Guest Post: Football: Virgin Isles' Style

Yom sheni, 12 Shevat 5774.

One day, about a year ago, our lives became even better...

Thanks to our dear daughters-in-law, we have inherited some very special family members. This post is penned by Champagne Girl's eloquent father, Nisan "Boss Hawk" Jaffee (whose lovely bride made a cameo appearance in my last post as "my mechutenet." We'll have to give Marietta a nickname soon, as I hope she will appear often here).

Boss Hawk's writing is so good, I look forward to seeing his own blog soon. Enjoy his tale about life in the Virgin Islands -- through modified American football.

The author is Number 41, in the middle row. Champagne Girl gets her beautiful smile from both her parents.

Saint Thomas Synagogue, built in 1833, is the second-oldest synagogue (building) and longest in continuous use now under the American flag. The synagogue, fourth on its site, was built to house a congregation founded in 1796 by Sephardic Jews who had come to the Caribbean Basin to finance trade between Europe and the New World. The congregation reached its zenith in the mid-19th century, declined in the late 19th and early 20th centuries with the fortunes of the Danish Virgin Islands, and grew again in the late 20th century.

So, on this Friday night, why wasn’t I sitting in one of the mahogany pews, running my toes through the six inches of sand that comprised the floor of the synagogue?  As Tevye would say, “That I can answer in one word...”  FOOTBALL!

My parents and I lived in St. Thomas from 1967 until 1977.  Part of that time, I was in high school, and part away in college.  Nevertheless, I was a St. Thomian, and coming home meant stripping down to my cutoff shorts, going out onto the veranda, cracking open a Heineken (“green lightning”), and blowing my conch shell horn to announce my return. Then onto my motorcycle and off to the beach.

High School choices on St. Thomas were interesting.  There was a Catholic school, an Anglican school, a public high school, and one private non-sectarian institution, named Antilles School.  Given the choice of going to one of the religious schools where chapel was required, going to the “blackboard jungle” public school, or to Antilles, was a no-brainer: Antilles it was to be.

I was in the 10th grade.  Every boy from 9th through 12th grade was on the football team.  There were a total of twelve guys on the team.  Only one of us weighed more than 150 pounds... so that made me the second heaviest guy on the team.

Actually, only the public high school had a sizable football-ready population.  So we played six-man tackle.  Most of us played both defense and offense.  As the smallest school -- with the lightest players -- there was no way we could win by brawn.  It had to be brains.

There's Number 41, with his back shyly to the camera.

Our coach -- also social studies teacher and graphic artist -- was Eric Winter.  Mr. Winter was somewhat over six feet tall, lean and wiry, with a thick close black beard.  He was also a gymnast.  Every man on the team learned how to roll and flip.  I remember him telling us how he was once standing on a porch that collapsed.  He said a shoulder roll saved his life.  That was enough for me.  I perfected the shoulder roll.  (It came in real handy once when we were kicking off.  I was running down field when I was blocked hard and low.  I went into a roll and, to my surprise and delight, I did a complete flip in the air, landed on my feet, and kept on running.  My number was 41.  After the game, a group of little kids ran up to me calling “Forty-one! Forty-one!")

I had never played organized football before.  Growing up in the suburbs of New York City during the era of the Donna Reed Show and My Three Sons, my friends (Jewish, Italian, and Irish) and I played touch football in the street.  During my first practice with the Antilles Hurricanes, Mr. Winter tried me out at middle linebacker.  I made an interception on the first play.  Mr. Winter was impressed.  Later I sat on the tailgate of the Jeep to get a drink from the water cooler.  The tailgate collapsed, and the water crashed to the ground.  Mr. Winter was not so impressed, not to mention the thirsty team members.

Sigh. The nose is fine. But the nickname is great!

 Each one of us had a nickname.  Mine was “The Hawk.”  It was a name I gave to myself, in my adolescent self-consciousness about my rather large proboscis.  On my locker was printed, in red letters dripping blood: “Beware the wrath of the Hawk.”

Eventually, I was settled into the position of defensive center, based on my massive 150- pound weight.  John Hamber was the assistant coach.  Mr. Hamber was an ex-Navy Seal who ran a scuba diving, snorkeling, and sailing business on the island.  He was massive, in a muscular way.  I think his calves were bigger around than my thighs.  He taught me one thing that was crucial to my position.  I learned from him how to get off the line like a rocket.  Keep your eye on the ball.  As soon as the offensive center barely moves it, you’re off the line.  Don’t waste time standing up.  Stay low, and move fast, and target the quarterback.  Always keep your forward momentum.

There are moments of clarity in a game that come once in a while, like a gift.  It was third down, on the Anglican ten yard line.  They had one more chance to get a first down.  The quarterback was in shotgun position.  At the hike, I was off the line low and fast.  Then I saw it.  The Anglican left end was coming around for the handoff.  I knew it wasn’t a fake.  I just knew it.  The quarterback had his back to me.  Instead of targeting the QB, I tore over to where I knew the left end would be at the moment he received the ball.  I was invisible.  I was a shadow.  I was a blur.   I was their worst nightmare.  I was The Hawk.  Low and fast.  The handoff.  BOOM! 

As he slowly tried to get up and hobble off the field, that left end was incredulous. “Where did he come from ??!!!”

The brothers, now Judean Rebels

There’s more.  And it all came rushing back to me a few weeks ago when I went to Kraft Field to see the Judean Rebels play.  Dovid Eastman, my son-in-law, and his super-star brother Dani play on the Judean Rebels, coached by their father, Avi Eastman (better known to many of you as “Dearly Beloved”).  The unpretentious simplicity of the the  60-yard field. The concrete stands.  The anxious coach stalking the sidelines.  Mrs. Coach sweating it out off to the side unwilling or unable to sit down.  My daughter screaming so it could be heard in Beit Shemesh -- “Dovid Eastman!  Dovid Eastman!  He’s my husband!” 

I got my varsity letter, and I made the All-Island team three years in a row.  Antilles even came in second place one year -- behind undefeated High School -- whose players were 23 years old, weighed 250 pounds, had big teeth, and one eye in the middle of their forehead.  But the skinny kids were able to give ‘em a run for their money by dazzling them with plays that would make Rube Goldberg jealous.

It was an experience I never want to forget.  And the lessons learned are enduring.  Teamwork, strength, confidence, fair play, achdut.  In these days when sports has become so self-serving and commercial, I’m proud to see Avi out there reaming out his team for an unsportsmanlike play.  It warms me to know that there are young men out there learning “the right stuff.”

Eventually of course, I ended up back at the synagogue, running my toes through the sand, listening to Torah, and preparing for the touchdowns that HKBH expected of me on and off the field for the rest of my life.

Epilogue: About ten years ago, my wife and I went to St. Thomas for a short vacation.  I heard somehow that Eric Winter - coach, gymnast, artist, teacher - had recently died from ALS (Amyotropic Lateral Sclerosis, aka Lou Gehrig’s disease).  I decided to go pay my respects to Mr. Winter’s wife, who was working in one of the shops on Main Street in Charlotte Amalie.  I had the opportunity to tell her how much her husband had meant to me.

While I was there, a St. Thomian saw my tzitzis, and he asked me if I was an “Israelite.”  I had to think about it a second.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

Glossary:

Achdut: togetherness, unity

HKBH: one of the many names for God - HaKadosh Baruch Hu (The Holy One, Blessed is He)

Winter Cold and Mushroom Barley Soup

Yom revi'i, 7 Shevat 5774.

It's been about a month since Snowfesh Hagadol, the big snowstorm of 2013.

Being snowed in for a few days has long been a favorite Eastman tradition; and it is always a pleasure to be able to recreate this rare experience in the Holy Land. Rather than suffering "cabin fever," as many people do, we enjoy being locked up together, with no particular place to go.

I did say "well-used," yes? Click to embiggen.

There is also the opportunity to make delicious soups, more welcome even than in normal cold weather. During the storm, I decided to pull out my trusty and well-used Moosewood Cookbook (1977), by Mollie Katzen, and make her Mushroom-Barley Soup, a favorite of all my guys.

Over the years, I've learned many tricks about cooking, from -- among others -- my mother, and from my friend  Marc Gottlieb (who is a chef de cuisine and fellow blogger).

Mama taught me about choosing mushrooms, and about how to prepare them. Fresh mushrooms still have closed caps. (You can certainly still use mushrooms once the caps have begun to open; but they are nicest when still closed.) She taught me not to wash mushrooms, lest the water cause them to break down and get mushy. Rather, she recommended peeling the mushrooms to expose the lovely white flesh underneath. Marc and I disagree about the necessity for this -- but sometimes tradition wins out.

Marc taught me a wonderful little secret about garlic. Every year at Pesach time, I buy bunches of fresh garlic at the shuk, and hang them outside to dry. In the past, I would throw away the long stalk, and only use the head of the garlic. But tucked away inside the stalk are several little "baby garlics," quite intense in flavor and -- let's face it -- adorable.

Hidden gold, and worth the effort.

Who would have thought garlic could be cute?

So putting the soup together is straightforward, but photo-worthy.

I have not yet found dry sherry in Israel; so I settle for dry white wine.

This kashrut symbol delights me, as it points out that the factory is Sabbath-observant.

A chance to show off a favorite invention: the French butter keeper. The butter stays fresh and spreadable, on the counter. Every once in a while, I understand Julia Child's fascination with French cookery.

Another tool I love. Besides mincing everything from garlic to herbs to nuts beautifully, this curved board and blade are very cathartic. Ask all of the seminary girls who've come to my kitchen and methodically chopped their anxieties to bits.

Sauté onion in butter. Add garlic.

Now it's time for the mushrooms. (Do I hear my Dearly Beloved in the background? "But there's not mush room in the pan..." Yes, his jokes are old. But he is such a fun guy.)

This soup is great "as is" -- but a little grated Parmesan makes it perfect.

And à la La Child -- don't forget the nice, crisp white wine.

 A month ago, I rewarded the Dearly Beloved for cleaning the thirty-three steps down to our apartment of ice with a nice, hot bowl of soup. (Note to self: never take for granted that your husband is easy to please.)

Taking out all the recycling in that weather earned him seconds. (Thank you, dear friend.)

I love warm, sunny weather. I love spring breezes and crisp autumn chill. I love winter, with its time for solitude and introspection, getting close and warming ourselves over hot soup and warm friendship.

Yesterday, I got the pleasure of making the soup again for very special friends, my mechutenet, and for my friend and fellow blogger Shprintz. (You can check out her heartwarming posts about the Israel she loves and misses at her blog Remember Jerusalem, dedicated to her dear father, "Avraham Shalom ben Chaim Yoel, a"h, whose flair for photography, penchant for prose and love of the Land inspire" her blog.

My bracha to all of us: May we share many bowls of soup, over long, healthy, happy years... right here in Israel.

Mollie's Mushroom-Barley Soup ingredients

Glossary:
Snowfesh Hagadol: An invented term, "the great snow vacation." The word for vacation is "chofesh." Some clever wag pointed out that the snow was giving us a big vacation, a "snowfesh" gadol.
Kashrut: kosher, according to Jewish dietary laws
Mechutenet: This word does not exist in English. It means "my married child's spouse's mother." But it's not referring to my son's relationship with his mother-in-law. That word would be "chotenet" or "chamot." What makes this designation unique is that it refers to my relationship with my son's mother-in-law. Cool, eh?

Proof that Washers DO Eat Socks

Yom rishon, 19 Tevet 5774.

The Hebrew expression of the day is "שקית רשת." A sakit reshet is a net bag. It has a zipper closure, costs less than five shekels, and could have saved me several hundred shekels.

During "Snowfesh Hagadol," the great snowstorm of 2013, not only did the power go out at interesting times, but our washing machine also died, creating a flood that kept me from being bored for several hours during the middle of being snowed in.

Being happily responsible for the laundry of several humans, it was imperative that we get the thing fixed as soon as possible. It was a question of whether it had been used to death, and would need to be replaced, or could be reasonably repaired to limp along for a few years.

We checked the GushPhon Classified Business listing -- a marvelous tool I highly recommend for both residents of Gush Etzion and people anxious to share their skills. There were several entries; and I chose to give a call to Zvika Hershkowitz. (Or Tzvika -- yes, the listing is in both transliterations, like so many other things in Israel).

I no longer worry about silly little things like creating the perfectly fluent Hebrew request for service, as I have found that between my pidgin Hebrew and Yiddish, and their pidgin English, we can usually work out what is the problem. Zvika said he was up to his eyeballs (my phrase, rather than his, as I don't think that expression even exists in Hebrew) with fixing the electricity in synagogues and other crises far more important than my little washing machine troubles. We agreed I would call him later in the week. I called this morning, and he made time to come by.

I asked him what he thought it would cost to fix the washing machine, and incidentally to make the dryer function without roaring us to the brink of auditory insanity. He gave me a reasonable quote up front. This was good. If he'd quoted me an hourly rate, I would have been simmering quietly, as he got perhaps ten calls during his visit. Popular guy. I could see why: As things fell off the walls and into his path, he kept saying "Ain baya, ain baya (no problem, no problem)," very cheerfully. (It's a very tiny room, and storage in Israeli apartments is at a premium.)

Zvika finished the work in under an hour, explaining the problem in detail (various socks, and something reminiscent of Sixties paraphernalia (I'll speak to my sons about that one...), and how to avoid such problems in the future.


As he cheerfully took my money -- thank God, we had stashed some for just such an occurrence -- he gave me the Jewish mother lecture I have come to expect from every worker in Israel.  Translated: "If you will use a zippered net bag for socks and small items, you can spend the money on that, instead of giving it to me." And, of course, clean out the pockets.

When I asked him how long he thought my washer and dryer might last, he pointed heavenward. "Machar, machartayim, eser shanim... rak Hashem yodea." (Tomorrow, day after tomorrow, ten years... only God knows.) I love frum (religious) workmen for their honest reliance on the One Above.

Inaugural Post: For My Mama, a"h

Yom chamishi, 16 Tevet 5774.

Mama, in Washington DC, 1993

December is my mother's month.

She was born today, 76 years ago. Christmas was her favorite holiday, with Halloween a close second. (If you do not know me, and you are not a regular reader of my blogs, you will not have known that I was not born Jewish. Story later.) She was not religious, probably not even a Christian -- though she believed in God -- but she loved color and light and the kindness people dust off and bring out during this holiday season. She was a snowdrift and snowflake lover, with the good sense to know the value of a warm fire and a cup of mulled cider. She loved good food and good company. She knew a little bit about a lot of things, had a remarkable native wisdom, and a beautiful singing voice, which her grandchildren have inherited.

I have been writing since I was a child. I started blogging several years ago, mostly at Ki Yachol Nuchal!," all about making aliyah to Israel. It has been such a pleasure to write that blog, to explore, with you, my new life in this land. I have also written several posts for the Times of Israel, using the device "To my dear sons" -- advice about marriage and child-rearing, thinly disguised as advice for my children (so people would perhaps be less likely to think me pompous).

I have pretty much said what I needed to say in the first forum, and have felt a bit constrained by the latter. Lately I've been wanting to create a new blog, without boundaries, so I could say whatever is on my mind, without a specific format. If it gets too far afield, I suspect you will let me know.

This must have been around 1970, in California.

It mattered to me to have a starting date for this new project. I thought that honoring Mama would be a good beginning, as she was my beginning, and a good story in her own right. By honoring her, I also hope to honor my sisters and brother, who fulfilled her desire of absolutely being their own selves -- diametrically different, completely unique -- but tied together by a deep desire to continue as family, no matter what. She would have been proud, I think, of the way they and their children and their children are turning out. I know that I am.

She loved costumes and makeup. She also loved Purim!

Like the previous blogs, this blog will have stories unique to Israel, and advice about raising kids and staying happily married. I've lived more than a half a century, and I have learned some things; so it seems worthwhile to share. I have a ton to learn; and if you're with me on the journey, we can make discoveries together. Because there is no specific format, the stories and advice will have history and recipes and rages (no doubt) and maybe even a few things I've never been brave enough before to explore in written form: questions about God, about Judaism, about the philosophy of being human.

Please give me your bracha, your blessing, for success.

Mama's cane, and a photo of my son and his son, next to a photo of Mama and me.

Mama, my prayer is that we make you proud. You so deserve to be proud of your work in this world!