A few days ago, I was out at Sharon Gardens Cemetery.  For work.  I know it sounds bizarre, but what can I say?  I go where my people are, and on that day they were at the cemetery.

When I was finished, I stopped by Jonah’s grave.  It’s kind of weird, of course.  Questions come to mind.  Is he there?  Do I say hello?  But what was most unsettling for me was the difficulty I had in finding a stone to place on his marker.  All I needed was a tiny pebble.  But in a Jewish cemetery, such things have long ago been claimed by others.  To go looking is a bit of a fool’s errand.  Nevertheless, I milled around looking for one that had maybe burrowed its way up from underground, perhaps pushed up by the recent rainfall.  All I knew for certain was that I couldn’t very well steal one off another grave.  It’s not that I didn’t think about doing it.  But I was worried I might get caught.  Worse than by the living, I might be caught by the dead (cue creepy music).  But that’s me.  My imagination tends to get the better of me.

I had the perfect pebble at home.  I’d brought it home from Kutz Camp this summer.  I’d been given it in a program and asked to write something on it to leave behind.  Well, once I’d written Jonah’s name there was simply no way I could leave the pebble behind.  I brought it home with me.  But I could maybe leave it at his grave.  Maybe next time.

I finally located a stone that seemed available (i.e., without moral repercussions) and I left it there.  Mission accomplished.

If I sound a bit flip about this, it’s because, while it’s certainly still sad to go to Jonah’s grave, it’s definitely not as emotionally wrenching as previously.  Jonah’s body has been in the ground for two and a half years.  That’s a long time.  I imagined what was left of him down there (cue more creepy music?) but I didn’t feel particularly emotional about it.  If anything, it became almost a non-event because if Jonah’s body is gone then what’s the big deal about being there?

Still, it’s sacred ground.  And I most definitely acknowledge that. The ritual of the pebble attests.

On the way home, I drove by the Elmsford Reformed Church on Route 9A.  It’s a road we’d drive often, passing by the Revolutionary War cemetery at the church and, one day, stopping in.  Parking the car, Jonah and I spent some time looking at the 200-year-old markers whose letters were so weathered as to be nearly illegible, and whose stones frequently lay flat to the ground, long ago abandoning their assigned task of announcing to all who lies in eternal rest there.  Jonah must have been about ten at the time, and he’d really been fascinated by this little cemetery.  I think he considered our time there to have been a memorable event in our shared lives.  I know I do.  And it’s become a peculiar anchor for my remembering him.

But hey, two and a half years after his death and I’m still grabbing at every memory I can drag out of my brain.  It hasn’t been that long.  I still really miss him.  And if I can find a way to feel (even just a bit) his having been in my life, I’ll take that road.

Billy

I read an article in the New York Times this morning about how a plastic mask used for protests across the world has also created some significant income for its owner, Time Warner (“Masked Protesters Aid Time Warner’s Bottom Line,” New York Times, August 28, 2011). The mask is a haunting one, both because of its design and because it’s hanging on the bedpost in Jonah’s room.

After Jonah died, one of the conduits of information about his life has come from his camera. Jonah took a lot of pictures. Hundreds of them. Usually, I’m able to recognize Jonah’s friends and the places or activities being logged. But one set of photographs from April 2008 (Jonah’s senior year of high school) eluded me. Not a single face was familiar, and I couldn’t understand why this group was hanging around outside the Church of Scientology offices in Manhattan. And why the masks?

The mask, it turns out, was the giveaway. An organization called Anonymous, founded in 2003, engages in acts of civil disobedience, protesting perceived injustices, and keeping their identities hidden along the way. They have taken very active stands against racism, sexual predators on the internet, AIDS-related bigotry, the Church of Scientology, and even the election of Iran’s President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

During Jonah’s senior year, I knew he’d been traveling into New York City from time to time. But Jonah was a gregarious guy and I just figured he was meeting friends there. Anonymous, however, had caught his eye and his heart. I think he loved the clandestine nature of it, and I know he appreciated working to better the world. With his creepy Guy Fawkes mask, he’d found a way to do it in a manner that suited his own quirky but sincere personality.

While Time Warner has enjoyed the profits from sales of the mask, Jonah profited from something much better — the satisfaction that comes from having joined with like-minded people who try to do something good for the world around them. I can’t help but wonder where such activities may have led him, but what remains is my pride in a young man who saw himself as part of a larger world that benefitted from his concerned efforts to improve it.

Billy

Today, at 6:00 pm, Christian millennialist believers were supposed to have been “raptured” – lifted up to heaven to live side-by-side with Jesus until he brings them back to earth to do final battle with the anti-Christ for the salvation of the planet and its (faithful) inhabitants. Needless to say, 6:00 has come and gone – no one made any spectacular departures.

But I know something about these beliefs.

The world is a hard and tough place to live. So much must be endured. It’s not at all surprising to me that there are those who look beyond human efforts, hoping for a powerful ally to intercede and save us. In Christian theology, the saved would be those who have accepted Jesus as their savior. How comforting for them to know that, if they’ll remain steadfast in their belief, something much better will come.

Comfort is something I think we all yearn to have.

Since the day Jonah died, I have explored – in the hope that I might find my son still alive in some “beyond death” kind of way – new ideas about the afterlife and even about resurrection, ideas not unfamiliar to me but, until March 5, 2009, I had no great need for any of them to actually be true. Two years after Jonah’s departure, my heart continues to endorse my exploration of anything that might bring my boy and me back together. Even the psychic medium, John Edward, appeals to that voice inside me that’s crying, “Please, help me find him.”

But while my brain says, “You don’t really know that any of this stuff isn’t true,” I was brought up as a skeptic and so I bite my tongue to stifle my snicker at the same time I do my exploring.

Just the same, the heart is a powerful motivator. These millennialist folks just want the world to get better. And I just want my boy back.

Neither of these is very likely to happen. But unlike the guy who sold his home for not very much money as he went off this morning to meet his maker, I’m not stocking up on Jonah’s favorite foods.

Nonetheless, that heart of mine doesn’t let me forget how much he liked Easy Mac.

Billy

It’s hard to say when Jonah fell in love with music. I suppose that, for most of us, melody serves as a fairly constant backdrop to our lives. It first consists of the tunes our parents or older brothers and sisters play, but then sometime along the way, we begin to want to make our own selections. I remember when I was maybe ten years old, and my brother Michael bought me a record player for my birthday. It was like he’d given me my first razor (which, actually, he also did) or taken me to my first R-rated movie (my mom did that). It felt like such a grown-up thing for me, to have the capacity to select for myself the music I wanted to listen to. Of course, for a while, I could only choose from what I’d been exposed to, so it was pretty much still my family’s music. But eventually, I began picking out tracks and albums for myself.

So witnessing my own children’s musical maturing was a sight to behold. After endless listens by all three of the kids to the Animaniacs’ Variety Pack and Mickey Mouse unRAPped, Katie was of course the first to break out of the pack, with Hanson’s Middle of Nowhere. Aiden’s pretty sure his first choice was a collection of alternative rock hits called Buzz Cuts that he had me order for him through the mail. But Jonah’s first is a mystery. It’s the kind of question that pretty much has to be answered by that person, sometime before it becomes ancient history which they themselves have forgotten. And of course, sometime before they’re gone altogether. Not much I can do about that.

Me, my first music purchase was the soundtrack to Mary Poppins. I remember it so well. Grandma Mollie had sent me a five dollar check and after writing her a note in which I promised to spend it wisely, I went out to Walgreen’s with my dad, found the album in a display rack, and brought it right home. There had been no doubt in my mind but that Mary Poppins needed to be the first LP that I would own.

There are other early music memories. Katie told me about when she and Jonah would listen to Footloose in the basement. They’d dance while wearing rollerskates; only, Jonah thought that dancing included throwing things, which of course infuriated Katie. But since when did Jonah ever do things the way others wanted him to?

So I’m left with this mystery. And while I doubt it will ever be solved, I do remember one of the very first CDs to appear without parental intervention was Great White North, a collection of comedy bits by Bob and Doug McKenzie. Figures, doesn’t it? In time, Jonah would come to own as much rock music as the next teen, but there’s poetic synchronicity to his first recording being a comedy. I’d already loaded him up with the favorites of my own youth. Smothers Brothers, Bill Cosby, Tom Lehrer, Allan Sherman and Steve Martin. It probably comes as no surprise to anyone who knew Jonah that these would be at the foundation of the sonic experiences of his youth. Or that I had deftly guided him from very early on in this fine cultural legacy. Such a proud dad!

In time, listening to music would be insufficient for Jonah. He needed to make music for himself. My guess is he admired his songleaders at Eisner Camp and figured if they could be at the center of a crowd because of a guitar, why couldn’t he? So in July 2002, at age 12, he asked me if I would get him a guitar. Typical dad that I am (i.e., cheap), I responded by finding him a $25 guitar on eBay (it was actually a $12 guitar, plus $15 shipping … unbelievable). “Learn how to play that, JoJo, and we’ll talk about getting you something better.” He took me at my word. In a school project just a few months later, a timeline of his life from 0 to 13, Jonah wrote, “Just recently, I learned to play the guitar. It was a big step because pushing down on the strings and moving my fingers so quickly, it hurt my hands. But millions of people on earth and even just in America were able to learn the guitar and I am too. I’m not very good but over time, I’ll practice and become a professional.”

The first song Jonah learned was “The Irish Ballad,” a rather peculiar little folk song written by Tom Lehrer, about a young lass who murders (fairly brutally) everyone in her family. That would, once again, be my Jonah’s sense of humor.

Needless to say, he became pretty darn good. A year later, Jonah got that second guitar (a Martin backpacker). And two years after that, his red Dean acoustic. In time, he’d add an electric guitar, a second electric guitar, an ukulele and, finally, a mandolin. If you want to learn more about Jonah’s guitar interests, read Pick Pocket (June 15, 2009).

For a while, though, prior to his guitar strumming years, Jonah was known as a horn player. He took a couple of years of trumpet lessons when he was 8 years old. Our good friend Josh Davidson gave Jonah the trumpet from his own youth. They shared a sweet bond through it because the case had Josh’s initials embossed there, which turned out to be Jonah’s as well. Nonetheless, Jonah couldn’t fathom using Josh’s mouthpiece because “it must be covered with millions of disgusting germs.” While I assured him he could use his own mouthpiece until he was sure that Josh’s was safe, Josh wrote Jonah a note reporting that “any cooties have long since died.”

In time, trumpet would give way to shofar. And for a number of years, starting at age 11, Jonah could be found standing between his mom and his dad at the kids’ services on Rosh Hashanah blasting away. More than a few kids were inspired to learn the shofar for themselves because of Jonah. If you want to read more about Jonah’s horn-period, take a look at Sweet Toots (May 24, 2009).

In one of Jonah’s college applications, he wrote, “Guitar … know how to play it, or love someone who does.” When I was young, my brother Tommy was the guitarist in a local high school rock band called the Dauphin Street Blues. A few recordings survived those years (the late-1960s) and eventually found their way to a home-produced CD which I got my hands on. Jonah loved the CD, mostly because it was his Uncle Tommy who played on it. I always found it touching that he loved listening to these particular recordings. I too was always enamored of Tom’s playing, and it warmed my heart to see that his nephew was, as well.

In Jonah’s University at Buffalo application essay, he wrote, “I could never choose a favorite band, or a favorite song, because everyone has something to offer.” I never knew how seriously he took this sentiment until his iPod came home in March 2009. Of the eclectic collection of writers and performers he had gathered, none surprised me quite so much as the pieces by Tchaikovsky that I found there. Where had he encountered Tchaikovsky?

I actually wrote to some of his friends to see if they could shed some light on this question. One of Jonah’s freshman year buddies, Tracy Questel, wrote back, “This isn’t surprising to me that Mac would listen to Tchaikovsky since his music taste was so widespread and grand.”

Apparently I’m not the only one who thought so. Of course, this was reflective of the way Jonah lived his life. No one and no experience was outside the realm of interest or possibility for him. He loved tasting so much of what the world had to offer. I think it’s one of those comforting factoids about him that help me feel like his nineteen years, though brief, were full.

I listened to Jonah’s Tchaikovsky collection. It’s really some spectacularly gorgeous and powerful music. One particular piece — from Act II of Sleeping Beauty, “Pas d’Action, Adagio,” a 6 minute and 1 second recording — moves me so very deeply. While listening to it in the car one day, I was stunned by the “feeling of Jonah” that swept right through me. This music contains so many of the elements of Jonah’s life: his power, his drama, his fullness of spirit, his beauty, his emotion. I couldn’t believe how perfect a musical metaphor it is for him.

So while Tchaikovsky seems like a curious choice for a rocker like Jonah, it’s actually quite perfect for the huge personality he had. Finding it on his iPod was like a parting gift he’d left for us.

During Jonah’s junior year of high school, he put together a Shabbat service for the NFTY-NAR Winter Kallah in which he included the following words of Martin Luther: “Nothing on earth is so well-suited to make the sad merry, the merry sad, to give courage to the despairing, to make the proud humble, to lessen envy and hate, as music.” If ever there was a person who followed his own heart in this world, it was Jonah Maccabee Dreskin. What was so magically wonderful about him, though, was that his heart, as irreverent as it may have seemed, was so attuned to the music of other people’s lives. Jonah wrote at the back of his UB planner: “Life is a stringed instrument. When our wavelengths meet, we are a chord.” I think he really believed that, and he tried each day of sweet, brief life to create a symphony of kindness and love.

One more thought. During the summer following Jonah’s death, we were invited to a presentation in Jonah’s memory, a tribute to Jonah, by the children of Play Group Theatre. In it, they sang for us the old Barry Mann-Cynthia Weil hit, “Make Your Own Kind of Music.” My Jonah, who appreciated the music that so many had to offer, and who mastered any number of instruments which allowed him to offer music of his own, brought a melody into this world that sang itself through Jonah’s every waking hour. Those who were lucky enough to get a ticket to this performance found their lives enriched by the time they spent with the quirky kid with two names. He didn’t always believe his song was one that people would want to hear. But over time, I think he learned there was music in his soul that needed no guitar or ukulele — just a warm smile, a kind word, and a sincere willingness to be a friend.

By the way, as I finish writing this piece, IZ’s recording of “Over the Rainbow” has begun playing on Pandora. Jonah’s signature piece. I miss my boy so much. And I’m so very thankful for the incredible music he’s given us all.

Billy

I guess I don’t get out much. I mean, I’m at work so much of the time. But when I’m not there, I’m pretty much at home. Part of it is I’m a busy guy, and there’s always temple work to be done, even at home. Part of it is I’m a busy guy, and when I manage to steal some time away from temple, I want to be with my family. But part of it is also that I’m a couch potato. And whether it’s a television or a computer, I keep myself infinitely entertained in front of electronics.

So besides work, my home is my world. Norman Corwin, a writer and producer of radio drama during the 1930s and 1940s, described home life in this way: “A home is a minuscule world. If it has 10 books, it is partly a library; if three pictures, a little museum; if six tools, a repair shop. If one big crowded closet of bric-a-brac, a warehouse. Whenever a piano or fiddle is in use, it is a part-time conservatory. At mealtime grace, or in answering a child’s question about God, it is a fraction of a church. In the throes of argument or the heart of discourse, it becomes a court; in sickness, it is a field hospital; when you discover old forgotten letters, pictures, souvenirs in a trunk or attic, it is a wing of archaeology. [And] when the kids climb trees, fences, high furniture, or other forbidden obstacles, it’s a commando camp.”

That pretty much describes the bulk of my world.

Every autumn, looking outside the windows at 25 Oak Street, or while driving from there to temple, I always think about how much I’d like to take that drive that has no other purpose than to watch the leaves turn from green to golden. But since the thought always comes at the busiest time of our temple year, I never seem to get that chance. So year in and year out, the seasons change and I’m only a partial witness to its dramatic shifting of the backdrop to our lives.

Then along came Charlie. Charlie is a medium-size beagle/basset hound mix, who came into our lives last July when we adopted him from the nearby Elmsford Animal Shelter. From the day he arrived, life changed. Four times each day, Charlie goes for a walk. If he doesn’t, there’s a price to be paid. Carpets get peed on. Furniture gets chewed on. Family gets endlessly pestered. So Katie takes the early morning walk. Aiden takes the late afternoon walk. I get lunch and nighttime. But as often as possible, I open the back door of my car, Charlie jumps in (the only time, by the way, when he’s off-leash and doesn’t shoot down the street or into the backyard in a bold and dramatic escape), and we head over to the East Rumbrook Park dog park.

There are two sections to the dog park. The first is a fenced-in area where people and dogs mill about chatting about all things dog (the people, not the dogs), and sniffing one another’s rear end (the dogs, not the people). Behind the fenced-in area, however, is a moderately large woods where, although I believe it’s officially unallowed, dogs can run off leash, often frolicking with one another and playing in the stream (probably, I suppose, named Rum Brook).

The walk from the front to the back of the woods takes about ten minutes, ten minutes to come back, and anywhere from ten to thirty minutes inside the woods letting Charlie run around. It’s in these woods that I have been afforded the opportunity to watch something I’ve never truly watched before. Namely, the changing of the seasons. Walking the same path again and again, I’ve watched this one landscape progress from last summer’s heavy foliage, to autumn’s color changes, to winter’s bareness, and now, the woods’ reemergence into its former summertime glory.

Winter was remarkable. Since all summer long, I had been losing Charlie as he disappeared into the ground cover which rose just above his body, it was quite incredible to walk into the woods after what appeared to be God’s picking up the toys and vacuuming the floor. With the ground clear, I could watch him run almost the entire woods, never losing sight of him (except the time five deer came prancing by and Charlie pursued far beyond what my eye could follow).

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been witnessing nature’s remarkable return. One which we all see, but might not truly take notice of, except for a brief moment or two when buds appear on trees or the season’s first flowers bloom. We may smile a bit or even comment on it to a friend. But in the woods, everything happens in bulk. Tiny green chutes emerge from the woods’ floor, but there are hundreds and hundreds of them. Buds appear on the trees that accompany me the entire length of that wooded journey. Even the moss, which has begun to grow on rocks near the creek, becomes a spectacle in that formerly barren chamber. And then, when Charlie and I return only a few days later, the progress nature has made is dramatic.

And all of it puts a smile on my face.

I’ve been thinking about this return of nature from winter’s sleep. Witnessing what appeared to be dead, and watching it move through its rebirth, has affected me deeply. I’m just a bit more than two years out from that terrible night in March of 2009 when the phone call came from Buffalo that my 19-year-old son Jonah had died. Having now experienced two full cycles of the seasons and, in particular, having watched this progression from Charlie’s arrival in July until now, my heart can’t help but pose the question: If so much of nature can come back from the dead, why can’t my child? I certainly know it won’t happen, but nature doesn’t offer a whole lot of comfort when it seems to be renewing itself all the time.

But that’s quite the point, isn’t it? Nature doesn’t really die, even if it appears that way. The top, outer surfaces drop off in order to conserve energy through the winter months, but everything is very much alive beneath the surface. Not so my Jonah. Dead is really dead, I’m afraid.

Grieving has quite a learning curve to it. While at one point or another, everybody does it (and more than once) not many of us get any training beforehand. So our heads try to rationally understand and respond, probably making more than a few correct choices along the way but a few poor ones as well. And our hearts … well, our hearts just go nuts on us. 52 years of careful theological decision-making thrown out the window as feelings trump logic and I foolishly (but touchingly) await my Jonah’s return.

John Burroughs, early-20th century American naturalist, stopped by to visit a woman who had become an ardent admirer of his writings. Well aware of his love for winged creatures, she asked, “Why is it, Mr. Burroughs, that there are so many birds at your place? I have none at all in my yard.” Burroughs, who had been watching, in absorbed fascination, all sorts of birds, flitting amidst the shrubbery and flying among the trees around the lady’s house, replied, “Madam, you will not see birds in your yard until you have birds in your heart.”

And so, I discover that perhaps I’ve been looking for the wrong rebirth. Or, at the least, I may have been looking in the wrong places.

The return of ground cover, leaves and lichens to the woods of East Rumbrook Park may have a message for us all about what appears to be, the disappointment which accompanies what isn’t, and the eventual comfort that arrives along with what really is. Surely something died in the woods this winter. And everything that is coming back will do nothing to regrow what can never again be. But despite that loss, everything that is coming back offers abundant beauty and comfort for the journey that follows loss. I will never be able to bring Jonah back; he has died. But my heart has not (even if it sometimes feels like it has), and it is very capable of a new greening, of a new blossoming, of what appears to be rebirth but is, in fact, an awakening from the winter’s sleep of sadness which began two years ago.

I am not, of course, alone in the difficult struggle to carry on that often accompanies a tremendous upheaval in life. Others, more than a few right here in this room, have lost a loved one, or lost robust health, or lost economic well-being, or lost a dream held close which has faded or been torn away. Often (too often, our hearts cry), we are forced to give up some piece of our lives that we have cherished, and without which we simply don’t know if or how to resume. But, as John Burroughs noted, the birds of joy and beauty have likely not abandoned us; if anything, we’ve abandoned them. We lack, or have lost, the tools to welcome them back into our lives. Our task, should we desire to resume contented, jubilant living, is to readjust our sights.

In thinking about all of this, I was reminded of Moses and the Burning Bush – that, in the desert, dry bushes, usually ignored, even when aflame, don’t draw our attention. So why was it that Moses watched this one? And further, how long does one need to watch a burning bush before we sense that it may be burning but it’s not burning up? Moses must already have been on the lookout for God’s presence, and he must have been ready to detect that presence anywhere. Even in a homely, non-attention grabbing, dried out bush.

Death is dramatic. It draws our attention. Renewal is much quieter. It doesn’t grab headlines. And if we want it, we’re probably going to have to come looking for it. “Mindfulness” is a word my friend Corey Friedlander often uses. It’s a fine word, and one we might all benefit from using. My walks with Charlie have made me more mindful of the turning of nature’s wheels. That has been quite wondrous to see, and I am grateful to be part of such a world. And just as I take frequent walks through the woods behind the dog park, I think I need to take more frequent walks through those other wooded areas in my life. I too wish to hear the birds sing in my backyard.

We’ll soon be sitting down to our Pesakh seder tables, where we’ll retell the ancient story of our people’s emergence from the narrow places of Mitzrayim. And we’ll remind ourselves that “tight spots” exist in every age, ours included, that we ought not resign ourselves to servitude, that we ought to feel ourselves worthy of liberation. And whether our burden is from the challenges of health, of finances, of relationships, or of existential despair, this holy festival comes around each year – just as springtime is renewing the world outside our homes – to remind us that renewal can occur within, as well.

Dead is probably still dead, and I have to keep working to come to terms with that. We all have to keep working to come to terms with loss. But in a world where good never, ever fully disappears, there is so much that is worthwhile, worth celebrating, worth living for. The tremendous variety of food and of ideas that we find on our Seder tables. And the even more precious variety of human bonds and spirit that we can find around those tables, these are the building blocks of rebirth. It may be that such activity is easier for nature. Because we have both heads and hearts, we feel – deeply and for long whiles – and that makes our rebirths far more taxing (there’s my reference to today’s date, April 15th). But our spirits can be so resilient. We may need to help one another. In fact, we must help one another. But when we do, there’s almost nothing on earth to keep us from living full, loving, incredibly worthwhile lives.

There was once a violin-maker who always selected the wood for his violins from the northernmost side of the trees. It was the side upon which the wind and the storms had beaten throughout the years. So whenever he heard the groaning of trees in the forest at night, he didn’t feel sorry for them. They were just learning how to be violins.

Adonai oz l’amo yiteyn … give us the strength, O God, even when pain causes us to sometimes forget … Adonai y’varekh et amo va’shalom … even then, may we remember the strength with which You have blessed us. The strength to forever appreciate the blessings of life which, while not ours forever, touch us with beauty and grace and goodness and, when we’re really awake, with wholeness and peace.

Billy

This entry began earlier this evening as Shabbat words at Woodlands Community Temple.

Dear Jonah,

Last night (4/2/11) was the 2nd annual concert presented in your memory. We held it at Westchester Reform Temple in Scarsdale, NY, where Rabbi Rick Jacobs et al graciously and lovingly welcomed us so that we could do our remembering and our music-making. Between the crew over at WRT, our own crew at WCT, and everyone who came out to hear Craig Taubman, you were on a lot of people’s minds.

I was talking to the kids at temple this weekend about what happens to us after we die (I wasn’t thinking. Really. This bubbled up from my subconscious somewhere. It wasn’t until the third discussion that I made the connection with your concert.). Anyway, the kids got me thinking: So were you there last night? Is that great, big, enormous spirit of yours still hovering around somewhere? Or have you moved on? Have you moved into a new life somewhere? I understand that Zi and Carolyn saved a seat for you between them. After the concert, we wondered together if maybe you’d been using that seat. Whatever, we certainly felt your presence all evening long.

You would have loved the concert, Jonah. Those guitarists — Sean Harkness and your buddy Josh Nelson — man, you so would have dug their playing! And that dude on bass — Bob Parr — sometimes it was difficult to believe that was an electric bass and not an electric guitar he was playing. Best of all, of course, was Craig. Not only did he give a great performance, it seemed as if you were never far from his mind. It felt like he was seeking out your spirit, and bringing it right up onto the stage with him. A good egg, that Craig.

Ellen wrote the letter for your program booklet this year. It’s a beautiful note, and while I know you never doubted her love for you, I think you’d enjoy these words.

Dear Friends,

We are so very touched that you have joined us this evening for the Second Annual Jonah Maccabee Dreskin Memorial Concert. We know that tonight will be filled with fantastic music as well as warm smiles and hugs and tears, all in honor of our brother and son.

It’s entirely possible that some of you never knew Jonah Maccabee. And if you did, it’s hard to say which Jonah you knew. Was it the little boy intent on figuring out how things worked, who disassembled an entire VCR with his grandfather just to see if they could put it back together? Was it the kid who sometimes didn’t quite fit in, so insisted on paving his own path through his high school years? Was it the actor/singer/musician who both came alive in front of an audience and spent hours alone, amusing himself with his electric guitar? Was it the young man who was happiest being a worker in the Kutz Camp dining room and helping out on maintenance because he did it well and knew it made a difference? Was it the college freshman who delighted in honing his ukulele and mandolin skills and amazing his friends with his loving heart and his fiery spirit? Whichever part of Jonah we knew, we understand he was an incredible gift to all of us.

Were Jonah physically here tonight, he’d probably be behind the sound board or adjusting the lights. He’d seem nonchalant, but secretly he’d be excited to hear and be near Craig Taubman. Craig created much of the music of Jonah’s childhood and signed CDs for him when Jonah was only 6 or 7 years old.

Please think of Jonah, even if you never knew him. In his memory, give generously of yourselves — hugs, smiles, kind words, enthusiasm. Jonah knew that these simple things went a long, long way.

Thank you so much for being with us this evening. Enjoy the music, smile, dance, sing along and celebrate life.

Aiden, Katie, Ellen and Billy Dreskin

It’s still so difficult to believe that the word “memorial” is used in conjunction with your name. Two years later and I still half expect you to call, or to walk in the door. While I was sitting and listening to last night’s concert, there were moments when I was startled to remember we were doing this because you’ve died. That’s a tall order to assimilate into our lives. But we’re working on it.

Ellen and I started the evening much as we did last year, with Havdalah. I wrote these words, which I hope paid honor to your memory and to the work we’re doing to live our lives with that memory.

About a year ago, just about the same time we gathered for our first concert in Jonah’s memory, Playgroup Theatre, that great incubator of children’s spirits built by the talent and love of Jill and Steven Abusch over in White Plains, took a moment to remember our son and brother, Jonah, and the nine shows he helped to produce over there.

Jeff Downing, who directed Jonah in six of those shows, said at the tribute, “What I will remember most about you, Jonah, is your remarkable journey from a boy to one of the most dependable, engaging, and passionate young men I have ever worked with. [...] We will remember you. We will remember those brilliant characters you created, the endless amount of laughter you gave us, and [your] one of a kind personality that will never be forgotten.”

As tragic as Jonah’s death has been, we think he was one of the luckiest kids on earth. Through the people he met — at Playgroup Theatre, at Woodlands, in NFTY, at Eisner Camp, Kutz Camp, the Summit School and the University at Buffalo — Jonah was able to build a life for himself that he adored. Because of the friends who loved him, and because of the adults who looked after him, who assisted in his growth, and who also loved him, Jonah’s nineteen years were great years.

What is Havdalah if not a marker that expresses our appreciation for the gift of a time that’s just left us: Shabbat. And while the weekdays ahead, the days of khol, cannot match the beauty of the day of kodesh, of holiness, that has now come to its end, there is in this brief moment, in this sweet ceremony, a possibility, a promise, that something good is just up ahead.

Those of us who knew and loved Jonah, who miss him even now, especially now, we understand that there is so much beauty that remains, even when such a significant part of that beauty has left us. And while, in some ways, the world ahead can’t ever match the incredible magic of the world behind, it would be even sadder if our tragedies — our hurts, our losses, everyone’s, far beyond the one we remember here this evening — it would be even more unfortunate if they prevented us from seeing and enjoying and loving all that still remains.

And so, with Havdalah, we honor the sacred times we have visited, and we celebrate the beauties that still are to unfold in the times ahead. Raising funds to give other kids some of the things that made Jonah’s life such a good one, this will be one of the ways we build a sacred tomorrow, one filled with sunlight, filled with possibility, filled with love.

With Havdalah, we say thank you for the beauty of what came before, and, regardless of where our journeys have taken us, we resolve to make new ones … that fill our cups, that light our ways, and add invigorating, Jonah-like spice to the road ahead.

Perhaps it would be reasonable for us to confine our emotional nose-dives to this one time of each year, Jonah. Problem is, we loved you a whole lot more than one night a year, boy. Yahrzeit probably won’t do it either. Far more likely, while we’re living and laughing and enjoying our lives, each time we hear the strum of an ukulele, fry up some pastrami, see a Broadway show, catch a bit of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus” or “Whose Line Is It, Anyway?” on TV, or listen to Craig Taubman sing “Mom’s Having a Baby,” we’ll be thinking of you.

Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Love you forever,
Dad

With Aiden recently finishing his run of Pippin at the Play Group Theatre (playgroup.org), I am reminded of a couple of things. First, how much Aiden loves musical theater (really loves musical theater) and how that all began with an invitation from Jonah to join him in the spectacular experience that is the Play Group Theatre (read both parts of “The Clown Mensch of White Plains” here at A Thread That Has No End, Feb 2010 and Mar 2010, to understand just how important PGT was in Jonah’s life). And second, that when the four of us saw Billy Elliot in London this past August, I made a note to write about Jonah’s love for musical theater outside of PGT.

Our family’s trip in August to England and Ireland was the first ridiculously big trip we’d taken since Hawaii in 2005 and Cozumel in 2006. Our feeling about England and Ireland was that we needed to begin creating new, big memories for our reconfigured family. We succeeded. But as wonderful as the trip was, it was clear that Jonah was missing from it. Hugely. Not the least because Jonah was a connoisseur of exotic accents, and he would have loved the ones we heard during our trip.

We also felt Jonah’s enormous absence while watching the lead character in Billy Elliot work through the difficult process of living his life in the aftermath of his mom’s death. As you can imagine, this brought more than a few tears to us as the story unfolded. And it moved me to write about Jonah and the stage, this time from his perspective as an audience member.

Billy Elliot was not the first show we’d seen since Jonah died. That moment belongs most auspiciously to Next to Normal, a musical about deep depression in the aftermath of a son-and-brother’s young death. Go figure.

Ellen and I have loved musical theater for most of our lives (excluding only those years when our parents hadn’t yet told us such a thing existed). So when we learned, back in 1996 (Jonah was six), about “Kids Night on Broadway” (one kid gets in free with every adult ticket), we heard the footlights calling. Auspiciously, Cats was our first family musical, a show that is so bad it’s kind of surprising Katie and Jonah ever wanted to see another. But dinner beforehand at Planet Hollywood always piqued their interest, so we were safe (at least, until one of them decided to become a vegetarian).

The records are murky from back then, but I think 1999 was very likely the moment that Jonah fell hard for the theater. In January we saw The Scarlet Pimpernel and in December we saw Les Miserables. That pretty much did it. Jonah’d been snagged. The humor, the exceptionally powerful music and, of course, the abundant violence … it just didn’t get any better than that!

In 2000, we saw Seussical: The Musical which was colorful, well composed, and had every kids’ favorite Dr. Seuss characters in it. Flawed though the show may have been, the kids loved it. And by the way, Seussical was Aiden’s first show (at the age of 6); I’ll never forget the look on his face when the lights went up. That look has yet to go away.

When we saw The Music Man in 2001, its lackluster effect on an 11-year-old boy wasn’t enough to dissuade Jonah from tagging along later that year for a noisy little musical called Rent. Talk about your “I wanna be a Broadway star when I grow up” phase!

2003 saw Jonah meet not Billy Elliot but Billy Joel as Movin’ Out became that year’s “Kids Night on Broadway” experience. Not big on plot, a disappointing lack of violence, and dancing that wasn’t bad but wasn’t a big selling point for Jonah either. Nevertheless, 13-year-old Jonah found Billy Joel’s music irresistible.

Then, in 2004, came Wicked. And Blue Man Group … two stupendous shows that made Jonah’s eyes pop. How he loved both of them! Especially the outrageous musical-rhythmic pyrotechnics (yep, fire … always one of Jonah’s favorites) of Blue Man Group.

In 2005, we all winced our way through Harvey Fierstein as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, where Anatevka looked like a beautiful, rustic little coffee house in Central Park and Harvey’s Tevye in no way fit Shalom Aleichem’s nostalgic model.

Also in 2005, our family took a little side trip to Westchester Community College where we got to see a student production of Personals, Jonah’s old man’s off-Broadway musical (produced at NYC’s Minetta Lane Theater in 1985). It was fun to be a celebrity for a couple of minutes, and I think Jonah kind of dug that.

2005 provided Jonah the opportunity to again see Rent (this time with his Ardsley Middle School acting class) and, with yours truly, Avenue Q. Jonah especially enjoyed the outrageous videos during the show, and he brought home a poster (“What the Fuzz?”) that still adorns his bedroom wall.

Also in 2005, with his Kutz Camp pals, Jonah saw the Elvis Presley musical, All Shook Up. He brought home the CD because of the great guitar work in that show. He also brought home a t-shirt, which he promptly nailed to the ceiling of his room. Who nails t-shirts to their ceiling?

In 2006, we all saw The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee for “Kids Night on Broadway.” More outrageous humor which the kids all loved. Later that year, Jonah joined me and Ellen at Sweeney Todd, the version where the characters play their own musical instruments. We knew someone in the cast so, after the show, not only did we get a backstage tour but every cast member signed a program for Jonah. As he headed into his last two years of high school, this was a moment of real inspiration for him.

2007′s “Kids Night on Broadway” offering was Spamalot. By this time, Katie had aged out of eligibility for a free ticket and, in place of that, had gone off to college (we managed to enjoy things despite her absence). Spamalot, of course, was an instant hit with Jonah as he had loved Monty Python ever since learning his first four-letter words. That summer, Jonah saw Stomp when Kutz Camp took the kids into New York City for a day. And in March, he got to see Spring Awakening which, I think, blew him away. It was intensely dramatic, filled with great music, and teen sex. What’s not to love?

Jonah’s final “Kids Night on Broadway” production, two days before his 18th birthday, was A Chorus Line. Not nearly as good as the original (which Ellen and I had seen “back in the day”) but it’s one of the most important musicals ever created, and Jonah sensed that.

One of the last shows he ever got to see (April 2008) was Buddy (the Buddy Holly story). Somehow, this was perfect. The story of one of rock’s pioneers in the 1950s. More great guitar work. And he got to see it with his chums at Summit High School.

But the final show for Jonah was Hair in Central Park, only a few days after his own production of Hair had finished with PGT. He and Aiden saw it with a bunch of friends (Aiden had stood in line for hours that morning in order to procure a pair of free tickets for himself and Jonah). Hair was a defining theatrical moment in Jonah’s life. It represented the culmination of so much of his growing up. His peers respected him for it. His directors were flabbergasted by the difference in Jonah’s stage skills between his beginning at PGT in eighth grade and Hair in twelfth grade. But even moreso, they couldn’t miss the stature that Jonah had earned in his PGT community, and how powerfully his absence would be felt after his graduation.

There was quite nearly one more musical, but Jonah missed it only by days. Previews for the 2009 revival of Hair began the day after Jonah died, and we had five tickets to see it on March 10 (both Katie and Jonah were to be home from college for spring break). We sat shiva instead.

At the end of Billy Elliot this summer in London, he and his mom sing to each other, “Love you forever.” Those words are the same ones we’ve used countless times with our own children. Taking them to shows, sharing our own love for music and for theater with them, has always been one of the many ways we’ve given our love to these beautiful kids of ours. As Billy Elliot lowered its curtain, it did so intoning a reminder that however we do it, whatever we do it with, and for however long, our hearts are given to our children. And even if one of them ceases to live, our hearts never cease giving that love. Because when we said, “Love you forever,” we really meant it.

Billy

Try as I might to not count time in terms of how long it’s been since Jonah died, I find it an impossible undertaking. Through acts of determination, I can sometimes turn off that clock – in fact, I can turn off most of my being conscious that Jonah has disappeared – but there are moments when it all comes flying back. As I’m sure you understand, Jonah’s yahrzeit is one of those moments.

It’s been two years.

Incredibly, so much water has flowed beneath that bridge. Gone are the incessant tears that came daytime or night, at home or on the road, during seemingly happy moments and certainly during the dreadful ones. Gone the abject sadness of sitting in his room, the cheerless hours wading through his photographs, the wrenching heartbreak of trying to grab hold of anything that might restore the feeling that he’s still here.

I’m writing less frequently about him too. Not because I want to; I’d like to write more. But mostly because life has resumed its claim on me. After all, my family needs me. And I need them. There’s a job to do, as well. Woodlands Community Temple has never left me looking around for something to keep myself busy. And so life, and all of its attendant parts, has me relinquishing my compulsion to seize everything that’s Jonah, and exchange it for something that resembles, for all intents and purposes, normalcy.

I think what I’m trying to say is that the grieving process has done its job. I am not “healed.” Jonah’s death is not “over with” (I doubt that could ever fully be … though ask me again in another two years). I have not “moved on.” But I think I may be learning how to “carry on.” I think I’ve relearned the way to access life’s blessings. And I’m enjoying that.

When the time is right – when there’s either a little bit of breathing space, or it’s time to force that space – I come back to be with both the fullness of spirit that was my son Jonah Maccabee, and also with the emptiness of spirit that his absence has burnt into my heart. I don’t know if this is how it will always be, but that’s how it is for right now.

I think I’ve learned a lot these past two years about grief. I say “I think” because, while I’ve learned about my own grief, I don’t know that I understand what anyone else is going through. What I do know is that I’m a lot quieter around people who are mourning a loved one’s death; I’ve learned humility in the face of loss. I won’t tell someone else how it will be or what they must do. I’ll extend a hand, lend a shoulder, offer a bit of my heart, and try to let my caring absorb the tiniest bit of their pain. Maybe that can help.

And if I know the person who died, I’ll share a memory about how that person lived. I’ll do this because I remember that when I was immersed in sadness for Jonah, the very sweetest thing anyone could do for me (can still do for me) was to start a sentence with, “I remember when Jonah …” God, I cherish those memories. Maybe others do too.

Two years after Jonah’s death, I’m still learning how not to die myself. These are tough lessons, but I’m getting there. And I’m grateful to all of you who have helped me along the way. It’s kind of funny – through tragedy I have learned how much abundant blessing remains.

But I wish there were easier ways to achieve that understanding.

At one of the services during the week of shiva, our friend Cantor Leon Sher sang a lovely and touching Dan Nichols piece, called “Beyond.” It’s a beautiful homage to God that expresses appreciation for the exquisiteness of the created world. Prior to the service, Leon had asked Ellen if she would write out the words for him. During the service, while listening to Leon’s singing, I noticed the words Ellen had given him, that she had neglected to capitalize “You” and “Your,” as is customary in making reference to God. Suddenly, I heard the piece not as an address to the Creator, but to one of God’s created … my Jonah.

“May your wonder be celebrated. May your name be consecrated. May your brilliance never fade from the magnificent world you made.” As I considered the multitude of ways Jonah had built magnificence during his two decades, I knew this song had become a prayer, and I was praying that I might be able to live my life in the years ahead in a manner that would honor Jonah’s memory — both through recollections of his years among us and through acts that would be done in the spirit of the way he had lived.

The rest of Dan’s words clinched it. “May your name receive the same beauty that you bring, though you are far beyond the sweetest song we could ever sing.” Far beyond, indeed. And we do still sing. Jonah has finished his work. His name is a good one. And now, we who love him and remember him, try to ensure that his name does receive the same beauty he brought to it.

The next time I hear Dan Nichols’ “Beyond,” the capital letters will most likely have returned and God will once again be its subject. Just the same, part of me will always treasure “Beyond” as a thank you to God for having shared Jonah with me, even if only for a brief while. It will be a thank you because, as much as I miss him, I’m even more grateful for the years he walked (sorry, strutted!) among us. And it will be a thank you to Jonah for bringing us closer to God. Because that beautiful soul of his, all gruff and comedic so that it shouldn’t be too easy to detect the angel residing within, has pointed my heart ever moreso toward a sense of what it is we humans can, and ought to, do with these bones and muscles we’ve been lent. Like Levi Yitzhak, who, when he died, people were surprised to learn how much good he had done for so many, I am still experiencing the stunning moments of young people who share with me a cherished memory of theirs in which Jonah (or Mac, it depends on when you met him) brought much-needed light and kindness to their world.

All of it simply humbles me. And still I love. Jonah’s death cannot erect any kind of barrier against that.

Zekher tzadik livrakha … may his memory always be for a blessing. And with the way it’s wrapped itself around my heart, I can’t see it being anything but a blessing.

Billy

This entry is an expansion of a piece I wrote for Woodlands Community Temple’s Makom newsletter (March 2011).

Dear sweet Jonah,

I’ve dreaded the arrival of this day for quite some time now. February 14, 2011. Your birthday. And Valentine’s Day (a convergence we always adored). You’re supposed to be twenty-one.

First legal drink and all that. I was really looking forward to taking you out for your birthday dinner and a drink, not because you’d relish finally being able to look a waiter in the eye and ask for a Rolling Rock rather than sneaking one in the dorm, but because you detested alcohol and wouldn’t really have known how to celebrate this day.

Just like your old man, who also never cared for alcohol but who would very happily (giddily, in fact) have taken you out and even downed a brew (tried to, at least) right along with you. How fun that would have been. A moment for us to remember for all time.

Instead, here it is, your twenty-first birthday, and you’re not here to celebrate it. Your calendar ceased advancing almost two years ago, so that, twenty-one years after your birth, you’re still nineteen. You always will be.

There’s a beauty to that, of course. I learned this from a gentleman at temple whose brother died when they were both young, and who describes how, even though he’s in his late-70s, the dreams he has of his brother are always of a young man in his 20s. Nowadays, he loves that. Of course, he’s had fifty years to get used to the idea. I’ve only had two.

Frankly, I still wish your calendar was advancing. And I can’t help but wonder: How long would your hair be today? Would you have a beard? Would your clothes still be too big? What necklace would you be wearing? Would black-and-white checkerboard squares still describe your hat?

I don’t know what it means to wish you happy birthday, Jonah. But if you still exist in some other-dimensional form, I hope it’s a happy day to be sure. Around here, it’s only a little bit clearer what today is about. You are very much on your loved ones’ minds, family and friends (who still miss you deeply) alike. And in one way or another, we’re each toasting your name, each raising a glass to the wonder that was you, shedding tears because we can’t give you a great big birthday hug, and heading off into our day, forever enriched by the time that we did get with you.

Loving you forever,
Dad

When I was a kid growing up in Cincinnati, there were nine members of my family living under one roof. This included my parents, five siblings, me … and Frankie, our dog. Originally saddled with the moniker,“Frankie VI,” this “apricot” (really? he always looked brown to me) poodle was the offspring of “Brown Elf of the Studio” and “Bon Bon of Crevelings.” Frankie’s snobbish breeders picked the wrong home if they thought “Frankie VI” would be primped and coddled in the same manner his parents were. Frankie was our pal. We never subjected him to the hair stylings customarily imposed on poodles. And we certainly did not train him for any shows. He was our friend, our buddy, our pooch. Frankie was born in September of 1958, so I was only two-ish when he arrived to 1221 Avon Drive in Cincy. For a long while, he was not my dog. Frankie and I were both puppies in that house. But over time, as my five brothers and sisters headed for new landscapes, abandoning 1221 for their own green pastures, Frankie gradually bonded with me, and I with him so that, by my teen years, we were inseparable. And because of that, I figured I’d be a dog owner my entire life.

Not so. Frankie died, having lived a pretty good, long life, when I was sixteen. My mom and I were alone in the house by then, and bringing home a new pup wasn’t in the cards. She was busy. And I was too self-involved to take on such responsibility. So high school finished up, and I took off for college where I met Ellen. She had a great dog named Sam. A beautiful, blonde, shaggy mutt, who befriended me probably thinking I was an easy mark for extra snacks. He was right. After college, Ellen moved to New York and neither of us could take care of Sam. We were extremely fortunate that Sam’s vet had also fallen in love with him and offered to adopt him. That was 1978, and the last time I’d be sharing digs with a canine until this year.

The kids and I had actually been talking about getting a dog for a very long time. Jonah and Katie had lobbied for one pretty much from forever. But Ellen had her hands full with three kids and “Dad, Mom’s other child,” so she said we could get a dog if she never had to do anything to take care of it. Well, I was still not quick to volunteer for more responsibility, and Katie and Jonah, sweet as they were about asking for a dog, simply couldn’t be relied upon to manage one, so we put it off until some future opportunity.

Jonah wouldn’t get that opportunity. But Katie, having returned home for two years of graduate school said, “Dad, it’s now or never.” So Aiden, Katie and I visited a couple of local animal shelters. At the one in Elmsford, NY, we were introduced to a little fella named Drake who had flown up from North Carolina in an airplane that had been retrofitted for animal rescue, dodging the death sentence mandatory for dogs that go unadopted down there. Unlike most of the other dogs in the Elmsford Animal Shelter, this one wasn’t in a crate; the staff liked keeping him behind the counter to hang out with them. An excellent sign. We took the little guy for a walk, liked him right away, and asked them not to do anything with him until we had a chance to convince Ellen it was time. Two days later, Ellen returned with us to the shelter and, an hour later, we had a dog in the backseat of our car.

We were encouraged to find him a new name, just in case the old one carried any unfortunate memories. I left that task to Aiden and Katie who immediately named him after the little British kid in the viral YouTube video who bites his brother’s finger, a video all three of my children loved watching over and over. And that’s how, on June 24, 2010, “Charlie” became the newest Dreskin.

The ironic comparison between Charlie and Jonah is not lost on me. In a tragic instant, a single, heartrending moment, our boy of nineteen years is gone. Fifteen months later, in a series of similarly brief moments, Charlie enters a kill-shelter, evades death as he is rescued from that kill-shelter, finds his way to us some 600-700 miles away in New York, and now sleeps with his little body nuzzled up against the warm radiator in our home and the warm love in our hearts.

I don’t believe in fate, but I do think we give critical meaning to the random events that make up our lives. Jonah was not supposed to die, and yet my mind still struggles to figure out why he did. Charlie was not supposed to come to us, but I love considering him as a gift Jonah sent our way. Because, I have to tell you, there’s more to this pup than his cute face. Charlie’s essential puppiness reminds me so very clearly of Jonah’s “puppiness.” He was such a playful guy. He loved nothing more than to engage in goofiness that would bring a smile (if not also a gasp or two) to someone’s face. And the smile that would appear on his own at these moments, you just knew he was getting a bigger kick out of it than you were.

And something else. From time to time, I like to go into Jonah’s room and curl up on his couch to read a book or just look at the posters and other decor from his high school years. More often than not, Charlie follows me in there and loves nothing more than to curl up on the alpaca rug on Jonah’s floor. I remember the trip to South Carolina where Jonah first discovered that alpaca rug. I remember his curling up on it in almost the same way Charlie does, with the same look of heaven illuminating his face.

I know I’m making more out of this than there really is, but I choose to see a connection between that pooch and my son. Yes, one walked upright and the other on all fours, but these two puppies could have come from the same litter. I love that.

Six months ago, a little beagle/basset hound mix came into our family. We fell in love with him pretty quickly. It’s clear to me now that we got far more than we’d bargained for. Did you see the film, Pretty Woman? Richard Gere’s character asks, “So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?” And Julia Robert’s character answers, “She rescues him right back.” Our family has carried on in the months (now, nearly “years”) since Jonah’s death. But unbridled joyfulness was difficult to come by. A little dog we rescued named Charlie has helped us turn that around. And by doing so, he’s made himself a precious part of our family.

Jonah would have adored him.