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.
Friday, December 28, 2007
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
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
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."
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.
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/
"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
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/
&
94.7 FM, http://www.947chicago.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
Dear Readers,
If you wish to order copies of my book, Snapshots In Memory of Ben, please click on > http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/ or http://www.waterforestpress.com/Books/Bookstwo.html
If you wish to order copies of my book, Snapshots In Memory of Ben, please click on > http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/ or http://www.waterforestpress.com/Books/Bookstwo.html
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).
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
Friday, November 30, 2007
Dear Readers,
I would be pleased to accept your order for copies of Snapshots. Email me at fitterthanudad@aol.com. I guarentee a speedy response. Sales price is $12.95 plus shipping (around $4.00 for regular USPS service) I anticipate the books being ready as early as late December or early January. Thank you in advance.
http://www.waterforestpress.com/ ... copy amd paste into your browser, follow prompts.
Alan D. Busch
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Dear Readers,
Copies of Snapshots In Memory of Ben will be available in early January of 2008. You can reserve a copy by emailing me at fitterthanudad@aol.com
New Books On The Horizon:
Snapshots In Memory Of Ben, by Alan D. Busch
Snapshots In Memory of Ben will bring tears to your eyes. 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 individual passages over, again and again. This is a book many of us have been waiting to write ourselves. Alan has done it for us.
Adam Donaldson Powell
This is the heart-wrenching, intimate story of love and strength of one divorced Jewish family where the bechor, the older son, has suddenly died. His parents, and two remaining siblings, must recover from the tragedy of their family’s unexpected loss. “During the publication of this book, I took a small step into the world of life and loss of the Busch family. This is a devoted father’s memoir, who although stricken with unimaginable grief, has written in the spirit of celebration of the life of his beautiful son, Benjamin. The author’s words are honest and candid, as he shares family history and relays with impact, the untimely death of his beloved son. A ‘staightforward—deep-from-the-heart-and-soul read.’ For anyone who has or is going through the loss of a loved one, you must read this book.”
Victoria Valentine, Water Forest Press Publisher
Snapshots In Memory Of Ben is a well written memoir of love and loss, appropriate for readers in all age categories, but particularly those readers dealing with members of a young family, struggling with the grief of losing a child. Memoirs take on the appearance of the real, in the way we have loved one another when the life shared in common vanishes. Memoirs appear as the re-presencing of this absence or loss, revealing to us that there is a value in our bereavement to be reclaimed. Writing memoir is one way we tend this soul.
The (re)presence of an absence is a leitmotif running throughout Snapshots In Memory Of Ben. This is the gripping story of one divorced Jewish family where the bechor, the older son, has died. His two remaining siblings, mother and father, must recover from the tragedy of their family’s loss. The puer-senex (father-son) pattern frames the story narration, unfolding the memoir as if a rite of passage through a soul landscape in deep grief, excavating the memoir and scribing it in a kind of writ of passage to which the image title, “Snapshots,” alludes. Just as snapshots in a family photo album illuminate or re ‘tell’ lived stories, in a way that lets our deepest values held sacred in our imaginal life heal us, the telling style of Snapshots In Memory Of Ben reveals a powerful story of human love.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE.
CONTACT: Water Forest Press
A subsidiary of Skyline Publications
C/o Victoria Valentine, publisher and editor
New York, USA
www.waterforestpress.com
E-mail: WaterForestPress@aol.com
(Published by Water Forest Press, a subsidiary of Skyline Publications, C/o Victoria Valentine, publisher and editor, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com,
E-mail: WaterForestPress@aol.com; ISBN 10: 0-9723493-8-3, ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-8-3 )
December 2007 - New York, USA
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE.
CONTACT: Water Forest Press
A subsidiary of Skyline Publications
C/o Victoria Valentine, publisher and editor
New York, USA
www.waterforestpress.com
E-mail: WaterForestPress@aol.com
ALAN D. BUSCH – SNAPSHOTS OF MY SON: in memory of Ben.
“Snapshots of My Son: in memory of Ben” is an non-fiction book based on real-life experiences, authored by Alan D. Busch, Copyright 2007, 116 pages, 5 x 8, perfect bound, softcover price: US $14.95. Published by www.waterforestpress.com, New York, USA, ISBN 10: 0-9723493-8-3, ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-8-3 ).
“Snapshots of My Son: 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. This non-fiction book has all the innate emotionally-affective qualities of 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.
“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 process ranging from grief/sorrow/loss to healing. It may take you a while to get through it; and you will most probably read 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.
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.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Dear Readers,
Tonight through Monday, Cheshvan 24, is Ben's seventh Hebrew yahrzeit.
Dear Ben,
You have so many friends,
but I'll mention three in particular
who care for and about you even now ...
when you are elsewhere, no longer with us
by our side.
Your first friend is Benzion ...
who turned on your memorial light
in time for davening this morning.
just as he had said he would.
His word is finer than gold.
Do you remember how many of those lights
there are on the southern wall?
Yet he always gets them right.
Your second friend you don't know,
but who knows you.
She's my friend too who
has taught me how to memorialize you better
with every word.
She was worried lest you be forgotten this day!
I assured her that I'd see you.
Your third friend has a heart, Ben, like yours!
Always doing for others.
Were you listening this morning?
Eli and I were there.
Did you hear "Mizmor L' Dovid" and
"Kel Mole Rachomim?"
I'll be in shul today ...
to recite the "evening vespers,"
as Rabbi Louis likes to say,
tongue in cheek.
You remember his sense of humor,
don't you?
It has kept me standing these seven years.
Maariv will be around 5:00.
See you then ...
Dad
Tonight through Monday, Cheshvan 24, is Ben's seventh Hebrew yahrzeit.
Dear Ben,
You have so many friends,
but I'll mention three in particular
who care for and about you even now ...
when you are elsewhere, no longer with us
by our side.
Your first friend is Benzion ...
who turned on your memorial light
in time for davening this morning.
just as he had said he would.
His word is finer than gold.
Do you remember how many of those lights
there are on the southern wall?
Yet he always gets them right.
Your second friend you don't know,
but who knows you.
She's my friend too who
has taught me how to memorialize you better
with every word.
She was worried lest you be forgotten this day!
I assured her that I'd see you.
Your third friend has a heart, Ben, like yours!
Always doing for others.
Were you listening this morning?
Eli and I were there.
Did you hear "Mizmor L' Dovid" and
"Kel Mole Rachomim?"
I'll be in shul today ...
to recite the "evening vespers,"
as Rabbi Louis likes to say,
tongue in cheek.
You remember his sense of humor,
don't you?
It has kept me standing these seven years.
Maariv will be around 5:00.
See you then ...
Dad
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
http://www.aish.com/spirituality/odysseys/Stepping_into_the_Sukkah.asp
Dear Readers,
Please go to the above site at aish.com, read my article and don't forget to leave a message in the bottom window of the article.
Many thanks,
Alan
p.s. there are seven comments there already. We can do better than that, can't we? :)
Dear Readers,
Please go to the above site at aish.com, read my article and don't forget to leave a message in the bottom window of the article.
Many thanks,
Alan
p.s. there are seven comments there already. We can do better than that, can't we? :)
Monday, October 29, 2007
“Portrait of a Righteous Man”
In memory of my late friend and teacher Mr. Irwin Parker, Isser ben Avrum, Z'L whom I believe was one of the Lamed Vuvniks of this generation.
He stooped forward. The kapos at Mauthausen beat
him severely. The same perpetrators broke his nose
repeatedly. Never reset properly, his nose became
permanently misshapen, its tip out of alignment
with the bridge. Other beatings caused his left eye to
appear as if he were looking at someone else when, in
fact, he was looking at you, but for which one had to
look at his right eye.
Do we ever consider where the other person was
yesterday? What may have happened, what amalgam
of circumstances congealed to bring that person into
our lives today and tomorrow?
I did not meet him the first day I attended, but
within the minyan sat Isser ben Avrum whose
acquaintance I would soon make and friendship
I would cherish forever. Outside the tiny, picturesque
refuge of the minyan, he was called Mr. Irwin Parker,
but he allowed me to call him Reb Isser. Though small
of stature and slight of frame, he was a lion of a man.
Like others of his generation, his life changed
irreversibly when the German blitzkrieg overwhelmed
the Polish defense forces in the weeks following
September 1, 1939. Although Reb Isser survived
Mauthausen, his wife and children did not, but a
handful of souls among the incalculable kedoshim.
He immigrated to America in the early 1950s and
began life anew, remarrying and raising a second
family.
Our friendship may have seemed odd to some, I
suppose, but as a boy, I had learned to rise up before
the hoary head. I brought Reb Isser home one day to
meet my family as if he were a new school chum.
While we sipped tea in the kitchen, I showed him a
photo of my Grandpa Austin to whom he bore an
uncanny likeness. Like my grandfather, he too placed
a sugar cube or two between his lower lip and gum
where it functioned as a filter through which the tea
passed on its way down. More than simply amused by
this quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less
than a sweet fragment of an old world.
Reb Isser, who had been trained as a
pharmacist in Poland in the years before WW2,
was not, I suppose, an untypical Jew of his day.
Neither a yeshiva bocher by education nor a great
chochem of Gemara, he did attend cheder and
graduated … a mensch. A prototype of chesed, there
were a few in the congregation who did not like him,
many who loved him, but I dare say not a single soul
who did not respect him. Had you known him as I did
and seen how he interacted with other members of the
shul, how he commanded their respect-not by the
arrogance of scholarship or the external, often
superficial signs of piety-but by the kavod they
accorded him and which he characteristically
rejected, you would have concurred that his was a
yiddishe kop but never a swollen head.
His middot were such that he naturally greeted
everyone with a smile and an extended hand. I
gravitated toward him like an iron filing in search of a
magnet. He became my teacher in the ways of
Yiddishkeit when I was forty years old and he in his
late seventies or early eighties. For reasons he never
explained, he took me under his wing and taught me
siddur, tallis and t’filin. Though I would have preferred
to learn in private, what he may have lacked in
delicacy he more than made up in generosity.
One summer evening before Mincha, Reb Isser
reached into the cabinet below the reading table and
pulled out a small blue velvet bag containing an aged
pair of t’filin.
“Roll up your sleeve,” he nodded toward my left arm.
“Slip your arm through this loop and slide it up to your bicep.”
“Like this?’ I wondered, my legs shaking.
“No, no. You see this knot? It has to be on the inside facing your heart.”
“Oh, okay. I got it.”
We tightened the slip knot to my bicep, wound the
black leather strap seven times around my forearm
and recited the brocho. In comparison, donning the
rosh was much easier.
How does one dispute such a man or turn down his
invitation to impart treasures from the old world?
I was being shown the ways of our fathers by a
righteous man who had survived their worst travails.
How did I merit this gift? Perhaps Reb Isser saw in me
a fledgling fallen from the nest or a reminder of
someone he had lost in his first life. Frankly, I do not
know, but I remain grateful to this man and his
memory.
Even the most cursory of examinations would
demonstrate that Reb Isser bore the weight of moral
authority-in whose person resided indisputable proof
that a new pharaoh arises to destroy us in each
generation. He was the handiwork of The One Above
whose unfathomable ways are revealed in individuals,
such as Reb Isser. His amazing life of courage and
survival would be otherwise inexplicable. A tough,
gentle soul, he was, I believe, one of His original
prototypes of which there have been few copies.
“ukshartam l'os al yadecha v'hayu letotafos bane einecha.”
So reads the memorial leaf I dedicated to his memory
on the Etz Chaim in my shul. Isser ben Avrum, Z’L
passed away on erev Rosh Ha Shanah, 2000.
In memory of my late friend and teacher Mr. Irwin Parker, Isser ben Avrum, Z'L whom I believe was one of the Lamed Vuvniks of this generation.
He stooped forward. The kapos at Mauthausen beat
him severely. The same perpetrators broke his nose
repeatedly. Never reset properly, his nose became
permanently misshapen, its tip out of alignment
with the bridge. Other beatings caused his left eye to
appear as if he were looking at someone else when, in
fact, he was looking at you, but for which one had to
look at his right eye.
Do we ever consider where the other person was
yesterday? What may have happened, what amalgam
of circumstances congealed to bring that person into
our lives today and tomorrow?
I did not meet him the first day I attended, but
within the minyan sat Isser ben Avrum whose
acquaintance I would soon make and friendship
I would cherish forever. Outside the tiny, picturesque
refuge of the minyan, he was called Mr. Irwin Parker,
but he allowed me to call him Reb Isser. Though small
of stature and slight of frame, he was a lion of a man.
Like others of his generation, his life changed
irreversibly when the German blitzkrieg overwhelmed
the Polish defense forces in the weeks following
September 1, 1939. Although Reb Isser survived
Mauthausen, his wife and children did not, but a
handful of souls among the incalculable kedoshim.
He immigrated to America in the early 1950s and
began life anew, remarrying and raising a second
family.
Our friendship may have seemed odd to some, I
suppose, but as a boy, I had learned to rise up before
the hoary head. I brought Reb Isser home one day to
meet my family as if he were a new school chum.
While we sipped tea in the kitchen, I showed him a
photo of my Grandpa Austin to whom he bore an
uncanny likeness. Like my grandfather, he too placed
a sugar cube or two between his lower lip and gum
where it functioned as a filter through which the tea
passed on its way down. More than simply amused by
this quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less
than a sweet fragment of an old world.
Reb Isser, who had been trained as a
pharmacist in Poland in the years before WW2,
was not, I suppose, an untypical Jew of his day.
Neither a yeshiva bocher by education nor a great
chochem of Gemara, he did attend cheder and
graduated … a mensch. A prototype of chesed, there
were a few in the congregation who did not like him,
many who loved him, but I dare say not a single soul
who did not respect him. Had you known him as I did
and seen how he interacted with other members of the
shul, how he commanded their respect-not by the
arrogance of scholarship or the external, often
superficial signs of piety-but by the kavod they
accorded him and which he characteristically
rejected, you would have concurred that his was a
yiddishe kop but never a swollen head.
His middot were such that he naturally greeted
everyone with a smile and an extended hand. I
gravitated toward him like an iron filing in search of a
magnet. He became my teacher in the ways of
Yiddishkeit when I was forty years old and he in his
late seventies or early eighties. For reasons he never
explained, he took me under his wing and taught me
siddur, tallis and t’filin. Though I would have preferred
to learn in private, what he may have lacked in
delicacy he more than made up in generosity.
One summer evening before Mincha, Reb Isser
reached into the cabinet below the reading table and
pulled out a small blue velvet bag containing an aged
pair of t’filin.
“Roll up your sleeve,” he nodded toward my left arm.
“Slip your arm through this loop and slide it up to your bicep.”
“Like this?’ I wondered, my legs shaking.
“No, no. You see this knot? It has to be on the inside facing your heart.”
“Oh, okay. I got it.”
We tightened the slip knot to my bicep, wound the
black leather strap seven times around my forearm
and recited the brocho. In comparison, donning the
rosh was much easier.
How does one dispute such a man or turn down his
invitation to impart treasures from the old world?
I was being shown the ways of our fathers by a
righteous man who had survived their worst travails.
How did I merit this gift? Perhaps Reb Isser saw in me
a fledgling fallen from the nest or a reminder of
someone he had lost in his first life. Frankly, I do not
know, but I remain grateful to this man and his
memory.
Even the most cursory of examinations would
demonstrate that Reb Isser bore the weight of moral
authority-in whose person resided indisputable proof
that a new pharaoh arises to destroy us in each
generation. He was the handiwork of The One Above
whose unfathomable ways are revealed in individuals,
such as Reb Isser. His amazing life of courage and
survival would be otherwise inexplicable. A tough,
gentle soul, he was, I believe, one of His original
prototypes of which there have been few copies.
“ukshartam l'os al yadecha v'hayu letotafos bane einecha.”
So reads the memorial leaf I dedicated to his memory
on the Etz Chaim in my shul. Isser ben Avrum, Z’L
passed away on erev Rosh Ha Shanah, 2000.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Casket ...
Dear Friends ... I am currently revising the entire text of In Memory of Ben. I am thinking of renaming the book Snapshots of My Son, In Memory of Ben. We are just 13 days from the 7th yahrzeit of Ben's passing. The other day, I was looking for a pair of shoes in my closet. The shoes I did not find, but I did find a picture of Ben I had not seen in a while. He was probably around 20 years old when the photo was taken, and it was an especially good one of Ben. It may sound saccharine, but I sure do miss him.
It is unlike anything else you have ever purchased. When I
saw the same casket at the recent funeral of a friend, I was
reminded of the morning at Weinstein Family Services when its staff
accompanied me and my wife through its casket showroom. I
wondered what it must be like to have to sell a casket to
bereaved parents.
We chose one characterized by the dignity of its simplicity.
Beautifully lacquered and adorned with a Magen David, it
seemed to reflect the kind of person Ben himself had been-
neither too plain nor ostentatious. There was a variety of more
expensive choices but only one other casket caught my
attention. It was nothing more than a plain unfinished box.
One grade lower than the one we chose, it looked like the
caskets the town undertaker crafted in the old westerns we
watched as children. Ben’s mom and I looked at each other. Not
quite enough we agreed for our beloved Benjamin.
Thanksgiving Day was unlike any other my family had
ever experienced, surreal, frenzied though with an inexplicable calm
that enabled us to complete the many urgent tasks I feared we would not finish
before the funeral on Friday morning. Our many
friends lent their helping hands in the time of our greatest need and
experienced an ingathering of souls. Everyone huddled
together in an effort to mend the irreparable tear in the fabric of our
lives and heal the wound we had all sustained just hours before.
The angelic reflections of our souls shone brilliantly.
We sat opposite the funeral director and, together with
several of our closest friends, made the awful arrangements
to lay our son in his final resting place. Our world had ended
catastrophically the day before on the eve of Thanksgiving
when Ben was fatally struck by a truck. He died two hours
later in the emergency room at Cook County Hospital.
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