In life there are a few significant dates, such as the day you were born, the day you got married, the day you graduate, the day your child is born, the day you die, and for a Jewish boy the day he is a bar mitzvah. Please don’t ask me what day on the Hebrew calendar my bar mitzvah was, but on the one we use everyday in most parts of the world, the Gregorian calendar, it came on leap year day, February 29, 1964. Since the Jewish people follow a lunar calendar the day actually begins and ends at sunset. So, at sundown that Friday, just three days after Cassius Clay who would soon change his name to Mohammed Ali became heavyweight champion, I took on the heavyweight challenge of leading the congregation of my synagogue in the Kiddush, a blessing over wine. As noted before male voices at this age have a tendency to suddenly revert to soprano sounds of childhood rather than maintaining a clear tenor tone. My cantor, who had sung the Kiddush with me numerous times during my soprano years recommended I use the falsetto I was fortunate to possess. It worked that night, but when the main event came the next morning and I sang the maftir I had worked laboriously on for the past twelve months there were squeaks and squeals as bad as fingernails on a chalkboard. Some of you younger readers may have never experienced a chalkboard and so know nothing of the simile I just used to describe the sound, but believe me it is awful. Fortunately, my friends really didn’t care what I sounded like and my aunts still pinched my cheeks and told me how wonderful they thought I was. My parents were always struggling with their finances and while they were thrilled beyond belief to have their son become a bar mitzvah they could not afford to rent out a banquet room and cater a big dinner with a band. So, we had a luncheon in the synagogue social hall that just happened to be in the basement. My parents made sure there was plenty of herring, smoked fish, and lochshen kugel made from egg noodles layered with cream cheese and cottage cheese to which I always added a dollop of sour cream. Of course, the most important part as far as my friends and I were concerned was what was planned for the evening. Since we couldn’t afford to go anywhere my father and I had worked together to get our recreation room ready. We spent hours working together laying the tile floor and putting in a tile ceiling around the light fixtures. Dad recruited a number of firefighters to assist with the wiring and paneling. When the big night arrived we were ready, and while the relatives from out of town gathered upstairs, my friends made their way to the beautiful faux solarium in the basement. On a borrowed stereo phonograph we took turns playing an assortment of 45s and LP records. Most of the titles escape my memory but slow dancing to Gene Pitney and Johnny Mathis had been the standard even when hotshot deejays were hired. But, just a month after their release the needle spent most of its time in the grooves of Introducing and Meet the Beatles, establishing the party in the house on Lancaster Avenue as a complete success. The one unfortunate incident was somebody threw a bowl of popcorn at Janice. A very attractive girl who moved to Milwaukee from Chicago about a year earlier she and Ron had an on again off again romance. Now, I am sure he would not perpetrate such a distasteful and childish prank, but it surprised me when he neither helped clean it up nor console her. I’m just as confused as to what part I played in the events following the popcorn fiasco. But having forgotten to bring my gift to the party, Janice showed up at my house on Sunday, and I still remember the unusually warm smile she gave me. She and Ron continued their on again off again romance until her family made yet another move about a year later. Comments welcome.
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