For years, I've wondered about the notion of "only the good die young". In my life, I've known amazingly good people who have died too young. (One of whom, I'll be remembering very soon on December 15.)
Why is it that the "bad" outlast the good? And how do we know if there is a hell?
I think I figured it out.
The "good" die young to leave the "bad" behind. And hell is having to live out life without their presence. Hell isn't fire and brimstone and demons and pointy tails. It's the constant questions of "why them and not me?" It's "what's wrong with me, that they never stay?" "If I'm so great, so amazing, so strong, why am I always the one left behind? What did I do wrong and how can I fix it?"
The fact that those answers are never given is hell. You will die never having those answers.
That's the definition of hell.
Who knew that one of my favorite blonde jokes would, indeed, be my greatest undoing...
"How do you keep a blonde in suspense?"
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Kristallnacht: Night of Broken Glass
There's a story in my family about my grandfather. Memory doesn't serve me on whether or not it, in fact, took place on Kristallnacht, or I always think about it around Kristallnacht because of the imagery. Either way, it's one that I always think of today. But I don't think it's ever been put down. So I'm doing that today.
My grandfather's name was Baruch Wasser. Most people, however, knew him as Bernard Wasser. In all the pictures I've seen of him, he reminds me of Telly Savalas, only with a softer expression in his face. I'm not sure he ever had hair. He had eyebrows, that I can see. He was born in Prussia, and raised in an Orthodox family. He was a talmudic scholar, and part of a very loving family. In his early adolescence, however, the Russian armies were forcibly inducting young boys, Jewish boys, into the army. It was certain death and, despite the implications of what it meant, his father sent him away, knowing it was likely neither would see each other, or speak, again. And, so it was.
My grandfather ended up working on my grandmother's family estate. They were a very wealthy, well-respected, non-Jewish German family. My grandmother was an athlete. She was a horseback rider, and was on the Olympic gymnastics team. She was slated to win gold for Germany, and, knowing her and her determination, she would have, had she not dropped out in protest of Hitler turning that year's Olympic games into a propaganda opportunity.
My grandfather, and grandmother, became part of the resistance. There are many stories about how they, together and independently, worked against the Nazi regime. Let's leave it at the point where my grandfather was being actively sought after by the Gestapo.
He had, eventually, begun a business in the textile industry in Berlin, and had a small apartment. Many of his colleagues and clients, Jewish and non-Jewish were, in fact, assisting him with the resistance. And, unanimously, they all loved my grandfather, as he was an exceptionally kind man.
By this time, my grandfather still had very high regard for the level of observance he was raised with, but he wasn't actively Orthodox. The times weren't conducive to it. It was also a safe presumption that, at this stage in his life, his father had long passed away.
One night, in the middle of the night, my father was awoken by a figure at the foot of his bed. He looked up, and it was his father, shaking him, in yiddish, telling him, "Baruch," to go to shul. "Get up, get your talit and tefillin, and GO TO SHUL."
"But, it's the middle of the night!" Why he was arguing with the ghost of his father in the middle of the night telling him to get up and go to shul, I couldn't tell you, but he resisted, and ultimately listened. He took his talit, his tefillin, and went to the closest synnagogue. Of course, this was breaking curfew, and risking his life to go to a Jewish synnagogue, but, when your dead father comes back to tell you to do something, no matter how resistant you were at the beginning, you do it.
He went, recited the Shacharit service, and went back to his apartment. Well, almost...
As my grandfather approached his apartment building, one of his friends ran out, grabbed him, and pulled him into an alley, embracing him, as though he, himself, had seen a ghost.
"Bernard! Oh, Bernard! Thank goodness! You're alive!!!!"
"Yes... of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You mean, you don't know? You didn't run?"
"Run? Run from what?"
"Bernard! The Gestapo just raided your apartment! Get out of here!! RUN!"
And, so he did.
My grandfather's name was Baruch Wasser. Most people, however, knew him as Bernard Wasser. In all the pictures I've seen of him, he reminds me of Telly Savalas, only with a softer expression in his face. I'm not sure he ever had hair. He had eyebrows, that I can see. He was born in Prussia, and raised in an Orthodox family. He was a talmudic scholar, and part of a very loving family. In his early adolescence, however, the Russian armies were forcibly inducting young boys, Jewish boys, into the army. It was certain death and, despite the implications of what it meant, his father sent him away, knowing it was likely neither would see each other, or speak, again. And, so it was.
My grandfather ended up working on my grandmother's family estate. They were a very wealthy, well-respected, non-Jewish German family. My grandmother was an athlete. She was a horseback rider, and was on the Olympic gymnastics team. She was slated to win gold for Germany, and, knowing her and her determination, she would have, had she not dropped out in protest of Hitler turning that year's Olympic games into a propaganda opportunity.
My grandfather, and grandmother, became part of the resistance. There are many stories about how they, together and independently, worked against the Nazi regime. Let's leave it at the point where my grandfather was being actively sought after by the Gestapo.
He had, eventually, begun a business in the textile industry in Berlin, and had a small apartment. Many of his colleagues and clients, Jewish and non-Jewish were, in fact, assisting him with the resistance. And, unanimously, they all loved my grandfather, as he was an exceptionally kind man.
By this time, my grandfather still had very high regard for the level of observance he was raised with, but he wasn't actively Orthodox. The times weren't conducive to it. It was also a safe presumption that, at this stage in his life, his father had long passed away.
One night, in the middle of the night, my father was awoken by a figure at the foot of his bed. He looked up, and it was his father, shaking him, in yiddish, telling him, "Baruch," to go to shul. "Get up, get your talit and tefillin, and GO TO SHUL."
"But, it's the middle of the night!" Why he was arguing with the ghost of his father in the middle of the night telling him to get up and go to shul, I couldn't tell you, but he resisted, and ultimately listened. He took his talit, his tefillin, and went to the closest synnagogue. Of course, this was breaking curfew, and risking his life to go to a Jewish synnagogue, but, when your dead father comes back to tell you to do something, no matter how resistant you were at the beginning, you do it.
He went, recited the Shacharit service, and went back to his apartment. Well, almost...
As my grandfather approached his apartment building, one of his friends ran out, grabbed him, and pulled him into an alley, embracing him, as though he, himself, had seen a ghost.
"Bernard! Oh, Bernard! Thank goodness! You're alive!!!!"
"Yes... of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You mean, you don't know? You didn't run?"
"Run? Run from what?"
"Bernard! The Gestapo just raided your apartment! Get out of here!! RUN!"
And, so he did.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Web Site Manager/Project Manager's Prayer
Our Webmaster who art in Heaven,
Hallowed by thy URL and Twitter Handle,
Thy cyberspace come,
My will be done,
Online and IRL.
Give us, this day, our coffee intravenously,
And punish all those around us severely for their trespass,
As we will forever curse at them that trespass against us and our processes.
Lead us straight into temptation,
And deliver us from our inherent, yet witty, evil.
For thine is the Kingdom of Bug-free pages, non-existent typos, and glorious user-experience,
Forever and ever.
ISP On High, grant me the serenity,
To accept changes that I have demanded be changed,
Courage not to strangle those that mangle my requirements and copy and all things are must be changed,
And the wisdom to know the difference between competent and incompetent vendors and freelancers.
And let us say, AMEN!
Hallowed by thy URL and Twitter Handle,
Thy cyberspace come,
My will be done,
Online and IRL.
Give us, this day, our coffee intravenously,
And punish all those around us severely for their trespass,
As we will forever curse at them that trespass against us and our processes.
Lead us straight into temptation,
And deliver us from our inherent, yet witty, evil.
For thine is the Kingdom of Bug-free pages, non-existent typos, and glorious user-experience,
Forever and ever.
ISP On High, grant me the serenity,
To accept changes that I have demanded be changed,
Courage not to strangle those that mangle my requirements and copy and all things are must be changed,
And the wisdom to know the difference between competent and incompetent vendors and freelancers.
And let us say, AMEN!
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