It is that special time of year when we sit as a family around the dining room table and hold hands to give thanks for the bounty before us: a 20-pound turkey, homemade pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce cooked early this morning, and those delicious, filling sweet potatoes that make you realize when you have finally overdone it. This holiday however, more than ever, I feel gratitude for my life and what I have, and distress for those to whom this warm Thanksgiving scene is a mere fantasy. I dread the headlines when I unfold the New York Times, with the columns of print describing so much destruction and human suffering going on in the world, from Gaza and Ukraine to a Native American reservation in Texas. The news, whether on television, social media, or in our daily newspapers, is replete with these stories, some as close to me as West Palm Beach. Just a mile over the north bridge, in Currie Park, there is a homeless encampment with dozens of lost souls—the mentally ill, the abjectly poor, the addicted—living in squalor. It is a microcosm of what is going on across the country in almost every city. How is it that we, the wealthiest nation in the world, cannot look after the poorest and weakest among us? I know we say we care, yet the suffering goes on. This Thanksgiving I commit to do more than lament the tragedy. I will offer support to local organizations, such as The Lord’s Place and The Salvation Army, as well as the food pantries that are the lifelines for so many. I am not asking others to join me in doing this, but if your Thanksgiving is something like the scene I described above, and you find there is much to be grateful for, maybe there is a way you too can bring a bit of joy and uplift to some downtrodden spirits this Thanksgiving.
Author: Lenny Ackerman
Lunch with My Rabbi
I have been lunching regularly with my local Rabbi here in Florida since 2017 when I joined his synagogue. I enjoy his company and find him a particularly good sounding board for personal issues, but today’s lunch was not about me. I was curious to hear his thoughts on the events of October 7th, when Hamas terrorists drove into Israel to murder 1400 people before taking over 200 hostages. The Rabbi said his temple congregants had responded by providing assistance to Israel –some had donated ambulances to replace the ones hijacked by Hamas after killing the drivers who were rushing to aid the victims of the attack. He talked about of the resilience of the Israeli people and how we in the United States must overcome the feelings of inadequacy in seeing such a horrific attack from afar, and that we must resist the tendency to compare what happened in Israel to the Holocaust of World War II. He spoke of a recent ceremony at his temple during which scrolls hidden from the Nazis were brought out in a celebration of truth, having survived the war. I asked him about the resurgence of anti-Semitism. His response was that, in his view, social media has been a principal culprit in pushing the rhetoric forward and giving “permission” to the obvious agitators. “People will say things on social media that they will not say to your face.” I said I was troubled for the future of my children and grandchildren, but the Rabbi was optimistic. “I don’t see current anti-Semitism as comparable to Germany during the 1930s and 1940s. It is bad, but not as bad as some think.” His words were calming and left me feeling less anxious about the disturbing current events. We talked about news propaganda coming out of Gaza perpetrated by Hamas showing Israel bombing hospitals. My prayers are with the families devastated in Israel, yet I cannot help but feel empathy for the one and a half million children in Gaza. Like the rest of the world, I await proof that Hamas in fact hides under hospitals.
I Need a Break
Since the horrendous October 7 attack on Israel, I have suffered nightmares and had thoughts of myself in the position of those border kibbutzim fending off the Hamas attackers. My emotional reaction is nothing compared to what the families of those lost and taken hostage are experiencing, yet I continue to be haunted by the horror of what happened there. I called many of my friends both Jewish and gentile to talk through my feelings. I read many news analyses and opinion pieces in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal. I visited a nondenominational house of worship. And finally, I made a call to my local rabbi for a lunch date. Yet these attempts to allay my fears were not sufficient to calm the waters. So, I resorted to what I have relied upon over the last 35 years for relaxation and repose: I went fishing. Captain Charlie out of Jupiter Point inlet was available midweek and I booked an early meet at his marina. I looked forward to a morning on the Loxahatchee River in an open boat, the sun rising from the marshland of western central Florida. The wind was from the northwest as we pushed through the Intercoastal to the river. We awaited the bridge rising after a Brightline train crossed, traveling south from Orlando. Our bird companions –osprey and an occasional eagle –trailed us as we sped west; the cloud cover creating shadows along the river route. There was an occasional tarpon rolling close to the mangroves, but they eluded my bait. I was intent on catching snook, who were sunning themselves on the surface of the 78-degree water. The morning was all fishing and no catching. Captain Charlie, intending to soften the blow that I was not connecting with any fish and would likely be going home emptyhanded said, “Fish have heads and tails—nothing in between.” I guess he meant they were brainless. Nevertheless, I was calm and, for a while, the tense thoughts had receded. As we waited at the bridge on our return a train sped by and I sensed I was back to reality. My thoughts turned to planning another break– a trip to Bray’s Island in South Carolina for redfish.
Not a Good Day
I awoke this bright, cloudless day in anticipation of the first painting class of the season at the Armory Arts Center in West Palm. In preparation for it I worked over the weekend drawing the series of dog portraits which will be part of my new collection of watercolors to be shown at the Blueberry Festival in Kennebunk in July. Since last May I have drawn numerous hunting and fishing landscapes to broaden the subject of my art. I looked forward to a quiet afternoon with no Apple watch or cell phone to interrupt my studio time. Once in class, with only a few newbies and the teacher available to help me finish off a number of paintings, I had a relaxing and productive session. It was one of those days when I felt contented and peaceful, very much like sitting on my dock at camp in Maine, with only the sound of the lake water lapping against the rocks. Yet times are not peaceful in my home waters. Upon exiting the studio, I lowered myself into my car and of course reached for my phone. There were scores of missed calls and emails. Office business I assumed. Yet the messages were not the usual legal matters. Our tiny hamlet of Montauk – population 3,563—had been vandalized the previous evening with swastikas painted on the walls and windows of businesses owned by Jewish merchants. Many of the messages on my phone were from friends and colleagues calling to offer their support.
I was stunned and frightened by the news. I have never been attacked as a Jew like this. It was personal even though they were not my properties that were vandalized. Who would do this? How does an individual have the anger and hatred to paint swastikas on someone’s private property, in public view? Where does the anger come from? Why are you threatening Jews therefore me and my family? What is the failure in our society that allows this to happen? The First Amendment doesn’t cover this kind of hate speech. Where has basic human decency gone?
Over the past year, I have been studying the origins of the Holocaust in connection with research for a book I am writing about my family who, in 1939, were murdered in Ukraine because they were Jewish. I found that the Holocaust began in the 1800s with the pogroms in Eastern Europe and culminated with the murder of six million Jews during Hitler’s reign. Yet here it is 2023 in Montauk, New York, and images from the Nazi era are front and center on the main street of a tiny beach town known for surfing and deep-sea fishing. “Jeden Die” –a misspelling of the German “Juden”– was sprayed in bold black letters on a wooden fence, the meaning loud and clear despite the perpetrator’s ignorance. These are chilling echoes of the past. Must I live in fear now, just like my grandparents did?
We need to confront the person or persons responsible and ask, “Why do you do this? Why do you hate me?”
October 7th
For the last several years my pal Max and I have organized a monthly lunch meet at Swifty’s in Palm Beach. We invite an assortment of friends and guests representing the arts, finance, medicine, government service and retirees settled in south Florida. This week’s lunch was our first of the ’23-’24 season. Only half the usual gang showed – the others are still making their way back to Palm Beach from their summer or permanent homes up north. The conversation centered mostly on our recent travels – fishing in Idaho, visiting abroad. After the brief travelogue, our talk turned to the events in Israel following the Hamas attack on October 7th. We discussed the humanitarian crisis as well as the strategic avenues available to Israel in dealing with Hamas and the potential invasion of Gaza. Clearly October 7th stood out as a date of remembrance of the terrorist attack on Israel and the murder and mutilation of innocent Israelis. The suffering of the children on both sides of the conflict was a particular concern now that Israel is firing on Gaza in retaliation. My friends around the lunch table all commented on the post-attack media focusing on the children in peril and the disturbing images of bloodstained children’s beds. After the worst terrorist attack on American soil– the destruction of the World Trade Center twin towers –the videos and photojournalism did not show the child victims of the attack, as there were no images to capture.
There is no simple, one-sentence solution to freeing hostages, or ending Hamas’ reign of terror, or saving innocent Palestinian children’s lives. Yet 9/11 teaches us not to act out of passion and anger and vengeance. The aftermath of 9/11 with the military incursion in Afghanistan and Iraq left many Americans unsupportive of our government’s anti-terrorism policy. President Biden has personally expressed to Israeli leaders the lessons learned. For Israel it is a difficult and troublesome path forward.
Our Hearts Are Restless
The usual condensation on the windows and glass doors had evaporated during the night so I awoke to the sun shining brightly throughout the house. The heavy humidity had finally subsided and the air was breathable despite the 82-degree temperature. My Sunday schedule was open –no office, no tennis, only the papers to read on a sunny, breezy morning, comfortable on my patio. Yet the day was not peaceful in the world, especially in the Middle East. The human devastation on both sides of the Israeli-Hamas conflict is harrowing. Patti suggested it would be a good time to sit among other churchgoers at the Royal Poinciana Chapel, a non-denominational house of worship. Such a response would be unusual for me. Even after 9/11, I only wanted to be with my family, huddled at the Carlyle Hotel in New York as the day’s events unraveled. Yet this time I accepted the idea of listening to the comforting and judicious words of a clergyman, hopefully bent on soothing our hearts during this time of unbridled human destruction.
The parishioners were friendly and we found a pew close enough for me to clearly hear the pastor. His sermon was entitled, “Our Hearts Are Restless.” He spoke about a recent summer trip with his family to Israel and about his support for Israel. He was very comfortable in Jerusalem as he visited the sacred sites. However, upon visiting Bethlehem, a city in the area governed by the Palestinian Authority, he felt some hostility from the locals when he identified himself as an American. He invited us all to a public rally for Israel in West Palm Beach that afternoon organized by clergy from different denominations.
My heart is restless over the imminent Israeli invasion into Gaza, where Israeli hostages are held—and where there are many innocent children. I try to balance this response against the deadly terrorism by Hamas only a week ago upon Israeli communities and kibbutzim along the border. I cannot watch the pictures on the news of the children in both Israel and Gaza suffering. I find some solace in the words of the pastor: “Look to God for your comfort and protection.”
I waited until the very end of the line to greet the pastor. I shook his hand and introduced myself. I expressed my appreciation for his sermon. I told him I am a member of a synagogue down the road and he asked me to convey his best wishes to my Rabbi.
I am ready and stronghearted for tomorrow’s news, horrific as it certainly will be.
Why I Am Still Working
The Wall Street Journal recently ran an article entitled “Why High-Powered People Are Working in Their 80s.” It is especially relevant to me since I am about to celebrate my 84th birthday next week. Anyone following my columns knows that I am still driven and enthusiastic about my law practice. I am frequently asked why I continue to work, mostly by friends who are retired. Those of us in our 80s who still practice a profession know how lucky we are to be fit enough both mentally and physically to answer a client’s questions or diagnose a patient’s ills. I look forward to the Zoom calls and attacking an issue that needs a prompt solving strategy. My longtime clients attest to thefact that I am as responsive and timely in dealing with legal issues as someone intheir 30s. I never ran from the challenge of a tough question and still don’t. Occasionally I lose my patience when a simple task is made more complicated by the inexperienced associate. Yet I am reminded often that I made similar mistakes when I was a young lawyer. Notwithstanding my inexperience, I started my career with the same work ethic I had as a youngster, then college and law school: I never left a cluttered desk and completed every task even if I had to stay up at night. Working is my primary daytime activity and I truly enjoy having a “day job”. Of course, I occasionally play golf, fish the morning, or read a book, but above all I look forward to the everyday routine of practicing law. The Journal article accuses many of us as unable to “quit their careers.” Yes that may be true. I worked hard to study law, pass the bar, and spent some 50 years working my tail off to secure a living for my family. I am looking forward to celebrating my birthday and the prospect of being at my desk the following morning fielding calls and helping my clients and my partners solve problems. And of course, I truly enjoy getting paid. Many of my professional colleagues are seniors like me. We have practiced together locally since the 1970s. We have a camaraderie of trust and honesty—keeping our word—among the most important qualities in my field of practice.
Storage Lockers
Recently the New York Times reported about an older gentleman, living in a studio apartment in Manhattan, who kept a storage facility in Queens for an accumulation of family heirlooms. He came from an illustrious European background, and the items were of historic and sentimental value. All were lost when the fellow was hospitalized, and several monthly storage bills went unpaid. The article resonated with me because for many years I questioned the necessity and expense of storage offsite from our home. I finally succumbed in Maine when I needed room for my summer furniture, motorboat, and canoe, and reluctantly agreed to rent a garage for the winter months. The New York Times story of that man’s loss of family treasures is indeed a sad tale –and a worrisome reminder, in terms of the need to deal with the daily routine of disposing of the unnecessary, the unworn, the out of date and the sentimental. Too often the response is “let’s put it in the basement” or “I will lose weight and fit into that jacket next year” or “this curio belonged to my grandmother so I can’t throw it away.” So many of us stave off the hard work of discarding, using any excuse. Finding the emotional distance to get rid of a cherished but no longer useful piece of furniture or family memento is obviously a challenge. The tale of the storage facility in Queens is an example of not meeting that challenge. I face it when I finish a book I have really enjoyed. Unable to pass it along or donate to the local library, I build more bookshelves. I have a new office-library building at my camp in Maine. It holds my accumulation of books going back to the 1970s. Clothing is a bit easier, except for my collection of army uniforms which I still hang on to. In my last column I wrote about my father’s gift to me of an authentic Civil War sword, which I have taken from western New York to East Hampton to Maine. My first Indian Racer bicycle stayed with me for some 30 years after leaving home upstate. There is an emotional attachment to certain things that is hard to break, yet I am mindful that if I don’t dispose of the excess, it will be a task left for my children and I don’t want to be their burden. I have no more room anywhere for tchotchkes. My New Year’s resolution is to clean up and clear out.
Dad’s Civil War Sword
I cannot recall exactly when my father told me the story of how he acquired his famous Civil War sword. He had collected junk and castoffs during his time peddling in western New York in the mid 1920’s and found the sword in a pile of debris from a household somewhere around Elmira, New York. My father lived on and off for several years in Elmira, near his brother, Sam, who was newly married and had established a small grocery store business there. My parents were not yet married at that time. I picture my father –a handsome, tall, robust youth of around 18, a recent immigrant to the U.S., driving a wagon with a raggedy old horse. He would later graduate to an early 1920’s Model T truck for his travels throughout upstate. My father relished that he had found this antique, valuable sword dated l864. He promised it to me as a child as I was the only one of my siblings to show any interest in it. My brother and sister perhaps knew better. Occasionally he would take me down to the root cellar of our home on Navarre Road in Rochester and show me the rusted metal scabbard in which the sword was encased. It was so rusted the sword could only be removed with some effort. The sword, later wrapped in an old blanket, has been with me since the old house was sold in the 1970s. It remained in the basement of our East Hampton home in a corner for years, still rusted and dusty. Then in 2018, when I was gathering “stuff” to send to my fishing camp in Maine, I packed it up along with my older fishing equipment, winter clothes, my Indian racer bike and numerous tchotchkes that would decorate the place that came to be called Camp Kabrook.
Now I come to the present. I am sitting in a barber chair in Minneapolis, awaiting a shave. We are visiting some of Patti’s college friends from Northwestern and I am getting ready to attend a “Beatles” concert in which one of the friend’s husbands plays the keyboards. I see a book on the counter of Civil War stories. I engage the barber and learn that he is a Civil War re-enactor in Battery H, 5th Regiment of Artillery. He participates in recreating the battle at Chickamauga that took place in southeastern Tennessee and northwestern Georgia in 1863. I told the barber my Civil War sword story and he asked me if it was an officer’s sword. No, it was a common calvary saber made of steel and brass, the handle wrapped in leather. He said he wished he had an original sword for his re-enactments as they use replicas. He related his passion for Civil War history and talked about how there were numerous volunteers from the Minneapolis area who sympathized with the North and meandered down the Mississippi River to join Union forces. He said children visiting his reenactment camp query him and his fellow soldiers on the history of the Civil War and said few people these days realize the human cost of that conflict. Most of the volunteers from the era were youngsters no more than 18 years old. I told my new friend about a recent column I had written –“July 4, 2022”– on Stephen Crane’s The Red Bag of Courage, and how the narrator is also an adolescent Civil War volunteer. I asked what keeps him continually interested in doing the re-enactments and he said, “I want the young people to understand that war is not a fun game of shooting off cannons but violent and devastating. The re-enactments keep history alive for new generations.” It was a terrific shave.
Fall Visit 2023
It was our last weekend in New York City this fall before our return to Florida for the season. Coming up for air from the incredibly exciting U.S. Tennis Open, I anticipated quiet streets and empty restaurants with tennis journeymen having left town. But that is not the case this week. The United Nations is in session and traffic is backed up; police are everywhere with streets closed for dignitaries housed in various hotels in midtown. Those long black SUVs cruise the streets with police escorts. POTUS is in town, which doubles the congestion and traffic. Yet New York is weather glorious this week. Coming off a hurricane at camp with rain for the entire time I was hosting my high school buddies, I was relieved to be able to walk around raincoat free. In New York, the streets were empty of the homeless during U.N. week. I suspect they were relocated to nearby shelters and hotels to create the impression to visitors that our homeless problem is under control. Now the sidewalks were crowded with back-to-back pedestrians. The countless delegates to the United Nations were here to speak to human rights issues, the war in Ukraine, climate change and terrorism among other important matters. Patti and I made our way to a lecture on the scientific advances in treating Alzheimer’s disease, sponsored by the Melvin R. Goodes Prize for Excellence in drug discovery. That night we attended Lincoln Center for a New York Ballet performance given in celebration of their 75th anniversary. It was soothing after the hectic day. Tomorrow, we head to Minneapolis to support an ill friend of Patti’s from her alma mater, Northwestern University. All in all, a busy few days before we head south. I have a few stops to make before I leave for the airport: a visit to the Hunter College bookstore and the new art supply department in their basement and the Society Library at 79th Street where I will do some research on my forthcoming book about my father. The working title is “Leibish’s Journey to America.” The daily news about the growing number of illegal immigrants entering in through our southern border always makes me think of my father as a 12-year-old uneducated child in Ukraine, taken by horse cart to a rail depot with only his book of prayers in hand to occupy him and a rucksack filled with homemade bread, meats and cheese to carry him through a weeklong ride across Europe to Hamburg, where he stowed away on a ship. I see the photos in the New York Times of a Venezuelan father carrying his child through the treacherous Darien Gap in mud up to their necks. I think of Leibish’s journey, through foreign lands, with no one to hold him as he cried himself to sleep at night. All of these emotions come to mind as I visit New York in the fall of 2023. I savor the pleasant moments, especially with my hot mug of coffee and copy of the New York Times.
Here Back East 