Massachusetts 8, or To Everyone Who Has Ever Wondered Why I Tried to Learn Yiddish

"But what [Yiddish] really does have, he thought—what you don't know it has, because it isn't in any Woody Allen movies—is a world of the dead built into it, a true fear of heaven, an automatic need to invoke the presence of God whenever saying anything good or bad about anyone or anything, an absolute trust that the other world, if one could call it that, is not separate from this one, that eternity is always breathing over your shoulder, waiting to see if you will notice."

~Dara Horn, The World To Come

New York 1, or A Story About A Road Trip, And A Vice

My partner and I drove to my parents' lake house from western Massachusetts to upstate New York last night. Usually, this is a pretty stressful drive that involves heavy traffic on large highways, at least one wrong turn, and a lot of exhaustion. I wish I could take on some of the driving, but right now I can only drive a standard within the safe (and stall-friendly) confines of an empty parking lot.

So there I was, sitting in front of a Mapquest rendering of Western Mass, and looking desperately for a way to avoid some of the deadlier stretches of interstate. And there it was - a small state highway that snaked almost parallel to the road I was avoiding that would take us clear into New York. Huzzah! I told my partner of said Modified Travel Plans, and he happily agreed.

The road did not disappoint - it was a stunningly beautiful drive as we climbed and wound through the Berkshires at sunset. We crested huge hills that left us with views of the entire valley, drove by countless rivers and farms, and ran through a cross-section of quaint rural Western Mass towns (where the only entertainment seemed to be the gas station and the VFW). And, most importantly - we never stopped moving. I believe that this is the most crucial secret to a good road trip. Traffic does no good for anyone's peace.

We crossed into New York right on time, and stopped at a gas station for a stretch break. I walked into the convenience store immediately headed for the colorful scratch lottery tickets. I was in New York.

I turned 18 in New York, and had been 18 for several days before I mentioned to one of my younger cousins that I hadn't yet celebrated all my newfound freedoms. There was no one to vote for, I wasn't interested in buying cigarettes or pornography, but Gil suggested I take him to the supermarket and buy lottery tickets.

We did, and won $20 off of the ten tickets we bought, and spent the rest of the summer buying scratch tickets with whatever we won from that. We finally ran out of money sometime a few months later, but in memory of that summer, I always buy a couple of scratch tickets whenever I'm in New York.

This time, as my partner and I sat across from each other in a gas station store booth, keys in hand with three scratch tickets between us, I felt myself grinning. After all, what's a terrific road trip without a little nostalgia?

We made it to my parents house in good time, where we made kiddush on the dock and stargazed for awhile. As we ate bites of sourdough challah and drank some ridiculously good wine, I was reminded of a song we used to sing at camp, adapted from an old spiritual:

I've got peace like a river
I've got peace like a river
I've got peace like a river in my soul
And it flows like a river
and it flows like a river
I've got peace like a river in my soul

I've got joy like a mountain
I've got joy like a mountain
I've got joy like a mountain in my soul
And it rests like a mountain
and it rests like a mountain
and it rests like a mountain in my soul