The Nine Inheritors

Clare Datnow’s novel, The Nine Inheritors, reads very much like a biography of ten generations as told by a keen-eyed on-the-scene observer. I enjoyed her omniscient point-of-view because I could journey with the characters as they each moved through their part of history.

Readers enter the story in 1790 Lithuania in the small village or shtetl of Valinsk. It is a place long-steeped in a caste system, where the clergy and the learned are considered superior to the tradespeople. Schmuel Rosen is a tradesman. For all his wealth, he is not high on the pecking order of the shtetl and it rankles, for he is a prideful, driven man.

Wanting desperately to rise above his station, Rosen arrives at the idea of commissioning a new Torah to loan, not give, the village synagogue or shul. For Rosen, the new Torah is not a pious act; it is a means of raising his station and that of his family. Datnow waxes very Michener-esque in her descriptions of all things Jewish, particularly the ritual involved in making a true Sefer Torah scroll—fascinating. In death, Rosen achieves his goal. He is buried in “the most prestigious part of the cemetery, on the higher ground of rabbis and scholars.” Thus begins the journey of the Rosen Torah as it passes from one generation to the next, surviving immigration across stormy seas, theft, fire, and more.

Datnow subtly but persistently uses questions in the telling of each generation’s story. The questions are asked and answered variously by each character as they inherit or come in contact with the Torah: If one does a good thing expecting personal gain, does this diminish the good thing, or is the good inherent in the good thing one did? What is the price of inheritance? When is inheritance a boon, when a burden? What is the value of holy writ in faith?

Here, the Rosen Torah is the good thing, that one holy of holies revered by the Jews and believed to be the original words spoken by God to Moses. Here we have ordinary people encountering the Torah. It is bartered, coveted, rejected, revered, and reviled as each person brings his or her own personal history to bear on the encounter.

The snake handler cannot read the Torah, but imagines it has magical powers. The KKK threatens its existence. One man’s interpretation of the Torah’s words causes him to disown his only son. The disowned son rejects any holy writ that causes his father to disown him.

Datnow asks questions to which there are no pat answers, as there are no pat answers in life. The readers may judge, or perhaps ask questions of their own. How could anyone do that? How could anyone think that? What place does faith have in life?

I enjoyed visiting the lives in The Nine Inheritors, while learning more than I ever knew about the evolution of Jewish life and thought.

 Previously published in the First Draft Magazine of Alabama Writers Forum

Roses - a Memory of Mark Roberts

Roses - 4/14/11 Journal - PepperPlace Market

I got teary when I saw the pewter rose at Charlie Thigpen’s Garden Shop this morning. I bought it.  Now I just need to replace my Robert Taylor Rose.

I remember when I paired the plain $14 gray metal rose with the much more expensive, one-of-a-kind handcrafted copper rose that Robert Taylor made. 

Mark came over from across the hall beer in hand - one for me, one for him - for critique and conversation (a ritual we shared for his art and mine).  He took a sip then cocked his head and nodded his approval of the arrangement.  The green vase full of Mardi Gras beads, the two roses, some black Christmas floral from Z Gallery and 2 of my magic wands.

Roses - 4/30/11 - Journal - Magic City Art Connection

I knew Robert Taylor would be at the Magic City Art Connection.  He was, and he had one rose left.  We chatted.  He had heard about the fire, and I told him the rose was stolen from the wreckage before I could rescue it and I was here to replace it.


Roses - 7/30/11 Journal - 10th Place Aerie


Saturday night and I'm in the new apartment. I've driven Mother home after a long day of waiting for movers, moving, and unpacking.  The living room was in place before I left to drive her home except for the most important part - the roses. I no longer have the green vase - stolen like the first pair of roses- during that day just after the fire when I could not bear to climb those stairs one more time.  So, the dollar vase from the Salvation Army will have to do - I've placed the roses in the center and filled it with  to the brim with Mardi Gras beads.


So, I've replaced the roses. At Christmas I’ll see if the black ornaments are restocked, the wands I don't know, the peripherals don't  matter much.  

It is the roses that take me back to that day.  It is the roses that jar memory of one of the sweetest friends I've ever had. I only wish Mark were here to share a beer and critique my new arrangement of roses and my new digs - I think he'd approve.

The Museum Throws the Best Parties in Town.

One of the best parties in town was at the Birmingham Museum of Art last night – world class show and a venue that appeals to all ages.  Last night the ages ranged from the very young to the very old – all there for “Who Shot Rock and Roll”. 

 

The author, Gail Buckland, was somewhat overwhelmed by the crowd in the Steiner Auditorium for her book talk – seats all taken, the crowd stood all around and filled the steps in the aisles.  She started off a little like she was reading from a script, but soon hit her stride, and it was like listening to someone who knew someone you wish you knew.  All the little insider stories she told us that went on behind the photo shoots of some of the most famous icons of rock and roll gave the actual photographs greater context.

As she was wrapping up, I heard the band crank up upstairs on the mezzanine level and slipped out – hopefully unnoticed.  I always sit at the back so chances are no perceived insult to the author there. 

 

The tables were laden with food and no line, same at the bar.  Fortified with a glass of wine, a bite of fried okra (omg), and a BBQ slider, I climbed to the next level for the show.  There's was no way to appreciate it all.  I’ll have to go back a few times to absorb it all.  These photos are not paparazzi invasions of privacy, these are photos taken with the artists permission.  No deer in the headlights here.  Is it art – yes and more.  I’ve always loved the still photograph and particularly the black and white ones.  These frozen moments of time tell small stories, without having to compete with color. 

Back downstairs to the food and drink, I mingled with people I knew and people I didn’t except to share a table with or sit a moment the white couches of Elvis Lane.  I ended up at a table by the bandstand 5 steps away from the bar with an occasional foray onto the dance floor – I so hope no one got a picture of that.

Without a doubt, my museum membership gives me the most bang for my buck.  They throw the best parties in town:  Art, lecture, food, wine, music - it doesn't get any better than that. 

Worldly Goods

Mom cleans my jewelry

What of all your worldly goods do you pull from the charred and soggy embers of your home if given the chance? At that moment, it was just a drawer full of jewelry: some bought at estate sales, some gifted by people special to me. They're not quite diamonds, or even almost diamonds, but they’re diamonds to me.

The Coroner had come and gone, and the young fireman preceded me up the stairs. My door and Marks stood wide open (mine white, his charred black). The entire roof had caved in on both our homes, and we carefully walked back towards the bedroom. I handed him a shopping bag and pointed to the chest of drawers. While he did that, I upended the trunk full of family pictures hoping they would survive, until I could get help to rescue it. I noticed the laundry I’d been sorting and put 4 pair of jeans over my arm.

As we passed the kitchen, I grabbed another ecco-grocery bag hanging on the pantry door. I stepped across the soggy kitchen floor and took the bottle of Tito’s vodka my sister had brought me from Atlanta, back out in the hallway, I took the sparkly ruby slipper shining from the bookcase shelf full of soggy books and put it in the bag.

Nothing else caught my eye, except the tall black statue that was a gift from Mark a year back. The fireman and I descended the stairs, and I was instantly engulfed in hugs. Patti and Ree were there. I turned to respond to a woman frantically asking, “where’s Mark?” My shaking head and face said it all and as she burst into tears, I realized too late, it was Mark’s mother. I felt bad; I felt insensitive, but there are no right words to say that unsayable truth. I still didn’t believe it myself. We hugged; she cried; I cried.  Her husband came, and then more family. They took her home.

I just wanted to get in the car and drive away, too. I still stood with the myriad things that must be done. Give names and details to the fire chief and the police and formally request copies of their reports. They would not be ready for well over a week. Pick up Jazmine from the Parcak's house.

Patti and Ree walked with me to the car I’d re-parked in front of Greg and Sarah’s house. We put everything in the trunk and said goodbyes. I was still on automatic pilot; go to the store for cat food and litter for Jaz, beer, toothbrush, toothpaste for me, pick up Jaz.  They say you can't go home again, but where do you go when you've lost all your worldly goods and the roof over your head.  Of all the offers of sanctuary I had, there was only one real choice.  I poured me a go cup, strapped Jaz's carrier in the passenger seat and headed home to Mom's house in Hoover.

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