Notes from the Village
In my mind, Icall him Mr. Droopy Pants, my elderly neighbor who shuffles down thehall every morning to steal my paper, his orange toupee askew.
In my mind, Icall him Mr. Droopy Pants, my elderly neighbor who shuffles down thehall every morning to steal my paper, his orange toupee askew.
Abraham Joshua Heschel said that he prayed for one thing: the gift of wonder. He prayed for astonishment, for the capacity to be surprised. As he wrote, \”I try not to be stale. I try to remain young. I have one talent, and that is the capacity to be tremendously surprised at life and at ideas. This is to me the supreme Chassidic imperative.\”
My brother called the other day and asked whetherI had noticed how many people are putting things behind them andmoving on.
\”Does that mean they have no baggage?\” Iasked.
\”Well,\” he said, \”either people have no baggage oran invisible semitrailer is following them around.\”
The news hit me as hard as a stale mandlebrot: Noah\’s Bagels wasgoing treif. They were abandoning us, tossing aside Los Angeles\’loyal kosher consumers like so many day-old minis.
My 25th wedding anniversary iscoming up fast. Wish me luck.
My birthday used to be celebrated as if it were a national holiday. From the backyard pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey days to the touch football games on the beach at Easthampton, July 16 was a date inscribed in infamy.