JULY 21 • 2022 | 9
Synagogues in
West Michigan
Thank you for recently high-
lighting Jewish synagogues in
West Michigan. These out-state
Jewish communities have long
been below the radar, and I was
so glad to see their great work
highlighted by the Jewish News.
I was raised and lived in
the Detroit area most of my
life, but I also lived in both
Grand Rapids (1984-90) and
Kalamazoo (2013-20). In
Grand Rapids, I was a mem-
ber of Ahavas Israel where I
volunteered and made lifelong
friends. In Kalamazoo, I was a
member of Temple B’nai Israel
and honored to serve as its
president. In addition, I was
chair of the rabbinic search
committee that hired Rabbi
Schicker.
These two synagogues, along
with others, are diverse, vibrant
Jewish organizations. They
provide local places to worship,
learn, advocate and socialize.
They are truly special places
with members and clergy who
are warm, welcoming and
deeply committed to Judaism
and their local communities.
If you have the chance to
visit one of these synagogues,
please do. You will be wel-
comed with open arms and
reminded that Judaism is alive
in West Michigan!
— Sharon Wittenberg
Sarasota, Fla.
letters
A BOY AND HIS BICYCLE continued from page 4
and power hitters, way out of
my league. Some, like me, were
good solid ballplayers who could
catch and hit pretty well. And
some guys really stunk. But it
didn’t matter. What mattered was
getting picked. Or not getting
picked. How would I ever be able
to show these guys what I could
do?
I trudged home with my bat
and glove with the secure knowl-
edge that my summer was going
to suck. My mom tried to give
me a pep talk to no avail. I think
I tried again the next day with
no better results. I was quickly
back home again, throwing a ball
against the wall by myself. And
that’s when I devised my new
brilliant plan for that summer, a
plan which specifically required
the services of my now trusted
friend, my bike.
As I tossed the ball against
the wall, I realized that my old
neighborhood was really not
that far away. I would have to
ride three blocks north, up to my
former nemesis, Seven Mile. For
the next mile or so, I could ride
on the sidewalks, all the way past
Wyoming to my former neigh-
borhood, where I would find
all my pals waiting for me. We
could head over to my old home
field at MacDowell. There I knew
I would be picked for a game,
based on my known natural abil-
ities. Now I just had to convince
my mom and dad.
It wasn’t easy. They encour-
aged me to find a way to show or
tell these new guys that I was a
ball player. But I just didn’t have
that skill in my social arsenal of
tricks. Instead, I pleaded to my
parents, with tears in my eyes. I
reminded them how I had been
uprooted from the place that I
loved, where I had fit in so per-
fectly. As I saw them weakening
(probably to save their sanity that
summer), I agreed to intermit-
tently keep trying at Bagley to
get picked for a game. But, in the
meantime, I just needed to get
back to MacDowell and my old
homies.
So that’s what I did for the
next three or four weeks. My
trusty steed carried me back to
a place where everybody knew
my name. I happily played ball
all day and probably scrounged
lunch from one of my friend’s
mothers. And I returned to my
new home on my bike via the
same route in reverse, arriving in
time for dinner.
Until one day, when I walked
over to Bagley, probably at my
mom’s urging and, for some
reason, only 16 or 18 kids had
shown up by choose-up time.
I finally got to play, probably
catcher or right field. And I
showed enough baseball skills
that at the next full choose-up, I
was picked … not first or second
pick, but not last pick either …
right in the middle. I now felt
like I belonged!
I debated continuing my rides
to the old neighborhood. I was
tempted to return to a place
where I felt more firmly estab-
lished in the pecking order. I
missed being an integral part of
my old gang.
But a bigger part of me real-
ized that it was time to move on.
As the Bible and Pete Seeger say:
“To everything, there is a season,
turn turn turn!” It was my turn,
my time to find a place in my
new neighborhood.
So, my bike went back into
the garage for less frequent use.
Like all great teachers, mentors,
rabbis and parents, my bike knew
when it was needed and when
I was OK on my own. My two-
wheeled buddy had helped me
get through a rough transition.
This foreshadowed the day when
I would trade my bike wheels for
the almighty allure of a car.
Spoiler alert: My love affair
with my bicycle was far from
over. But we were definitely tak-
ing a break.
YIDDISH LIMERICK
Ven ir zayt akhtzik, a hero zayt ir
Azay in Pirkei Avot iz geshribn, my dear.
My Jewish News ich hob dir lib
Un dos is emes, not a fib
Mit dir mit mir, ich hob no fear.
Ven ir zayt akhtzik- when you are 80
zayt ir- you are
Azay- this is how
iz geshribn- is written
ich hob dir lib- I love you
Un dos iz emes- and this is the truth
Mit dir mit mir- with you with me
ich hob- I have
By Rachel Kapen