But way back in ’85, there was something else special that also went on. Truly great people walked the earth, and many of them passed through mekomos haTorah like Horim
No ChatGPT, no shidduch crisis. The now-ubiquitous ArtScroll Gemara was then nonexistent. The only kids who used the red Soncinos had mothers who went by names like Regina or Phyllis and packed their kids’ lunches with asparagus spears. (I used to think that Mr. Soncino was a BT who grew up in Stratford-upon-Avon.)
Bochurim were still the same, though. Some of us learned with an unquenchable flame, and some of us… didn’t.
In those days, you generally went with your yeshivah for the summer, even if your yeshivah wasn’t an “alef,” and regardless of your personal acumen understanding a Marcheshes. (And no, dear Prager/Yagdil kids, the Marcheshes isn’t a concept from Maseches Menachos.)
I would sit in the beis medrash in Camp Horim, dreaming. My dream was not like the great Ponevezher Rav’s dream. It was always the same wish — for a magic carpet to whisk me out the window. The thing about 1985 was that I had no major hasagos about where to be. I just knew it had to be somewhere else…
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