The Festival of Lights Begins

The Lovely One and Wak on Chain Bridge, Budapest, by night

Happy Chanukah, one and all.

My fair city celebrates the beginning of the eight nights with brief appearances by two of the dimmest, densest and most Dextreme of the Republican candidates vying for the GOP Presidential nomination — Michele Bachmann and Rick Perry.* Although extremely tempted to attend their noxious appearances in Our Town and batter them with difficult but justified questions, I will instead merely note their undesirable presences here and instead buy some groceries (pop, made almost affordable with a coupon, and if available, some cauliflower and broccoli to be made, perhaps tomorrow, into a veg curry Iʼve been intending to invent**). At my belovedʼs unstated request, I will leave the two disappointed wannabes to preen unhindered and pristinely unrealistic for the intended, fawning audience they have come to stroke.

some of each kind of the mentioned possible Chanukah reading, skill-lessly posed for your pleasure

Anyway, I thought Iʼd make a brief post (at long last) to commemorate the start of the holiday. Having unintentionally, as I once mentioned, nearly terrified my mother that I might convert to Judaism (thanks to my growing collection of books, actually read and often annotated, on the subject), when I realize that another of the many holidays, High Holy Days, or festivals has come around again, I take gentle notice and sometimes pull out my English Mishnah or Tanakh (or portion thereof) or Kabbalah and while away (or possibly waste) an afternoon or evening or several in pseudo-religious reverie/not exactly study. (Of course, for all their supposed devotion to Israel — merely in reality to fulfill their Fundamentalist-nonsense silly end-times schedules/programs — my aforementioned Christian Right intolerants in the region today would  probably eviscerate me for such, however idle, behavior — certainly so if I chose instead to peruse the Qurʼan for equally indolent, valid, scholarly reasons.)

[I donʼt think, looking at the books I have chosen to photograph, that I ever told about our honeymoon. The Lovely One had intended for us to vacation in Bermuda, a place to which I have never yet gone, right after our marriage in 1982. We had planned to wed on the Saturday following the final teacher workshop and head directly off that Sunday to bliss in the Atlantic. That was the year that our then-superintendent in Andrew famously could not count to 180, the necessary number of days required by the state of Iowa for a school to hold students in attendance each year, and we endured a really harsh winter with about a dozen snow days.*** Both situations extended the school year in fits and starts that finally prohibited yet one more rescheduling of our tropical honeymoon. So instead, we went to (not exactly) exotic and not-so-distant Minneapolis for a week (a full week after our wedding), and during our stay my new bride accompanied me to several Jewish bookstores — particularly Brochinʼs from which the Artscroll Ecclesiastes and the first volume of the Seder Moed derived.**** I got a lot of peculiar looks as I perused the shelves, but The Lovely One, who fancies she has some of the appropriate ethnic look, was accepted quite merrily. Irrelevantly, but perhaps connected to another religion, it was also on that trip that I had to leave the new wife alone in a middle eastern restaurant, sipping many cups of Turkish coffee, while I hurried back to our hotel room to retrieve my forgotten wallet as quickly as I could so we could pay for our meal.]

And that concludes our Chanukah portion of todayʼs post.

I havenʼt forgotten to continue my Budapest travelogue; I have just gotten wasteful of my time (again, as usual — the unfortunate theme of this year that I am trying to change — again — just now). I had thought that I had written roughly four days of our experience in Hungary, but I discovered that I was mistaken. I had merely taken notes to help myself remember what we did each day; thus the chore of recapturing and writing about the splendid (if wet) week abroad got harder, hard enough for me to forget to accomplish any further posts.

However, I do intend to correct that lapse into inauthentic laxity (and addictive behavior, wasting my time online — curse you, Mark Zuckerberg), although in searching the blog for the links included today, I also realize that this yearʼs posts have developed a sad and sorry theme of “Iʼll write on that — whatever-‘that’-may-be — soon”).

So we have a climactic cliffhanger. Will the decrepit old man actually keep to his intentions for once and complete the travelogue? Or, typically for 2011, not?

Find out soon. (But not tomorrow, as I already have a post prepared, promised, via snail mail, to some fifty supposedly eager recipients of Burrow Christmas cards.)

* And the other Rick keeps stomping around the state, pointlessly, as well, speaking today just down Dylanʼs Highway 61 in Bettendorf (or Davenport — I donʼt remember which, although I am sure that local news anchor Gary Metevier will mumble his way wretchedly through a pointless story about Santorumʼs visit).

**  — not really: it will be merely a version of the fish (or chicken) curry I mentioned a year ago. Even so, such variation is (or well may be) experimental for me.

*** And we did indeed in those distant days march manfully to school through at least three feet of snow, uphill both ways.

**** Both the hardback Mishnah in the picture and the paperback on the Sefer Yetzirah are later acquistions.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

2 thoughts on “The Festival of Lights Begins

  1. ‘And we did indeed in those distant days march manfully to school through at least three feet of snow, uphill both ways.’ I know I did. Even if it was only a block and a half, it was uphill both ways.

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