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CANDLELIGHTING

HOLIDAYS

JUDAISM 101

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    Encapsulating a history where I’ve seen inflation rise and fall, weathered other dire recessions and wondered about covering my next bills, I have respect for the dollar.  I’m far from my Dad who made $10 weekly at his first accounting job in 1940 and even from myself who was proud to earn $95 in the mid-‘60’s as a neophyte reporter.
    Yet, a dollar ain’t no spare change. And if aging gives us not just a perch to judge right from wrong but rather some timeline perspective, then it’s interesting to note where a dollar is spent these days and the import we bring to it. Economists call this ‘extrinsic value’, as different than the gold standard. So it’s all in the eyes and genes of the beholder, and when that spending beholder has lived 60 plus years, you could complain that money doesn’t buy what it used to or you might discover gems in one’s acquisitions.
    With age come reference points. Things always seem to be more or less, better or worse, not as much or even greater.  What excites us is not innocent newness but in the story we tell ourselves compared to another time and place.  This continuity gives depth and a way to place meaning for all we encounter, something that cyber age techies with all their inventiveness are years away from accumulating.
    So back to the dollar and how, within a span of a few hours, this wound up being a micro-decoder of my life through the decades.  All items mentioned here were a dollar even or adding a few pennies with the highest spent being two dollars.
    First purchase was a toasted bagel.  This allowed me to sit outdoor at the cafe, look at the lake, watch the birds and write on my yellow pad. There’s always something I’m writing, whether for the eyes of others or not.  It’s one way I feel alive, creative, connected to the past and hopeful for the future.  I always wanted to be a writer, vocation; now I’m a writer, avocation, and I’m grateful for the ideas and vocabulary that still come my way.  One thing I’m writing is the activities plan for a large family reunion we’re holding over Labor Day.  Writing and planing group activities, two of my favorite things.  How blessed to have time in the sun to do these.  I won’t get ‘paid’ for my efforts, but I feel full indeed. That’s a lot to gain for the price of a bagel.
    Then, I bought a newspaper, “The Afro-American.” It comes out weekly and I buy a copy each month.  I’m trying to keep up with a culture that was central to me for ten years when I did community work in East Baltimore.  From our mostly White, semi-suburban enclave, it’s easy to disconnect. But what I read about are the same issues of disempowerment, higher mortality and morbidity than the general population and a quest for just due which still seems out of grasp for much of two-thirds of the population of this city.  I reflect soberly on whether the efforts of my agency at the time made any real impact.  A chance at historical review for the cost of a slim paper.
    Onto a yard sale under sunny suburban skies. A sweater of pea green with tag that said “cashmere/silk” and “do not dry clean.”  Thus, the light brown stain would probably have to remain.  I bought it anyway.  It had glittery sequins sewn all along the edging.  It seemed like a gorgeous ‘schmata’, what Nicole Kidman might clean house in.  It was an indulgence, a reminder that old and good is still better than new and cheap. This could be my ‘social security’ if government belts are tightened.  A fashion shopper of today might have tossed it out.  As an ager, I held to the past to ride with me into the future.
    And then , euphony.  I heard these sounds as I was doing my grocery store rounds. They came from a shiny brass alto sax lightly fingered by a man standing in the drenching humidity.  Theme songs of the ‘40’s dancing into a stagnant day.  The background to my parents’ courting.  The foreground to me picking up a note of hopeful continuity in the chaos that’s become our daily fare.  I spoke with the player whose voice had the same smooth lilt as his tunes.  I saw dollars stuffed into his music case. I was glad to bend down to put mine in. A mere token to entry to a kinder, softer world.
    All told, I spent five ones and some change.  I certainly learned the value of a dollar.