Sunday, March 29, 2015


My uncle's name was Morris.  His Hebrew name was Moshe.  My uncle passed away in the early 1990s.  Subsequently, his son, my cousin Sam, named his first born, Moshe, after his dad.

Yesterday several Zarembas, Toguts and assorted others gathered in Rockville, Maryland to attend Moshe's bar mitzvah.

The young man did great. He was poised and sang out his portion with confidence.  Seemed unflappable as if there was nothing to this.

Moshe has a following.  The synagogue was packed with supporters, many of whom were his contemporaries who took up three or more rows in the temple.  Dozens of thirteen year old others were there to watch their friend.  Later in the evening a ballroom was jammed with these kids dancing to tunes I have not heard of.

It was a pleasure to watch Moshe on that bema.  I could only imagine how Sam was kvelling watching that young boy--now man--reading the haftorah.

And it was not too difficult to imagine my aunt and uncle beaming their pride and joy as Moshe stood in front of the rabbi. I could see my folks there too, smiling broadly.

Well done, Moshe.  Carry on.

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