Signs Of Autumn: Heat Waves and the High Holy Days

It’s officially Autumn today, which, when I lived in New England was a harbinger of a few things: cool weather, leaves changing color and the High Holy Days. Now that I live in Los Angeles it’s a little different. Fall is represented by horrible heat waves, leaves drying up and dropping, and the High Holy Days.

I’m not a terribly religious Jew, but in the past I really made an effort to attend services on the Holidays. It seemed – and was – the least I could do. I’m not alone in this, since it’s practically impossible to get into a synagogue on the Holidays unless you already belong to one. There is this syndrome among the Tribe that’s dubbed the “twice a year Jew,” and I confess I’m one. 

Basically, that means that the only time you show up for services are the two important days: Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Rosh Hashanah is the start of the Jewish New Year and the day you’re entered in the “Book of Life,” and Yom Kippur is the big one: the Day of Atonement.  Most non-Jews think of Yom Kippur as the “day of the crabby Jew” as we’re supposed to fast from sunset to sunset. Everybody knows a hungry Jew is a cranky Jew.

When I was a kid my family was a little more observant than I am now. My brother and I went to Sunday school and he was actually Bar Mitzvah’d. Not so much me.

I hated languages and Hebrew was no exception. I was given the choice to be Bat Mitzvah’d  -my brother was given no such option- and I ran for the hills. The idea of spending time learning a Torah portion and then reading it in public literally gave me a stomach ache, so I got a pass.

Still my dad occasionally went to Friday night services, and always said the Kaddish, the mourning prayer, for his parents and brother. We all sat shiva for them.

But our big appearances at synagogue were on the Holidays. My main memory was that it was stiflingly hot. I believe that there is always a heat wave during the High Holy Days to remind us that we were originally a desert people.

The central rooms of the shul were well air conditioned, but the library, where the latecomers sat --which was constantly us -- was barely cooled.  Then as now, ladies always paraded their new Fall fashions; they looked lovely. Sweaty, but lovely. Okay, they weren’t sweaty, they were extremely ‘glowing.’  Jewish divas don’t sweat. They glow.

For a lot of people the Holidays are a social occasion. Since many folks don’t go to synagogue regularly, these are the only times they see one another. So in addition to the Cantor up on the bema, or alter, singing his lungs out, there is a steady hum of conversation. Of course, there’s always someone who really wants to hear, shushing the talkers. It must be frustrating since it’s completely a losing proposition. Everyone knows you can’t shut up a Jew.

When I first came to Los Angeles, I tried going to a number of different congregations around town. Because I was young, single and interested, they usually let me attend services for a small visitor fee.  They were all desperate for new members. Since I never joined – membership the fees were staggering, and I always felt like a distinct outsider – that didn’t last long.

For a few years, my friend and Lollapalooza boss, Stuart and I were members of the Synagogue of the Performing Arts. We went to occasional Friday night sevices

which were fun, but the big days were the holidays. Services were usually held in the Beverly Hills Hilton and the turnout was huge. There were great celebrity sightings, and it’s in those pre- 9/11 days, it was the only time I’d seen really tight security at shul. Of course then it was more to keep the paparazzi away, than to keep a crazy loon from gunning down a room full of Jews.

One year we even brought Perry Farrell with us. Even though I was dressed in my Los Angeles best, he looked better in a gold-lame suit. He also could read the prayers in Hebrew. I was impressed. So were the Rabbi’s daughters, who were huge Jane’s Addiction fans.

My old neighborhood in North Hollywood was practically ground zero for Valley Jews. There were three synagogues in walking distance. Not that I ever walked. I am an Angeleno after all. 

But now that I live in the West Valley, the nearest congregation is a hike.  I’m both lazy and unmotivated, so on Wednesday evening I’m going to attend a yoga class with a bunch of other slacker Jews. And Thursday, instead of fighting the crowds for parking and seating, I’m going to go for an actual hike. I’ll see a bunch of trees with the leaves turning brown, think of my dad and other missing friends and relatives and say my prayers there.