COLUMBUS DISCOVERS . . . CACKALACKY
Not too long ago we visited the children in our sister state of North Carolina. My eyes caught a tee-shirt referring to North Carolina as “North Cackalaky.” Odd, I thought, but not odd enough to trace its origin.
A few weeks later while strolling down Main Street of our hometown, Greenville, South Carolina, I beheld another tee-shirt calling South Carolina, “South Cackalacky.” Now my curiosity could not be restrained.
I searched the internet only to find that no one really knew what “cackalacky” meant. There are over 200 definitions, ranging from an Indian word, to the corruption of the name “Carolina” by local mountain people, to the sound of a chicken coop.
I even discovered a website, www.cakalacky.com, which I assumed held definitive authority of the word’s meaning. Their “Cackalacky,” though, is a spicy pepper condiment manufactured in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
I contacted the president of Cackalacky, who turned out to be a landsman Yehudi. But, before I could say a word, he shouted with great surprise, “You aren’t Marc Wilson, the columnist, are you?”
“Yes,” I answered. “How did you know?”
“I read your column in the Judische Allgemeine!”
“Well,” he said, “I have always assumed that ‘cackalcky’ was how the goyim referred to the Yiddish accent of the Jewish peddlers who sold their wares in North and South, Carolina.”
Ah, I thought, not only have the Jews discovered the polio vaccine, theory of relativity and dirigible balloon. They have also given names to two of the original American colonies, North and South, Cackalacky . . . I mean “Carolina.”
Then was Christopher Columbus, who discovered America, also a Jew? We had always heard rumors to that effect. Perhaps he loaded up his ships in 1492 with a Jewish crew to escape the Spanish Inquisition and take refuge in the New World. Perhaps he mustered his crew with the Hebrew cry, “Kacha lechu!” (“This is how we shall go!”). And so they went.
I ask you, doesn’t “kacha lechu” sound just like “cakalacky”? I’ll let you ponder that. But keep in mind: These Jews are a very strange people. So you never know. You never know.
April 26, 2006
April 16, 2006
WORTHINESS, DISCOVERED 35 YEARS LATER
I have done some horrible things in my life, mostly long ago. For most of them, I have been forgiven. I thank God for keeping to a limit those people who still wish me ill and for granting me chances to regain my respect.
I have largely been blessed by forgiveness. But I have yet to forgive myself. Ask Linda about waking up to screaming nightmares and fits of crying at the memory of wrongdoings that cannot be undone. Ask her most about the episodes of self-deprecation and worthlessness. What good has my life ever done? What worthy deed have I ever done that has not been undone by some equal but opposite hurtful act?
Certainly, there are moments of joy. Family celebrations. A loving wife. Delight from my children. Bliss from my grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder whether a man should expect any more sources of happiness.
Saddest of all is that when the morose cycle starts, I simply don’t have the moxie to count my blessings and contrast them to the horrific pain that people I meet every day have suffered. The preoccupation with my own failures and my inability to put insignificant woes in perspective only redoubles my self-perception as a whiner and narcissist.
The month before this Passover brought on one of those hellish pits deeper than I have sustained in years. I suffered a stroke. None of our kids could come to the Seder. The congregation that I’d led for the last four High Holy Days informed me that my services were no longer required. My application for a job at Barnes and Noble was rejected because I was “too smart.” And, to gild my already withering lily, I attended a Shabbat service at which the young rabbi reminded me precisely of my own salad days 30 years ago. Despite therapy and pills, my setback of worthlessness was of immeasurable proportions.
Then a zap emanated from the heart of an incomprehensible God, a seeming manipulation of smoke and mirrors. This, keep in mind, is the very God to whom we whack ourselves on the chest as we mechanically declare our worthlessness. But this is also the very God whose timing is impeccable, and sometimes winks down from Heaven and chuckles, “Just didn’t want you to think that I’ve forgotten you!”
And so, on the Monday of Passover week, when worthlessness seemed its most dismal, an email arrived without fanfare from a student whom I had taught 35 years ago. Am I the same Marc Wilson? Do I remember him? Yes, of course I remember him. I describe his looks and even recall his Hebrew name. He continues:
My parents wanted me to be serous about Hebrew school, but they never thought I would be wearing Tefillin. There was a period I even thought about being a Rabbi. Even though it was so long ago, I do remember you had a passion for teaching. It’s too bad most of my regular teachers never had that. Lastly, I would really like to say thank you. You really did leave me with things I still carry with me to this day and try to pass on to my kids.
How God knew that at that particular moment I was obsessed with the worthlessness of my life is a non-issue. God knows everything. Why God chose to be gracious to me, no one knows, certainly not I. The injustice of God not showering grace upon people who are vastly more deserving, and whose pain is vastly greater, is incomprehensible.
There is simply no way to measure the worthiness for which one receives such a Divine gift. It is a pure manifestation of God’s grace to one who hasn’t earned it, but who is in deepest need. It is given as a reprieve from the depths of self-inflicted hell, a chance to look down upon a gap of 35 years and realize that maybe we did fill it here and there with a shot of inspiration or kindness that has endured.
I have already sent the email for framing. And of this, too, you may be sure: When everyone at our Seder exclaimed, “Next year in Jerusalem!” I shed tears that this year I might attain to a personal Jerusalem in which even small acts of kindness should suffice to banish the demons of worthlessness.
I have done some horrible things in my life, mostly long ago. For most of them, I have been forgiven. I thank God for keeping to a limit those people who still wish me ill and for granting me chances to regain my respect.
I have largely been blessed by forgiveness. But I have yet to forgive myself. Ask Linda about waking up to screaming nightmares and fits of crying at the memory of wrongdoings that cannot be undone. Ask her most about the episodes of self-deprecation and worthlessness. What good has my life ever done? What worthy deed have I ever done that has not been undone by some equal but opposite hurtful act?
Certainly, there are moments of joy. Family celebrations. A loving wife. Delight from my children. Bliss from my grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder whether a man should expect any more sources of happiness.
Saddest of all is that when the morose cycle starts, I simply don’t have the moxie to count my blessings and contrast them to the horrific pain that people I meet every day have suffered. The preoccupation with my own failures and my inability to put insignificant woes in perspective only redoubles my self-perception as a whiner and narcissist.
The month before this Passover brought on one of those hellish pits deeper than I have sustained in years. I suffered a stroke. None of our kids could come to the Seder. The congregation that I’d led for the last four High Holy Days informed me that my services were no longer required. My application for a job at Barnes and Noble was rejected because I was “too smart.” And, to gild my already withering lily, I attended a Shabbat service at which the young rabbi reminded me precisely of my own salad days 30 years ago. Despite therapy and pills, my setback of worthlessness was of immeasurable proportions.
Then a zap emanated from the heart of an incomprehensible God, a seeming manipulation of smoke and mirrors. This, keep in mind, is the very God to whom we whack ourselves on the chest as we mechanically declare our worthlessness. But this is also the very God whose timing is impeccable, and sometimes winks down from Heaven and chuckles, “Just didn’t want you to think that I’ve forgotten you!”
And so, on the Monday of Passover week, when worthlessness seemed its most dismal, an email arrived without fanfare from a student whom I had taught 35 years ago. Am I the same Marc Wilson? Do I remember him? Yes, of course I remember him. I describe his looks and even recall his Hebrew name. He continues:
My parents wanted me to be serous about Hebrew school, but they never thought I would be wearing Tefillin. There was a period I even thought about being a Rabbi. Even though it was so long ago, I do remember you had a passion for teaching. It’s too bad most of my regular teachers never had that. Lastly, I would really like to say thank you. You really did leave me with things I still carry with me to this day and try to pass on to my kids.
How God knew that at that particular moment I was obsessed with the worthlessness of my life is a non-issue. God knows everything. Why God chose to be gracious to me, no one knows, certainly not I. The injustice of God not showering grace upon people who are vastly more deserving, and whose pain is vastly greater, is incomprehensible.
There is simply no way to measure the worthiness for which one receives such a Divine gift. It is a pure manifestation of God’s grace to one who hasn’t earned it, but who is in deepest need. It is given as a reprieve from the depths of self-inflicted hell, a chance to look down upon a gap of 35 years and realize that maybe we did fill it here and there with a shot of inspiration or kindness that has endured.
I have already sent the email for framing. And of this, too, you may be sure: When everyone at our Seder exclaimed, “Next year in Jerusalem!” I shed tears that this year I might attain to a personal Jerusalem in which even small acts of kindness should suffice to banish the demons of worthlessness.
April 02, 2006
UNNATURAL FOOD
One of my greatest pleasures is to baby-sit for my four-year-old granddaughter, Sophie. Naturally, she is a genius and the most beautiful child in the universe.
“Zayde,” she says to me one recent Saturday evening, “I’m hungry.”
“What would you like, my sweet Soshkeleh?” I call her by my mother’s name of endearment.
“Chicken fingers and ketchup.”
“Chicken fingers and ketchup? I can’t give you chicken fingers and ketchup. You know that chickens have no fingers!”
At this point, Soshkeleh realizes that it’s going to be a long, frustrating evening, because Zayde would rather play around with her than feed her supper.
“You know what else you can’t have, Soshkeleh? Boneless chicken wings. After all, how would chickens fly if they didn’t have bones in their wings?”
“Zayde, chickens don’t fly!”
“Nonetheless . . . “ I say. “And you know what else you can’t have? Boneless chicken breast. The chicken would fall over if it didn’t have bones in its breast, whether it could fly or not. It’s just not natural!”
“How about a fish-burger with American cheese?” Now Soshkeleh is more giddy than hungry.
“Look, Soshkeleh,” I admonish her, “I’ve told you before. It’s unnatural. What part of a fish is square? And a fish-burger is just an imitation of a hamburger, so it should be made out of ham, not fish, and since we keep kosher, we can’t have one anyways. Besides, a fish-burger has no bones, so it would flop around in the water, and not play and swim with its friends. No wonder they made it into a sandwich.
“And as far as American cheese is concerned, do you know what the French call French fries? Fried potatoes. Maybe we should call American cheese ‘fried cheese.’ It’s just not natural!”
Poor Soshkeleh. By now, my four-year-old genius has come to the realization that every food is unnatural.
“Zayde, can I pleeeese have something to eat?”
“Well, I tell you, Soshkeleh,” I usually don’t let little girls have dessert before their supper, but just this one time I’ll make an exception. Let’s go for ice cream. I’m warning you of only one thing: You may not order jelly-bean flavor. It’s not natural.”
One of my greatest pleasures is to baby-sit for my four-year-old granddaughter, Sophie. Naturally, she is a genius and the most beautiful child in the universe.
“Zayde,” she says to me one recent Saturday evening, “I’m hungry.”
“What would you like, my sweet Soshkeleh?” I call her by my mother’s name of endearment.
“Chicken fingers and ketchup.”
“Chicken fingers and ketchup? I can’t give you chicken fingers and ketchup. You know that chickens have no fingers!”
At this point, Soshkeleh realizes that it’s going to be a long, frustrating evening, because Zayde would rather play around with her than feed her supper.
“You know what else you can’t have, Soshkeleh? Boneless chicken wings. After all, how would chickens fly if they didn’t have bones in their wings?”
“Zayde, chickens don’t fly!”
“Nonetheless . . . “ I say. “And you know what else you can’t have? Boneless chicken breast. The chicken would fall over if it didn’t have bones in its breast, whether it could fly or not. It’s just not natural!”
“How about a fish-burger with American cheese?” Now Soshkeleh is more giddy than hungry.
“Look, Soshkeleh,” I admonish her, “I’ve told you before. It’s unnatural. What part of a fish is square? And a fish-burger is just an imitation of a hamburger, so it should be made out of ham, not fish, and since we keep kosher, we can’t have one anyways. Besides, a fish-burger has no bones, so it would flop around in the water, and not play and swim with its friends. No wonder they made it into a sandwich.
“And as far as American cheese is concerned, do you know what the French call French fries? Fried potatoes. Maybe we should call American cheese ‘fried cheese.’ It’s just not natural!”
Poor Soshkeleh. By now, my four-year-old genius has come to the realization that every food is unnatural.
“Zayde, can I pleeeese have something to eat?”
“Well, I tell you, Soshkeleh,” I usually don’t let little girls have dessert before their supper, but just this one time I’ll make an exception. Let’s go for ice cream. I’m warning you of only one thing: You may not order jelly-bean flavor. It’s not natural.”
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