Changing Watches

My smartwatch, a Tozo S3, bare bones edition, sits to my left next to the laptop.  Its charger occupies a USB port, its magnetic terminals adding electrical refreshment to the dormant device.  Replacing it on my left wrist sits a much simpler timepiece, a new Casio 168, purchased through Amazon for just over $30, not that much less than the far more versatile Tozo S3.  I had taken a liking to digital watches since they first entered mass market use in the 1980s.  I have a small collection, most costing less than $10.  They share some features.  All tell time well enough.  All have a stopwatch and the ability to set an alarm.  Most have a chime that signals a new clock hour.  All have a backlight.  In its early days, some of these came with calculators of limited utility,  I never bought one of those.  Straps are mostly cheap, either plastic or woven synthetic cloth of some type, though my new watch has a more attractive silver band with a link pattern and a clasp that allows custom adjustment.  I have replaced batteries in previous ones, but in view of the minimal price and significant longevity, these are really disposables.  To my disappointment, upon changing the battery of my favorite previous relic, it still did not run.  

Two smartwatches later, I've returned to my comfort style of a small rectangular display with a single alarm set to remind me to count the Omer each night.  Why the modernization reversal?  And in this era of smart phones that do it all, with omnipresence almost mandatory, why wear a wristwatch at all?

My two smartwatches did some very useful things, though I wonder how well.  My two devices tracked my steps.  With the first one, I mostly admired my daily achievement of 8000 steps.  With my current one, 4000 steps typically appear in the display when I retire for the night.  My activity has not changed.  I like the sleep feature.  It records pretty accurately when I fall asleep each night and when I arise in the morning.  Mostly it captures those nights I depart from bed to use the bathroom.  The awake duration on the morning report varies considerably, and likely inaccurately.  As a senior with the common circadian rhythm of 3AM awakening, it rarely captures that in the tracker.  But once awake, I cannot restrain myself from that dopamine hit of looking at the display on the dial.  The time.  How I've done with sleep thus far.  I can expect a composite number Sleep Score that I don't understand, supplemented with bands of orange for REM, lilac for light sleep which comprises most of each night, and blue to indicate deep sleep.  These come in their expected sequence.  My staring at them likely delays my return to real sleep, even if the device fails to detect that I am awake but still horizontal.

The more significant incentives to replace this occur closer to dawn.  I like being able to set multiple alarms, including a wake time, 6:50AM seven mornings weekly.  The designers anticipated the difficulty people have keeping promises to themselves.  They programmed ten-minute snooze alarms to take over passively.  It became too easy to feel my wrist buzz, not even look at the display, but remain confident that another signal or two will find me more motivated to arise.  Between looking at the screen at night and having reassurance that I had some protection from not doing what I should do, even as basic as getting up when I should, the convenience of the device introduced a feature that harmed me.

I used other features.  The countdown timer provided a great incentive.  The Two Minute Rule is one of the staples of personal accomplishment.  If a task takes less than two minutes, just do it.  With a quck touch, I can choose 1-6 minute countdown intervals.  Great for cooking.  The device allows me to set any interval.  It let me challenge myself to pay attention for 20 minutes or to read for 12 minutes or take a mid-day break for 33 minutes and 33 seconds.  Only one countdown at a time, but enormously useful.  Easily replaced with my cell phone which has a built in timer and apps for kitchen timers and other forms of countdown.  But this might be the part of the smartwatch I used most, other than telling the current time.

It has a heart rate tracker, or really a pulse tracker.  The accurracy may not be what a real medical heart monitor could do.  I've checked my heart rate at the end of a treadmill session both on the watch and on the machine's grip pulse counter.  The machine invariably gives a higher count than the watch.  The very predictable daily range of 55 on the low side and 106 on the high side for each 24 hour interval adds to my skepticism.  My pulse must exceed 110 at different time in a day when I have a scheduled exercise session.  And my watch offers an oximeter.  I do not know how it works.  Mine has never read under 97%.

Some features I don't use, either for lack of knowing how, lack of need, or not wanting to constantly pair with the company's app.  I could listen to music.  The weather feature often fails.  While I could change the display format to dozens of options, I've picked only two.

Somebody did a landmark experiment on choice.  The investigators took college students to ice cream parlors, letting them select any cone they wanted.  Half went to a local shop with ten choices, others went to a nationally distributed chain that offered thirty.  The kids made their selection.  Not long after, the professors surveyed those young folks on their experience.  Those who made a choice from ten expressed better satisfaction with what they selected than those who chose from thirty.   More choice correlated with regret over what they might have had instead.

Despite finding my smartwatch useful, I also found it distracting.  It told me about my sleep, both in real time and in review.  I think it also deprived me of some sleep.  Setting a timer to work on something kept me focused, but for relatively short intervals.  The device overloaded me with things it could do that didn't really need to be done.

My new retro 1980s or early 1990s classic arrived from Amazon.  Sleeker in appearance, limited in function.  It forced choices.  I could only have one timer.  Set at appointment, Omer, or wake time?  I had to choose.  It does not count down, only up.  If I travel across time zones or semi-annual clock changes, I have to do that myself.  But with its small discrete display, I look at it less.  When I awake at 3AM, I no longer anticipate the duration of wakefulness.  One dial, light gray background, thin black numerals.  Nothing garish hits my retina when I want to know the time.  I left the hourly chime ON.  I only notice it when both awake and idle, never when I am engaged in an activity.  And it need not be recharged periodically.  It better matches the purpose of having a wristwatch.  

There will emerge times when the smartwatch will have a temporary Second Act.  Days of multiple appointments.  Days of deadlines, where the ability to set multiple alarms or time work intervals better enables me to meet obligations.  But simple suits me better.  Too many choices, too many functions, intrude.  Probably why Casio still sells so many of these 168 classics long past their apparent obsolescence.

A Me Day

Sometimes I feel too programmed.  Not that I lack autonomy.  I don't.  For Pesach I have considerable latitude of what I prepare for Seder.  I also make binding commitments, like making those two Seders or showing up at synagogue for services.  I enroll in the senior division of the state university each semester.  That only entails four courses per semester, each 75 minutes long.  It's only about half the time an undergraduate would spend.  But I still have to show up, and if not an online course, I need to transport myself there and back.  At least the undergrads can walk from their dorms to where they need to be.

Part of my success in retirement has been considerable voluntary scheduling.  I arise at a set time, return to my bed at a set time, exercise and stretch on a schedule, have a reasonably fixed time for taking my medicines and for eating, though what I eat and wear each day I've chosen not to regiment.

An appointment-free Saturday came my way.  Not exactly.  I still needed a treadmill session at 7:50AM, which I did.  Most Saturdays would find me in synagogue most of the morning, often with something to contribute.  The congregational creators, from which I have been excluded, opted to have a Friday night dinner with service in celebration of Israel, that very productive land to which I have an attachment despite some recent, justifiable world criticism.  I rarely attend these Shabbos dinners, finding a supper with just my wife and sometimes a guest or two more authentic.  I prepare dinner, which adds to satisfaction.  But this occasion seemed one to attend.  

Between Pesach and shabbos assignments, I had gotten shul'd out.  In response, I designated this Saturday a Day for Me.

Sometimes these periodic Saturdays still play out as Shabbos services, just at a place other than my own.  A large modern Orthodox congregation in a city about an hour and a half distant had been a quarterly destination pre-pandemic.  Mostly, I would make a day trip of the effort.  Services until mid-day, then a city museum or other attraction before driving back home.  I've not been there in some time.  It became less worth the effort when their long-time Rabbi of national renown retired.  Other times, I designated Saturday as a respite from shul, a needed break.  Mostly a day trip would take its place.  During my working years, taking a Saturday for myself had some therapeutic benefit, a personal reset not available to me on other days.  In retirement, and with an unlimited SEPTA pass, I can designate most days of the week suitable for an escape.  And I have.  But shul'd out requires my change of pace occur in lieu of shul, as this one did.

My day of self began with a Saturday routine, making coffee, reviewing how I had done with the weekly plan I assembled the previous Sunday morning, then doing my obligatory time on the treadmill.  All the while I considered where I might like to go, what I might like to do.  At one time, my willingness to drive exceeds what it does now.  Three hours each way creates an much bigger radius of where to go than my current hour and a half.  I chose a place about fifty miles northwest of my home, a town, or really a vicinity, which I have visited a few times a year for these types of escapes over many decades.  There are types of places a like to go.  Farmers Markets, breweries, wineries, museums, local tours.  By now, I've been to most of the attractions offered by my destination, though a respite day need not introduce me to something I've not done before.  With gas tank filled the day before, I had no distance restrictions.  At 9:30AM, I drove off, following my usual route, though still without a destination.  About halfway there, I opted for a local farmer's market where I've visited a few times before.  I can attend better markets far closer to my home, but this one has the advantage of other things to do nearby.  Since it sits in a tourist area, one that attracts people from New York three hours away, traffic can get challenging on a Saturday.  With a little motoring aggression that those New Yorkers will recognize, I secured my right of way at a few crowded intersections, and once parked safely, I showed similar assertiveness when crossing streets.

The Farmer's Market had little that attracted me.  At prime time, I needed to park farther from the main building than I usually do.  A separate brick building steps from my car offered Amish-style crafts with Amish attired women attending the customers.  I looked around.   Good deal on logo mugs.  I resolved to return for one when ready to drive off.  The main building had places to get baked goods,sandwiches, craft boutiques, meat and cheese vendors.  In the basement, walkable by ramp, sat an emporium that sold souvenir type items that tourist coming to think they were having an Amish experience might want to bring home as gifts.  With mid-day arriving, and nothing that I really wanted to buy, I walked across the street.  I expected to sample three brick buildings selling Amish crafts, but they were all interconnected by hallways.  Attractive stuff, tastefully displayed, and at acceptable prices.  Another time, maybe in the late fall when I need to obtain Hanukkah gifts that my recipients living elsewhere would not easily obtain for themselves.  Quick reality check.  With Amazon and Etsy, everything can be obtained everywhere from a laptop.  I walked outside to an adjacent building.  A small food court, mostly baked things and ice cream, a place frequently cited by visitors' YouTube podcasts of their tripd to the area.  I bought an oversized custard filled donut.  Taking a chair at a shelf style seating area, I got confectioner's sugar over myself, the table, and the chair, but it was a yummy treat.  A wipe with a napkin brought the powdered sugar to the floor, where it became hardly noticeable.  

Cars driving along the street let me along with a few others get safely across to the Farmer's Market parking lot.  I re-entered the original building, selected an oversized porcelain mug, handed the Amish young lady my Visa Card, which she processed, before wrapping my possibly fragile purchase securely for its trip home.

Next stop, a winery.  Pennsylvania allows tasting rooms, places rented or owned by a vineyard, sometimes in another state.  These places offer tastings of their sponsoring vineyards' vintages at a fee.  I much prefer to visit an estate.  My Wineries Near Me request showed nearly all tasting rooms, with the nearest vineyard a half hour's drive.  I had been 3once before, recalling a pleasant place that required some rural driving to reach.  By now, some rainfall had begun.  Instead of setting Waze, my usual GPS, I followed the directions displayed by the winery's app.  It lacked audio but displayed the turns with large enough images and distances that I could get there safely.  It stood on a high hill.  When I arrived, the tasting room appeared full.  Not having a reservation at mid-day Saturday, they accommodated me in a back room, eventually joined by a brand new father tending to his six-week old son while his wife partied someplace else.  I chose my five wines.  The attendant brought me a wooden rack holding six test tubes, the one on the far right with water.  As I sipped from #3, an attendant approached me about my car.  When I arrived, I had nudged the trunk release.  After closing it, I neglected to shut my own door.  The rain now soaked part of my front seat.  They closed the door for me, but I would have to place my nylon jacket atop the bucket seat to keep my pants dry.

As I started my journey from the Farmer's Market to winery, I drove past a Sheetz convenience store, almost at the corner of the road I wanted to take home.  It being one of my favorite road trip breaks on other travels, I decided that on the way back, I would stop there for lunch.  Sheetz and WaWa have a regional rivalry, this store being at the junction of where one takes dominance over the other.  I programmed Waze to get me there, appreciating the audio.  The sandwich menu falls short of what WaWa offers, a place I visit frequently at home when they have sandwich promotions.  I chose a hoagie with a disappointing pretzel roll option, definitely less of a sandwich than what a WaWa would have sold me.  The super-sized drink cost less, though.  Intending to eat only half the sandwich, I found myself not adequately filled and not wanting to take the rest of this mediocre sandwich home.  I ate the rest, tossed the wrapping, saved the majority of the soda and unused napkins.  

Returning to my car, now with a brisker downpour, I headed to the route that I planned to take home.  On my day trips to Amish country, I usually return by a different route than the one that got me there.  The roads have a variety of numbered cross streets, mostly rural.  With a GPS and destination, I can always get back on track, so often I will enter one of those streets that I do not recall driving along previously.  The GPS has an algorithm preference for highways.  On these Me Drives, I often ignore the female voice telling me of an entrance ramp, then redirecting me later, but not before trying to backtrack me to the highway.  I chose a street to sample, but did not find it.  Instead, I took a rural road, one with a name instead of a route number, through a state park. At one time I used to visit this park for its fishing, though not in a long time.  Winding roads, not much traffic.  Before long, I returned to familiar home territory.  For the final leg home, I entered the usual roads, only to find a key bridge closed by flashing police cars.  The other drivers in my blocked lane courteously took their turns making U-turns.  I knew the alternate route to my house well, following that path uneventfully.

Home.  Away for some seven hours, about half of it behind the steering wheel.  I had set out for a day of multipurpose.  Escape.  New experience.  Some amusement,  Scenery.  Taste buds. New places, even if only from the car.  Mostly accomplished.  I returned more tired than expected.  A measure of annoyance from my own carelessness of not closing my car door, but also some appreciation to the winery attendant who minimized the wetness that the car's interior would acquire.  A stop at a favorite roadside convenience store, even if the meal fell short of what I might have eaten elsewhere.  And an alternative to my more customary Saturday morning place in my synagogue's sanctuary.  A welcome time to myself, despite those elements that could have gone better.

Grocery Adventures

Food shopping has shifted in the past year or two.  For decades Shop-Rite had been my dominant supermarket, by far.  While it always attracted me by competitive prices and kosher certification of most packaged goods for which that is possible, its place atop my preferred location firmed further when my former Rabbi made a deal with his friend, the store's franchisee, to dedicate kosher sections for meat, deli, and baked products.  No longer did I have to schlep to northeast Philadelphia every six weeks or so to stock my freezer with enough fleishig to feed a family of four.  The owner kept the quality of his store top-notch.  Upon his retirement, that kosher attraction and reliability had slipped.  

Acme always had a place around the corner when I needed something not justifying a drive to Shop-Rite.  Super G, in the same neighborhood as Shop-Rite, became my pharmacy.  I treated myself to a donut or fritter while picking up my medicine, but I rarely shopped there for staples.  Their kosher offerings were negligible at my local branch, though in other places, their regional market had made kosher arrangements similar to the one I once enjoyed at Shop-Rite.

Periodically, I would maintain a Costco membership, either to get a discount on bifocals every other year or at one time to have them process credit card transactions for my business.  They sell a lot of food, but in large quantities.  While there, I would roam the aisles.  Specialty Jewish stuff could occasionally be found, kosher hot dogs, best price on sliced lox, even frozen tiramisu at one time.  I would get a few treats to take home.  Others with either very large households or less aversion to waste than me would fill oversized carts, enough to fill their car trunks before heading home. Costco really had no role in meeting my nutritional needs.

As Shop-Rite slipped, both in kosher and in customer service, I looked for alternatives.  I had not purchased deli there in ages despite my friendship with the man who ran the kosher section.  When he opted out, and the store replaced the deli with a cheese shop, I didn't miss it.  Same with the bakery. Prices deterred me.  With the local kosher certification gone, I still used my best judgment.  I always bought from bakery cases since I was a kid, depending on labels to guide what is dairy.  I would buy donuts from Dunkin, Super G, a farmers market if the owner could tell me the frying medium.  Shop-Rite would not change its recipes or procedures based on a Rabbi or some other Vaad officials who had treated my deli friend rather shabbily at times.  I just had no loyalty to that section.  Meat, however,  makes a difference.  That section had also deteriorated.  On most visits, only some basic chicken options.  The last few visits, they seemed to have abandoned kosher beef entirely.  That leaves me with Passover, where no other easily drivable store matches what they offer.

Shop-Rite's experience swoon left me more open to visiting different places for different items.  Comprehensive megamarts are really new phenomenon, emerging in my lifetime.  Traditionally, people shopped multiple vendors.  Collections of food suppliers trace back to Europe or the Middle East, many of which still exist.  A town would designate a marketplace, where individual sellers would offer produce, spices, butchered items, seafood, and durable goods.  People bought medicines from independent pharmacies.  Philadelphia still has its Italian Market, several streets lined with cheese shops, butchers, and houseware stores along the city sidewalks.  Atop the sidewalks sit pushcarts, often selling fresh fruits and vegetables.  Smaller towns still have residual main streets not yet put out of business by the convenience and economy of scale of big box stores.

My grandmother used to take me shopping with her along Bathgate Avenue in the Bronx.  Places for foods of differnt types, with a bakery at the end as a treat for me.  Malls tried to consolidate shopping as suburbs grew.  Maybe three anchor stores and dozens of smaller franchises clustered for people to sample in an outing.  They served a retail purpose, but also a place to interact with people.  For decades, they filled with people, only to be largely abandoned not that many years ago.  Regional malls never had a big grocery or specialty food strength.

I am not ready to return to shopping that way, but I have begun to parcel out what I buy where, even if it means extra trips.  Trader Joe's established itself as my niche store.  They have the best loaf breads at acceptable prices.  No Wonder Bread or similar squishy white stuff there.  Rye is real rye bread, pumpernickel and Italian loafs my new staple.  For cheese, they require their suppliers to label ingredients, which Shop-Rite does not.  Things that I can ascertain as vegetarian are acceptable to me even without the Rabbi's seal.  Usually best price on eggs.  They sell produce by item rather than weight.  Rarely leave without Roma tomatoes or bananas.  And more recently, they have introduced kosher meat.  I get my fresh Thanksgiving turkey there.  I can usually count on them having a half turkey breast, one of my go-to's for entertaining guests.  And they've introduced kosher beef.  Only four cuts: ground beef, stew cubes, boneless steak, and seasonal briskets.  All better quality than anything Shop-Rite sold from their meat case, with a small mark-up over Shop-Rite's kosher offerings when their beef selection was more reliable..

This Passover, many of my seder recipes featured a predominance of fresh produce.  Shop-Rite often ran out, did not have sales, or left the most perishable of items to wilt in the display.  I needed to get something at Super G.  As I walked through their entrance, the lure was fresh multicolored peppers on sale.  I took a cart, shopping list in hand, and toured their produce aisle.  Everything I could want, displayed more attractively than Shop-Rite and at comparable or lower prices.  The parsley and dill had bushier appearances.  Beets, a Pesach staple, plump and without bruising.  Lettuce needed for the Seder Plate leafy.  For things like apples or horseradish root, not very perishable, Shop-Rite gets bundled with other things.  For dinner to entertain guests, Super-G makes a better green grocer.

My newest option, one I am still adapting to, has been Aldi.  This chain has its base in Europe, though with an expanding presence in America.  It follows more of a Trader Joe's format than a true megamart, though the store's positioning of which items line the perimeter and which stack in central aisles approximates placements at Shop-Rite or Super G.  Kosher is not on their radar, but manufacturers often see certification as a selling point, so pay an agency to qualify for this seal.  That makes shopping there something of a treasure hunt.  They offer few national brands, mostly boxes or flexible packaging of things with a proprietary logo.  Produce is hit and miss.  I usually come home with something.  They have the best buy on cinnamon rolls.  Bread has disappointed the few times I've purchased any.  What I seem to seek out there after acclimating myself to their product selections, are munchies.  Some I shouldn't buy.  Kettle Chips, Swiss Rolls.  Some serve me well:  olives, pickles, the generic version of Sugar Smacks, all pareve.  They have by far the best price on kosher-certified Greek yogurt.  Four containers go into my cart each trip.  Ice cream prices undercut Shop-Rite's.  Some visits they have special things like kosher certified mascarpone for tiramisu.  Other times their supply is unreliable.  On my recent shopping adventure, they did not have pickles and the Greek yogurts in the refrigerator case did not have the berry varieties that I prefer.  Aldi is also known for a durable goods aisle.  Their buyers must get closeouts.  One central aisle lined on each side with home goods, mostly stuff I neither need nor want, at attractive prices.  Rarely go in my cart, but popular among fellow shoppers.

What I may be experiencing are the natural cycles of supplying homes.  Central markets dating to antiquity still hang on.  Main Streets and large indoor malls giving way to national retailers with multiple sites.  My food world has also shown elements of transition.  The dedicated kosher butchers, once plentiful in my childhood town, have closed.  Regional megamarts have carved out sections to accommodate kosher consumers.  Mine seem to be failing, but elsewhere, including in drivable range for me, others still satisfy that market share.

My easily drivable neighborhood has a lot of supermarkets that compete with each other.  Something attracts shoppers to one or another.  For most, it is probably economy.  For me, it was kosher availabiltiy.  Once this tanks, the loyalty fades.  I find myself going back to another era, that of my grandmother who took me shopping along Bathgate Avenue.  For food, I have a core grocer, still Shop-Rite.  My beef source is in transition.  I may need to resume driving to a more reliable supplier, as I did when my family was young.  While I found driving to northeast Philadelphia burdensome, I often had my pre-Bar Mitzvah son with me.  We had time together, a chance to let him get something from the butcher that he liked, much as my grandmother would never take me with her to Bathgate Avenue without giving me the run of a bakery case.  Aldi adds an element of surprise, what might I find, similar to what Costco once provided me.  Trader Joe's has its place, now expanded to their kosher meat selection.  And Super G, where I must go periodically to fill a prescription, now has me leaving with a bagel and a pastry.  When I have some special dinners, whether guests, birthdays, Mother's Day, or yontif, a special trip to the Super G produce aisle seems the best way to find the best ingredients.

Perhaps I've cycled a bit, or even resisted current trends.  For more than a century, promotions have induced shoppers to find it all in one place.  The mail order catalogs of Sears and Montgomery-Ward, now both gone.  Another era of flagship department stores identifiable by the cities they dominated.  Filene's, Wanamaker's, Famous-Barr, Marshall Fields, et al.  Mostly gone.  The big boxes, Walmart, KMart, and category dominant stores, most still around though less than their peak.  And the megamarts for food, now showing faltering of what once made them attractive.  And Amazon, where you really can get everything.  

My shopping has changed, some forced upon me by a decline in the Shop-Rite experience, others finding me drawn there by superior experience.  Perhaps some of what lures me to Aldi I shouldn't buy.  And while kosher beef has gotten harder to acquire, I should ration it.  But I see myself more as a consumer now.  No longer locked into a situation by convenience.

Seasonal Clothing Exchange

Living in the mid-Atlantic, weather cycles.  It freezes when the calendars say it should.  Water to the outside faucets shut down to avoid expensive plumbing repairs.  Having reached a stable height and weight decades ago, and for many of them needing to look presentable at work most days, a lot of clothing has accumulated.  As much as I donate unwanted, and sometimes ill-fitting items to Goodwill or to the charity bins in store parking lots, I still own more garments than I actually wear.  Twice a year, typically October 10 and April 10 with modifications for shabbos and yontif that might appear on those dates, I transfer winter to summer.  Last fall, I packed a duffel, a carry-on, and a box that originally carried 90-kcups with shorts, polo shirts, and t-shirts.  Maybe some summer pajamas too.  At one time I used a plastic clothing storage bag, one with a vacuum port to suck out the air.  Those never held the vacuum, often tore, and did not transport easily from My Space to the bedroom when the exchange date arrived.  If I even have another of these, I would have to look for it somewhere in the recesses of My Space.  

Despite doing this twice a year, I don't really know if I have more winter stuff or summer clothing.  Winter items have more bulk, but I probably own fewer of them.  T-shirts, which fill that K-Cup box, come my way in various ways.  Sometimes I see a logo that I like in a store at a great price.  Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles appear on many.  Often, I receive one as a promotion, donating platelets, or doing some group charitable effort.  I have my favorite universities that tell others where I have been.  Not so many souvenir t-shirts from where I have traveled.  When I buy one of these, which I often do, they become gifts, rarely additions to my own wardrobe.

Collared polo shirts have also become a staple, short-sleeved in summer, long in winter.  The long-sleeved variety have very few logos, but the short-sleeved options include team emblems and university swag.

Shorts get stored in a plastic cubby, one occupied by a neatly folded pile of cashmere items slowly accumulated as bargains get too good to pass up, though rarely worn.  Shorts get worn every day.  Mostly solid, some plaid.  My inventory includes significant cargo style representation.  These were once more popular than they are now, but I find them useful.  I also wear long slacks in all seasons.  Those stay in my closet, even the rarely worn woolen ones that need dry cleaning.  They just do not take up a lot of space.  My dress clothing does, most of which I wear only to synagogue.  Anything wool goes to the back of the closet, lighter fabrics I wear, then hang by a loop on a downstairs over the closet hanger.  Eventually I will have about three on that rack, which I rotate for synagogue wear, though increasingly I attend in shirtsleeves with a long-sleeved dress shirt and tie.  But often I will wear a plain upper quality collared polo under a light jacket.  I never go to services wearing just the polo.

Among my shoes, only the sandals are really summer seasonal, and not often worn. I have boots and insulated shoes for going out in the snow, rarely worn.  Those stay in the closet.  

This year, I may move winter coats upstairs to the closet in My Space.  They take up considerable room in the lower hall.  I will leave the all-weather raincoat for summer use, one midweight jacket, and my full collection of nylon windbreakers.  Sweaters stored in my bedroom mostly get exchanged, except for one light cardigan and two cotton sweaters, which will come in handy for football season, which begins before the fall exchange. Sweatshirts, mostly logo type, serve the transition well.  The hoodies can go to storage, though.

One key decision involves whether to do this semi-annual project as one big effort or a series of smaller exchanges.  While most things I take in a few-minute increments, this one goes better if just completed in a few longer sessions.  Once done, I have what I need at hand for six months.

Do I ever travel to someplace warm when the weather freezes at home?  Not often.  My wife likes to more than I do.  A few items off to the side for seasonal transitions will suffice.  I regard swimwear as non-seasonal, as travel during any season usually takes me to places where my hotel preference includes an indoor pool.  Same with sleepwear.  Flannel lounge pants are my preference.  Socks I wear most days, irrespective of season.

Investing an hour's time, maybe a little more, makes things easier for me over six months.  I can check weather, see what I need to do that day, and extract a few suitable times.  The stuff in storage just stays there, not even thought about.  No new shopping needed.  Some tasks are just worth the effort of doing once but doing well.  That enables other warmer weather activities.  The garden, fishing, drives to beaches and parks.  The real attractions of living in a place where seasons change.

Neighborhood Walk

My treadmill malfunctioned.  The belt shifted.  Now it slips or hesitates.  Repairs for most anything appear on YouTube.  With video guidance, I recentered the belt, though not without the frustration of trying to find the proper Allen wrench and damaging the back panel of the green velvet recliner that sits to the left of the machine.  Fixing a slipping belt needs more steps.  It also needs special silicone lubricant, not readily available in stores.  Adding it to my amazon.com cart, along with enough other stuff to avoid shipping fees, will bring what I need to resume the scheduled exercise that has enabled me to feel reasonably energetic into my mid-70s.

To substitute exercise mode, I scheduled a walk around the neighborhood.  Same time, same duration.  I cannot measure speed and my development has a few minor upslopes.  Springlike weather thus far.  On my treadmill, I walk wearing night clothes.  Outside, I need to get dressed first.  Long pants, short-sleeved shirt, walking shoes, different ones than I wear on the treadmill.  My machine has a count-up timer and a distance monitor.  I distract myself with a series of tunes, each sequence about five minutes.  For neighborhood walking, my smart watch has both count-down and count-up timers.  I set it for 5 minutes count-down, to repeat five times.  

My first tour lasted a little under 25 minutes.  I changed the route, which brought it just above.  I've driven through my development many times, probably been a pedestrian at each of its streets a few times in the forty years I've owned my house.  I rarely pay attention.  But an exercise walk requires some type of distraction to avoid incessant glances at my timer's progress.  In the process, I've appreciated some new things about my development and the people who live there.  The most obvious attention getters are the front yards.  Some households put a blend of money and labor into making their street view unique and attractive.  Lawns are landscaped with areas set aside with stone edges.  Some have trees, others shrubbery.  While all homes have two-car garages, one or more cars sat on nearly all the driveways, including mine.  A couple homes parked enormous RVs in theirs, though I cannot recall ever seeing one driving down any of our streets.  

American flags adorn a few homes.  Some have erected vertical flagpoles on their front lawns.  Some have flag holders on a porch post which displays Old Glory diagonally.  Since I walk at about 8AM, I cannot tell which homes follow the etiquette of storing their flags indoors overnight, then raising them again at daybreak.  I did not observe any foreign flags, though I'm sure we have people attached to Israel, Palestine, Italy, and Ireland among our residents.

Cars are a necessity.  My route takes me mostly through streets of single-family homes, but we also have one section of condos and townhouses.  They have a parking lot, but many park on the street in front.  On the single home streets, curbside parking is rare.  On one session, I chose to distract myself by looking at the types of cars my neighbors had.  A couple of Mercedes, none brand new.  Mostly Asian vehicles, Toyotas and Hondas.  Hyundai perhaps under-represented, KIAs maybe over-represented.  I don't recall BMWs or Audis.  Not many  VWs, but not zero.  American cars seemed a mixture of Chevy's and Fords.  Minimal Chrysler products.  A few families had two cars of the same brand in their driveways, most had two different brands.  I focused on manufacturer, not on the model, not paying attention thus far to SUVs, sedans, pickups.  And I will assume that all these cars sit on the driveways excluded from their garages by owner's stuff.

There were things I did not see.  First on the list is people.  One other person did her exercise walk in the opposite direction.  A bond forms instantly, with a wave and greeting in each direction, though with care not to stop the pace.  By the time I set out, the kids have already been picked up by their school buses.  Any parents who accompanied them must have returned home.  I expected more dog walkers, or perhaps dogs in yards.  Owners become subservient to their pets' preferred physiologic needs.  I only passed two dogs in four sessions.  One home had a fenced-in yard with a sizable dog that greeted my walking by with a hearty bark and wagging tail.

Vehicular traffic seemed less than expected, though not absent.  By 8AM, people are mostly at their jobs or on their way.  I have n way of determining who in this era works from home.  Some workmen have started their day.  A plumbing truck arrived at one home.  Some landscaping contractors had parked out front, though I suppose people would complain if they ran their high-end, loud mowers at that hour.  One family had some home improvement work.  Ordinarily, when contractors remodel, fix roofs, paint, or engage in other multi-day projects, they typically insert their business sign into the front sod while they work, a quick ad for any who drive by who might need similar work.  I only saw one.  The other sign more prevalent in other neighborhoods but virtually absent in mine are the notices thiat this property is protected by a security agency.  I live in a low crime area, though occasionally the civic association sends an email to residents when somebody's car has been improperly entered.

Eventually, my treadmill will return to function.  As exercise, it has enough advantages over outdoor walking to mostly end my neighborhood walks.  I live in a very stable place.  People with homes that generate pride, vehicles that get us where we want to go when we want to go.  People seem to stay in their own space, whether that be their house, yard, or car.  Not many bikes on the front porches or other evidence of kids.  Not many other exercisers who take advantage of the public thoroughfares but an instant bond between the few that do.

It's different than my childhood housing development.  We had people outside all the time, especially kids, though also likely in school at the times I set out for my walks.  Maybe if I went at a different time I'd see more people or more traffic.  While streets are public, few people opt to enter them, preferring the privacy and control of their houses.  For the most part, I live that way as well.

Belt lubricant arrived in an Amazon box.  It should return to function in another day. As much as I enjoyed the outdoor walks, as exercise it falls short of the regimented program of a treadmill.   Health takes priority.  Other chances to walk in different places will appear, some familiar like my kids' neighborhoods in big cities, others part of travel to places I've not visited previously.  Though not quite  as intense as a treadmill set to a speed for a fixed duration, these walks still offer a reasonable surrogate, one that challenges my observation skills and imagination.

Birthday Favorites

I'm an Aries.  My birthday sometimes falls during Pesach, sometimes after, virtually never before.  Whatever the food limitations, some adaptation takes place.  My wife makes a special dinner, or sometimes I do.  This year, it falls after Pesach and on a Sunday, with very few competing obligations.  Table still set from shabbos.  I washed all the shabbos dinner dishes, not brought all the fleishig appliances upstairs from their Pesach storage in the basement.  I think I will make my own couples dinner this year.  For a milestone birthday.

First, milchig or fleishig?  Each has advantages and disadvantages.  I bought a slice of salmon for Pesach, but did not use it.  Even frozen, it can still be poached.   Milchig expands the options of birthday cake.

Instead, though, I opted for a meal of my personal favorites.  Always start with the centerpiece.  Briskets and steaks become available at Trader Joe's for Pesach.  Good Stuff.  Before Pesach, I bought a Kosher for Passover salami, a bullet salami that I've not seen in a kosher deli case for years.  What I do not have is pastrami.  That would have made the main dish.  I think I will go to TJ, see what beef did not sell out during Pesach and then decide.  If both remain, I could get a steak for the birthday and a brisket for later when we host dinner guests.

What goes with it?  I like knishes.  Also kasha varnishkes, tzimmes, shlishkes, glazed carrots, leczo, roasted beets. All the things I need to make these sit in my fridge or pantry, overpurchased from Super G produce prior to the Festival.  I think I'll go with shlishkes.  They are of Hungarian origin, one of my maternal grandmother's specialties.  Not very hard to make.  Boil a potato, chill it, mash, add flour and an egg and knead, then chill some more.  Roll it out, cut into bite size cylinders, boil, dry, then pan fry gently with matzah meal in olive oil.  

As much as I like leczo, and have ample unused bell peppers, it is hard to limit the quantity for a couple's dinner.  Though maybe I have a small can of diced tomatoes.  Glazed carrots have the advantage of ease.  They also have a sweetness that will serve the other ingredients.  Tzimmes is a variant on this, but making sweet potato and mashed white potato at the same meal seems problematic.

Pareve cakes.  I made nut torte for Pesach and don't have enough nuts left over.  Don't have pareve strudel dough or enough apples.  Don't have phyllo, and baklava seems too painstaking, though maybe I could buy some.  Instead, I mostly have what I need for fluden and for stuffed monkey, with dates that I have replacing candied peel that I don't.have.  My fluden had never come out well, but it is easier to make than stuffed monkey.  Passover cakes go on clearance.  They are not my favorites.  And while I like apple cake and honey cake, I eat them often enough that they have become less special.

There are soups.  Chicken soup with matzah balls have become universal favorites.  Same with mushroom barley soup.  Or I have herring that can be served as a starter.  I don't want to boil a frozen gefilte log.  That goes better with shabbos.  And I have falafel mix, but save that for another time.  They are among my favorites, though.

And salad.  I bought greens, bell peppers, celery.  Tomatoes need to be replaced as they spoiled before eating.

Wine has accumulated in excess.  White and red.  Put a bottle of white in refrigerator, separated a bottle of red, which may be preferable with beef.

Much of this effort involves choices, organization, less imagination if my starting point is established favorites.  Joy comes later, at a table, with my wife, maybe with phone calls from my kids.  Effort enhances enjoyment.  None seems overly taxing, appropriate to my advancing age.

And when all done, a Happy Birthday to Me.

Wrong Impressions

Attendance at synagogue during Pesach often does not seem a priority.  After the effort of Spring Cleaning, menus, invitations, shopping, exchanging dishes, and pulling off an elaborate festive Seder, many feel over-extended.  Services need to take place.  People get assigned portions to perform, forcing them to appear.  Many others, myself among them, judge the schlep to shul and the hours that people can redirect to cleanup or chilling as anti-climactic.  I stayed home the first festival day, attended Chabad instead on my own shul the second as I allocate that day to them, and to my own congregation for Shabbos.  Some registered as obligation to support those with bimah activity, but not enthusiastic affirmation to seek out my favorite people who will also attend.  Few people appear, often one male or two on either side of the required ten.

As we move five years past the pandemic, which took much American worship online, a few residual outcomes remain.  Many people who regularly attended their place of worship lost the obligation to show up.  People sampled other churches online, or now by streaming.  They could partake of places not available to them in person, megachurches, places with celebrity clergy, resources that bridge spirituality with entertainment.  Judaism has its parallel options, which I sampled generously for myself this Pesach.  The experience generated a lot of practical lessons, some a better understanding of me, some a different perspective of what Jewish worship could be, and some limitations, even false impressions, that watching another place's pews on a screen can impose.

To stream a synagogue service live requires a few things.  It excludes Orthodox congregations who judge Sabbath and Festival broadcasting to be a violation of Jewish Law.  Mine does not simulcast, either by Zoom or public streaming, for this reason.  That leaves primarily Conservative and Reform synagogues to do this, with a few Messianics thrown in for the very curious to partake of all that might exist.  Since these sanctuaries become exposed to anyone with YouTube access, the congregations that opt to do this are places that can display a flawless product.  Professional video, articulate Rabbi, lyrical Cantor.  In effect, places with the financial and talent resources to do this.  As a consequence, my streaming brought me to two Jewish cathedrals on Manhattan, parts of a lesser one on Manhattan, one near the UCLA campus made convenient to me by a time zone difference, another in an upscale suburb of LA where stars and moguls buy mansions, and a much more modest synagogue, though impeccably appointed in Florida, though not a place that screams We Have Money as loudly as the others did.

Jewish wealth has to be taken into context.  Some sage applicable advice came my way indirectly.  As a young careerist, mid-1970s, I read John C. Molloy's best-seller, Dress for Success.  Not really needing a corporate, expensive wardrobe as a young professional, I sought out basics at the time.  He recommended purchasing quality, which usually meant expensive.  The people who could promote you could tell the tailoring difference, even if I could not.  He understood that plunking down two weeks' pay on a suit would not be acceptable to folks like me.  Instead, he compromised on what to actually own, advice that got me through cars and homes and high end purchases of various types.  He advised looking at the best stuff.  Cadillacs, even if I would buy a Ford.  Identify features that the higher price allows, personal musts.  Those must appear in final purchase.  Other items that add to a high cost do not need duplication in the final purchase.  He called it shopping down.

As I watched three days, maybe ten services, of tony congregations, I found it easy to pick out what appealed to me, irrespective of whether my synagogue could duplicate this.  I also identified things about those places where my preference diverged from what I saw.  For better or worse, longstanding membership scripts people to look at their congregation as the assessment point.  My congregational experience has some predictability, most favorable, a few irritating.  Some worthy of learning from someplace else, others not.  

What I saw on the streamed services was a lot of hired talent.  My congregation depends on its own members davening, chanting, sometimes speaking.  The Rabbi does a few specialized things that others cannot.  My first service on screen began with a Torah reading.  Five volunteers read one festival aliyah each.  All proficient.  For short festival readings, our volunteers usually learn more than that, often the entire morning's reading.  The people receiving aliyot ascended to the Torah as families.  Couples with late teen daughters.  All seemed to know the names of their tailors and who they insist on styling their hair.  Not a single running shoe.  Men in suits that they would wear to their law offices or hedge funds.  Daughters who would have tennis lessons and summers at the finest camps that a family focused on Jewish affiliations could secure.  Not a single polyester white with blue stripes Conservative Bar Mitzvah tallis among them.  I did not resent this, nor did I admire this.  As social institutions, it has been places of worship have mingled people of different economic backgrounds, second only to universities.  I saw an ascendance of entitlement, one that offered me my own flashback.  As a young adult, I served as High Holy Day Torah reader.  Aliyot were sold as fundraisers, generally claimed by people like those I had just seen on TV.  As these men, and at the time they were all men even though egalitarianism was official policy,  these guys offered each other a generous handshake if not a hug.  I got two handshakes out of seven.  As I watched on the screen this workday morning, I could only assume that some nurses, school teachers, civil servants, also sat in the sanctuary.  But the camera captured Beautiful People in their finery approaching the open Torah scroll.  Because they ascended as families, their names were not announced, only their number in the morning's sequence of five.  Once done they returned to their seat.  

We get called up by name, blessed by name when done, and remain at the scroll until the person after us has completed his portion.  The LA congregation maintained the tradition.  It seems less processed.  The Reform congregation, among America's largest, reads Torah on Friday nights, as does the Reform congregation near my home that I periodically attend.  One Aliyah, often a fragment of an Aliyah.  This Erev Shabbat, they also had a Daughter naming.   

The other services seemed less starkly elite.  Indeed, at the Florida shul, men wore running shoes just like they do at my congregation.  The women wore simpler attire, purchased on Amazon or the Outlets.  Hair neatly combed but styled at home.  At the California synagogues, places in a different time zone that allowed me to watch their morning services in the afternoon, the ostentation seemed more in the worship environment than in the people worshiping.  All places can hire Rabbis experienced at public presentation.  All sermons thoughtful, but so are those at my shul, whether delived by our Rabbi or monthly by an assigned congregant.  We have more of a grass-roots culture, something I much prefer

I expect instrumental music at Reform Jewish worship.  Its foundiing in Germany, imported to America with the first large wave of Jewish immigration, adapted styles from Western Europe.  The much larger immigration of Eastern Europeans, my ancestors, numerically overwhelmed those of German heritage, so most American congregations adapted the traditions of Eastern Europe.  These prohibit instrumental music on Sabbath and Festivals.  To my surprise, all those I watched, except the Florida synagogue, had small bands playing multiple instruments.  Sometimes they accompanied the Cantor, sometimes they played music for its own sake.  At some point, the leader strummed a guitar.  The LA congregation engaged a professional choir, maybe five or six voices, sitting in a corner, adjacent to the instrumentalists.

Despite these variations, the content of the services remained very traditional. On one morning, the annual Prayer for Dew occurs.  I found it over the top ornate with the Cantor dressed in a rather tailored version of the kittel or white robe that the leader wears, not to mention a puffy hat whose gold braid front gave it a Papal look.  And they did not read the longer prayer silently first, then include Dew as part of the repetition.  But he sang a stirring, fluent melody of a difficult liturgical section.

Attendance on these days lags.  My congregation ekes by, Chabad, where I attended, attracted a few more.  These very large synagogues did not do much better.  Two worshiped in secondary chapels instead of the main sanctuary.  As the Torah processional occurs, some focus one of their cameras on the pews.  Not at all crowded, considering the congregational membership.  And the one where everyone seemed dressed to impress, the people in the pews also wore stylish dresses and hairstyles.  Every place has its local customs, as does mine.

Perhaps I can visit some of these.  Hotels on Manhattan are expensive, but within my means.  Bus or train on Friday afternoon and late Saturday.  Reform mega shul with celebrity Rabbi on Friday, Conservative upscale on Saturday, hopefully one without a Bar Mitzvah.  Macherlands?  Or maybe a very engaging experience.  TV screens let us see what the directors and cameramen want us to see.  In person, though, the visitor gets a snapshot, not the album or the movie.  Maybe not everyone shops at Armani.  The purpose of places of worship is to blend people.  Maybe they do it better than the streaming conveyed to me. 

Visit or not, synagogues come in all varieties.  I've traveled enough to attend many.  It's reassuring that when my own congregation finds me too weary, uninterested, and on occasion cynical, a change of experience needs only a few clicks on a remote control. 

Ahead of Schedule

One day before Seder typically imposes one of my longest task lists.  I begin shopping well in advance, but dairy certification for Passover usually doesn't arrive until the last minute.  Some items to be prepared for the Seder need defrosting about two days in advance.  Carpet shampoo squad comes at the beginning of the week, which requires me to move things off the floors, then replace most of them after their chemical application dries.  Food purchases not requiring refrigeration sit in heavy bags in the dining room, to be moved onto our tiled kitchen before the cleaners arrive.  They are not returned.  Our kitchen becomes a non-food place the day prior to Seder.  It's out for breakfast.  This could range from a restaurant to a grab and go at WaWa.  Lunch, if any, becomes a slice of pizza from a place that offers slices.  Dinner is set aside as a special time.  A family supper out with kids, wife time as empty nesters.  Most a family style chain, either national or regional.  I insist on craft beer, though, anticipating some deprivation during Pesach.

In between, tasks get divided between my wife and me.  She prepares our kitchen surfaces.  Sink, microwave, stove, self-cleaning oven, fleishig food preparation island, kitchen table.  I do the more physically demanding projects.  Cleaning the refrigerator, moving hametz appliances to the basement, and bringing boxes of stored Pesach needs upstairs to the kitchen.

My stamina has taken an age-related, or maybe health-related, toll.  I can make two round trips between basement and kitchen before resting.  That's a lot of trips.  Of the appliances that go downstairs, only the stand mixer has substantial weight.  Not so for things coming upstairs.  Some boxes laden with cookware and dishes challenge me with both weight and bulk.  In recent years, I do one of these, then for the second trip, tote two lighter boxes from basement to dining room.  The refrigerator is a project unto itself.  It only gets throughly cleaned annually, in anticipation of Pesach.  Contents removed.  Unsalvageable food discarded.  Shelves and bins cleaned.  Interior scrubbed.

This year, with Seder taking place at mid-week and OLLI on spring break, starting early became more realistic.  Food purged one shelf at a time over a few days the week before.  Vegetable and fruit bins scrubbed.  That leaves me with mostly usable food, a simple to clean cheese bin, the shelves and the interior.  At one time I did the interior with a sponge.  Now I use a sponge floor cleaner with handle, saving the sponge for the corners.  Shelves often need soaking, having intermittent spots of dried stuff, once sticky, now solid.  

For the dishes, as soon as the carpets dried, I went to work.  I did not count how many round trips I made.  Only two unusually heavy boxes challenged my physical capacity.  So at midmorning, I find myself well ahead of progress for previous years.  I started the kitchen table, a necessity as the refrigerator contents need to rest there while I remove the shelves, wash each individually,  allow them to dry.  Then scrub the interior.  Then replace shelves.  Finally, replace food, creating zones for Pesach and Hametz.  If I get this all completed before heading out for supper, it's been a successful effort.  Ahead of schedule.  Just the refrigerator to clean and food to sort.  Even though not yet complete, already I feel accomplished.

After darkness emerges, we have our formal Search for Hametz, arranged by my wife.  Then chill, with no loose ends, ready for the Seder preparation.  As a Bachor, or First-Born, I need to attend a Siyum to avoid a fast day.  Then washing dishes and preparing the Seder meal.  It's a second consecutive long day, one that does not conclude until very late at night when I return my guest to her home and drive back.  A second consecutive day of effort generated accomplishment. 

Visiting a New Place

Each semi-annual goal list contains an element of new experience.  It may be significant travel, day trips to places I've not been before, eating something I've not had before, joining a committee.  Experiences come in a lot of different forms.  Often it is visiting a new place, whether a city, tourist site, park within my own state, or even a new restaurant.

This cycle I had the initiative not as specifically new but as three day trips.  I had completed one, taking advantage of my SEPTA Senior Card to walk the length of Elfreth's Alley, Philadelphia's oldest currently occupied residential street.  Being on vacation from my state university's senior division, I seemed overdue for another visit to a new place.   A dear friend never made many social connections.  As his years advance, he has become more dependent on other people, more isolated at a senior living facility.  After a few desperate emails, my wife and I paid him a visit.  Driving took about two hours, with a stop for coffee and some redirection by Waze when I misunderstood where to turn.  I'd been to Baltimore many times for a variety of reasons, though not to where he current resides.

To our relief, the tales of woe sent electronically seem far beyond what we saw.  He lives in a spacious place, tastefully furnished, with kind staff everywhere.  The drive took its toll on me, so I left most of the conversation to my wife while I rested on a sofa.  He had an afternoon medical appointment, which gave everyone a reason to conclude the visit.

Many of my private times in Baltimore take place on Saturday mornings.  I am fond of one of their Orthodox synagogues, once headed by an iconic senior rabbi who has since retired.  I make a day of it, leaving early enough to get coffee at a WaWa, arrive before Torah reading and sometimes go to a tourist attraction after services, but sometimes just head home after kiddush.  While the shul sits in Jewish Baltimore, I only drive past a lot of McMansions where few of those in attendance can afford to live.  There is another part of Jewish Baltimore, perhaps its most robust section, just over the hill from where I turn off.  It being Saturday, everything Jewish is closed, including the 7 Mile Kosher supermarket, where I have always wanted to shop, if only one time.

This seemed like the ideal time to go.  Passover approaches.  My regional grocer has a weakening attachment to our local Vaad, though I could still get a respectable Passover food supply.  It's those irritants, the shankbone once given away for free, then sold, now absent.  Dairy not yet out.  And a very limited supply of meat.  Passover has the communal eating of meat at its core.  For a few guests, I can get chickens, both whole birds and parts to make soup.  For a crowd, there were no big slabs of meat to buy, other than frozen turkeys that people can defrost.  

Waze directed and misdirected me to parts of Jewish Baltimore I'd not driven past previously.  Modest homes with small yards.  And many more apartment complexes than I would have expected in proximity to the miniestates where lawyers and Hopkins neurosurgeons live. Two synagogues, one large reddish masonry building with signage announcing it as a Sephardic synagogue.  Another a smaller more conventional Orthodox place.  People on the sidewalks included a Hasidic teen girl with little skin exposed and a few men in black.  But the neighborhood had other representation.  Some African Americans.  A sprawling school dominated a block on our route, a few blocks from our kosher megamart.  Not a yeshiva but the Frederick Douglas High School.

The GPS corrected my directional misunderstandings.  We arrived at the Market.  It had a sprawling parking lot, though as Pesach approaches, it also has a lot of patrons, many visibly orthodox with beards, kippot, and tzitzit emerging over their belts.  Carts seemed filled to the top.  More than any empty nester household could eat.  These purchases will fill the back of an SUV and take a while to bring inside.  Perhaps some shopped as agents of their synagogues or organizations for communal seders or a week's worth of meals for a day school. 

I had been to large kosher markets before.  My childhood town has emerged as a Hassidic hub.  On my last visit, I toured Rockland Kosher, though without the detail and intent that I approached most aisles of 7 Mile Market.  Shankbone?  A whole case, help yourself, $2 each.  Priority for my cart.  Big hunks of beef, plain and corned.  Enough for a Bar Mitzvah caterer.  Margarine, no.  The industry must have withdrawn from Passover pareve margarine.  And no dairy.  Some prices far exceeded what I once paid.  Large briskets could run over $100.  A raw beef tongue, not seen in years, now sells for $40 a pound.  I did not run across lamb or duckling, but did not seek them out.  Marshmallows.  Had to put a bag in my cart.  My wife took a liking to thinly sliced sandwich steaks, to be reduced to smaller portions when we get home.  An I've not seen an authentic kosher salami in years.  Passover approved.  Into cart.

Satisfied, we headed to the checkout.  Interestingly the employees were sometimes representative of the local Orthodox clientele, but they had Black and Latino staff, including our most pleasant cashier.  No self-checkout lanes.  No express lanes either.  At each register, they keep a cardboard tzedakah box.  It helps local families in some way.  One of the Passover traditions is to add to a fund that enables Jews of low income to purchase supplies for their holiday.  I think these black corrugated boxes with slots on the top had a different destination.  I tapped my card.  As I returned the Visa to its wallet slot, I took out a dollar, folded it and stuffed it into the slot.  

As awesome as the place appeared, and as tempting a return visit without the Passover limitation seems, it still requires a 70 mile drive each way, and one bridge toll.  I likely will return to that favorite synagogue, though the Market closes on shabbos.  Similar, though less comprehensive options exist a shorter drive from my home.  At one time I drove out of necessity about 35 miles each way to a kosher butcher about every 6-8 weeks.  My school age son joined me.  Father/Son bonding or bondage made the errands special.  As an empty nester, these quests for the more exotic cuts of meat, liver, tongue, duckling, veal seem harder to justify.  But my afternoon at 7 Mile Market, both products and ambience, made me eager to inconvenience myself a little, if only to explore closer to home.

Not Wanting Anything

For serving as a research subject for my state university project, the investigators sent me a $50 Amazon gift card.  I try to redeem these quickly, before I forget about their existence.  To avoid shipping costs, all my checkouts at Amazon exceed the threshold for including shipping, which falls somewhat below the $50 I had to spend.  My wife needed a small electronic appliance that cost about $50.  I could not match the serial number she provided me with any item on their menu, so she opted to just get what she wanted on her own.  That still left me $50 to spend.

I tried to create a shopping list.  Some lavender sachets to keep bow mites from returning to my violin case.  These seem to be sold in bulk quantities far above what I would need.  Maybe a local crafts store would have them.  I have a few nostalgic indulgences.  Hai Karate lotions are not made anymore.  Jade East still exists but its current price exceeds any value I would place on it.  In retirement I am giving clothing away, not purchasing more.  My kitchen has every utensil, pan, dish, and appliance needed to create elegant dinners, both milchig and fleishig.  My last Amazon furniture purchase could have gone better.  At IKEA I can see what I am getting.

Then there are replacement parts.  Amazon does best with this.  Few exceed $50 and nothing right now is partially broken.  My fondness for pens is insatiable.  In the past, two cartridge pens from Amazon joined my small collection.  Rarely used.  Understand why ballpoints have replaced them.  No desire for personal jewelry.

Might I spend this on somebody else?  I could.  But honoraria from my research participations have become my mad money, my indulgences.  I don't want to change that.  It is not unusual for podcasters to make YouTube presentations of neat stuff from Amazon for under $50.  The run a short enough time, typically under ten minutes, to see what they have.  Mostly electronics, stuff to enhance productivity or make driving safer.  None attractive to me.

Basically, Amazon sells stuff.  And I do purchase stuff, though increasingly perishables like food and medicine.  I seek what they don't sell, experiences.  Sometimes this comes indirectly.  I purchased a violin bow with a previous gift card.  And a fragrance might be a form of experience.  So might a picture frame to keep photos of my grandchildren in sight.  And they started as a book seller.  The book is stuff, reading its pages becomes experience.  A team cap is stuff.  Displaying the logo of my affiliations when I travel transforms it to experience.

For now, I have $50 worth of petty indulgence waiting for the right product.  None today that I especially want.

JNF Reception

As a youngster, my mother would give me dimes to put in the metallic boxes colored in Israel Blue for each session of Hebrew school.  We had one of those boxes with the slot on top at home, though rarely filled it.  I have one in my adult home now, mostly filled waiting to pry off its lid, emptying and counting the coins long overdue.  For special occasions, we would plant trees in Israel, or really pay a dollar into a fund that would hire somebody to serve as our forest agent.  When I made my only visit, a full country Israeli tour in 1999, I learned that despite all this American effort, the buildings were constructed of masonry.  They had no appreciable amount of lumber.  Yet much of Israel looked like places I once lived or visited in America.  The vision to accomplish this came from the Jewish National Fund.  My dimes and dollar bills, very large contributions from some of our most well-off Jews.  It may be one of our best confirmations that Israel is part of Judaism.  We are willing to contribute part of our earnings and savings to make the land sparkle for those who live there, even when we live abroad.  That timeline includes enabling distressed Jews seeking something better than Russia or displaced by Naziism, warfare on the land itself, times of political optimism, and our times dominated by technical innovations.

My community. a small but cohesive American one, shares this effort.  Each year the regional Jewish National Fund office, one stationed in a major Jewish population center a less than two hours drive south, seeks from us a blend of financial support and ideas, by sponsoring an annual event.  We have among us Israelis now living and working in our location.  Children and siblings of very accomplished people have made their homes in Israel.  Most live as they did in America, a few achieving significant public prominence.  For the past three years, I have attended this gathering and later added to the financial collection in a meaningful way.  These assemblies display some combination of the most endearing and most cynical elements of Jewish organizations with a fundraising purpose, though no dispute of the noble cause and the sincerity of the major participants.

This year, the format changed.  It had been a tradition to gather for breakfast on a workday morning at my town's snootiest site.  They made a rare concession to the JNF, allowing a Kosher caterer of the organization's choosing to pre-empt the hotel's otherwise mandatory own kitchen requirement.  People in suits took the morning off from their law offices.  My synagogue had ample representation, mostly of older observant people.  We helped ourselves to coffee at a buffet table, then took seats at round tables.  I made a point of sitting with people I had not known previously, but mostly people sorted themselves out by synagogue or Federation positions.  The table had bagels, much better ones than are sold locally, mounds of plain and herbed cream cheese, insulated ivory coffee carafes for refills, a pastry plate, fruit, and another of lox.  People passed these around.  No public motzi or birchat, despite about half the town's rabbis sitting among the guests.  We ate.  My new acquaitences shared experiences, often commments about this and other Jewish organizations.  Then keynote speakers, typically three.  A community leader serving as our chapter's president would review the projects.  Quite a lot of thought went into creating new towns in parts of Israel less populated than the cities that tourists visit.  Then a financial expert to tell us the many ways we can give that will minimize the very large sums that their most valued donors will owe the IRS just a few weeks after this breakfast meeting, then an invited guest.  In my few times, typically a journalist telling us what she probably tells her therapist.  The others are cruel to me, they have to change.  I found the morning pleasant, the parking in town, now requiring paying by credit card at a kiosk an annoyance, and the organization worthy.

An email from the organizer announced a new format.  New place, new time.  It would take place on a Monday evening at a suburban location of Jewish recognition.  A spacious facility, one with appropriate security for an era when those hostile to Israel menace Jews and affiliated institutions.  Parking free on an ample lot.  Close to the town's Jewish population cluster. Dessert would replace breakfast.  The invited outside speaker had a higher profile.  Young man, part entertainer, part filmmaker, part cyberspace influencer.  I asked the event chairman why they abandoned their longstanding fundraising arrangements.  He indicated that collections had been gradually declining.  The purpose of the event was to attract donors.  To me, it seemed like the breakfast tables sat highly paid men, either in their earning prime or aspiring to it.  Expenses were high, and people they might have liked to attract had reservations about driving into the city.  Only then did I remember the male-dominated attendance.  Perhaps something easier to attend that does not require an absence from work would generate more donors and at less overhead for the JNF.

RSVP sent, reminder of event received by email a few days before.  I could come at 7:30PM.  Those who donated $1800 had a special reception an hour earlier.  Incentives for large donors are common but their perks seemed difficult to predict.  Maybe supper with the invited guest.  I arrived at the hour reserved for the less generous.  No traffic getting there.  Abundant parking.  Not a lot of really fancy cars in the lot.  As I walked past the guards into the building, there did not seem a lot of people already there for the VIP session.  The JNF staff checked my name against their reservation list, handed me an ID tag that I attached to my shirt pocket with a magnet, then shook hands with mostly people that I knew.  We milled in the corridor until the auditorium door opened.  

This place, where my congregation assembled for Holy Days a few months earlier, has a mid-sized auditorium.  It was set up as auditorium seating, rows of chairs allowing everyone to watch a podium, stage and high-end screen.  Chairs facing the stage filled about 2/3 of the space.  The first two rows had Reserved Tags, though I did not identify enough VIPs to fill all of them.  Much fewer people who I had never met before.  My synagogue punched above its weight in attendance.  We are a congregation solidly tied to traditional Judaism and to Israel.  On the Kol Nidre Bond Appeal we make more pledges than the other places despite our smaller membership.  We are also mostly people on Medicare.  Only the speakers, two volunteers and the keynote, wore office attire.  On signal, we took our places.  I selected a seat near the middle.

The local volunteers spoke first.  Same two as each of the last two years.  Impressive discussion of projects in the Negev to make those emerging communities attractive to current Israeli's priced out of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.  Housing gets priority.  Employment opportunities a secondary priority.  Then the financial man spoke, more low key than I remember from previous events.  Then the keynote.  I found his performance a refreshing change from the beleaguered journalists.  Entertaining, witty, maybe at the upper reaches of my tolerance for slick.  Questions at the end.  Few takers, none provacative.

His speech reinforced what had kept me attracted to the JNF for most of my lifetime.  It also supported how I approach the rise in American antagonism to Israel as a nation-state of the Jewish people and myself as one of the country's admirers, loyal despite the imperfections of its governance.  As the viral video displayed, "I am that Jew."   It was with great curiosity that I reviewed the results of the American Jewish Committee's poll on how this recent rise in travail has impacted us.  They randomly selected me to take that survey.  I have negligible personal adverse encounters.  Yet a sizable minority have, all with different responses.  My only concession has been to leave my tallis bag insignia side down on the back seat of my car.  Since my insurer would have to pay for vandalism, I should not invite it.  But I study my assigned Torah portions in public spaces with a kippah and photocopied Hebrew print.  Only two people have commented, neither confrontational.  The speaker had been assaulted by another skier on a high end ski trail.  He filed assault charges.  American law exists to protect him and me.  We have to call assault and intimidation what they are.  Perhaps getting mugged would change my response, but my Jewish identity requires responsibility for upgrading other Jewish lives.  That's what the JNF does.  I will take my chances with American hoodlums.

After the speeches, everyone assembled for the dessert buffet.  The baked goods did not have dairy or pareve labels, but I had eaten milchig for supper. Some chocolate layer cake, a slice of dragon fruit that I'd not had before, a plastic cup of sprite.  Nobody approached me to chat.  Instead, I headed over first to the regional representative to ask him about resettlement of Israelis into the new Negev towns.  Then I waited my turn to ask a question of the keynote speaker.  He seemed more thoughtful than slick up close.  We agreed on some things, differed on how to best confront or at least cope with the antisemitism that the younger folks encounter.  He noted independently of me that the audience he addressed included mostly seniors like myself, people already committed to our Jewish identities.  A subset of people, mostly prosperous, debt-free, late-life donors.  We are people who have built families, built careers, understand that somebody else built the schools we attended, the houses we purchased, and businesses that employed us.  The younger people not there may not have the same concept of building environments and institutions.  It would have been a better evening with a broader array of ages in attendance.

What did I miss most?  Probably the tables.  An auditorium layout matches common purpose, but so does a sports arena where everyone roots for the same team without knowing each other or anyone new.  The breakfast tables of previous years promoted conversation, whether with old friends or unfamiliar people.  The purpose of the session was to maximize donations to a worthy cause.  The most enduring outcome might be strengthening personal attachments or sharing thoughts.  Groups of eight facing each other accomplish this much better than a collection of a hundred all peering a stage in unison.

After my chat with the honored guest, I put my paper plate and polystyrene cup into the wastebasket, then headed out.  Nobody new in either the lobby or parking lot for me to greet.

Navigating Target

My lab work suggested a Vitamin D supplement might offer benefit.  I could purchase a bottle many places.  On a Sunday afternoon, the Target OTC pharmacy would likely have a few choices at a competitive price.  I drove over, found a favorable parking space that allowed me to exit driving forward, then headed inside.  I buy very little there.  A gift card earned a few years ago sits in my wallet unredeemed, waiting for just the right splurge.  They have the best price on generic omeprazole, which spurs me to a new outing there every six weeks.  I walk to the pharmacy section, rarely looking at anything else.  I take my three bottles of 14 pills each to self-checkout, tap my Visa card after scanning, take my receipt, then return to my car.

The Target stores have fared poorly in recent years.  At one time, not that long ago, my Sunday mornings began there.  The local Sunday paper would have retail advertising.  I read Target's first.  Then I drove the five minutes, looked at the ads again, posted to their bulletin board at either entrance.  Mostly I did not particularly want anything.  Occasionally, a small appliance or an anti-gravity chair to place on my backyard deck caught my attention.  Before retiring, I would look at men's wear, though rarely bought anything.  When the newspaper ads ended, so did my curiosity about what I  might find.

The treasure hunts ended, though they continued at TJ Maxx, Marshall's, and even the dollar store. My need to have some Sunday morning or weekday afternoon to myself continued.  Shopping became more purposeful.  It still included Target for a while.  Replace big screen TV, cell phone service, new flash drive, an iron, a Kitchen-Aid chopper, a thermal mug.  As I looked over their offerings, much of the options seemed a poor value or limited selection. For big purchases, the attendants were kids reciting scripts.  None ever asked me a question to guide what migh best suit my situation.  I needed ammonia to clean something.  They had bottles of cleaning mixtures made by alumni of college chemistry labs, but for a pure substance, an economical and useful one, I would have to drive around the corner to Lowe's. Other stores nearby took its place as where I find appliances, coats, munchies, and grooming items.  Browsing the aisles largely ended.

This Sunday afternoon, I entered with a specific purchase to complete.  They had several brands of Vitamin D.  Different sizes, different dosages.  Chewable gummies but mostly gel caps.  None stood out as less per pill or per Vitamin D Unit.  I took a bottle off the shelf.  Not wanting to go home, I walked around. Though the parking lot had a lot of cars, the store did not have much density of shoppers, nor did employees seem abundant.  They keep the pharmacy near the front to the left of the main entrance.  Walking to the rear brings customers past food.  Maybe some coffee could be purchased for Pesach.  I saw Dunkin pods on a display, no canned coffee in a place easily found.  At the very back stood seasonal.  Easter to the left, gardening to the right.  I buy seeds in the spring.  Limited to Burpee, not displayed in the most attractive way and not discounted.  Maybe clothing.  A few of each basic item displayed.  Shirts come in SML, not neck/sleeve.  Probably few people who need ties for work would get them there.  Limited selection.  This store sits almost adjacent to a local high school.  They sold logo t-shirts of two other high schools that would need a car to reach, no stuff in the colors or emblems of the school nearby.

Home decor displays would need more steps than I wanted to take.  The direct path to the self register took me through women's jewelry and cosmentics.  I guess some young people would put some of that on their skin or find a necklace with a medallion something that they could adopt as their signature.  The route took me past the cashier registers, mostly closed.  The door nearest my car stood at the self-checkout.  That had a short waiting line.  My turn came.  I scanned my bottle of Vitamin D.  It did not scan.  Instead it reset to a home screen.  Then I picked up the wand and scanned it that way.  $12.49.  Tapped my card, took my receipt and headed back to my car.

That bottle has 180 gel caps, enough for six months.  Omeprazole lasts six weeks, but if I want to go there less I can buy two.

Nobody there treated me poorly.  I found what I came for easily.  What I failed to find was anything that might attract me as an impulse.  I could not do easy browsing.  I'd wonder a bit about the manager who does not have the saichel to order and display apparel from their neighbor school but hangs items from two further high schools.  

My cell phone news feed often has items of hot shot new Target CEO with a vision.  Right now it's a place I go to get two cheap OTC meds.  It's not yet a place I drive to because I want to see what Target has that I did not already know I needed.  He will need a lot of mystery shoppers willing to convey the truth before a better experience brings large numbers of browsers back.