Bar none

In honor of the 43rd annivesary of my Bar Mitzvah, which occurred yesterday, I have elected to do something either very brave or very stupid. I have decided to sing the two most difficult parts of the service I sang those two score and three years ago at my regular worship services tomorrow at Congregation Beth Israel. These consist of the Maftir, or final Torah reading, and the Haftorah, the reading from the Prophets. To say these two pieces are difficult is an understatement. Without including the opening or closing prayers, the Haftorah runs over eight and a half minutes long and is marked by specific cantillation marks that must be sung exactly right. While the Maftir is not nearly as long, it must be read entirely from the Torah scroll from memory and without any helpful punctuation or cantillation marks and is an entirely different melody. I am understandably concerned about misproununciations and singing off key, which is likely to happen given my present state of mind and busy schedule. I ask myself how in the world did I do this when I was only 13? Was I that much better a singer? (Maybe) Did I have a better head for memorization? (Probably) Can I be fearless and tackle this with great resolve and determination? (Unlikely at best) It has gotten to be such a problem for me that I am now trying to think of inventive ways to bow out gracefully. Suppose I broke a leg, for example. How about being needed for some Scouting event? But no. The rabbi and the gabbi are both not letting me get out of it. After all, they remind me, I volunteered in the first place and there's no one else to back me up at this late time. So, here I stand on the precipice looking down at the valley below, knowing in my heart there is no salvation for me, but to take this literal leap of faith. However battered and bruised I will be, I'm hopeful I will survive my ordeal. I'll let you know on the other side, but in the meantime, say a prayer for me.

Wearing of the green day

Since today is St. Patrick's Day, I thought I would share a bit about it. It is a great holiday to observe, even if it only means being in a parade. Genealogically speaking, St. Patrick's Day is a day that has little to do with my family history, which has a great deal of Russian, Latvian, Ukrainian and Polish lineage. There are, of course, many devout Irish Jews, some whose family lines can be traced back for centuries. One of them, Rabbi David McLashley, married my first cousin Sharon in Los Angeles three years ago. Believe it or not, he actually lived in New Orleans and attended my synagogue, Congregation Beth Israel, back in the 1970's, when he was but a mere lad. But when one considers the history of Ireland and its religious and political split between the mostly Catholic Republic of Ireland and the mostly Anglican section of Northern Ireland, part of the United Kingdom, Jewish influence seems infinitesimally small. Nonetheless, Rabbi McLashley is a testament that there are Irish Jews who are proud of their heritage. I recall riding in a St. Patrick's Day Parade with my Uncle Harold many years ago. He never passed on an opportunity to parade. A bona fide Shriner from the clown unit, Uncle Harold was in fact my dad's very good friend and not a blood relative or related to me by marriage. He was a playful rapscallion and a great pal to a young impressionable youth. Unlike most of my parents' friends, he was a confirmed bachelor. He seemed to have a procession of different girlfriends, all of them very attractive. Although he might be considered morbidly obese, this silver-tongued rascal was light on his feet and a very good dancer. Many a night would he and my father hang out at the Fountain Bay Room of the old Roosevelt Hotel. My Uncle Harold would ask a young lady to dance and tell her he didn't know how. After a difficult time on the ballroom floor, stepping on her feet slightly, he would return her to her table. As the music was starting again, he would ask her to dance again, much to the lady's chagrin. "No, I think you taught me how to do it right," he would insist. Of course, on the second time, he would skillfully oil her around the dance floor and she would realize she'd been scammed. Most of the time, the ladies would laugh and catch on that he was a lovable scamp. From there the evening would take on new dimensions. It was rare that his face would be slapped or that the ladies in question wouldn't want to get a bit closer to this very charming and somewhat dashing figure. When Uncle Harold dressed up as a clown, he wasn't necessarily interested in making a good impression on the ladies. He was being his irrepressible self, entertaining kids and making people laugh. He particularly enjoyed blowing up long, skinny balloons and twisting them into all sorts of animal shapes and designs to delight the children. As part of his clowning, he picked up an old jeep that had been lying dormant for some time. He painted it a horrific shade of vomit green and putrid yellow and for several years invited seven or eight people to join him in the many different Irish parades which followed Mardi Gras. One evening I recall being in the parade held in the Irish Channel. My gym coach, Johnny White, happened to be in the crowd that night and he knew I wasn't Irish. "Smason, what are you doing in this parade?'" he bellowed. The sign on the jeep read "Irish Luntzmen," a reference to the fact most of the occupants in the car were Jewish. I turned to the coach and I said to him, "Coach, you've heard of Irish stew, well, I'm Irish Jew!" I don't believe he was impressed because the next time he saw me in class, he uttered his most famous of phrases: "Smason, take a lap." Another time in the Metairie St. Patrick's Day Parade, usually held the Sunday before March 17, I was dressed in a full E.T. mask. Don't ask me what E.T. had to do with being Irish. It seemed to make perfect sense to me. The mask was very large, but very confining and gave me limited view. It was hot inside, but had lots of room in front, extending at least two inches out from my face. Thank goodness, because at one point on the parade route, a drunken reveler called out to me, "Oh, E.T.?" As I turned toward him to give him a pair of beads, he reared back and slugged me in the mask with his fist. The force behind the blow had me land inside the back of the jeep as it moved on along the street. My mom was in the back with me and after helping me get righted, proceeded to launch several epithets at the man in question. Why he did what he did I'll never know. Maybe he didn't like aliens. Maybe he was by nature combative. Whatever it was, I'll never forget how lucky I was his fist only glanced off the rubber mask and that he never made full contact with my face. Perhaps that is what they mean when they say "the luck of the Irish." Or do you think I'm merely kissing the Blarney stone?

Recent passings

Hot on the heels of the tragic demise of 80's heartthrob Corey Haim comes news of the death of Peter Graves, 83, the TV and movie actor best known for his role as Jim Phelps on the CBS series "Mission:Impossible." Many trivia players will know that Phelps was the younger brother of James Arness, TV's Matt Dillon on "Gunsmoke." As a youngster, I first became aware of Graves when watching him as the adult star of "Fury," the children's Saturday morning show about the raven-haired horse and his friend Bobby, who lived on the Broken Wheel Ranch. When "Mission: Impossible" first hit the airwaves, it wasn't Jim Phelps who led the Impossible Mission Force, but Steven Hill, whose character was Daniel Briggs. Hill, who would later go on to play Adam Schiff on the original "Law and Order" series for a decade, didn't pass muster with the suits at Desilu Studios back when Lucy and Desi were still at the top of their game. After the first season ended in 1966, they decided to hire Graves to take over as the leader of the IMF and the rest was TV history. Graves, along with then huband and wife team Martin Landau (Rollin Hand) and Barbara Bain (Cinnamon Carter), Greg Morris (Barney Collier) and Peter Lupus (Willie Armitage) were the other original cast members. After Landau left the series, he was replaced by Leonard Nimoy, who had finished playing Spock in another well-known Desilu Studio show. Nimoy played The Great Paris, who like Hand, was a master of disguise. When Bain left the series, she was replaced by a succession of female leads including Leslie Ann Warren and Lynda Day George. But through the rest of the series it was Graves as Jim Phelps who selected the members of his team at the opening of each show and accepted each mission with the knowledge that should any of his IM Force members be caught or killed, the Secretary would disavow any knowledge of their actions. Graves reprised his role as Phelps on an Australian remake of the TV series for a couple of years in the early 1980s, following the tragic death of series creator Bruce Geller in a plane crash. Around the same time he starred in two of the immensely popular "Airplane" movies in which he played Captain Clarence Oveur, a pilot who seemed to have a questionable attraction to young boys ("Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?"). More recently he became the voice of Biography on the A&E Cable Network and did several self-deprecating roles on Mystery Science Theatre 3000. He was featured for several years in the role of Colonel John Camden on the WB Network's "7th Heaven" series. Graves was featured in Otto Preminger's 1953 movie "Stalag 17," in which he was eventually outed as the Nazi spy planted to prevent P.O.W.s from escaping (sorry if I spoiled the movie for those that hadn't seen it). It was only this past October that Graves received his well-deserved star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Reports say he was returning from a restaurant with one of his daughters celebrating what would have been his 84th birthday in four more days when he collapsed in front of his Hollywood home from an apparent heart attack. Graves's rugged good looks and prematurely gray hair made him a standout on the small screen. He received a Golden Globe statuette in 1971 for his iconic role on TV, but never picked up an Emmy, no doubt because the character development on "Mission: Impossible" was specifically kept to a minimum as part of its rapid-fire and action-oriented scripts punctuated by a running soundtrack designed to heighten viewer tension.

Congratulations to the planners of the first annual New Orleans Limmudfest, a two-day event that began Saturday night, but mostly centered on Sunday's all-day schedule of learning sessions on a variety of topics of interest to the Jewish community. Titled "Learning and Lagniapped," a keystone to the program is its commitment to diversity. New Orleans is the 46th city in the world permitted to hold a Limmudfest, which originated in the United Kingdom several years ago. New Orleans follows similar Limmud (Hebrew for "learning") events held in the U.S. in New York, Philadelphia, Los Angleles, Atlanta and Denver and is by far the smallest community sanctioned to hold a festival by Limmud International.

The opera that wasn't

As I prepared for the weekend, I talked with my mother in advance. She had reminded me that we had an opera coming up on Friday night. Sometime since college I have been an aficionado of the opera. It was a musical taste that developed slowly, but I have become more and more enamored of it as the years have passed. It is interesting that much of my opera collection was housed upstairs and was not affected by the swirling floodwaters that followed Hurricane Katrina and decimated most of my record and CD collection. So, most of my opera collection survives even today. I was rather looking forward to "The Flying Dutchman," ("Die fligende Holländer") Richard Wagner's monumental work of the ghost ship that returns to port while sailing the ship for eternity until doomsday. It is one of Wagner's most approachable works and stands on its own unlike many of the operas that make up the Ring cycle or long-winded pieces like Die Meistersinger von Nurenbürg that ramble on for hours. The New Orleans Opera Association has long presented memorable performances of Wagnerian operas, but hasn't attempted to stage anything as grand since the recovery from the 2005 storm and related flooding. Imagine my chagrin when a friend of mine informed me that the opera was next week. I called my mother and couldn't reach her by telephone, so I left word on her voicemail to check what the tickets read. You guessed it. The opera is next Friday, not tonight. I guess it really doesn't matter, but I wish it was tonight. I had such great expectations for the production and now I have to wait that much longer to hear the fat lady sing.

Domestic affairs and entanglements

Well, it had to happen. The final word in the David Letterman extortion case came in yesterday and the word was "guilty." Former CBS producer Robert "Joe" Halderman admitted in open court that his so-called treatment for a movie and a possible book was, as Letterman had stated publicly, a thinly-veiled attempt to wrest millions of dollars from the "Late Nite" talk show host. In the end Halderman admitted his role in the scheme, accepted a six-month prison sentence and four and a half-year period of probation and will be forced to provide 1,000 hours of community service in restitution. For Halderman it was the best of all possible outcomes because he would have undoubtedly been found guilty by the court and could have served a decade of hard prison time over this incredibly stupid act. Letterman, who contacted New York police over the matter, took his share of licks in the process. He publicly addressed the issue on his October 1 show, admitting he "had sex with women who worked" on his show in various capacities, but claiming the he had not cheated on his wife nor had any affairs following his marriage to Regina Lasko. The apology to his staffers was awkward enough for the comedian, but having to admit to being a womanizer to the public ramped up what he himself called his "creep" factor. Letterman, who had been linked romantically for a decade with former staffer and head writer Merrill Markoe, had hooked up for a short time with Stephanie Birkitt, who later became Halderman's live-in love interest. She reportedly moved out in August of last year. Halderman, an award-winning producer (seven Emmy Awards and an Alfred du Pont Columbia School of Journalism Award recipient) had devised his scheme between the time Birkitt moved out and last September, when he initially contacted Letterman and put his plan forward. Halderman's career, which included a long-term stint in London and work with the Winter Olympic Games XVIII, has now been suspended and it is doubtful he will be able to work in TV production in the future. He has been forbidden to speak out about the plot and cannot enter into any contracts in which he would reap profits such as a book or movie deal. The unsung victims from this tragic affair may be Halderman's divorced wife and two sons, who will probably lose child and spousal support payments while Halderman decides what course the rest of his life will take while imprisoned. Had the case gone to trial, it might have gone very bad for Letterman too, who might have had to admit just how many women literally worked under him. Frankly, it seems to me that Letterman, who named his production company Worldwide Pants, might well have been well advised to have kept his own on.

My eulogy

The following is a transcript of the eulogy I delivered March 6, 2010 at Temple Sinai for my brother-in-law, the late Russell George Feran. The picture above was taken a little over a year ago at the rehearsal dinner for his daughter's wedding to Gary Cohen of Chicago.

I was asked by Phyllis and Leslie to say a few words about Russell, my brother-in-law for nearly the past quarter century. This is a somewhat daunting task, because as I interviewed some of his other relatives and close circle of family and friends, I found one inescapable fact: that Russell has always been a bit mysterious. He definitely marched to the beat of his own drum and was, in part, a conundrum wrapped in a veil of inscrutability. Russell had quite a number of acquaintances and business contacts, but it seemed to me Russell made his way through life by following his own dictates. He had keen insight about business and he always knew what he should do to best provide for his family, but he never shirked hard work, toiling for long hours and without fanfare. The Radio Shack franchise he maintained from 1974 through 1987 was very successful and he amassed a sizeable portfolio of Tandy Corporation stock in the process. When I first met him, prior to my marriage to Sally, I found him to be a very likeable fellow with some very strong opinions about many things: politics and religion in particular, but also certain people. He could quote chapter and verse about why he liked or disliked certain things and few could ever dissuade him from speaking his mind. Most of what he had to say rang true. Knowing the horrors his father and mother faced during the Shoah, he had little patience for Nazi sympathizers and anti-Semites. Like a latter-day Renaissance man, he was always keeping his mind focused on things that interested him. He admired many different objects d’art and several graced his West Bank residence, but, most particularly, he was drawn to new technology. Russell was responsible for me buying my very first personal computer, but believe it or not, it didn’t come from Radio Shack. It was part of a deal. Russell was always working deals. As it turned out, a lady expressed an interest in getting an affordable computer system for her brother, a student just entering Loyola University. At that time to get a hard drive with a color monitor was considered a very good deal. Russell found a Magnavox system with a hard drive and color monitor on sale at D.H. Holmes. The cost was $600, so Russell bought two: one for himself and one for the lady’s brother. But then, she turned him down because it didn’t exactly meet her brother’s needs to support spreadsheets. That was when he called me on the phone. “Have I got a computer for you,” he said like the true salesman he was. He was right. It was a good deal, but it was not without its challenges, which I shall attempt to explain to you. Although it worked on DOS (that’s the disk operating system from Microsoft), it lacked enough RAM (that’s random access memory), to enable it to utilize a MODEM (named for the terms modulate and demodulate), which would allow me to access the Internet by telephone. After several additional hundreds of dollars of improvements, it finally did work. Thanks to Russell, I was surfing the Net in the early 1990’s with that computer, whose 762 Kilobytes of available hard drive space would be considered miniscule by today’s standards. Russell and I talked frequently about computing and many years later, when I became an expert on building and fixing them, I advised him and repaired or configured most of his personal computers. As a matter of fact, when I last talked to him a week ago today, he told me he was going to have me re-configure his laptop once he got back home. Prior to his work with Tandy Corporation, Russell had long been an avid amateur radio operator, what some of us uninformed outsiders would colloquially refer to as HAM radio. He eventually amassed an incredible collection of short wave and amateur radios along with an antenna array that was the envy of many of his fellow operators. W5RGF was Russell’s vanity call sign assigned by the FCC, which incorporated his initials. He used that for his e-mail address on AOL and even went so far as to obtain a Louisiana vanity license plate to display on his fire engine red Mazda sports coupe. Again, it was one of the many things that interested Russell – a car he would unfortunately drive just a few times due to the return of his Crohn’s disease. Some might ascribe his purchase of the Mazda to a mid-life crisis, but he truly loved that car and what it represented: status, freedom and in his own way a kind of sexiness he lacked in his other vehicles. I recall him picking me up one day at my record store and offering me a ride, which I eagerly accepted. It was one of those special times when he shared one of his interests with me. As the car careened through the streets, the roar of the engine reached a high pitch and I saw him skillfully working the clutch and the gearshift as he moved it from first gear all the way to fifth. As I held on at times for dear life, he flashed a slight hint of a smile. He was simply having fun. Many of you know Russell was an avid philatelist. Again, it was an area that interested him greatly. He rarely opened up to share with me some of his more valuable stamp collecting finds, but that was okay with me. When he wanted to share, he did. Russell was a lifetime member of the American Philatelic Society and the president of both the Westside Amateur Radio Club and the Label Katz Lodge of B’nai Brith. He was especially interested in being a member of B’nai Brith and actively recruited me to join that body, if not for anything else, than for the excellent medical insurance they afforded members. When I had emergency surgery due to a double inguinal and femoral incarcerated hernia in 1985, I found out that my wife’s health insurance had not been properly extended to cover me as her new husband. Because of Russell looking out for me, a B’nai Brith policy underwritten by Mutual of New York was literally in my mailbox that very afternoon when I needed it most.Unfortunately, Russell became quite the authority on health insurance and the high cost of hospitals and nursing home care over the course of the last thirty years. Following the initial incidence of Crohn’s disease and two surgeries from 1970 to 1978, he was essentially free of any outbreaks until 1992. That was the time when Russell thrived as a Radio Shack franchisee with his West Bank store. When he sold the franchise back to Tandy in 1987, he was set to embark on a different kind of business, RGF Enterprises. RGF Enterprises was an interesting opportunity for Russell. Allied with various first responder charities, his employees made telephone solicitations on behalf of a number of benevolent organizations across the country. The business, which utilized telephone trunk technology and allowed long distance calls to be made as local calls from New Orleans, flourished for a time until his disease returned and eventually the more important aspects of his health forced him to turn the business over to his manager. Throughout the time my wife Sally was alive, she and Russell had an interesting relationship. Like many, her fun-loving nature drew admirers like bees to honey. It might have been the case of her irresistible force that initially drew him to the Sobel family. Their friendship grew stronger and closer with Russell personally helping her refinance her beauty salon business in 1988, because he thought it was the right thing to do. But if he enjoyed Sally’s company, early on, he used that friendship to get to know Phyllis better. He admitted, he fell in love with Phyllis and used his friendship with her sister as a ruse in order to court her. As he proudly told his daughter not so long ago, “she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.” Throughout their marriage, Phyllis and Russell had many wonderful times, especially when they could travel together. True, they did have their occasional bumps in the road, like all married couples, but there was no doubt he was ever devoted to her. Throughout his medical ordeal, Phyllis stood by his side, insisting that only the best of professionals administer the finest medical science and care to her ailing husband. Russell went into crisis after crisis, especially in the last decade. Indeed, he always seemed to come out of the worst situations a little shaken, but still defiant as always. Although he didn’t always express himself with words of tenderness and affection, Russell truly loved his bride and for those of us who knew the couple in better days, the foundation of commitment they had to each other was unshakeable. Likewise, if there were a special jewel in his life, it could only be his beautiful daughter Leslie. I watched as the flower girl at my own wedding in 1984 grew up into a beautiful young woman and how her father viewed her with great pride. I saw that expressed again in his twinkling eyes last year when, weak and feeble, Russell attended Leslie and Gary’s wedding. He beamed with joy, especially at the rehearsal dinner at Antoine’s the night before when he seemed to be having the time of his life. I am certain that Russell was delighted in Leslie’s choice for his son-in-law and I am sorry that Gary didn’t get to know Russell better when he was in more robust health. Beside Phyllis and Leslie, Russell truly loved all of his other family members including his mother and father, Jean and Fred, and his sister Maureen and her husband Bob and their children. I can well attest that the dynamic between a brother and sister can be fraught with tension and competition. Maureen and Russell had their sibling rivalry moments, but their attachment to one another has also been lasting and the Freedlands ability to care for the older infirm Ferans in La Crosse, Wisconsin in the years since Hurricane Katrina was especially appreciated by Russell, who knew he was unable to do so. When he departed this world on March 4, it was only four days after his father Fred was laid to rest and, ironically, on the very day that his father-in-law was to celebrate his 94th birthday. Perhaps it was Russell’s way; his inimitable sense of timing, because from now on the date of March 4 will be forever known as a day of sadness, a day when a good and resolute man beset with a profusion of health issues had his final release to the dismay of his closest family and friends. We will all miss his indomitable spirit and his enormous heart. It was Russell’s tremendous heart that kept on beating throughout every medical crisis he endured, even when his other organs were no longer functioning well. He was a great friend, a tremendous brother-in-law and a kind uncle to my son and his other nephews and nieces. I am indebted to him for his support of my efforts with the Boy Scouts of America and I recall how we talked several times about the annual Jamboree on the Air when Scouts use amateur radio bands to communicate with one another around the world, an event in which Cantor Colman has taken part. And so, W5RGF, it is with a heavy heart that we bid you a fond adieu...a 73... on this your final signoff. And with respect and reverence we say to you... over and out.

Russell, Molly and me

It's been a very trying week for my extended family and for me. Some of it I'm still trying to process, I must admit. It's been said, there is a greater purpose to life than we mere mortals can intuit. We know we are all destined to die from the time we can understand the concept. Yet many of us deny the undeniable even when the spectre of death looms large and we face our own demise with a sense of dread that is all too brief. We then move on because to be absorbed with death and dying would be unproductive and could be seen (in as polite a way that can be expressed) as being largely egocentric. With an ironic sense of timing my brother-in-law, Russell Feran, passed away on Wednesday, only a few days after his nonagenarian father was buried here last Sunday. For the members of Russell's family it means an end to his suffering from Crohn's disease that first surfaced in 1970. With treatment and care he was free from any intrusion of Crohn's from 1978 until 1992, but as the doctors remind us, there is no cure for Crohn's disease. Often it can recur with no warning and its effects can be extremely debilitating. Russell's final bout with the disease began in 1992 and eventually led to years of nursing home care and numerous trips to various hospitals as his organs eventually shut down, kidneys first and finally his liver. I spoke with him in his hospital room just a few minutes after leaving his father's funeral last weekend. He was cogent and his mind as sharp as ever. When I returned to visit him two days later it was a different story. By then he was on pain medication and sedated to the point where he was not lucid. It was apparent he was in the last stages of his suffering, shriveled into a fetal position and striving to be comfortable as he fought as best he could the onset of his final release. We had been prepared for his transfer to hospice, but it became apparent that he was much too weak to even consider such a move. I would like to think that his last few days were mitigated by the pain medication, but it seemed he was quite uncomfortable and almost manic in the way he shook violently, touching his head and mumbling verbage that made no sense to onlookers. If there was one thing that kept him going throughout his ordeal, it was his strong heart, a heart that kept on beating as he addressed each medical setback through the last 18 years. At the same time as my brother-in-law's demise, I received word that Molly, a mixed breed dog my girlfriend owned had also peacefully passed away in her sleep. Molly was 12 years old and so it was understandable she would die sooner than later. Yet, my relationship with this sweet raven- and white-haired, part-border collie stretched over six years. She was in Winston-Salem, North Carolina when I first espied her, a spirited escape artist, who showed her incredible breakneck speed once she found her freedom. There were few fences she didn't climb over or under and few gates she was unable to squeeze by. When she was in Cleveland, I ended up walking her during snowfalls and rainfalls and I looked forward to many of these constitutionals even if it meant my having to pick up after her. She enjoyed her time in New Orleans too, although she was slowing down in these last few weeks. Recently diagnosed with congestive heart failure, Molly took her medicine religiously and seemed to be back in good health. Apparently, she didn't suffer any ill effects and simply didn't wake up last Wednesday morning. I know I will miss her sweet and charming character and the fact she is gone seems hard to fathom. It's a sad fact that the loss of both of these relationships will continue to reverberate in my life for some time to come. Rest in peace, Russell and to you, too, Molly.