As we count the flames, which numbers take on a life of their own?
Project Coordinator: Rachel Bachrach
MYfather never learned in yeshivah. His father, my zeide, hired melamdim for him, and as he got older, he learned from local rabbanim in his hometown, what was known as “the old northside” neighborhood of Minneapolis, Minnesota. The plan had been to send him to yeshivah in Chicago, a ten-hour train ride away, upon his bar mitzvah, but when the time came he was scared to leave home.
His weak background in learning left my father feeling very unconfident about anything having to do with Torah. He was afraid to repeat a devar Torah for fear of bungling it. He would never pasken even the most straightforward halachah. All halachic questions, even the most basic, were always directed to the rav.
All halachos that is, except one: that a Yid is not allowed to milk a cow on Shabbos, but if he must, the milk must be discarded. My father told me this with complete confidence, and I found it strange, as it was totally out of character. Of course, there was a story behind this halachah.
Upon arriving in America, my zeide’s first career was as a cattle trader. He had a half-brother in the business and a brother-in-law who was a shochet, so it was a good fit. Zeide would travel from farm to farm, buying a cow on one farm and selling or swapping it on the next one. If he had a cow on his hands at the end of the day, he would bring it home and look for a buyer. If they couldn’t find one, Uncle Sam Levine, the shochet, would be summoned to shecht the cow, and they would sell the meat.
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