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Rogue Rabbi

A Spiritual Quest â" from Seminary to Ashram and Beyond

ECW PRESS

GROWING UP JEWISH ON THE FLATLAND

Regina 1935–1954

This is my birth moment
the coming of my soul
into humanity
the God moment
kissed by the angels
delivered to my task
This is the moment of my earthing
When I breathe my first
and ask not to forget
my holy guides
This is the moment of greeting
my new keepers
who shall harvest
and sift me
from the chaff
This is the moment
when God and I
smile at each other
wish one another well
and promise to write

I was born at the General Hospital in Regina, Saskatchewan on June 8, 1935 at 7:10 a.m. central standard time. It wasn't pretty. According to reports from my mother, my father, and my father's older brother, Israel, I was very wrinkled, very red, somewhat misshapen, and crying bitter tears. My dad told me many years later that as they viewed me through the maternity ward window, his brother suggested I be given a return ticket. My dad also told me that both my mother and I almost died; I was a breech birth — I came out feet first, wanting to test the waters before wading in (or out).

The first weeks of my new life were not much different from the first minutes. I continued to struggle for survival, as my mother (pre-La Leche League) was unable to provide me with natural nutrients, and I refused all attempts at substitutions. I was literally starving to death. My pediatrician and parents were beside themselves, bringing to my lips a variety of liquids, trying to encourage me to eat (or drink). I can imagine their panic, intermingled with cooing and tears and probably some well-intentioned stuffing. All to no avail. I was wasting away and, from lack of strength, crying with less enthusiasm. Finally, someone suggested Carnation milk. I drank like there was no tomorrow (as there almost wasn't). I am eternally grateful to the Carnation milk company (I have no shares) and to the unknown angel who made the suggestion. To this day, seventy-five years later, I always have Carnation milk in my fridge and use it instead of cream. Sometimes I just stare at the can with gratitude.

My earliest memory dates from when I was about two or three. At the time, we lived at 1838 Ottawa Street (no longer there) in a side-by-side duplex, which we referred to as a "double house." A half block away, on the other side of the street, at 1819 Ottawa (also no longer there), lived my maternal grandparents. I was still wearing sleepers and sleeping in a bed with an adjustable side. It was probably a crib, either because I was too young to have a regular bed, or more likely because my parents were unable to afford one at the time.

One sunny summer morning, I awoke from a nap and called for my mother. There was no reply. I called again and again. Still no answer. I began to panic, and when shrill screaming brought no response, I took matters into my own hands and climbed over the railing. I don't know how I accomplished this, especially since I had never done it before. I presume it was one of those moments I've heard about, where extraordinary feats of strength and daring come to the fore at a time of perceived crisis. At any rate, there I was, all thirty or so pounds of me, running out the front door in my sleepers and heading to my grandparents' house. Now, in those days, sleepers had a bum flap, and I realized as I was running that my flap was fully open and my derriere exposed for all to see (not that there was anyone around). I was too anxious to get to my grandparents to stop and try to button it up, which I doubt I could have done anyway, since I had never buttoned anything before, let alone something that was behind me. So, with one hand trying unsuccessfully to hold up the flap (I guess modesty is innate), I burst through my grandparents' side door into the kitchen, where I found my mother talking to her mother. I recall yelling and screaming at her for abandoning me. Of course I didn't use that term, but I do remember the sentiment. She never did that again, and thereafter always took me with her on frequent visits to my grandmother. When I asked my mother about the incident many years later, she told me that, upon leaving me alone, she would always ask the woman who lived next door in the double house to listen for me and check up on me periodically, but the neighbour had failed to do so on this occasion. In fairness, some years later the woman next door saved my life.

Since the little boy
left uncovered his bottom
much has occurred
to uncover his top

I was born in the middle of the Great Depression. My parents both had to work hard to make ends meet, and my father, despite a somewhat withered leg from polio, never complained or turned down a job, even when it meant walking a lot or carrying heavy weights. I was left during the day with a part-time nanny. The first nanny's tenure came to an abrupt end one evening when my parents decided to go out to a movie, a rare occurrence for them. They had gotten no farther than the end of the block when my mother had an uneasy feeling and said she wanted to return to the house. They came onto the porch quietly and, upon looking through the door window, saw the nanny dumping my food into the sink and then spanking me. She was dismissed on the spot. What else she might have done to me during the days when my parents were at work is not known. It's possible that my stuttering and an unusual nervous illness, which several years later required me to miss a year of school, may have had their roots in what happened with that nanny.

After that I had other nannies, all of them competent and caring, but my favourite was Suzy. She was a great fan of the country singer Wilf Carter and would sing his songs and listen to him on the radio for hours. I trace my love of country music back to Suzy, who was also a good sport and very kind.

One day when I was about six, as I watched Suzy ironing clothes in the living room at 1838 Ottawa Street, I developed a burning curiosity to look under her skirt. It had occurred to me that women were different from men, and I thought that if I looked under Suzy's skirt, I might find out exactly what the difference was, as I had heard that this was where it lay. I crept up near her, pretending I was playing, and when the opportune moment presented itself, placed my head between her feet and looked up. This was my introduction to bloomers. Suzy caught me in the act, and I made her promise she wouldn't tell my parents. She kept her word.

On another occasion, I decided to play a joke on her. I had a sled with runners, as did most boys in the neighbourhood. I would run with the sled and then jump on it, skating along the snowbound sidewalk and coasting for maybe ten or fifteen yards. On this particular day Suzy was out walking, so I decided to run at her from behind and knock her feet out from under her with the sled. I was successful, but what I hadn't counted on was Suzy falling on my head. She was fine, my head and neck having cushioned her fall. But I was bruised and very dizzy. She never told my parents about that one, either. To this day, I cherish her memory.

Another memory, which I'm sure accounts for my fondness for almost every kind of vegetable, occurred in the alley behind my home, which was in the middle of the block on the west side. On the other side of the common wall of our double house at 1840 Ottawa Street lived the Lymans and their son Earl, my first best friend. The neighbourhood in general was middle class or a notch below (maybe two notches). No one seemed to have much money, yet the homes (at least the ones I had access to) were for the most part neat and clean. Gardens were big in those days, and many backyards were filled with assorted vegetables, especially carrots, radishes, cucumbers, tomatoes, dill, and cabbages. I was intimately familiar with many of the gardens, because one of our pastimes, as rebellious and hungry young gentlemen, was to raid these treasures of the earth and later compare the loot. The strategy for these daring military-style excursions was for a group of us, usually two to four guys, to await darkness and a bright moon, and then, under cover of night, sneak up, often on our bellies, through the spaces between the rows of vegetables, to inspect and collect the choicest of the day. We had a code to keep each other informed if danger lurked — usually in the form of a suspicious homeowner hearing a noise or seeing a form or shadow, or at times police patrolling the alleyways. The designated raider guard would make a sound such as a cat's meow — one meow meant "stay still," two meows, "get the hell out of there fast." If an owner discovered us, he would of course make chase, but we had the advantage; we were young, we had a head start, and we could usually run faster and farther. The slowest of the group was always designated the raider guard, and would therefore be more distant from the action and in a better position to escape. I don't recall anyone ever actually getting caught, as we would quickly disappear into the night. After a successful raid, we would gather at a safe haven and divvy up the spoils, complimenting those who had managed to procure extra-succulent produce. Then, after cleaning as much dirt from the vegetables as possible (sometimes with a hose), we would have a banquet.

The Second World War happened during the early years of my life, and the military was heavily on our minds, which might in part account for our commando-like vegetable sorties. My buddies and I must have seen every war movie of the time, from Sergeant York to The Halls of Montezuma. Earl's brother Harvey was in the army, and I was always in awe of his uniform and shiny black boots. I remember seeing him once on Eleventh Avenue, saluting an officer as he passed him in front of the Army and Navy Store. "Awesome!" I thought to myself.

Earl and I would play war games, at his place or mine, pretending to be characters from one of the war movies we had seen and acting out scenarios that we made up as we went along. For example, I might be Sergeant York and he Colonel McGuire. The situation was grim; the enemy outnumbered us, yet we had to make a stand:

York: Keep your head down, Colonel. The shells are coming in thick and fast. Watch out on your right! I see someone coming.

McGuire: I got him in my sights, Sergeant. Don't worry. Bang! Pow! One less Hun!

York: Good shooting, Colonel.

McGuire: Thanks, York. Look out. Here comes a Stuka. Boom!

York: Colonel, are you okay? Colonel, answer me! (McGuire is motionless on the bed.) The dirty Huns. They killed the colonel. I'll get them. Ratta tat tat! Ratta tat tat! Take that you slimy bastards!

And so on, through many battles on the mattress behind pillows, in a fort of large wooden boxes, or some other structure that fit our imaginations. Sometimes we were pilots or sailors or commandos. More often than not, someone died. For some reason there was glory in death and pride in avenging the death. Sometimes both Earl and I were killed, which would finish that scenario, but always with vindication at the end. Then we'd go out and have a milkshake.

I was, and still am, fascinated by guns. Just before Harvey enlisted in the army, he made a Luger out of wood and painted it black. I loved that gun and was grateful whenever he let me handle it, at which time I would make sound effects as I shot at an imaginary enemy: "kshh, kshh, bukch, bukch," and "kerch, kerch." (They sounded better than they look in print.)

I wasn't alone in my love of guns. Most of my friends and I had this in common, and we expressed our predatory feelings by buying or making a variety of toy weapons, from cap guns to water pistols to elastic guns. The last was a working device that consisted of a wooden rudimentary gun-like shape with a clothespin attached at the end of the butt. We procured tire tubes (tubeless tires weren't around yet) from gas stations that no longer had a use for them and cut them into rings. These elastics were knotted in one or two places, then stretched from the tip of the gun to the other end and attached to the clothespin. The elastic would be released by pressing down on the bottom of the clothespin. At close range, these missiles could do damage, especially if someone was hit in the eye. So, whenever we took to the back lanes for a fight, we had to agree on simple terms of engagement — no shooting at close range and no aiming at the head. This seemed to work, as I recall no injuries worse than a small welt. It was a lot of fun, running and hiding and shooting and ducking and surrendering when surprise-attacked. At the end of the game, each player reclaimed his elastics, identifying it by the grade or colour of the rubber, although most elastics were black or red. Later, someone invented a wooden rifle using the same clothespin-and-elastic design, but with a slot on top running the length of the barrel, which held an arrow made from a shingle. It was too dangerous to use in our back-alley battles, but we competed to see who could shoot the farthest.

Another small weapon we made ourselves was a bean shooter. This gun-like device was made from two clothespins — one intact, the other disassembled for parts, its spring used as a trigger. The end product would shoot a bean about thirty feet. For bean shooters, we used the same terms of engagement as with elastic guns.

Our back-alley excursions, though occasionally about military battles, were mainly about our other passion, cowboy movies — good guys and bad guys. Each of us had a favourite; my hero was Wild Bill Hickok. He carried one gun on each hip and could draw fast and shoot both guns at the same time with deadly accuracy. Also, he was a good guy. Others we revered were Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, and comic-book heroes like Red Ryder. No one wanted to be a bad guy, especially since in the movies and comics the bad guys always lost. (Darth Vader was not yet born.)

Just after the war, army surplus became a big business. In Regina, the major outlet was the Army and Navy Store. Several members of my family worked there — my mother in ladies' coats and my father in menswear, the latter an occupation he and my mother would eventually take up on their own. My dad's oldest brother, the uncle who was present just after my birth, was a manager at the store. With all these connections, it was inevitable that I too would someday work there, which happened one summer when I was about sixteen. For two months I worked in the basement, in a section that sold military products left over from the war. I was particularly excited to find a large collection of .303 rifles, which were mine to sell. This gave me the opportunity to handle the rifles, or more accurately, to caress them. Each had its own personality, whether it was the colour and grain of the butt or the way light glinted off the barrel. To say I was an enthusiastic salesman would be an understatement. Yet there was a sad element to all of this, because I couldn't help wondering about the history of each rifle. Was its original owner still alive, or maimed? Who, or how many, had he left behind to grieve? I was grateful my father never had to go into the army since his childhood bout with polio had left him with a thin leg and a lifetime limp.

The Army and Navy Store had an in-house detective whose name was Mr. Spiers. I naively asked him one day if he carried a gun. He told me he had a handgun at home but didn't usually carry it when he was at work. I asked him if he could bring it sometime and show it to me. He said he would but never did, until I pestered him so much that finally one day he brought it in and, in a secluded corner of the store, showed it to me. I was very excited and wanted to hold it, but he refused to let me touch it. My disappointment was palpable.

Many years later I did finally get to not only touch a gun but actually fire it, a story that I'll relate further on.

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Excerpted from Rogue Rabbi by Jerry Steinberg. Copyright © 2012 Jerry Steinberg. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
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