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 show. My father loved ‘those boys’ with all his heart, and all his might and…
Category: tzaddik stories
Stories of the tzaddik, as I remember him. Or stories about others, that serve as a reminder of just how tzaddik the tzaddik really was. As opposed to memories of Seymour Fromer, Director of the Magnes Museum, or his earlier incarnation as Seymour Fromer, Director of Jewish Education for Alameda and Contra Costa Counties. Or before that as —. You get the idea. These are my tales about my father — at home or abroad — under conditions in which he wasn’t a director of anything at all.
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 conduct research. And she got detained anyway trying to leave the country. It wasn’t the…
the tzaddik and the negotiator — a mother’s day meditation
Malkah was in such awe of the tzaddik that she spent most of her time with him asking questions, and nodding at the wisdom of his responses. Of course, his responses generally started with the need to do more research. Look things up. Even go to the library, when he was stumped. But most of…
closure, or something like it — a kaddish for milton g. nobler
People say you need closure. But does that mean that there are no more stories to be told? I woke up this morning with two imperatives: 1) a sense of real or imminent closure, and 2) the need to tell this tale. It’s a tale biofather told me, and I’m pretty sure he never told…
on the transmigration of souls (jewish deli style)
You wouldn’t think that the Jewish tradition was big on transmigration of souls — but it is. I’m not even sure this concept is taught much anymore in more mainstream non-Orthodox and Hassidic circles. But what do I know? I’ve not set foot in a shul for a very long time. And even then,…
voices in the volvo
There’s something I really don’t like about finishing things. Good at starting. Good at ongoing. Good at thinking about. Finishing: very depressing. So. I had just finished organizing the entire program for a SWAA conference one year, along with two colleagues. SWAA would be the Southwestern Anthropological Association. And we planned some real conference treats….
the bookstore
So. The bookstore the other day — One of Malkah’s favorite things to do on planet Earth was to go with the tzaddik on his frequent forays into the dark and gloomy bowels of used bookstores. Holmes Books, in San Francisco, was one of their favorites together. The tzaddik would give Malkah a whole…
anyone who is hungry, let them come and eat
The tzaddik grew up in the Bronx, across from Yankee Stadium. That must say a lot about him, but I’m not sure what exactly. His family lived in a shvitzy little apartment, overcrowded with uncles and cousins and such. That was in addition to mamma, poppa, the tzaddik and his two younger brothers. Of course,…
bondage, sephardi style
I have heard this bit every single Pesach of my life when my mother has been present. And when she wasn’t, I’ve taken it upon myself to tell it myself (albeit a short short version). All my stories are the short short version, in case you haven’t noticed. Mrs Tzaddik is much better on detail….