An Interlude

 

We didn't start the fire

It was always burning, since the world's been turning

We didn't start the fire 

No, we didn't light it

Billy Joel wrote these song lyrics about a world he saw on fire back in 1989. He was in a recording studio and met a Gen Xer who lamented it was a terrible time to be 21. Joel replied, 'Yeah, I remember when I was 21 and thought that was an awful time. We had Vietnam, drugs, civil rights problems, and everything seemed to be awful.'

All true, the fire started long before.

That was then, and it was bad, but there's certainly no shortage of awful stiff today. In case you've been Rip Van Winkling since '89 and were just awakened, you'd peer above your face mask at a landscape pockmarked by pandemic, a major land war in Europe replete with war crimes & decimated cities, a megalomaniac armed with nukes scheming behind his reimagined Iron Curtain, global climate at the threshold of the ICU, extremism on the rise right and left, racism, democracies and truth on life support, a no longer supreme Court (the lower case 's' is not a typo), inflation, and fears of a worldwide recession, etc., etc., etc. And I haven't even gotten to the obscene, repeated mass slaughter of innocents with guns, lots of guns, military guns, always in the hands of disturbed citizens. 

We didn't start this fire

It was always burning

Given the enormity of the conflagration, as well as hindsight that it has always been and will likely go on, and on, and on, it's easy to petrify into inaction, grudgingly accepting the status quo.

Wait! Mr. Joel also had another take on the fire. His song continued with this lyric:

but we tried to fight it

Trying to fight is the right thing to do even if it feels like the Sisyphean labor of eternallly pushing that boulder up the slope only to have it repeatedly roll down to base. It's hard, very hard .... and draining.

So now is a good time to invoke guidance from Ethics of our Fathers (Pirkei Avot) - a compilation of maxims from Rabbinic tradition. Chapter 2:16 teaches, 'It is not up to you to finish the task, but you are not free to avoid it'. In the face of the current ginormous inferno, even a salve of Pirkei seems inadequate. Understandable ..... but unacceptable.

So I offer a solution, an interlude - a brief 'palate cleanser' before you begin your fight in the manner of your choosing.

Splash cool water on your face or take a hot soak, whatever it takes to recharge your batteries. Then rejoin the good fight.

Don't like getting wet? Here's another interlude suggestion before you swing into action. I just experienced it in real time but you can do so vicariously. Let yourself be carried away to the magical island of São Miguel, the largest of the Açorean archipelago located a few hundred miles west of Portugal's coast (Majesty-of-the-Açores). 

Enjoy seeing some sights, meeting the most friendly, courteous people .... and a few four legged friends (mostly cows which easily outnumber the locals). Then, soothed by the thermal waters and refreshed, fly back to join the fire brigade.

Ciao

We didn't start the fire

but we tried to fight it

photos © David Greenfield

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La Pièce de Résistance: a mystery

There it was, tucked deep in a rear corner of the chest of drawers. How could we have missed it? Hadn’t we just completed the final inspection sweep? The discovery rocked us both back on our heels. It also presented a haunting mystery, one we might never solve, but which nevertheless seemed to contain a message, a message from mom.

In the weeks after our mother was laid to rest, my sister I and spent countless hours in the draining task of shifting through and divvying up all the remaining cherished possessions of our parents’ home. They were collectors, making the task overwhelming at times. At long last we believed we were done, but then there it was - in a dark recess, a delicate, covered china dish. Naturally we expected to find yet another bracelet, pair of earrings, brooch, or pin within. 

It was none of the above. Inside were several dark ringlets of hair. 

                        

Could it possibly be? No way….  But then again …. 

There is a tale in family lore which might hold a clue to the mystery. How I learned about the tale is not clear, but somewhere along the journey I did.

Rachele circa 1946
photo - Joseph Greenfield

                           

My mother Rachele came of age just after Germany invaded and occupied Poland in 1939. As a young girl during those frightful times, she had long hair, frequently braided and curled in a bun. In her town of Kovel, now part of Ukraine, Jews were regularly being harassed, if not worse. For entertainment troops often enjoyed the spectacle of cutting off beards and hair, the longer, the more beautiful the curls, the greater their sport. 

Hearing what Germans were doing, the young Rachele had her parents cut off her locks, denying satisfaction to any soldier feeling the need to humiliate. It was an act of resistance which  later led me to consider her a member of “The Greatest Generation”. But her way to fight back was unlike that of the men and women profiled in Tom Brokaw’s best seller by the same name. Those men and women used guns and armor in their battle against fascism then returned home, were celebrated, and hit the reset to start life anew. For my mom, she used only her resolve to battle. Then after years as a refugee, she restarted life in a new country, raising a family and creating an always warm, welcoming balabatish* home. She did it while maintaining a good name and solid friendships all over the globe.  

But what about the pitch darkness she endured during the Holocaust** and kept locked within? In the ensuing years that bile would periodically erupt onto the surface. Considering the anguish our family experienced during those lows, and the brittleness of my mother’s final years, it was natural to lose sight of an earlier time. And therein lies a segue to the mystery.

Could it be Rachele’s shorn locks were somehow saved and hidden away, perhaps stored in a delicate china dish? Was she sending a message - “remember me not only by what you struggled through of late. I was once young and strong willed. Remember me also as such.”

I know we will. 

* balabatish - Quiet; respectable; well mannered, with a touch of elegance and generosity. From the Yiddish balabusta - an expression describing the perfect homemaker, someone who loves to bring family together by cooking and caring for them.

** Holocaust - The internationally recognized date for Holocaust Remembrance Day corresponds to the 27th day of Nissan on the Hebrew calendar. It marks the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. In Hebrew, Holocaust Remembrance Day is called Yom HaShoah.

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It's OK to Look Up

 

In fact we should.

With release of Netflix’ film Don’t Look Up, the not looking up meme entered our culture, and unfortunately for some folk, became their mindset. The film is a dark, satirical commentary about climate change and the inevitability of a ginormous, hugantic comet colliding with Planet Earth, destroying all life as we know it. The film hypothesizes how this looming global catastrophe plays out in current national arenas of politics, business, and social media. Spoiler alert! - the tale doesn’t end well for us humans as well as the rest of all earthly flora and fauna. No one lives happily ever after. 

So not looking up is really not a healthy modus operandi. In fact, aside from looking down to steer clear of hazardous to your health winter potholes and black ice, looking up is the way to go. Here’s why ……

 

When one gazes skyward at a boundless expanse of space, the possibilities appear infinite. All options are on the table. The canvas is blank, and therein lies the inspiration which sows seeds of creativity. Those seeds await the right time to germinate to yield new vistas for an enhanced quality of life. 

 

Looking up is also what we do with mentors. There is so much acquired wisdom to be gleaned from those who have been  around the block before. 

Learning from a mentor is also an opportune time for intergenerational bonding, allowing a younger generation to tap into a wellspring of experienced learning that can only come from those having been there and done that. It’s a veritable win-win.

Then there are parents and teachers.  

Who among us has not had the arc of their life bent by looking up to those who nurtured us from Day One? Or how about teachers who taught us about the world and later on helped set the direction of a career path? I certainly have. As the Covid Era has demonstrated, parents and teachers are true front line workers, an essential but too often unsung cohort without whom we would be lost. Looking up to them is the right thing to do.

Now getting back to the ‘comet’ of Don’t Look Up …. The film posits a humongous space rock indisputably on track to hit and vaporize Earth. Unfortunately for Don’t Look Up skeptics (and the rest of earthly life), inaction by keeping their heads in the sand and not looking up will soon render them history. But in the real world, we need to look up. That’s key to unlocking the potential of the human mind. That incredible asset, nurtured in part from those who’ve already amassed wisdom of the ages, can unleash a power to achieve the unachievable and bend the arc away from what appears inevitable. Perhaps then the comet, aka the climate change beast, will be tamed.

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images ©David Greenfield

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Look Down

 

‘Look down, Look down

Don't look 'em in the eye

Look down, Look down’

sung by Jean Valjean and Inspector Javert - principal characters in Les Miz

To avoid wrath of the law in the teeming, squalid streets of 1832 Paris, Jean Valjean, aka Prisoner 24601, and his fellow convicts made a practice of looking down to avert the eyes of their guards. It was good advice. Casting eyes south happens to be good advice for me now as well for two important reasons, one of health and one of choice. Both merged into sharp focus one frigid New Hampshire Valentine’s Day a decade ago. Here’s what  transpired.

The holiday get-away had come to a close and I was packing up the car. Perhaps with two more passes, maybe one if I really loaded up, I felt the task would be finished. Trying to be very efficient I opted for the latter, carrying all remaining bags. So, loaded to the hilt I stepped out for what I was sure would be the final trip. To borrow from Astronaut Neil Armstrong words as he stepped onto the Moonscape in 1969, that one small step for man turned out to be one giant leap into the OR for me. With eyes looking straight ahead I easily missed black ice below. So there I lay, on the floor with bags scattered around, but most having landed on my now shattered right ankle. It would require an orthopedic erector set of screws, plates, and wire to restore function. Ouch! Needless to say, I have been very strategic about where I plant my feet since that fateful day to ensure no reruns of this Valentine’s Day Massacre, especially during winter. That’s health advice I adhere to.  

Advice of choice for me lives within the photographic realm. The guideline to follow there starts with using one’s feet when in a compositional search of the optimum perspective. But once there, one should also pause to look behind, upward, and then downward. Sometimes that’s where the image will be found.  

Consider this scenario: my wife and I just completed an indoor self guided tour of the Hoover Dam’s inner workings. We then stepped out into a dazzling midday Nevada sun. Although eager to photograph the massive arched behemoth in its jaw-dropping panorama of the desert and Lake Mead, the blinding sunlight forced me to cast my eyes away. That’s where I saw shadows of the stair railings having etched an MC Escher-esque pattern on the sun bleached concrete …. click, I had the shot. Gradually as the rods and cones of my retina recovered from the shock of the indoor-outdoor transition, I was then able to capture other views of my original intent.

Back on the East Coast amidst skyscrapers in the concrete jungle of Manhattan, enough  sunlight to illuminate a scene is not a primary photographic concern. Finding an uncluttered background is the challenge. And therein lies another important guideline to follow - with camera in hand, seek a clean background for the main subject. It’s not an easy feat on the chockablock streets of the Big Apple, but looking down can pay dividends. For example, we were out for a stroll with my son and first grandchild, a two something little tot. To fully savor the experience, I took a step back to view the intergenerational family trio. But for complete enjoyment I needed to document the vision. Problem was I couldn’t isolate them from the distractions of all those New Yorkers bustling about.Then I looked down. There it was, the three hand in hand in synchronized step. Click. It’s become one of my most endearing images. 

Circling back, looking down helped Jean Valjean in his quest to endure years of captivity. Looking down continues to help me in the quest to avoid winter's pitfalls. It's also important in  the continuous quest for capturing the optimum image.

images © David Greenfield

To all my followers I wish you a safe, healthful, and fruitful new year. 

The Big Chill - one that warms the heart

How can stepping into a room sized freezer chilled to arctic temperatures immediately infuse the body with a warm rush? It's not alternative science or fake science, it actually happened not long ago as Bernice stepped over the threshold of a new stainless ice box built in situ for Family Table - the food distribution arm of Jewish Family & Children's Service (JF&CS).

Bernice is Director of this Waltham based program. From its hub and two satellite outposts, Family Table's network covers over 100 Massachusetts towns providing food to more than 500 families of all denominations including 350 who lack transportation. And Family Table volunteer teams do it every week of every month. Distributions not only nourish bodies of clients, they nurture their souls by empowering them to choose from among the specific healthy food offerings which fit their needs. Knowing that can certainly warm your heart.

But it's not enough.

Cars lined up to receive clients' shopping bags of selected foods.
During the pandemic rather than having food choices
made in-person inside the Family Table Marketplace,
families pre-order.

Shopping bags are then custom packed and labeled... 

... and placed directly into clients' vehicles by volunteers.

Food insecurity was a big problem pre-pandemic; now it's much worse. Family Table needed to expand operations to meet the demand. Key to this enhanced capability was The Big Chill, a tripling of freezer and refrigeration space. The existing cold storage area was already stacked to the brim, its aisles full with barely any room to maneuver.

So, a master plan was drawn up and contractors hired. Carpenters, electricians, and other tradespeople then tooled away for five weeks to enlarge Family Table's footprint within JF&CS' HQ building.

Laying out the space for the new freezer

For refrigeration, a 'special ops' team, Royal Cooling Corp, dropped in and built a giant new freezer to accomplish The Big Chill.

This is Royal's story.

Daniel, head of the Royal team, studies installation schematics.

In an earlier life the Royal guys must have enjoyed and been good at painting-by-the-number kits and working with Lego blocks. Why? Because when stacks and stacks of freezer components were delivered, each of the larger than life sized panels had to first be meticulously numbered and labeled for proper orientation before initiating assembly. 

Then the work began.

 

Wheeling in the super-sized insulated freezer panels

Installation starts from the bottom, beginning with the floor sections 

Corner pieces are next

Walls slide in and are locked in place

The door is added

Floor sections are sealed

Daniel makes the electrical hookup and charges the unit

The Big Chill

Steve takes a final peek; the unit is ready to load

Royal's mission is accomplished - job well done

The expansion project affords Family Table the opportunity to increase its impact every month. Even with the enhanced space it can't finish the overarching mission of eliminating food insecurity, but the program did take a big step forward in the right direction. 

Now that's heartwarming. 

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images ©David Greenfield 2021

The full story of Family Table's Expansion can be seen here.

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The Orange One

"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

That's not actor Peter Finch's oft quoted venting in the 1976 movie 'Network', it's my inflamed left hip taking a stand and saying it's done working the clutch. My wife and I just returned home from an outing to Rye Playland with our NYC grandkids. Forty percent of the driving time in my beloved 5-speed KIA Soul was spent mired in stall & crawl traffic. So, after scarfing down ibuprofen, I was ready to schedule a hip replacement for the aching joint. I was also primed to reluctantly trade the manual shifting KIA for a new automatic ride. Little did I suspect in that painful haze, that the prelude to the 1990s war brewing in Chechnya would influence my new car buying experience.

My eldest grandson loved the KIA.
It was almost perfect for his size.
Even for a city kid, he couldn't wait to drive.

It was a sobering moment as the reality of my decades of happily shifting gears would soon be over. Pausing for a moment, I reminisced about some favorite previous rides - the first, a solid as a tank '62 Volvo 122S, followed by a classic '68 Mustang, a sleek '71 P1800E, '77 Isuzu Trooper, and of course the KIA Soul. All were equipped with manual transmissions. I loved the sensation of throwing the floor stick forward into overdrive on highways and scenic byways, then pulling back to downshift on curves while blasting tapes (yes, tapes) of Fleetwood Mac. But anticipating future NYC marathon drives to see family, the choice now before me was between a titanium hip or an automatic transmission. It was a no-brainer, those exhilarating driving days were over.

The 1971 fuel injected Volvo P1800E.
It had some restorative body work done to repair effects of NE winters;
I did not

Now fast forward to a Subaru showroom after my car trading/buying negotiations were completed. Those also necessitated ibuprofen but I was on the verge of selecting from one of two shiny new Crosstrek model options available in the dealer's current inventory. The choice boiled down to color - one was silver, the other a bright 'you can't miss it' citrusy color.

In my mind it was obvious; I'll go with silver. My most recent cars were silver, as was my hair, so I was accustomed to that ubiquitous shade. But my wife Carol pushed me the other way, "Go for the orange one". "But I'm locked in a silver/grey mode!" I countered. That said, I know she's reliably right about pending decisions. Yet, I equivocated. 

Meanwhile the salesman was tapping his toes, his patience was wearing thin - which of the two sets of keys should he hand over before icing the deal? Then I happened to turn the page of the Crosstrek sales brochure to the official color chart. Suddenly I had an epiphany, decision made! "I'll go with the orange one". But why would a fruit suddenly change the course of years of my car buying decisions? Here's the side story which bolstered my acquiescence.

Carol and the new Crosstrek
The beachball was not part of Subaru's accessory package

On the recommendation of dear friends, the prior evening we viewed a subtitled film set inAbkhazia, a Russian-backed separatist region in the breakaway republic of Georgia.

Abkhazia is in the northwest sector abutting the Russian border

Ivo, an Estonian man has decided to stay behind in his ethnically Estonian enclave and harvest his crop of tangerines. In the bloody conflict between Abkhazian troops battling Chechnyan mercenaries, a wounded man is left behind. Ivo takes him in. The film plot line unfolds as a morality tale addressing issues of conflict, reconciliation, and pacifism. It was a captivating movie, not surprisingly nominated for Best Foreign Language film at the Academy Awards and Golden Globes. By the way, the film was titled Tangerines.

Turns out Subaru's designated color name for 'the orange one' was tangerine. It was a sign I couldn't ignore. And so ended the days of silver cars, my Crosstrek is 'orange'. 

photos © David Greenfield

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The man who was always a boy

 

Walter in uniform
photo courtesy of his daughter Eva 

It was always special sitting lakeside shooting the breeze with Walter each summer when he and his wife came to visit. Our conversations had an atypical resonance, very different from those I might have with anyone else. He had a way of boring into the marrow space of your thoughts, and you didn't realize it was happening until later. How was he able to do that?

Several years ago while watching a Boston Film Festival documentary, I thought for sure I figured it out. The film recounted the exploits of an elite US Army unit known as the Ritchie Boys, young GIs of German ancestry trained in reconnaissance at Camp Ritchie in Maryland. Multilingual and with high IQs, the Boys' primary charge was providing intelligence and conducting battlefield interrogations in the European theater. Having escaped to the US from Germany prior to the blitzkrieg, and then promptly drafted into the US Army, Walter appeared to fit the profile - he had to be a Ritchie Boy. I found out indeed he was. In a way, our lakeside chats were actually interrogations, albeit forgiving ones. But they were just one chapter in Walter's story. The saga of his life spanned a journey as expansive as the ocean he crossed and as courageous as his parachute drops into battle zones. 

Normandy - June 2001
© David Greenfield 

The men in Walter's early life were WWI veterans and German-Jewish patriots. All believed Germany was the greatest country despite its broken status after wartime defeat and subsequent humbling treatment at Versailles. In the antebellum years when the National Socialist Party replaced the governing Weimar Republic with its own platform squarely laying blame for the country's misfortunes on the Jews, life gradually deteriorated for Walter's family. Neighbors who initially ignored the Nazi's ranting soon believed Jews were responsible for   their woes. The continuous stream of vitriol struck a chord with Walter's classmates as well. Although an admired star athlete, Walter's daily trek to school soon became marred by abuse and beatings. When it became clear the situation would not end well, the family felt compelled to leave their home. They managed to get passage aboard a ship headed for the United States in the shrinking time window before the exit gates slammed shut.

As a naturalized US citizen and member of the armed services, in short order Walter staged a return to the Europe he left behind - that time via parachute as chief interrogator attached to the 82nd Airborne. He landed in Normandy on D-Day+7. During ensuing missions, his prowess in combat, interrogation skills, command of language, and familiarity with the terrain all proved invaluable.

Omaha Beach, Normandy - June 2001
© David Greenfield

After V-E Day in 1945 Walter returned to civilian life having attained the rank of Master Sergeant. His legacy is one of distinguished Ritchie Boy and decorated paratrooper. Although often the subject of Walter's interrogations, I will always be proud to have had Walter as my friend and remember him fondly on this Veterans Day.

 At Walter's grandson's wedding - 2007
photo courtesy Walter's daughter Eva

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