OPINION

Memories of a Course of Inspiration

Written by Ruvy
Published May 12, 2006

When the burglars broke into our Bensonhurst apartment in the spring of 1979, they took a lot more than the Adler electric typewriter and a pillowcase. They also stole our sense of security. The apartment that had been home no longer was. We felt as though we lived in a hostile world of strangers: evil people ready to seize all that was ours and laugh us in the face. And frankly, I was going to miss that Adler. It and I had aced a whole slew of courses in public administration and political science, finally earning me the spot of honor on the dean's list the last semester I attended college.

When I checked the mail that day, a strange item had arrived. A law school in Minnesota that I had applied to earlier in the year had sent us a notice that they were willing to consider my application if I sent a $100 application fee. They already had the application sent in with LSAT scores, typed up on the now stolen Adler.

Had our apartment not been broken into, I would have thought a lot longer and harder about moving to Minnesota to pursue the study of law. I didn't realize the adjustments we would have to undergo to leave Brooklyn and live in St. Paul with its small Jewish community. My mother-in-law, who had been raised in Mississippi, tried to warn me, but I would not listen. I sent the fee. I couldn't wait to get out of Brooklyn.

Upon acceptance, I left my position at the City University and my wife quit her job. We hired a mover and packed our goods.

The first premonition that this might not work out smoothly came the day I sat in the office of the law school to sign loan papers. I felt awful inside. Something was wrong - though I did not know what it was.

In law school, I found the work a lot harder than anything I had done in college. Even the discussion about the legal ramifications of the loss of the Edmund Fitzgerald in Lake Superior only a few years earlier found me eventually snoozing on the desk in the class on torts that covered the issue.

My favorite activity in law school was sitting in the school cafeteria, munching on a peanut butter sandwich (the only thing I trusted the cafeteria not to mess up), drinking coffee and regaling my classmates with tales about New York and Brooklyn. That wasn't enough to get me passing grades.

So in August 1980, I found myself without a job, kicked out of school, stuck in a strange and foreign place with a wife who had found a secure job with the county and who was not moving back to New York. And I was stuck with a debt that I had to pay off.

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The writer was born in Brooklyn and lived in Minnesota for a number of years. There he managed restaurants and wrote stories. He moved with his family to Israel where they now reside. He is published by Jewish Indy, as well as by Desicritics.org.
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Memories of a Course of Inspiration
Published: May 12, 2006
Type: Opinion
Section: Culture
Filed Under: Culture: Travel, Culture: History, Culture: Family and Relationships, Books: The Writing Life, Books: Children
Writer: Ruvy
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Comments

#1 — May 12, 2006 @ 15:42PM — Michael J. West [URL]

Beautifully written, Ruvy. As usual.

#2 — May 13, 2006 @ 00:32AM — Michael J. West [URL]

I wish I had realized when I wrote the preceding comment that it was already after sundown on Friday in Israel. But I guess you'll get this comment at the same time as that, so: Shabbat Shalom.

#3 — May 13, 2006 @ 10:40AM — chantal stone [URL]

What a wonderful story Ruvy. I love to hear how people began to do what they do, the tales of that initial spark of inspiration.

I hope you are still writing your stories.

#4 — May 13, 2006 @ 14:00PM — Ruvy in Jerusalem [URL]

Shavua Tov,

Thank you Mike and Chantal for the kind words. I still write, though time has made a mockery of some of my previous ideas and threatens to do the same with some of what I'm working on now.

I learned more than just writing in Emily's sunroom. Gentility, civility, politeness, traits we badly need, were always present in her sunroom. It is hard to encourage a writer without them.

#5 — May 14, 2006 @ 10:50AM — Christopher Rose [URL]

Impressive piece of work, Ruvy. I hope you never forget the gifts Ms Emily bestowed upon you.

#6 — May 14, 2006 @ 11:02AM — Ruvy in Jerusalem [URL]

Thank you for the kind words, Chris.

I try not to forget. Sometimes it gets hard...

#7 — October 28, 2007 @ 10:41AM — Robert Crofford

Thanks for the kind words about my mom.

#8 — October 28, 2007 @ 13:14PM — Ruvy in Jerusalem

My dear Mr. Crofford,

Your mother earned every syllable of what I wrote. She taught me that writing is a craft, and a hard craft, and that the good writer is a good craftsman, like a carpenter who knows precisely how to plane a piece of lumber to get it to the proper smoothness. She taught that a good craftsman takes pride in his work, and insists, like Abel did in the Bible, on bringing only his best fruits to the sacrifice.

She taught something else as well, something that is harder to remember for a person who does not suffer fools easily. Your mother taught civility and kindness. She taught that every writer, in presenting his work to the public, is presenting a part of himself, and deserves to be treated with respect for having made the effort, even if that work is not particularly good.

I try to remember this in my criticisms - I admit I do not always succeed.

I'm sure you read your mom's stories to your kids, and to other kids as well, so I needn't mention that to you. But think on what I've written above. This is your mother's true legacy, the one that goes beyond the stories she wrote; the legacy of a woman who taught a craft, a hard craft, and who taught others to respect the work of a craftsman, and seek for the best when inspecting that work. These concepts apply, not merely to writing or carpentry - they apply all across the board.

Teach this to your children, and to your children's children, and the children of your children's children, if G-d gives you to see them, and your mother will smile with delight upon you from the heavens.

Have a blessed Sunday,
Reuven - who used to be known as Ron

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