Weekly Circular Store Shelf Mismatch

 

Grocery shopping did not go well.  As a kosher consumer, Rabbi of my shul, the Orthodox one, two Rabbis ago, now some 25 years ago, cashed in some friendship favors with the head of a local supermarket chain.  One store in the Jewish population center would create a kosher meat department, deli, and bakery.  As a result, those of us who once schlepped 45 minutes to independent Kosher butchers in our magnet city's Orthodox neighborhood, filling our freezers to capacity every couple of months, could now buy what we needed mostly for supper in a much more convenient way.  Supermarket business is notoriously competitive and at low profit margins. Having all the people with kosher homes shopping there to the exclusion of other grocers, made the friendship pay off for everyone. Well, not exactly everyone.  As local Kosher oversight committees around America made similar arrangements for their observant Jews, the independent kosher butchers closed their shops in all but the places of highest Orthodox presence.

I also had my transition, as did my Jewish community.  We have become older.  Parents of late teens and college kids at the start of the project became empty nesters.  Rabbinical transitions and animosities among key players took its toll.  Kashrut attracts older people.  As actuarial realities and sunbelt migration play out, there are fewer kosher consumers.  But those who remain, continue our personal loyalties to that particular store, despite a selection of beef and poultry far less diverse than it once was.  The misdeeds of Rubashkin's Agriprocessors ended economical kosher beef.  Its substitute suppliers keep us afloat with ground beef, cubes, and minute steaks.  I've not seen liver in years and briskets only near the Festivals when people make big dinners for extended families.  The deli has become a pawn as key people who truly have not been treated well by dominant local Jews, protect their turf.  Yet our loyalty to that store in that location remains firm.  I seldom make a purchase from the deli, deterred by expense.  Same with the bakery, which rarely offers anything baked in store for what I am willing to spend.  Indeed, the store's hechsher has the logo of the departed Rabbi, not the current mara d'atra of my synagogue.

What I seek out as specialty kosher for my basket, though, is a pittance of what I put in my cart each week.  The economics of food processing has made available every imaginable mass-produced edible with a factory-applied kosher insignia from one of several international supervision agencies.  My full cart has kosher, but not locally supervised.  The same packaged stuff available anyplace.  But I shop at the place where I can also purchase kosher raw beef and chicken, though I rarely prepare either other than for Shabbos and Festivals.  Even my kosher Thanksgiving turkey I buy someplace else.  My Rabbi and his supermarket CEO chum called it right.  Kosher brings loyalty.  So do better prices, which this store seems to have.  And top tier employees, where they seem to struggle.

Every Wednesday, the postman delivers a packet of supermarket advertising.  It contains circulars from about a half dozen competing markets, each of colored newsprint, about eight pages long.  I extract the one from my grocery, recycle the others.  I take it to the desk in My Space, extract a page from one of those 8.5 x 3.5 pads that I harvest from periodic non-profits solicitation envelopes, take out a pen, most commonly a red Flair pen, and begin my review of the coming week's supermarket promotions.  The page from the pad has a logo with lines for writing on the front, blank white on the right.   On the front, I note what I definitely will purchase. Either it's a deal too good to pass up, or I need it.  Typically that fills a little more than half the sheet.  On the blank reverse, I write those items that I will consider as I shop.  That list fills an entire column, then a third or so of the next column.  After I am done, usually two sessions spread over a half hour to get through all eight pages, I write on the front what must get because I am running low, irrespective of its inclusion in the weekly sale circular.  The circular and shopping list then get clipped together with a home on the far reaches of my desk until ready to drive to the supermarket.

Short essential list:

1. K-Cups; House Brand #36
2. Stovetop Espresso Maker
3. #2 Pencils which I buy each year
4. Papermate stick pens, which did not write last year
5. Spiral Notebook purchased each year
6. Chex Mix
7. Tastykakes

Essential has a context.  I have enough stationery.  My doctor thinks I snack too much.  Have enough coffee pods to last a while.  But my stovetop espresso maker failed some time ago from a deteriorating gasket that I cannot easily replace.  Essential becomes things I will eventually use which can be obtained at a price low enough that I will not anticipate a similar bargain in the near future.

 

I entered the store expecting to purchase little more than this, as I did not want to spend a significantly greater amount of time there to explore the much larger number of items on the back side of the sheet.  This store puts its advertised circular bargains right near the front entrance.  I put two boxes of Tastykakes in my basket.  Usually they have sale K-cups there, but not this week.  I wheeled my cart to the coffee aisle, taking a box of 36 for my cart.  School supplies just entering the Back to School season, though school will not reopen for another six weeks.  I found a minimal pile of spiral binders, wide rule 70 sheets each, my usual Back to School annual purchase. I put one yellow and one red cover in my basket.  No advertised pencils or stick pens.  A sign pointed to a supply at aisle's end.  None there either.  Looked at cereals and snacks without finding Chex Mix.  Wouldn't even know where to find the espresso maker, the one item that would add to my enjoyment.

Near the front door they keep a customer service area.  In this computerized era, the clerk can type in a number and find it.  I waited my turn, a short wait.  The young man greeted me, though he looked like his coffee break might have gotten overdue.  I asked him to get me a circular, then I circled from the ad what I could not find.  No pencils or pens in stock.  Chex Mix with the snack aisle, where it was not when I went back to look for it.  He did not even have the espresso maker listed in his store's computerized inventory but he told me which aisle it would be in if and when the store stocks it.  Rainchecks for pens and pencils.  No Chex Mix to be had.  And the Espresso Maker exists only on newsprint received by a few million households in my metro area, not in the store or even in the inventory of what the computer can affirm as present on site.  Rain checks have to be generated by their computer as it includes a UPC code to scan for the discount.  Phantom items like my desired stovetop device have no way in modern grocery retailing of providing me the discount, even if the item appears on their shelves past the expiration date of the weekly circular.

So basically, the best and brightest of the grocery world lured me into their store expecting bargains that they were not able to fulfill.  In my younger years, the 1970s or so, an age of emerging consumerism where people read Consumer Reports and watched interviews of Ralph Nader on talk shows, we called this Bait & Switch.  Advertise an item at a low price, not have it, consumer gets similar item at full price or does other shopping in store.  It was at the time part of strategy to squeeze a few dollars from each shopper.  Most merchants offered rain checks, handwritten vouchers to purchase the advertised item at the sale price later, but it required the consumer to wait her turn at the customer service desk.

Unavailability of advertised items still occurs, though no longer part of profit enhancing strategy.  Replacing it seems more the growth of businesses to massive proportions with centralization of shared tasks, dependence on technology which never runs glitch free, multiple satellite outlets, serving millions of consumers, all in a competitive but oligarchical environment with a few similar enterprises trying to make their branch store the one I find most attractive.  My grocer has hundreds of stores, but rather than being centrally owned, they are regionally owned and franchised by a central distributor.  Somebody has to decide what will go on sale in what region each week, tell that to the staff that advertises those decisions who prints and mails the weekly circulars.  Then somebody else has to secure a supply of those thousands of different products, obtain them from suppliers in an era where expected distribution does not always happen, bring the products to the individual sites, and record it for the clerks who interface with the customers to call up each individual item by current supply and location in that store.  Plenty of steps to break down, and as I learned, they do break down.  There was no Chex Mix even though the computer said there was.  

Sometimes the merchants can anticipate iffy supply.  The circular will say "where available, no rainchecks."  That way they can advertise Kosher Chicken everywhere but only stock the stores which have enough Jewish customers to buy enough of it.  Back to school, Valentine's Day, and Christmas have seasonal items which will run out and not get restocked as the targeted events pass.  But the items I wanted, especially the espresso maker, did not have that restriction.  Still, I could not be assured that my store will ever have it or that I can receive the advertised discount if it ever appears on their shelves.

Retailing in America, at least stores, have earned the shopper's skepticism.  They invite you to get something at a good price that you cannot have, after making an effort to drive there, bring your own shopping bag, and looked on the store's shelves for more than you came for.  Electronic shopping doesn't have that albatross.  Circulars from Amazon do not arrive.  Even unsolicited pop-ups are rare.  People sign on when they know what they want to purchase, though the browsing options are ample and easy to use once a category gets selected.  Shoppers learn of discounts once ready to select.  A blue shirt may have a different price than a lemon yellow shirt.  I looked up the espresso maker, known in e-tailing as a MokaPot.  No shortages.  But not at the price my grocer advertised, either.  I guess, like some of our political candidates, they dedicate themselves to they/them but rarely to you.

Best Efforts that Fail

Not gone well.  Disappointments. Been a slurry of rejections for not only good efforts but in addition what I think generated good achievement.  Outcome as the arbiter of worthiness can pose a mental trap.

We got a mixed message from Torah this summer in the story of Pinchas.  He engaged in a very questionable act of vigilante violence at the end of one of the few weekly Torah portions left as a cliff hanger.  We return the following shabbos, or really the following Monday, to learn the consequences.  He gets rewarded.  His reward confirms the merit of his boldeness or of his violence.  Good outcome=Good Decision that caused it.  We get another message on Mitzvot.  We do them irrespective of reward.  Performance is worthy in its own right.  Outcome=Luck.  We can do good deeds for the right reason, but no reward comes our way.

As my recent spate of unfavorable decisions, over which I think I have little control, reaches my mail or email, or synagogue experience, my mind shifts between bad luck and performance lapses.  It's hard to tell.  When I am successful, which I have been more often than not, I give myself credit for my diligence, forgetting that decisions in my favor by Admissions Committees and employers and my fiance all had their element of luck, though never pure luck.  And my disappointments, if chalked up to ill fortune, lose their chance at reversal.  In many ways, failure now becomes the foundation for immense success.  It all depends on how it gets pursued.

Selling Virtue

From time to time, I devote my analysis to a single article.  One from The Forward on a pundit's suggestions for reviving a defeated Democratic Party invites a paragraph-by-paragraph assessment.

His Op-Ed; My Thoughts

https://forward.com/opinion/756508/what-democrats-fighting-trump-should-learn-from-germany-hitler/

In the final years of the Weimar Republic, the German left was paralyzed by ideological divisions, by a failure to persuade broad swathes of the populace that it was capable of guiding the country out of its economic and domestic turmoil, and to neutralize the snowballing popular appeal of a budding despot — Adolf Hitler.

Weimar had power.  If Germany was not functioning, they owned that non-function.  

Today, the American left faces a similarly perilous moment. Since Donald Trump began his second term in office, the Democratic Party — shut out of power in both chambers of Congress — has been flailing around in search of ways to thwart his dismantling of the country’s democratic norms. And with the MAGA-fied Congressional Republicans marching in lock-step with Trump, he has repeatedly outmaneuvered the fractured Democrats.

The real problem, though, is they were voted out nationally for cause.  Donald Trump was not an unknown, as Hitler was by comparison in 1933.  American voters replace failing leaders with some frequency in our history.  We have had states seceed to protect their cultural norm of slavery.  We could have elected at that time a President who would compromise on this or a President who would say Good Riddance and salvage some of the prosperity of cotton diplomatically with a prototype of two two-state solution.  Lincoln and Roosevelt could only sell virtue if they could also sell competence.  Bill Clinton sold competence.  Trump's message, right or wrong, is that of a problem solver in a time when problems are large.   

We’ve seen a version of this movie before, in a different setting, with different players, and with different social, economic and cultural conditions.  Parallels are inexact, of course. But there are so many similarities that they warrant an examination of why the German left — and in particular the Social Democratic Party — failed to stop Hitler.Let’s go back to November 1918, with Germany losing World War I, Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicating, revolutionary upheaval erupting across the land, the leftist Social Democratic Party (SPD) taking over governance and trying to launch Germany’s first democracy under tumultuous circumstances.

From the founding of the Weimar Republic until its death in 1933,  the German left was fatally divided over the nation’s direction. The SPD was the strongest force on the German left. The German Communist Party also had mass appeal, but favored revolution and a Bolshevist-style regime over cooperating with the SPD.

The SPD itself was riddled with dissension — torn between pragmatic reformism and revolutionary Marxism. A faction called the Independent Social Democratic Party of Germany (USPD) split from the mainstream Social Democrats over ideological disagreements.a

And today we have a party divide nationally, though not state by state.   AOC is not a statewide official.  The Berne and Sen. Warren are, but they function as two of a hundred.  Neither occupies their Governor's Mansion.  Democratic Governors, functioning in states where people have graduate degrees, work at the forefront of commerce, medical care, and technology, have to sell competence and stability.  They fix roads, make sure there are enough insured patients to get their doctors paid, have adequate public transit.  And they have predictable failures that generate resentment, the DEI, their campuses, the decline of institutions of social engagement.

In early November, 1918, Independent Socialist Kurt Eisner led a revolution in Munich, overthrowing the Bavarian monarchy and proclaiming the People’s State of Bavaria. Eisner was assassinated on Feb. 21, 1919 by a far-right nationalist. Radical left-wing factions, including anarchists and communists, seized the moment and proclaimed the Bavarian Soviet Republic. This regime was short-lived, crushed within weeks by radical-right Freikorps paramilitaries and forces loyal to the central government in Berlin.

We have a certain failure of Democratic Presidents to restore order, even when public sentiment runs in that direction.  It takes a lot of forms from Vietnam/Racial violent gatherings, torching cars after a sports event, going to the Walgreens for cough syrup and finding it locked and the first two scarce salespeople do not have the key. This year, Jewish students chased across the college quad with bullhorns while College Deans and the invariably Democratic elected officials of those states and municipalities let it happen.  People fundamentally want to live peacefully.  It is the other folks who are troublemakers.  

The chaos, bloodshed and terror during the brief reign of the Bavarian Soviet Republic traumatized many Germans, weakened the left, and strengthened conservatives, monarchists, and far-right extremists like the German Workers’ Party, soon to become the National Socialist German Workers’ Party — the Nazis.

They sold themselves as problem solvers.  And people with the strength to bring order and prosperity about.

Although Germany’s political landscape was badly splintered, the mainstream Social Democrats — backed by trade unions  — were a prominent player through most of the life of the Weimar Republic, leading, or being a part of coalition governments. Their power began to wane as the Communists gained  traction on the left, while nationalist and conservative factions surged on the right. The Social Democrats’ decision to support Centrist Chancellor Heinrich Brüning — despite his use of emergency decrees — was seen by many as a betrayal of democratic principles, further eroding their credibility. By the time Hitler was appointed chancellor in January 1933, the SPD was politically isolated, morally exhausted, and institutionally sidelined.

Nearly a century later, the echoes of Weimar reverberate in Washington. Since Trump began his second term, America has witnessed a spree of executive overreach that has undermined democracy: mass pardons for convicted insurrectionists, an assault on birthright citizenship, extortionist tactics against higher education, law firms and the press, and a gutting of civil protections.

The question remains, can you sell virtue when competence lags?

Democrats, still reeling from Kamala Harris’s narrow defeat and locked out of Congressional power, have struggled to mount a coherent resistance. There have been bright moments: Sen. Cory Booker’s marathon floor speech galvanized activists, however briefly, and state attorneys general have eked out temporary restraining orders against some of Trump’s more brazen orders. But the party’s broader response has lacked urgency and imagination. Sometimes the Democrats’ flailing for relevance produces moments too easy to lampoon, like Chuck Schumer’s boast that he had used a Senate rule to strip the title “One Big Beautiful Bill Act” from Trump’s $3.3 trillion spending package.

It really wasn't a narrow defeat.  The margin was small in each swing state and nationally.  However, that small margin was maintained very consistently in each jurisdiction.  A plurality of 50% + 1 is an electoral approval for the majority to implement what they proposed.  My Jewish world conveys many illusions of its success.  I get newsletters from local Chabad, some of the dearest people around, showing photos of their events. The pictures look like SRO crowds.  When I attend a few, there are maybe a dozen participants.  My shul, a non-egal place, promotes women's participation.  Women read four verse aliyot, men read the others, but they create a promotional illusion of parity that isn't accurate but reinforces belief in gender equality.  Nor does it advance the capacity of some very talented women.  Cory Booker and Schumer had their fifteen minutes, or 24h of fame, but were fundamentally ineffectual people who put themselves on display.

Much like their Weimar counterparts, many of today’s Democrats appear trapped in the belief that the system’s norms will somehow correct themselves. But Trump flouts the norms on a daily basis, leaving the Democrats clutching a rulebook that has already been shredded by America’s 47th president.

One can argue that many norms were shredded before that.  Moreover, they are replaced with new norms.  One need only read an etiquette book from the 1960s and one from the 1990's, often revisions of the same code by the same author.  Early etiquette books did not have chapters on safe sex, which partner supplies the condom, or when female or minority employees should be assertive.  The emergence of anti-Semitism from the Sewer might be Trump 45, it's eruption on elite campuses certainly is not.  New taboos of microagressions correlate a lot more with social media and phone technology than they do with who holds office.  Abe Foxman, probably my favorite Jewish advocate, used to insist on taking advantage of the rules, whatever they happened to be.  

The Democratic Party needs to restore its connection with the masses, shed its aura of elitism, learn how to speak in a language that resonates beyond Beltway bubbles. An anti-Trump resistance movement has spread across the land over the past few months. Why aren’t prominent Democratic politicians at the front of these marches? Of course, there could be security concerns. So why not come up with some novel, creative ways to embed leading Democrats directly in the beating heart of resistance?

This one I almost agree with, though they may be handicapped.  I think one historical element that needs an answer is why the Red Wave predicted in 2022 did not happen, but came with consistency, if not a vengeance, two years later.  The elected officials were already in place.  The culture of identity politics, many would say pandering, had been established.  Closure of hourly earners from the American Dream had been settled.  Yet in 2020, Americans voted a Democratic majority and largely held it amid the culture wars already in place.  What changed is that they didn't own the problems once they were given their governing mandate.  They didn't just have elites, not that it mattered.  There is no greater collection of elitists than the current Cabinet.  What the voters said, I think, is that they botched their chance to govern fairly.  They protected a President, who I met many times as my Senator and admired personally, even though he wasn't up to the task.  By 2024, Harvard and Columbia where my parents wanted to send me and where I wanted to direct my kids, had corrupted liberal education outside the quantitative sciences.  Their supporters sought vengeance for petty verbal comments they perceived as infractions, such as saying there were only two genders or equating anti-Zionism with anti-Semitism.  In short, my party governed poorly when given the chance.  Neither side has virtue to promote.  Instead, they are asking voters to judge who can bring us closer to the life we'd like to have.  A few human sacrifices along the way?  The pro-Hamas and pro-Ayatollah crowd, part of a Democratic base as the primary voters in NYC exposed, don't seem put off by the concept of Human Sacrifice to meet desired ends.

Here’s an idea: a rebirth of whistlestop tours. Recruit fifteen or so Democrats — potential presidential candidates plus a roster of other politicians and even non-politicians who are admired by Americans and have shown an ability to connect with people on a gut level. Have them board a train that would be christened the “Democracy Express.”

All depends on who gets a ticket to ride.  Needless to say, every losing candidate had high profile endorsements.

Just imagine this list of passengers aboard the “Democracy Express,” going from city to city, town to town across the land, talking about issues that resonate with all Americans: JB Pritzker, Andy Beshear, Gavin Newsom, Kamala Harris, Pete Buttigieg, Josh Shapiro, Gretchen Whitmer, Cory Booker plus proven crowd draws like Bernie Sanders and AOC. Add a couple of fresh faces, like Jon Ossoff, the young senator from Georgia, and Becca Balint, Vermont’s representative in the U.S. House. Make a show of a united front — with baseball caps and T-shirts emblazoned with the words “Democracy Express” handed out at every stop.

What this exaggerates is the reality of how few statesmen we have in the public arena.  Princess Di engaged the world, in large part because the future King, or his shadchan, opted for a charming lady too young to have a searchable past.  All the people on that train carry their assailable, searchable baggage.  I think the public abhors entitlement, as the 2016 results reflected.  The Dems have done much better with people like Princess Di, who come as unknown talents.  Jimmy Who, that nice Senator from Illinois.  I'd replace a couple of People of Entitlement with people of widespread respect.  Gov. Schwartznegger, Abe Foxman, NIH director Collins, maybe my own Senator Coons, Sen. Kelly, Gov. Stein, David Brooks or Bret Stephens from the NYT.  They need to restore respectability and sell wisdom, which still has a market to replace the illusion of virtue, which does not.

And as head of this delegation, why not Rev. Mariann Edgar Budde, the Episcopal bishop of Washington who made Trump squirm in the front row of a church service by asking that he “have mercy” on LGBTQ+ communities, undocumented immigrants, and others who felt threatened by his policies. In a way, Budde was a founder of the anti-Trump resistance. So she would deserve her own compartment on the “Democracy Express.”

Maybe she would.  But so would Rabbi Buchdal or Rabbi Wolpe.  Or the Dalai Lama who cannot vote.  But you also need people who build their congregations, not just inherit what somebody else created.

Defending democracy requires more than integrity—it demands strategy, daring, imagination, a unity of spirit, and the courage to call authoritarianism by its name.

I'll end my commentary on The Forward's op-ed with something I keep on my whiteboard in my line of sight from my desk chair.  It comes from an anthology called Jewish Megatrends.  Its editor, Rabbi Sid Schwarz of Clal, distilled his vision of Judaism into four core elements.

1. Chochma=Wisdom
2. Tzedek=Righteousness
3. Kehillah=Community
4. Kedusha=Sanctity

While the public votes for perceptions, usually scripted ones, of what enhancements they might experience based on who they offer power, the core virtues never disappear, even if their absence are not dealbreakers.  Each of the R Schwarz' elements has an illusion and the real thing.  Demeaning trans, Jews, Muslims, The Other Party in the name of Sanctity is the illusion.  And as Torah emphasizes by putting Mishpatim right after the Ten Commandments, making people's lives as decent as you can, that's Sanctity and Tzedek.  That's what the battered Democrats have a chance to promote.  But the cast of characters on Terry's train doesn't seem up to that challenge.

Disposables

Trivial repairs.  My name brand casual shoes, GH Bass and Sperry have not done well.  I tend to keep items indefinitely.  My Thom McCann K-Mart shoes last until they wear out.  Their low price makes them disposables, but they fit well while I have them.  Rockports and LL Bean indestructable.  New Balance too.  My dress shirts when worn for work, will eventually have sleeve ends that fray.  And ties have a loop in the back to capture the thin end.  It will sometimes separate.  I can sew it back, but usually don't.  In my mend collection or two pair of staple long pants whose belt loops have separated.  My attempts at home repair expose my lack of skill.  A tailor could mend them easily but I wear each infrequently enough to not justify the costs.  Same with leg hems that have separated.  

Moving clothing manufacture overseas has brought us American consumers to a branch point.  Price has come down.  So has much of their durability.  While repairs are possible in principal, they are not alway worth the cost.  And for my GH Bass bucks, which need only a heel cap that I could do myself if I had the part, three shoemakers cannot get the part, nor will the company sell it to me.  The agent who responded to my inquiry suggested I buy another pair from their wonderful collection.  Let me see if the more reliable Rockport has something akin to that.

End of Scout House

If I were asked to design the optimal shul on a yellow pad, what would I create?  Something very close to where I have attended Rosh Hashanah the past several years.  The sponsors announced the end of its thirty year run.

I do not know its origins that far back.  Most of the participants hold membership at a sizable Conservative synagogue, the one where my wedding took place many decades ago.  That era brought the  Jewish catalog and its corollary, the Havurah Movement.  Conservative congregations have undergone many different types of transitions.  Women have acquired worship parity in most places.  Intermarriage has brought to their membership large numbers of people who have their church as their childhood imprint.  Education and literacy have become bimodal.  Some families seek the trappings of Judaism, others delve into its many facets, achieving knowledge of culture and history.  They spurn after school Hebrew schools for their children in favor of all-day, all-Jewish environments.  Many gain skill with challenging parts of liturgy, from leading services to reading the scriptural portions as they get recited publicly.  Rabbi's are caught in the middle.  They need to have casual worshippers not feel burdened, let alone intimidated, but want to offer their most dedicated followers the abiltiy to partake of tradition.  

The Jewish Catalog, now more than fifty years past its initial publication, described this divide, along with ways to address it.  One approach adopted by many large synagogues, usually championed by a member or two rather than the Rabbi, was to separate portions of the congregation who found the abridgments to the sanctuary experience an irritant, and let them worship elsewhere in the building the way they preferred.  The synagogue of my wedding had such a contingent.  Once a month, a subgroup would separate themselves, conduct a full liturgy and Torah reading and supplemental materials, give their own sermon, basically make themselves self-contained without hired clergy.

This reached its extreme on the Holy Days.  Many congregations have let this season become a caricature of what happens in the sanctuary the rest of the year.  People who pay full dues but only come on these few days expect a pageant.  Big donors come to the Torah either rehearsing the blessings in advance or reading a transliteration.  Women appear in the finest that summer clearance at the Outlets offer.  English readings, to make sure the Christians and others of limited Hebrew facility don't get overwhelmed.  A Rabbinical sermon, usually of quality and pertinence, but without excessive references to scriptural and Talmudic underpinnings.  Lots of people there, except kids who the Trustees vote to herd someplace else in the building to maintain solemn decorum.  Those who come those days leave impressed with the work that went into it.  Those who worship with the congregation every Saturday morning register that experience as Judaism Lite.

What the subset prefer is the Orthodox service without the inconvenient Orthodox restrictions.  Liturgy in its entirety chanted by individuals with expertise in doing this.  A sermon with sentence structure and content worthy of a college graduate but also peppered with a foundation of sacred source.  Kids running around with preschoolers being coached by parents to kiss the Torah during its processional. No rabbis, at least not hired for the purpose.  A service dependent on the abilities of those who prefer to attend there over the more formal, and often cathedral-like experience of their central sanctuaries on the Holy Days.  And with gender parity of participation.  Many women have acquired impressive skills.  With families, sometimes multigenerational, seated with each other.  No physical barriers separating men and women.  And an ample parking lot, as spaces can be at a premium when large suburban synagogues conduct their Holy Days services.

A group from a vibrant congregation with observant members dedicated to Conservative rules acted upon their preferences.  Thirty years previously, they created a committee to make their preferred worship environment happen.  They rented a building, a regional mansion repurposed as a meeting venue.  The organizers handled the many logistics.  Security of location, invitations, assigning fees to worshippers to meet expenses, chairs, securing an Ark, borrowing two Torah scrolls and setting each to the portion that will be read from it.  Most difficult task, a recurring one, to find people with needed skills to lead the various portions of liturgy, which can be daunting for the Holy Days. Indeed, Judaism has a side hustle market for Cantors and others with this skill to get paid in the thousands for doing this in congregations, hotels, cruise ships, and other places that do not employ a full time Cantor or music director.  Here, they needed skilled volunteers.  Many worked months to master the Musaf Service, the morning's most challenging portion.  Shofar Blowers needed to create all three sounds without side noises.  Torah reading's musical sound differs on those days, so people prepared to perform with the Holy Days tune had to be recruited.  Sermons were easier to invite, as the group creating this had its share of professors, rabbis who did not have their own pulpit, and others both knowledgeable about Jewish sources and experienced at public presentation.

While the project had its core participants from one synagogue wanting an experience differnt than what their home congregation offered, this stand-alone Holy Days was made available to anyone willing to pay the nominal fee.  That brought a slippery slope of people who did not want to pay full annual dues to an established shul but still wanted a Holy Days experience for much less.  Probably some took this option but most attendance came from the synagogue members who initiated the project.

My wife and I, along with adult children when in town, began attending for Rosh Hashanah quite a number of years ago.  We probably traveled the furthest to get there.  This could be an invitation to take pot shots at my own congregation's activities, but I'll refrain, except for two annoyances.  Our congregation follows the traditional liturgy, engaging a professional cantor, either by payroll or per diem contract.  We do not permit the participation of women, other than to maybe introduce a prayer.  We have a volunteer male choir, which performs well but becomes one more audience focus. My home synagogue has another tradition.  The President chooses a person, or sometimes a group, to honor each day of Rosh Hashanah.  These individuals are announced in advance, for which many of us make a donation to the synagogue's General Fund in their honor.  I've only once found any named individual enough of a personal irritant to not write a $36 check, but my wife overrode me on that.  What I dislike is the pomp that makes two long services even longer as people give testimonials to the honoree and the honoree gives words of appreciation of his own.  While congregations need their own traditions, and honoring men and women who have given added effort to the synagogue's well-being need recognition, to say nothing of the shul needing a few extra bucks, I will drive a bit to a traditional service like the Scout House to avoid this.

Even though we were not members of the dominant contributing congregation, the people at the Scout House always treated us inclusively.  My wife became one of their prayer leaders. I got an Aliyah with some frequency, an honor that would bring me a bill for a few hundred dollars if I wanted one at my own shul.  They figured out that I had reasonable facility with the Hebrew and the choreography of the service. The organizers occasionally tapped me as Second Gabbai for the Torah reading.  And the Musaf Leaders and Shofar blowers were predictably awesome.  A regular participant has a disabled daughter, or more correctly, a disabled young adult worships among us.  Using an electronic device, she also acquired here task each service.  The people there have that blend of smart and kind, something that has largely disappeared from much of our public discourse.  The value of  being smart and kind together enhances as it becomes less frequent.

The long run of this service is about to conclude.  The reasons are several and cumulative.  I think the inflection point would be the original Conservative shul hiring a new young Rabbi, a rising superstar, who everyone at that shul admires.  He is sensitive to the religious variations within his congregation.  People who used to come to the Scout House have been opting for their home shuls instead.  A few key individuals have left.  One died a few years ago.  The organizing couple responsible for much of what came to be, downsized as empty nesters a few years ago.  They sold their McMansion within walking distance of the Scout House in favor of an upscale downtown condo.  

The neighborhood around the Scout House, while always expensive, has gotten out of reach for most people early in their professional careers.  These were our Musaf leaders and shofar blowers.  Congregations around the area will pay for their skills, a boost to young families trying to pay mortgages.  Obtaining the required talent, other than sermon speakers, had gotten too precarious.

So for many reasons, the leaders who sustained the experience opted not to organize it for this year.  I will miss much of it.  The drive, while long, has never been difficult.  I like hearing these very talented women, most of them young, leading services expertly. The people who deliver sermons are uniformly adept at it.  The equal of any congregational Rabbi.  Over time, I've come to know the people.  A fellow doctor who I knew from his online presence, I got to greet in person each year.  A widowed friend found a widowed mate.  They've appeared the last few years.  People I knew from the past who have moved away share enough of my attachment to designate the Scout House as their Holy Day destination.  My sister-in-law lives nearby.  She gets a visit from us after the First Day.

It's an experience my home shul cannot duplicate.  Yet my home shul has always performed above threshold.  The irritants, while there, are not deal breakers.  No reason not to import some of the Scout House legacy.  It would form most of what I would put on my yellow pad, imagining the optimal shul.

Tile Repair

Some things they never taught in junior high shop.  The New York State Regents required all tween boys, 7th and 8th grades, to take a half year of shop, while the girls took home ec.  It would not be open to intergender elective for another seven years, when girls started not only opting for shop but winning awards for things they created.  I went involuntarily.  The requirement had a purpose, though a stereotypical one.  Girls would manage the household.  Boys would do the handyman stuff around the house.  Boys who really never got the hang of grammar or fractions might find their talent with their hands.  Starting in 9th grade, an industrial arts program's availability might be to their liking.  We needed and still need plumbers, electricians, auto mechanics, and flooring installers.  In those days we also still needed TV repairmen.  It would not take that many years for the price of TVs to become disposables by a combination of plummeting price, solid state design, and performance enhancements.  We learned how to use tools, some requiring real safety precautions.  First year wood shop, second year metal.

At the risk of second guessing educational experts who probably had our interests in mind though with a element of groupthink, I never owned electric tools other than a soldering kit, sander, and a hand drill.  Everything else in my basement and garage runs by hand.  Saws, hammers, tape measures.  I created nothing from its elements, not wood, not metal.  I assembled many things that others made: bicycles with instructions written by people of a different native language than mine.  A lot of shelves and bookcases.  Painting.  Quite a lot of that in my young parental, new homeowner years.  I glued broken things together, mostly with superglue that also caused fingers to adhere to each other.  And to be fair to the Regents, I did master staining and varnishing items I bought with unfinished wood.

Big projects got pros.  They never taught us tweens how to fix a faucet that dripped, let alone how to install a disposal unit.  Even the smallest electronic installation was worth the electrician's fee to me.  Extermination of pests never made it to the NY State curriculum. My guess is the principals objected to bringing experimental roaches into their classrooms, not even live mice for biology labs.  It wouldn't even cross my mind to replace a broken window myself.  

Meanwhile, those kitchen skills the girls learned, I more than mastered.  I can do hand sewing.  While I once bought a used sewing machine at a moving sale, I never used it.  Yet if I had committed myself to sewing from a pattern using a machine, I'm confident that I could teach myself how to do it.  Clothing alterations, even hems, still go to a local tailor.  

Now I find myself with a nudgy repair that I should be able to do but don't know how.  My house, approaching sixty years of age, lived in by my wife and me for 44 of those years, has held up rather well.  A few plumbing leaks, new siding, some mice, replacement of the air conditioner and roof on  predictable life spans.  Now I find bathroom tiles separating from the floor where it abuts the wall.  Not a lot of tiles.  Only seven, and I've lost two.  One inch tiles.  We have cleaners mopping those two floors on alternate weeks.  I fear that they will start losing some of the loose tiles.  

Like modern handymen, I looked up what to do online, then went to a tile store.  Replacements for the two missing tiles will require a larger purchase.  Not an exact match but close enough.  I looked at my collection of adhesives which I keep together in a first floor closet in a bin.  Nothing specifically marked for replacing tile.  Internet said apply with Thin Mortar.  I went to the tile store to inquire about adhesives.  For floor replacement, thin mortar is what the tilers use.  This emporium deals with contractors.  They sell Thin Mortar in forty pound powder bags.  Online tells me that other adhesives may suffice, some in small quantities at Home Depot.

For now, I lifted up the loose ones, seven tiles from one bathroom with two squares unaccounted for, one beige tile from the main bathroom with none unaccounted for. They now sit in a fold-lock sandwich bag in a safe place.  Let the cleaners do their next mopping.  Glue what I can easily glue back.  Try to find a small sheet of off-white one inch tiles to replace the missing two.  Perhaps just replace the floor tiling in the smaller bathroom.  I have two other floor projects worth doing, so maybe do this one as well.

For now I want it quickly patched.  Significant skill not yet needed.

On the Move

International Travel, or at least bucket list travel, has taken hold among my friends.  Synagogue President off to Madagascar.  They have unique beaches, probably a local culture, vanilla trees climbed by lemurs, but it's a schlep.  Another fellow off to Bulgaria.  I suppose Rick Steves has complimentary observations about the place.  Another on a cruise of the Seine, another in Alaska, both more typical of where prosperous Americans seek a change of pace in their healthy senior years.  Another HS friend posts daily FB photos from Italy.  And not Rome or the Vatican, but the countryside. Another has travel plans to Vietnam.  I did my utmost to avoid subsidized time there.

My own desire to explore the world in the safe tourist mode will need to remain dormant this summer as we anticipate our first grandchildren in different parts of America.  There are a few distant places I might like to experience.  My ancestral towns of Europe, Australia's cities and Outback, the Orient.  My favorite teacher, the Señorita, once took a group to Spain as she immersed us in Spanish culture over the nearer and more accessible Mexican one.  I've never had much desire to explore Iberia other than its Golden Age Jewish quarters.  African Safari?  Maybe in my younger years, not now.  And I'd still like to see the aurora.  It came in proximity of my home for one night, but I missed it.

My last few travels, those to unique places, have exposed some downsides.  I very much liked a week in Paris, more mixed review of the guided tour.  I'd probably have chosen different activities.  Some were spectacular.  Don't think I benefited much from a cooking demonstration and definitely did not want to pay through the nose for the illusion of entertainment at Le Moulin Rouge.  Road trips have become more my speed.  Mammoth Cave a spectacular place.  The drive there interesting but tedious as the lone driver.  Tennessee, another great place to get to and to be at.  NYC brought me to places on Manhattan Island I'd not visited before.  Getting there and back as a driver to Jersey would have been better delegated to some form of public transit.  Pittsburgh and back, an expensive Turnpike, discounted by EZ Pass.  SF, vacation the first time, work or visiting all subsequent times, with recreation carved in. And cruises.  Just get there and make a plan for each day, while eating at whim.  The suitable replacement for Grossinger's with a daily element of tourism.  

This summer, I will just have to admire everyone else's explorations.

 

Friend Suggestions

When Facebook enticed us, for me 2009, it offered a chance to reconnect forty years after receiving our HS diplomas.  I promptly requested Friends with HS and Hebrew School acquaintances, a few folks from college, and but a handful of personal relatives and people from my town.  Most requests initiated by me were accepted, though girls who marginalized me in HS sometimes declined.  That list settled at about 100.  The algorithm has changed dramatically over the ensuing fifteen years, so maybe about ten of those hundred appear on my feed over a year, not counting birthday notices.  A few died along the way.  But Facebook's business model has clearly shifted from connecting old friends with each other to separating subscribers from a portion of their money, or maybe enraging them in some way.  No new Friend requests have come my way, and I've not offered to connect with anyone else.

Despite this, as I scroll through the messages that the algorithm concludes might keep me preferentially on their screens instead of Twitter's, I can expect to come across a banner of a couple dozen suggestions to initiate new Facebook friends a few times a day.  I scrolled through them.  No doubt, others get their banners with my picture, scrolling past without action, much as I do with my list.

If we have a lot of mutual friends, indicated under the photos, they are probably people from HS, as that is where my FB Friends derive.  If only one or two, which is most of them, they could be anyone's acquaintance or relative.  And many indicated no mutual Friends.  Occasionally a public figure appears.  My own posts early in the FB longevity, included occasional Likes, even verbal responses, from a few men of professional fame, though not recently.  Still, public figures pop up.  One recent one, a sleaze of political notoriety, listed a mutual friend.  She shares that man's political opinions, but I can attest that she is not personally deplorable.  

FB gives the viewer the option of deleting suggested people so that they do not reappear as suggestions, and hopefully my photo gets blocked from their suggested people.  This public blight was one of the few that got my deep six.  He's not appeared since.  There are a few others along the way, people I know locally who I regret forcing to share a communal space.  They get the FB request to make their profile disappear from my suggested contacts.  There aren't very many of those.  It wouldn't really matter, as neither of us would initiate contact with the other.

That leaves me with my ten or so.  All fondly remembered from decades past, though for most I am probably closer to them on Social Media than I was in the Ramapo Senior High School building or school bus.  And there's a secondary ten, people who used to show up more frequently, people of amiable presence and nimble mind worthy of a few sentences exchange.  The FB algorithm has done me a disservice, reducing their frequency on my screen. 

While their business model depends on my staring preferentially at their screens, FB has rightly become rationed time.  None of my current Semi-Annual initiatives require any Social Media.  More accurately, it is destructive to all these intermediate goals.  So putting an array of potential Friends expansions that nobody wants really doesn't keep me glued to the screen or the sponsors for any significant duration.  I'm content with my hundred or so reconnections from fifteen years back.  The ten active, the ten less frequent, and the eighty dormant.

Difficult Day Trip

While not an overly challenging time, in many ways good recent weeks, enough activities caught up with me to warrant a day to myself. My computer failed.  I took it to a local shop with long reputation.  They concluded that it had run out of memory, recommending a new computer with data from the dying one loaded onto it.  Like many, I've become dependent on my laptop.  The local public library has desktops for public use, so I can access the internet and use a flash drive for personal writing.  I did, but it was not really My Space where I do my best work.  The expected return date did not happen.  Lacking a convenient computer, I thought I might do some house upgrades and garden enjoyment.  My best herb pot underperformed, vegetables not thriving and flowers barely emerging.  Rain did not help.

Each summer I make two trips to the state's beaches.  If the rain lets up, I  committed to doing that.  A go from weather.com, a day off from my treadmill schedule, to which I have remained faithful.  I offered my wife a chance to share the luxury of warm sand.  She interpreted the weather report as hot sand but blazing sun, and too soon in the season for the water to lose its chill.  I went myself.

Two sand chairs in the trunk. Sunscreen SPF 30 applied to face by finger, sprayed elsewhere.  Canvas tote bag with my initial embroidered on the front and leather handles filled with all that I would need.  Room left over for my street clothes.

My home state of Delaware has beachfront assigned to three state parks, which I visit preferentially.  A shore runs for some twenty miles southward to the state line with Maryland.  All has public access to the sand, but not public access to facilities.  When my children were school age, like many families we would take a few days off from work, stay at a small hotel a few days, walk the five blocks to the beach each day, and enjoy the interesting town of Rehoboth Beach, dining at places different from what we would find at home.  Now state parks work better, as I have an unlimited Senior Pass that affords me entry and changing facilities.  I've been to all three.  The middle park seems the most developed, with two bathhouses in different stretches.  The southern park is most isolated but has the fewest parking spaces.  I've never been closed out, but had to drive around for a bit at mid-day, seeking somebody vacating their space to go to lunch.  

Sussex County, Delaware's southern county, has changed considerably over forty years.  It used to be a pleasant drive, nearly toll-free, over an iconic road that stretched almost the north-south dimension of the state.  The kids could look at farms and small business areas as we drive to our destination.  Very pleasant to get to and to be at.  Sea shell and t-shirt shops along the main street, little places to get breakfast in the morning and pizza for supper.  People would vacation from Baltimore and DC as well as Wilmington. A wooden boardwalk with a small amusement section just right for grade schoolers preparing for their pilgrimage to the grander Hersheypark or Disney.  Candy shop, ice cream places.  One single realtor dominated.  And a short drive, gave an afternoon at the Outlets, something less ubiquitous at the time, more bargains than now, and an escape from the rain when needed.  The world changed.  Those Federal Workers and lawyers from DC retired with pensions.  Vacation with families became relocation for healthy seniors.  Gays with substantial incomes and no college to save for found second homes and eventually retirement relocation.  And with new money came businesses providing places to spend it and maintain elegant residences.  The state built an expressway to connect its northern population center to the beach.  Now a drive clogs about two miles north of Lewes, the northernmost beach.  Every square cm of flat surface along the main thoroughfare now hosts places that year round residents need.  Lowes, WaWa for gas and snacks, supermarkets with the same names that we find at home. Restaurants are now big, whether parts of chains or independent places funded with private equity.  It's much like home, only farther away and with more traffic that does not let up until state land takes over south of the town of Dewey Beach, where families on vacation can still save up for a few days away.

To get to my chosen state park, I had to creep through the full milage of this economic growth.  I had plenty of gas.  I could use some lunch, not having eaten more than two cups of coffee at home and a small thermos more as I drove.  WaWa has become my roadside destination.  Hoagiefest week, $6 for a 10-inch customized roll.  And a reliable, if not always immaculate, men's room.  I pulled into the lot.  Checked email, called wife.  A few snags on my computer repair.  They needed passwords that I didn't know existed so they could load my Microsoft products from the dying computer to the new one.  I got my cheese hoagie, Swiss at the base, cheddar as the second cheese, some toppings, and some honey mustard.  As I ate half and a few bites of the second half, I dealt with computer care.  Once parked at the beach lot, they would send me a text allowing me to set a new password.  I drove the last few miles, over a bridge, then followed some not entirely single interpretation signs to the beach entrance.  I flashed my Senior Pass, waited for the attendant to nod, then drove to a distant but ample part of the lot.  I called the computer repair tech back, waited for the text message, read him the access number, then gave him the new password.  I wrote it down on a paper next to me, though I am likely to remember it as the one I use for sites that require a complex set of small letters, capital letters, numbers, and symbols.

Ready for the beach.  The walk to the changing lockers are upslope.  I had my tote and beach chair.  My wife interpreted the heat index correctly.  Still, I got changed into swim trunks and t-shirt, then took my time schlepping it all over the state's wooden boardwalk to the sand.  I found a vacant spot at just the right distance from the last tide mark.  After setting up the chair, I took out my cell phone.  The midday sun and intense brightness made reading it unrealistic.  I could not even see the numbers on the screen to enter the password.  I rested a few minutes, then tested the water.  It contained people, mostly kids.  Having lost one pair of glasses in the surf two years previously, I wore a backup pair, and left those at the chair.  It took about a minute to get to the water's edge and another minute to figure out that the ocean warms slowly as the summer progresses from June to August.  Still too cold on July 1.  

Back to my chair, basically unable to communicate, forgetting that for most of my life I could not communicate on a beach, I covered my head with a gray floppy hat, and sipped water from a very effective insulated bottle.  I knew I would not stay very long, maybe another half hour.  I set the time on my smart watch, which offered enough brightness to discern its numbers and settings.  At the appointed time, I put everything back ot the tote bag, folded the chair, and schlepped back to the locker room.  Once back in street clothes, I walked to the parking lot, put the chair in trunk and canvas bag in back seat.  I noticed a few things from the parking space not appreciated before.  At the end of the parking lot they have a pier.  I did not see a lot of fishermen.  They usually position themselves across the street on the other side of the suspension bridge near a series of rocks. I have fished there unsuccessfully once previously but remember the other anglers wishing me and others luck with hungry fish.

Destination two, the only winery in my state that I've not visited previously.  I had been to their tasting room much closer to my home.  Great experience.  Waze told me I had sixty miles to get there, 1.5 h driving, considerably longer than anticipated.  Delaware has two borders with Maryland, one that runs east-west and a longer one that runs north-south.  This town, which borders the two states, sharing the name Marydel, sits about halfway on the north-south line.  When I requested my GPS provide the route home from the winery, it was another 1.5 hours.  Visiting would take me about 30 miles out of my way from the route home.  I had enough time.

About half the distance covered the same route, including high traffic miles, that I would have taken anyway to get directly home.  Then it veered west.  I knew Delaware had its own agricultural presence, though a much smaller one than most other US states.  I've driven past much of it.  Poultry coops line the southern county which I drive past to get to Fenwick Island at our southeastern border or when my destination is the length of the Delmarva Peninsula to reach Virginia Beach.  I have much less familiarity with our northern agricultural areas.  However, two years of every three, I attend the State Fair which showcases my state's farmers.  The route took me through some decidedly rural scenery.  Some farmers apparently do very well, with impressive houses.  More have prefab housing, either converted mobile homes or prefab one story foundation homes.  There are schools, and an occasional child occupied a driveway or yard.  Numbered roads have businesses, typically places to eat something, though not very many familiar chains other than gas stations with convenience stores.  Roads with names rather than numbers only have isolated houses, fields, and some storage silos.  I found that part of the drive relaxing, though I had to keep glancing at the Waze map as turns to local roads came frequently.  While the vineyard may attract the most visitors that the town receives, no signs indicated directions, or even its presence.

I arrived.  They had a semipaved parking area.  I could see grape vines off to the side, though not many of them.  When I visited their tasting room in Pennsylvania, another location not obvious from the road, the superb attendant had given me some background of the vineyard, its town, its history, its transition from purchasing grapes from other vineyards to bottling more recent wines exclusively with grapes grown on its own property.  The winery shares its building with another enterprise of only minimal signage.  I don't know what they do there, and maybe they don't want me to know.  The right half of the building looked better maintained, with a banner at the door indicating open.  I entered.  To my left they had their bar.  Nobody was at the bar, but two groups of about three each sat at round tables in an adjacent room. 

The attendant came over, explaining their tasting policy.  For $15 I could choose four selections, two ounces each.  She confirmed that all grapes had been grown on their property.  Some of the wines had won awards.  I picked two of those.  In all, three reds and a white dessert wine.  She instructed me to take a seat at a table in the large adjacent room.  I chose one near the middle.  As she indicated at the bar, she brought my selections to me, then disappeared to her post.  Ordinarily, at wineries I prefer to remain at the tasting bar with the attendant.  While the wine is their product, information on how they make it, history of the vineyard, sweeteners, conversations about the area I am visiting are all part of the visit's experience.  I had been abandoned to taste what I wanted by myself.

A typical glass of wine ordered in a restaurant would be 5-6 oz. Most wineries that I visited in the past offer five one ounce samples, about the equivalent of a restaurant meal order.  Each portion sipped and swirled.  For a combination safety and experience, I did not want the full two ounces repeated four times, or 8 oz.  The attendant did not bring me rinsing water or little cracker palate cleansers.  Just four stemmed glasses with wine, each sitting on a disposable white paper strip with the name of the wine written in pen beneath each glass.  I drank about half of each red, the full glass of dessert wine.  That seemed enough.  I felt more processed than welcome.  I left with nothing else, not a bottle to take home, a logo glass, or a t-shirt from their small gift shop.

Waze set for home.  The winery sits on Delaware's westernmost road.  It was unclear which direction to turn on exiting the parking lot.  The GPS had me make another right at the next intersection, which brought me to a road marked Maryland and at the next intersection a gas station named State Line.  I turned right again, re-entering Delaware.  While I had only been in a trivial part of rural Maryland, that section appeared more unkempt than the properties on the Delaware side.  More rural roads, mostly named rather than numbered.  Towns that I had heard of but never visited.  Kenton, Hartly.  Recognized from the exhibit signs at the State Fair. Attractive towns from the roadway, though I don't quite understand how people make a secure living there if not themselves farmers.  A few more turns brought me to a much bigger place called Smyrna, which hosted the state's largest correctional center.  Within commuting distance of Kenton, Hartley, and even Marydel.  I assume some correctional workers, not lavishly salaried, would be willing to drive a bit to obtain lower-priced housing on a larger lot.  Numbered highway the rest of the way home, most full speed.  I had only been to Smyrna one time before, to the high school where my son participated in a math competition.  This part of the town looked quite different, less isolated than their HS property, with a number of small businesses.  Some served the surrounding agricultural areas.  Signs and GPS direct me to the highway.  I had entered north of the toll plaza, leaving only one bridge over the state's Canal to deduct a dollar from my EZ Pass transponder.  I arrived home with drizzle the final few minutes, finishing what was left of my Hoagiefest cheese hoagie while still approaching Smyrna.

It did not take long to put my tote bag on the kitchen floor, then stretch out horizontal on the living room sofa.  The day had been long.  Elements of the day's travel took their toll.  Beach time minimal.  Driving time a lot.  Phone with computer technician intrusive to what I thought would be a mini-vacation.  Traffic near the beach within my capacity coped without resentment.  Winery a great disappointment.

But like many of my travels, getting to the destinations offers more satisfaction than staying at the destinations.  Beach not a great outing, marred by traffic and oppressive peak midday sunshine.  I can avoid the traffic on future trips by going to the northern or southern state beach park. The hoagie was quite good, and a bargain at $6.  My thermos kept the water refrigerator cold for the entire day, finishing the water shortly before arriving at the winery.

As much as I admired the winery's peripheral tasting room nearer my home, the on-site experience left much to be desired.  I learned what I already knew.  The experience of visiting a winery for me involves much more than taste.  I insist on an interactive session, which is my usual encounter.  The attendant pours, tells me about my selection, tells me about the winery, the grapes that enabled what I sip.  Even the tastings at the big wine stores offer personal contact.  The wine should be served in a stem glass with enough room for a nose and enought clarity for a swirl.  The stores offer liquid, about 20 ml in a stemless plastic cup.  That's distinguishes a liquor store wanting to sell you a bottle from a winery taking pride in what they produce.  This time it fell short.

In exchange, though, I got to drive through parts of my home state that I've not visited before.  Pretty parts of the state, no crowds, no traffic, few traffic signals.  I learned that some farmers do quite well.  The schools I drove past were regional ones more than local ones, about the same building sizes as where my children attended, but probably much smaller classes and teachers willing to sacrifice salary for a better lifestyle away from the state's population centers.  The produce and the livestock displayed at the State Fair come from these farms.  I got to see them and understand why the State Fair has an entire pavilion devoted to its farms.  Yes, getting there sometimes overrides being there.

Annual Meeting

Mid-June on a Tuesday evening every June.  My synagogue's by-laws, which a handful of people have read once, requires the congregation to meet at least once a year.  Pre-pandemic the assembly took place in person.  Once electronic interface became available a Zoom option was added.   After perhaps one or two Junes, the in-person option was suspended.  I don't remember.  But this year we met hybrid, with approximately equal attendance between our sanctuary and the parallel screen. I much prefer being on site with other people who I might poke in the ribs as speakers express ideas that could have been reasoned better.  Those always seem plentiful.

The evening's agenda has two mandated items.  Our members must formally approve a slate of officers and the coming year's budget by a majority vote, which usually approaches a unanimous vote.  A Nominating Committee recycles the VPs each year since a by-laws amendment eliminated term limits for all officers but the President.  Some have twelve years experience.  Some have two years experience repeated six times.  No new individuals added, though minor shuffling of titles.  The budget has become predictable.  Figures presented, trends noted.  As our membership and dues base declined over maybe twenty years, we live off our accumulated wealth much as the seniors who comprise nearly all our membership do.  Mostly an evening for the people who occupy many committees to tell the people either not on committees or blackballed from them how wonderful the past year's experience has been for them and therefore should have been for us.  Not all of us agree, and each year there are about five fewer of us.

It starts with a welcome from the President, who has led diligently for his three years.  The Rabbi offers some words of Scripture and Talmud.  Then a list of activities that he did in his official capacity.  Then the President speaks.  Then we vote on budget and Board Members.   For an organization that declines a little each year since I arrived there in 1997, a defector from someplace else, it would have been better to have the VPs each issue a page of what happened under their watch, attach these statements to the email notice of the meeting, and adjourn for pareve cookies. Instead, we heard recycled projects.  A list of Torah and Haftarah readers.  We have quite a few.  A list of people who performed one or more aliyot or haftarot for the first time would have abbreviated that list considerably.  I would still be on it.  Education Committee.  Ample projects.  None created by the VP, who still thinks people will flock to signup sheets.  Some things do much better when you invite people.  A High Holy Day committee.  This is rather complex, but it hasn't changed in either format or participants other than our Rabbi's relative newness.  We still have designated women's chairs with signs on them usurped by our all-male choir during their break.  

I like numbers.  Seeing them.  Toying with patterns.  Playing with them.  Imagining how they might be different.  What I saw were committees with names of people attached.  Mostly the same people on every committee.  One VP had the temerity to tell everyone not on them to step to the plate and get on them.  First guy I poked in the ribs, having been blocked from two that interested me by the Dominant Influencers who really don't want smart inquisitive types challenging their agenda or process.  They don't need or want no help.  One of the roles of titled people, one by which folks in my medical world are judged, is the ability to seek out people who can bring knowledge and insight to make each committee more effective.  Two Committees have done that, Security and arguably Ritual, with the Rabbi infusing it with imagination and technical knowledge.  The rest of what I witnessed registers as Group Think, that invitation to nod last year's activity with nary a what if we did this instead.  Nobody challenges anything.  Ways & Means, External Communications:  No committee, just honcho delegating, and often less than that.

They expressed a desire to reverse our annual membership decline.  You do that best by engaging the people you already have.  I think I would ask every chairman who they sought out in the last two years to make their portion of our Congregational programming more effective.  It's mostly none. Make them each seek out and invite two. Then have the Rabbi and Membership VP get a list of every man, woman, and child, putting a checkmark next to each committee or organization each contributes to.  Some will have so many that they should be asked to choose which ones they want.  More will have too few.  They were never invited, and a few shooed away.  Invite them.  And then give the VP who chastised those with too few checks next to their name another deserved poke in the ribs to broaden his understanding.