Old man Goldfarb

By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF

I am not the bread winner in our family. I WAS the bread winner in our family when I was a serf in the service of industry, but now when we want bread, we go to the pantry on the corner – the bank – where we keep the bread we¹ve saved up over the years

And obviously, I don¹t bring home the bacon. Not to our Jewish home.

“So, Ted,” my critical friends say, “if you¹re not the bread winner (and you can’t be the lover since your thick brown curls have been thinned to a fine fuzz by age and you’re much too klutzy to be the handyman) what DO you do?

Well, I¹m the yard man – that’s an honorable post. “Not near enough, Ted,” say my critics.

OK, I’m also the storyteller. In our family when members shorter than two feet in height disturb any adult with a request for anything that requires bodily motion or the lifting of an eyelid, I get the call. Hey, Ted, tell Œem a story so I can take a nap.²

My busy time is right after Shabbos lunch. Everybody’s in dreamland except me and the kids. We’re in storyland. So, just in case you¹re the storyteller in your family and you¹re running out of gas, here¹s some categories you can use, that have a kid-healthy moral. There’s a sweet category of Jewish story, usually Chasidic, which deals with the invisible heart; the farm boy with no learning, no Hebrew, who whistles in synagogue – and HE hears. Or the apparen homeless beggar – really a Chasid. Always the surprise ending – where the glory is unmasked – usually by divine intervention.

Then there’s the story of the illiterate who can only recite the Hebrew alphabet. In shul all he can say is “aleph, bet, gimel…”

But even from his dumb mouth to G-d’s ears. You think HE who made language and lima beans can’t form the letters into the words of the Shemona Esrai?

There’s even the novice worshiper who in his passion on Yom Kippur, whistles. The congregation is shocked, but the Creator hears. Can he not interpret the human heart that he designed?

My favorite tale concerns the Torah and Old Man Goldfarb. Nobody liked Chayim Goldfarb. He should have kept a dog. Then he could have claimed a friend. A dog is a terrible judge of character – a dog loves Dracula or Frankenstein or the monster from the sanitary landfill, if he fills his plate.

It¹s a historical fact that Hitler’s dog loved him.

But cranky old Mr. Goldfarb had few contacts with dogs or people. He lived on a farm forty miles out of town; and rarely showed his face in town. And did I tell you about his face? It was not pretty. It was not even plain. It was ugly. His nose was long and drippy like a melting popsicle. His ears were big and round like teacups. If you

didn¹t look at his nose and ears, his face was OK except for the wart in the middle of his forehead.

But no one saw this caricature of a face except the fellow members of his congregation. Because strangely enough, the curmudgeon came toevery minyan. He never missed services. He was always there scowling, but present. He just lacked the warmth to rearrange his scowl into a smile and say, ³Good Shabbos² to his fellow congregants or ³Guten Yom Tov² to those seated around him.

But Chayim Goldfarb had what our Christian neighbors would call a saint and we would call a Tzadik. Unknown to the world, he took care of a destitute family (they were sworn to secrecy) who had lost their wage earner. He provided money for food, he chopped their firewood, he maintained their humble cottage, he cleaned out the chimney. Herose early and finished his chores late at night. Who wouldn’t be cranky, short tempered, unapproachable?

But now we¹re in synagogue and it is Simchas Torah. The Torah lies in the arms of the Rabbi and he is parading it through the aisle of the synagogue. Like a lilac draws honey bees, the worshipers crowd around the rabbi to kiss the symbol of all that is good and all that is wise.

Does Goldfarb the curmudgeon kiss the Torah? No. The Torah twists in the arms of the startled Rabbi and – and kisses Old Man Goldfarb. Yes!!

It’s a great story. Turn off the TV and play storyteller with your kids. And if they show any doubt – today kids are not as naive as they used to be – tell a small innocuous white lie.

“My Uncle Sam was there. He saw it himself.” And if they still don¹t believe, bribe Uncle Sam and get him to call and talk to the kids about Old Man Goldfarb.

It’s only a small lie, which transforms into a mitzvah.