Jewish guilt

So what would a Goy like me know about Jewish guilt, you ask. Isn't that cultural appropriation or something? Well, after almost twenty years consorting with the Farm Manager's clan, I think I've gained some insights. Jewish mothers wield guilt like a surgical instrument. An apt analogy, because nine out of ten Jewish mothers will unsheath the guilt weapon if their daughter fails to marry a doctor. Consequently,90% of Jewish daughters feel like failures if they didn't snag one in holy matrimony. Jewish dads, on the other hand, are much more blase about the matter. The main thing for them, is their baby gonna be happy? But for their sons it's different. Jewish sons feel like failures if they don't surpass their fathers' accomplishments. That wasn't hard for the first generation of immigrants. Dad was a furrier or a scrap dealer. He worked his ass off to make sure you could get a profession. That second gen didn't have a lot of trouble surpassing the first. But trouble reared its head for the third generation. When your dad had already accomplished so much, on account of working hard to please his father, your zaida, that played out in all sorts of ways, which is why Jews are more likely to have weekly visits with fancy therapists. Read up on those third-gen Reichmann kids and you'll see what I mean. My Jewish mother-in-law was an absolute artiste with those surgical tools. She was also the doyenne of the local Little Theatre troupe for over fifty years. Acting was in her blood, every minute of every day. And we all loved that about her! In fact, me and the Farm Manager have a theory about how Bruno is the re-incarnation of her Mom. Now that's she's on the other side, she was feeling guilty about all the guilt she peddled, and she decided to come back as Bruno to make it up to us. Back in the day, you couldn't take Ruth out to dinner without somebody coming over to tell her how great she was. Now we can't take Bruno anywhere without somebody coming over to tell him how great he is. We know that's you, Ruthie!

Horseradish memories at Falling Downs

Somehow we got to talking about summer camp. That was after a fifteen minute speculation about why, and why now, the Biden-masters are officially recognizing the Armenian genocide as a Genocide. The geopolitical implications are mind-boggling, and since neither the Farm Manager or myself, after twelve months of you know what, have enough mind left to risk boggling, we went to summer camp instead.

The FM went to summer camp religiously. Not that it was a religious camp or anything. Her father was a prominent Jewish merchant in Owen Sound back in the day, and getting the kids out of his hair over the summer months meant lots of time at the YMCA run day camp out at Presquille. 

I, on the other hand, only got to go to summer camp once. My parents figured anytime you want some fresh air, go out and hoe some potatoes, so shelling out a few bucks for summer camp was never on the table. (Although the potatoes were.)

When I was about twelve or so, I won a week at summer camp because I had memorized the most Bible verses in my Sunday School class at the Guelph Bible Chapel. The camping experience was pretty cool. The camp was at the Conference Grounds right behind the church. I never suffered homesickness because I knew I could walk away and be home in under an hour.

They had a swimming pool, a tennis court, a go-cart track, and the camp counsellor in my cabin was a guy who was playing football at the University of Michigan; a veritable god in my little universe. But what really stands out in my recall of my only week at summer camp, was one particular meal.

I don't remember any other meal I had that week, and all the campers were herded into the dining pavilion three times a day, so the first time I had pizza was memorable indeed. It was a buffet-style set-up, and after loading up on a couple of pieces of today's feature, the mysterious "pizza," I added a few other items, including the creamy coleslaw.

It was '67 or '68, but I was new to pizza. I found it kinda hot. I shovelled a big scoop of that creamy coleslaw into my face to cool things down...

THAT'S NOT COLESLAW, THAT'S HORSERADISH!!!

But the FM had a horseradish story too. Aside from the fur business, her folks were big-time into the local theatre scene. Her mom's family had theatre connections right back to the shtettl days, and it was only natural for her to get involved in the new country. Quite often their plays would tour to little theatre competitions across Canada, with her mom as the director and her dad as the producer.

People today don't appreciate the role of theatre in the lives of the eastern Jews, but it was a really big deal at the time. Hollywood and the US entertainment industry were built by the folks who transplanted that culture to America, and that was a tight community. Lorne Michaels was returning Ruth Gorbet's phone calls long after he became a big deal with Saturday Night Live.

From time to time their troupe won awards, and celebratory dinners were in order. One of the Farm Manager's favorite memories of her father was the time they were seated at a gala dinner, and although, since the FM herself was a mere script assistant, they were seated fourteen seats apart, the secret Jewish telepathy kicked in whenever brisket and horseradish were on the table at the same time.

There's no way I can top that story. Secret Jewish telepathy wins again!

Illusions, confusions, delusions, and hallucinations

(note downward spiral implied in title)

It's been a seriously strange couple of weeks here at Falling Downs.

The Farm Manager finds it "unfathomable" that her 89 year old mother has passed.

Just a week ago we were finding it unfathomable that she was still with us.

But there you go. What is fathomable and what is unfathomable depends not on what's actually going on. It depends on perspective.

For my part, travels to and from the Ivey Eye Institute have been facilitated by my dear sister and my 87 year old father. These trips take us through the heart of Letterkenny country. Dad and I stopped off at Timmies in Listowel last night. The place was crawling with uptight young farmers, the kind of guys who drive $90,000 pickup trucks but fret about the price of corn.

And who can blame them for fretting?

Apparently you're no longer allowed to have your own mechanic fix your John Deere tractor anymore. That's the proprietary preserve of Deere's corporate technicians. No wonder those young farmers are fretting. Some of them own two, three, or more half million dollar tractors and they can't keep them running without the blessing of Deere HQ in Moline.

One of the big motivators that keeps young guys in farming, and bear in mind that 100% of the young guys in farming inherited their farms, is the illusion of independence. How independent can you be when the price of your crop is determined by foreign markets and your tractor repairs have to be done by head office?

Nevertheless, a hundred acres of raw land with no buildings, down in Letterkenny country, will set you back over a million bucks. A hundred acres doesn't make a serious farm in this day and age. Folks just plunk down that million to "add to their holdings."

And of course, none of those guys have a million bucks sitting around. All that expansion and consolidation is financed by bank lending. As soon as the banks get nervous, the entire house-o-cards is gonna collapse.

Good luck to those stoic young farmers when that happens. Timmies can only hire so many.

Sometimes we move from confused and deluded right into the realm of hallucination. That's when you're able to convince yourself that all is going according to plan, when, in fact, it's all going to shit.

It's the existential variant of "I meant to do that."

Of course you did!

I'd been planning that detached retina for months. I'm surprised nobody has caught on.