It's all grey, Jack.
It appears that I have a small talent for making sure that a Passover Seder moves along at a reasonable pace.
Observation: I am of two minds regarding Seders. On one hand, each part of the seder has meaning, and the order must be followed, leaving out as few details as possible. On the other hand, there are a bunch of prayers and a dozen easily-distractable people standing between me and the festive meal. I assure you that this provides enough motivation to pick up the pace a little.
The Seders both took place on Long Island, that veritable source bonne of old-school suburban ennui. Strip malls everywhere, dense (by today's standards) housing developments, ad nauseam, to taste. Never moving back, glad I got out, etc. etc.
But on the first seder night, feeling inundated by schmaltz ions, I excused myself from the table to get some fresh air, and walked to the back porch. This was the 45 degree night that followed the 83 degree day. The weather was beginning to change, with a fast wind blowing in from the northwest. It was a brilliantly clear night, and about as quiet as the subrubs ever really get.
And I stood there.
And I smelled the air.
And I sensed the salt tang from an ocean that was only 4 miles away.
And I remembered Baldwin Park, which was only 2 miles away from the ocean, with the seagulls and the fields of ragweed.
And I remembered the boats that were moored just on the other side of the street from the house.
And I remembered going to the beach, just once.
And I remembered why people thought it was such a nice place to live.
And I acknowledged that I was too young to actually understand why anyone would want to live there.
And I had to finally admit to myself that I know less about Long Island than I thought I did.
I still can't stand the place, but I guess I do miss some things.
Correction. It's not what I miss. It's what I never figured out.
Observation: I am of two minds regarding Seders. On one hand, each part of the seder has meaning, and the order must be followed, leaving out as few details as possible. On the other hand, there are a bunch of prayers and a dozen easily-distractable people standing between me and the festive meal. I assure you that this provides enough motivation to pick up the pace a little.
The Seders both took place on Long Island, that veritable source bonne of old-school suburban ennui. Strip malls everywhere, dense (by today's standards) housing developments, ad nauseam, to taste. Never moving back, glad I got out, etc. etc.
But on the first seder night, feeling inundated by schmaltz ions, I excused myself from the table to get some fresh air, and walked to the back porch. This was the 45 degree night that followed the 83 degree day. The weather was beginning to change, with a fast wind blowing in from the northwest. It was a brilliantly clear night, and about as quiet as the subrubs ever really get.
And I stood there.
And I smelled the air.
And I sensed the salt tang from an ocean that was only 4 miles away.
And I remembered Baldwin Park, which was only 2 miles away from the ocean, with the seagulls and the fields of ragweed.
And I remembered the boats that were moored just on the other side of the street from the house.
And I remembered going to the beach, just once.
And I remembered why people thought it was such a nice place to live.
And I acknowledged that I was too young to actually understand why anyone would want to live there.
And I had to finally admit to myself that I know less about Long Island than I thought I did.
I still can't stand the place, but I guess I do miss some things.
Correction. It's not what I miss. It's what I never figured out.