Posting My Thoughts?

I began collecting stamps when I was a child and remember becoming fascinated by the various colors and sizes of these strange perforated shapes. Before me lay the world in pictures which challenged me to learn the names of many obscure historical people and of far-away places with magical names like Azerbaijan or Tanganyika. Sometimes with a magnifying glass I squinted at depictions of monochromed giraffes, turbaned desert people, and important buildings often encircled by odd lettering or numbers. Perhaps best of all, it was a hobby which met positively with my father's authoritarian judgment of what was considered productive activity. For hours, looking like I was sitting amidst a pile of confetti, slowly and methodically, I would attach stamps in my album. When working on them I was safe and hidden in my own private world and able to tune out the almost constant tension which permeated my family's dynamics.  Certain stamps became special friends and I would look at them proudly and, with excitement find them companions that belonged in the same series or on the same page.  

Today my joy in gathering stamps has not abated. My closet is a veritable postal potpourri of stacked albums with withered bindings, brimming boxes of colorful envelopes, books containing first day covers, plate blocks, full sheets, and of course, pages and pages of ornately decorated and numeraled regular issues, airmails and commemoratives. Having such an extensive collection may sound like an impressive accomplishment but whenever I even mention my philatelic power and prowess to my children, they roll their eyes and express some teasing sentiment indicating that collecting stamps is not particularly cool. They usually lament about what to do with such a mess when I am finally cancelled and all that is left of me is my own dated portrait. Of course they appreciate that some of my stamps are valuable but don't know which ones are. They dread the thought of how to dispose of the lot without being cheated. I can hardly blame them for their nonplussed attitude. I don't know the answer either. I can't expect either one of them to become enthralled in a hobby which is as high-speed and modern as a stamp showing a team of oxen pulling a cart. Also inheriting a collection dampens the sense of accomplishment which is an integral part of the gathering and organizing process. It means fiddling with someone's work rather than experiencing the pleasure of putting one's own "stamp" on a lifelong project.

As I grew older and learned the idea that beauty might be discovered by looking closely at little things like leaves or stones or insects, I discovered my collection was in fact a catalogue of magnificent pictures of landscapes, sculptures, engravings, photos and designs suitable for a Lilliputian art musem. When looked at from this perspective it is easy to see that every stamp expresses someone's creative vision, having had to pass the scrutiny of a jury and then being finely reproduced in a determined quantity and quality by a printing method. I have amassed perhaps thirty thousand of these graphic icons that, like tiny hitchhikers riding along on the envelopes which package the thoughts of others, transmit their own story of human history.

It has been a challenge to select examples to share. Each stamp is a jewel in a giant, fleck-filled kaleidoscope, Nonetheless I have plucked out three special ones for your review.

At the top is U.S. stamp  #1, a portrait honoring Benjamin Franklin who was named our first postmaster by the Continental Congress in 1775. This imperforate stamp was issued in July 1847 by the authority of Congress to standardize postage among the states, making it the only legal stamp that could be affixed to a letter. I chose to display this one for its historical significance and as a subtle hint to my children not to give it away!

The second example comes from France and is found in a series honoring French artists. It shows a painting by Marc Chagall who, although born in Russia, lived most of his life in France. It was issued in July 1987 and commemorates the 100th anniversary of the artist's birthday. I chose this to point out how lovely an envelope might look if this stamp were posted on it and how it might set the right tone for the message inside. In addition Chagall is my sister's favorite artist and I thought she might enjoy seeing this representation.

The third item is an engraved and typographed stamp from Canada printed at Christmas 1898. It displays a map of the British Empire using a Mercator projection. It was the first stamp issued by a colony of the British empire that didn't show a cameo of the English royal family. It provides a wealth of geographical, cultural, and historical information and, most importantly, I find it pleasing to my eye.

Wearing White

 While lying snuggly under the covers this morning, I deftly slipped my arm out and, like in the old days when reaching for a smoke, found and turned on the remote for the TV. Within a moment, my solitude was shattered by the voice of an annoyingly cheerful weather actor on the Today Show. He bantered about how the country was basking in unseasonably warm, beautiful weather, with the exception of the unfortunate Northwest which was still in the throes of relentless Winter. He spoke of the heavy rains, winds, and snow as if they were a validation of punishmnent of those who didn't believe in the inherent superiority of living on the Beltway or New York. I had no one to hear my objections to his bias. Here was someone who must have forgotten the beauty of watching snow coat the beach nor flakes falling softly on pine trees. Perhaps neither he nor his audience would appreciate the energy of breathing cool moist air, the drumming sound of torrents of rain nor the seductive rub of freshets of wind that contribute to making life here exquisite. For some dumb reason the caprice of weather has been divided into categories of good and bad with warm and dry as trump cards over wet and cold. I reflected further on what a glorious season "the bad weather" had been for me. Mt Bachelor Ski Resort has been blasted with cold, fluffy, voluminous powder, conditions which most skiers and snowboarders under the age of thirty refer to as "epic."

 My love for the snow began when I a child in Chicago when my sister and I were given a wooden sled which we used for careening down a slope at the "tot lot." My joy from that time lives on today when, on many a morning, I can be found on a chairlift freezing my butt off, then braving wind and poor visibility to carve my way on fresh untracked snow down the slopes in order to join friends at the bottom to share eagerly exhilarating tales of success. However the transition from sled to skis was not that easy.

 I started skiing at age 46 and remember how my children bullied me into giving into my fear of crashing. Like so many people imagine themselves, I was convinced that I would be an embarrrassing failure who, within a short time, would see friends signing clever greetings on my cast. My learning curve was slow and painful. I fell so often I was actually becoming comfortable with self-loathing. Within moments, I would find myself hopelessly out of control and then suddenly down and covered in snow sprawled out, with skis and poles scattered about. Often I would lie there on the white carpet before dusting off and picture myself as an incongruous twig in some cosmic game of pickup sticks. In spite of my predictable lack of coordination, my son especially continued to encourage me to keep pushing myself and urged me to stop being a wuss when I looked over a steep edge at the run and began to whine about an impending catastrophe.

 Fortunately I have advanced, but still fall and suffer from the jitters and hurt pride. Although the fact is not particularly relevant, I have always been anxiety-prone. The source of this affliction may be a result of inheriting physical and mental instability genes from both of my parents. Neither of them would have ever ventured beyond a lodge, let alone shown any interest in the snow other than commenting on the danger of driving in such crappy weather. They could have never believed that I now quantify my life by the number of days I go up to the mountain, how many runs I may have taken, and whether I rode up on the first chairs.

 Then again, as I sit here in front of my laptop, extolling the white and wonderful, I am suddenly beset with fantasies of lying on a deckchair in some tropical clime, looking at palm trees and listening to soft gentle breezes. Even a pina colada might beat hot-buttered rum right now. Perhaps my passion for the cold has started to melt. Is it too late for me to take up water skiing? I know you all would wish me well. Doesn't the the expression go something like "Break a Leg"! 

 The above photos are from good weather days. I generally avoid bringing a camera when I ski for fear I will plant the darn thing and myself in a snowbank. The first picture was taken by my son of me on a bluebird day near the Northwest Chairlift before we dropped off the wall of a "black diamond" run. The second photo shows an easy groomed "blue" run. It appears flat in the foreground but the topography suddenly steepens in the background. The last picture shows the 9000-foot summit of the Mt. Bachelor. There is a lift that runs to the top and, with a slight traverse, people ski down to the spot at mid-mountain from where this shot was taken at 7300 feet or continue on to the base at 6300 feet.

A Pot of Gold at Sutter's Mill

On my return trip from the San Francisco Bay Area last week, feeling saddened after the memorial for my best friend Tom Barrett, I decided I would take a circuitous route back to Bend. By heading east, I realized I had the opportunity of visiting Sutter's Log Mill at Coloma near Placerville, Ca. At this spot along the American River below the old mill site during an icy morning on January 24th, 1848, amongst the waterwheel's tailrace, James Marshall, John Sutter's partner, found flecks of gold. Within a year the news of this discovery had spread across the world and had triggered perhaps the most remarkable human migration ever recorded. Over 300,000 people flocked to California from all over America, Europe, Australia, Mexico, Latin America and the Orient. Many arrived by ship to California from the East Coast after a 16,000 mile five to eight month passage around South America or sailing first to Panama, trekking through mosquito-infested jungle to meet another sailing ship to take them the rest of the way. Others traveled by wagon along the Oregon and California Trail enduring unimaginable hardship from weather, disease, lack of provisions, and Indian attack. This extraordinary event also precipitated the forming of hundreds of new settlements along the land route and inspired thousands of Europeans dispossessed by the Revolution of 1848 to cross the Atlantic to seek fortune throughout America.

With much anticipation, I walked the path along the river to look for the exact spot which marked the American Holy Grail. I expected to see a glorious monument standing at the site like one might expect at Plymouth Rock or Jamestown, but all I found was a worn out, almost unreadable sign board which proclaimed that the discovery took place at a side channel 20 feet beyond and below. I followed a small muddy trail which had been etched out by previous seekers and ended my pilgrimage by kneeling at the edge of an exceptionally peaceful and overgrown rivulet. Almost instinctively, my eyes traveled over the sand and gravel which lay at my feet looking for anything protruding that was yellow and shiny. However, like so many before me, I turned away empty-handed. The gold was gone and yet I felt so enriched. I had explored the backroads of time and discovered a trove of glittering dust containing carats of American history.

The first photo shows the actual site of the original Sutter's Mill. The second picture is a shot downstream on the American River with a man on the far bank panning for gold. The third is the spot where gold was first found.  

Route 66 Revisited?

On Sunday February 5th, I woke up feeling fatigued and depressed. What made that morning even more disappointing was that it was my birthday. It wasn't one of those benchmark birthdays like the previous year when I had celebrated my 65th. Starting my 66th year only meant, annoyingly enough, that I was continuing my march to 70.

I also felt achy, lethargic and aimless. I decided that I would will myself into the opposite psychological direction by embarking on an outdoor adventure, namely a hike along the river trail to the summit of one of Oregon's most famous landmark, located at Smith Rock State Park. Sometimes physical exercise in the fresh air has had the effect of knocking toxic feelings out of me and I sorely wanted to cultivate a positive attitude on my birthday. I thought that such an activity would be a just reward for my special day, one where I could look back in the future and remember what I was still able to do on this day in that year.

The round trip, descending first to the the base of the rock formation along the Crooked River and then to the summit and back to the starting point, is probably not much more than four miles long. For the most part the walk is on soft dirt interspersed with rocks and loose pumice, and wends its way through patches of juniper and ponderosa pine before turning sharply upwards. This marks the beginning of a series of steep and, on certain days, quite slippery switchbacks leading to the summit,  ominously named Misery Ridge. It has earned this disconcerting title as a result of its austere, sharp, rocky outcroppings and amazingly dangerous drop-offs.  Along with the hikers, the length of the trail also serves as access for rock climbers. These hardy-looking people, full of energy, seek to ascend the many vertical faces and tall pillars which loom like giant stone idols throughout the park. It is not uncommon to see people seeking crevices for their toehold while clinging to ropes stretched hundreds of feet in the air.

Since it was late afternoon, I encountered only a few people on the heavily-traveled single-track path. Although it is common to exchange superficial pleasantries with fellow hikers, usually about the trail condition, the weather, the dramatic vistas, or the wildflowers,  I was uncharacteristically reticent. I listened carefully to my body. I felt my joints and muscles loosening, my body sweating and my nostrils inhaling the cool dry Central Oregon air. I became less lonely but thought occasionally of friends who would have enjoyed the experience, although I have learned that companionship dramatically alters the powerful dynamic of solitude. I have become accustomed to undertaking many of my adventures alone, although it dismays some of my family who worry understandably about inherent perils. I don't blame them for caring, but I hope they understand that when I was a child I had been small, buck-toothed, insecure and was labeled as overly sensitive. In my family taking chances and developing physical prowess were considered to be in the domain of uneducated and most likely non-Jewish people. This attitude, understandable in the context of my parents' life experience in Nazi Germany, translated into their overblown desire for me to have safe passage through life. The cost to protect me from "unnecessary risk"  contributed heavily to further discoloring my self-image. My desire to take challenging hikes and other thrill adventures such as advanced downhill skiing and wading into swift rivers to fly fish may be my need to prove to myself that I now possess some semblance of  traditional masculinity. In any case, hiking provides ample time for reflection on a variety of ideas, but likewise can serve as a great distraction from my predilection of turning inward. My camera in hand is a reminder that this is the perfect time to see, smell, and feel the landscape outside me.

I believe the photos above will demonstrate the healing effect of the hike.

The first picture is a northwest view, with "Monkey Face" a climber's nirvana, in the foreground, and the snowy peak of Mt. Jefferson in the background. From this vantage point I was able to glimpse several other Cascade mountains, including Mt. Washington, Mt. Hood, The Sisters, and Mt. Bachelor.

The second picture showing the Crooked River meandering through this breathtaking canyon reminded me of how the day before I had gone fly fishing for sassy trout upstream from this spot. The invigorating coolness of the water and had renewed my appreciation for the natural beauty of "my backyard".

For the last shot I stopped about halfway down my descent and decided to capture the golden tones of the setting sun reflecting off of the canyon walls and adjacent farmland. I peered down at the road and parking area. The white dot in the center of the photo is my car.

I am already curious as to where I'll be next year at this time. Wherever it is, I am already determined to enjoy the tasty cake of life, load it up with candles and have abundant breath to blow them out. I will still be in the ring for another round. I am natural fighter. Yes I am.

More Things That Bug Me

Back in November I made a post about things that bug me. I listed a number of items which I found annoying. My son contended that I was just acting like a crabby old man and taking life too seriously. This observation has certainly some truth to it. Old dogs sometimes snarl when pestered. Then again, a number of younger blog followers wrote me some irksome moments of their own, a fact which suggests that lots of people live on the same planet as I do and also react vociferously to stupidity and pretension. Providing my litany of complaints also has a cathartic effect on me. By expressing these niggling vexations, I hope to find allies who identify with my pique and, most of all, share similar sentiments. I can't say exactly that it makes feel liberated, because stupid remains stupid whether it is declared to be so in a chorus or singly. Simply put, my sensibilities and intelligence feel the need to fight back, however futile. Consequently, the following are some additional things that bug me. 

I am not sure why exactly I am annoyed by service people, especially bank tellers, who ask, "How are we today?" or even worse, "How's Lee today?" First of all, the use of "we" sounds imbecilic. If you don't how "you" are, then how can you remotely grasp how I am? The second question about how Lee is, I find even more annoying. I often answer, "Gosh, I think that Robert E. died in October 1870." I understand the rationale that employees are instructed to learn the first names of customers in order to generate intimacy and trust, but this technique reeks of hapless superficiality on a par with the closing response, "Have a Nice Day." 

At a supermarket checkout counter it bothers me when the cashier queries, while I am numb with sticker shock,  if I'd like to round the cost of my purchase up to give to Easter Seals. My urge is to say, "Speaking of deserving people, would Safeway care to subtract down and give the shopper a break?" 

How about people who refer to Hannukah as "Jewish Christmas"? Aside from the fact that such a statement shows true ignorance, it is also depressingly egotistical, as if everybody else's cultural wealth were created by God solely to realize the mission of Christianity. Maybe for a while Moslems should start calling Easter Week "Christian Ramadan."

How do you feel about buying crab spelled with a "k"? I know it is supposed to be like crab, but it is really fish with additives, plain and simple. It is no more crab than a cat is a dat or a dog a cog.

I bet all of you feel the same as I do about people who forget to flush the toilet or urinal in public bathrooms. Even now, I don't want to think about looking down at someone else's pee or mentioning the odor. For Pete's sake, must I say more?  

Speaking of sanitation, when using a fast food restaurant or public eating area, why is it so difficult for people to remember to clear their place? I am constantly throwing away other patrons' cups, paper containers, or napkins in order to feel comfortable at my table of choice. Eventually some waitperson will come and clean up the mess, but in the meantime, must I look at your half-finished chocolate shake and your greasy fries wrapper?

Has anyone eaten at a buffet or salad bar lately? The salad plates are saucer size and the dinner plates look like they belong in a doll house. In both cases they have become so small that you have to pile up your food like a culinary Tower of Babel and this creates a sloppy, unaesthetic, unappetizing mixture. Throw on a couple pieces of lettuce and your plate is full. It is virtually impossible to keep vegetables or dressing from spilling off the sides. It is not difficult to realize that the restaurant's use of small plates is a cost-saving method intended to direct customers to eat tiny portions. Now, I don't approve of gluttony and never liked seeing folks walking off with mountains of food which they can't finish. Neither do I appreciate the restaurant providing cheap, crappy service either. How do you like dem apples?

What is your opinion of a driver who takes up two parking spots by hanging his big vehicle over the line, leaving only the incredibly numerous empty handicapped spots available for parking? 

RECEIPTS: Cashiers have been trained to stuff them in your hand when they give you change after a purchase. Sometimes they even fold one around your credit card. I understanding needing evidence if you buy clothing, but for a cup of coffee? What a total waste of paper, and such litter! After you drink your disappointing java can you imagine waving your little paper and demanding a refund? Don't tell me this piece of trash is essential for your tax return.  A receipt, on the rarest occasion, is proof for a reimbursement. It should be available on request, which will keep the rest of the people from dropping it on the floor or crushing it in the nearest garbage can. 

I am annoyed by salespeople who pass off a clearly stupid policy on "Corporate." For some reason they act like they commiserate and that nothing can be done, and hope, you will, like a dumb sheep, go away. My urge is to say, "Let's get f....ing Corporate on the phone and tell them how much we think the idea sucks." After all you know how much the management desires feedback!

Well I have provided a list of ten irritations. Sadly, I have more, but will gladly save them for another time. After all this bombast maybe I will watch TV to calm myself. After all, what is wrong with seeing the same commercial repeated over and over again. 

Mountain High

These past several weeks I have been going every day either on short hikes or, whenever the conditions have cooperated, downhill skiing. Above are some pictures I have taken on some of my recent outings.

The first scene was snapped from the deck of the mid-mountain Pine Martin Lodge at Mt. Bachelor after a "bluebird" morning on the slopes. It shows the snowy peaks of South Sister, one a series of three inactive, closely clustered volcanos. Several years ago, I climbed to this lovely lady's crest and consider that trek to the summit the quintessential event of my love affair with hiking. I memorialized the experience by using a photo of my happy but exhausted self as the signature picture for my adventure blog. Today's picture shows a double-layered lenticular cloud, looking like a white bonnet, resting jauntily on the sister's top. If you are curious about this aspect of climatology here is a link to Wikipedia.

The second shot is a perspective of the Cascades taken from the high desert east of Bend. So many people from out of state believe Oregon is a rainy, green, mountainous state, but don't realize that well over half the state is dry and flat. The mountains serve as shield to prevent marine moisture from crossing over them and the result is an ecosystem filled with juniper trees, sagebrush, and rocky outcroppings. Under the ground of the desert are miles of lava tubes, some of which have openings that beckon to cave-exploring enthusiasts. On the day this photo was taken, I was on my way to Pictograph Caves, a hard-to-find destination, where some intriguing Indian drawings can be found adorning its opening.

The third picture is a panoramic view of Mt. Bachelor taken from Bend's Old Mill District, a shopping complex tastefully constructed on the site of an old lumber mill. While standing on one of the miles of riverfront walking paths which meander along the Deschutes River, I spied a number of mallard ducks and pesky Canadian geese bathing in the last glow of sunlight. In the distance looms the imposing, timeless form of the mountain, gazing like a stately, benevolent king surveying his kingdom. His Majesty has bestowed on me some of the richest moments of my life while hanging on to his flanks.

Under the magical light and deep mysterious shadows cast from the jagged, crowned horizon, I do my best to mark my days in increments of joy. The magnetic force which lies within the mountains' heights holds an essence that has embraced me and granted me the thrill of feeling alive. What better backyard could a fella ask for in which to play?

Dedicated to Christopher Hitchens

The passing of Christopher Hitchens has caused me to look intensely at my life and to examine some of my earliest memories concerning religion. Consequently these past several days my daily adventure has criss-crossed the trail of recollection leading to my childhood and has led me to a puzzling landscape of long ago. Sadly I have come to realize that so many key memories are like peaks lost in the clouds or are, more similarly, like unrecoverable bytes drifting in cyberspace from a damaged hard drive. I feel like a historian who has to do research on a time where the documents no longer exist and the people who could possibly reveal pertinent information have perished. Even so, the challenge remains the same, namely to glean from the few memories a semblance of truth without judgment.

I assembled a list of questions to help me with the task, which included when I first knew I was Jewish and did I ever truly believe in God. It would be simple if the genesis of my Jewish identity were attributable to one poignant moment, like the recollection of my mother showing me the mezuzah on our doorpost, or on a particular Saturday morning standing next to my father at the temple as the Torah was carried about the sanctuary, helping him touch the scroll with his tallis. Yet this is not the case. Judaism enveloped me gradually and seeped uninvited into my consciousness. Its presence almost totally pervaded my family's social and cultural activities and, like oxygen in the air, I breathed it in automatically.

I don't know when I learned the imperative to believe in God, but at an early age would have professed that I did. I had heard the word in the English translation of Hebrew prayers which were recited and had sensed that this figure played an important role in evaluating the high moral Jewish life that was expected of me. Although I misbehaved a lot, I so much wanted to be understood as a good boy. Believing in God felt obligatory in order to achieve this goal. My first vision of God came while lying in bed before falling asleep. I saw a tall, kindly man looking at me who I thought was God. Only later I realized the face was that of the father of Peter Meyers, a friend who lived across the hall. I suppose many children have similar fantasies. Christian children may have been instilled to see the face of Jesus, but when I asked my son about his first vision of God, he narrated that he had also seen a familiar face, except it was the face of the man he knew from the tail of Alaska Airlines planes. To this day I still feel the compulsion to believe, but not necessarily the conviction.

Another question I sought to answer was this: When had I become aware of Christians or Gentiles? Early on, I sensed and learned by listening to my parents' conversation that non- Jews were superficially friendly, latently dangerous, and quite different socially from Jews. Also there were many more of them than us. One of my first memories was of the nursery school to which my mother took me. It was housed in a spacious playroom attached to a Baptist church. As soon as she left I felt abandoned and sat for hours pushing wooden block trains around waiting to be picked up. Feeling like a captive in an ominous building with strange windows, odors, and spires, I knew this place belonged to Gentiles, not us, and it awakened a certain angst which I can still feel today. Also Hyde Park, on Chicago's South Side where I lived, was located near many run-down black neighborhoods. Whether riding with my mom on the IC elevated train to go downtown, traveling by car to my father's sign shop, or looking out the window of streetcars or buses, I saw what was then called "colored people" who, above all, looked scary to me and who also were definitely not Jewish. In fact, I began to believe that I belonged to a family and group that was special and smarter than others and that my sister, cousins, and Jewish friends appeared to feel the same way. I remember never wishing to believe in Santa Claus or having a tree. If anything, I may have thought that Christmas time seemed like a season of weird, silly behavior for others, although I enjoyed the catchy melody of Jingle Bells.

I would be remiss if I didn't relate when I first became aware of anti-Semitism. My parents, who were Holocaust survivors, clearly didn't want to frighten me with gruesome personal stories which, in part, they strove to forget. Nonetheless, on many a Saturday evening, my parents entertained other Jewish couples in our livingroom to discuss the painful past. I was allowed to listen for a while, but then was sent to bed. I understood so little, but was intrigued by the energy level and earnestness of the talk. I would creep out of bed and lie out of sight in the bedroom hall to listen. I heard words like Hitler, Nazis, Roosevelt, the Pope, Catholics and Protestants. Eventually my eavesdropping was discovered and I was ushered off to bed. I knew something bad had happened to Jews but it took place somewhere else, at a different time, and I felt reasonably safe. Likewise on my 5th or 6th birthday, my Uncle Paul and my father started me on my lifelong hobby of stamp collecting and because my parents spoke German, stamps from Germany took on a special importance. I remember sticking into my book little pictures of the bad man I had heard about, Hitler, and attaching a colorful series of stamps embossed with swastikas. These stamps took on a special value to me, as if by hinging them to pages I insured that they couldn't hurt me.

I have struggled to recall when I was first exposed to direct anti-Jewish sentiments. Like children who have buried memories of abuse, there must have been some catalyst which first generated the festering fear of man's cruelty that I still experience today. I know that actual derisive comments by mean-spirited classmates started when I was a pre-teen in Junior High, but by then I had already felt a much greater malevolent, albeit subtle, threat planted in me. It manifested itself as an internal voice that quietly urged me to accept Jesus and Christianity as the true path and reject traditional Judaism. It is possible that the wife of the caretaker of our building, Mrs. De Baer, was a zealot. I think one day she found me playing in the garden by her apartment and told me of the importance of loving Jesus, but I can not be certain. In any case, as an emotionally vulnerable six- or seven-year-old, I lacked the ability to respond. Many other important non-Jewish adults delivered the message in a myriad of ways that it was wrong to be Jewish. Even on television, while changing channels I came upon evangelists preaching to a public which included me. I understood little of what was said, except I felt threatened, almost terrified, by a deep voice in me that told me I was supposed to listen, betray my roots, and give myself up to an obvious truth. Consequently I would rapidly change the channel. Even today I still feel hounded by the voice and therefore have developed a visceral repugnance when I see crucifixes, churches with inane messages marketing faith on their readerboards, Christian bumper stickers, fish car ornaments, or signs attached to trees telling me to "believe" and be "saved." Some evangelicals with whom I have spoken have claimed self-servingly that, what I began to hear as a child is in fact the true voice and love of God. I also have been told that certain coincidences in my life were actually spiritual omens being revealed to me. One thing I do know for certain is that this alleged offering of love which started when I was a child generated both anxiety and guilt throughout my life. Today I see the voice as a virus or a poison embedded in my system which my will has combatted unceasingly all these years.

After reading Christopher Hitchens it seems easy to agree that religion is based on dangerous myth from a more primitive time of human existence, and that it robs people of doing genuine, righteous acts. He suggests that a secular world based on honesty through science and reason is preferable and more applicable for our times. Tonight I ask myself if would I be willing to forfeit the value of the fond childhood memories of my father on Shabbat tearing off pieces of Challa, putting salt on them and, like precious stones, handing the twisted bread to my mother, my sister, and me because I know that the idea of the ceremony is really based on nonsense. Is it worth the sacrifice in order to paint life accurately in logical tones?

It is growing late and my inability to resolve this issue in my mind is beginning to feel toxic so that further consideration best be postponed. Instead it may be time to calm myself and listen on Pandora radio to Vivaldi's exquisitely beautiful Baroque music and sense through its inspiring continuo the praise of God who is forever turning the wheel of the universe. Then again, I could watch the evening news.