Why this blog?

Around 25 years ago, I convinced my grandmother to write a memoir. Naturally, it was in pen on (gasp) paper. That, of course, would never do. I was blinded by new technology. I was an idiot. I convinced (read "paid") my daughter, Miriam, to type Bubbie's manuscript up on my Commodore 64. Then, to make matters worse, I edited the typescript. Then I printed it out and had it copied and bound.

Now, the actual original manuscript, what Bubbie actually wrote with her own hand, is lost forever. It's probably somewhere in the house, but that pretty much counts as lost forever.

Now, I'm at that age. My kids have not asked me to do this, but I'm doing it anyway. I'm still amused enough by technology that I don't want to do a handwritten manuscript. I also don't think I can achieve the kind of dramatic impact that Bubbie managed with a formal autobiography. So, instead, I'm doing a blog with random memories from the past and the present scattered in a disorganized way.

This blog is linked to my two other blogs.

http://henryandcarolynsecondhoneymoon.blogspot.com/ is the blog I started when I came down with cancer and pretty much stopped when Carolyn died.

http://henryfarkaswidowerblog.blogspot.com/ is the blog I started after Carolyn died; when I decided to continue blogging.

For what it's worth, there's a search engine attached to this blog right below this intro. That won't be worth much initially, but if this blog gets long and stays disorganized, then my kids and their kids will be able to use the search engine to find stuff if they're interested.

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Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Yet another essay from my writing/cancer support group

Assigned Topic: Write about how an enforced discipline either made me, or didn’t make me, into the person I want to be.

The term, "enforced discipline," needs to be defined by me.
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My definition of an "enforced discipline" is something I was forced to learn that I’d have preferred not to have had to learn.

Thinking…

OK, I never really wanted to go to Hebrew School. I didn’t mind hearing about the bible stories or the stories behind the Jewish holidays. It was the Hebrew language that I just couldn’t get my head around. And it wasn’t the fact that they write it backwards. I actually thought that was kind of cute, and the Hebrew letters were reasonably nicely designed. I just am not the sort of person who’s good at languages. I took a year of French in high school and two years of French in college, and I’m not very good at French either. Heck, if it weren’t for the fact that I was married to an English teacher for forty-three years, English would be a language that I wouldn’t be good at. Looking at the previous sentence, I still may not be all that good at English.

So Hebrew school was an enforced discipline for me. What sort of person was it supposed to turn me into? Well, a Jew. And I am a Jew so I guess that worked even if I didn’t enjoy the process.

But the topic implies that I should decide whether I wanted to be a Jew. That’s more difficult to figure out. Clearly my first experience with Judaism, the circumcision at day eight of my life, a process that may become illegal in Santa Monica and San Francisco after the next election, was probably not subjectively pleasant, but I don’t remember it well enough to know if the drop of Manischewitz wine they gave me at the time was enough of an anesthetic to overcome the discomfort. I guess I can’t actually figure out if I wanted to be a Jew or not. I just am one.
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