I’m on a mission: to find pre-war or post-war photos of my dad for a book about Jewish doctors in the camps. I know where to start—on the top shelf of my bedroom closet, where old photo albums lie hidden and undisturbed.

I rarely open these albums. They’re dusty tomes of the past. But I hear the echo of that famous warning: the unexamined life is not worth living.

I stretch to pull one down, and excruciating pain shoots through my hip. Sciatica. Spinal stenosis. These are my new companions. They’re like nosy old neighbors—always dropping by, never invited. They jab and stab at me a thousand times a day, needles into my upper leg. I’m no masochist, so there’s no thrill—only torment.

I whisper my usual mantra:
“Every day is a blessing. Every day is a blessing.”
It doesn’t work. The pain laughs. I try others:
“Some folks have it worse. Butch up.”
“Better than the alternative.”
Like expired over-the-counter meds, none offer relief.

How high is the cost in pain to wait for entry into God’s waiting room?

I wonder when I’ll hear my name murmured from behind that sacred door. I picture it clearly, engraved in pearly white letters:

DO NOT ENTER UNTIL YOUR NAME IS CALLED.

The mantra still fails, so I sit. Slowly, the pain slackens. I open the album. Yellowed pages. Fading corners. A life flickers into view.

Bar mitzvahs. Weddings. Brises.
Newborns behind hospital glass.
Graduations. Vacations. Cruises. National parks.
Snapshots of joy, of a full life lived. I smile.
Unconsciously, I sing,
“Those were the days, my friend. I thought they’d never end.”

We don’t take photos in the ER or the OR—those are snapshots stored deep in the mind, too painful to print.

As I flip through, I pause.
Who is that skinny, smiling, handsome young man?
Is that really me?

Again, I sing softly,
“Those were the days, my friend…”

But pain doesn’t only live in the body. My eyes sting with grief. The photos hold joy, yes—but also loss. Loved ones who heard their names called and stepped through the door marked:

DO NOT ENTER UNTIL YOUR NAME IS CALLED.

—————————————————————————————-

Richard Cohen

Mort – I feel your pain! I feel your grief! I, too, have albums by the dozens! They are filled with families from Eastern Europe, Brooklyn, Mountaindale and Florida! Every so often I peruse the many photos and reminisce about ‘the good old days!’

Enjoyed your post. Only thing I would change is the reading of the post by an unknown to you, my dear friend. You would know that ‘brides’ rhymes with ‘kisses!’

Brises rhyme with kisses

Thumbs up:

Cynthia

Becky

Aimee

Laura

Alan

Joel

John

Gail

Cynthia

Valerie

Robin

Alvin

Ryan

Steve

Debra

Steve

Gail

Susan

Robert

Elaine

Lois

Jim

Joni

Jonathan

Paula

In the Seventies, I was a fan of Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys. With a band name like that, what’s not to like?

Last year, when I read Kinky’s obituary, I found myself reflecting on this outlandish Jewish-American singer, songwriter, and satirist. I even remembered the lyrics to one of his most powerful songs: Ride ’Em Jewboy. That haunting ballad blended the swagger of cowboy life with a mournful tribute to six million yellow-star-wearing Holocaust victims—going up in smoke.

I loved that Kinky sang to the victims. He would always ride with them.

Much like I love Townes Van Zandt’s ballads, Ride ’Em Jewboy struck a deep chord in me. Here, for your consideration, are some of its unforgettable lyrics:

Ride, ride ’em Jewboy,
Ride ’em all around the old corral.
I’m, I’m with you boy,
If I’ve got to ride six million miles.

Now the smokes from camps are rising,
See the helpless creatures on their way.
Hey, old pal, ain’t it surprising
How far you can go before you stay.

Don’t you let the morning blind ya,
When on your sleeve you wore the yeller star.
Old memories still live behind ya,
Can’t you see by your outfit who you are? 

So, what’s my takeaway from Ride ’Em Jewboy?

It’s this: The memories of the Holocaust live behind us. And yet, we’re still often isolated, still persecuted, still searching for a sense of belonging in the modern world. But like the cowboy Kinky sang about, we keep moving on—persevering, thriving, and never forgetting who we are.

Thumbs up:

Paul

Dedra

Sampson

Cary

Cindy

Perry

Gary

Joe

Joanne

Ryan

Jeffrey

Laurie

Jamie

Reb

Judith

Barbera

William

Noelia

On the top shelf of my guest room closet, I spotted the Tickle Me Elmo I had bought for my grandkids. I carefully reached up, took the plush toy in my arms, and cradled it like a newborn. I remembered all the hours spent watching and listening to that red-furred Muppet while my grandkids laughed and giggled uncontrollably as they tickled the toy.

I missed that joyful laughter. I missed Elmo’s high-pitched falsetto voice. I wondered, Had the batteries died, or did Elmo have one last giggle left in him?

So, I gave the puppet a tickle—and froze in shock as Elmo chirped:
“Elmo hates Jews!”

“You furry red monster, what the hell did you just say?”

Elmo repeated, cheerily, “Elmo hates Jews!”

Infuriated, I hurled the toy across the room. It smacked against the wall, landed with a thud—and giggled.

I screamed, “What monster poisoned your mind and turned you into an antisemitic bastard? I should throw you in the garbage before my grandkids hear that filth!”

But even under threat of destruction, Elmo wasn’t snitching.

Then I had a better idea.

I propped him up in front of the TV and put on the five-part PBS miniseries The Story of the Jews with Simon Schama.

Five hours later, I returned to the den, turned off the TV, and asked, “So, Elmo—what do you think of Jews now?”

“Elmo loves Jews! But please… don’t make Elmo watch that show again.”

I laughed. I giggled. Elmo had tickled me.

I smiled, realizing: Education is the best tool in the fight against antisemitism.

Thumbs up.

Laurie

Neil

Howard

Samuel

Frank

Perry

Sandra

Hilary

Barbara