Sunset of September 12th marked the Jewish New Year of Rosh Hashanah. Since the Hebrew calendar is based on a lunar schedule, Jewish holidays tend to move around within our standard solar way of tracking time. Having a couple of days off, I went out to see my parents on Long Island to celebrate. One of the traditions of Rosh Hashanah is to throw bread into water, representing the casting off of sin in order to start the New Year afresh. Frankly, I think that, plus eating apples and honey, is a vast improvement over silly hats, counting backwards, and vomit.
We went down a private road unto a public access path (yes, that does sound contradictory) that led to Moriches’s Bay. Most people don’t know where that is, except if you remember the catastrophe of TWA flight 800, the jetsam of which fell over that spot. Actually, I was on the phone with my mom at the moment of the explosion and she commented that she thought she heard thunder. It was a beautiful day to toss pieces of bread into the water and I enjoyed standing on the white sand and watching tiny fish in their schools envelope the chunks as hermit crabs busily scurried off someplace apparently very important.
So I hope all my Hebs in the house had a great New Year. While this last year started reasonably well for me, the second half progressively got worse until the last months, weeks, and days turned into a nightmare. And though few of my years have been particular good, I can only hope that I, and all of you, have the best of luck in 5768. Even if it didn’t start getting drunk in Times Square.