It might be my age. It might be what our world has become. It might be weariness of the whole thing. This year’s High Holy Days had a whole different effect on me. I have written before that I was raised in a home that could be called “Not Jewish.” I didn’t celebrated my bar mitzvah until I was 40. My family never went to synagogue until I had children of my own.
It was, as I have written, my father. His father, my grandfather, was again, as I have written before, a dyed-in-the-wool Socialist. His father, that would be my great-grandfather, was a nasty, unforgiving and, according to family his...
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