Yom Kippur, 1965, I was a Navy medical officer stationed aboard a destroyer off the coast of Vietnam.
Growing up on Long Island my family belonged to a 350-family congregation. Each year I happily anticipated the High Holiday services and the sense of belonging I felt when I entered the sanctuary.
There are pages
even in my new machzor
that I imagine stuck together,
remnants of honey from my daughter’s sticky fingers,
of words and stories
one atop the other
One of my most precious possessions is a copy of the Talmudic tractate Kiddushin printed in Munich in 1946 on presses once used for Nazi propaganda.
Growing up the child of a Jew-by-choice, everything about Judaism was a choice for us. For my mother, Judaism was a gift. She felt very proud to count herself among the Jewish people. She felt blessed to have the opportunity to do Jewish things.