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