At this time of year, after Rosh Hashanah and before Halloween, when I go to the drugstore and see the displays of bones, skulls, and tombstones, I know that Yom Kippur and Yizkor can not be far away.
The holy day and holiday, Yom Kippur and Halloween are vastly different, yet because each is fixed to its own calendar, they stand close enough for one day's cheesy horror to catch my eye while my mind is looking for repentance.
I tell myself it's one of those cultural coincidences, nothing to get freaked over; a trick of time that's not a treat. Sometimes, though, I must admit, the autumnal nearness of the two is just ridiculously tempting; so I resist the temptation to plan a break fast consisting only of mounds and mounds of Halloween candy.
On days when I am especially distracted, the creepy accoutrements of October 31 reach out for my attention, forcing comparisons that I would not normally make.
After Rosh Hashanah and before Halloween, wandering through the black and orange aisles of holiday preparedness at a nearby drugstore, and studying the gothic Styrofoam headstones, I consider how, in the drama of each day, death plays a role.
On Yom Kippur, before the Yizkor service, when we rise to remember our personal and collective dead, memorial booklets with a list of their names are passed out. As I turn the pages, I search first for my lost loved ones, but then too for the names of people in my community who are now gone.
This is real death; the memories appearing just behind my eyes.
In contrast, before I arrive at this moment of green pastures, where God is my Shepherd, I must first find my way through the valleys of shadows of fake death created by aisles of gloomy decorations and animatronic skeleton hands.
Consider: Emily Dickinson who wrote, "Because I Could Not Stop for Death," never had to shop in an American drugstore before Halloween. There, the fake headstones are all unavoidably, if not gloomily retailed, and on sale. There's even a photo showing how to they will look in your own front yard graveyard.
Though smaller and lighter than the real kind, the faux markers still mange to fill my eye. The epitaphs I find written on them, unbound from religious convention, can make death seem like just a laugh. "Here lies beloved Uncle Jake. Rode downstairs on a roller skate," says one.
Standing in the drugstore, holding his headstone, a speculative remembrance of "Beloved Uncle Jake," begins to take form: Could "Jake" be short for "Uncle Jacob?" On the day of his funeral was there a sign-in book at the memorial service? After such a freakish accident, what did the rabbi say? Afterwards, was there pitcher to wash your hands? Ya'akov, who came to your shiva? And what did they bring for your grieving family?
Turning the marker face outward, I returned it to the shelf.
I know, it was only a silly seasonal decoration. Maybe it was just the influence of the coming day, the one with real names, and memories of real loved ones. Or maybe it was a trip to the cemetery that I had been putting off. But I had to think: Was it too late to add "Jake" to the Yizkor book?
Edmon J. Rodman has written about making his own matzah for JTA, Jewish love music for the Jerusalem Post, yiddisheh legerdemain for the Los Angeles Jewish Journal, a Bernie MadoffHalloween mask for the Forward, and what really gets stuck in the La Brea Tar Pits for the Los Angeles Times. He has edited several Jewish population studies, and is one of the founders of the Movable Minyan, an over twenty-year-old chavura-size, independent congregation. He once designed a pop-up seder plate.In 2011 Rodman received a First Place Simon Rockower Award for "Excellence in Feature Writing" from the American Jewish Press Association."
