My Baby Just Wrote Me a Letter
Back in the early Seventies, it seemed that my elementary school teachers were very keen on us having pen pals. I don’t know if it was viewed as part of the core curriculum, or just their way of assigning “busywork”, but in those distant days people wrote letters. The first go-around was in the First Grade, where we had to choose a person from the class and send them a letter. I scribbled a few words to my First-Grade crush, whose name I can no longer recall, but whose blond hair was so fair I remember telling my mother that she looked like “a fairy”… Over the years there were all sorts of pen-pal projects: Jewish schoolchildren over the world, adopting a sister-class in a provincial Israeli town and, naturally, letters to IDF soldiers, especially in the time following the 1973 Yom Kippur war. We would write random “Dear Soldier” letters, not knowing their destination, and quite often a response would arrive. It was then as it is now: many people would think that I was a girl (“Adee” means “Jewel” in Hebrew and is a common unisex name) and write back sweet letters. I was thrilled that someone took the time to respond, and sometimes there would be a few correspondence cycles. Years later, as a soldier myself, I tried to “pay it forward” by responding to similar letters we’d received. A significant time of my service was spent “in the field” as we called it, and boxed meal rations formed the bulk of our nutrition. At the time, it was customary for Israeli high school kids to volunteer in packaging the “MRE’s”, so quite often we’d find a nice letter next to the cans of corn, meatloaf, and grapefruit compote, to which one of us would volunteer to respond. As it was in my childhood, this practice was at its peak when I served in Lebanon, during the 1982 war.
Most of my family at the time were voracious letter-writers, as was I. The army affords massive amounts of down time (I could have probably completed my three years of compulsory service in fourteen months) so I wrote several hundred letters and postcards during my stint in the IDF, taking advantage of the fact that in Israel all mail (and parcels) to and from military postal addresses is free. At a time where there was no Internet, no cellphones, and public pay-phones on base required tokens (which were always in short supply), letters were my primary way of staying in touch.
When I returned to America, in my mid-twenties, this habit continued. Email had not made its way to the public yet, and the cheapest international phone rate hovered around $1 a minute, so I kept on writing, often using the legendary “Aerograms”, with flimsy paper and pre-glued tabs with which you’d seal the whole thing together after folding, no envelope required.
Writing (and receiving) letters was a fundamental manifestation of our tribal culture. Families stayed in touch for decades (my late Mother-in-Law had a sister behind the Iron Curtain with which she could only communicate via the mails, which she did for fifty-two years, until the Soviet Union collapsed and she was able to travel and visit her, one last time), people played chess by mail, and everybody seemed to be, at some point in time or another, a stamp collector.
And then came the Internet, and the world that I knew had seemed to evaporate, overnight. Nowadays I probably write and receive 2-3 real letters annually, none of which are a part of a real correspondence cycle. Tempus fugit and we adapt, much like the proverbial frog in heated water.
And then I got me a pen pal!
Several months ago, I commented on a joke that showed up in my Facebook feed. My comment gained its own response from a gentleman who mentioned my beloved baseball team, the Tampa Bay Rays. Intrigued, I reached out, and we started writing each other daily. This quickly evolved into game-time play-by-play live chatting as we watched the Rays play, in our respective homes (His in Florida, mine in North Carolina). We shared stories, memories, traditional family food recipes, all within the framework of the Rays race to win its division (and subsequent falter in the Playoffs). While I have never met this person before, and we have no mutual friends, after a few months I felt that a face-to-face summit was due. I made my way down to Florida, where we met at… a baseball game, and spoke with each other for the first time. We hugged, gifts were exchanged, watched the Rays lose (don’t ask), and a friendship was (hopefully) cemented. As the baseball season continued, so did the daily chatter, which some days would exceed fifty messages. It dawned on me that this really started out as a pen pal type of relationship, albeit one that would have been impossible during the previous era of letters and postcards. Harry Golden, patron saint of the Carolina Israelite, would physically print out his monthly newsletter, label thousands of envelopes and take them to the post office, and did so for 26 years. I remain in awe of that, for there is no way that I would have been able to perform such a feat sans technology.
And as for playing correspondence-chess, what an utter waste of time that probably was. There are excellent apps out there that are designed for two players to enjoy a match remotely. I know this firsthand as it took my future Son-in-Law only five days and fourteen moves to checkmate me…
Classless Masters
The pandemic and its myriad of lockdowns, shelters-in-place, stay-at-home ordinances, and remote work situations has spawned a veritable tsunami of distance-learning methods, content, and technologies. From the elementary school English class conducted via Zoom, to my son’s advanced college course mid-terms administered online, education has changed its millennia-long in-person classroom traditions. The impact of this change on society and interpersonal development will be studied by professionals for decades to come.
Meanwhile, in parallel, there is an avalanche of online “leisure” classes, geared mostly towards those of us with sudden excess time on our hands, courtesy of said lockdowns, and perhaps a few extra shekels in our wallets, as there really weren’t too many discretionary spending opportunities for quite some time. This cornucopia of curated, guided knowledge has become generally known as a “Master Class”, in which some subject-matter maven (often “self-ordained”, as Bob Dylan would say) explains to us how to, well, pretty much anything: Brew beer, write a play, craft jokes, decorate cakes, (better) understand the Universe, play “Layla” on an acoustic guitar, produce a rap song, the list is (almost) endless. These online sessions typically run eight to ten lessons, and they aren’t cheap. But hey, knowledge is priceless, no?
All this is just fine and dandy. But “Master Class”? That particular phrase used to pertain exclusively to the arts, invoking images of legendary Cellist Pablo Casals sitting down with a couple of early-teenage wunderkinds, breaking down their Bach fingering while providing bowing tips. These were rare, sacred moments in the emergence of young, budding artists, guaranteed to be remembered and cherished by them over their entire lives.
But Interior Design? Tennis? Poker?!?
We need to take a step back from the hyperbole and remind readers that a true “master class”, in its purest form, has three characteristics: First, it’s delivered by an acknowledged MASTER of the art. Think Lennie Bernstein, Jasper Johns, Beverly Sills, Baryshnikov. Second, it’s a single, one-time session, a once-in-a-lifetime event for the participant, which brings me to the third characteristic: you must be chosen to attend. You can’t “self-select” in a meritocracy; another teacher has determined that you are good enough, advanced enough, and probably an overachiever. One of the best and the brightest – that’s the only way in; no credit cards accepted.
A few years back it seemed that every YouTube clip of a talking head espousing their life philosophy was immediately branded a “TED Talk”, regardless of whether or not it was affiliated with the venerable program; the same is happening now with online leisure learning being referred to as a “Master Class”. Let’s resolve to restore that title to its lofty origins and use it to name Itzhak Perlman working with high-school age violinists on their Brahms, or Rita Moreno demonstrating Latin dance moves to the School of the Arts’ “triple-threats”, and describe Joe Sixpack’s homily on how to home-brew Porter, or Johnny Charcoal’s epistle on pellet-grill barbecuing as what they really are, an online lesson. Paraphrasing Seinfeld’s Elaine Benes, you can’t have “some” class; you either have it, or you don’t.
“Oh, Thank Heaven…”
Possibly on account of the recent uproar surrounding Ben & Jerry’s decision to terminate the license to manufacture and distribute their ice cream products in Israel, the welcome news of another iconic American brand setting up shop in the Holy Land may have been overlooked: My birthdate namesake, 7-11, has announced that they are launching multiple locations in Israel. This is at once both unwelcome and exciting news. Distressing, because there are simply no 7-11 locations anywhere in the NC Triangle, and the nearest one is over sixty miles away, in High Point, simply too far for a quick Slurpee® fix (even if it’s on my birthday, when they’re free…) You’d think they’ll take care of us locals first, before heading out to the Middle East. Exciting, because I look forward to a cold icy mega-sized beverage in the Israeli heat, on a future visit, as I contemplate some potential Only-in-Israel Slurpee flavors: Coconut Milk & Honey, FalafelFreeze, BibiBubbles, Shake-Shuka, and GefilteFizz. “Try all five, soon at the 7-11 that’s nearest to Heaven!”
A Pox on the Two-State Solution
Let the record reflect that I am totally, entirely, and irrevocably opposed to the completely impractical, untenable, and unsustainable Two-State Solution. It is destined to bring nothing but heartbreak and failure to both parties and will lead to nothing less than total collapse and disarray.
No, I am not referring to the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict, but to the harebrained scheme by which the Tampa Bay Rays will play half a season in St. Petersburg (or Tampa), the other half in Montreal.
If you haven’t heard, the owners of the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team are conspiring with a scion of the Canadian Bronfman family (originally of the Seagram distillery fame, and later entertainment media, while at one time being the owners of the now-demised Montreal Expos baseball team, and always generous philanthropists and benefactors of many causes) to have stadiums built in both locations: the earlier part of the season will be played in Florida, and the latter part, presumably after the snows melt, will be in the beautiful, currently baseball-bereft province of Quebec. Principal Owner of the Rays Stu Sternberg is convinced that this is the only way by which Baseball can remain in Tampa Bay. This is akin to your doctor telling you “The only way to prevent you from going blind is to take out one of your eyes.” At that point, best to seek a second opinion. And it won’t take a radiologist to determine that the proposed “ExRays” amalgamated approach can’t hold water.
Professional sport franchises are traditionally deeply rooted in their communities. Sure, there’s always an opportunity for a national or global presence: several NBA teams, the top European soccer clubs, the NY Yankees. But, for most part, there’s a strong tradition of local or regional affiliation. Nowhere is this trans-generational attachment more visible than with our great baseball teams, be it Kansas City Royals fans filling up the Kauffman stadium for decades of mediocre games, Chicago Cubs devotees listening to a World Series Game 7 on a transistor radio at the cemetery, next to grandpa’s grave, or any Boston Red Sox supporter, insufferably (and obnoxiously) proud of their team, 24/7/365. These bonds did not manifest themselves overnight, but rather have been nurtured over generations of crushing defeats and heartbreaking losses. All a true baseball fan seeks is that single moment of elusive glory, which creates sufficient energy to pass the torch on to the next generation.
The Tampa Bay Rays, a superlative team that has transformed the game and the way it is played in many ways, continually suffers from the lowest attendance in the league. Even after shutting-down Tropicana Field’s (the Rays air-conditioned warehouse/ballpark) massive third-level deck, the “Trop” is rarely half-full. Tickets are always available on game days, including during the playoffs (which the Rays reach more often than most teams), an unthinkable scenario in Boston, New York, Chicago or, for that matter, Kansas City. Many reasons are cited for this abysmal attendance rate, but none more than the venue itself, a lumbering dome in St. Petersburg, next to Interstate 275, which is considered by many to be both ill-designed and ill-located for its purpose. Built in 1990 on “spec”, with the intent of attracting a baseball team to St. Pete, it became the home of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays in 1998, and immediately became (along with the then-hapless D-Rays) the laughingstock of baseball: Astroturf, catwalks which impede the flight of towering home runs, and the ugliest facade possible. But in 2006 everything changed: new ownership, a new manager, innovative data-driven approaches, and exciting young players have all combined to delivering one of the most compelling on-field products in the game today, and the originators of a novel approach (known as “The Rays Way”) which has been imitated (yet not fully replicated) by many other teams. The Rays have made the playoffs seven times in fourteen years, including two World Series appearances. No mean feat – yet the Trop remains empty. Not that the team is not wildly profitable, mind you. As one of the consistently lowest payrolls in baseball, the Rays benefit from a large share of “Luxury Tax” fees received regularly on account of the profligate spending of richer teams. That, combined with the significant revenue generated by TV contracts and the team’s share of MLB earnings (which is divided evenly between the thirty teams), has turned Sternberg’s $200 million acquisition into a franchise currently valued at well over $1 billion. However, as the age-old kabuki theater of private/public sports interests goes, the team expects the cities of either Tampa (preferably) or St. Petersburg (grudgingly) to build a modern ballpark, mostly at the taxpayers’ expense. As in many metro areas around the country, there is little appetite for a new billion-dollar project. Hence the idea of “two small stadiums, in two cities”, namely Montreal and Tampa. A Quebecois ant-tax club has already gone to the expense of erecting a billboard near the Trop, threatening locals (albeit politely) “Dear Rays, Montreal won’t pay for your new stadium”.
Above and beyond all the obvious reasons of why this scheme can’t possibly work (Players’ Union rejection, transportation and scheduling logistics, dual nationality issues regarding taxation), the Rays’ ownership have failed to realize that baseball simply requires time. It takes a generation or two for a team to put down serious roots in a community, and for entire families (as opposed to individual fans) to fully embrace them. One only needs to glance at the other Florida coast and see that the National League’s Miami Marlins are struggling with the same issues, and that’s with a fairly new stadium, in a large urban area, and a CEO who’s The Face of The Game, former Yankee Captain Derek Jeter.
Tampa Bay has a rich history of affiliation with the sport. Be it the many Grapefruit League Spring Training facilities in the area, the local prep schools and high schools that produce a never-ending stream of baseball talent, and even the fact that on April 4, 1919, on what is now the grounds of the University of Tampa, Babe Ruth hit a record-breaking 587-foot home run as a member of the Boston Red Sox, in an exhibition game against the New York Giants. The Rays, the mayors and city councils of Tampa and St. Petersburg, and the local county administrations all need to take a deep breath, sit down together, and work out an equitable solution. Failure to end this bizarre Tale of Two Cities will almost certainly condemn the Tampa Bay Rays and its devoted fans to The Worst of Times.
Critical Bourbon Theory
There’s quite a kerfuffle surrounding “Critical Race Theory”, what it is, and where should it be taught: Some say at universities, others are pushing Pre-K. I find it impossible to arrive at an informed opinion on the matter, as all sides seem to have completely different definitions of what Critical Race Theory actually is (and isn’t) and how is it presented in our schools (apparently either criminally, or possibly not at all).
So, I’ve decided that it’s high time that we restore to its rightful place in American political oratory history state legislator Noah S. “Soggy” Sweat’s 1952 epic vacillatory speech on continuing prohibition in Mississippi. Brought here in its entirety, perhaps it can help shed some light on the situation:
“My friends, I had not intended to discuss this controversial subject at this particular time. However, I want you to know that I do not shun controversy. On the contrary, I will take a stand on any issue at any time, regardless of how fraught with controversy it might be. You have asked me how I feel about whiskey. All right, here is how I feel about whiskey:
If when you say whiskey you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame and helplessness, and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it.
But, if when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools, then certainly I am for it.
This is my stand. I will not retreat from it. I will not compromise.”
And neither shall I.