Huntington Beach Halloween for Donna

I still remember what my Cantor from San Diego told his members. Life is 95 percent bull shit and five percent worth living. No doubt m time spent in his Jewish Sanctuary on Bolsa Chica and Warner is a part of my five percent. Today's post is about a Halloween lunch-party at the new Senior Center in Huntington Beach. 

 A wheel-chaired lady is pushed towards a table, but nobody gives them permission to sit at their table's  Senior Center  Halloween lunch. Her daughter steers he Mom my way with one hand  on the handles and the other her smart phone. Her mother seems lost and anxious to leave.
   "You are welcomed to sit at my table."The disgruntled daughter smiles and her hand accepts the my invitation. Our table sits six and we have one empty space today. Our back table accepts those willing to partake in laughter and fun. I make them sign a paper releasing us if they die of laughter while choking on food.
  " Told  Mom  she had to get out of my house. All she does is watch game shows...my name is Debra and this is my Mom Donna."
   "My pleasure to meet you. May I help you with her chair. No I'll fold the wheel chair and place it beside her. I'll be back later, after the lunch.." "By Mom."
    Soon Andrew the Swede sits down and hands me two aviation magazines. He made  parts for a the planes during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. He began the business in 1976 when he employed thirty workers inside his Huntington Beach plant.  He is well dressed and as always wears tight upgraded blue jeans and a blue shirt. He smiles while I introduce Donna to him.
    "So Donna, what brings you here to the Senior Center?"
     "I live with my daughter now.  I used to live in Lakewood and before that Anaheim. My doctor took my driver's license from me!"
      "Why,... may I ask?"
      "I can't remember anything these days and have no patience for bingo. It and bridge bore me. Earlier I had a weight problem so my two knees needed replacement."
       Donna begins to smile. By ten o'clock the other five tables are full. Tina asks me permission for her friends to sit at the "funny table," named by Irene who is not present.  Tony  and I make the table rock and roll...And speaking of Tommy, he has just arrived and squeezes in. He had been taking a exercise class with a long stick outside.
        Tommy is tall husky. He played basketball for Loyola Marymont and  average 16 and one half points a day before he graduated and got a job for the Boy's Club of America. He also worked as an administrator for Octa, or the Orange County Transit authority
        "Let me introduce you to Donna Tommy...By the way I wondered Donna if your were a fan of walking and staying out in the sun. A girl friend of mine has severe dementia and never introduced herself to Mr. Sun."
         "I was a stay at home Mom and took care of my two daughters and two boys. One died at twenty five due to renal failure. He had complained of a foul odor from his mouth and the doctors gave him medicine that did not work. I have been fond of salsa and the only time I tried to ride a bike I fell off and never again approached those handle bars."
          "Tell me about your husband. When did he die?"
          "Fourteen years ago at 70. I am eighty years old...We had a good marriage. He did not gamble smoke or drink., but I had to do it his way, 'or else'. By that time the volunteers began to serve the pot roast with salad and potatoes. I placed her on her wheel chair and swung her around to the sounds of the computerized two piece band. The two piece band were playing Donna.  After the senior lunch, I feel invigorated and  write the above which you have read. But it was a story about a synagogue member that I wish to remember and write about it now.

Rabbi Birkowitz, of Temple Israel,reminded us that  we should honor our pledges to honor God and change some of our bad habits during this month of October...After a long morning of prayer, I looked forward to a the kiddish when a family member observes and date of death of a family member. it is called "Yahreitz"
  After the morning service, a member sometimes honors a father or mother by donating money for a lavish lunch in the dinning area. Sliced lox, herring, salads, cakes, pickles and olives and a drum full of beans are placed at the table and Rebe Birkowitz gives the blessing before the hungry mass scrambles to pick up a plate and their favorite food.
   "David, will you speak about your Dad...Please people, stop talking and take a seat." f
   The Reb continues to beg for quiet but some have already had their share of spirits to relax and savor the gamely feast on the table. David is tan, well tan, and speaks English using a Iranian accent.
     " My Dad's Dad died when he was only five years of age. He was thrown into the street and had to work and beg at an early age. The Mullahs forbade us to own stores so we carried our wares on our back in a small Iranian town. 
"My Dad, like many, bought fabric from larger store but did not pay for it. The carried the fabric by donkey from village to village. My Dad had a good friend in one of these towns, and while he was enjoying his company, a distraught Jewish merchant walked into the store. 
 'Have a problem. I sold fabric to a lady and now she wishes to return the pieces, all of them. I have already cut them up and can't take all of them without suffering a loss."
  "While speaking, a mullah gets off his donkey and listens in. The Mullah is he Moselle leader in the community and tells us that a Moslem's word is the law. He upbraids the seller and tells him to return the money to the buyer, since she is a Moslem."
    "That evening, my Dad can't sleep. the owner of the  house  has each person sleeping in a different room. In one room is the owners young daughter, the Mullah in another, and David's dad and his owner friend in one."
     "My Dad was restless that evening so for some reason he entered the girls room. The young pretty girl shouts and he scurries back to his bedroom. The owner enters and and asks him why he had entered the bedroom of his daughter. Just then, his daughter, Marian thunders into the room with the headdress of the Mullah." 
      "The Dad scampers into the room of the head of the mosque. Besides the bearded man is  his sword. He grabs it and is about to take off his head when David's Dad intercepts his hand and tells all now,  that it was him." 
       "Now Marian intercedes and tells her father it was her who had invited him to her bedchamber." 
       It was now one o'clock and had to leave before the end had been told by David. Yet I remember what this month is all about, and it is about doing things differently and taking chances.
         
     
   
   

 
 



     
   
 
 

 

The Huntington Beach Senior Center.

"Mam, you don't need makeup -- your red lips is all you need."
     The petite Asian lady sat at the table in the back next to the coffee and water. Another Islander tried to sell her some makeup and that was my cue -- and I don't mean billiards. Well I saw her again but this time the little lady with those bright red lips spoke to me.
      The piano at the Huntington Senior Center is wedged in between the activity rooms and the registration desk. I love to play the one hundred year old piano every time I enter the new building off of Talbert, just west of the Central Library. The dark Red Lips spoke to me during our lunch at new Senior Center.
       "Where did you learn to play the piano so well. You sound great."
       "Well Mrs. Red Lips, as your gift is knowing how to paint your lips, my gift is playing the white keys on the piano. I never need to think since my fingers do it all for me...and by the way, do you have any more of those guavas?"(She had passed the fruit out to all but me.)
        "Listen, just show up for Halloween on Monday, and I'l have a bag for you. My back yard tree is just loaded with the fruit, and as you probably know, it is good for your stomach."
         Red Lipstick told me that she worked as a nurse in Newport Beach and continued to make small talk with me. She looked lively and when I saw the red sport's car she drove, I wished to paint my lips a bright red too.
Besides the piano, I enjoy mixing it up with other seniors and enjoying the food. When my pockets are bare, I don't even have to pay for the food, although they suggest a three collar contribution. For those under 62, it is five dollars.
   Well today, the eighteenth of October, I felt particularly fine before our plate of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and carrots was served. The Swede had placed a dollar on the piano, as usual and some dang gal placed another bill on top of his. I had been playing songs from Oklahoma and My Fair Lady and several old denizens had sat behind me.
    When got up to leave, I took another look at the bill. Well you just wouldn't believe it but Alexander Hamilton smiled at me -- it was a wrinkled bill with a phone number written with red ink on it.
    But as I got all the attention in the piano room, the Swede got his at our table. A gal with a a lot of meat and potato on her frame came up to him and gave Andy a long warm hug. I felt cheated.
     "Mam, I need a hug today. They returned my brother Mel from emergency. He had had a tooth ache...and what is your name may I ask your name."
      "Why Mr. Blue Eyes, my knick name is Honey Bunny. She came over and gave me such a hug and I had trouble detaching from her great trunk. Now I must have made an impression on her since when I left, the married lady ran after me.
       "You forgot to say good-by. Just give me another hug and I will let you go!"
No longer depressed, I am tickled to death that I decided to go on two buses to the Senior Center, where it looks as if I have a following."
        Bonnie came after me early on and I played some songs from Phantom of the Opera.  
        
   
       
       
       
       
red lips spoke to me. 

Huntington Beach Halloween Story

Dragging their feet, that's right...those in charge of the health and sanity of my brother are taking their diddly time about it. At least he is eating better now, now that I grill his hamburgers at home, and use a Trader Joe's onion and bun it over a Trader Joe's bun.
   Why two days ago for dinner he was served a little sliced plane pizza, and of course with a little juice glass and a milk. Last night it was a few macaroni  strands and again the milk carton and the juice. Of course I had brought him his filler, the nice Trader Joe's hamburger so he would not starve to death.
   Today I feel like singing. I treated myself to a Trader Joe's 12 ounces of uncured Black Forrest Bacon, and fried a few Trader Joe eggs to keep the bacon company. You just can't beat Trader Joe's bacon. The fresh bread I bought from the Java, straight out of the oven.
   Last night's call from Connie Glickman made my day. She telephoned me to let me know that the Pico Bag Lady was now out of her house. The Bag Lady, earlier in the year, tricked her in allowing her to rent a room inside her Beverly Wood home. Unknown to Glickman, was that the bag lady had an arrest record and had been going from house to house for many years.
   "We paid her off...One thousand to leave the house. At least I can rest in peace now and allow my bruises to heal. The West L.A. police bungled the arrest early in the year when she threw me to the ground. They came but told me they needed hard evidence to arrest her."
    Now you can see why I felt so happy and ate bacon for the first time in one month. The Bag Lady of Pico went by several names, but I called her Susie the Slicer. She had cut up the couch and placed salt everywhere. She stole from the refrigerator and made Connie's life a nightmare.
But back to my brother Mel. His head still hurt and he could not move his neck without pain. I even went to the Huntington Hospital to complain to Tony, a supervisor there. His discharge papers warned that if the ear infection got to the point where he could not move his head, the alarm the doctors.And that is what I did. I do believe there must have been a cover up, since a Dr. Jennings from Happy Trails Senior Apartments should have cured Mel's ear problem moons ago. 
   Nurse David told me that his doctor informed him of the brain cancer. I will never forget what the social worker told me a week after Mel had been admitted to the health center.
   "Mel is walking now so that we will be sending him back to Henry Goodfellow and is assistant living facility now."
    "That is the trouble with all of you young kids. You move the pieces without thinking. Mel needs to verify that his ear infection is cleared to go. He still has pain in his neck."
 Just to much trouble for me lately, so I needed to change gears. On Saturday, I bused it to the air show. The Thunder Birds would do their devilish dances in the air. But for me, it was a perfect day. You could touch Catalina Island if you owned a wide view camera  The sets broke from way back and it was a thrill to watch the surfers catch the wave and zing in and out of the while water until the wave had vanished.
   No matter what the age, these lads were in tip top shape. The one in front of me did a few handstands after he had slipped on the wet suit and pranced gingerly into the white water and ducked when a wave came his way. Timing when to caress the wave was crucial. I had seen an ambulance take a swimmer away with a board to hold his neck in place. At least he could still wave his hands to signal all was well.
   The boardwalk or concrete walk was an avalanche of beach goers walling south to Beach to watch the (not finished.)

Huntington Beach -- Halloween Story

These events are true, yet the names of the facilities and people have been changed to avoid endless meetings in court appearances. I must thank Washington Irving, a dear friend of mine, for providing the way to becoming a great writer. Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and its story is still in my thoughts this while I ready myself for October the 31st and the birth of my first grand child Olivia. Oh yes, she'll turn six on this day... my treat.

The discovery of rich veins of oil were discovered in Huntington Beach at the turn of the century. Settlers poured into the city that crisscrossed two rivers:  the Santa Ana an Bolsa Chica. Bolsa Chica, or little bag, became a larger when Henry Huntington decided to build railroad track to link up the tracks to Long Beach. Black Gold or oil had been discovered when made a boom town out the city. 
   The little bag became a suitcase and even had its named changed to Huntington.  Thanks to a railroad tycoon Henry Huntington, soon tracks linked the city of Black Oil with  Long Beach. Red cars made the city available to many tourists and workers. 
   My brother Mel  began driving here in the late seventies. He would take his Saturn down south each weekend, and I never knew why he came here until I had visited him in a Assistant Living facility over nine years ago. 
   It could have been Main Street with its many bars and eateries. He worked at the Red Onion for a spell but he probably became intoxicated by the beach women and great surf. Of course forty years ago he could throw a football over sixty yards and had a golden voice that could excite the ladies. 
   He wished my Dad Harry to buy him a condo for a bit over one hundred thousand but he didn't. The money bequeathed to him, a large sum, went mainly to restaurants up and down Beach Blvd, the main artery in Huntington Beach. He became unaware that the hopping to one restaurant after another soon made him obese. His weight mushroomed to over three hundred and fifty pounds. His roll of cash lasted until about nine years ago. I had called him up at the Sahara Motel in Stanton, a little city  located  between Anaheim and Buena Park -- that was about nine years ago. 
    Due to diabetes and a bungled eye operation, he began his stay inside the Lucky Star Assistant Living Apartment about the same time. You probably never ever have heard of Midway City, but it is nothing to sneeze at or you will miss it like I did the first time.  Mel had one dead eye, and one close to death. It's vein leaked so he began shots inside the good eye about seven years ago, to prevent the from going dead.
My stay inside Surf City began over one year ago. I could be closer to one daughter and also help Barney get around driving his car. I first became acquainted with the city built over water last February. I had already saved my brother three times from  certain death, as the Lucky Star offered poor nutrition, a quick fix doctor, and as one patron said, a host of diseases.but will not bore you with the specifics. Before this immediate one, another be
   My phone rang in the early hours of a February morning. I could barely make out the broken English but after several repetitions  city about eight months ago when I visited my brother Barney in the hospital with the same name- but found no fountain anywhere.
   An earlier phone call from the Lucky Star Assistant Living told me that he had been ambulanced to the Fountain Valley Hospital. I passed Low's Hardware, American Tire on Warner Avenue before I descended on the Euclid hospital. I asked a few people its location.
   The Fountain Valley appeared to be a chain of motels, somehow hooked together. Barney, so I was told had suffered a siege of Pneumonia. . He had been staying at the Lucky Star Assistant Living Center inside Midway City for about eight years. On four occasions I had the fortune find him there close to death and made sure he received prompt attention. But a flashback to his first operation will get this new legend started.
   As usual, Huntington Beach incurred another heat wave, and me without a workable AC inside my car. I carried a large bottle of water as I entered the hospital and did the usual. A worker led me to his room. Inside the doorway was a mammoth turd inside a portable potty. The noxious aroma swept me back off of my feet. Of course nobody works on Sunday so the bowel movement probably had to wait for another day.  Immovable Mel  had a tube running up his nose and an IV inside his arm. I visited the Vietnamese speaking nursing center
  "Mel needs water and maybe a different medication!"
  I just knew that a steady diet of chicken in all flavors and forms had been the culprit. He hated the food at the this so-called assistant living center. Somehow I made it to the hospital and found a friendly bush to avail myself of my own bladder problems. Inside the hospital the receptionist could not find the name of Barney's  name in the register . Of course, like most Latin's, understanding English was a impossible. I wrote down his name and she sent me to his room.
     I had visions of my brother flying in the air holding onto a massive Norm's T-boned steak. Inside the room Mel was asleep with his purplish looking ankles peering out of the bed. His bad eye opened enough to see me.
     '"Is that you Barney? I am hungry, get me something to eat."  Down the street I removed a few dollars and bought him a burger and fries. Mel stood up in bed and smiled he cheated death again from the Lucky Star Assistant Living center.
      About a month later, I found him at what looked like a motel in Santa Ana. off of Beach Blvd. I had bought him a blueberry pie from Knott's Berry Farm and another burger. On a tread mill he was walking and smiled when he saw me and the food I had brought. He had a visitor. Sir Henry Goodfellow, the owner of the Lucky Star facility.
       Sir Henry walked as if had suffered with hemorrhoids all of his life. His sucked-in cheeks never knew what is was to smile. He appeared to be sleep walking. Each bed meant over one thousand dollars for this transplant from the Ukraine. His Dad had built an apartment and turned it into an assistant living center for his only child.  He made sure to fill each bed  so he could buy a brand new jag each year. He lived in San Clemente, no doubt in a home overlooking the best surf boarding waves in the country.
      "I have saved a bed for Mel. He will be leaving here shortly."
Two weeks later, I visited him again. He looked chipper and wished me to drive him to Norms, down the street for the usual, chicken gumbo, salad, and a T-bone with a potato and hash browns. His pants, as usual, slid down his large un-shy torso while we sauntered into Norms on Beach Blvd.
   The waitress did not need to ask Mel  his order. The Lucky Star never had steak or salad, two items that had kept him alive all of these years. But it was that chicken gumbo soup that came alive.  In fact, Barney could almost dance with his favorite soup. But it was the T-bone steak that he wished to devour, bone and all.
    I needed to cut the steak for him. Legally blind in both eyes, he could still see the second line of the Snellen eye chart. Barney  ate each bite like it would be his last. Every fiber of that steak was not safe from Barney's  palate, when he still owned enough canines to cut each piece to threads.
    Mel, or so I thought, turned into a German Shepard while he attacked the bone. Yes even the bone was not safe from Mel's prodigious appetite -- or so I thought. But the Lucky Star never served steak or even salad, keeping Barney on a low nutrition diet.  
About four weeks ago on a Sunday afternoon, I paid my five dollars to eat again with my brother Barney . The dining room area hosted about twenty tables that seated forty residents. Most used wheel chairs or walkers to enter this feeding area.
  "Is that you, George?"
  He seemed listless and could not see or cut his food. Hell I knew the problem, even if one of his table mates thought he did not care for the food. I cut his thin-sliced brisket, cut it up, and attempted to feed him.
  "c...c..c..c..c" like the car's starter that could not negotiate a turn, Barney  began to cough up the food I had shoveled inside his gullet. His head leaned to one side and his only seeing eye closed. He didn't move."
   Puss rolled down his closed left eye. He felt clammy. I knew that he hadn't been eating due to the lack of sight, and possibly his crazy roommate had provided a new disease for Mel, like the double Pneumonia he had contacted last February and almost died. The Latina manager entered the dining room.
   In hysterical English, she muttered, "What Mel not eating...Let me try to make him eat!"
    "Mam, can you phone for am ambulance....Please get an ambulance!"
    Finally she called for an ambulance. Members of the Orange County Fire Department checked his blood pressure and did not move him. The ambulance, as always, followed  few minutes later. They picked him up and asked about me. (The Fire Department bills the user over $1,500 for each pick up.)
    "I'm his brother. Can I ride along with you?"
    "Not our policy, but ...sure come along."
     "Hope the Huntington Hospital is your destination."
     "Yep, you're in luck."
    By seven that night, he finally was moved to a room and I said my good-by to Mel. The hospital was only a mile to my senior Apartment but I waited to catch the 29 bus off of Beach Blvd. A Dr. Gray called me the next day, and she spoke with patience and concern.
    "Melvyn has diabetes, a bladder infection, an eye one too, and also an infected ear."
 "Do me a favor Dr. Gray. If he goes to another rehab place, please send him closer to me than Anaheim. Two days later, I again went with an ambulance and she must have listened to my plea, as he was moved to the Happy Trails Nursing Home, a block from me.
     That first  day was on a Saturday during another Huntington Beach heat wave. The Happy Trails Nursing home did not feel happy that morn since they did not have electricity. Each room carried two beds. The linen was off the patient and all prayed for the electric to be back shortly Yet from ten until that evening, it felt hot and clammy inside.
      Well the heat wave continued, but with a restored AC system, it was OK to breath again. Mel still could not get out of bed -- and to put it bluntly he was dead weight. I fed him the mud cakes brought in from the kitchen galley down the hall.
       You probably guessed it by now. Whatever the mush happened to be, each guest in the Happy Trails Nursing home received the same food -- mush. Of course my brother was mad. Why he, like me had been weaned on meat and enormous salads by our Mom Edith.
        I told Jacob at the sign-in station and he forwarded the message to the kitchen. Mel now was more content. But he still had those mammoth headaches, and blindness. The social worker made an appointment for me to go to an eye specialist in Fountain Valley. The place was packed with the old, retched and blind, many taking advantage of free medical Obama care.
        During week two, a shuttle picked us up and  we visited a Dr. Do in a medical facility. The shuttle driver had trouble finding a parking place so he parked and I wheeled Mel into a small office room on the third floor.
         We did not have long to wait, even though the receptionist did not get the forms from the Happy Trails. A Mexican family was ahead of us. Finally I pushed Mel inside Dr. Do's room. With his only living eye, he recognized him as the one who treated him inside the Huntington Hospital.
      The Vietnamese doctor did not look a day over ninety five. Thin and severely bent over, his gait was slow as he re-examined Mel's left ear. He told me to have a see-see also
       "See that lump, it is cancer. We need to remove it and make a skin graft." He removed a bit of puss from the ear and afterwards, had a form written out for the Happy Trails Nursing Home.  "We need to set up an operation with Dr. Gray now." He seemed alarmed and nervous as he spoke about the lump in the ear drum.
       Of course  I thought about my operation way back in 2010 of August. I knew then how important it was to remove the tumor quickly- ever so quickly- or it might spread to other organs. In my case, he got it all. Even a few months back, I had another growth removed, whole in Irvine.  I knew the severity of removing  the core.
     Mel began to look more alive. I bought hamburger patties from Trader Joe's along with the usual of onion and tomato. Mel smiled with each bite. Even the galley down the hall provided him with salads and meat cakes. But a change, a big change came over my brother Mel. The headaches became like a kettle drum beating everywhere. Could it be the ear lobe cancer had spread -- too late for an operation. (Cont.on next post.)
      
    
 
  
   

A Trip to Coffee Bean off Pico

These events occurred in Los Angeles as well as Huntington Beach. Again riding the rails seemed to be the only way to car it to Los Angles without screaming obscenities. I took the 29 bus out of Huntington beach in the early morn and made it to the Metro-Link station in Buena Park.
The seven o'clock Metro Link train made two stops before its last at the Union Station. The Asians made up most of the passenger list as they are too smart to head into grid lock on our outdated freeways. In the early morning hours, the 5 freeway became a parking lot for five hours to allow the ambulances, tow trucks and investigators to do their jog. By the 405 freeway, a Torrance oil refinery blew its stack causing drivers to click on their window wipers.
    But smarty pants, me, took my $3.&50 cent train ticket and tapped it on a turnstile for a ride underground on the Purple Line train out of Union Station. I sat down with my knap sack and finished off two hard boiled before train whistled to our first stop, Civic Center....
     "Our next stop is Seventh Street.  Don't forget to bump your tap card again if transferring on the Blue or Expo line. Our next stop is Vermont. Those who wish to transfer to the Red Line can get off here on the way to the valley and Universal City.
      Western, the end of the line, was my stop. From there I counted out fifty cents in change and deposited the coins into drop box. The ride on the Blue Rapid felt great. I could get all the way to Pico's Coffee Bean on Pico by riding one bus. The bus drives south on Crenshaw and picks up workers at each stop. With each stop more and more Santa Monica College students enter with a few homeless.
       Elm streets looms up. I pull the cord and exit to the Glatt Market where I bought a large plum for one dollar and twenty a pound and three navel oranges ripe to eat at 69 cents. I knew the oranges would be sweet if there skin felt like a baby's.  .
       Up the street I found my large yellow sun hat. It belonged to my brother Mel's surrogate Mother, Connie Glickman. She smiled and stood up to greet me. We hugged and chatted for awhile. The sun felt a bit hot, but not as hot as yesterday's ninety degrees.
 "How's Mel doin George."
  "He is doin remarkably well when you consider he looked dead a couple of weeks ago. He is now eating and beginning to walk. I make sure the health center provides a lot of salad and meats for him -- unlike the poor quality of food at his assistant living center."
   "What happened. I know he had returned from a two month stay in an Santa Ana hospital and now this!"
     "It is a catch 22. He had suffered from bed bug bites earlier and all of the sheets had been removed. It seems that his psychotic roommate had returned from a hospital twice which may have contributed to his bladder infection, ear problem, and total blindness."
      "By the way, Connie, are you still on one aspirin a day -- and that's all."
       "My eye is my only problem. I can see around me but not right at me."
       "Is the Bag Lady of Pico still living with you?"
        "Got a call from a detective. He needs more evidence to remove her from the back bedroom. But no longer does she throw salt on my bed or steal my food. Apparently a detective talked to her social worker."
        "Excuse me a minute. I need to buy a Mocha. Can I get you anything?"
         She replied in the negative and I got into line for my drink. I noticed that the bag lady was working her lab top to my right. She didn't notice me but was entrenched looking down at phone numbers of future victims of her scam. Her nose was flanked by her long black hair that swept the top of her long black pants. Hence, I have called her the Black Widow.
          Afterwards we took the seven bus up the street to Westwood to see a movie about a women o a train who saw a killing. I backtracked on the bus all the way to Union Station where I took a delayed Metro back to my bus at the station.
          


       

A Tree Grows in Huntington Beach

"You don't need to go  to Brooklyn to become a Jew." 
   Two weeks ago, Rabbi Berkowitz uttered these profound words inside his synagogue on Warner Avenue in he booster shot of religion began over one year ago, October 14th,to be exact, and I feel like a mighty Jewish Oak Tree every where I go. .
   My Jewish train ride began in San Diego about five years ago when I entered a Chabad on Third and Island in San Diego. I began learning Judaic law inside this small store front that back up to a Chinese cleaners. After my move to Huntington Beach, I remembered that my San Diego Rabbi told me he had a rabbi cousin  also living in Surf City,
   Back in October of last year, I suffered a crises, so strong on the 13th of October, that my heart beat like a symphonic kettle drum. The thought of a heart attack came over me when I remembered what Rabbi Carlback had told me back in San Diego..
   "My cousin has a Chabad  in Huntington Beach. Visit the sanctuary when you move there."
Five minutes , yes five minutes inside the Air conditioned synagogue was all I needed. My heart now sang like a piccolo and I put the thirteenth of October behind me. The little old bearded Rabbi had a smile I could never forget. Not only could he look and speak like a  Jewish Rabbi, but his anecdotes about the theme or Pasha of the day put into a spell that soften each day. .
  Now that was about one year ago. I now read from the Torah and bless my seeds or children on each Saturday, It is my way t shield off the thoughts of a car stolen, and the kiddish has provided me with the nourishment needed to finish the month..
  It takes me four buses to arrive there on Warner. There is always a seat and the friendly faces of Benny, Kenny and a few others to help me forget my problems. A mixed salad, beans, horse radish , bread, chips pickles and herring, salmon make up the feast that begins at about twelve thirty. I even have forgotten about my car Dolly, stolen from my apartment building.
   There is something to be said about chasing buses to bring one closer to God but the time and wait is worth it. I can read and study waiting or taking a bus ride to and from the synagogue each Saturday. and hopefully will get a car soon.
    The Saturday services begin at nine o'clock and end with kids singing "Ankaylohano" or something like that. It is great seeing a kid of five reading from the Torah. To me it feels like a picnic in the park but instead of food, the words clean my soul with their content. A word i have  become familiar with is Yahrzeit, or the week before the birthday of one deceased. S speech is made by a family member about their loved one. For this year, I hope to speak and understand Hebrew and spread the word of Hashem to Jews throughout the world. 
    Happy Yom Kipper. Of course I have become the mighty Oak Tree whose fruit will be blessed and mightier than me. And you don't need to go to Brookly to become a Jew, it is right here is Surf City U.S.A.