Saturday, May 10, 2008



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The First to Be …

Gaze far away into the skies you’ll see

the vastness of limitless divine reach.

Illumine mine eyes oh twinkling stars this night ...

may I merit to learn the lessons You teach.


The first of circles You drew without compass or pen,

galactic orbs you cast far beyond sight ...

soaring toward endlessness at heavenly speed,

I pray to fathom the ways of your might.


A house for man from words you did utter

with neither roof nor from walls a world you conceive.

From darkness each night, the moon but an ember ...

Master of The Universe … in Thee, I believe.


Awaken in morning to sounds of the dawn,

our lips with gratitude but of bitterness none.

By His grace a new day to us He hath given ...

be as He, the first to be though He had never begun.*


*This last line is based on an old translation of a verse from the Jewish hymn “Yigdal”.

Alan D. Busch

May, 2008

Tuesday, May 06, 2008



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Dear Friends,

May I direct your attention to my rough draft of a preface to my second book ...

Glimpses of a Preface for Book Two (UNDER CONSTRUCTION) (article) by Alan D Busch on AuthorsDen.

When you are at authorsden.com, please visit my friend Micki Peluso, author of a fine book, And The Whippoorwill Sang ... click on Rewards of writing (article) by Micki Peluso on AuthorsDen.

Since I've your attention ( I hope ...) see my guest posting on a really fabulous blog www.ASimpleJew.blogspot.com ... my article can be read by clicking on http://asimplejew.blogspot.com/search?q=busch

Lastly, please take a moment or two to post responses. I'd enjoy hearing from you.

Alan D. Busch

Thursday, May 01, 2008






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Chicago Jewish Arts Festival

with Alan D Busch

Date: 6/15/2008 - 6/15/2008

Time: all day Sunday

Location: Chicago, Illinois

Summary:

Chicago writer Alan D. Busch will be at the Chicago Jewish Arts Fair, Sunday June 15, 2008 in Chicago, Illinois to sell and sign copies of his book, Snapshots In Memory of Ben, a memoir in commemoration of his late beloved son Benjamin. If you happen to be in the neighborhood, come on by! Hope to see you there, Alan D. Busch p.s. Copies of Snapshots In Memory of Ben can also be purchased at http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/.

Sunday, April 27, 2008



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Dear Readers,

Much more of my writings can be more easily read at ...


www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1


I encourage you to visit that site and it's real easy to leave a written response to any of the pieces.

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

Wednesday, April 23, 2008



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All that Remains Is Oftentimes More Than You Think

All that Remains ...

All that remains number but few
a mangled scooter for one ....
hidden from view but for all to see
the havoc one mistake had done.

For years on tree bark did knelt
supporting its maple trunk, broadly hewn.
Fearful was I that if memory felt
would be cast to the wind if strewn.

When he rode it home that first night ...
a "giant" astride a motor ride small.
So incongruous the contrast did seem,
what lay before that us would soon befall.

To part with this relic,
would not I his memory betray?
An anguished decision, but I let it go
lest inadvertantly I myself slay.

Unlike the verdant green grass,
that withers so soon fast.
Stubborn remembrance defiantly stay
the course of time long last.


Alan D. Busch
April 2008

Monday, April 21, 2008



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I Am Lonely For You, Forever

(Reflections that evening of Ben's death ...)

Drawn back to my house
wherein her plaintive cries I did hear
wept my heart for Ben's mom
with whom I could be neither nor near.

In desperate near madness, oh ... the blackest of nights
joylessly my family did weep
so sad when I would have prefered
together with whom I might sleep.

Our child we loved him so much in common
my mind unrestrained in darkness did roam …
this reality unimaginable, especially stark
my house … no longer my home.

In memory’s flight I remember this well
when ended Passover they readied to leave.
I felt the burn of his stubbly cheeks
funny how much in remembrance we grieve.

Ben, Ben ... I wept.
We spoke, but then in silence you died.
It was only just a moment before
while slept in my dreams I cried.

So few hours have since elapsed
in the hospital that psalm I did sing.
I am already lonely for you, forever.
when morrow’s morn would no new smiles bring.

Alan D. Busch

April 2008

Tuesday, April 15, 2008



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The Tenth Plague

We recall the makas b'choros, the slaying of the Egyptian first-born, on the first two nights of

Passover, the most terrible of the ten plagues with which He afflicted Egypt.


As in all instances of divine intercession into human affairs, fathoming

His intent, plan and ways lies beyond our intellectual grasp.

After all, who are we, but the pinnacle of His creation, to presume

that we can fathom the reasons for which He does anything?

We are limited to prayer and praise.


We can conjecture, however, that He slew the bechorim,

all the Egyptian first-born of the land, to unequivocally demonstrate

to Pharoah, a first-born himself, but spared the terrible fate of that night,

that his only choice-other than to bring utter destruction to his

country-would be to proclaim the greatness of the One God,

Ha Shem Yisborach, and thereby let the descendants of Jacob go.


His subsequent release of B’nai Yisrael, a decision he later reversed at Yam Suf,

(commonly translated as the Red Sea) cost him dearly.

We can, I believe, safely infer most Egyptian families had

more than one child. At the center of the slaying of the first-born is

not only the immeasurable power of God, but His

ability to slay the first male without causing collateral harm to

his younger siblings.


The birth of a bechor places him at the top of the birth

order. That fact alone distinguishes him from his siblings. As

happens in many youthful marriages, he is born at a time

when, not too many years before, his mother and father were

the children of their once youthful parents. We set him apart

from his younger siblings-not because we love him any the

more-but that his childhood begins when ours ends. Should

he predecease us, a part of us dies too ... the remnant of an

earlier time in our lives, faint tracings of our own childhood.


Wednesday, March 26, 2008



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I left a comment on a friend's blog last night ... Micki Peluso (author) on AuthorsDen

“isn't it strange and wonderful that birds play a role in your book as well as mine? i've always been drawn to avian metaphor. there is in the Torah the mitzvah of "shooing away the mother bird" the exact meaning of which has been the subject of endless speculation throughout the ages ... i don't know but for me there is nothing quite so wonderful as either the mother duck or goose leading her sturdy band of ducklings and/or goslings in an "unwaddlingly" straight line across the road.

i recall a particularly memorable exhibit at the chicago museum of science and industry and quite the favorite for many generations of kids-both the child-kid and the adult-kid ... that of the eggs under the heating lamp left to their own devices and with plenty of advisory notice that the egg shells not be touched or their battle weary occupants given any assistance whatsoever ... that before long the indefatigably worn-out but victorious chick emerges from the shell, obviously worn out, more than a tad shaken up but as cute as can be.

this i've always known was one of His (look up ...!) ways to cause folk to cry over something quite wondrous, profoundly complex yet simple enough to mesmerize the most callous ...”

And it occurred to me, while typing, that I really do have a penchant, a fascination for birds but with one very important proviso … that they be depicted peaceably and beautifully, for which reason I’ve realized for the first time why I have never liked hitchcock’s The Birds, but I’ve always loved The Birdman of Alcatraz-not that it is solely about birds, but that they are depicted so well and lovingly. Unlike “The Birds” … "Birdman" depicts them as servants and friends of mankind rather than as his tormenters.

What is it about the Torah injunction that commands us to “shoo away the mother bird” before we take her eggs-lest we forget-that she had been dutifully attending them? Why have I embraced this image, found it appealing? Or that of the mother duck waddling at the head of her flock as it files along ever attentive to keep up with its leader?

We borrow the metaphor of the nest from our avian friends to warm the image of our homes and the nestegg to symbolize our saved up monies that we’ll enjoy only when our future becomes our present.

We are quite taken with the bird, aren’t we? She is a nurturer of her young, both in and out of the egg, but considering all that attaches us to the bird none is more important than “flight” to which mankind has always aspired
.
Because he does not and cannot fly, man has made all sorts of wondrous machines-but no matter how scientifically and technologically advanced-they are all based on the engineering and aerodynamic qualities that He created with which to distinguish the bird, be it a thrush or an eagle, from all other creatures.

Need I remind you ... so many of our "superheros" flew: Superman, Mighty Mouse, Batman, Underdog.

And from the ridiculous to the sublime ... do we not await the chirpings of the birds as a wakeup call that Spring has sprung?

Saturday, March 22, 2008



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She and You

I’ve explained so much it seems,
enough for us both.
I regret, apologize, admit, confess …
a myriad of failings.
Why haven’t you?

You know what they are ….
I won’t repeat them here.
The burden of guilt I have assumed …
Why won’t you share?

I wonder if each morning …
do you see the person looking at you
who hurt me … do you?
Or do you deny any recognition and …
just go on with your life?

What hurts most of all …
is that you were never here
even after you returned.
The illusion of someone I had known,
but it was not you, as it happened,
though the outer resemblance was striking.

She didn’t love me as you had …
Her distance was farther away
than ever you had been near ….
when I could touch you.

She never smiled …
as you had so often, sheepishly.
When I opened the door Friday night,
I saw you there awaiting me on that couch
That you so disliked.
The table set, candles aglow
Your long braid and flowing skirts …
How much I do miss them … and
you.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008



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"Looking at You ..."

I look at you quietly thinking,
words so many dare I speak.
Return my stare, hear you wondering
hints of solitude do I seek?

None I say but truth be told,
through too few years of feelings forlorn.
Fears are mine I’ve become too old,
soon I fear see your stareful scorn.

Beseeching you in words unspoken
through moments of closeness when none more
leave me lonely yet desirous
whether we'll be again as time before …

It’s not my fault when life changes,
hard to say and for you to hear.
My body shakes as does my speech,
what hope is there for us this year?

I think back in hours abandon,
gaity, laughter together we spent
Our posture now is so different,
my new life has become as I resent.

How we were is no longer
passionate kisses, our bodies aflutter,
holding you then as mine alone,
leaves many questions slow to utter.

Alan D. Busch

March 2008

Sunday, March 16, 2008



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A bereaved father discusses several life questions with his late son ...

Letter to Ben (with an addition to the original "Letter to Ben" written Thursday night and early Friday morning just a few days before Erev Rosh Ha Shana 5766) ... from the day of this posting about two and a half years ago.

We say so many different things to each other just before and during the Yomin Noraim, the Jewish high holidays: A Gut Yontif, A Gut Yor, Chag Sameach, Shana Tova, and for those of us inclined to use our native tongue rather than the mama loschen, Yiddish, or the lashon kodesh, Hebrew, we say: May the New Year Be Sweet or as I so often say: "May you have a happy and healthy New Year!" And you know what? Regardless of whichever greeting or bracha (blessing) we choose, the common feature that links them all together is they all can be effectively answered by responding "Amen!"

Such a wonderful word this "amen"! It's short, clean and efficient and, in effect, says: "Yes! I subscribe to everything you have said!"Beyond this, we pray that each of us will be inscribed in the "Sefer Ha Chaim"-the Book of Life-for the coming year-that we may be worthy enough to enjoy the mazel, brocho and chatzlacha, luck, blessing and success that the New Year affords!

As a boy, I remember often hearing that without good health, all the riches in the world ... well, you know the rest! So I have begun to wonder: well, what about those who will fall ill in the coming year or who, in earlier years, fell ill, and furthermore what about those- about whose fate we learn, mourn and grieve later-whose names were not inscribed ... no less sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim? What about them?

We are all "basar v' dam"-flesh and blood-mortal beings for whom death-however untimely and premature as it does so often seem-is as integral to life as is birth itself; dialectical opposites each requiring the other lest what we euphemistically call "nature" gives way to chaos.

None of this however soothes the bereaved parent! That much I know very well. As a matter of fact, I have often found myself examining my own deeds-both present and past-in an attempt to uncover what may be a possible linkage between the absolute calamity of losing Ben and my own considerable failings and flaws. Then I "awaken" because I know in my heart that He does not rule over the universe in such a fashion that a child is sacrificed for the misdeeds of a parent! What a relief having realized that! For as immeasureably much as I miss Ben, I can quite honestly place the blame on no one and most assuredly not on God Himself or ... for that matter the driver of the truck whose failure to signal a right turn led to ...

I even know his name and where he lives ...

but for the sake of Ben whose life I love(d), may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism, and may you Ben dwell on high enough to look down upon the clouds ... on the almost eve of the New Year, 5766 I send you the following few reflections:

Dear Ben,

It's now approaching five years ago that you left us son. That one Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, November 22, 2000, our last morning together, those few minutes that we spent chatting while I drove you to the train ... how grateful I am that the experience of that brief moment is mine, that its memory remains as vivid today as if it were that day all over again.

Life without you has been and continues to be difficult; there isn't a day when I don't think of you while pondering the many "what might have beens" though there are many moments when I smile recalling how close you and I were! Sure we had our many differences and struggles, but what father and son don't? Though it may be true for a very few that time heals all wounds, I don't think the healing is ever complete and certainly not without scarring.

We've all had to get on with our lives while what happened that day has left you behind; we grow older while you remain forever as young as the day you were taken from us.Over these several years, I have spoken to many parents who have lost a child, and I've learned that each copes in his own way; I don't know how your mom has managed, but I imagine that she too has in her own way-not unlike your sister and brother and all who love you.

Finding the right words to say to you Ben expresses my hope that they'll not only have particular meaning for you but a more universal message for others who might read your story. First off ... know that I loved you and will always love you unconditionally-despite all that of which I so adamantly disapproved ... all of that takes its place within the context of our lives at that time.

As the older of my two sons and the eldest of my three children-while watching your sister and brother take their places in the world-the anguish I feel becomes even greater as I see the grownup sons of other men. We were all deprived of you Ben; it is just somehow so unfair! Soon ... not so many years from now, your younger brother will be older than you; your sister already is though you will forever remain their big brother!

I recall one night when you, your sister, brother and I were together; it might even have been a Shabbat or yom tov-maybe one of our Passover seders together-when the three of you were about to leave on your way back to mom's house, I kissed you on your cheek and felt the stubble of your whiskers on my lips.

Funny what each of us remembers.

*Shabbat ... the Sabbath**yom tov ... holiday; literally, a good day***seder ... meal served on first two nights of Passover; literally: order

Friday, March 14, 2008



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Torah Thoughts In Flight

But for Thee we devotedly wait,
our work unfinished remain.
Put aside all, let worriment be,
No more left this week to gain.

Hasten thy effort lest sunset precede,
our labors have now to cease.
Welcome the Shekinah, Her presence arrive …
Immerse thyself in Sabbath peace.

A day of respite, tending the soul,
set upon tablecloth both bread and wine.
Sanctify this moment He creation made …
closer to Thee my soul doth pine.

Soar high o’er clouds ever above
as if on wings of eagle’s flight.
His people beloved, a nation of priests
Illumines the world with its light.

We are bidden to be as if a dove
to the ark it did return.
For mankind a rainbow He painted
a promise made He would not spurn.


Alan D. Busch

March 2008

Wednesday, March 12, 2008



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http://www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1

Dear Readers,

Click on the above link that will take you to my authors den homepage. If you are really ambitious, join the site as a "reader" if you like which will enable you to post reviews of the writer's work.

Please click on the Doing Fine.org icon that'll take you to my other blog called Poetry, Dialogue, Composition. If you like leave a comment.

The second printing of Snapshots In Memory of Ben is now underway. I added an epilogue that I feel brings the story to a better closure. Closure is necessary, like a correctly sized wedding ring ... it just fits better.

Alan D. Busch

Sunday, March 09, 2008





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Dear Readers , click on http://www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1 to read a smattering of the writings of Alan D. Busch: poetry, prose, articles, stories, announcements.

Forthcoming in about two weeks is the second printing with minor revisions and a new epilogue of Snapshots In Memory of Ben. A rough draft of the epilogue is posted at authorden.com under the category of "My Stories." Go ahead! Take a peak!

Please visit http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/ to reserve your copy of the second printing or surf any of the on-line book stores ... http://www.amazon.com/

I dedicate all my work to Ben, Z'L.

Alan D. Busch

Thursday, March 06, 2008



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Free Form Thoughts ...

When reflection looks back upon memory,
I see you quietly thinking.
Gone now you have been for ...
well, I've lost count.

You know how it is ... important thoughts occur to us
when we least expect them,
such as happened last night ...

"I'm learning to live without you ..."

and I realize I've been here before.
It shouldn't be so difficult, right?
And on some days, it's not, but
there are moments when it is and
I regret my many mistakes.

I don't know why I stopped singing Eliyahu Ha Navi to you ...
I only know I wish I hadn't.
Words of regret ... there are just so many of them.
Dare I say any more?

In the way of things, complacency precedes regret,
and it is precisely when that has occurred
that one realizes how irreversible is the irreparable.

Alan D. Busch
March 6, 2008

Tuesday, March 04, 2008



Where authors and readers come together! Dear Readers, please read the following in conjunction with the large photo of Ben and me above that shows the Atlantic Ocean behind us.

I have been thinking about this for quite a while now because there is so much more I wish to say about Ben, that I know I've yet to recall. All parents do, I suppose, have their enduring "moments in mind", those remarkably preserved "snapshots" of earlier, different and less troubled times-during which when much younger-we used to-as Ben's mom liked to say-make memories together.

I chose this photograph of Ben and me-one of my favorites-which shows us some twenty-one years ago when my younger brother Michael, Ben-then six years old, Kimmy, their mom and I journeyed on our first family vacation together to Florida. What a wonderful family time it was! A fragment of that memory baffles me though to this very day; something that I did with and especially for Ben-just he and I, but before I relate any more of the story-I should really point out that this happened at a time in my life when I was almost entirely Jewishly unobservant; in other words, I was just pretty much the sort of Jew that I had been raised to be; a sparse sunday school Jewish education, Shabbat? Oh, you mean Saturday morning cartoons! Just one Passover seder-not two and always at the home of my Aunt Iris, Olav ha Shalom, presents at Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah and the big meal together at the end of Yom Kippur though I do not recall anyone ever fasting in my family. Then again I was just a little kid so they may have without my knowing it.

We spent-I think it was-one or two days in Jacksonville, Florida which was very special for me because I had never before seen the ocean about which I was very excited. Even more special would be that I planned to behold it for the first time with Ben in my arms. We all had arisen early that morning and hurried out to the beach. Just ahead lay our special moment together! Though not entirely certain of this, I think Ben and I raced ahead of the group down to the water's edge ... whereupon he leapt into my arms, and the following words that I had previously learned and committed to memory (though I think I did have a cheat sheet!) I recited to Ben as we gazed upon the Atlantic Ocean:

"Baruch ata HaShem, Elokeinu Melech ha Olam, sheasa et ha yam ha gadol"- Blessed are you, our God, King of the universe, who made the great sea."

Alan Busch


Where authors and readers come together! Dear Readers, please visit me at the above website. Below I present one of my favorite poems. Wouldst I had penned it ...

I do not know who first penned this wonderfully poignant, prayerful poem which I have typed in italics, followed by a short personal commentary; its verses are few but powerful in their wisdom. This is one of those good things you've heard about; you know ... the ones that come in small packages or, if you like, a virtual blueprint of parenting-especially for younger parents just starting out.

I've always loved it and have carried it in my head and heart for nearly thirty years though I often wonder how well or badly I measured up during my own early parenting years ...

"Oh give me patience when tiny hands

Take a really close look at your young children's hands ...are they not amazingly tiny and beautiful? Everyone I hope has either experienced or seen a baby grasp with its whole hand but one grownup finger! My favorite fingers belong to my daughter Kimmy; they are beautifully long and slender, and I've loved them ever since I first beheld them upon her caming into this world! I kid you not ... that her fingers were what first caught my eye.

tug at me with their small demands,

I recall Ben trying to redirect that forkful of dinner away from mine and into his own mouth, seated as he was upon my knee and apparently under the erroneous impression that I was to feed him only!

and give me gentle and smiling eyes,

May your eyes mirror the heartfelt joy of your child's achievement; in other words, let your eyes always see and be seen as they were when you witnessed that first baby step! May they always "remember" that moment!

keep my lips from sharp replies.

Teach by example of speech ... moderation, patience of tone and content. Guard thy tongue for once having spoken ... well, the efficacy of "retraction" is entirely fictitious.

and let not confusion, fatigue or noise

Child rearing can be and is often raucous, enervating and frustrating at times ... step back!

obscure my vision of life's fleeting joys ...

Don't ever pass up an opportunity to smell a flower with a child or watch a butterfly flutter about!

so when years later my house is still,

You know they'll fly from the nest one day! While there, keep it cozy, warm and welcoming!

no bitter memories its room may fill.

May our parenting mistakes be few and minor in nature so that our children will return to the
nest with their fledglings in tow! If you make it this far, commence
*KVELLING!

*Kvelling ... when your heart pounds with pride and joy upon witnessing your child's accomplishments.


Alan Busch
www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com

Monday, March 03, 2008

Dear Readers,

I am pleased to announce that my original piece of poetry "Shacharis Musings" will be published in coming weeks by Poetica Magazine, Poetica Magazine, Reflections of Jewish Thought "A fierce light beats upon the Jew." C. G. Montefiore

“Shacharis Musings"

As morning light little shines
in still wee hours before dawn’s rise
speak to Him before day begins
through visions of angels’ eyes.

Praises of kindness and words proclaim
majestically soar o’er ocean sand
the majesty of Creator’s fame
know whom before dost thou stand.

Close thine eyes to worrisome day...
With shroud enwrapped o'er thee
bound both arm and head adorned
closer to Him a moloch be.

Ancient hopes on pages worn
in prayers long seen through tears,
awaken molochim early morn
to pray for length of years.

Examine each day ere too late,
In prayerful haste lest thou proceed
Secure a place at Heaven’s gate
Prey not upon man dost heed.


Alan D. Busch

3/3/08

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

"Eight Years Ago"

Since we bid thee farewell
Eight years ago,
many tears that morning did shed.
into cavernous depths we lowered thee,
united to souls art thou wed.

I want you to know
I have lived as well
As best I could I did try.
Nary a morn, noon or night did pass,
couldn’t ever help I but cry.

I felt so bad all those years
When your days of youth deprived
while sickness stole so much our strength
from wells that might well have thrived.

Much like you, what did we do
When alone there left to lie
Living our lives lest we stray
from faith otherwise worn and tried.

It is hard to explain
these feelings I have
without you, my life to live
Day by day, I can’t but think
My life for yours I wouldst give.

Alan D. Busch
February 27, 2008

Please visit http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/ to purchase a copy of Snapshots In Memory of Ben.
To peruse other writings of Alan, visit http://authorsden.com/alandbusch1

Monday, February 25, 2008

Dear Readers,

The second printing of Snapshots In Memory of Ben is forthcoming. This new postscript will be published in the second printing. Please read it with care. Leave a comment ...


Postscript to Snapshots In Memory of Ben

"Weeping for Love Lost"

She said I had not grieved for Ben. Now what I think she may have meant but did not know is that my grief hasn't come to an end, and, to the extent that is true, I cannot get on with the rest of my life. Now there is a problem or two with that point of view.

Let me state unequivocally that, unlike mourning, there is no end to a parent’s grief. It is interminable and, as such, becomes as much a part of a bereaved parent's everyday life as heading off to work or tidying up the house. The presence of grief becomes a constant in the equation of a bereaved parent's life although its manifestation is variably individualized. Each bereaved parent memorializes that presence differently.

My mourning for our loss of Ben was bound by the framework of Jewish law and custom. After its prescribed period ended, I moved onto grief where I remain. Grieving for a lost child is nothing like thumbing through old photos that you put away when you have had enough. An interminable process, grieving becomes a presence, a part of oneself, a companion.

I chose to write a book, something, I felt, I needed to do. Now unless you don't already know, this business of book writing is a protracted process and, as a matter of fact, consists mostly of rewriting. Historian William Appleman Williams defined it as the art of applying the
seat of one's pants to the seat of one's chair and remaining there until you have something on paper. Searching for that precise word, that ever so elusive turn of phrase requires a great deal of time and patience.

The stakes were and remain high. I felt my happiness and future, my life itself, were at
risk. There were times when I drove myself hard to finish a chapter, tweak a sentence,
articulate an amorphous thought. And I know now that regrettably all too often I was
driving myself too hard. It is almost as if I had made a pact with the maloch ha maves, the angel of death, to return my son if I could but finish his story. Sounds oxymoronic, I know, but it’s true. Everything, I felt, depended on it.

We each choose a "derech”, a road, a way, a path, but we simultaneously accept the
inherent consequences that invariably accompany each of our choices. One can
reasonably expect there will be detours, rough pavement and traffic snarls, but of all the lessons I have learned along the way the most important is that one mustn't forsake the living to memorialize the dead.

Unfortunately, I learned this too late and at great expense. There is, in fact, a time and
place for everything.

My most difficult challenge has been to strike a healthy balance between living my life
and memorializing that of my son. It is not, I suppose, unlike the delicacy required to
walk safely on ice. Always risky at best and potentially dangerous, one needs to
exercise appropriate caution.

We all know what will happen when we slip and lose our balance. That's right ... and I
can assure you the process of getting up, though painful, is not only possible but absolutely necessary.

These words I dedicate to my son Benjamin, Z’L, in the eighth year of his absence.
May he rest in peace and his memory be a blessing.

Alan D. Busch
Revised, February 29, 2008

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Dear Readers and (Viewers)

Please click on the above video. Yes that is me. I spoke a bit too quickly ... I know, but I hope it is clear enough to understand. You know I found out ... even making a short video is more difficult than it looks. Well, at least it was for me. Please order a copy of Snapshots In Memory of Ben by clicking on www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com. I can guarentee that you will find it to be a very compelling read. I say that-not boastfully-but from the great love I have for my son, I devoted my very best effort to tell his story well.

Paypal is set up to make the purchase. If you decide to go with Paypal it will take to "Skyline Productions." That is my publisher's account who will notify me upon the sale of a book or, if you like, contact me at AlanDBusch@aol.com and I will send you a payment request from my Paypal account.

Many thanks for your support.

Alan D. Busch

Wednesday, February 13, 2008



Dear Friends,


Please click on the link below. It'll take you to a splendid review of Snapshots In Memory of Ben by Chicago-based authoress Shayna Hunt published in the New York based Jewish Press. Take a few moments to read it and you should be well convinced that you are ready to purchase a copy of the book for yourself or a loved one. If so follow the Paypal prompts to what you will see as Skyline Productions (that's my publisher) and place your order. Or if you wish contact me at AlanDBusch@aol.com and I will forward a Paypal request to you. Really is quite simple. I know ...Paypal intimidated me too at first but, trust me, it's user friendly.


Discount structure:


1 book=$12.95 + $4.00 shipping=$16.95

2 books= $11.66/each + $4.00 shipping ....

3 books or or more=$10.49/each + $4.00 shipping






Saturday, February 09, 2008

"The Wall"

In days long since, from ages ago

ingather to His Makom flock

among whom dost Thou dwell

Ha Shem likvod Yisborach


L’ Adon Ha Kol l’sha-be-ach

To Him we devotedly send,

Prayerful shards, writ kvitelach

To whom our knees do bend.


Open thy hearts kedoshim

to His avodah, tahor and pure,

gather at His feet molochim

beware lest thy doubts doth stir


Whence this devotion unfailing?

ere stones stand thou demure

open thine lips heaven upward

thy portion in shamayim secure.


Hear please our supplications,

of which uttered none profane …

wherefore our faith sustaineth

memories of pious refrain.

Alan D. Busch

Copyright @ 2008

Saturday, February 02, 2008

"Up Heaven's Slope: Dedicated to Our Kedoshim”
revised 1/25/08


Why wrenched from hearth and home,

o'er hills and fields whence they came?

Dreaming dreams didst thou freely roam,

awakening to morning cold and lame.


Wearily trod up heaven's slope

gray figures stooped, transparently thin,

recalling life from days before …

while awaiting storms of Heavenly din.


Unlike Goliath in battle fell,

a travail, cold and dark, did numb

that David who had fought so well

would soon that night succumb.


Prayerful hopes shoes be found

for souls bereft and torn,

a moment to rest, a breath to breathe

for spirits dulled and worn.


Should not there have been one

for whom faith steadfast but rare,


that his would be ennobled by Thee

to seek his just and fair?


Who glimpsed the light but touched him not.

whose spark had begun to wane


next day ere long gathered clouds again

for fewer who remain.


Bowed under lash by day,

by night a storm did rage.

Why had He not shown His way

a war He could have waged?


Aside bodies on planks they lie

precious heat what little remain.


Dreaded welcome soon might bring

next to whom they had just lain.


Still in death's kingdom shone

a light, a way, the day

when dawn’s rising would fewer eyes see

whose faith did them sustain.


The world we choose points us down

paths long sought by peace,

in the gardens of which we plant the seeds


lest memories tragically cease.


Sunday, January 27, 2008

Stories of Shul Life From Inside The Beis Medrash

"The Night the Mule Lost Its Load"


My shul is a special place to which all sorts of Jews from the arba kanfos gather to pray and commune with The One Above.

It never fails to amaze me how very much of a truism, a big emes it is that ... well, you have heard it before under a variety of other forms: some say 1) never judge a book by its cover or in this case perhaps a more appropriate aphorism is .... 2) greet each man with a smile and an open hand as if he were the Moshiach because at that moment when you are interacting with him, you really have no idea that it might not really be He!


I freely admit that this is an area of my own middos that needs a lot of improvement. In other words, I am prejudicial about which years ago Ben Z'L rebuked me many the time. Certain behaviors bother me-okay I admit it!-and from which I tend to draw rather harsh conclusions about the individual in question. I guess I should wonder how it is that other folks view me? How do they perceive me? Does it coincide with my self-perception? Then again, my self-perception, like that of everyone else, is continuously evolving as I experience more of life and a myriad of opportunities that often remind me how wrong I am about so many things, especially people.

Now it isn't that I do not intellectually understand the lesson that one should not judge others. I mean, after all, how difficult is it really? Furthermore, how many folks-outside of our closest relatives-do we really know? I mean really, deeply, on a level that penetrates? Yes, of course, its a rhetorical question; we may even not know our closest relatives as closely as we think! We all retain an inner privacy we may never share with anyone-not a parent, sibling, best friend-not even a spouse.

Still it remains a fact after countless many instances that people whom I have prejudged or toward whom shown coldness or displeasure so often turn out to be genuinely choshever menschen.

I "met" another one of these individuals in shul tonight-a man I have known for less than a year, perhaps ten months at the most. He is the kind of fellow who is naturally gregarious, a schmoozer, who involves himself in seemingly private conversations just because he's interested, I suppose. Not so much as a busybody, it's simply who he is. He wants to share the moment with as many as possible, a very successful person socially because he takes the time and trouble to introduce himself to complete strangers. There is no hand he does not shake. Scientifically speaking he is of the genus "homo sapien politicus."

I guess it was this about him, his conviviality, the ease with which he smiles ... that frankly annoyed me. It is not, however, a matter of happenstance, I think, this evening coincided with this week's parashat Mishpatim about which Reb Louis shared a splendid shtickl Torah from the Medrash Tanchuma.


Mishpatim reminds us that should we happen across our neighbor whom we dislike but find that his mule has dropped his load that the Torah obligates us to assist him to schlep it atop the mule once again-no matter that you may have more regard for the chamor than you have for its owner. Meanwhile something "magical" begins to happen while the two of them share the laboriousness of reloading the mule. A conversation invariably takes place with the result that one realizes that the other guy is not the schmendrik and perhaps even a menuval that he had thought him to be.

So it makes sense that The One Above created this particular mitzvah with the intent of fostering shalom between and among Jews who might otherwise have labored each under the misconception of the other and in this way lends credibility to what we say by maariv: "ahavas olam Beis Yisroel ..."

So you want to know what he said? Well, between mincha and maariv the other fellow whose "donkey had dropped its load" very touchingly related to me that my book had made a deep impression on him ... that it evoked memories of his mother's passing not long before and, as it happens, on the same date, November 22, as Ben. I was touched by his sincerity and his genuinely empathic mien, but the knockout punch came several moments later when he walked back to where I was sitting. I guess he had something more he wished to say.

I regard his latter comment as the most meaningful remark anyone has thus far said to me about the book, and I'll tell you ... thankfully there have been many kind words uttered to me and many fine folks have taken the time to utter and write many wonderful accolades, but this fellow's remarks tugged at my heart strings.

"I felt so good, so warm about how it was that you portrayed your ex-wife throughout the book. Your treatment of her was balanced, kind, fair-nothing that would suggest any crass opportunism to take a swipe. I really appreciated that. It really came through."

"Well, thank you, Moishele (not his name) thank you very much. Yes, she was my wife for twenty-four years and remains the mother of my three children." As I spoke, I noticed his eyes tearing up and saw his genuine sincerity and sensitivity as inherent middos of this large man, as big as a brown bear but as gentle as a cub.

After the last Kaddish, I scurried out with the intent to get this story down on paper, as it were. I am once again reminded that The One Above is the one and only "dayan ha emes."

It occurred that Moishele is very much like my late son Ben who also kept the softness of a teddy bear next to his heart.

Alan D. Busch


January 28, 2008
"Up Heaven's Slope: Dedicated to Our Kedoshim”


Why wrenched from hearth and home,

o'er hills and fields whence they came?...


Dreaming dreams didst thou freely roam,

awaken to morning cold and lame.


Wearily trod up heaven's slope

gray figures stooped, transparently thin,

recalling life from days before

while awaiting storms of Heavenly din.


Unlike Goliath in battle fell,

a travail, cold and dark, did numb

that David who had fought so well

would soon that night succumb.


Prayerful hopes shoes be found

for souls bereft and torn,

a moment to rest, a breath to breathe

for spirits dulled and worn.


Should not there have been one

for whom faith steadfast but rare,

that his would be ennobled by Thee

to seek his just and fair?


Who glimpsed the light but touched him not

whose spark had begun to wane

next day ere long gathered clouds again

for fewer who remain.


Bowed under lash by day,

by night a storm did rage.

Why had He not shown His way

a war He could have waged?


Aside bodies on planks they lie

precious heat what little remain.

Dreaded welcome soon might bring

next to whom they had just lain.


Still in death's kingdom shone

a light, a way, the day

when dawn’s rising would fewer eyes see

whose faith did them sustain.


The world we choose points us down

paths long sought by peace,

in the gardens of which we plant the seeds

lest memories tragically cease.


Alan D. Busch
Revised January 2008

Monday, January 21, 2008


“Shacharis Musings" (revised 2/10/08)

As morning light little shines
in still wee hours before dawn’s rise
speak to Him before day begins
through visions of angels' eyes.

Praises of kindness and words proclaim
majestically soar o’er ocean sand
the majesty of Creator’s fame
know whom before doth thou stand.

Close thine eyes to worrisome day...
With shroud enwrapped o'er thee
bound both arm and head adorned
closer to Him a moloch be.

Ancient hopes on pages worn
in prayers long seen through tears,
awaken molochim early morn
to pray for length of years.

Examine each day ere too late,
In prayerful haste lest thou proceed
Secure a place at Heaven’s gate
Prey not upon man doth heed.


Alan Busch
1/21/08

Dear Readers,

Please see my other writings at http://www.writersstockintrade@blogspot.com/

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Dear Friends,

I am indeed fortunate to have the support of a good many fellow writers, family, friends and supporters-one of whom has written a splendid review of my book. The link below will take you to the Book Shelf feature of the current issue of Jewish Press. Please take note of the link at the bottom of the review to my dedicated website www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com where you can purchase copies of the book.

Click here for review: Title: SNAPSHOTS In Memory of Ben

Please click on the following site Blessings for Dogs - Google Book Search to purchase some of the creative works of the reviewer.

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Dear Friends,

My book can now be purchaed at Target on line ...

snapshots in memory of ben : Books : Target Search Results

Monday, January 07, 2008

Dear Friends,

Here are a few more reader reactions to Snapshots. Please remember to continue to buy copies by visiting www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com.



It is a wonderful book, Alan. Clearly a work of love, and can be helpful to others on a similar journey. You touched well on something that others not in acute grief either forget, overlook or are uncomfortable with: grieving goes on, and on. Thank you for writing it and for sharing it with others

Nancy


Hi Alan,

I finished reading Snapshots and just want to commend you on what a terrific job you did in many areas. By the time I finished reading it I felt like I knew Ben very well, in spite of the fact that I never met him. You also did a great job in describing the pain that continues long after the loss. As I read the book I got the sense that Ben affected the course of your life just as much as you affected the course of his, long before that tragic day in November. Snapshots gave me a good sense of your parenting experience, not just with Ben, but with the entire family. This book was very powerful on many levels.

My brother was killed in an accident involving a bicycle on June 15, 1957. He was 11 at the time and I was 7. Now, over a half century later, I still vividly remember all of the events of that day as though it happened yesterday. I'm sorry to say, the void that comes with the unexpected and untimely loss of a family member stays with you the rest of your life. The only thing that changes is your ability to move on as time goes by. As time goes by, also, you wonder what that family member would have been like today, and you feel that family member's absence when there are special events involving the family. I would bet my life you thought about Ben on your wedding day and envisioned what it would have been like had he been there with you to share the experience.

You are so right when you say the grieving process is very individualized for every different person. My mother was able to move on, albeit without a day having gone by where she doesn't think about her lost son and missing him. My father was a totally broken man who never recovered. He never wanted to go to bar mitzvahs because they were too painful and it filled him with sadness when he saw others enjoying themselves with their sons.

One of my most powerful memories came with the loss of a cousin in St. Louis. You might have known him -Sherman Bradley. He was a few years younger than me and I'm quite sure he graduated from high school at Ladue. He was in his late teens at the time he was killed in a traffic accident. It happened in an intersection where his truck was struck by a Greyhound bus. I'll never forget the way his grieving father, cousin Marvin, looked at me when I made my shiva call. He very sorrowfully uttered: "Now I know how your father felt." That says it all.

Alan, I hope the book is widely read and becomes a classic.


Anonymously Submitted
Dear Friends,

Please click on the link below to view and purchase copies of

SnapshotsInMemoryOfBen and note the link to a you-tube video

featuring yours truly.

Many thanks,

Alan

Sunday, January 06, 2008

The Morning 'Benji' Made Minyan

The "tsenter", the tenth man required to complete a minyan is much sought after, who enjoys an almost enviable position. It is he, after all, who makes it all come together, as it were. Without him, certain prayers, which require a minyan, a religious quorem of ten adult men, may not be said. Imagine holding in one's hands the power to prevent nine other Jews from hearing the Borechu, the repetition of the Shmoney Esrei, the Kedusha and all of the Kaddishim! That's quite a lot of prayer deprivation! And what is it that some cynics say about the inability of one person to make a difference?

To be the tenth man is, indeed, a weighty honor. At least nine other men await him eagerly. They welcome him to a degree unlike that accorded themselves. It's such an odd thing, in part because it represents a complete inversion of our usual cultural standard that takes a rather dim view of tardiness. Whereelse would you expect to find the accolades and adoration showered upon anyone else but the tsenter, a man who, by definition, is not only "last" but, in many instances, late?

Probably no where else but in an orthodox shul.

There are probably no more diametrically opposed character types within the world of orthodox minyonim than the "schlichim" and the "tsenter". As unfortunate as it may seem to say this, it has been my vastly limited experience that the typical schliach is a borderline nudnik; in most cases, he is a seemingly perfectly able man who-clutching his green plastic laminated cards-arrives at the shul in some instances driving very new and expensive cars, rentals I presume. He walks about the beis medrash during the recitation of morning prayers soliciting from each and every man contributions of tzedakah to his favorite cause-himself.

Often traveling in groups, outfitted in black caftans and a variety of styles of black hats, most of these schlichim are men who "learn", I imagine, in yeshiva-the majority of which I'd venture to say are in Eretz Yisroel, judging from the few words they utter-few seem to be American-born. It's an ancient Jewish custom to financially assist talmidei chachomim, the origin of which is with the commercially successful Tribe of Zebulun who supported the scholarly Tribe of Issachar. Not everyone is cut out to be a talmid chochem; it is nothing more than a simple fact of life. However, that fact alone obligates those of us who are not to support those who are. And I can deal with that. I guess it's their presumption of entitlement that annoys me. Perhaps if they brought in a dozen donuts or donated a bottle of good schnappes to the shul once in a while, I might warm up to them. Or even the radical idea of davening with the minyan on occasion might well benefit them.

Far fewer are those who arrive in shul looking somewhat disheveled, downcast and genuinely needy although there is one young man, named "Benji" who shows up every now and then who certainly is in need of assistance from his fellow Jews-not to sit and learn, but clearly to make ends meet. He is a young man who is probably in his mid-twenties and clearly showing the signs of emotional disability.

With a look of mental disorderliness about him that may be due to a failure to adhere to his medication regimen, he unmistakingly is a genuinely needy soul. One needs only glance at such a person to come away thankful for all of life's blessings. Indeed it is a fortunate fact of Jewish communal life that there is such a strong institutionalized tradition of tzedaka in place-that a fellow such as Benji can come to shul in the morning, when there are typically more worshippers, and leave with at least a few extra dollars in pocket.

This is the way it is and most probably, will always be.

But just last Friday, when for reasons unknown, the count of the morning minyan had stopped at nine plus "Benji" who-on any other given morning-might well have left after his collections-given a plentitude of men comprising the minyan, but this last Friday morning was "schvach"-slow indeed. The redeeming element here was the fact that young Benji-not unmindful of the fact that had he left just then, the minyan, of which he was the un-official tzenter, would have been reduced to nine, unable to move forward.

"Should I stick around to help make the minyan?" Benji asked of the quiet gentleman next to whom he was standing, a Kohein as a matter of fact, who not only knew Benji but referred to him as his friend whom- he made it known-the members of the minyan should help out.

"Yes, that would be good," he advised. "Did you bring your t'filin?" he asked, smilingly, but only half jokingly because Benji was not inclined, perhaps even unable to "don" tefilin. Mind you, his friend, the Kohein, knew this of course but only sought to make Benji feel like one of "the guys", who just so happened to have "forgotten" his t'philin that morning. And so Benji stayed long enough in any case for the first two kaddishim to be pronounced, after which two additional men arrived.

I studied carefully the expression on Benji's face as the kaddishim were being read, and I espied a clearly discernible look of great self-satisfaction. He was, at least, for the while an exceedingly important man! With the arrival of the two additional men, Benji was, as it were, released. Should he have left then, there still would have been a minyan plus one. So he did, he left, but before he stepped outside the beis medrash, Benji stopped to count, just to make sure that ten there would at least be upon his leaving. He left, with some much needed money in pocket and, I hope, the satisfaction that on this morning, he was able to give back as well as receive.

PLEASE VISIT WWW.SNAPSHOTSINMEMORYOFBEN.COM

Thursday, January 03, 2008

Dear Friends,



Here are reviews and reactions to my book Snapshots In Memory of Ben by several readers:



The first reviewer asked to remain anonymous:



How can one describe a book as beautiful which tells the story of a child's brief life and death as seen through the eyes and windows of the soul of a father? Yet this book is beautiful. If you have lost a child---then you understand how impoverished and pathetic my words are. I picked it up and read it, standing still, transfixed. It is a quick read---only 20 minutes.

Once, long ago, I hiked through a thick forest and stumbled upon a quiet, serene pool---its waters, crystal clear. It was hidden by trees and I somehow knew that I could never find it again in a 1,000 years of searching. The day was very hot, and I was weary. I waded in and discovered that it was far, far deeper than I had imagined for such a tiny pond. This book is like that pool: it is a slim volume----but its pages are far deeper than I would have ever imagined. The author is a religious Jew, and the spectrum of his sorrow is seen through the prism of his Judaism. But it does not matter: the loss of a child is a universal, private hell from which none of us truly ever escape.


Review 2

Snapshots: In Memory Of Ben

It must be one of the hardest things in the world to lose a child, and it's something that I could never begin to imagine. I learned a lot from Alan Busch's memoir......I learned what a lovely son he has, and even though Ben had health obstacles to deal with most of his life, he was a happy and upbeat young man, someone anyone would be proud to call their friend. I learned much about the Jewish faith, and Alan's quest to go through the grieving stages and to also help others deal with the loss of a loved one.
The most important thing I learned was what to say and do for a bereaved person, how it's just not right to say things such as "I know how you feel", or "he/she is in a better place". How sometimes just being there for a person and giving them a loving hug can help the slow healing process of their souls.
I truly feel that Ben would be proud of this loving tribute to his life that his father has created.
This book is a must read for anyone who has ever lost someone in their life and is having a terrible time getting over the shock of not having that person in their lives anymore. Alan Busch has written a book born from his own tragedy that is sure to help many others.

Laura W.

Please continue to support Snapshots by visiting www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

Dear Friends,

Please continue to buy copies of Snapshots In Memory of Ben
at www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com


Churban ...

Whether in battle or prayer, they met their end,

futile struggle, Kiddush HaShem.

Their foe, a Goliath, of thousands times size,

from whom they refused to accept the lies:

that they were weak and unworthy, unable to rise.

Never before had there been such daring

from young women and men all of whom caring

for the dignity of those for whom they fought,

such were the lessons history had taught ...

that the Jew stood alone, friendless, against foe,

counting his days, tormented by woe.

His task ... to prove though troubled by pain,

the courage of Masada had not been in vain.

For three months, the struggle did not cease,

neither side desiring peace.

For 'surrender' was an unthinkable word,

from the sewers of Warsaw could still be heard:

the cries, the anguish, the torture within

ferreting out captives the nazis whose grin

was evidence they had acted with glee

when stifling yearnings of people to be free.

Cords of 'log-bodies', stacked just the same,

secular and religious none to blame.

For there was NO such difference before the Hun,

the Jews for him were decidedly one.

Why a people whose destiny has been

to enlighten a world through darkness and din,

whose numbers are as many as they are few,

why so despised has been the Jew?

Threatened with death should he adhere to his ways,

terrorized by chimneys' billowing haze.

Searchingly hopeful ... in whose starry gaze

reflected infernos' roaring blaze.

Why did none act to stop it once known?

Enough indifference haven't we sown?

Praying to the heavens as they did every day,

that soon they'd see planes flying their way,

so bombardment, please God, should take us

ere the chambers would,

but the Allies

denied they could ... destroy the railsleading straight into Hell,

from which precious few reemerged to tell

of the horrors awaiting them,

so hard to believe,

that neither kindness nor life did the arrivals receive.

The children, too, thrust into the pit,

enraged blood lust, into its infernal fit

that even the babes whose potential so great

should have felt the steel of this magnificent hate,

whose cries were heard, but listened to none,

whose heads fell limp with the snap of a gun,

whose parents, God forbid! they saw as naked as they,f

or it was like this ... they suffered that day.

There are those who challenge what we have to say,

"Does such a retelling remain relevant today?"

"That, somehow, It's past, gone. Let it be!"

"Why do you make us suffer to see:

the killings, the children, the mountains of bone,

the chambers transformed so many to stone!

who dropped like logs when the doors were thrown wide,

there simply had been ... no place to hide,

mothers whose skirts offered refuge at least

little ones uncovered ...thrown to the beast.

"Of what use" it was queried,"could they possibly be"

in a stench wherein no one was happy or free?"

Ne'er a glimmer of hope would the murderers give

to those whose sole wish ... was only to live.

Mothers from children, families asunder,

might others have withstood this fury and thunder?

Slave labor was needed to further the 'cause',

to build V-2 rockets, to sharpen the claws.

or such, 'noble' men, doctors by fame,

were employed to brutalize, murder, and maim

so that 'Science' could learn when life was so cheap,

discarded mankind onto the heap.

'Great' governments had met in order to be

as pious as possible, but deaf to the plea ...

of the wandering Jew whose torment to see

how unwelcome he was in the 'Land of the Free'.

The ship onto which so many had stormed

could not find refuge for opinion had formed

that the Jew was expendable, a nuisance, a thorn

upon whom fate had abandoned its contemptuous scorn.

They made it to America these "tired and poor"

to discover Liberty's spark shone little more

that, for them, there was not room enough to remain,

what hopes they had cherished were all now in vain!

Dejectedly they limped back to the place

which had expelled them at first for the same lack of space.

Stripped naked and paraded for the world to see

what sickness had afflicted modern Germany?

Once active and vigorous this citizenry

wandered about aimlessly.

It didn't take long for the nazis to see

that the world cared less for these Jews to be free.

A 'final solution' would quicken the pace

that guarenteed mastery to the 'Aryan' race.

No longer at issue either sufferance or claim,

onto Jewry was placed the burden and blame.

To repair the world, there must need be

a point at which we accept responsibility

for right against wrong, fiction from fact,

a basis upon which we can responsibly act,

but why even bother...so distant from then,

what more do we gain, what message we send?

For the sake of the children,

if not for our own ...

and for them whose lives ...

we

might

otherwise

have

known.



Alan D. Busch
revised 2008
See AOL's top rated recipes and easy ways to stay in shape for winter.

Friday, December 28, 2007




Dear Readers,


Click here to purchase Snapshots from Amazon.com. While you have finished the book, write a brief review and post it on the Amazon.com site.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Dear Readers,

Here is a summary of the online sites from which you can purchase copies of Snapshots In

Memory of Ben:


www.amazon.com

www.idiscountbooks.com

www.waterforestpress.com

www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com

or you may contact me directly at fitterthanudad@aol.com

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Monday, December 24, 2007


Dear Friends,

Snapshots is now available for purchase at http://www.amazon.com/

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Dear Readers,

Please continue to purchase copies of Snapshots In Memory of Ben at http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/.

Thank you!

Of the thirty or so chapters of my book, the chapter entitled "The Last Time" underwent the most revisions. Here is a revised ending that will appear in a literary anthology around Pesach 2008. More information forthcoming. In addition, a slight variant of my Succos article that was published in Aish.com, Stepping into the Sukkah will also appear in the same anthology.


"After I dropped Rabbi Louis off, I was drawn back to my old house where both my heart and younger son Zac were. Ben's mom was home too. I thought of her plaintive cry with all its anguish and horror. It haunted me. I circled the block repeatedly agonizing about what I'd do. I could not forget Ben's house was no longer my home and hadn't been for a year and a half. My dilemma was not over whether I should I go in, but if I could. Ben was our child, Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit, and while true we loved him in common, his mom and I could not share the plague of his death as we had the joy of his life.

I drove off to my apartment. .

I stood on the threshold of my door. It was there I had kissed his stubbly cheeks the previous Pesach. Funny what we remember when we remember. I began to sob. Ben, Ben … I spoke to you just hours ago but you died in silence. I'm already lonely for you, forever.

Wednesday, the eve of Thanksgiving 2000, ended quietly together with my world as I had understood it just several hours before. I dozed off a drink or two later hoping the morning might come sooner than it did."


Friday, December 21, 2007

Dear Readers,

Good News! Snapshots In Memory of Ben will be available at the Skokie Public Library. Click here. First, it must be processed and catalogued, then put on display with other new acquisitions.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Postscript to Snapshots In Memory of Ben

"Weeping For Loves Lost"

She said I had never grieved for Ben. Now what I think she

may have meant but did not know is my grief for my son hasn't come to

an end, and, to the extent that that is true, I cannot get

on with the rest of my life. Now there is a problem or two with

that point of view: first, let me state unequivocally there is no

end to grief. It is interminable and as much a part of a bereaved

parent's everyday life as heading off to work or tidying up the

house. Grief becomes, in effect, a constant in the equation of

one's routine.


I first mourned our loss of Ben bound by the framework of Jewish law and

custom. I moved onto grief thereafter where I remain.


Grieving for a lost child in not at all like thumbing

through old photos that you put away when you have had

enough. An interminable process, grieving becomes a presence, a part of

oneself, a companion. How each bereaved parent memorializes that presence

is entirely individualized.


I chose to write a book, something, I felt, I needed to do.

Now unless you don't already know, this business of book writing is a protracted

process and, as a matter of fact, consists mostly of

rewriting. Historian William Appleman Williams defined it as the art of applying the seat of

one's pants to the seat of one's chair and remaining there until you

have something on paper. Searching for that precise word,

that ever so elusive turn of phrase that will clinch it for the

reader. Such strivings for that illusive "perfection" take time

and unfathomable amounts of patience. The stakes were and remain high.

My happiness, future, life itself at risk. There were times when I drove myself hard to

finish a chapter, tweak a sentence, give voice to an

amorphous thought. And I know now that regrettably too often

I was driving myself too hard. It is almost as if I had made a pact with the "maloch ha maves"

promising me a reunification of his body and soul if only I could tell my son's story.

Everything and more depended on it.


We each choose a "derech," a road, a way, a path. Yes, and

one can reasonably expect there will be detours, rough

pavement and traffic snarls along the way. While living with

loss, one mustn't forsake the living to memorialize the dead.

There is, in fact, a time and place for everything. My most

difficult challenge has been to strike a balance between living my life

and recalling my son's.


We all know what happens when we lose our balance. That's right ... and

the getting up, you can be sure, is painful indeed.


http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/

Friday, December 14, 2007

Dear Friends,

Click here to learn about my publisher. You can also buy copies of Snapshots In Memory of Ben
by clicking on the bookcover. You'll see it. Before I forget, don't you forget to visit my other blog at www.writersstockintrade.blogspot.com

I'm contemplating my second book ... Glimpses, Portraits, Impressions.

Have you ever thought about why select persons with whom you have interacted at varying moments in your life, from fleeting to lengthy periods of time, remain by you forever?

Why this individual and not that one? It may be that The Aibishter sends these melachim to help us along life's path. Think about that. You have your own ...

I'll be posting rough drafts about my melachim ... I welcome any comments.

Lastly, remember to click on www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com to purchase a copy of my first book.

Alan Busch

Tuesday, December 11, 2007


Dear Readers,

Please click on either of the links below, then scroll down toward the bottom of the homepage where you will see the bookcover for Snapshots In Memory of Ben. Click on the advertisement. You can pay in one of 3 ways:

1. check to author directly. Address is there.

2. credit card

3. paypal





Thank you,



Alan D. Busch

Thursday, December 06, 2007


Dear Friends,


During the weeks of 12/10 and 12/17, I will be advertising the sale of Snapshots In Memory of Ben on two Chicago radio station homepages. They are:


WLS AM, News Talk 89, http://www.wlsam.com/


&





You will see an advertisement box showing the cover of Snapshots. Click and follow the prompts to make your purchase.
Thank you,
Alan D. Busch


Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Monday, December 03, 2007

Dear Readers,

After reading this review of my book, scroll down to the prior post for instructions about how to place your order for Snapshots In Memory of Ben.

Below find a review of my book Snapshots In Memory of Ben by Adam Donaldson Powell



http://www.adamdonaldsonpowell.com/aboutme.html


“Snapshots In Memory of Ben” is an non-fiction book based on real-life experiences, authored by Alan D. Busch, Copyright 2007, 136 pages, 5 x 8, perfect bound, softcover price: US $12.95. Published by Water Forest Press (www.waterforestpress.com), New York, USA, ISBN 10: 0-9723493-8-3, ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-8-3.

“Snapshots In Memory of Ben” will bring tears to your eyes. Many readers will not be able to read the entire book in one sitting, and some may not finish it at all. Normally, I would reserve a so strong opening statement in a book review for a literary masterpiece which glitters with the same emotionally-affective qualities as a masterly painting that has survived countless centuries, or a Hollywood-style film whose success is measured by its ability to get the even the most hardened macho-type viewer to cry tears of happiness and sorrow.

This book is not a work of “fine literature”, nor is it a work of art or a film. However, it contains a most special quality in that it often functions as a successful hybrid of all the aforementioned. It is an honest account of the most painful life experience possible: seeing your own child die before you do. Death is a difficult issue to write about, even for a dramatic novelist, a poet or a psychologist. Death is not only about endings, but also remembrances and the fear of letting go so that new beginnings may begin to take hold. We all know that we need to let go, but the need to cling to the memories from a now-missing part of ourselves which still lives on within us is an overwhelming and indescribable process. And that is precisely what Alan D. Busch has nearly done in a perfect way: to describe that process in a way almost everyone would be able to relate to – regardless of whether they lost their parent(s), wife, husband, lover, partner, child or best friend .. to natural death, an accident or to suicide. He describes both the pain, the difficulty of acceptance, the other-worldliness of the experience, the value and the pain of memories .. and the resolution of the unresolvable (i.e. acceptance of death as a part of Life to be embraced emotionally; and not merely in terms of over-simplified aphorisms).

“Snapshots of My Son: in memory of Ben” is an important book, which is both painful and healing to read .. and impossible for those who do read it to do so without recalling their own personal memories and processes in connection with the passing of loved ones.

Do buy this book. Read it when you are ready to become engaged in your own processes ranging from grief/sorrow/loss to healing. It may take you a while to get through it; and you will most probably read several individual passages over, again and again. It is not easy; it is about Life.

And yes, it would make a good film or television movie.

- review by Adam Donaldson Powell (2007).


ALAN D. BUSCH is an independent writer in Skokie, IL. He has published articles and poetry in Living With Loss, Bereavement Publications, the Chicago Jewish United Fund News Magazine, Passing, An Anthology of Poems by Poetworks.com and Aish.com. Alan is married to "Kallah" and is the father of three children: Benjamin, Z'L, Kimberly and Zac.

ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).

Sunday, December 02, 2007




Dear Friends ...

It has been between 4-5 years that I have been writing this book. Tomorrow it goes to the printer! Please contact me, Alan D. Busch, aka fitterthanudad@aol.com, to purchase the book. Total cost of one copy shipped USPS regular service is $12.95 plus $4.00 (shipping) = $16.95. Personal checks are accepted while I pursue the construction of a website with a paypal link.


I am,

Very Sincerely Yours,

Alan D. Busch

Dear Readers,

I announce the publication of my book Snapshots In Memory of Ben by Water Forest Press. You may place an order by emailing me at fitterthanudad@aol.com. I am currently looking into websites so the above arrangement is temporary.

Your cost is $12.95 plus $4.00 shipping. Response time will be speedy. Guarenteed! Payment by check is perfectly fine under this temporary arrangement.

I am very pleased to link your attention to a very generous review by liteary scholar Adam Donaldson Powell whom I wish to thank.

http://www.adamdonaldsonpowell.com/otherpoets.html


As Always,

I thank you,

Alan