My Jewish Phase

When I was in Jr. High we had Religious Ed on Wednesdays.

There were churches of all denominations within walking distance of the school and they would let us out at one o’clock and we’d return to catch the bus at three something.

The Catholic Church, where I went, was the farthest away and I hated walking there in the winter.

My friend Brad,  who sat beside me in the class from which we were dismissed , went to the synagogue that was right across the street from the school. So one cold blistery winter day when they let us out to go to our religious ed., I asked Brad if I could go to his church. He said “sure.” So, away we went.

We got inside and were greeted by Rabbi Schoenberg. I will never forget him as long as I live. Brad introduced us and when he heard my name I could see his eyebrows rise up and he got the funniest look on his face for a second. So, he slapped a beanie on my and Brad’s head and we went into a room where there were about five other kids.

I have never had so much fun in a religious setting. The good and bearded Rabbi regaled us with tales from the Old Testament and I was rapt at the way he related the stories. He treated the characters in the Old Testament as our close relatives, our heritage. I was enthralled!

I went back the next Wednesday, he slaps the beanie on me and he told us that we are all like little Israels; we make mistakes and pay the consequences, but we must move on and do well for our family and friends. I loved that message.

It was a few days later and my Father called me into his den. He was sitting behind that big desk of his, piled with books and stuff and he had set “the chair” beside the desk. I knew from previous experience when that leather wing back chair was arranged in that manner there was going to be some sort of serious discussion.

He motioned to the chair and I sat down. He said, “I hear you’re converting to Judaism.”

I said, “I..ahhh..er..well……where did you hear that?”

He burst out laughing. My Dad wasn’t a big laugher so when he did get a charge out of something it’d catch you by surprise. He had a dry and wily sense of humor so his laughing got me to laughing too.

He went on, “Rabbi Schoenberg and I have been friends for many years.” So…I got busted by the Rabbi.

Dad was in law enforcement and he had sponsored many programs for prisoners and such and the Rabbi had been involved in many of them over the years.

Actually, it came as no surprise that the Ol’ Man told me that he thought it a good thing that I took the initiative to check out other faiths. I took credit for that initiative since I didn’t want to admit that I only did it to get out of walking to our church in the nasty weather…………. 

It's Still Here!

So, I'm back *brushing cobwebs out of his hair* and this place hasn't changed much except I see that Blogger has some new fancy bells and whistles since the last time I made a post almost three and a half years ago.

For all that time I've been exercising my editorial prowess at a couple forums that I've enjoyed immensely, but it finally happened.  I didn't think it would happen on an internet forum, especially one with so many erudite and esteemed individuals, but being the hopeless introvert that I am, I hit that social wall- could not handle being in the thick of so many voices.  I don't regret the time I spent there one bit, and perhaps some of my cronies will stop by here and say hello, one on one. I even made a few personal friends over there with one from Austria staying here with us for a few days in the summer of  2010.

The scope of that forum was somewhat, but not totally, limited to bringing about awareness of fundamentalist religion's effect on education and American society in general, which has been one of my hot buttons for many years; but it caught up with me and frankly, a sense of fatigue set in and overtook me so I am stepping away to evaluate where I've been and what options are available for a semi retired old curmudgeon. I've changed a few other of my daily conditioned routines.  It's not like I don't have plenty of stuff to do with Mrs Froggie and the dog, and I've got a hundred hobbies, on paper, but something is pulling me- what, I'm not sure.  What I am sure of is that I had to make a change, just for me and spend some time in contemplation of the future.

I finally decided to hole up here for a while and write about whatever I want while not giving a single actual fuck if anyone reads me or not.  Maybe I'll even post a whole bunch of rules on the side bar that will allow me to trump up charges against those who disagree with me and ban the bastards; but probably not.  After all, free speech is very important to me for reasons that I might even write about if I get around to it; but probably not. 

Having said all that, which is pretty close to nothing at all, I'm not even sure what my next post will be, but there will be one, I'm pretty sure.  Maybe it could be a short history of vagueness.  We shall see!

Good Day!

Froggie

PS  There was a glitch in the system so I had to delete this post and reload it.  Thanks to Chris for saying hello in the comments of the first post.

Why The Bushy Tree?

Due to the overwhelming number of requests from commentators on my previous post, I'll try to get back on topic and explain why this blog is rather like that Bushy Tree of 47 years ago.

First off, pronunciation is crucial to the vernacular context of the story. When saying Bushy Tree, the emphasis is on Bushy, IE, BUSHY-tree, not Bushy-TREE. BUSHY-tree, got it? OK.

I was raised on the edge of the Allegheny National Forest up here in northwestern PA. Our home was about four miles from the edge of the closest town. That side of town was known as the "Southside." As a kid I roamed the hills and spent many days taking advantage of the offerings of the beautiful Allegheny River. The reason I did that is because I was stuck out there with no transportation and I had to learn how to entertain myself. I remain very happy for that experience.
When I was eleven, I had saved up eleven dollars and change and my grandmother chipped in twenty bucks so I was able to buy my first brand new bicycle. She was a Western Flyer, purchased at the local Western Auto store. She was a thing of sheer beauty and delight and now I had transportation. The known world was mine to travel.

So, that summer I'd jump on the Flyer and ride down the four miles of dirt roads to the Southside where most of my cronies lived. That loosely defined group was a rather inquisitive bunch, scientifically speaking, and we were always dissecting something or other, and tinkering with whatever types of chemicals/ ingredients that we could get our hands on, including the famous Black Powder Experiment where four of us lost our eyebrows and the front half of the hair on our heads simultaneously while proving that black powder is, in fact, quite explosive in nature.

We were also masters at attaching rope swings to the tallest trees we could find. In those days there was a market or confectionery store on every other corner, and our preferred hangout was Johnny's Market where we could buy a double Cola for a nickel and we'd sit on the stoop out front and drink our soda and spit and stuff. One day, Timmy "Tink" Albaugh, "Fuzzy" McMillan, his brother, "Mickey," and I were sitting there spitting and stuff when Johnny barges out with a bucket of water, and in one deft move, rinsed the spit and us right off that stoop. He said something along the lines of, "Go somewhere else and spit." Since we could take a hint, we were just getting ready to leave for a more hospitable environment when, as if by divine intervention, Denny "Duppa" Rogers (The U is long and he didn't actually have the nickname "Duppa" yet but I'm getting to that part) came riding up and announced that we should put up a rope swing on that big Sycamore tree over by the railroad tracks. "What Sycamore tree?" says we, since there were more than one over that way, "the one by that "BUSHY- tree," said he.

So we did. Attaching a one inch dia. Sisal rope to the limb of a one hundred and twenty foot tall Sycamore tree is relatively easy. Take a fishing pole with a lead sinker the size of a golf ball tied to the end of it and cast it up over the highest limb it could reach, sometimes eighty to ninety feet. Then tie the fishing line to the rope, reel 'er up over the limb, tie a loop in the rope, tag end through the loop and cinch it up. Presto- instant adventure.

Then we cut out all the brush around the Bushy Tree and made benches, brought in old car seats, an old coffee table from Mickey's grandmother's garage, and etc, and it became our official meeting place with no restrictions on spitting and with our handy dandy rope swing right next door. Many a devious plot were hatched out in that place.

Then there were "the accidents," most note worthy of which was the one where I had just rode the "Flyer" up the path to the Bushy Tree and Denny Rogers was just getting ready to launch from the take off point, which was the limb of a tree behind the Sycamore.. He launched, but lost his grip and hit the ground like a ton of shit and we all knew that had to really really hurt...bad. Before we got to him he was yelling, "my duppa, my duppa!" What had happened was that he landed on his butt right on a little stick that was a sapling we had cut down and it went up his butt, which is quite an egregious and painful injury as we were soon to find out.

"Duppa" spent about four days in the hospital having his rectum repaired, but he got over it and if he ever reads this he will know exactly and precisely who I am referring to, as will all of the other characters I mentioned. They're real, and it would be great if one of them would see this and respond. But that would be a lot to ask.
So there you have it.

I'll meet you at the Bushy Tree!
dale