THE MARRIAGE OF DEMOCRATICALLY CONVENIENT HEADLINES. Huma&Tony :

Former President Bill Clinton is reported to have presided at the wedding of New York Rep. Anthony Weiner to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton aide Huma Abedin. Anonymous people said. The unmarried gawkish congressman long plagued with stories on Capitol Hill was marrying Hillary’s right hand herself long plagued with stories in the Senate then State.

The wedding was storybook- the Oheka Castle in Huntington Longuyland, a classy joint where former Senator Al Damato played cards, boy band member a Jonas brother got married there. Huma’s rumors involved Hillary and Huma and the Muslim Brotherhood ties- Huma’s mishpochah, family. Huma is from Pakistan. She grew up in Saudi Arabia. Weiner is New York’s own. Weiner’s rumors included Pocket Pool and sharing the family jewels- the natural kind.

A Jew and a Muslim wedded is a convenient headline when it comes to State sleight of hand. It is a state of disorder when it comes to a Jew “marrying” a Muslim and then cheating on her. Self help in Huma’s homeland is stoning, of Weiner that would be. Congressman, not a place to visit you aught to put on your bucket list.

The thing is, somethings cant lie, like a law delineating who can officiate at weddings, even when it comes to lawyers who lose their law license for lying under oath.

1. “NY Domestic relations law spells out who may officiate at a wedding in the state. Former president is not on the list… “§ 11. By whom a marriage must be solemnized. No marriage shall be valid unless solemnized by either: 1. A clergyman or minister of any religion,…. 2. A mayor of a village, a county executive of a county, or a mayor, recorder, city magistrate, police justice or police magistrate of a city, a former mayor or the city clerk of a city of the first class of over one million inhabitants or any of his or her deputies or not more than four regular clerks, designated by him or her for such purpose as provided in section eleven-a of this chapter, except that in cities which contain more than one hundred thousand and less than one million inhabitants, a marriage shall be solemnized by the mayor, or police justice, and by no other officer of such city, except as provided in subdivisions one and three of this section. 3. A judge of the federal circuit court of appeals for the second circuit, a judge of a federal district court for the northern, southern, eastern or western district of New York, a judge of the United States court of international trade, a federal administrative law judge presiding in this state, a justice or judge of a court of the unified court system, a housing judge of the civil court of the city of New York, a retired justice or judge of the unified court system or a retired housing judge of the civil court of the city of New York certified pursuant to paragraph (k) of subdivision two of section two hundred twelve of the judiciary law, the clerk of the appellate division of the supreme court in each judicial department, a retired city clerk who served for more than ten years in such capacity in a city having a population of one million or more or a county clerk of a county wholly within cities having a population of one million or more.”

Chelsea’s wedding was officiated by both a rabbi and a Methodist minister. Why wouldn’t a father ‘officiate’ at the wedding of non relatives but not of the wedding of his own daughter? And if Bill Clinton officiated at a wedding he is approved to officiate at, then there is no wedding but something being distracted from. As for the baby? Obvious question a DNA test will answer is who’s your daddy an easy enough answer to guage if the bump was the result of horizontal mambo or Hollywood magic.

The sad answer will end up being- loyalty at a cost. What is being protected and why will come out. There is too much of a paper trail to not connect the dots as to why Weiner and Huma agreed to a marriage of convenient headlines, slate of political hand with one unpredictable factor- Weiners hand on the selfie-knob… stop it Anthony NOW or your fingers will fall off, wink…

 

THIS MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, REMEMBER:

MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND has become a weekend of barbecue and bikes, in DC.

I chose to celebrate my MEMORIAL MINUTE with earnest, attending a 6th&I Friday night service dedicated to veterans and loved heroes lost at war. I had showed up a week earlier, last Friday. I determined to return, to say ‘thank you for your service’ and ‘thank you for your sacrifice.’ The unorthodox service, Downtown DC, meets the fourth Friday of each month. Larry, the leader’s practice, each Friday he leads his congregation, is to read out the names of the Fallen. Larry said he has been doing this five years now. Larry saw someone else list the dead. Larry committed to honoring heroes ages 19-40’s, each one a pause for tears.

For all the naysayers, Jews dont serve. They do. Just walk amongst the headstones at Arlington Cemetery. Stars of David dot the crowns of the white tablets, each tablet looking like 1/2 of the Ten Commandment, two tablets. Present at the ceremony were a father and mother from Florida and a teeny bent woman with two young men and her girl. Whoosh. She reminded me of my mom, my family, our loss I shared with her after Adon Olam, Lord Of The Universe.

She held me hand as I shared our loss, why Memorial Day is important to me. She said ‘you understand. I dont need to explain. They,’ sweeping her hand towards the exiting congregants, ‘they dont get it.’ They dont. I agreed. And I shared with her my words of comfort given to me at the time of our loss ‘He is missed.’ Three words that speak volumes. And I shared my reality gifted to us within 30 days of our loss, ‘people will tell you to move forward. You will but you wont. You are changed forever. It can be a gift. Or not.’

The gathered were present for kavanah, devotion, introspection. My hostest was Joyce, the congregation leader’s vivacious wife I had fortune to sit next to on the pew bench upstairs. Larry shared Sixth and I history. He had no way of knowing my moment in it, my photo on the wall gallery downstairs, my memories of Abe Pollin, my association with Shelton Jackson and with Doug Jemal. When Larry asked had I been here at 6th and I before. I smiled. With too much history to share, I said, yes, I was there when the Synagogue that became a Church became a Synagogue again.

My dinner mate was an Episcopalian Gay who loved shule and Jews and couldnt understand much of what I don’t understand about the world. I relished how he looked in my eyes as we spoke. I shared with him I had stopped by the FRC Watchmen Conference earlier that day where a pastor engaged with me on the conversation of Gays and Faith, BSA and bullying. My dinner mate and I were in synch. All I could think of was the dialogue is shifting. The loudest voices being heard could probably use therapy to work through their issues as this delicious man is NOT being spoke for by them. Nor was the couple, both wearing yarmulkehs. They were not a the Memorial Weekend sabbath as activists. They were there as Jews steeped in their faith.

So when a friend sent me a forward, in Memory of Rabbi Noah Weinberg, of blessed memory, dean and founder of Aish HaTorah International, a man who for 50 years his visionary educational programs brought hundreds of thousands of Jews closer to their heritage, I thought his words are in tribute to those we lost & love:

Way #13: Think About It  by Rabbi Noah Weinberg

We sometimes make snap decisions. Or we may mull over decisions for too long. Become skilled at the happy medium of good decision-making. Imagine walking on a tightrope high above Niagara Falls. As you inch along, you see a maniac coming at you from behind. No longer are you just concerned about falling to either side, you also have to make sure the maniac doesn’t catch you! In a sense, life is the same way. Every step we make has real consequences – yet we have to continue to move forward. People want immediate results and tend to lack patience when it comes to making decisions. People may even throw themselves into a certain decision – for better or for worse – just to get the decision out of the way. Others may excessively mull over decisions, lacking the confidence to come to the right conclusion. Whatever the case, decisions can come back and haunt us. And we wonder: “Why didn’t I think this through better?” Take note of how you make decisions. Do you deliberate and consider the weight of important issues? Or is it impulsive and without thought of consequence? Or do you simply shrug your shoulders and make a decision out of ignorance?

Way #13 is Bi-yishuv – literally “by sitting.” Life has decisions to be made at every moment. So don’t be hasty. Slow down. Examine all the aspects. Reflect. Deliberate. Make the best decisions you can, but don’t get so wrapped up in yourself that you’re afraid to commit to a final decision. These techniques will help you solve problems that inevitably arise in career, marriage, and parenting. And once you do make your decision, you’ll move forward with confidence, knowing it was the best decision possible.

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FOUR STEPS OF DELIBERATION

“Deliberation” means to ponder insights, events, ideas – whatever we encounter in life. Let things lie for a while, then go back and mull them over. The Sages say that whatever you encounter, study it four times. This process is likened to the act of planting – because wisdom is for the soul what food is for the body.

1. PLOWING – The first time you go over an idea, try to figure it out. That’s “breaking up the soil.”
2. PLANTING – The second time, the idea begins to make sense. You’re “putting seeds into the ground,” planting it into yourself.
3. HARVESTING – The third time, you come to an experiential and intellectual understanding. It’s “reaping the wheat.”
4. DIGESTING – The fourth time, you integrate the idea into your life. It “nourishes” your soul and is now part of you.

We all want to achieve great things with minimum effort. A great sage said: “A person wants to become great overnight, and get a good night’s sleep, too!” Realize that true growth is a long process. That’s why deliberation is an important tool, because it forces you to slow down, exercise patience, and stretch the limits of your powers. With everything you want to achieve – and the short time you have to do so – taking time to deliberate is the best investment you’ll ever make.

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SIX TOOLS OF DELIBERATION

TOOL #1 – NIGHTLY RECAP

Before going to sleep, look back and review the events of your day. Try to identify what you learned. Then project toward the future. Anticipate what you expect to encounter the following day, week, or month. Set a schedule to review your life regularly. In Judaism, the appointed times are every week before Shabbat, every month before Rosh Chodesh, and every year before Rosh Hashana. You can also do this before a birthday, graduation, wedding or other milestone. Do this consistently for the rest of your life. Deliberate on what you’ve done in the past, and what you hope for the future. Without this, you’re just running aimlessly through life. Sure, you’ll eventually end up someplace – but you won’t be happy and you won’t know how you got there.

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TOOL #2 – CAPTURE & CONCRETIZE

We all have an occasional flash of truth: moments when we realize what it means to be a friend, what we are doing wrong, what we really want out of life. We may think the moment of realization has changed us. But often the moment is lost. Because unless we concretize the insight, we’ll never act on it, and the effect dissipates altogether. The next time you get a great insight, stop. Freeze. Don’t move. Think about what the insight means in the overall scheme of things. And figure out how to put it into practice. Imagine you encounter the suffering of poor people and are moved to tears. If you want to help, you’ll need to structure a careful, detailed plan. Otherwise, all your good intentions are unlikely to amount to anything.

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TOOL #3 – THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK

We all have ups and downs, good days and bad days. Hasty reactions are a defense mechanism, and usually not the most effective one. If we’re not on guard, we can act impulsively. Criticism has a way of getting under our skin and making us attack the source of the criticism. So before you react, give yourself a chance to consider the comment, what it really means, and if perhaps there’s some validity to it. As King Solomon says: “Don’t be quick to respond.” When someone hurts or insults you, wait before you react. You’re naturally on the defensive. Be careful not to say anything you’ll later regret. Before you start shouting, pause. Catch a hold of yourself and count to 10. Similarly, when someone asks you a question, think before you answer. Don’t be afraid to say “I don’t know.” When asked for your point of view, learn to say, “I’m not sure,” or “It seems to me…” In the long run, you’ll gain respect.

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TOOL #4 – ANALYZE THE INFO

If it’s not worth mulling over, it’s not worth studying in the first place. Because all that information may just overload and confuse you. When you hear or read something, train yourself to sum up the central point in a few words. If you don’t take the time to think over what you’ve learned, you’re viewing the world blindly through someone else’s eyes. Next, examine the implications of the new idea. It helps to have a list of standard probing questions like:

• Is the source objective?
• What is the evidence cited?
• What aspects don’t I understand?
• What are the implications/consequences of this for my life?

Asking these questions will sharpen your analytical abilities, and will help you apply what you learn.

Next, take a piece of paper and write out the pros and cons. This gets the ball rolling in a constructive direction. Even though it may seem like this process will slow you down, once you master the technique, it will become more automatic. Then you’ll be able to analyze things with lightning speed, and make better, faster decisions.

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TOOL #5 – BE PREPARED

You need to distinguish between “reality” and “moods.” Deliberating before you confront a problem will enable you to act with greater confidence when the problem does arise. So before you enter a situation that could backfire – a job interview, a family gathering, etc. – consider in advance what you’ll have to confront, and practice for it. Role-play in front of a mirror (or with a friend) and prepare catch-phrases that – in the heat of the moment – keep you focused. When you’re prepared, you’re confident. And then no one will be able to pull the rug out from under your feet.

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TOOL #6 – GIVE IT TIME

Did you ever go to sleep with a problem and then wake up with a solution? To gain clarity, you sometimes have to walk away from a situation and then come back to it later. If you feel yourself coming up empty, take a break for while and come back refreshed. You are more clever and resourceful than you give yourself credit for. Solutions may jump right out at you the next time around. Over time, we get answers. So stick with it. Ask others for advice. Ask God to help. The clarity will come.

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WHY IS “THINKING ABOUT IT” A WAY TO WISDOM?

• We all want greatness. It takes time and hard work to achieve it.
• When you reach an impasse, pause and analyze. Deal with the problem. Don’t look for the quick, easy solution.
• Careful reflection ensures a much wiser response than an impulse reaction.
• To know what you’re living for, take the time to think it through. Otherwise you could end up with a very superficial life.
• And, when things look the bleakest, do the Daily thing- take TWO TABLETS and call HIM in the morning.

   

RABBINICAL ADVICE FOR THOSE OUT THIS WORLD YIDDLE ASTRONAUTS:

WHY DO JEWISH BOYS & GIRLS MAKE GREAT ASTRONAUTS?  Because they were raised by mothers who raised them to believe they are out of this world.

NASA was challenged to find ball point pens did not work in zero gravity. Over $1.2 billion was spent developing a zero gravity upside down underwater on any suface including glass & at temperatures from below freezing to 300 Celsius

When NASA first started sending up the astronauts, they quickly discovered that ball-point pens would not work in zero gravity. To combat the problem, NASA spent a decade and $1.2 billion to develop a pen that writes in zero gravity, upside-down, underwater, on almost any surface, including glass, and at temperatures ranging from below freezing to 300 Celsius. The Israelis? They sent their astronauts into space with pencils.

FIRST JEW IN SPACE?: Boris Volnyov commander of Soyuz 5, January 1969

FIRST AMERICAN JEWISH ASTRONAUT: Judy Resnick, mission specialist on the Space Shuttle Discovery maiden voyage, 1984 and then again on the  Challenger when the Challenger broke apart shortly after liftoff on its 10th mission. Seems that Resnick was a candle lighting girl. Her rabbi told her candles could be replaced with electric lights set to go on corresponding to Shabbat, home base Houston  

FIRST TORAH IN SPACE: Jeffrey Hoffman the first Jewish man in space made sure Torahs were ‘out of this world’ 1996 mission Space Shuttle Columbia.

FIRST DREIDEL SPIN IN SPACE: David Wolf orbited during Hanukkah took advantage of zero gravity to spin his dreidels for a record dreidel spin of

1 ½ hours – $25000 until it got lost in an air filter

FIRST MEZUZOT IN SPACE: In 2008 Gregory Chamitoff placed rocket shaped mezuzot on to the International Space Station door post near his bunk bed.

FIRST KOSHER FOOD EATER IN SPACE: Ilan Ramon an Israeli payload specialist astronaut on the Space Shuttle Columbia requested kosher food in space. Ilan asked a rabbi how to observe Shabbat while in orbit. Ilan died with his crew mates when the Columbia disintegrated during re-entry over Southern Texas. Ilan carried a microfiche copy of the Bible and a picture of Earth as seen from the moon drawn by a Jewish boy in a World War II concentration camp  

BEST BUDS FOREVER: The first Jewish astronaut to live on the International Space Station, Gary Reisman brought a memento from Ilan Ramon’s widow with him

My TELLING OF ISAAC BALSHEVIS SINGER’s IT CAN ONLY GET WORSE:

Isaac, Yitzchak, was a man with a talent for writing stories that teach. IT CAN ONLY GET WORSE is a learning lesson of how good life can be, we just don’t know it. My talent for storytelling came from my professor at Stern College for Women. Yup. I am a Stern girl, a YU or as we would joke, a Y ME girl. I attended Yeshiva University’s Manhattan campus, dorming down on 34th Street, walking to studies over on Lex as we called it fit in with the NYC fashionistas. Truth be told- Stern Girls wearing long sleeves and even longer skirts never quite made New York’s Fashion grade. Heck, we were in college. We didnt care. We did it our way- frumskie style. 

My professor was Peninah Schram. I could sit and listen to her weave a life lesson in a way words would be remembered- artfully. Years later I reached out to her at a time my life was twisted into itself. I was soaked in so much pain the steps it took for me to make it from the cab to the cafe screamed shades of this story below. Life is about pulling out the pain that smothers us, one layer of truthS at a time. Peninah hadnt changed, to my eyes. OK, the hair was silver- fitting crown for a Queen amongst women. I had become that tip-a-truck I would tease others about. But yet that day, we gave each other a gift that was priceless. I gifted Peninah words I think every educator wants to hear from a student- “you rocked my world. Thank you.” Peninah told me she had felt way back in the days of Methusaleh when she taught me that I would be someone. I had skills. I was blanketed in a world that told me I didnt. YET, Peninah’s artful way of writing stayed with me over the decades (grin- forever 22 so not that long.) I frustrated the hell out of my National Journalism Center teachers in that I got the idea of Nut Graph et al I just didnt write Nut Graph et al. I wrote lessons that after someone walked away it would hit them OHHHHH that is what she means. Yup, I told stories for retelling and taking ownership of. So, Mr. Singer, forgive me for writing your story with a dash of Carrie or Cara or whomever…. Thank you Peninah for my present of me. And now…. Isaac’s story as he would never tell it…..

My TELLING OF ISAAC BALSHEVIS SINGER’s IT CAN ONLY GET WORSE:   The man came to the Rabbi, all tzedroit, ferklempt, fermacht- yinglish lesson here- he was ripping his hair out of his head. His wife was driving him crazy. She said their house was too small. The poor man was bending over backwards to please a woman he could not please. The Rabbi stroked his beard and stroked his beard and…. You get the picture… until the man said: Rabbi, enough beard lengthening!!!! WHAT CAN I DO!!!!

The Rabbi leaned in to the man and said: Go home and bring the cow into the house. This being Eastern Europe back in shtetl days, cows were part of the equation, fitting perfectly in to this creative retelling of Singer’s classic story.

The man said: Rabbi!!!! Are you crazy? Cant you hear what she is doing to me now? Cant you see what she will do to me when I bring the cow into the house? It can only get worse!!

The Rabbi said: You came asking for my help? Either you want my help or you don’t. God gives us the ability to make choices. You choose.

The man grumbled, went home and led the heifer from the yard in to the house. Well, talk about World War TWENTY. Pots and pans flew. Anything that wasn’t tied down flew. The man ducked and dived. His wife shrieked: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? I thought you went to ask the Rabbi advice and you bring me THIS? A COW? In THE HOUSE? It can only get worse!!

The man said: BUT THE RABBI SAID…!!

The week went on. Things got worse. His wife grumbled more. The cow got in the way. Their floor was dotted with cow puckies. Every so often the 3^rd stomach in the cow’s belly did what cow bellies do- peppering the air with cow burps and the stench of hay, grass or whatever she ate. And if the man and his wife were quick enough, her pee hit the bucket not the floor, the case if the man and his wife did not get there in time. Well, as if this wasn’t predictable, the man was back at the Rabbi’s by week end.

The man said: RABBI!!! I brought the cow in to the house. It didn’t make things better. It made THINGS WORSE!!!! It can only get worse!!

The Rabbi leaned in to the man and said: Go home. Now bring the horse into the house. This being Eastern Europe back in shtetl days, horses, mules, chickens and sheep were part of the equation, fitting perfectly in to this creative retelling of Singer’s classic story.

The man went home. The second week, as per Rabbi’s directions, he brought the horse into the house. When his wife’s screaming got untenable, he would go back to Rabbi for advice. Eventually, the whole yard full of animals was now inside their house. The man and his wife could barely squeeze around their room. They wore clothes pins on their noses to keep the farm animal smells out. They smelled of horse and cow and sheep and mule and chicken and, no, not pig (Rabbis means kosher) remember. 

The man’s wife was threatening to rearrange his body parts if he did not go back to the Rabbi for a solution. The man ran as fast as his wife could chase him pleading: Rabbi, rabbi. You have to help me. You got me in to this you have to help me. It can only get worse!!

The Rabbi stroked his beard and stroked his beard and…. You get the picture. The man cried: Rabbi, enough with the making your beard longer. What can I do? It can only get worse!!

Rabbi leaned in to the man and said: Go home and take ALL the animals outside of the house. 

The man said: Rabbi, that’s all.

Rabbi stroked his beard, smiled a hint. His eyes twinkled.

The man ran home. He shooed all the animals out in to their yard. His wife was standing behind him with an iron pot in hand. Who knows, maybe her idea was to make sure her husband stayed in the yard, too. The house emptied of animals, the wife looked around her home and beamed. The man came in from the yard, thinking he was banished to the dog house for life. He saw his wife beaming. He smiled too. The man and his wife danced a kezatzki for joy in their now empty home that felt like a mansion… relishing in the wisdom of their Rabbi who knew their home was a mansion, they just needed to see this.

And in writing this classic, I see me that I lost somewhere along life’s journey of high roads and low roads. Just seeking middle ground.

 

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN DEATH AND LIFE CAN BE THE MEASURE OF A GOOD DEED:

“Mom, I’m home,” was best I could manage, letting her know I was back in my Dupont Circle apartment. Having expected to arrive from Toronto into DC by 1:30pm, I had no complaints my flight landed well after 3:00. Broken luggage and all, I was just happy to arrive. My ride to Toronto’s PearsonAirport was a valuable lesson not taught in Northview Height’s high school math- the distance between death and life can be the measure of a good deed, a mitzvah. 

Mine and Mom’s night-before banter about getting me to the airport flowed into our morning cereal and dueling over newspapers. “You mean you’re going to read and not talk to me?” she asked when I reached for Canada’s National Post. “We’ll do both,” and we did talking about manufactured news people read every day tweaked by reporter’s from tidbits gleaned off newswire services. We compared Canada’s generous coverage of Canada’s expanding Muslim community to that of US media. We talked about my getting to the airport. Mom was not a consideration. The roads were unsafe and icy. Either cab or shuttle. And a long goodbye at her building’s front door.

Wonderfully set in her ways, Mom called cabbies she relies on. “I prefer supporting someone I know,” she said. Reb Something-or-other hadn’t returned her call from the night before. The second cabbie was now booked back-to-back. I was comfortable taking Malton’s 98A from the Lawrence Avenue loop. Life in Europe without a car, taught me the patience of public transportation. 9:09 Mom called from her room. “Yehuda will meet us downstairs at 9:30, Car…” 

By 9:20 we headed down the elevator to wait in the glassed lobby, looking across the unbroken white expanse blanketed with fallen snow. Not appreciating the difference a minute can make, I looked at my watch. 9:30am. Mom was sharing a parable. “A man visited the rabbi, complaining about his wife…. The rabbi’s wife walked by as her husband responded to the congregant, “you are right.” The congregant’s wife then met with the rabbi, complaining about her husband. The rabbi’s wife walked by as her husband told the woman, “you are right.” “How can they both be right?” she asked her husband. As Mom was sharing, “the rabbi’s answer, “and you are right!,” the cab arrived. White. 9:35am. “That must be Yehuda,” she said.

Our goodbye extended when my mom looked up at me, in the doorway, “And you are right, too, Carrie.” Something about validation that makes a grown daughter love a shrinking older mom, heart and soul. The frail elderly woman behind us was anxious to exit on to the sheet of ice that used to be walkway and car drive. Noting her cane, her precariousness of step, I grasped the older woman’s black gloved hand, guiding her slowly to a safe stretch of asphalt merging from yesterday’s storm, I looked back at the glass front, for one last wave. Mom was gone from the picture window. I watched the old woman negotiating her way, as Yehuda turned left on Clarke, heading towards Bathurst Street then north along Highway 7 towards Toronto’s airport. 

There is something resolute about leaving Mom’s home. Knowing I was going to be on my own, again, I wasn’t much interested in Yehuda’s questions. Eventually, they stopped. His curious looks through the rearview mirror had me turn to the disappearing familiar landscape I had grown up with. It takes a lifetime, I now accept, for an independent spirit to settle.

We hit Highway 7. I watched the black asphalt sweep under us. I saw the steel grey PT Cruiser in the far left lane lose control. It left the Number One sharply, careening vertically across our oncoming traffic, hitting the CNN Railway Bridge guardrail head on, losing a tire upon impact before sliding to a stop next to the protective guardrail it might have leapt to sure death yards below on the train tracks. A lone tire from the Cruiser rolled south into traffic stopping in front of our cab, upright, standing tall, facing west in the same direction our cab was traveling. Yehuda looked at me. Saying nothing, he climbed from the cab, returning the tire to its owner. The driver was fine. His car was totaled. Those were the exact words we communicated to Police Emergency. “A non-fatal single vehicle accident at the flyover just east of Exit 67 on Highway 7.”

Something about a near miss with death, makes strangers bond. From no conversation to a 911 call, all of a sudden there was alot to talk about. Yehuda was irate at drivers who should not be on roads in the winter. “Don’t they know they must be extra careful traveling bridges…” He explained with there being no ground under flyovers the road surface is much colder than asphalt buffered by dirt. The cold from beneath the overpass creates a glass like surface cars skate over, swerve out of control on, as just happened before our eyes. This time when Yehuda inquired about my occupation, I answered. I told him my themes resonate faith, philanthropy, homeland security and terrorism.

Yehuda told me if I wanted terrorism I should go to Israel.” I told him I didn’t need to, terrorism found me here. His eyebrows puzzling, I expanded “My youngest brother… January.” “He lived here?” “No Israel.” “He was visiting?” “No, he lived there.” “He has family?” “Seven children…” Yehuda paused. “He lived in the West Bank?” “No, the Territories.” “He was a doctor?” “No, a psychologist.” “He went to Denmark….” Then I knew. “You drove my brother…” Our family lived on Denmark Crescent before our dad died of lymphoma. My brother had raced across the world, from Israel, to be with us as our dad slipped away. I will always remember Chezi storming the hospital room door, his children’s photos in his hand. He wanted Dad to see the beauty our family hold’s on to as Chezi’s legacy. How prophetic photos can be. There were no Chezi in the photo. Just seven children. With a courageous Mom. That night was a sad night for all of us. With all six of his sons and daughters enveloping him in accapella harmony for hours, Dad crossed over. That was 1997. This was seven years later. 

Yehuda said little else until we pulled curbside at Air Canada, USA Departures. I could see something was resonating within him as he climbed from his driver’s seat. He approached, pulling a gold card from his wallet. Lt. Colonel Yehuda Sharraf, Israeli army. “I work here for the money.” I understood. I remember the joke “how can a Canadian become a millionaire in Israel?” The answer was “Move there with ten million.”

 “Yehuda,” I said, looking at his gold military card, “the time it took me to walk the old lady to the safe patch of driveway was the time it took to save our lives.”

Later I told my mother, “The exact distance of time we were delayed is the time it took to escort your neighbor.” “The PT Cruiser would have broad sided our cab, shoved us into the path of the large white truck to my right.” I didn’t need to say more. 

Climbing into Air Canada’s puddle jumper for my flight home, I smiled at how often I would ask my high school chemistry teacher why I would ever need to know how to calculate the speed at which water goes down the drain. Thinking back to the morning’s near miss, I wondered, if asked for definition of distance between a mother’s protective “be-safe-call-me-when-you-arrive” hug and a ride down memory lane on the same cab backseat my brother rode on for his last homecoming with our dad, if the teacher could have answered, an act of kindness.