2/10/98

(Rosh Hashana Supplement)

The New Year, Cheaply

Why is it every time the Jewish People celebrate, it has to cost?

    I was busy reading the paper, and if you live with me long enough you know that I hate being interrupted when I'm reading the paper.
    Problem is, I'm a slow reader.
    My wife waited. When I hadn't turned to Page Two after 45 minutes, she figured the hell with it.
    "Samuel!"
    As if the news that day wasn't bad enough. When she calls me by my given name, I know it ain't gonna be good.
    "You know what day is coming up?" she asked.
    What am I, stupid? I glanced at the top of the page, just under the logo. "Well, if today is 13 Jamad Awwal, 1419, I figure it's almost --"
    "The Jewish calendar!"
    I blushed.
    "Rosh Hashana," she explained helpfully. "So get out your wallet."
    "Well, happy New Year," I said jauntily, and then looked at her blankly. "My wallet?"
    She made a menacing move toward me. "Do we have to go through this every year?"
    I turned quickly to the financial page. "Lookit that, my stocks are down, sauerkraut futures are a shambles. Honey, I just can't afford --" afford what? Did I hear wrong, and maybe she said Pessah?
    She reminded me that, first of all, I don't know diddly about the stock market, and to prove it, pointed out that I was looking at the baseball statistics. And second of all, I was a middle-aged Jew, which meant I could afford it.
    "A couple of thou should cover it," she said.
    I put the paper down.
    "Why is it every time the Jewish People celebrate, it has to cost? The Christians, when they have New Year's, they kiss, and that's it. What in tarnation could cost me two thousand shekels?"
    "Seats."
    "Seats?"
    "In shul. If you were the rabbi, maybe we could get in for free, but -- God be merciful -- you're not, so we have to pay."
    Now, I happen to know the shul has a section in the back for poor people. Alright, so we wouldn't hear the cantor so well, but I could live with that. I also had a moral objection to this pay-to-pray concept, but I didn't get into that. I had a painful memory of last year, when I grumbled about it to the rabbi, and I wound up being sermonized. Yep, that was the subject of his sermon, to the entire congregation, and he mentioned me by name.
    I had a great idea. "We could bring our own chairs."
    My wife did not relate to that. "I will not be embarrassed this year," she warned. "Five seats. Write me a check. Now."
    I gulped. "Two thousand shekels? Five seats at the World Series wouldn't cost as much."
    She rolled her eyes, as if I was supposed to be smarter than this. "The seats are only a few hundred. The rest of the money is for what we're going to put on those seats."
    She had lost me completely.
    "We need new clothes!"
    Oh.
    Why?
    "Because it's a tradition. New year, new clothes. Dresses for me and the girls, a new shirt for you. So write me another check. Now."
    Y'know, when I was a boy, we managed to get through the Holy Days without spending any money.
    In exchange for a seat in the men's section, my father offered his services to the shul -- his job was to pound on the lectern every five minutes and holler "sha!" -- and my mother, with the rest of the truly pious and poor women of our neighborhood, stood outside all day with her ear to the window. She also couldn't hear the cantor very well, but in our shul, that was a bonus. Sometimes, my father would holler "sha!" at the cantor.
    The only thing we got new every year was a pomegranate. You think we got new clothes for Rosh Hashana? No, we just washed the old ones, so they looked like new. If we had any extra money, she'd buy some material and sew on some new patches. Ah, the good old days.
    I wasn't finished. "The important thing is, repentance, not the latest from the Gap." I threw the Book at her: "Nowhere in the Torah does The Holy One Blessed Be He command a fashion show. The whole point of these Days of Awe is to be heard, not seen."
    I thought I was brilliant, but I was like dead air. I had rendered her speechless only because my discourse gave her time to think of color combinations.
    "Khaki," she mulled aloud. I thought she was being rude. "A sort of a khaki tartan skirt with off-white blouse for the girls, and for me --"
    "Sha!" I hollered, pounding the kitchen table.

THE COMPROMISE was a beaut.
    "Hello, Ma?"
    "You're calling me? This can't be good."
    "Aw, Ma, I've been busy."
    "Thank God. All these years I thought you'd left the country."
    I know, I said, and I felt guilty, and I wanted to make it up to her. "Your grandchildren want to spend the holiday with you."
    She said she'd heard a rumor I had children. It could be she was exaggerating. "All of a sudden they want to be with their grandparents?"
    "Yeah. They want to sit with you in shul, y'know, make you proud. And they thought maybe you'd enjoy dressing them up." If nothing else, I know how to get through to women. She swooned.
    "They shall all have new patches!" she said excitedly. "But what am I saying? New  dresses! I'll take them to the mall, it'll be such fun!"
    "Yes! Yes!"
    She insisted we stay at her house. But oh dear, she said, she just didn't have enough room for all of us.
    "There's room for my wife and kids?"
    "No problem. But what about you?"
    When times are tough, I explained, sacrifices have to be made. It was a difficult decision, but we were going to have to save money this year. I could only afford one seat.
    "At the back?" she asked, shame and pity in her voice.
    "Not exactly," I said, which reassured her. I was going to sit right behind home plate.