need N95s, or KN94s (or whatever the top quality mask is), or will surgical masks, which are more comfortable, now do the trick? And how long should we wear a mask before throwing it out and putting on a new one? I don’t know.

Should we be 6 feet from people, or 10 feet from people, or right next door? Should we go maskless on public transportation – planes, trains, buses? What about at large events of any kind? I don’t know.

Do I need to be more careful at 80 than I was at 79? I don’t have any idea.

And what about home testing? When should one do that? If you feel sick? If you are going to some sort of event generally? And what about people we associate with? Should we only associate with people who first take home tests? You obviously can’t police that. And as to the tests, we keep hearing about false negatives (or is that false positives?); should we worry about that? I don’t know.

During the time we mainly kept to ourselves, we seemed to avoid many other diseases. Not even any common colds.

Now, it turns out that our immune systems are not performing as well as they should because we have been isolated from germs and viruses that would generally build up our immunity. And if that is the case (and is it?), think what it is for our young grandchildren, who have not until recently been exposed to anything. Are we more likely to get sick this year? And if we are, does trying to avoid being sick make sense, or does it make more sense to get sick, so we won’t get sick some other time? Guess what! I don’t know.

How are we to react to this? Everyone seems to have their own ideas as to how their lives should be lived. Ignore the pathologies, or shelter in place. Wear masks in banks, but not in stores. Eat in restaurants outside….unless it’s too cold or raining. Act conservatively when you are in your home city, but don’t let that stop you from traveling and, as you travel, all bets are off.

We are all confused. And we don’t even know if we are confused because we don’t know enough, or if we are confused because we know too much.

It is now only 5 days until I turn 80 (as they say, God willing). Time to look at family history. Is there anything that can be learned?

My father died at 75.

My mother died at 73.

My sister, sadly, at 49.

My mother’s one sister died at 84.

My father’s 7 siblings, died at 63, 65, 67, 75, 90, 90, 101

My mother’s parents were 66 and 79

My father’s parents were 69 and 99 (just before 100)

The average: 76.4

The average of those who lived to 80: 92.8

Is there anything to be learned from this?

Absolutely, nothing. Thanks for listening.

I have six days left before I turn 80 (God willing, as they say). Because I have never been 80 before, I need to look at people who have turned 80 before me. One of those persons would be Joe Biden, who turns 80 today. He has 6 days more experience in this world than I do. Perhaps I can learn something from him.

Of course I retired ten years ago and he has not yet retired even at 80. Ten years ago, what was he doing? He was getting ready to start his second 5 year term as vice president of the United States. Well, there you go. Maybe your responsibilities are vice president qualify that job as a type of retirement.

And then came 2016, when he was out of a job, but even then he did retire, but started to explore new employment possibilities. And less than four years later, he decided it was time to go back into the work force, and – looking at the various positions available for a man of his age – chose the presidency.

There are advantages, I guess, to the presidency. You really don’t have to do anything other than tell other people what to do (sometimes they even listen to you), or tell the world what you are thinking about (sometimes people even care). And you really do have 24/7 medical care – you can take your doctor wherever you go, and if you follow your doctor’s advice, you will probably eat well and get sufficient exercise. And, of course, you get to travel, avoiding some jet lag by having a private plane at your disposal with private quarters where you can lay down and actually sleep, without someone next to you having to crawl over you to go to the bathroom.

It’s all a matter of choice as to how you lead your life at 70 or 80, I guess. Perhaps I should have applied for the job he now has.

Joe Biden has apparent qualities that I don’t think I have. He has extraordinary stamina, and a very tough skin. As a politician, he is subject to demeaning criticism daily. Even putting this aside, he has been through a lot – his first wife and daughter died in a car crash, his son Beau died of a brain tumor, his son Hunter has a long history of addiction problems and now is beset by serious legal problems, and he himself has had a series of health issues – he’s had a brain aneurysm, a pulmonary embolism, an enlarged thyroid, skin cancers, atrial fibrillation, and more. And he literally has the future of the planet and the human race on his shoulders.

Could I have coped with any of that? Could I cope with any of that today? Why would I even want to?

But Joe Biden does not seem burdened by this, does not dote on the sorrows of the past, and is always looking ahead. At (almost) 80, I feel that my responsibility for, and my potential influence over, the future is very limited, and rightly so. But not Joe Biden. He attacks the problems of the future as his own problems, and is looking forward to dealing with them as the world’s most central actor until he is 86. I am not judging here – whether that is commendable or foolhardy – just laying out the facts.

Perhaps, this difference between Joe Biden and myself is not a function of how we respond to being 80. Perhaps it is built into our DNA. Biden was elected to the Senate when he was 29, already having been on the New Castle County commission before that. He has always been an activist (an inside activist, not an outside activist). I have really never been an activist – I have done my part, handled by professional responsibilities and, I hope, my personal ones, adequately, but I have never stuck my neck out to change the world. I have always been content to observe, and complain, comment, and try to understand.

I think that, as one ages, one changes for sure. I also think that, as one ages, one does not change at all.

When I first had a blog, years ago, I posted something similar to this. My older daughter did not approve. My aim was to show the fragility of life, and now that I am one week from 80, it is time to do it again. I am writing of the times where I could have died.

1. I am about 12 years old and at summer camp in the Ozarks. It is parents day, the Sunday between the two three-week sessions, and my parents are making the 2 or so hour drive down from St. Louis. I expect them about noon. In the morning, I go horseback riding with a counselor and other campers. I am riding Misty, a frisky 3 year old, a reddish-brown horse with a stunning blond mane. We are not far from the camp entrance when my parents arrive. The rest of the riders head back to the barn, but I stay, sitting on Misty, talking to my parents. I am sure they are impressed. But after a few minutes, the scene changes, and Misty turns her head and realizes the other horses have all left. She has, I am sure, never been in that position before, and within a second or two, she turns and heads at top speed in the direction of the stable. There was nothing I could do to stop her; she was stronger by far than I was. All I could do was hold on. On the gallop back towards the stable, probably close to a mile, the path follows an arc to avoid a tree with low hanging branches. Misty pays no attention at all to the arc in the path. Racing towards the barn, she runs straight ahead, maybe a foot or two from the tree trunk. She is not concerned; the branches are above her head. As we go towards the tree, I duck down to her level. Had I not ducked (and it was probably all by instinct), I wouldn’t be here today.
2. I am a first year law student in New Haven. One weekend, my then roommate and I decide to go on a brief trip, leaving after supper Friday night, to return Saturday evening. It is dark, it is raining, the roads are new to us, they are country roads, two lanes, poorly marked. He is driving. He is driving too fast. He is concentrating on our conversation, not the road. We head down a hill. There is an intersection ahead, and too late he realizes that there is a stop sign at the bottom of the hill and he slams on his breaks. It is too late to stop at the intersection. We go through it, with his breaks on, and enter into a skid, which turns the car in a circle two (I think, two) times, coming to a stop in high grass. We are fine, but shaken. We look back at the intersection and see that cars driving on the other road do not have a stop sign. Luckily, traffic was light.
3. I am in Army basic training at Ft. Ord. One of the many talents one is taught in Army basic training is to crawl under enemy fire, what was referred to as low crawling. This is not the most difficult task, but one which is pretty unpleasant. I notice, for the first time, that I have a boil (I think it was a boil) on my right forearm. You crawl using your forearms. You crawl through very dirty, dusty places, and I see no way to protect my arm. But, in Army basic training, you don’t give in to such minor problems, so I complete the crawling. The next morning, though, looking at my arm, I decide to go to the infirmary (this, in basic training, was an ordeal in itself, but that is another story). The doctor lances the boil, gives me a note to keep to the barracks for 24 (or was it 48?) hours. When I wake up the next morning, I know I have a fever. I go back to the infirmary. My fever is high (103? 104? – something like that) and I am admitted and told that I will be getting penicillin shots. I am told that I am very sick (I was never given a precise diagnosis, but wonder if it was sepsis, or if they were concerned I’d get sepsis), and for the next ten days or so (I know it was more than a week), I am given shots in my butt that eventually cause so much pain that getting out of bed to go to the bathroom is a form of torture. Eventually, I am taken off penicillin and the pain recedes and I am released. My basic training unit has already graduated and so I am “recycled” and my time in basic training extended, including additional time to regain my normal strength.
4. It is 1972, and I have just left my job at the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development and will start my new job at a law firm in about a month. I am going to Spain and Portugal to relax. The flight to Madrid on TWA leaves from JFK. I am seated on the plane, looking forward to meeting a friend in Madrid and going to two countries then new to me. We take off. All is well. The steward gets on the intercom to tell us what a wonderful flight we are going to have, what great food we will be served, how drinks are on the house, what our movies will be, and hope happy they are to have us aboard. He gets as far as the food and, without missing a beat, says, “but first, we are going to circle and dump fuel, and then we are going to return to Kennedy because one of our engines is on fire. Don’t worry, they are expecting us and getting out foam for us to land on, and all the emergency vehicles will be at the ready.” Needless to say, this was unexpected and not appreciated by those of us on board. I guess we were in the air about an hour or so, and then landed without incident, and transferred to another plane. We lost most of a day. But it could have been worse.

So, life is fragile, even for those of us who have led lives without the kinds of problems most human beings seem to be called upon to face.

(By the way, I wonder if I have left something(s) out. 80 years is a long time to remember everything, you know. I should try to find my old blog post and see if it has anything more.)

On Friday mornings, I usually drive to Breads Unlimited in Bethesda and buy a challah. And I pick up some other things for the week, like whole wheat bread and maybe a Danish or two (or three). It’s about a 2 mile drive.

The challah is pretty good, but we waste most of it. After all, how much can two people eat on a Friday night, and (unless you use it for French toast – which we really never do), what are you going to do other than eventually throw it out? I’ve suggested to the bakery’s owner that she should sell smaller challahs (even if the price is the same) for smaller families, but she shrugged off the idea.

Now, I can get prettier challah less than one half mile away if I go to Bread Furst (named after the owner, Furstenberg), but beauty is only skin deep and my experience is that Bread Furst challah is pretty tasteless. Supermarket challah loses both on taste and looks. So I drive to Bethesda.

During my early years in St. Louis, dilemmas like this didn’t exist. When we lived with my mother’s parents (until I was 8), we got our challah every Friday from my grandfather’s aunt, Mima Gitel. Gitel (a very old woman – what do you think? Seventy?) lived with her husband Duvid (spelled David), her daughter Myrtle, Myrtle’s husband Oscar and their son (5 years younger than I am) Neil. It turned out they were a hard luck family. After Gitel and David died (as I remember it), Oscar had to close his liquor store in Wellston MO (Happy Hollow Liquors) and perhaps went bankrupt and died, and then Neil (again as I recall) became the victim of drug use and he died very young as well. Myrtle lived a long time, and it is to her that I owe a copy of a partial family tree suggesting that we are the descendants of the Baal Shem Tov.

They were a very traditional Orthodox family, and every Friday Mima Gitel baked challah. Now, I don’t know how many loaves she baked each week, but every Friday my grandfather would stop by their house (it was only a few blocks from ours – they lived on Princeton and we on Delmar in University City) and would bring home two challahs. One was a full size loaf and the other a mini-loaf. And it was just for me. Why? Because I was my grandfather’s first grandson, and therefore deserving of this special treat. The origin of this custom (if it was indeed a custom)? I have no idea.

But I ate my challah, and to this day (because Mima Gitel’s challah was the best challah ever made), I remember the texture and the taste. Nothing can compare.

In those days (I am talking about the late 1940s), grocery shopping was much different from today. My memory is that our extended family got produce from Al’s in the Delmar Loop (that’s where the streetcars from downtown looped around and headed back east), poultry from Vogt Bros. on North and South Road (Avenue?), general groceries from Rapp’s supermarket. Dairy was delivered to the house by Sealtest, and someone named Sam (a distant relative?) delivered eggs. I am not sure where meat came from. Or bread, for that matter.

Later, my mother had very different food shopping habits. She did almost all of her shopping at Straub’s in Clayton. I could never figure out why she did this, as it was probably the most expensive place to get groceries in St. Louis. But she liked the fact that all the meat was graded “prime”, she liked the baked goods, and she liked the fact that everyone in the store knew her by name. So that’s what she did.

Enough for today. One point of trivia. I read a Newsweek article about the very low level of the Mississippi River today. I was struck by one line: it said that 1/3 of the rain that fell on the United States wound up in the Mississippi. Can this be true? (At grade school drinking fountains, when someone took too long, we used to say “You drinking up the whole Mississippi?” We were exaggerating, but today it might not really be much of an exaggeration.)

Still thinking about age (of course). Nancy Pelosi and Steny Hoyer both announced today that they would be stepping down from the top two leadership roles in the House Democratic caucus. Pelosi is 82, and Hoyer is 83. They are both seemingly fit and mentally sharp, but they know when it is time to step down.

Dear Joe Biden: In 2024, you will be 82.

Dear Donald Trump: In 2024, you will be 79 (and four years from then 83).

So, what about Arthur Hessel? At 80, is it time for him to step down from either the Jewish Funeral Practices Committee or the Haberman Institute? I wonder. But there are a couple of differences from the situation in which Joe and Don will find themselves. In the first place, the future of the world and the future of mankind does not depend on how either organization handles its affairs. And in the second place, there is no one clamoring to take over his job at either place.

But both of these organizations are worthwhile and do important things. Both need new blood at the top. Today, at Haberman, the president, vice-president (me) and the treasurer were all born in 1942. At the JFPC, two of the four officers are about 80, and the other two in their 70s. There is no one younger on either board in a position to take over; in fact, there are not that many board members who are much younger (and some who are older). And attempts (meager and inconsistent as they may have been) to interest younger people to take board positions have not generated any true interest.

Succession planning is a responsibility of those currently in leadership positions. That is obvious. I should make that a priority for my 80th year, I guess.

Welcome to WordPress! This is your first post. Edit or delete it to take the first step in your blogging journey.

I have had blogs before. Some successful for a time; some not. I am going to try again. Today is November 16, 2022. I was born on November 26, 1942. That means that in ten days I will be 80 years old (as they say, God willing).

My first thought is that 80 is pretty old. Actuarial tables say that an 80 year old man in America will, on average, live another 7 years. That means that there is a 50% chance that I will not live 7 more years. That thought is sobering, although I remember when I was sure that I would probably die before I was 16, and that my ultimate goal was to reach the year 2000, when I would be 58. I never thought much about 80.

I know that it is important to keep active at 80, physically and mentally. OK, I will try to do that. I know it is important to eat well; I will try to do that as well. And to keep calm and carry on. I will try to do each of these things. I understand that, on some days, it will be difficult and that, on many days, I will probably fail.

Some people are older than I am. Take Joe Biden, for example. He was born on November 20, 1942, so he has outlived me by 6 days. I assume that he would agree with the paragraph immediately preceding this one. But he has to do it in a different context. While I am happily retired, he is president of the United States. Frankly, although my health has so far been good (I think better than Joe Biden’s has been historically), I cannot imagine being president of the United States at this time. It requires a certain amount of stamina, for one thing. I guess Joe Biden must have it. I don’t think I do. On some days, I am just tired, and don’t want to do anything. I am not sure that that is an option if you are president of the United States. Maybe be it is…..but probably it isn’t. And, as President of the United States, Joe Biden must deal with Republicans. I wouldn’t want to spend the last years of my life dealing with Republicans. And he must travel a lot. Today, for example, he is in Bali. Now I wouldn’t mind going to Bali, but I’d like to go for a couple of weeks, with the first two days dedicated to recovering from the trip and the time difference. The President of the United States does not have that luxury.

Now, I do try to keep fairly busy. You may already know this, but I, like Joe Biden, am a president, too. Just not of the United States. I am the president of the Jewish Funeral Practices Committee of Greater Washington, Inc. And, like Joe Biden used to be, I am a vice-president as well. I am the vice-president of the Haberman Institute for Jewish Studies, Inc. If you keep reading this blog, you will probably learn something about these organizations. Maybe.

You will also learn that I have a “company” that sells used books on line, books that I have collected over the years and continue to collect (for reasons unclear, except that I enjoy it. And that’s enough.).

Let me see. What else? I was born in St. Louis, but have lived in Washington DC for over 50 years. I have been married for 46 years. I have two daughters in their early 40s, and two grandchildren, 7 and 2. I used to be a lawyer.

I enjoy learning things, and I guess don’t mind too much when I forget things. Over the past few days, I have gone to two lectures, one by Burt Visotzky, who taught at the Jewish Theological Seminary (his topic related to relations between the three Abrahamic religions today), and the other by Noah Bickart, who teaches at John Carroll University (his topic related to a Talmudic phrase – translated as “lashes of fire” – and differing interpretations as to what it refers when it is used in the Talmud and later). And tonight, I am taking a Zoom class from Rabbi Alana Suskin on how Covid has changed Judaism – a surprisingly interesting class. We are half through.

But, the last book I have read is L.M. Nesbitt’s “Desert and Forest” [you see I don’t know how to underline text on WordPress], a story of Nesbitt’s 1928 journey on foot through a large chunk of eastern Ethiopia – he and two others being the first Europeans to make it through this journey (through rugged country with no roads or paths) alive. And now I am reading a novel “The Dream Life of Sukhanov” [I still have not learned how to underline in WordPress] by Russian emigre Olga Grushin. So, my interests vary.

My main forms of exercise are walking and using my stationary bicycle. I am nursing what I am pretty sure is a broken little toe, so the walking has been suspended for a while, but I go on the bicycle almost every day for 30-60 minutes. Usually I watch streaming series while I bike. I am now switching back and forth between three: “The Stranger” (Korean and hard for me to follow intelligently), “The Time it Takes” (French), and “Two Summers” (Belgian). My wife and, during the evenings, are watching Season 3 of “Deadwind” (Finnish).

Last night I watched Donald Trump declare his run for the 2024 presidency. He will be 78 when the election is held. 78 is pretty close to 80, you know. Age aside, one thing is very clear: I don’t like Donald Trump. Another equally clear: if Donald Trump knew me, he would not like me, either. So,I guess I should say that I do pay pretty close attention to politics and the news, not just to the age of presidents and former presidents.

Well, as time goes by (and, as they say “God willing” – you see that I don’t say this myself) we will talk about all these things and more. That is, when they seem interesting enough to talk about. We will talk about wars and famines and floods.

I will end with these thoughts. When I was born, the population of the world was about 2.3 billion. Today, it is about 8 billion. And on the fastest growing continent, Africa, the median age today is 18. 18 may, to a large extent, sound like 80. But in fact…it is very different.