My Brother's Yarzheit, 5783

Last year, I spoke about the encephalitis my brother Michael suffered when he was 18 months old, and the vicious bullying throughout his childhood and young adulthood.  These left him neurologically and emotionally scarred for life.  I also told you how my parents were heartbroken at how little they could do to alleviate his suffering.

Talking about that was quite an experience for me.  It was touching to feel the empathy from all of you.  More importantly, sure, I babble a lot, but I’m not used to people listening to me.

When I give my little speeches, I throw in a few laugh lines.  I usually get a few chuckles, or maybe some smiles.  I tried this at the end of my talk about Michael and I was met with total, stunned silence. Given the sad story of my brother’s life, that should not have surprised me.

Today, I’ll try to turn that around and give you a happy memory.

My relationship with Michael was awkward, and I struggled with it. Unfortunately, he never really had the chance to develop social skills, and it showed.  He would blurt out all these bits of too much information, weird non sequiturs, and horrible, horrible jokes.

I’m now going to share with you the funniest thing he ever said, and even better, it was at my expense.

It was at my son’s Bar Mitzvah.  Of course, it gave me a chance to tap into my infinite supply of eloquence.  I spoke about the Shehecheyanu blessing, which parents get to recite on such occasions.  This prayer gives thanks for sustaining us to this day, but I usually understand it as sustaining me to this day.  Sorry to leave all of you out.

Of course, it was great to be alive to see Alan reach this milestone, as opposed to being dead, in which case Alan would have had to invent some memories about how much impact I had on his life.  Yeah, right.

But that’s not the only possibility.  What if I were alive, and G-d forbid, Alan was not?  Currently, and in this country, infant mortality is not as common as it has been throughout history.

My great grandfather Henoch was the first Richman to come to America.  This was about 120 years ago.  He lived in Poland and was drafted into the Czar’s army to fight the Russo-Japanese war.  Forward thinking Jew that he was, he decided that east would not be a great direction.  Much better:  go west, young man.

There was a problem.  He was married to my great grandmother Lillian, who had already given him two children, and had one in the oven.  The folks who were helping him said that it would be impossible for him to sneak out with his family.  He had to go alone, and they would follow later.

Which they did.  But when he met them at the dock, he learned that his oldest child, a daughter, had died at during the voyage.  At the time, there were no cell phones, no text messages, and no emails.  The ship must have had a radio, but that wouldn’t have been used for anything as trivial as a child dying.  I can’t imagine the shock that Henoch must have felt.

Something else:  if you experience a tragedy like that these days, you write about it, go on television, or maybe set up a YouTube channel.  Back then, you just didn’t talk about it.  I hadn’t even heard this story until the last of that generation died, just a few years earlier.

Lillian gave Henoch many more children, but another one of them also died young:  my Uncle Philip.  He’s buried not that far from my brother, and I have visited his grave several times.  On the other hand, my aunt was buried at sea.  Those of us who are left don’t even know her name.

Now, I’ve given you the abbreviated version of this story.  At Alan’s Bar Mitzvah, I sprang for a fancy kiddish, I had a captive audience, so of course I was at my long-winded best.  After I tied it all together, I recited the blessing, the congregation responded “amen”, and I headed back to my seat.

At which point Michael said: “Maybe we should say a Shehecheyanu since you stopped talking”.

Shabbat Shalom.