“Sunset Over A Sea of Corn” would have been a title of a picture I should’ve taken but waited just long enough for the sun to finally dissolve in the eight-feet-tall waves of corn somewhere between Bowling Green and Laddonia.
Maybe I am compensating for not having a car for the first 23 years of my life and never taking a real road-trip until I was a grown man but I’ve been doing a double-duty putting some miles on my car driving around these here United States. It also helps me maintain a healthy-sized carbon footprint, adding my little share to the global warming and destroying the environment. Luckily my daughter doesn’t mind hours of driving as long as I don’t sing in the car, which is hard because the seemingly omnipresent country station is pumping out things like:
You should hear this stuff with the Russian accent, it will really “turn you on”.
Over the past weekend we added another 1,200 miles to my car’s odometer, going to Chicago and back. This time we took a different route cutting through the South-Central-Eastern Missouri and Central-Western Illinois in order to make a stop at Springfield,IL to check up on the Land Of Lincoln. Driving on the rural highways has a more intimate feel since you actually have to slow down in each little town on the way, you get to see people’s houses, rusted farm equipment, smell the manure, and pass a tractor or two on the way. Somewhere between the anti-abortion billboards, entertained by a single country radio station, another breed of American people goes on about their lives unconcerned by their standing in the social media.
We took our time driving through this area and if I actually stopped and took every photo I wanted to, we’d still be on the road. So here are a few I actually had a chance to take.
The General Store in Atlas,IL has this sign that is the most concise restaurant review I’ve ever seen: “Eat Here – Get Worms”.
Pike County Courthouse in Pittsfield,IL Lincoln’s Home in Springfield, IL.
Lincoln’s Home is just a part of a larger historic site which preserved Springfield as Lincoln would’ve experienced it, sans tourist crowds. In front of his home Lincoln Troubadours perform the period songs.
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvshZW_Zfik
Next the Illinois State Capitol (compare to the Kansas State Capitol):
Chicago always has the neatest-looking sculptures. This one looks like alphabet soup on acid:
Chimpotle’s likeness scares customers away near some local bar:
Obligatory skyline shot:
I guess you can find peace and quiet even at the busiest corner in the middle of the busy city:
This could be Chicago’s mayor and his wife, or KC’s mayor and his wife (after skipping a dinner or two).
Lincoln’s body is still there, tourists disappointed by the lack of a souvenir shop wandering around the cemetery.
View of the Mississippi from Louisiana, MO.
Louisiana turned out to be a very nice small town with several streets lined with Victorian mansions overlooking the river. Some in better condition than others.
Health-care debate goes on here as well.
After watching the sunset we finally got back on I70 and the countryside disappeared in an unending strobe-lights of trucks and road construction cones. We were almost home.
The Jewish Federations of North America are conducting a campaign under the title “What’s your #ish”:
Being Jewish means something different to everyone. Whatever it means to you is your #ish.
(For those who are not familiar with Twitter, “#” denotes a tag that they can easily track and display the content on their website)
Cutesy marketing but the question is something I think about often. What does it mean for me to be Jewish, or Russian-Jewish, or even Russian-Jewish-American as the top of my blog announces to the visitors? This post has been stuck in my head for a couple of weeks, I thought how to make it non-offensive and given up; I made some mental notes, then some written ones and I am still not so sure what it will look in the end. All I know at this point that it will contain a lot more “I dont’s” than “I do’s”.
Here we go:
I don’t believe in God, I don’t do anything religious, I don’t attend a synagogue and when I do on some occasions like weddings, I feel uncomfortable seeing how people are asking and thanking God for things. I don’t feel superior, I just don’t get it. I grew up with the notion that the “Religion is the opium of the people” and so far haven’t seen anything to change my mind.
I don’t cover my head, I work every Saturday, I go out on Friday nights (if I am lucky); I spend most of the Jewish Holidays at work, and fast on Yom Kippur mostly to see if I can stay away from food for a day. Long time ago when I still lived in Ukraine, I went to a synagogue with a group of friends during a holiday, I think it was Simchat Torah; a group of men was dancing there like it was the best day of their lives. We looked at each other and left. Since then (late 80’s) I only visited a synagogue once (without being invited to a wedding or Bat/Bar Mitzvah)
I eat whatever I like. My kitchen is the opposite of kosher. At any time I have enough pork in it to make a small pig. My Dad used to pack a slab of salt-pork when I went on trips – it didn’t require refrigeration. I like ham and cheese sandwiches; I mix meat and dairy at will. I have no interest in finding out which foods are kosher and what’s not allowed and why. If it’s tasty I’ll eat it, kosher or not.
In my whole life I’ve only dated a Jewish woman for two months; I never made a point of looking for one (which cast a lifetime of not-so-well hidden-sadness on my Mom). My short experience was filled with drama, but I am sure both of us being Jewish had nothing to do with it. Sometimes I think it would be neat to try, but so far it didn’t work out this way. Lately, I’ve been thinking that only a Vietnamese woman who knows how to cook Pho can be my true love. Every week I go to the Vietnam Cafe hoping to get noticed.
I don’t get conversions to Judaism. Things like this (watch the clip) don’t make me tear up with joy. To be fair, I don’t get any religious conversions; sometimes I try to guess the reason, most of the time I just shrug. Maybe we need someone to observe the rules we don’t like, pass around those righteous “I stand with Israel” emails and fight our battles on Facebook and Twitter. Whatever.
I don’t stand with Israel, I don’t feel that it’s my country even though I have relatives and friends there. Israeli Independence day does not invoke any feelings in me. Let me correct that, I don’t stand with Israel automatically because I am a Jew. I stand with Israel because I am a thinking person who can see through the provocations and lies which are so transparent, you have to be an idiot not to see what’s really going on. I can go back through the last 100 years reciting episodes like this for hours. There are less and less people like me even among the Jews. It’s everybody’s loss, not because I am so smart but because the rest of the world may see it when it’s too late, but what’s new. In the meantime, I do what I can, just little things.
I still prefer the sound of the Yiddish language to the Israel’s official Hebrew. I remember my Grandma speaking Yiddish with her friends in the little town where she lived and although I don’t speak and hardly understand either, Yiddish with its schlimazels and meshuggeners sounds like music to my ears, while Hebrew sounds foreign and cold.
That should be enough for now. The “I do” part is not nearly as extensive:
I like Jewish food, more precisely Eastern European Jewish food, and even more precisely my Mom’s cooking. I am sure some of these recipes were passed down through generations, others were made up on the spot to use what little food was on hand, but it’s my comfort food. I don’t think I ever identified it as Jewish, just like I never identified spaghetti with Italian. And most of the time there is a box of Matzos in the house.
I play the Jewish national sport – guessing who else is Jewish. It was a lot more fun in the USSR since many famous people hid their Jewishness as well as they could and during movies and concerts every Jew in the country was pointing them out.
I can’t think of much else. In my childhood it was easy, my Jewish nationality was stamped right there in the “fifth line” on my passport. Tens of thousands of people strove to have this line changed to something else, so their kids would not be subjected to the antisemitism and discrimination. Then the same people paid big money to change it back so they can emigrate to Israel or the USA.
I think about it a lot. Do my multiple “dont’s” betray the memories and dreams of my ancestors, who carried their Jewish identities through a lot tougher times than I could imagine? Would they be proud of me? I don’t know. When I think about my connection with my people, there is no place where I feel it more than at the Jewish cemetery. I wrote about it before, but the Kansas City cemetery I was writing about is faceless and sad. The Jewish cemetery in Odessa, Ukraine where some of my relatives are buried is full of life; it has faces, it tells the stories. Life stories, love stories, tragedies, achievements, accidents, births, deaths, emigration, relationships, memories. My Dad took me there once or twice and we walked around visiting our relatives, his college professors, famous restaurant singers, doctors, teachers, criminals; he knew many people there, too many. Now during my rare visits I walk around as well; I don’t know anyone, but it doesn’t matter: I come to feel my roots, or as some marketing schmuck would put it “my #ish”
My Grandparents. The plate on the left at the bottom is for my uncle who died in New York
Maybe it’s better that my parents let me figure this out on my own. It’s taking me a long time but some day I’ll get there. My daughter is a lot more decisive with these things, I never push her one way or another but she seems to have a pretty good idea who she is.
Maybe this #ish thing is just skipping a generation.
*I knew this would turn out long, and I didn’t even get to include the video of dancing Jews.
This morning couldn’t come fast enough. I haven’t had a date for a long time and ever since I saw the sign with his name on it I couldn’t get it out of my mind. When it was finally lunchtime I ran downstairs with my car keys in hand and within a few minutes I was approaching the building where it was going to happen.
O, how I longed for this minute. My heart was beating faster and faster. There was no way this date could go wrong. With the name like Reuben, I knew he wouldn’t disappoint. All the signs where pointing to the place where we will finally meet.
My heart was pounding and the things happening with my mind and body could only be understood by an experienced medical professional. I timidly approached the counter and whispered: “Reuben, please”. The wait was becoming unbearable. I had to run outside to see if he was ready.
He was getting dressed. My lips were smacking in anticipation. I ran back inside.
Then out again.
This was starting to feel like torture. Sweet, sweet torture. I was ready to explode. Finally he was mine. I stared lustily, he was all there – seductively spread in front of me, on a slightly grilled hoagie roll, covered with slices of thick-cut pastrami, cheese, sauerkraut and topped with the thousand island dressing, so hot, steamy and beautiful.
His smell took over my car turning it into a prison of anticipation and impatience. We still had to get back to my place. I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road.
I couldn’t think of anything else, I just wanted to touch this hot mess with my lips, swollen with desire. I don’t remember much of the ride. Finally we were alone.
The short ride helped me regain my senses. I wanted this to last as long as I could, and this I could control for a change.
I could, of course, dig in face first, impatiently devouring my beloved Reuben, tearing into the hot dog, pastrami, roll, taking greedy bites until nothing was left. Or I could take it slow, savoring a bite after delicious bite. The choice was hard. Maybe I should’ve made it a threesome so I could experience it in every way. I chased impure thoughts out of my head.
Slowly I started to cut it in small pieces. Sauerkraut juices mixed with dressing were getting me even more excited. O, what a pleasure every small bite was. I could do this for hours.
Finally it was over. I thought about smoking a cigarette but then remembered that I quit 13 years ago. Reuben almost made me get back to the old habit. I listened to the music instead.
“The best four dollar date I ever had” I thought to myself making imaginary smoke rings, “I wouldn’t mind doing this again” Hot Dog Haven, Armour Rd. Kansas City,MO.
All the talk about Pi Day made me think that I hadn’t had an apple pie for some time. Couple of hours later the situation had been rectified.
Pie crust by Mrs. Smith recipe by Kraft.
Chimpo, I ate this pie so you don’t have to. Stay on track, fatso!
