"One thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain." Bob Marley

In my freshman year of high school,I joined the Harper Cardinals concert and marching bands. I had taken accordion lessons in 8th grade and learned how to read music. I was able to progress in a few months from playing clarinet in the beginners band to bass clarinet in the Concert Band. This pleased me no end. My parents were very proud of me.
    When football season came round the next school year, I learned to play the tenor saxophone in the Marching Band. I had many good friends in the band, on the football team and in the cheering squad. The band played at home and away games. We had routines for every half-time, and cheered like idiots from the stands. One year, we marched in the Loop Chicago St. Patrick’s Day parade. It was chilly and we had to manage to play with gloves on our hands, but it was quite a thrill knowing that we were on television.

    I was now learning a great deal about instrumental music. I really enjoyed playing in band concerts and winning a first place in a woodwind group competition. By the beginning of my junior year, I had earned bass clarinet first chair. I proudly wore my school sweater with a band letter and a medal. There was no doubt that making music was making me very happy.

I was beginning to be very intrigued by the folk music that was popular in the early ‘60’s.Together with three friends, we formed a folk group that we called “Sonny and the Ramblers.” I bought a used guitar and taught myself folk songs to play in our group.
    We first performed at a retirement home, later at several private parties, at our synagogue youth group, ,and every chance we could get at mixers all over the city. (A sure fire way to attract girls.)

    I performed solo several times at my high school, and at the end of my senior year, coordinated and performed in a “hootenanny”at our synagogue. My parents and friends were there, beaming at me from the audience; the event was a huge success and a personal triumph. I continued to play and give guitar lessons in college and later, in the town where I got my first teaching position. I also led a guitar interest group at that junior high school, wrote and directed a play where I was a part of the jazz band, and accompanied the school chorus at a holiday concert, playing electric guitar. My son, David, who is an accomplished guitarist, and I played “Bad Moon Rising” for a variety show at my school. At a faculty holiday party, I dedicated Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” to my wife. I also loved performing with my musical friends at school variety shows.

    I am now learning to play the ukulele for my grandson. He seems fdelighted by the simple tunes that I can play and sing. I love to see his little face light up when he hears me play.

    Recently , my wife suprised me with a beautiful 12 string acoustic guitar for Fathers Day. The rich sounds that come out of it remind me of of the folk tunes that I played with such great enjoyment so many years ago.

Happy Birthday, Julie Sarah!

It was a very cold December in 1981, when Julie Sarah decided she couldn’t wait to be born.
Mom was in her 8th month, still working at nearby Kapuler. She was having some minor contractions, but just shrugged them off because it was too early. Mom got home that evening and took a bath and relaxed with a glass of wine.
At 9:00 PM, I was leaving Harper College,after teaching my last class before winter break.
When I got home, I fully intended to catch up on my favorite TV show, Hill Street Blues. It didn’t happen.
No sooner then I came into our condo, then I heard some moaning from the bathroom.
Mom was already in labor and stuck in the tub. With some difficulty,I managed pry her out and help her get dressed. She was now having fairly strong and regular contractions, so we called her doctor and were advised to come to the hospital right away.
There was a slight problem. Mom wasn’t able to walk down the flight of stairs to our car.
There was a couple down the hall who we were friendly with. They volunteered to help me get Mom downstairs and follow us to the hospital.
As excited as I was, believe it or not, I passed the expressway exit for the hospital. The nearest exit was Woodfield Mall, so I drove to their parking lot . A policeman was sitting in his car, staring at us.
    I rolled down the window and nervously explained that I needed to get my very pregnant wife to the hospital.
Could he could give us an escort? Officer Friendly said he was “off duty” and drove away. 
Despite that, we got underway to the hospital .All the way ,I was silently cursing the cop and worrying you might be born in our car. I had taken first aid classes in the Army, but they failed to include delivering a baby in the back seat of a Buick Century.
At the hospital, nature took its course.. There was no time for an epidural, so Mom just squeezed my hand and did her Lamaze breathing. 
You were literally born a half hour later, right before midnight, December 17, 1981.
After spending some time with Mom getting to know you, I finally drove home to get some sleep.
The streets and the expressway were covered with snow .I rolled down the windows and sang along with the radio to keep me awake. Before I knew it I was home ,bubbling over with excitement.
    Our precious daughter, Julie Sarah , was born during one of the coldest weeks in the 20th century, but she has left a glow in my heart that burns stronger every day.
G-d had given us a wonderful gift to share with the world.
Happy birthday, Julie Sarah! We love you very much.

A Small Cage

A Small Cage

The first thing I can remember from my short lifetime was at the age of just about  three  months,I was gently shoved in a small cage and taken on a long ride from home. I put up an indignant fuss in my little cage, and the young boy couldn’t stand it.  He kept screaming something like, “take him back. I want to turn around and take him back!” In fact, when the car stopped moving, and we went inside the house, I ran and hid the minute my cage was opened.  I gave the boy and his family quite a small panic; they thought that I had raced out the front door, and tried to go back home to my mother.  In fact, I think it was that little prank that earned me the name “Mazik (Mazzie, for short),” literally meaning “cute little devil,” in the family’s Hebrew vernacular.

From that time on, my world, as I knew it, consisted of this house. Inside the house lived four humans: a young boy, a young girl, a mother and a father. During my early years, each of the four humans treated me well. I was never without a warm bed, food, water, or  attention, and I loved the sunny days when I could sit for hours in front of a window and sunbathe. I grew accustomed to each human and became extremely comfortable with my simple life.

After a few years however, the girl left.  I could tell by the suitcases stuffed with clothes, shoes, hair goop, and her favorite stuffed animals, that she was not coming back. Despite my constant pleas, I woke up the next day to see her room empty. Days and months went by with no trace of her. At a few points, I thought she came back. A girl would pass in and out of the house for weeks on end, but she did not look like the one I used to know. Eventually, life went back to normal. I adjusted and found warmth and kindness through the other three.

A few years later, the boy left.  As soon as the suitcases filled the house I knew what was going on. The boy who always gave me the most attention was leaving me. He was taking his guitar, his favorite electronic toys, even the posters from the room where we slept.  At this point ,I knew pleading would do no good. Instead, I simply hid under his bed and refused to say goodbye. The boy would return on occasion, but he was always too busy to pay attention to me. I learned , once again, to adjust to my new life with only the mother and father. Life moved on uneventfully until one fateful afternoon that brought me where I am today.

            The day started like any Friday morning. The father woke up and I followed him downstairs. Outside, the faint patter of cold rain could be heard and loud claps of thunder startled me. I was too hungry, however, to worry about anything but the food being poured into my bowl. After I ate, I made my way back upstairs and crawled back into my warm bed. I feel back into a deep sleep and never woke up.

            The next thing I knew, I was floating above the house. I heard the loud screech of sirens and the mother screaming to a man in a heavy suit. “Please get my cat, he is still inside” she yelled as she cried. The man went into the charred house and came out minutes later with my body. The man promised the mother that I passed away painlessly and she began to cry harder. I then heard her call the father who showed up at the house twenty minutes later. The street was filled with people, gazing in horror at the burning house, and he had to make his way through the crowd to get to the mother. Together, they called their son.

            I then saw the boy. He was sleeping soundly in his bed when his phone rang and woke him up. “WHAT!?” he screamed. “He is gone?? How did it happen? Are you okay?” Tears started to form in the boy’s eyes. The conversation between the boy and his parents lasted for  what seemed like hours. Afterwards, he frantically dialed a number over and over. A girl’s voice finally came on the other line. “Julie, there was an accident at home. Our house is gone, Mazik died,” said the boy. “I know its unreal; I can’t believe it.”

            The explosion tossed contents from the house all over the backyard. Afterwards, boards were nailed to cover the windows, and the once blue-and-white paint had turned to a deep black. The mother and father rebuilt their house and eventually replaced all of their possessions. They refused, however, to replace me.

A year later, the guy and girl both moved into their new home. Although they were gone for a majority of the day, they would always come back at night. The reunited family reminded me of the first few years of my life, before the girl and boy left me. I remained floating above until one day they decided they were ready for another cat.

I felt a human hand pushing me from behind. Everything was black and I did not remember leaving from above the house. Slowly, I attempted to open my eyes. I realized I was sleeping on a warm carpet.  As I looked around I saw the mother, father, boy, and girl standing over me. In front of me was another small cage.

 David Marder 2006

In loving memory of our Mazik.

The Passover Kid

                                                                 


It was only  a few weeks until Passover, and our home was buzzing with activity . Every member of our family was caught up in  the frenzy of moving, cleaning and cooking that swept like a giant wave through the house.

As a young boy,there were probably a million things I would rather have done than wash the tile walls in our kitchen. But, hour after tedious hour, I perched  on a step stool with a bucket full of hot soap suds, a sponge, and an endless supply of clean rags. Preparing for Passover in the traditional Jewish home meant hunting down and killing every trace of "chometz" or leavened products, including any that could have migrated to the walls. This was mega spring cleaning and in our house, it was all- out war against "chometz."  Just when I thought I was done,Mom would come over to inspect my work and utter the dreaded words,"You missed a whole section over there." . When I finally finished ,the yellow ceramic tile fairly gleamed. All done until next year!

Oddly enough,though, I  really loved my other task,  lugging crates and bushels of Passover dishes up from the basement.  Once they were on the back porch, I carefully unwrapped the newspaper from the plates, cups, saucers, glasses, pots and pans and began to catch up on what happened the year before. I guess you could call it Jewish microfilm. After reading the front page, comic and movie sections, the paper was discarded, but after Passover, fresh newspaper was wrapped around the dishes, and a new time capsule was created.

To my unbridled joy,the arrival of Passover at our house meant open season on seltzer and soda. For reasons only known to my parents, we weren't allowed to have soda in the house most of the year. I suspect it had to do with the high sugar content and the absence of diet soda in those days. But come Passover, suddenly cases of ginger ale and cola magically appeared, along with my favorite, seltzer in  old fashioned siphon bottles. I'm talking about the kind of bottles that clowns used to  squirted each other in a circus. Seltzer in siphons also  had major carbonation and could produce a burp heard in the next neighborhood. The best part about having soda was that, after Passover, we could return the empties and spend the deposits on comic books and baseball cards.

Closing my eyes, I can still picture our family seders. First, of course, there's Dad, who led every seder with a  consummate skill. born of long practice. He made sure we all had equal  parts of the Haggadah  to read. At the beginning of the seder, he hid the afikomen in impossible places and doled out rewards when we found it.
Sitting next to Dad, I see a much younger me. . As a Hebrew School student and a singer in the synagogue choir, I loved  doing the readings in Hebrew and singing the traditional songs.  Next to me was my brother, Bob, who, being the youngest, always got the honor of starting the seder with the Four Questions, that began the telling of the Passover story.
Across from Bob sat my sister, Judi, who was quite well schooled in Hebrew and loved to sing  all of the songs in the Haggadah.  When Judi lived in Chicago for a short while, her husband, Al came to our seders, as well as my nephew Paul, who was just a little guy then.
At the other end of the table, close to the kitchen, was Mom. She joined in on all of the singing and reading, but her specialty was the festive meal. Her chicken soup was heavenly, floating with matzoh balls and carrots. She also served us  gefilte fish in jelled sauce, tender roast chicken, sweet matzoh kugel, fresh steamed asparagus, green salad, and fruit cocktail in a fancy sherbet cup. Of course, there was always plenty of matzoh to go around, and lots of  dried fruit to counteract the dreaded  effects of matzoh. And, as I mentioned earlier, the ban on soft drinks was temporarily lifted.

 Next to my mother sat Nanny, my dad's mother. She liked to make jokes with my mother  about the matzoh balls. Every year, they were either too soft, or too hard.  Nanny had her own recipe for making gefilte fish because Manischewitz  from the jar would never do. As a concession to my mother, she chopped, mixed and cooked her homemade recipe in our basement.
  Sitting next to my grandmother was Tante, my wonderful  great-aunt Hattie. She always smiled quietly, taking everything in and reading every word of the Haggadah in Hebrew.

Passover seders were also a time when the family's treasured engraved  silver kiddush cups were taken out of the credenza, polished to a high gloss and used. These cups came from Austro-Hungary with my father's parents, and Israel from a trip Dad had made. My brother, my father and I each had our own cups.Four times during the seder, everyone drank a full cup of sweet kosher wine. Even though the kids portion was considerably smaller, we used the wine as an excuse to act silly, and later it made it hard to stay up past our bed time.

 In a place of  honor, in  the middle of the table, rested a large silver goblet reserved for Elijah. Near the end of the service, my mother opened the front door while Dad chanted a prayer . Tradition had it that the prophet Elijah visited every home and took a sip from his cup. We would stare intensely into Elijah's cup and will the wine to go down. I was absolutely sure the an inch or so of red wine was missing from the goblet and that Elijah had been at our seder.

In addition to the silver wine cups, our family had an antique gilt edged white Passover plate with Hebrew letters indicating the ceremonial objects. Every year, there sprang up  a fresh debate about what went where. The problem would be resolved by using a hagaddah as a reference, but then start up again with the question of which translation was correct.  Some years, potatoes won out over celery, some years we chewed parsley and made faces. The test always came when it came time to sample the horseradish. My dad insisted that we have the strong white variety ,and it always took the top of my head off.

Finally, next to the seder plate was an ornately  hand embroidered matzah cover that held the traditional three pieces of ceremonial matzah used during the seder. Half of one piece was reserved for the afikomen and hidden somewhere for the children to find after the meal . Dad was notorious for stowing the afikomen away in hard to find places,so we had to work hard to  get our rewards. One year, my brother and I were  very much caught up in the cowboy craze and managed to ransom the afikomen for Long Ranger cap pistols.
Somehow, I'm sure the Masked Man would have approved.

Our  seder ended with everyone joining in on traditional Passover songs.By that time, the wine had taken effect, and the kids were struggling to stay awake. When the last piece of matzah had been eaten and the last glass of soda had been consumed, we helped clear the table, wash the dishes and took our exceedingly full stomachs to bed.
The next morning, instead of going to work or  school, we went to services at our synagogue, and then repeated the entire process that evening for the second seder.

Slowly, inevitably, time marches on. Countless Passovers have come and gone.
Sadly,my grandmother Helen, great aunt Hattie, Mom, Dad, sister Judi, and brother-in-law Al have left empty seats at the seder table, with the next generation of our children taking their place, carrying on our  tradition for the many Passovers yet to come. The silver is gleaming, the candles have been lit.  It's time for me to begin the seder. 

Music for My Father

                                                                           

Music For My Father

Replica of Dad's antique kiddush cup

 Just before  the onset of World War I, my grandfather, Israel Marder,  left the little town of Brode in the Austro-Hungarian Empire to make a new life in America. My father, Sol, was very young at the time. He  and my grandmother, Helen,were supposed to join him when  Grandpa could afford money for their steamship tickets. Unfortunately, the war intervened, leaving family on both sides of the ocean, not to be reunited until 1920.

When Dad and his mother finally said farewell to Brode, they applied for a joint passport that recounts their trip across Europe to Le Havre, France where they planned to  board a boat for the United States.   At one border crossing, after learning that they were Jews, the guards  began to taunt them and shoot over their heads . Dad was immediately shoved down into a ditch and warned not to raise his head .Shots were fired  that sounded like bees buzzing.Heedless of the warning, a boy next to him got to his knees. With a cry, he fell over dead.

  The Polish Eagle  in Dad's passport is boldly stamped over an entry that documents their stay in a little Polish town  called Auswieczem. Twenty years later, it was the site of the infamous Ausweitz death camp.  Every time I look at this passport, I am struck with what would have happened if my grandmother and father had stayed there.

 Never-the less, they somehow  arrived at LeHavre.  Dad and Grandma Helen (we called her" Nanny") sailed across the Atlantic to New York City. The very first thing they saw was a little boy eating a banana. Right then and there, Dad decided he wanted one. Somehow, he was able to get that banana, but didn't know that it had to be peeled. After biting into the skin, he started to throw it away. People laughed at him, calling him a "greenie" or "greenhorn."They were right;.he had an awful lot to learn. After a  short stay on Ellis Island, both were finally cleared for the long  train ride to Chicago, where they were met by my grandfather.

The Marder family settled  a few blocks from the famous Maxwell Street Market,, a neighborhood already heavily populated by newly arrived Jewish immigrants. Like many others of their generation, my grandparents wanted their son to  learn English and become educated in the ways of their newly adopted country. Dad was soon enrolled in a school near  his home. One day, as my dad tells it, he got in deep trouble with his teacher over a remark she made about Grandma. Becoming incensed, Dad took off his heavy shoe and heaved it at the woman. As you might expect, that got him thrown out of school.

Instead of telling his parents, Sol secretly enrolled himself in another neighborhood school, where apparently he did very well .  Speaking Polish, Yiddish and German, my father soon added English to his list of languages, and began earning pocket  money by tutoring students after school.

As a high school student, Dad attended Harrison High , then Crane College. His goal was to become a physician. The untimely death of my grandfather, however, meant  he now needed to support his mother. Instead of  attending medical school, Dad chose to become a chiropodist (or as it is now called, podiatrist) because the course of study was shorter. He graduated from the Chicago College of Chiropody and proudly set up his new practice on the west side of Chicago, on the busy corner of Madison and Western. He shared an office space with a dentist with whom he traded professional services, fixing Dr. Stein's feet in exchange for free dental care.

It was about this time that my father met the beautiful, dark haired young woman that he would marry.There is a photo of my parents together at this time at a beach. Mom, slim and lovely, stands with her arm around Dad's waist. He is dressed in a light linen suit, with wavy, slicked down  dark hair and a hint of a stylish mustache. What a striking couple they were! Jean and Sol married in 1933 with the blessings of both families.

In 1939 my sister, Judi ,was born.Then, when the U.S entered the World War II, Dad was deferred because he was the sole support of his mother. He  felt compelled to do  something meaningful while his friends fought overseas, and so he volunteered to become a block warden. He patrolled the neighborhood with a helmet and flashlight, making sure houses were in compliance with air raid procedures, and was a first responder if medical attention was needed.

After the war, my parents decided to go into business for themselves. . Dad closed his practice, but wisely kept up his certification as a chiropodist. Mom had valuable experience working in her dad's clothing store.

Her youngest brother, my Uncle Maury, had just been discharged from the Army, and he generously helped Mom and Dad start a men's work and casual clothing store on the southwest side of Chicago.

One day, as my Grandmother Celia was making lunch for her son-in-law, she asked Dad to buy a raffle ticket. He declined, claiming that he'd never won anything in his life. Despite his protests, Grandma pulled out a dollar and bought the ticket for him. A week later, she was on the phone to my mother, excitedly telling her that Dad had won a new car. This was a big prize, new cars had been impossible to find during the war.
Also, it meant that my parents could drive across the city and visit my grandparents as often as they wanted.

For a number of years, my parents lived in an apartment in back of their store, with my grandmother watching my sister, Judi.  Dad and Mom were devoted to each other, but he also had very strong ties to his mother. At times, I know it must have been hard trying to please the women in his life. Eventually, my family moved to a larger apartment near their store, where hopefully there was more space and more peace.

The year I was born, Dad sponsored my great-aunt Hattie, enabling her to emmigrate to the United States. I'm sure it made my grandmother very happy to be finally reunited with her sister after so many long years. In order to accommodate his extended family , Dad and a friend  purchased the two story apartment building that would become our new home on Francisco Avenue. Together with my great-aunt, we now had six family members under one roof.

.As a little boy, I remember telling my dad  I had a sharp pain on the bottom of  my foot. He sat me down at the kitchen table, took off my shoe and sock and carefully examined the sole of my foot. In very simple terms,  he explained that I had a plantar's wart and that he had a doctor friend who could fix it. The next day, I was introduced to Dad's friend, Dr. Zipperman, who treated me over the next few weeks. Every time I went there, Dr. Zipperman told me what a great doctor my father was. I was very impressed and extremely proud of Dad. That was the first time I knew that he was a skilled podiatrist.

In the early 60's, two seemingly unrelated events changed my father's career path.  Nearby Midway Airport closed, because its small runways couldn't accommodate the new  jets that needed to land there. This took away a large amount of business from my parents' store, because the Midway ground crews had always shopped there. As luck would have it, a nearby podiatrist announced his retirement and was searching for someone to take over his practice. Dad took a calculated risk and bought out Dr. Lloyd, who had a substantial patient following.  Dad's practice soon began to thrive. I know it meant a great deal to him to return to his chosen profession. My mother began to take on more responsibility, and  business slowly improved.


When I was a junior in high school, I was running on a cinder track in during gym class. Someone in back of me gave my back a deliberate shove and I sprawled on the ground. Because I used my hands to break my fall, they were the only things that were hurt badly. There were guys in my class no one wanted to mess with, so I said nothing to anyone. When I got to my parents' store, my mother took one look at the gravel embedded in my hands and told me to go to Dad's office.

This was the first time I became my father's patient, With infinite care, Dad  cleaned me up, then sat me in
his examining chair with a bright light above it. Pulling on rubber gloves, and using a  magnfier over his glasses, he began to pick out each  piece of gravel with a probe and a tiny pair of tweezers. After he finally finished, he applied an antibiotic cream and gave me a couple of aspirin for the pain. No one could have treated me with more skill or kindness. I saw Dad in a whole new light after that.

Like Mom, Dad was very involved in Jewish causes. He served on our synagogue board and was a charter member of the local B'nai Brith men's lodge . I have a vivid memory of Dad editing a  monthly bulletin on our dining room table that he mailed to  local members. He also served as an advisor to high school boys who belonged the Bnai Brith Youth. Eventually, he took office as president of the Midwest Region. Through Bnai Brith, my father worked  with prominent  Chicagoans like Mayor Daley and  Cardinal Joseph Stritch. One summer,on a mission to Israel, he was honored to  meet with David Ben Gurion. Finally, my father was always a  strong voice against anti-Semitism and an active member of the Anti-Defamation League.

While I've  inherited the love of good literature from my mother, I know Dad strongly influenced my passion for music.
 He loved to listen to Hebrew  recordings of Cantors Jan Pearce and Richard Tucker and  soundtracks from musicals like " Fiddler on the Roof."  Every Passover, Dad  led our family seders, chanting the songs from the   Hagadah in beautiful,  flawless Hebrew.I can see him now at the head of our dining room table, in a crisp white shirt and striped  tie, holding up his silver wine cup as he sings the holiday Kiddush. My place was always on his right, and as I got older, I was able to sing some of the service with him.


 Dad urged me to join our synagogue choir, made sure that I practiced my accordion in grade school, was delighted that I took up the bass clarinet and saxophone in high school, and really loved hearing me play guitar. When my first guitar was carelessly broken on a high school trip, Dad took me to  a studio in the Loop and replaced it  because he knew how much I love to play.   My junior year, with the help of my parents, our Jewish youth group organized a "hootenanny" or folk concert.
 When my two  friends and  I  appeared on stage sing  and play guitar, sure enough,there was  Dad sitting next to Mom. smiling and clapping along with the music.

There is much more to tell about my relationship with my father, but it's a story for another time and place.
When Dad's health failed, he moved to  a retirement home. He loved to take me to the old fashioned ice cream parlor there and treat me to a dish of my favorite coffee ice cream. When my daughter, Julie, was a toddler, Dad's eyes would light up when we took her to visit.

Just a week before the Jewish New Year in 1990, Dad passed away. Our rabbi wisely told me that, although I would be in mourning, he would allow me to sing in the High Holiday services, He said that it would help me get through the grieving period. He was right. The songs I sang were, as always, for my father.

Sing a New Song

                                                         

As a  young boy with a high voice, and a real  passion for singing, I tried out for  the choir at our synagogue. You  just needed to sing on key , carry a  tune  reasonably well  and do a passable job of reading Hebrew. A number of my friends were already  in the choir, so I was eager and proud to join them.

At first, I only sang at Friday night services, which were only a little over  an hour long . I thought it was fun  being up near the altar, singing my heart out in a  long black robe with a  funny white collar.  Our quirky choir leader, Mr. Squire,was an elderly man with a tuning fork and smelled like menthol He  muttered under his breath when we were out of tune. I belonged to the boy alto section;  Mr. Squire affectionately  called us  his   "little cockaroaches" if  we weren't on key or paying attention. Despite his grumbling, I think old Mr. Squire really like teaching us to sing. When we were at our best, he'd nod his head and smile.

To conclude each  Sabbath service, it was customary for a choir boy to chant the "Kiddush" or traditional  blessing over the wine. When it eventually was  my turn, I had to ignore  about a  million butterflies  in my stomach. Walking slowly from the choir section, I nodded to the rabbi who smiled and  handed me a  silver goblet brimming with  wine. I climbed up the step under the podium, then,.taking a deep breath, I began to sing into the microphone. Much to my amazement, my voice soared over the congregation. I looked up and saw my mom and dad beaming with pride.

I did a good job of completing  the prayer without a hitch, and then raised the full cup to my lips. As I took a  big gulp,  the fumes immediately went straight to my head. The congregation laughed  as my face and ears turned as red as the kosher wine. I put the cup down. The rabbi looked at me as if to say" Next time, ask for grape juice." Thanks, I'll remember that.



The year I turned ten , I became a member of  the select High Holiday choir. We  rehearsed during the last weeks of  summer, in preparation for the Jewish New Year in the early fall . Our synagogue was not at all air conditioned, so  we sweated as much as we sang.  Also, we never knew from year to year who the synagogue would hire as a cantor; we had to adapt to a new person's habits each time. One distinguished gentleman  sported a fedora and smoked foul smelling  black Parodi cigars, claiming they soothed his throat. Imagine someone doing that at choir practice today! Each cantor brought a special style to our choir and I learned something  from all of them.

 Singing for the holidays meant standing around a podium for at least three  hours on both days of Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur. Because it was often very warm, we were allowed to wear t-shirts under our robes. Even so, most of us came equipped with packets of Wet-wipes to cool us off. An even bigger challenge came on Yom Kippur, because upon turning thirteen you were obligated to fast from sunset to sunset.  Younger boys would rush home between the afternoon and evening service and grab a light snack to keep them going. For our efforts, the synagogue honored  us  with a small stipend ,depending on our years of singing in the choir. I honestly don't think the money made that much of a difference to me. I just loved  the intricate , sacred melodies and being part of the service.

Then, just before I entered high school, my high alto voice dropped an octave, and I  had to learn to be  a tenor. Mr. Squire had retired, and our leader was  Mr. Sher, a skilled choir master who had a more modern outlook. Instead of just using prayer books, he gave us complicated arrangements on sheet music. This took some getting used to, as  I struggled to gain control over  my new ,lower  voice. Thanks to my friend ,  Art, a tenor  with a beautiful voice and a college major in music, I was  soon able to sing the new part  with confidence. I  remained in Peter Sher's choir until end the of high school.

I regret to say that I never joined a choir in college; looking back, I guess I was too wrapped up in playing folk music on my guitar.It wasn't until much later,as an adult, that  I  once again lent  my voice to a synagogue choir. For a number of memorable years, I sang in the Sabbath evening and High Holiday choirs in  Buffalo Grove. We were led by a  cantor with a rich, beautiful voice, who had come to our synagogue complete  with his family of singers. Each of  his sons had real talent, and  Cantor Aberman  wisely built the choir around them.  Also, the cantor  was married to a woman with a gorgeous  voice. Even though our choir was all male, no one ever objected to Sandy's clear soprano from her seat in the front row.    Eventually ,each of the cantor's  sons  married,, had children and moved to the city. Finally when the cantor  and his wife moved to be closer to their sons and many grandchildren, the choir was disbanded.  I felt lost without a place to sing.

When our family considered  joining a new synagogue in Northbrook, one of my first questions was "Do you have a choir?" The answer was no, but that didn't deter me. I told the rabbi that I had some vocal experience, and he said that with practise, I could lead part of the Saturday services. After a few months, I thought I was ready, and we set a date for my debut as a soloist. Besides having to memorize all of the melodies, I had to be sure I pronounced the Hebrew correctly.

Fighting the old familiar butterflies, when the time came, I think I did fairly well.
Except, that is, when I had to return the Torah scroll to the ark while singing.
Leave it to me, I started to make a wrong turn and would have ended up singing to a wall, if it weren't for a friend who tapped me on the shoulder and turned me around.

One year, there actually was a holiday choir in the synagogue. We sang in the orthodox service, led by a cantor with a marvelous, high voice. Much to my dismay, this was a one time occurance. When the synagogue hired a new cantor, he sang by himself, but asked for volunteers to join him in the brief service that ended Yom Kippur.  A group of us came up and we had an impromptu choir. This tradition continued from year to year, but wasn't nearly enough to satisfy my passion for choral singing.

Just recently ,my wife suggested that I search for a real  choir to fill the void.. I scoured the internet for Jewish groups in our vicinity and found Kol Zimrah , a choral  group in the northern suburbs. Getting up my courage, I arranged for an audition. The  director gave me some scales to sing, asked me to read sheet music, then had me sing a song I had prepared from a prayer book. He must have liked what he heard, because a few minutes later he introduced me to the choir as the newest second tenor. I was delighted!

I sat down in the tenor section and immediately, the men on both sides of began to fill me in. Looking at a thick folio of music I was both impressed and overwhelmed at the complexity of the pieces I needed to learn.
Before I knew it, Richard, our director, raised his hands and fifty men and women instantly  filled the room their amazing voices. Michael, the tenor on my right, held up the score so I could see it and traced his finger over the notes he was singing. Slowly, I caught on, and before too long, began to softly follow his lead.
After a little while, I grew more courageous, and sang a bit louder. There was a tricky rest in one song that demanded everyone to stop singing for a beat. I , of course, blasted right through it. The director held up his finger as if to say, "that's one...."   After restarting the measure, I did it again. Richard shook his head and whispered, "That's two..."  The third time, I got it right. Everyone clapped, and, like a little kid, I pulled my kippah over my red face in embarrassment. From then on, I paid much closer attention to the director.

 Each time we began a new song, Richard  patiently worked with us to ensure we understood all the nuances in it:  rhythm, breath control, dynamics and the secret of blending into one beautiful voice..  This was hard work for me, but I really enjoyed it, and began to smile while I sang.

At the end of the evening, I was tired, but happy. As we packed up our music , a woman from the alto section came over to me. "Stuart, remember me?" she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. Her face was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. " I'm Myra...I sang at your wedding."  I laughed in amazement and hugged her.

When we were married in August of 1976, my wife's friend brought her guitar and her sweet voice to our wedding. Myra sang and strummed and softly in Hebrew as we walked up to the chuppah, adding just the perfect touch to our  wedding ceremony.
After Maxine left her job as a social worker, Myra assumed her position. The years went by, and we lost touch with her.  Now, a lifetime later, she was back and in the choir I had just joined.

I strongly believe that everything in life is for a purpose. I know that this  seemingly chance reunion with Myra is a sign  I've found a wonderful new place to sing,

Finding My Way

The gargoyles atop Altgeld Hall

Unlike some of my friends, I never had any doubt about where I wanted to go to college.Northern Illinois University was far enough away from home to make me feel independent, yet  close enough to jump on a Greyhound for a weekend trip back to the city. By the middle of my high school senior year, I had been  accepted and  was proudly wearing my N.I.U Huskie sweatshirts to class.



That July,along with about 40 other members of the class of 1969,, I attended orientation in Neptune Hall, a large  dorm in the middle of campus. We listened to talks from counselors, sweated  over  our fall class schedules, and wore down our number 2 pencils  taking hours of  placement tests.
Finally, after being treated to a less than spectacular dorm lunch, we were left on our own to roam around the campus. I met up with two high school friends and we walked over to  the Student Union to buy  t-shirts for ourselves and assorted souvenirs  for our families. As we wound our way back to the dorm, one of my friends remarked how easy it would be to get lost.

That fall, my dad drove me and two of my friends to college. Our car was fully loaded, because we all were  moving into the dorms on the same day.  About half way to DeKalb, the car got a flat tire. In order to get to the spare, of course, we had to unload the trunk. We were quite a sight, with three large footlockers and assorted junk piled up by the side of the road. Nevertheless, with all of us pitching in,  and my dad supervising,we got the flat off, the spare tire on , the luggage reloaded, and we were on our way in record time.

When we arrived, the campus was pretty busy, even though   classes didn't  start unil the following Monday.  We found Lincoln Hall,my new home for the coming year, and when I got to my  room., the lower bunk was made, there were books on the shelves, clothes in one closet, but my roommate was nowhere to be found.
I unpacked, put my clothes away, made my bed, stowed the rest of my belongings, and hugged my dad goodbye. He told me to study hard and watch out for "party girls." Um...ok.

After he left, I unpacked my guitar and started to play. In a little while , there was a knock on the door, and a short, slightly built dark haired guy stuck his head in.

 "Hi, I'm Joe, "he said," and I'm looking for Brett, your roommate."
I told him that I hadn't seen him, and stuck out my hand to say hello.
Joe's eyes lit up when he saw what I held in my other hand.
 "Do you mind?" he asked, reaching for my guitar.
 I was curious to hear him play and told him to go ahead.
 Joe began strumming and singing Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind."
I had a new friend!

We swapped my guitar back and forth for a while, then  Joe said," I live off campus.
We could walk over and get my guitar, maybe get something to eat."
With no plans at all ,and the prospect of spending the rest of the day in an empty dorm, I was happy to go along. I  left a note for Brett, and we started off to Joe's apartment.  It only  took about ten  minutes to get there, and since I had been  most of that way before, I didn't pay too much attention to where we were going.

Not, that is, until we approached the eastern edge of  campus. There was  old Altgeld Hall, looking for all the world like a haunted castle. Joe told me  Altgeld had  been the first building on campus back when Northern was a teacher's college before the turn of the 20th century. The castle was topped with towers and fierce, ugly gargoyles that spouted water when it rained. Joe told me the story about the ghosts of  old students who still  roamed the upper towers. .As we continued walking, I glanced over my shoulder. The gargoyles glared  back as if to say " What, you never saw a gargoyle before?"

Joe's "apartment" was in a home a mile or so off campus. Freshmen who didn't get a dorm assignment were put up in private housing .This house had been subdivided and Joe's tiny  room was actually in the  basement. He had use of  the communal kitchen, dining area and bathroom, and could watch t.v. in a small living room on the first floor. I thought it was kind of quaint, but  really couldn't see living there all year.  Joe was quick to to point out  one major advantage this place had over dorm living.  You could have beer whenever you felt like it. His housemates  had  chipped in and the refrigerator was well stocked. In those days, beer was really inexpensive, so all you needed was someone with an ID to make a run to a liquor store. Looking in the fridge, I saw cases  of Schlitz and Grain Belt, equally tasty and cheap.

Both of us were hungry, so heading to a supermarket in town, we got the makings for hamburgers.
Instead of broiling the burgers, Joe fried them in a skillet. I have to admit that although they were greasy, they turned out really well. With a bottle of cold Grain Belt, potato chips and a pickle, we sat down to  a feast.

Until  late that night,we drank beer, watched t.v., played our guitars, sang folk songs,  told stupid jokes, talked about girls, and speculated about what classes would be like the coming week. Joe laughed when I admitted that I had two classes in Altgeld and cautioned me about the ghosts.
 Eventually, Joe fell asleep on the couch, so I decided to find  my way back to my dorm.

I really thought I knew where I was going, until  I stopped  in front of Altgeld Hall. It was full  dark by then and a  million crickets were chirping, and the cheap beers I had earlier were doing a number on my head.

Looking up, I saw the ugly gargoyles on top of the towers glaring down at me. They seemed to be saying, "Hah!  You're back! Congratulations, Stuart, you are totally lost." And they were right...I was. The campus seemed unfamiliar, and I started to panic. I had no clue how I was going to make it back.

 I  circled the old castle building a few times.  Suddenly, I could clearly see  the lights from the the new high rise dorms in the distance. Putting one tired foot in front of the other, I found my way to Lincoln Hall and my  roommate, Brett, who was patiently sitting on his bunk, waiting for me.

After introducing ourselves, he asked" Where the heck ya been? I was gonna take a shower and warsh my hair"
. Brett was from Peoria, so I was going to have to get used to his downstate twang.

I told him about Joe and how I'd spent the evening.  When I got to the part about Altgeld Hall, he looked at me and said,"Heard that old castle's just plain haunted. I was you, I'd plan on stayin' far away."
Too tired to respond, I climbed up onto my bed and fell asleep listening to the crickets chirping in the late summer night.