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Dear Friends,
It would be helpful to you if you first read the second installment of my series "Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, A Continuation", which you'll find by scrolling down a bit. My intent and hope is to write and hopefully publish a five part series. More to come ...

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me” Part 3

“Hello,” I picked up the phone.

“Hi Albert. It’s Marge.”

“No. This is Alan.”

“Alan? You sound just like your dad.”

“Well, I guess it’s in the genes. One moment, please. Dad, it’s for you.”

Not too surprisingly, I look like my father, dress like him, emote like him and, as you just learned, sound like him. In other words, I am my father’s son. Then again, so is my brother Ron with whom I have reconnected after a long hiatus these past two months due entirely to our father’s illness. Ron flew in on Sunday afternoon. He called me when he got to my dad’s apartment.

“Ron, can you fill in for me tomorrow? I can’t make it down.”

“Sure. How’s Tuesday for you?”

“Nope, I can’t make it then either. I’ve got some other stuff to do.”

Ron is anxious for the three of us to spend time together before he has to return to St. Louis.

“I’ll be down tomorrow, Ron. See you around noon?

“Hey, that sounds good. See you then.”

There is nothing more “nachasdik” for my Dad than to be with his sons. Personifying an amazing juxtaposition of “opposites”, my dad is a “tough guy” who has never stopped chaffing my cheeks when he kisses me. As a matter of fact, I attribute much if not all of my emotional make up to my father whose example taught me to kiss my children. In public, in private, it doesn’t matter. He’s always enjoyed showing us off- kind of like what I used to do when I would drag my kids around in a red Radio Flyer wagon on our way to the public library. We spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon together with my father at his office. He’s closing it down after more than a half century of business. Though my father has recovered remarkably well since leaving the hospital, he knows he can no longer treat patients. My father has been practicing dentistry in Chicago since 1953.

“One of these days, I’ll get it right,” he often quips with an irrepressible smile. Around 5 o’clock or so, I was getting ready to head back home. Ron walked me to the front door, opposite the kitchen. I could see our father sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. His wife, Bobbie, sat across from him.

“So, Alan, any words?” Ron asked.

“None at the moment,” I responded, hoping to preclude an emotional scene.

“God, I feel so … so guilty about leaving, but I’ve got to get home,” Ron confessed in an undertone.

“I understand,” I reassured him. My brother Ron feels bad. He’s got it tougher than I do. I can see Dad anytime I wish and do. I visit with him three days a week, and I think he’d agree this has been the best time we’ve ever spent together. Ron, however, lives in St. Louis. Not far away, to be sure. A one hour flight. Still, it worries him.

“What if … what if this is the last time?” Ron wonders.

“No, no. Not going to happen. Not now,” I assuredly insisted. “Dad is a pugilist, Ron, remember? He’s a boxer, a fighter, you know.” (As a matter of fact, my father was a “golden gloves” boxer in his youth).

Though Ron is only eighteen months older, it has always defined our relationship. It was an odd moment. I sensed a shift between us. For the first time, I was “taking care” of Ron-a good, big brother much like my son Ben had been to his younger siblings, Kimberly and Zac.

“Hey listen, call me if you want to get together tonight,” I clumsily changed the topic.

“I’d like to but I’d better not.”

“Listen, we’ll talk,” I reassured him. I picked up my computer bag. “Dad and Bobbie, I’ll talk to ya.”

My father’s grief and “atheism” revisited …

My father is not an atheist-no matter what he says. He’s a grieving grandpa whose concept of God-as a beneficent and indulgent parent-not only failed to shield him but shattered when he desperately needed the “bitachon”, faith, that personal tragedy demands and “emunah”, belief, affords.

“I just don’t understand how you’ve done it,” my father has said to me on more than one occasion. “Ron and I were talking about you the other day,” he added, “and we both agree that neither of us could have done what you did.”

My father is referring to the fact I chose life after the death of my son Ben. I don’t mean to dismiss his praise of me, but a grieving parent has a very restricted range of choice in these matters: either he consciously and decidedly determines to choose life-albeit having to accept the presence of grief as a constant in his life from then on, or he becomes busy with dying. Contrary to my father’s generous appraisal, my decision to choose life was not a heroic one-simply necessary.

Losing a grandson … well, I just don’t know how that feels. Is it any different from losing a son? Like me, my father hasn’t been the same since November 22, 2000 when we stood almost within arm’s reach of Ben during his waning moments while a trauma team fought desperately to save his life. Something that day went missing in both of us. I don’t know what to call it or how to define it, but I suspect it left simultaneously with Ben’s neshuma-attaching itself as it were to Ben’s “ha'akev shel hanefesh”, the "heel of his soul", taking a little bit of us with him. And, as I can speak for my father in this matter, that is okay with us.

“Hirshy, I understand that,” my dad said to my Uncle Hirsh, his slightly younger brother with whom he has partnered their dental practice for fifty-five years. I stood by. Couldn’t help but hear the conviction of my father’s voice. “I’ve my grandchildren to live for, Hirsh. The ‘chemo’ can go straight to the infernal regions. My oncologist says continuing the chemo is a ’50-50’ proposition, so I’m choosing to live without it.”

There you have it. Despite his assertions to the contrary (that he could not have survived and lived his life well had either of his sons died) my father has proven himself wrong. He has not only survived the death of his grandson, but very unequivocally “chosen life”. Just prior to his most recent hospitalization for fever, a urinary tract infection and severe diarrehia due to chemotherapy, he had continued to practice dentistry for an additional eight years. Hardly a casualty of tragedy, he has been an inspiring presence and example for his grandchildren, my daughter Kimberly and younger son, Zac.

You see … Ben was my father’s “son”-as much a “father” to all of my children as he is to me and my brother Ron.

That is, I suppose, how my father’s spirituality works. By choosing “ … life, so that you will live, you and your offspring, …” he has shown there are really no atheists in foxholes.

Alan D. Busch
8/31/08

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Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me ... A Continuation


"Sooooo .... Dad, tell me this ... you ready for some questions and answers?" I'm still trying to have him give up the stories of his life I know he's holding back on.

My father has stage four cancer. He is home. I spend the afternoons with him three days a week. It's good for him, me and his wife, Bobbie, gives her a chance to get out and do stuff.

This is hardly the first time my dad and I have prepared for a lengthy disputation. As a matter of fact, we rather enjoy the experience of give and take, trying to better the other with the force of his argumentation. My father gets such nachas (enjoyment) from the experience. He thinks I'm so smart. Fatherly prejudice. As for me, I've always enjoyed bonding with my dad.

"Sure, go ahead." He gears up. I can see it. It's almost as if my father is testing my "sticktoitiveness" before he'll tell me the stuff that I really want to hear. And even then, it's just a "maybe". I may get closer but there will remain, a core of stuff that he'll continue to withhold from me. My goal is to have him tell me as much about himself as possible, before it is too late.

Perhaps, you find this sort of thing hard to read because it may stir up your own comparable memories. It's powerful stuff. Hits close to home, doesn't it?

I did not live with my father for very long at all. I grew up in St. Louis with my mother and grandmother after my folks' divorce. That is why I do this. It's a mutually beneficial sort of thing: I get to ask questions and listen while my father tells his story to his son, the writer. It's really quite dramatic when you think about it.

"Dad, what was your best day?" I asked, hoping to unleash a flow of words.

"Oh, that's easy," he said smilingly. The day you were born."

"No Dad, hmm, not what I want. I knew you were going to say that. Here now, excluding all those easy answers, births, weddings bla bla bla, excluding all of that, tell me about your best day."

Ah, now that seems to have struck a note. His mien changed remarkably. I know that face. I could see he was going back to the war, WW2, digging deep, exactly where I wanted him to go. I had tried before to elicit these memories, but he always stopped short. This time I think I had him.

"My best day was when I realized I was going to survive the war. You see ... that was my primary concern, for me Albert, I was intent on coming home alive! You know the old expression about there being no atheists in the foxholes?

"Sure. I've heard that."

"Well,, I assure you. It's the absolute truth. There were a couple of guys in my company, avowed atheists. We were gearing up for the Battle of the Bulge. Eveyybody and I mean everybody had a role in that. Well, me and these two guys found ourselves in the same foxhole with our heads in the mud. I dont know what it was, a grenade, a shell whatever. In my life, I had never seen so much praying. 'Dear Lord, please get me out of this. I'll be good. I'll never do that again.' You know the usual stuff that comes out under deep stress. So I says to these guys, I says: 'Whistling a different tune now, huh?' (My father has this peculiar grammatical habit of saying "I says". Really annoying but I keep my mouth shut.)

"How about you, Dad?

"What about me?"

"You know ... your belief?" (Finally, I had him right where I wanted him.)

"Me? Naw, I don't believe in God."

I was thunderstruck.

"Huh? What about the 'whistling a different tune' stuff, the foxhole?"

"Oh, I was just trying to 'raz' them."

"But, but ..."

There was definately something wrong with this picture. My father looked tired so I dropped it. He excused himself to take a nap. I thought about this whole thing for a while. His revelation bothered me. It really did.

A day or two later, I think I may have cracked the case, but it's only a theory at this time. Something had happened in his life that not only transformed him but shattered him and his belief as well. I think my father believed in God for the longest time-not religiously because my father is not a religious man, but a man who is (was?) spiritually inclined-just not in some grandly philosophical, ethereal way. In fact, I caught a snapshot of his theology the other day. He argued, as so many do, for the "proof" of the correctness of atheism that 'were there a God-a caring, loving, parent-like God (and it's important to recognize that that is their image of a God which for them pardoxically either does not or no longer exists)-He would not allow the terrible things in life to happen. It is a child's conception of God, an outlook stunted in its growth at an early age but adhered to for years of adult life. But then something happens that just shatters it, like so much glass. It's not a resilient belief so it shouldn't surprise us to discover it cannot weather the storms of life.

What happened?

When my father's first grandson died, my son Ben, nearly eight years ago on November 22, 2000, my father's fragile belief, his glass-like spirituality shattered just outside the operating room in the ER of Cook County Hospital in Chicago. I stood right next to him as he pled with The Almighty. I was there, saw it all ... heard every word.

"Standing by my father, together we witnessed a fiercely desperate scene unfolding no more than ten feet from us. I turned my head momentarily to check on my dad and beheld a
“stranger” praying fervently for the life of my son. While holding his arms overhead with the
palms of his hands flattened against the glass partition, his body slightly angled outward and
feet spread apart, appearing as if he were about to be searched by the police, he pled with The
Almighty for His immediate intervention.

“Hold on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!” my father, a sensitive though doggedly determined man, called out once, twice, thrice during Ben’s waning seconds, while there was yet a spark of life aglow."*

(to be continued)

*Excerpted from Snapshots In Memory of Ben.

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"Lamentations"

(to be published by Jewish Press (NY) October 11, 2008)

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled slacks with barely a crease, a faded yellow, perspiration-stained shirt and a dirty beige, worn out cap, he bore the appearance of neglect.

“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him. Smiling broadly, I chatted with him for several minutes. It was the right thing to do and besides, it made me feel better too. The previous several months had been turbulent. Not only had I ridden an emotional roller coaster, but I was stuck at the peak of the ride.

The summer’s heat was unrelenting and we were in the “nine days” before Tisha b' Av. "Good evening," he responded, an elderly man sitting alone in the shul’s social hall, looking sadly troubled. “I was worried. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv,” he said. "Oh, we'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.”

“Your name is, Sir?”

"Irving Talisman.”

He seemed to be reading my lips. He stopped short of answering Yitzhak. I don’t know why he didn’t, but I gave him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, for whom are you saying Kaddish?”

He twisted his left arm with his right hand to reveal six subcutaneous numerals. The dark shadows of his bloodshot eyes seemed as indelible as his tattoo. "My parents,” he whispered, drying his tears with a soiled handkerchief. That instant, I felt closer to the Shoah than ever before. Sure, I had seen the tattoos but never close up enough to become part of a survivor’s life. That was about to change.

I was determined to comfort this grief-stricken Jew. Was it not my obligation? "This way, Reb Talisman,” directing him to the Beis Medrash. We grasped the door handle. He hesitated.

"Should we enter?" he wondered. "Looks like the rebbe is busy with a bar mitzvah boy."

The shul was hectic. Not only was the sisterhood hosting a speaker from the Park District, but the junior minyan was learning mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. I had never seen the Rabbi look so exhausted. Reb Talisman and I entered. Rabbi rose from his chair, out of kavod for Reb Talisman.

“Shalom Aleichem, Reb Yitzchak,” Rabbi greeted him warmly.

“Aleichem sholem, Rebbe. Another year, eh?"

“Baruch Ha Shem,” Rabbi respectfully responded.

"Abba, it is 8:05. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four talmidim followed behind him.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a well-cushioned chair, the only one of its kind in the Beis Medrash. It had been the favorite of the Rebbitzen’s father. When I turned to check on Reb Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of the regular seats by the omed.

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned.

I looked over again to see how Reb Talisman was doing. He seemed more at ease now that we had begun on time. The usual several minutes for Mincha flew by.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba …”.

Rabbi learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan before the evening prayer.

“Al Yisroel v’al rabbonan …”.

He designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv. I should have felt good about how smoothly everything was proceeding for Reb Talisman. After all, minyan began on time. I had helped him in my own small way, but somehow … it just wasn’t enough. I closed my siddur.

“V’hu rachum …”. I arose for Borchu, but I was already a world away. I couldn’t help it, but I turned my thoughts to my Kallah. She had left me two months before after only fifteen months of marriage. I struggled to reconcile our differences, but she was adamant.

“I need to find myself,” she was fond of saying. I understood what she meant because I felt lost without her. "Maybe she'll drive by and come in to see me," I mused, staring out the window. I turned around thinking I had heard a feminine voice. “Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered. “Still, she just might be there when I get home.”

Then I heard Reb Talisman’s voice. It brought me back. I had to finish what I had started.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”. The beis medrash emptied. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning gentlemen,” Rabbi announced while his younger son replaced siddurim and Gemaras on the shelves. A few lingered to schmooze followed by the customary handshakes and yasher koach(s).
I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I could say to this man, but then realized our love of a fellow Jew had already spoken to Reb Talisman's heart.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he drove off. I fumbled for my keys. From the alley by my house, I could see she hadn't returned, but I expected as much. I sat for several moments.

“Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow," I thought. And I felt okay with that because I realized The Aibishter had taught me an invaluable lesson– one which, as a matter of fact, I had already learned but was prone to forget occasionally when I became self-absorbed.

He sent Reb Talisman to shul not only to say Kaddish but to remind me of the many Jews who grieve for losses far greater than mine. If I could but step away from my own tsorris, I could do so much good for so many. An act of chesed had brought comfort, friendship and a smile to an elderly Jew.

Chazal teach us we do not know what rewards await us in the next world for the performance of mitzvos in this world. I like to think though some reward may trickle down to us now. Four months after meeting Reb Talisman, my Kallah called me. We made plans to meet for coffee.

My prayers had been answered. “I'm ready to come home,” she said.

Maybe my reward had trickled down, but of one thing I was certain. Meeting Reb Talisman inspired me.

That day had indeed been a yom tov.

Alan D. Busch
author of Snapshots In Memory Of Ben
August 19, 2008

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Dear Friends,

I am pleased to announce that my short story "Lamentations" (scroll down to the previous posting to see a near version of the story though I had to edit it down a bit to 1000 words) will be published in the Lessons In Emunah feature of the Jewish Press (NY) www.JewishPress.com in the coming days. I do not know the exact date, but I'll post it when I find out.

Special thanks to a special friend, writer and editor whose editorial suggestions were invaluble.

Alan D. Busch

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Dear Friends,

Sorry to drag this out, but a fellow writer and editor pointed out a variety of flaws with the previous iteration, causing me to essentially rewrite the whole piece. It really is much better.

"Lamentations"
by Alan D. Busch
(revised: August 18, 2008)

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled casual slacks with only the faintest hint of a crease, a faded yellow, perspiration-stained knit golf shirt, and a dirty beige, well-worn cap, he bore the appearance of neglect.

“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him cheerfully.

Smiling as broadly as I could, I sat down and chatted with him for several minutes. It was simply the right thing to do and besides, I reasoned, it might even make me feel better too.

It had been a turbulent several months for me. Not only had I ridden an emotional roller coaster, but I was stuck at the highest peak of the ride. The summer’s heat was unrelenting and-to top it all off, we were in the “nine days” before Tisha b’ Av.

"Good evening," he responded, his mood perking up a bit, a faint smile overtaking his noticeably drawn face and chapped lips. An elderly man, he had been sitting alone in the shul’s social hall before I arrived, looking troubled and a great deal sadder than I felt.

“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”

"Oh," I quickly reassured him. "We'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.” I paused for a moment. “Your name is, Sir?” He seemed to focus on my mouth when I spoke as if lip reading.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman.”

He had begun to say "Yitzhak” instead of “Irving” but stopped short. Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t understand him or felt uncomfortable referring to himself by his Hebrew name. I really don’t know, but I resolved to give him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, for whom are you saying Kaddish?” I asked.

He twisted his left arm a quarter turn with his right hand, revealing six subcutaneous green numerals. He looked up at me from bloodshot eyes. Their dark shadows seemed as indelible as his tattoo.

"My parents.” he tearfully whispered, removing a soiled handkerchief from his pants pocket. At that very instant, I felt tangibly closer to the Shoah than I had ever before. Sure, I had seen the tattoos but never close up enough to become part of a survivor’s life. That was about to change.
I was determined to take care of this man. If I could help to comfort one grief-stricken Jew, was I not obligated to do so?

"This way, Reb Talisman,” I invited him to accompany me down the hallway to our shul’s newly dedicated Beis Medrash. We both grasped hold of the door handle. He hesitated.

"Should we enter? It looks like the rebbe is busy with a bar mitzvah boy."

It was an unusually hectic evening at shul. Not only was the sisterhood hosting a speaker from the Park District who spoke about local conservation efforts, but the junior minyan was learning mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. The Rabbi, a physically vigorous man, looked utterly exhausted. I had never seen him looking so worn out.

Reb Talisman and I quietly entered. Never too tired to do the right thing, Rabbi rose from his chair in an act of "kavod" to Reb Talisman.

“Shalom Aleichem, Reb Yitzchak,” Rabbi greeted him with a welcoming hand and bright smile.

“Aleichem sholem, Rebbe. Another year, eh?"

“Baruch Ha Shem,” Rabbi respectfully responded.

"Abba, it is 8:05. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four mishnayos talmidim followed in behind him like so many goslings.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a special chair I thought he’d like. Unlike the several hundreds of stackable chairs we have in shul, this chair was more comfortably cushioned, peculiarly but uniquely pink in color, and always placed adjacent to the book shelves. It had been the favorite of the Rebbitzen’s father. When I turned to check on Reb Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of
the regular seats by the “omed”.

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned, marking the start of the afternoon service. I looked over again to see how Reb Talisman was doing. He seemed more at ease now that we had begun on time. The usual several minutes for Mincha flew by.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba …”

Rabbi learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan during the brief interval before the evening prayer.

“Al Yisroel v’al rabbonan …”

Rabbi designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv. I should have felt good about how smoothly everything was proceeding for Reb Talisman. After all, he made it to minyan on time. I had helped him in my own small way, but somehow … it just wasn’t enough.I closed my siddur.

“V’hu rachum …”

I arose for “Borchu”, but I was already a world away.

I couldn’t help it, but I turned all of my thoughts to my “Kallah”. She had left
me two months before after only fifteen months of marriage. All that summer,
I struggled desperately to reconcile our differences, but she was adamant.

“I need to find myself,” she was fond of saying. I understood what she meant because I felt lost without her.

"Maybe she'll drive by and come in to see me," I mused while staring out the back window in the corner of the beis medrash where I customarily sit. I turned to the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I dejectedly muttered to myself. “Well,” I persisted in deluding myself, “She just might be there when I get home.”

Then I heard Reb Talisman’s voice. It brought me back. I had to finish what I had started.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”

The beis medrash slowly emptied. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning gentlemen,” Rabbi announced while his younger son replaced siddurim and several volumes of Gemara back on the shelves. A few lingered to “schmooze” followed by the customary handshakes and “yasher koach(s)”.

I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I could possibly say to
this man on our way out, but then realized our concern for and love of a fellow Jew had already spoken to Reb Talisman's heart.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove off. I fumbled for my keys and drove home. Her car wasn't parked in the driveway, but I expected as much. I sat for several moments.

“Maybe I’ll get to tell her tomorrow.” And I felt okay with that because I realized “The Aibishter” had taught me an invaluable lesson– one which, as a matter of fact, I had already learned but was prone to forget on occasion when I became too self-absorbed.

He sent Reb Talisman to shul not only to say Kaddish but to remind me how many other countless Jews grieve for losses far greater than mine. If I could but step away from my own "tsorris”, I could do so much good for so many.

An act of chesed had brought some comfort of friendship and the faintest of smiles to an elderly Jew. Our rabbis teach us that we do not know what degrees of reward await us in the next world for the faithful performance of mitzvos in this world. I like to think though that some reward may trickle down to this world.

Although it didn’t happen right away, some four months after meeting Reb Talisman, my Kallah called me. We made plans to meet for coffee, an occasion for which I had faithfully waited and prayed.

“I’m ready to come home,” she said. Maybe my reward had trickled down, but of one thing I was certain.

That day I met Reb Talisman inspired me, and it had indeed been a “yom tov".

Alan D. Busch
August 18, 2008

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"Growing Up On the Phone ..."

NOTE TO READERS: PLEASE READ MY POEM 'FOR ZAC' BEFORE READING THIS PIECE. OK? THANK YOU! IT'S THE POSTING PRIOR TO THIS ONE.

"That was a very nice poem dad, I liked it very much."

"Well thank you very much, sonny boy. I spent several hours on it."

"But it doesn't rhyme."

"It needn't, Zac. Poetry doesn't have to rhyme to be poetry. It can be "free form"-seemingly

random thoughts but which actually tell a story poetically. Got it?"

"Well ..'

"It's in the language son. A good story teller draws the reader into his story by relating common

experiences in such a way that the reader ends up saying, "Hey yea, that happened to me. I can

relate."

"Ok, I've got that, but ..."

"But what son, what's on your mind?"

"I dunno. I guess what you wrote and I read is really our story, isn't it? It's like the whole world

gets to peak into our lives, our relationship."

"Now you've got it. You're thinking son. You're figuring it out. What you are understanding

perhaps for the first time on a meaningfully mature level is life itself."

"Yea, okay ... yea, " his voice trailed off.

"Zac, you know how parents often "threaten" their kids that they'll do the same stuff as their

parents someday after they've married and have kids? You've heard me and mom say that

before, right?"

"Sure, but I didn't believe it till now."

"Go on," I encouraged him to tell me more. It was getting real interesting.

"Well, you know the whole flowers thing?"

"Yes, ... what about it?" I asked.

"I'll have kids one day ... "

"Please God," I uttered softly.

"and I'll likely have flowers along my driveway like we had for so long."

"Zac, what do you mean "had"? They're still there son, perennials, you know. They return every
year."

"Right, right ... anyway ..."

"Go on ... "

"Well, I can easily imagine my son doing what I did, remember?"

"Yes son, I do." Zac was referring to how one afternoon years before he had plucked the orange

lilies from their stems. When I saw what he had done, I scolded him pretty severely. It was

coming together for him. I was taking lots of pleaure in this conversation because my younger

son was nearing the completion of the puzzle.

"When my son plucks the flowers, I can't imagine me saying anything else but what you told me.

Remember?"

"Yup it's in the poem."

"Right. 'Respect life son, its beauty.' "

I was kvelling on my end of the phone, about ready to burst with joy!

"So life continues from me to you, son."

"I got it."

"You got it?"

" I got it."

"Talk tomorrow?"

"Yea dad."

"Be safe."

Alan D. Busch

8/14/08

Where authors and readers come together!




For Zac, My Younger Son and Youngest Child

“May He Become … ”

A father’s son he prays be (come)

a person …

if, when and where there may be none.

I see him then as he was, but now he is,

no longer a boy …

but in process, a man

may he become.

Orange lilies along the way

I scolded him, once long ago.

his freckled face crestfallen.

Boyishly had plucked the flowers from their stems.

We laugh now at that memory, but its lesson

he retains …

respect life, son, its beauty.

Now at twenty, his becoming is but another beginning

Return now and again to the ‘abc(s)’

A good man lives with and accepts responsibility.

Befriend them who have few if any.

Respect a woman for she is another man’s daughter, as your sister is mine.

Learn from every teacher, especially those you may dislike.

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Making Lemonade ... Parkinson's Really 'Sux', Doesn't It?


You know how it is ... right?

Suppose you have this medical "issue" ... it can be any number of conditions. In my case, it is

early onset Parkinson's Disease that I have dubbed "fpd" ('friggin’ Parkinson's Disease) which I

contracted at the tender age of forty five. Funny how I mistook my first symptom, a slight

tremor in my left hand, for a weight-lifting injury. To the best of my knowledge, one cannot

suffer hand tremors from weight-lifting mishaps.

Nine years later, the tremor has evolved, progressed- as it were- to the point at which I have

(among other symptoms) chronic soreness in both forearms, soreness in my left shoulder (which
makes sleeping on my left side difficult and painful), partial but significant loss of fine digital skills
in both hands with the result that grasping things and letting them go become problematic.


Now there is a really interesting problem. Everyone understands what it is to grasp hold of

something. I mean we do it every day- perhaps hundreds of times: our keys, our clothes, books,

pens, pencils, laptops. We pick them up, we don't think about it. We don't have to. But what if the
act of letting go of an object becomes a problem? Sounds strange to you, I'm sure. Okay, are you

ready? Put the cup down, let go of the pen. Well, come on! Put it down, let it go!


What do you do when you know what to do, what has to be done, an action you've

never had to think about before but which now requires focus, time and care? When your

fingertips only reluctantly let go of the coffee cup, one at a time, you know you've got a problem.

I have often had to slide my hand up and off the can of pop rather than simply being able to let it
go.

Did you ever think you'd be reading about such things? But that is what happens when we can

no longer take for granted what seem to be innate physical capabilities, such as grasping and

letting go.


I was comparing Parkinson’s notes yesterday in shul with a friend of mine, Alan S. I enjoy Alan's

friendship. He is easy to talk to. Unhappily, he has a far worse case of “fpd” than I. When I look

at him, I can’t help but compare our respective symptoms. As selfish as it may seem or sound, I

thank God I have only what I do. I find that when my symptoms, especially the stuttering, do

erupt, I don’t suffer the embarrassment with Alan I feel when chatting with others. It’s a variant
of that old “misery loves company” thing, I suppose.

"So you say that amantadine doesn’t work for you?" I asked.

"No way. In fact when I took it I would hallucinate, all sorts of weird stuff. Ants where there

were no ants, people across from me making the wildest facial contortions. As a matter of fact, I

was the one making wild facial contortions, not them. There was this guy on the train one time

who saw me having a reaction to one of my meds. He asked me if I was alright. What do you say

in a situation like that?"

I nodded empathically.

"Yea," he continued on, " I was in court one day when the judge asked me if the ninth of October

would be a good day to reschedule a hearing. I checked my appointment book and realized that

the ninth was Rosh Hashana.“No, Judge. That happens to be a Jewish holiday.”

"Oh ok, what about the 19th?"

Hmm, uh oh …nope. Not good for me, Your Honor.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Yom Kippur.”

“You’re kidding, right? Oh my God!” I interjected.

“Not at all, but I became really confused when I had to explain why the next few days were not

good for me either because of Succos. I got all snarled up in the pages. What a mess!"

"Yea, I know what you mean ... the worst part of this for me has been its effect on my speech. I

answer with lots of ‘uh huhs’,’ okays’, and nod my head sympathetically. I just dont "wanna" get

caught up in the whole stuttering thing. This is where my writing comes in. I can write it much

better than I can say it.”

Alan nods back clumsily. He is having a reaction to his meds. Unlike the Samaritan on the

train, I knew he was all right. It’s just hard to look at. Having "fpd" has been a double-edged

sword, both a curse and a blessing. My approach has been to try to teach myself to think and

believe that I have “fpd” for a specific reason. Mind you, I am not referring to what has

happened in my brain, causing it to produce less dopamine. The issue for me lies in the spiritual

dimension.


The "Aibishter" sends afflictions to challenge us. They are supposed to empower. While true not

all people will be equally successful in meeting and overcoming these challenges, each of us so

afflicted must strive to do as much as he can, to accomplish his very best.


So ... how well can you make lemonade from lemons?


My sincere hope is that you never need to find out, but should you, just remember these few

simple steps:

Slice it. Yes, of course I mean the lemon.

Add ice to a pitcher.

Throw in the lemon slices.

Fill pitcher with water.

Add lots of sugar.

Stir with spoon.

Drink.

L'chaim.

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

Please view my wife's digital photography at www.buschphotography.blogspot.com.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Alan D. Busch is an independent writer in Skokie, Illinois. He has published poetry and articles in

Living With Loss, Bereavement Publications, the Chicago Jewish United Fund News Magazine,

Passing, An Anthology of Poems by Poetworks.com, Skyline Productions and Aish.com. He is the

author of Snapshots In Memory of Ben, reviewed professionally in the Jewish Press, the Chicago

JUF News Magazine and Poetica Magazine. He is a contributing writer in Everyone’s Got A

Story, edited by Ruchama King Feuerman and published by Judaica Press.


Dear Readers,

Please read a short story for Tisha b'Av, entitled "Lamentations", newly revised.


"Lamentations"

by Alan D. Busch

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled casual slacks, having

only the faintest hint of a crease, a pale yellow knit, perspiration-stained golf shirt and beige cap,

he bore the appearance of not being well cared for.


“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him cheerfully. An elderly man, sitting alone in

the shul’s social hall, he looked troubled and sad.

"Good evening," he said, his mood perking up a bit, a faint smile overtaking his noticeably drawn

face and chapped lips.

“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock now, and I've yahrzeit for

Maariv.”

"Oh," I quickly reassured him. "We'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.” I paused

for a moment. “Your name is, Sir?” He seemed to focus on my mouth when I spoke as if lip

reading. “He’s probably a bit hard of hearing,” I thought.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman.”

He had begun to say "Yitzhak” instead of “Irving” but stopped short. Maybe he thought I

wouldn’t understand or perhaps he felt uncomfortable referring to himself by his Hebrew name.

I really don’t know. In either case, I gave him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, perhaps for your wife or your parents you have yahrzeit?” I asked.


He twisted his left arm a quarter turn with his right hand, revealing six subcutaneous green

numerals. He looked up at me from bloodshot eyes. Their dark shadows seemed as indelible as

his tattoo.

"My parents.” he tearfully whispered, removing a soiled handkerchief from his pants pocket.

I wanted to take care of this man. If I could just help to comfort one grief-stricken Jew, isn’t that
what it’s all about?

"This way, Reb Talisman,” I invited him to accompany him down the hallway to the Rabbi Aron

& Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. We both grasped hold of the door handle. He

paused.

"Should we enter? Looks like a bar mitzvah lesson going on." He was right.

It was an especially busy evening at shul. The sisterhood was hosting a speaker from the Skokie

Park District who spoke about local conservation efforts. The junior minyan was learning

mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. Rabbi Louis, though ordinarily of good cheer, looked grumpy

after a long day of meetings, as if he were about ready to explode. And

to add insult to injury, I learned later his younger son had told him moments before we entered

the beis medrash that an electrical ballast had blown out in the shul’s high ceiling.

Reb Talisman and I quietly entered. When Rabbi Louis saw that I was escorting an elderly

gentleman to minyan, he reserved his upset for the next hapless fellows who followed us in after

we had shut the door. It turned out to be the talmidim of junior minyan.

"Close it!” Rabbi barked.

"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four

mishnayos talmidim cowered behind him.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a special chair I thought he’d like. Unlike the several hundreds of

stackable chairs we have in shul, this chair was more comfortably cushioned, distinctively but

peculiarly pink in color, and always placed by itself adjacent to the book shelves. It had been the

favorite of Reb Helman, the late father of the Rebbitzen. When I turned to check on Reb

Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of the regular seats by the “omed”.

"No problem,” I thought, “as long as he’s comfortable.”

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned, marking the start of the afternoon service. I

looked over to see how he was doing. He seemed fine.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba … “.

Rabbi Louis learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan during the brief interval

between Mincha and Ma’ariv. Tisha b'Av was just around the corner. After several minutes, he

designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv, but by which time my focus had begun

to wane. I closed my siddur.


I thought of “kallah”, my bride of fifteen months. We had recently separated. "Maybe

she'll drive by and come to see me," I mused, while staring out the back window in the corner of

the beis medrash where I customarily sit. I heard what I thought to be a feminine voice. I

turned to the doorway.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I dejectedly muttered to myself.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”

The beis medrash emptied.


I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I'd say if anything on our way out."Good

night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove off.

I fumbled for my keys. "If only she'd be home when I pull into the driveway …" Her car wasn't

there. I wasn't surprised. I sat there for several moments.

“How nice it would have been to tell her about Reb Talisman … maybe tomorrow.”

I opened the car door.

“There must be a lesson in all of this."


It soon became clear to me that The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me that

others are grieving too and for reasons far more serious than mine. I could do a lot of good for

them if I could step out of my own "tsorris".

An act of chesed brought some comfort, friendship and the faintest of smiles to an elderly Jew. It
had been a "yom tov".

Alan D. Busch
Revised 8/5/08