East vs. West

Rocky Mountain National Park

About three minutes after Tanya and I began our hike from the Deer Ridge Junction Trailhead in Rocky Mountain National Park, my breaths became labored.  My lungs recalled before I did that I had, over the course of two days, shifted about 9,500 feet in altitude.  The result was my requiring three hours to cover an easy five miles, my pace reminiscent of an elderly rehab patient.  Maybe with a walker I could have moved a bit more briskly.

That said, it was a glorious Shabbat:  the weather was beautiful, the scenery lovely.  When we took a rest and snack break, a majestic bird of iridescent blue (I've concluded, after a few minutes of Googling, that it was a Steller's Jay) was gracious enough to hang with us for a while and I fed it some sunflower seeds.  Another highlight from yesterday was sitting with Tanya at a rural, stream-side coffee shop, sipping our drinks in the sun.  

It was nice to be a Westerner again for a day - here in Boulder for CU Parents' weekend.  Not that living in the West means being able to live a life of leisure.  It's more of the outward focus - the value on the physical and the natural.  

My huffing and puffing along Deer Mountain trail served to remind me that this is no longer my element.  I have chosen, at least for now, to cast my lot with the heady and driven inner-focused culture that is the D.C. area.  My struggles for breath on the mountaintops of Western Colorado brought to mind the struggles I am having adapting myself to the mores of a more traditional, more structured, more detail-oriented East-coast Judaism.  Simply asking, "Is it meaningful?" is not sufficient in an environment that is more concerned with, "Is it correct?"  

I suppose my life is in line with all the Jewish world right now - metaphorically homeless and dwelling (or at least eating) in sukkahs:  temporary and fragile backyard huts, open wide to the elements.  We are all wanderers for this week of Sukkot -- all living uneasily between things, all teetering on the edges of established societies.  

We traditionally read on Sukkot from the book of Kohelet:  הֲבֵל הֲבָלִים הַכֹּל הָבֶל
"Breath of breaths, all is breath," is one way to translate.
It could mean that everything, being transient, is meaningless.  I can't and don't accept that particular interpretation.
Breath is transient and unseen and it's also the foundation of all life.  The oxygen we breathe so often goes ignored by us, but does that make it insubstantial?  At 10,000 feet, having been working on acclimating to sea level, I can feel Kohelet's meaning.  "All is breath," is about the unique significance of the transient, the dependence we build (wisely or unwisely) on a particular environment, and about how the totality of life can be seen as the stringing together of small and momentary triumphs, disappointments, adaptations, encounters and revelations. 

Keep on truckin' . . .

The Holy Days are nearly upon us and last year at this season I anticipated myself living an independent life by the start of 5773.  I keep thinking about what the Holy Days mean to me this year and the answer changes daily.  This morning my thought is that my chief prayer should be for strength and patience.  On self-pitying days, Psalm 13 seems very resonant.  On my better days I'm able to be with the exuberant hopefulness of Psalm 118 and rejoice in the holiness of the present moment.  There are definitely successes, joys and blessings within this tough, often depressing, situation.

Below is a piece I submitted to the Washington Post's "Apartment Hunter" column.  The column features individuals looking for rental space writing about their process, their expectations, their frustrations, the way they adapt dream to reality.  The Post wasn't interested but who needs them when I have you, my own massive blog readership?

I submit for your reading pleasure . . . 

If you were to glance at the desktop background on my laptop, you would take in the postcard-scenic view from my former balcony:  autumnally-colored trees, beautifully landscaped community grounds, a shimmering pond, all set off by the Boise foothills. I loved my light and airy townhouse (on the Boise River, 7 minutes from downtown/12 by bike trail, “never-lock-the-door” safe, 1100 square feet, attached 2-car garage).  I tried not to share the monthly rent with locals, as the $930 per month I was paying by the end of my tenure was considered shockingly exorbitant.  I loved the natural beauty and outdoor-orientation of Idaho, my home of 18 years.  I loved raising my daughters in a small, idyllic city, loved the down-to-earth people, loved the general ease of life.  But as it is with the human spirit, visions and dreams of what could be so often breed real-life dissatisfaction.  My days of intensive childrearing were about to reach an end and all this was simply not enough. 

I was a divorced rabbi living in an environment that couldn’t offer me key components of what my soul needed to thrive personally or professionally.  So in March, my baby poised to graduate from Boise High, I pulled my Subaru wagon out of the driveway, my dutiful younger brother following behind in a 17’ U-Haul crammed full of my possessions, and drove 2500 miles to Montgomery County, Maryland to become a statistic.

According to a Post article, “Between 2007 and 2010, the number of adult children who resided in their parents’ households increased by 1.2 million (Most of those, the Census notes, were between 25 and 34.).”  Message to parents: don’t get complacent just because your daughter/son has moved past the young adult demographic.  You still may join the ranks of those like my own mom and dad, their 51-year-old daughter now occupying their spare bedroom.

The particular details of my life may be somewhat unique (okay, very unique) but I believe I represent a larger phenomenon:  mid-life moms who, having sacrificed personal career ambitions for parenting responsibilities, now seek to use our energy and professional education and experience to take on the world.  So here I am, World, rearing to go!  Except that I'm still not even close to full employment.  Or to occupying my own living space.

Although my entire extended family currently resides in Montgomery County, we all started our lives’ journeys in the greater New York area.  So at least I’m not sleeping in the same room where once hung my fuzzy blacklight posters and Playbills for The Forum and Pippin.  Somehow, returning to my childhood home would feel far more depressing.  Although I am (when not in my newly established rotation of local coffee shops) revising resumes and cover letters on the same desk in which I carved my initials during the Carter administration. 

Without an actual income, it might seem silly to be looking for a rental space.  I like to say that it’s for pragmatic reasons: when I am fully employed I won’t have sufficient time to search for an apartment.  But the process cuts far deeper than prudent time management.  Apartment hunting represents my personal leap of faith.  I look, prematurely, for my own space in order to convince myself that the world will indeed come to see me as relevant:  that even after five months of somewhat steady employment rejection, an organization or institution in this youth-oriented society will acknowledge that wisdom gleaned from decades of life experience and a varied work history is valuable.  For me, the hunt for a rental unit is all about hope.  

My dear friends:  a 5773 of hope, fulfillment and peace.

Love,

Laura

It is upon us

You never know what will happen in services.  


That's maybe an odd statement to make when you're only attending Shabbat worship in Conservative synagogues.  It seems to this Reform rabbi like the last time they introduced a new innovation was the wild 'n' crazy move to add a prayer for the state of Israel in 1948 (and -- to be fair -- some do mix it up by adding the foremothers into the Amidah).


But even when surrounded by the comfy security blanket that is a fixed traditional liturgy - and perhaps as a result of it - there are unpredictable moments of spiritual insight.  Such was the case this past Shabbat as I bent my knees to bow eastward for Aleynu.


Aleynu means, "it is upon us" - in this case: "It is upon us to praise the Lord of all."  In that moment of spiritual physicality - bending and bowing toward something beyond me, my needs, my wants - I experienced a sharp twinge of resentment.  I didn't want to bow.  I wanted to stand my ground with firm resolve.


Summer's a bit of a dead zone in the Jewish world.  Clergy are on Sabbatical, synagogue programming grinds to a halt, Jewish institutions take this time to plan Fall programs and ready themselves for the High Holy Days.  I feel like the networking/connection-forging momentum I was building has slowed to a snail's pace.  


I'm nervous about the upcoming year - the part-time pieces of work I've managed to cobble together will not enable me to live independently in this pricey part of the world and I continue to wonder and doubt.  Why?  When?  This isn't moving at a pace I like.  I don't know why I can't have what others have.  I don't understand why I'm not able to use my personal gifts and passions professionally.  Why isn't my life looking the way I want it to?


There was something revelatory in that Aleynu moment.  I don't want to praise - I don't want to accept - I don't want to accede to a greater reality that is the world that is.  But that's what this piece of liturgy is about, isn't it?  


It's not:  "We are thrilled to praise . . . " or "It's so easy for us to praise . . . "  Instead it's:  "It is upon us - it is a necessity - to praise."


These words are a spiritualization of the reality that we can't always get what we want.  I can spend my life mourning the "is" that "isn't."  I can focus on how things aren't measuring up to the ideal world in my imagination.  But instead my tradition makes me bow to something that is beyond my personal control.  My life has aspects that are subject to my influence but never will things go completely according to personal plan.  It is upon me to acknowledge this and to appreciate and praise what is:  to understand that it is good.  This is how life is unfolding.  It is upon me to find a way to live happily and well within the confines of this life only partly of my making.

In lieu of analysis, more pics from the city with a doggy spa and halal cart on every block.  

I saw a great show at the brand spankin' new Claire Tow Theater at Lincoln Center last night:  "Slowgirl."  I loved it.  And Victor Garber was among my fellow audience members -- known to all of us with teenage daughters as Professor Callahan from - what else - Legally Blonde.

Let me also add that Roger Rees and his partner were in front of me on line at a snack shop in the Theater District last weekend.  This is the tiny city where those of celebrity have no choice but to mix with those of my personal ilk.

I think my favorite element of this photo is the woman second from the right:
"Get out of my %*#-in' way," reads the practically visible thought bubble.

Some NY pics

I'm in my final days of a 2-1/2 week Hebrew ulpan program on the Upper West Side of NY and cramming in all the sights/neighborhoods/culture I can stand in the afternoons and evenings after class.  

No time to write, so here's today's photos from the Meatpacking District, the High Line (the newest, bestest NY thing) and Chelsea.

Enjoy!

Unfortunately I was in running shoes today.
All right, so I'm a dolt.

On the High Line:
note how the wooden lounge chairs roll along the former industrial track.

Where Marnie works --
For my fellow Lena Dunham/"Girls" fans

Am I too cool or what?

Behold:  my DC Metro Smartrip card AND my NYC MTA MetroCard
This Idaho girl's urban sophistication knows no bounds.

Signs of assimilation

Signs of my Idaho identity being chipped away:

My very own Metro Smartcard

"Famous Potatoes," where art thou?
At least my bumper stickers still proclaim Gem State ties.

Ya-chol nuchal lah!

"Shelach-l'cha anashim v'yaturu et eretz . . . " ("Send for yourself people to scout out the land  . . ") :  so begins our Torah portion this week, the portion I'll be reading Shabbat morning during a local synagogue's alternative chapel service.  In the parshah, twelve scouts are sent out from among the Israelite leadership to assess the situation in the land God has promised.  Upon their return, the report - realistically - is a mixed bag.  

"Yes, it's quite fertile and lush.  And check out these giant grapes!  But - the bad news - the people are also oversized - and well-prepared for battle."

Ten of the twelve scouts say that despite promises of success from God, they should abort the entire mission.  This just can't possibly end well, they predict.  Joshua and Caleb, who have been out on the same mission as the other scouts, foresee success:  "Yachol nuchal lah!" ("We can surely do it!")

This story is immensely personal this year.  Beginning back last Fall, when I decided I would seriously scout out the DC area for rabbinic possibilities, I heard a vast array of perspectives on the wisdom of making this move.

"There's so many rabbis here.  It's a saturated market."

"There's so many unemployed rabbis everywhere - could you go into another field?"

"The Jewish community here is growing - there are many possibilities if you're willing to be entrepreneurial."

"Maybe you could stay with hospital chaplaincy."

"There's always pulpits with rabbis retiring or leaving - you just have to keep asking around."

"So many other rabbis have tried to make it here and haven't been able to."

"It's hard to break into this community but it can be done.  It might take you a year."

According to my calculations, 83% of Moses' spies negatively assessed their odds of making it in this unknown land.  I'd say that my conversations yielded a more positive ratio of encouraging sentiments.  Yet the negative - the pessimistic - the worst case scenario - is what tends to hit you at your core, right?  Especially when you're already - privately - full of anxiety and self-doubt.  During the lowest moments comes the inevitable thought:  "Maybe they're right."

My anxiety comes in waves and gets sparked unpredictably.  I'll suddenly be full of regret and insecurity after a well-intentioned conversation I had with someone - "Why did I say that?  Was I too enthusiastic?  Did I come across as too emotional?  Could they have taken that one statement the wrong way?"  I'm randomly overwhelmed with doubt.  Having been living uneasily in the unknown for several months, I find I have increasing difficulty maintaining solid faith in myself and my judgement.  My life on sand, I have lost some emotional traction.

The ten pessimistic spies describe the people dwelling in the land they are to enter as giants.  There is a teaching that the spies perceived them as giants out of their own anxiety - in their fear and lack of faith they perceived their obstacles as supernaturally larger than life.

I want to be Joshua and Caleb.  But I sometimes feel myself slipping into the insecurity of the faithless.

Ultimately, I came to the decision that I could and would make this move.  I had faith that my passion for Jewish tradition and my gift for creatively conveying that passion would bring me together with some community that would appreciate and welcome my offerings.

There will always be those around us who want to share negative reports - scary reports - negative assessments and predictions of failure and doom.  This week's portion teaches us that embracing life is about setting aside the doomsaying and knowing that success is possible:  it may not end up looking exactly as planned or coming as quickly as desired.  But each of us needs to pursue what we know in our hearts to be our true goal.  Ya-chol nuchal lah.  Go after it.  Everything will be okay.

Published!

Okay, maybe it's just the D'var Torah column of the Washington Jewish paper but I'm still excited!!  The Washington Jewish Week online can only be accessed by subscribers but the back door is this link to the Partnership for Jewish Life and Learning's D'var Torah page:

Leaving Egypt

A sweet Pesach to all!

Hello, friends!

How many potato jokes can a rabbi good-naturedly endure before snapping?  I don't know!  I'm still doing a great job responding with grace and a tight-lipped smile.  


A bit more than three weeks in to what I'm still mentally calling "The Maryland Experiment" and my life is all about connecting, meeting, shmoozing.  Woody Allen may have intended his well-known quip to be tongue-in-cheek, but my life right now is, literally, just about showing up:  text classes, services, Jewish community events, mixers.  Lots of smiling, hand-shaking, handing out personal fliers, baby-kissing (okay, not the latter.  Yet.).  Self-promotion is a tiring job, but someone's got to do it.  And, of course, it's not just about finding work.  I'm genuinely thrilled to have so much opportunity - on a daily basis - to access a smorgasbord of quality Jewish learning experiences.  


In terms of work, I'm teaching a 6-week class on Judaism and Healing (I didn't quite hit the 10-person minimum registration mark but they took pity on me.  "She's from Idaho, for God's sake.") and, for the moment, those seven people are the only congregation I've got.  So I'm of course obsessing over every detail of the class, my presentation and their response to it.  I also managed to get on the D'var Torah column rotation in the Washington Jewish Week and my first piece will appear in the April 7th edition. Talk about obsessing -- Most novelists don't write and rewrite as many times as I did that 900 word take on the first day of Pesach's Torah portion.  But I felt so much riding on my first public presentation in this community and - okay - maybe I'm just kind of generally obsessive?


I may have opportunity to provide B'nai Mitzvah tutoring (Clearly not at the top of the desired work list for rabbis, but I'm spending $80/week on gas.  Enough said.) but I have to re-learn haftarah trope which I haven't used in decades.  A local cantor gave me a CD which has been greatly helpful as I review.  Of course the plaintive cries of the haftarah melody are completely stuck in my head; I'm constantly humming the cantillation's minor motif, providing kind of a Debbie Downer musical backdrop to my daily activities.  


The weather's been amazing.  I got a lot of outdoor time last weekend and not having to wear a coat has been among my greatest joys for the past several weeks.  My mom and I went down to the DC tidal basin which is ground zero for cherry blossom viewing.  Unfortunately, last week's wind storm cleared the branches a bit prematurely.  There were clumps of camera-wielding tourists in the Independence Avenue median strip near the memorials as it featured the only blossoming trees in the area around the National Mall.  That part was disappointing but we enjoyed strolling through the FDR and Martin Luther King memorials and touring the Museum of American History (nothing like being able to pass judgment on all the First Ladies' inaugural gowns to bring a bit of cheer).


This is not an emotionally easy process.  The war between my self-doubt and my earnest hopefulness is a tough match, battles won as much on one side as the other.  I'm glad to be surrounded by family and they've all been helpful and supportive as I try to find my way.  I am very thankful for those rabbis and educators who have agreed to meet with me and who have offered suggestions and advice.


Sitting in the Shabbat morning service a week ago a woman came up to me and said, "I noticed your tallis with all the thumbprints.  That's a really nice design."
"It is.  It was given to me by my former congregation."
That tallis - a loving personalized gift from the CABI community - means so much to me.  I may sit in a strange sanctuary (and I've been in one or two different ones every Shabbat) but I still feel the imprint of those who have spiritually nurtured me for the past eighteen years.  Some days that's all that keeps me afloat.

With thanks to V.T.

Doing better than my plant

Rubber Plant: could go either way

Made it!

My lower back and neck need a little work but I at least look better than my rubber plant which apparently enjoyed the week of travel far less than I did.  Maybe I should have been taking it out of the car at night?  Ah, well.


Monday afternoon I was driving through Eastern Kentucky thinking about how I blew out tires several times on my drives to and from Cincinnati in grad school. About 20 minutes later my car suddenly started making a lot of noise and I, in momentary hopeful denial, thought:  "maybe the road is really bumpy here."


Apparently all this driving time put me in some type of telepathic harmony with my front left tire as I had successfully predicted a really impressive blow-out.  After pulling over I took a look and there was just about no rubber left on the wheel.


Waiting for AAA to call me back, I kept myself occupied by listening to Morehead College Public Radio which featured detailed discussion of the tornado clean-up from West Liberty, 30 miles away -- the community hardest hit in the weekend's devastating wind storms.  About 25 minutes later I still hadn't heard from AAA but a car pulled over and then backed up along the shoulder.  A man sprung out of his car, holding a toolbox.  He was extremely nice, jacked up the car, tried to pump the spare with his 12-volt air pump when we discovered that my battery had also died.  He then kickstarted my car which was pretty risky given that we were only feet away from trucks whipping by at 70 mph.


He informed me that there was, thankfully, a Wal-Mart a couple of exits ahead with mechanic services.  $200 and an hour later they had me on my way.  I have to say that everyone I encountered in rural Kentucky was extremely nice and if I didn't mind living somewhere with ubiquitous "Hell is Real" and "Abortion kills a beating heart" billboards as well as radio stations that range from country to deep country to conservative Christian to super right-wing lunatic Christian I would definitely consider a move!


Maryland is a much bigger state than I had envisioned.  My joyful reading of a "Welcome to Maryland" sign was followed by three additional hours of driving before reaching my parents' house in Olney.  And they're only a little more than half-way through the state!  Who knew?  It looks so tiny on a map.


Movers came and took my yellow duct-taped boxes into the house and then we drove to the storage facility where they crammed every square inch of a 10' x 10' locker with my remaining possessions.  I had originally thought that I could perhaps retrieve some items as needed from the locker but after seeing the puzzle piece-tight configuration of furniture and boxes my brother pointed out:  "You won't be getting any of your things out of there before you move into your own place.  If it's in there it's dead to you."  Funny, sad and true.


Purim is tonight -- the holiday observance mid-way through a Jewish month (Adar) that carries the commandment to "be happy."  It's actually a very appropriate night to be going to a silly service to celebrate the absurdities of life.  I think I need to be taking myself a bit less seriously these days.  In the scheme of human circumstances, my life is extremely easy and blessed.  This holiday is a perfect reminder.


Happy Purim to all!

Made it - with requisite snafu

Too tired right now to do anything but lie in bed and watch last night's episode of The Bachelor ("The Women Tell All!" edition) on abc.com.  But for those keeping track, my car, my possessions, my brother and I all made it to Maryland several hours ago.

The U-Haul, surprisingly, had no problems.  But I blew out a tire in Kentucky which I will say more about after a night of sleep.

My rubber plant looks much worse for wear but, according to my dad, rubber plants can survive anything. I will post a picture of the sorry thing tomorrow.

I appreciate any and all emails!  If you're keeping up with my blog, drop me a line!  Thank you everyone!  More to follow . . . .
xo

Home is where the license plate is

The Mammoth Cave ranger began our tour by asking everyone, "Where are you from?"
"Germany," answered a couple with bright red, spiked hair.
"The Philippines," responded a cute young family.
"Idaho!" I called out confidently, despite my awareness that Idaho as home is now more fictional construct than reality.

It's an interesting tension that exists moving from town to town, state to state, possessions in transit to a temporary location while in a vehicle externally marked with signs of rootedness.  On the open road, my Idaho plates and "Boise Braves" and "Buy Local:  Think Boise First" stickers tether me to something physical and real.  My Subaru Wagon, covered in North End-ian identifiers, associates me clearly - to those "in the know" - with a particular demographic.  I hadn't realized, before being yanked out of it, how much that communal identity has given me personal meaning.

Not surprisingly, I'm getting ready for my drive today while listening to Boise State radio streaming from my laptop.  I may possess brave gutsiness but I'm not a free spirit.  I value security, belonging, identity, rootedness. I will have those things again in the future but this in between - "liminal space" as they say in anthropology - wilderness time is a bit of an emotional free fall.

There's a reason why conversations and connections often begin with the query:  "Where are you from?"  It's hard to relate to someone who has no context.  I still have a context as a Jew, a mom and daughter, a friend, a lover of learning and ideas and "This American Life" and pink and purple and "The New Yorker" and Stephen Colbert and "Gossip Girl."  The missing pieces - lack of connection to place and job - will cause me to stretch my own self-definition of who I am and what I'm about.

"The sun rises and the sun sets"

Today was an easier driving day (we only covered a couple of hundred miles) but a little more difficult emotionally.  Lots of days on the road - lots of uncertainty ahead.  I found out today that the one class I had been scheduled to teach through a Bethesda synagogue adult education program - a six week session on Judaism and Healing - might be cancelled due to lack of registration.  I had the feeling that might happen when I saw the stock photo they chose to pair with my class description:  a picture of a woman sitting cross-legged, meditating in an open field.  Jeez.  I don't know if I would have signed up for it myself.


Reality is going to be setting in soon.  I won't be able to hide out in my car forever (Nor would I want to -- another week of this and I'd need a team of chiropractors and massage therapists to un-contort my body.  And I don't even want to think about the amount of partially hydrogenated oil that I've poured into myself in various forms since Tuesday.).  Two days from now I'll be lying in my parents' house, my possessions boxed and tucked into various rooms and locations, and wondering what the hell I'm doing.  And I'll need to remind myself:  one day of creation at a time.  It won't look like much of anything for a while.  And, unlike God's story, it's going to take me a hell of a lot longer than six days.


This morning we woke up in Jackson, TN, home of one of Dan's student pulpits (see posting below).  I drove over to the synagogue to snap a photo.  It was in a cute neighborhood of older, well-kept homes.  Each one had a sign in front listing the family name and the year of the home's construction.

Congregation B'nai Israel

Marc and I planned on doing a tour of Mammoth Caves north of Bowling Green, KY, which was the reason for the abbreviated driving day.  On the way, there was time for catching sights of great import, namely several of Tennessee's leading pink elephants.

Pink Elephant of Madison, TN

Spotted out of the car window in Madison.
I could hear the service going from the road.

Sweet, Sassy 'n out of business

Drive Thru:  that's really quick cash!

Pink (-ish) Elephant of Cross Plains, TN

Tonight we are in Bowling Green, KY, a town that was clearly home to money over the decades.  But there's a sadness to the stately homes and grand downtown:  the beauty is giving way to shabbiness.  You can see a shifting economy chipping away at the town's wealthy facade.

The theme of the sights along this drive seems to be the inevitability of decay.  A very "Ecclesiastian" message:


"Before the silver cord snaps, and the golden fountain is shattered, and the pitcher breaks at the fountain, and the wheel falls shattered into the pit.
And the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God, Who gave it.
'Vanity of vanities,' said Koheleth; 'all is vanity.'"

The middle section

Student pulpit territory.  That's what this swath of the country represents for those of us who went through Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati.   Jewish communities in smaller towns throughout the south and midwest have been served for decades by rabbinical students from Cincinnati's Reform seminary.  

By the mid-80's, when I did my tenure at the College, assimilation and economic migration already were taking their toll:  pulpits that had been bi-weekly's had reduced to monthly's and monthly's were, in some cases, only able to bring in a student for the High Holy Days and Pesach.  

When I see a map of this part of the country, the town names that stand out to me are the ones that either I or classmates served as student rabbis.  Friday mornings at the college were when many of us were on planes or in rental cars heading off to places like Jasper, Alabama or Columbus, Mississippi with our handwritten sermons and one-room schoolhouse lesson plans.  

Some of these communities are no longer with us (the Goldring/Woldenberg Institute of Southern Jewish Life is basically the hospice program for those communities who can no longer even get a Rosh HaShana and Kol Nidre service together), but when I knew we were passing through Fort Smith, Arkansas, I was curious to see if the synagogue -- served for several years by one of my classmates -- was still around. 

Fort Smith is  a historic town with a number of pre-20th century buildings and homes. At the visitor desk of the historical Fort site I asked, "Do you know where the synagogue is?"

The older woman behind the desk looked at me quietly for a moment and then said seriously, "There's only one."

I laughed.  "Yes, I figured that."

She then said, "I've been there with my friend but it's really hard to find."

"I'm guessing from your accent you're not originally from here."  I observed after hearing a very familiar (and familial) accent.

"No - I'm from New York."

We talked about the Bronx for a few minutes and then the young man helping out behind the desk handed me a mapquest sheet with the directions.  Photo is below:

United Hebrew Congregation of Fort Smith

Not surprisingly to me, there was no signage anywhere in the neighborhood concerning a synagogue although there were many signs pointing to Christian churches of various denominations.  One universal among these Jewish communities in small southern towns is a strong desire to stay well under the radar.  

I, myself, served in Arkansas (Jonesboro) as a tri-weekly during my final year of school.  It was too far off our itinerary for me to make a stop.  I remember them very fondly as an interesting group of characters -- as are most small southern congregations!

Here's a few photos from around Fort Smith:

Fort Smith Public Library

Downtown building

America's Heartland: Southern Edition

In 1850, some 55,000 pioneers, motivated by the promise of greater opportunities,  rolled westward by wagon train.  Their journeys were endlessly long and almost intolerably uncomfortable.  They faced risks, dangers and threats by disease, lawlessness, Indian attacks, harsh weather conditions and insufficient nutrition.  

Things have barely changed as I, in 2012, face cross-country horrors of an aching lower back, bad gas station coffee, limited radio options, and occasional drop-offs in cell phone coverage. It took an extra minute and a half this morning to get the free hotel wi-fi in gear for my laptop.  It's like the pioneer experience all over again!  Life is hell.

Yesterday's photos (you can click on each one to enlarge):

Cadillac Ranch -- along I-40 in Amarillo, TX:

The famed "Leaning Water Tower of Groom" (Texas):

Hotbed of journalistic activity:

Downtown Groom

I got a little lost but finally found the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial - America's Ground Zero before later events usurped the title.  Even if you didn't remember the bombing or the details, it's an immensely powerful site.  On the far side of the reflecting pool are 168 sculptural chairs - one for each person killed in the bombing. Nineteen smaller chairs are for the children.  In my personal experience with memorials to tragic events, I'd rate it number two after Pearl Harbor.

Carved at top of sculpture:  9:01
Note chairs on far side of pool

Downtown Okemah, Oklahoma:

Okemah, OK -- outside the current or former (?) county jail

Speaking of penal matters, I stopped at Walgreens in Muskogee last night for some benedryl.  At the check-out counter I was tempted to buy a periodical called, "Just Busted."  For a buck you can buy a paper filled with recent local mug shots.  Wow!  That's one way to become an Eastern Oklahoma celebrity.


And not that we had the energy or time, but I was interested in whether or not Shabbat services were happening somewhere in Muskogee and found the following article:

Temple Beth Ahaba

Apparently we were just six months too late.  So I said "boreh p'ree ha-gafen" over a glass of white zinfandel at Okie's Steakhouse and had to call it good.