August 22, 2014--Best of Behind: A Jew in Vermont

This was originally posted on October 3, 2007. Since then, my friend has made a significant adjustment. He pines less for Manhattan and takes pride in growing tomatoes--

To come to Vermont for a visit in the autumn to witness the leaves changing or in summer to get away from the heat of the city is a non-sectarian event. But to leave your roots behind in that city in order to live there permanently is decidedly something else.

My Jewish friend (who to protect him from himself will here be referred to as “he”) who moved up here eight years ago, put his condition this way as we sat in a vast meadow, having arrived at it after following an abandoned logging trail; sprawling on the cut hay grass and looking out over the broad Connecticut River Valley toward the White Mountains of New Hampshire—I cannot recall a more transporting vista or feeling more at one with nature—he said: “Every day, and I mean every day, I think about what I need to do to get back to New York City.”

His wife, also Jewish, made a remarkable adjustment to their new life. Actually, a remarkable transformation. Really, a remarkable metamorphosis. She owns horses and cows and sheep and chickens and slaughters and butchers the latter to feed the family. She takes care of and rides the horses to the hounds (truely) and for hunting. Last year she had a moose license from the county and this year is allowed to “take” one doe. She seems to know everyone and all about every aspect of their lives—even of the usually stoical Vermonters. Jewishness does not appear to have been a problem for her.

He on the other hand knows nearly no one, can’t distinguish the front end of the horse from the rear (and doesn’t care to learn); has allergies to virtually all of Vermont’s wildflowers (which proves beyond DNA evidence that he is Jewish); and even the sight of anything that contains cheddar cheese makes him instantly nauseous.

There are, I suspect, other Jews in Vermont. For example, there is something that looks very much like a Jewish Center in Woodstock. But you would never know this from him. Though he holds a Hanukkah party every December and invites to it everyone who he knows or suspects might be Jewish (don’t ask how he makes that determination), even stretching his definition of what makes one Jewish, at its most attended there were no more than ten people who showed up—and, to drive home his predicament, I understand he invited potential members of the Tribe from every part of the state.

The few friends he has made (he calls them “acquaintances”) are worried about him. Even the non-Jews. Those are, truthfully, more concerned than worried—concerned being the gentile way to be worried. So, concerned or worried, they have through the years made many suggestions and offered encouragement about things he might do that they feel he would enjoy and that might make him become more of a Vermonter. Like get into serious recycling or heating his home with wood fires or organic gardening or throwing pots. Or even developing an interest in nature. Some, more radically, thought he might like skeet shooting or gourmet cooking. To them he said, “But I'm from New York. Guns are illegal and I always ate out."

And, he insisted, after getting into source separation where he divided his clear glass bottles from his green glass bottles and his coated paper from his newsprint, and so on, everything they suggested and urged made him think about illness, dying, and, what else, death.

“A Jew after all,” he would insist, “is a Jew.” Though no one within 50 miles of where he lives understood any of this, they did respect his right to think that way. Vermont, after all, prides itself on its openness to all manner of views and differences. It was the first state in the union, for example, to legalize same-sex unions. Do you need to know anything more?

“When I made a vegetable garden,” he moaned, “I was surprisingly good at it. In Brooklyn, where I grew up, there was hardly any dirt to stick a seed into much less a backyard that wasn’t made of cement. So what would I know about gardening? Organic no less. But when it came time to harvest my crop, every time I pulled a radish or carrot from the ground it felt like I was committing a violation against the Commandment ‘Thou shall not kill.’ I could almost hear them crying in pain.”

 I nodded in understanding. “And even worse was when I bought two of the latest high-tech wood stoves and tried to heat our house that way. To be environmentally responsible. I did well at that too, but when I had to clean the grate all I could think about was how all those mighty logs were reduced to a mere handful of ashes. ‘Dust to dust,’ as the sages said. It took me weeks to recover from the depression.” Again, I nodded.

“And then I threw pots, even though I never could figure out how what I was doing had anything to do with throwing.” This sounds promising, I thought. “But I had my problems with that too. Metaphysical problems.” I had no idea where this was headed. “Because whenever I placed one of my vases or bowls into the kiln they came out shattered. I turned them into shards. Just like the Zohar says. You know, that ancient book of Jewish mystical lore. How Cabbalists believe that the world was once a perfect vessel that became shattered, with the shards scattered everywhere. And that we Jews have a responsibility, Tikkun, to regather those shards as our contribution to healing the world. So there I was in the pottery shed making more shards all the while thinking I’m not carrying out my responsibilities. In fact I’m making an even bigger mess of the world!”

To this I had nothing to say and so he continued, “But what was worst was trying to become interested in nature. You’re up here now to see the autumn leaves. Fine. You think they’re a majestic and beautiful sight. And you are right. Before we moved here, when we would come for a visit that’s what I also felt. But now, when Nature puts on this display, all I can think about, again, is dying and death. This is the dying season. Call me crazy,” and I was beginning to, “but that’s the way I look at things in Nature. Yes, things bloom and are beautiful but very soon they start the withering and dying.”

I decided not to talk about dormancy and regeneration and the promise of spring. After all, I was headed back to New York in a day and a half to my restaurants and cable TV, so I tried a different tack--“But maybe this is a good thing. I mean maybe what you are observing in Nature is to put you in touch with elemental things and thereby inspire you to make every moment count.” I only half-believed this, but I was trying my best to be a good friend.

“And tell me what will I be doing with all those moments that I’ll be counting?” He swept the horizon dismissively with his hand.

For this I didn’t have a ready answer and said to him, in part to change the subject, “Look at those clouds over the mountains. Aren’t they magnificent?”

“Clouds. Smouds. To tell you the truth, right now I could go for a nice pastrami sandwich.”

Amen, to that, I thought.