Shavout Experience

Of the Jewish Festivals, Shavuot often gets treated in a subordinate way.  People look forward to the High Holy Days, a time when synagogue dues get paid up to enable large attendance.  People shop for new clothing to greet old friends not seen since last Rosh HaShanah.  We hear Shofar.  We eat apples and honey. We return to school.  Sukkot has us entering sukkahs.  If we do not have our own, the synagogue has one or we are likely to be invited to a friend's sukkah for dinner sometime in the week.  Hanukkah coincides on the calendar with the more widely observed Christian holidays.  We Jews claim our stake to the season.  We shop for gifts, light candles, eat latkes.  After we put our menorahs back to year round display on a shelf, we transition to the next calendar year.  Winter vacation gives us a break from school or work.  

Then a long winter.  By Pesach, we could use a renewal.  Clean house.  Hard work exchanging dishes.  Expensive outlay for suitable food.  The preparation shares elements of engagement and annoyance.  But then Seder arrives.  For many the first elegant meal with gathering of special people since Thanksgiving.  A week's break from school gets inserted somewhere, usually before Pesach for college spring break hedonism, better timed to the Easter culmination for lower grades.  Pesach, like Rosh HaShanah and Hanukkah, serves as carved out time. 

Shavuot often seems anticlimactic.  We anticipate the others spontaneously, awaiting their mostly festive experience.  Anticipation of Shavuot, though, has more formality, one commanded in Torah.  Every night after dark, we count the Omer, 49 days, seven weeks, both counted each night with a blessing.  I have to set my timer to remind me at 9:10PM, go downstairs where I keep the log of what number arrives, spend two minutes doing it, then return to what I was doing.  It registers in my mind as obligation, even intrusion, more than anticipation.  Its place amid the secular calendar which can vary between years, does not have the consistency of the other Festivals.  More often college has ended but public school has not.  Schedulers of graduations and class trips do not always accommodate their observant Jewish students, forcing some priority choices.  As school years conclude, friends are as likely to scatter as they are to gather.  Shavuot lacks a visible ritual.  We celebrate Torah, the core of Jewish existence, with more obligation than revelry.  The synagogue experience, while only two days, often seems long with additions of Hallel, Akdemut, Ruth, and Yizkor, all just as the weather sometimes becomes hot.  And all while too soon for the youngsters to head off to camp, their real source of anticipation.

As this Feast of Weeks nears its arrival, I have faithfully completed the Omer count.  It is tradtional to spend the evening of onset learning, often late into the night.  Some find this energizing, others add it as another extension  of burden one more night.  I focus on food.  Shavuot has its classical foods.  Blintzes and cheesecake.  Meals are traditionally dairy, with a variety of reasons to justify this tradition.  I will be a synagogue participant, though a minor one, chanting a portion of the Book of Ruth with its delicate, enchanting melody.  Most years, I have a guest to share dinner the second night when no competing synagogue activities occur.  Menu preparation and execution challenge my creativity and organizationsl skills.

The Menu:

1. Kiddush in the manner of Manischewitz
2. Challah made by me, with its elements timed to do some before services, some after
3. Blintzes with cottage cheese and raisin filling.
4. Vegetable soup.
5. Asian Cucumber Salad.
6. Coulibiac, a Russian fish pie in puff pastry, requiring a few different steps. 
7. Lecso to honor my Hungarian heritage.
8. Austrian Linzertorte to avoid the cheesecake cliche, which they can have at synagogue.
9. Kosher white wine.
10. Herb Tea.

All within my capacity.  It takes a step-child of a holiday and brings it a little closer to the others.  I'm long past graduations, not past summer vacation.  Shavuot retains its significant seasonal intersection.

Historical Synagogue

My twelve semi-annual projects often include a quota of day trips or other visits to places I've not been before.  One opportunity came my way unexpectedly.  The American Jewish Committee, among my favorite advocacy groups, invited me to a special luncheon in Philadelphia.  The local chapter has a memorial endowment to honor an esteemed historian of American Judaism.  Lunch would be kosher, priced at $36 for the entire event.  They announced the two guest speakers.  The Mayor would offer her remarks on the role of Jews in our city.  Another esteemed historian, this one a retired Reform Rabbi of local prominence and protege of the endowed professor, would follow with a presentation on the role of Philadelphia's small contingent of Jews in the American Revolution, as national preparations proceed to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence this summer.  I reserved a place.

With attacks on places where Jews gather becoming distressingly common, many of our agencies have avoided announcing the location of events until the day before, and then only broadcast by email to those registered to attend.  It would have to take place at a site the Mayor could easily access, either near City Hall or the Historical Area.  My email directed me to Mikveh Israel Synagogue, the city's oldest.  I'd never visited, though I knew of its historical prominence in the development of American Judaism.

The day arrived.  As a senior, I have an unlimited pass that gives me free access to SEPTA regional rail system, provided I do not cross any of Pennsylvania's borders.  The transportation will only cost $2 for parking at the train station a few miles from my home.  I checked the schedule two days before.  Take the 9:36AM commuter train, which will bring me about seven blocks from the synagogue.  From there, I could either take a bus or the subway to within a block of the event, or just walk the distance.  The train pulled into Marcus Hook station a few minutes late but arrived at Philadelphia's Jefferson Station uneventfully.  This terminal has its own attractions.  The City Hall complex can be seen to the west.  Tunnels take visitors to what they designate as the Fashion District and the famous Reading Terminal Market, which serves an array of ethnic cuisines.  The Convention Center sits just beyond that, and Philadelphia's small but active Chinatown another block in the direction of the Historical Area.  I opted to walk, it being a pleasant mid-morning.  

Market Street.  Once the city's main thoroughfare.  Addresses read North or South depending on their direction from Market Street.  The surroundings near the train station have long since lost their elegance.  Iconic department stores, many of Jewish origin, have closed.  Their repurposed buildings now anchor retail chains that die in parallel at regional malls.  I strolled onto the Historical Area.  The green next to the Independence Hall Visitors Center sponsored a national Prayer Day.  A young lady did a dance on the lawn waving a flag with each arm.  I captured a video.  In one direction I could see Independence Mall with a group of Amish teens in traditional dress heading to their timed tour.  A class trip of grade schoolers followed.  To the north, I could see the Constitution Center and the Mint, each requiring a telephoto of my phone camera.  Franklin sites sat across the street, largely without tourists at mid-morning.  As I reached 4th Street, I turned left.  Address given to me 44 North 4th.  Mikveh Israel should be in the next block.  I didn't see it.  Finally, I reached the Windham Hotel, unsure if I had passed my destination or had yet to reach it.  I entered the lobby, inquiring of the Concierge.  I had passed it.  Rather than sitting beside the sidewalk, the synagogue occupied a nook with a tiny path creating its front entrance.  In this era of synagogue attacks, not being noticeable from the street has a security advantage, one enjoyed by my own congregation.  

I entered a modern brick building, its name in block signage over glass doors that ran most of the synagogue's width.  Two men in suits stood at the entrance, not the uniformed officers whom visitors to American synagogues now encounter first.  I proceeded to a registration table, the first one there.  I showed the AJC official my driver's license.  She then handed me my name tag, placed alphabetically right below the Mayor's.  I peeled the adhesive, then attached it to my shirt.

History had a full display, as did current worship practices.  Glass cases displayed notes from Presidents, Washington first, Trump front and center, Lincoln's in his own handwriting with his personalized Humble and Obedient Servant closing, FDR's typed and signed.  Displays of artifacts from the colonial era and beyond.  Judaica used at various times in the synagogue's history.  As the main game in town from its 1740 founding until mass immigration 150 years later, many of their Baalebatim occupied prominent places in Philadelphia's history, as they do today.  Portraits of these men, all men, lined the walls above the display cases.

One room had a more temporary exhibit.  A member secured a collection of portraits and other photos of diplomats from around the world assigned to 1930s Europe.  They came from South America, the Far East, different parts of Europe.  As Naziism took hold in Germany, then moved to France and eastward, the need for Jews to relocate became apparent.  These diplomats offered exit visas.  One bishop, later known to the world as Pope John XXIII, offered phony baptismal certificates to many.  The exhibit had a display case of books about that era in Europe.  The display's curator, who must have spent considerable time assembling this, personally guided me through the various items.  In modern contentious times, good will still lurks, its abundance uncertain.  Courage may be more scarce.

Too many historical synagogues, from Europe to the Caribbean to the Lower East Side, now function more as museums than as places where Shabbos services take place.  Mikveh Israel remains an active synagogue with a black sign with movable white letters at the entrance announcing prayer times and the name of its Rabbi.  I entered the sanctuary.  It is modeled in the Portuguese style of its origins.  A central table stands in the middle, the Holy Ark on what I think is the east wall.  Behind the central table is a seating area, marble and cushioned, with an ornate patterned rug.   I assume the Rabbi and president sit there.  Worshipers occupy pews running the length of the sanctuary, each facing the center.  The room has four entrances, two to the north, two to the south of the center.  This synagogue follows a tradition of separate seating for men and women.  The latter occupy the back two rows on each side and enter from separate doors.  Unlike most American orthodox synagogues, they do not have a physical barrier to obscure women's view of the proceedings and the genders' view of each other.  The women's two rows of pews sit slightly elevated from the men's.  

Books for worship sit in holders in front of the seats.  Their Siddur has a prominent Sephardic Rabbi as editor.  Their Chumash remains the iconic Hertz, that staple of American synagogues for fifty years, until largely displaced by the emergence of Artscroll.  One person must have been a VIP.  Immediately in front of the central table, at floor level, sat a wooden chair with Kohen Hands decorating its back.  Its protection by plexiglass suggests its antique and fragile origin, as well as its historical significance to Mikveh Israel.  Nearly all synagogues I have visited, including my own, have a wooden box near the entrance where those without their own kippot can borrow one, or if a Bar Mitzvah that day, take one home as a souvenir.  This congregation instead had a box of fedoras that men could wear during worship, along with a supply of prayer shawls draped over a rack.

I did not see their kitchen facilities, but AJC assigned me to Table 8 in the middle of their dining room.  The space could accommodate a significant crowd.  I do not have a sense of how many people attend services, how many Bar Mitzvah celebrations they host, or whether that space enables rental income to offset membership dues.  Along the far wall were washing stations, a series of taps and common sink with two-handled lavers set on a stone ledge.  It is customary for people eating a meal to wash their hands with a blessing before blessing a loaf of bread.  This luncheon did not include bread, probably for the convenience of the observant people in attendance.  Tables were set with white tablecloths and dark cloth napkins.  Literature from the AJC sat over each plate and seat.  The caterer arranged a buffet, two lines of identical dishes.  Salmon poached or grilled as the entree, three salads, two sides.  Beverages and dessert display stood waist-high along another wall.  As a nobody, my table would offer me similarly obscure eating companions, with the partners in the Center City law firms seated at tables closer to the lectern from which Her Honor the Mayor would address the group.  I met a few new people, including an Irish woman from the NYC Embassy and a high school friend of my wife. 

The Mayor has a lot of official duties.  She came to us to speak, not to eat, but she waved at my table of Nobodies as she headed to the front.  More of a Jewish-Black partnership pep rally presentation, though with one compelling story of friends reacquainting decades after fleeing the Holocaust.  The educational session did not disappoint.  No bread for the meal meant no Grace After Meal, so I headed home as soon as the moderator opened the floor for questions to the guest Rabbinical scholar.

Center City Philadelphia in mid-afternoon seemed less populated than I expected.  The Day of Prayer in the open space next to the Visitors Center had moved along in its agenda.  Pastors now occupied the stage, one speaking, though not audible to me, while other late-career men in suits sat on the stage waiting their turn.  The discreet signage of the morning had become more explicit.  Along Market Street a revisit to the same storefronts of places I had no desire to enter.  Seven blocks west of Mikveh Israel, I entered Jefferson Station for the SEPTA train home.  A very pleasant day, well worth the $36 luncheon, probably worth deferring other things I could have engaged in at home.

Did my minor adventure yield what I sought?  Mostly it did.  Often, getting there surpasses the destination.  This time historical Mikveh Israel remained the centerpiece.  In an era where synagogues come under attack, where places like my home congregation with a lesser but still significant legacy struggle with attendance, I found it gratifying that a place could live through much of the history of America, contribute to it, and revel in a display of artifacts and portraits of people.  It had an area for worship, a Beit Tefillah, and a library, or Beit Midrash, each smaller than I'd expect.  But it served more as a Beit Knesset, a place where people of prominence from the Founders of the Colonial era to today's Mayor can assemble.  The synagogue reflected stability, if not growth.  And as a meeting place, people of all social strata could admire the displays, eat a luncheon catered with care, and wash hands at a station next to a person who you do not know but who left a civic imprint.  It seemed a place where Social Capital, bonding and bridging, has remained in continuous progress for more than two hundred years.  Absolutely worth devoting a portion of my time to share it with the synagogue and with the event's AJC sponsor.

Donating Whole Blood

Regular blood donors are a dedicated group.  We mostly do not know each other, but invariably greet each other when one of us wears a Blood Bank insignia cap or t-shirt to a public event.  Platelet donors have a special dedication to their contribution to public wellness.  Not everyone can donate.  The recipients of this blood component comprise some of the most ill but recoverable patients in any hospital.  For decades, I had served as a donor.  The donation process challenges the donor.  Extraction of blood with return of the red cells takes about two hours plus another half hour to confirm screening for eligibility.  For some, both arms get immobilzed, leaving the donor with little to do but watch a movie or two episodes of Queer Eye on a flat screen that the staff moves in front of the donation recliner chair.  Arms and other joints can get sore at the end.  In my decades as a donor, I've had a few misadventures, including infiltration of the red cell return into the soft tissue of my upper arm, which left quite a bruise.

My days as a platelet donor have come to an end, not because of safety to a recipient, but because of my own age-related inability to remain immobilized for two hours.  Some other physiologic symptoms prevent this, including a periodic need to use a restroom with little advance warning.  My medical care has taken me to a variety of specialists, including a hematologist.  I've had iron deficiency in the past, which limited my ability to donate anything, but at least with platelets, they return the RBCs.  With iron levels now corrected and stable, I thought I'd give a unit of whole blood, which takes far less time to collect.

Options for doing this far exceed platelet options, which require dedicated machinery and trained staff at a large center.  For whole blood, I could visit a more convenient location.  With the approval of my hematologist and very acceptable CBC and iron levels, I made a donation.

It took place just a few miles' drive.  The regional medical center had taken over the large building where,, as a young homeowner I purchased my best furniture forty years ago.  The furniture industry has not been kind to its merchants. This one folded.  Its building was repurposed twice, now as a satellite of a comprehensive medical system.  The Blood Bank, a separate entity, occupies a suite on the second floor and collects basic blood products twice weekly.

They checked me in.  Decent BP and acceptable Hemoglobin on their often inaccurate desktop hemocytometer.  I asked the nurse if she had a record of how many donations I had given.  Some time ago, the Blood Bank sent me a card that I had reached 90.  They've sent me lapel pins as a reward for 25 and 50.  I aimed for 100.  Her records, accessed on her computer, put my donations at 103, gallons at 19.  No acknowledgement of the milestone.  I don't know how they compute gallons for platelet donors, though I was a whole blood donor for many years before they notified me unexpectedly of my eligibility to give platelets, something rarer and more valuable to the blood banking system.  I had a few health changes since my last donation, which should not change eligibility.  I noted that on the intake form.  She had to make some phone calls to confirm that my blood products would remain acceptable to a recipient.

She set me in a chair, one more like a dental chair than the massive recliners used for platelet donations.  A quick puncture, one readjustment halfway through, and a pint or so filled a plastic collection bag.  She bandaged the puncture site.  Rules require that whole blood donors drink something in the canteen and stay for 15 minutes to be sure that dizziness does not occur.  I sipped a zero-sugar Sprite, which tasted odd, while the stopwatch of my Casio 168 counted up 15 minutes.  I then arose.  I could tell that some volume had been removed but I felt functional.  A quick restroom stop outside the collection suite, then the elevator to the first floor.  With minimal lightheadedness, I sat down in a chair in the medical center's entrance lobby for a minute or two before driving home uneventfully.

Feeling OK, I did another errand.  Outside my front door, in warm weather, I grow culinary herbs in pots.  Rosemary has been a staple, a plant that has not survived local winters, whether planted in an outdoor bed in the backyard or in a pot that I bring inside to avoid a freeze.  It has been hard to find this spring.  My trusted garden center ran out, but told me of an expected shipment.  I headed over, finding two trays of rosemary, robust in appearance, among their herb display.  I handed the agent a $5 bill, then headed home.  It will soon outgrow the small plastic sales container, so I transplanted it into the larger plastic planter where I grew last year's rosemary bush.

Then some tasks at my laptop in My Space.  I could still feel a bit off, not wanting to do household chores, including making supper.  With my wife's permission I orded a pizza, a large one from a local shop nearby. It did not cost that much more than Domino's or Papa John's and bakes more delicous pies. In my online order, I had them add anchovies to half.  I'd not had them in a long time, like them better than my wife does, and thought the saltiness would help with my mild volume depletion symptoms.  I drove to the pizzeria, prepaid online when ordering, and returned home.  I ate quite a lot, five of the eight slices, three of the four with salty anchovies.  I began to feel a little worse, but a recliner chair eased the symptoms.  Then I lay down on the living room couch.  At 9:10PM, that Casio 168 let out a faint alarm, reminding me to count Omer, this night 42, completing six of the seven weeks.  I took the sheet with the daily count and blessings to a better-lit part of the living room.  Now as I arose, I could sense more severe orthostatic symptoms.  I did the nightly count, which only takes a minute.  Feeling more lightheaded, I sat down in the nearest chair for a minute or two, them moved across to the couch where I could be more supine.  That alleviated symptoms.  While I have a blood pressure device in the kitchen, I did not want to get up again or bother my wife to bring it to me.  Staying horizontal would suffice.  It did not take long to zonk out.  Two hours later, almost an hour past my usual bedtime, I awoke, feeling strong enough to go upstairs, but with a stop in the kitchen for some ice water first.  I drank the contents of the insulated bottle, maybe half a cup, took another half cup of tap water after that, then refilled the bottle for the refrigerator.  I headed upstairs feeling better but still depleted.  At 2:30AM I awoke thirsty.  Maybe from sacrificing a pint of blood, maybe from three anchovie slices.  I no longer felt lightheaded.  By now the water in the thermos had chilled.  I drank some, then returned upstairs.

I awoke to a clock radio alarm, still not quite right but not ill.  Dental hygiene, then some more cold water downstairs.  A drizzle had hydrated the herb pots overnight, including the new rosemary.  I had no significant symptoms while retrieving the newspaper from the end of the driveway.  However, I thought it prudent to reduce the intensity and duration of my scheduled treadmill session.  Unless overtly ill, it never gets skipped entirely.  I performed OK, though a full intensity session would have been burdensome.

Today I must focus on recovery and extra hydration to replace volume.  I met a few goals with the donation, reaching the 100 contribution milestone and visiting a place I'd not entered before.  Pleasant staff.  Somebody should benefit from the packed RBC and plasma that my blood should provide.  However, the volume loss took its toll on me.  And I'm a bit annoyed that in a world of automated systems, the Blood Bank had not notified me of my 100 donations, irrespective of whether they offer a tangible recognition as they did for 25 and 50.  Probably best to let the younger donors take over.

Key Ingredient Hunt

My wife's favorite dessert has long been tiramisu.  It gets ordered after a meal out.  When I had a Costco card, sometimes I would find kosher-certified tiramisu in their freezer.  Never headed home without a box.  It can be hard to find from commercial sources.

For kosher tiramisu to follow a dairy meal, home preparation takes planning and effort.  My first attempt brought me to the beginning of a learning curve.  I bought spongy ladyfingers from the supermarket's bakery section.  Kosher certified.  As I dipped each into a bowl of strong coffee, the sponge dissolved in my fingers.  I thought about making my own lady fingers, but never did, though I have the needed piping bag and tip.  It makes a project more arduous.  I'd much rather substitute Linzertorte for dessert.

Mascarpone with kosher certification seems more readily available.  The Orthodox Union products site lists many suitable brands easily found at the places I shop.  Heavy cream has a presence on most supermarket refrigerator cases, though I sometimes need to buy more than my tiramisu recipe requires.  I use the extra up within a week or two.  The barrier remains suitable commercial ladyfingers. OU Kosher offers a product search.  Ladyfingers brings up a few entries, including the house brand from the supermarket bakery of the store where I get my prescriptions filled.  I saw them.  Basically sponge cake, the kind that dissolved on dunking once before.  They only list one other brand, one from an Italian producer, Vicenzi.  I've used these before and they work superbly, holding their shape with a generous dunk.  Availability has been inconsistent.  The company website indicated that the nearest places that carry them require a drive of about 7 miles, near the auto dealer that sold me my current car.  Two stores, one a megamart, the other more of a boutique.  No places closer.  The last time I bought them, I found them at Wegman's, a megamart known for specialty products.  They were not in a place with other lady fingers.  A customer service agent misdirected me when she typed ladyfingers into her inventory list.  I had her type the brand, which was located not with baking supplies or cookies, but with Italian specialties.  On return for the next tiramisu ingredient gathering, I returned to Wegman's.

At the early lunch hour on a Sunday morning, a parking space needed its own hunt.  I drove a few aisles, finding some openings at the far reaches.  While my local preferred grocer, the bastion of kosher near my home, has deteriorated over the last few years, Wegman's had quite a throng shopping there.  Prices a bit higher than where I shop, but clean store, well-stocked shelves, conspicuous signs of what appears on aisles, and specialty items from bakery to produce, and ample in-store cafe.  I went to my usual shelves.  No luck.  I went to customer service.  She searched for lady fingers.  My brand not there, even though the company website indicated it was.  I asked for kosher ladyfingers.  Using her thumbs to navigate AI on her cell phone, she identified a different brand as kosher.  Then she directed me to their place in the store.  Right across from the donuts, as she said they would be.  I examined the box.  No kosher agency mark, my criteria for a kosher product.  

Being a bit hungy, I toured the eat-in options.  More than I wanted to spend on a quick Sunday snack.  My online search offered one other store, almost around the corner from Wegman's.  Green Grocer is small franchise, with many fewer products, but mostly selections of items beyond the mass market.  I walked the perimeter of the store.  Mostly specialties.  Barrels of coffee beans at $15.99 per pound.  Meats, cheeses.  I looked at the baked goods area.  No luck.  Being a small operation, they do not have a dedicated service kiosk.  Instead, I asked the cashier if she could do a product search.  I handed her a paper with the brand of what I sought.  She did not need to look it up.  Instead, she walked over to the right shelf, pointing it out to me.  I took a package.  While there, why not get mascarpone?  She pointed out the cheese section.  I found mascarpone, two brands kosher certified.  One had tubs of twice what I needed, the other brand the right size but priced well above what I usually pay for this.  I paid for the ladyfingers in cash, then drove home, almost ready to make my wife's favorite Mother's Day treat.

Once home, my culinary quarry safely on a flat surface in the kitchen, I attempted to see what my real ladyfinger options were.  St. Michel company site would not allow me to query them without a product bar code.  The FAQ on the kosher status of their ladyfingers listed ingredients that would be acceptable to me, but made no mention of a certifying agency.  Typing kosher ladyfingers as the search led me to their product, just as it did the agent at Wegman's.  But kosher-certifed, with a few sentences generated by AI, lists only Vicenzi.

In this era of widespread certification of consumer products, I wonder why this common treat and versatile ingredient so rarely attracted manufacturers to engage one the common kosher agencies.  Not Goya, not Savolardi, not Pacelli, those brands easily found at supermarkets.And Goya, at least, has many OU-certified products, so they are familiar with the certification process and its benefits to their company.

I still need an 8-ounce tub of mascarpone.  Other ingredients, other than fresh whipping cream, largely sit in my pantry.  While making this special treat for my special person takes some effort and planning, even the hunt for the key ingredient adds to the accomplishment.  Maybe I should learn how to bake my own ladyfingers.

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.