Category Archives: Seymour Fromer z”l

the stones I cannot place

My mother’s ‘passing’  has crippled my writing.  And apparently that’s not all. It would be unfair to blame her, per se, because that would be rude.  But I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that she’s had a hand in it.  Some … Continue reading

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like an addiction, it’s hard to stop—

I can’t quite take the pictures down. Can’t quite stop staring at them. Can’t call it an altar exactly, but I know others do. Others have. And others will.  How do we stop mourning and put the pictures away? And … Continue reading

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the tzaddik and the automobile of art maintenance

Everybody knows about the tzaddik’s cars. They were fairly famous. His vehicles impersonated him. They imprinted on him. Everybody remembers particular stories about his cars.  Only I don’t know all of the stories. And that really bugs me. I guess … Continue reading

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the man in the pink suit

When the family lived in Los Angeles, the tzaddik showed early signs of what was to come.  Only it was a bit more theatrical down there in Southern California. The tzaddik produced an opera, believe it or not—the opera David, … Continue reading

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kaddish, pain, and ascension

I was very moved by Erin’s kaddish for the old Bay Bridge — which, of course, wasn’t about the bridge at all.  And I thought, oy, what a can of worms this kaddish has opened.  Daily kaddish may well be … Continue reading

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my father’s favorite boys speak up

Did the tzaddik walk into a bar? Did he drink a beer? Did he watch the World Series on that day? So. The answer appears to be (I’ll cut to the chase) — no, he did not.  The whole tzaddik … Continue reading

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the religion of labor: remembering a.d. gordon

I can’t seem to let A.D. Gordon go.  And yet his is not an ideology that almost anyone seems to care about these days. Isn’t the modern task to seek more leisure and relegate labor to lesser beings — transient … Continue reading

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a tzaddik walks into a bar…

They were driving between X and Y — who knows where they’d been. They were rushing. Last game of the World Series was about to start, and they weren’t anywhere near getting back on time to watch the game. Continue reading

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my father’s favorite boys

Fred and Harold and my dad were like the Marx Brothers. Or the Coen Brothers. Or the Brady Bunch. Or. Or. Or maybe there was nothing like them at all.  A team. A pack. A family. A coven.  A comedy … Continue reading

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malkah, magnes, and the military police

Malkah was at the Madrid airport, as wholesome as she could be. She had a husband with her and two squeaky clean children with her. And all their camping gear. And all her archives notes. And all her permissions to … Continue reading

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