The Clock Shop Sage By Rabbi Steven M Leapman Salve Time's sting amidst instruction and risk a lesson dimmed A state of affairs my mentor would not endure You see, my father was a watchmaker, a trade school graduate success story Made prosperous by the GI Bill's generosity as Korea's aftermath and worthy cast Returned to safe democratic shores, secure despite China or Stalin's rage Come December he was carried off, each Cbanukab season's absentia, Snatched high away by the talons of retail's American eagle in mercantile ascent Held tight and tedious those long hours by the whims and wiles Of owning a business blind to Jewish time Early tbe next morning as ended Thanksgiving's abundant fare My father, partially concealed by dawn's early light, did as would many dutiful men Raise a garage door and depart to serve and sell in the year's dark twelfth month When Light is sought and whether electrical or inspired we celebrate so as to guarantee Income and a way of life for which his immigrant parents risked an ocean's roar And an earlier America's accusations, on behalf of all unborn's better future Out onto PA Rt. 30 then westward holding to 283 W. aboard bis O lds '98 At 70 mph and more Dad's daily reenactment amidst hurried ruminations Of our Lithuanian ancestors peddlers' path, though adjusted to the days he knew Adorned and delivered in a mid 70's metal cloak of four-door, 8-track sound prowess While snow fell and ice formed as cash registers rung and customers shopped A mother and son of the upper middle-class and a merchant's fond, unspoken affections Were necessarily abandoned celebrants and audience of a father-absent Festival of Lights A proprietor and throughout all Decembers' delirium so sadly less prevalent as a parent Whose presence became a nightly telephone line's contingency While son and spouse kindled light and recited lin1rgies in a glow suburban and solimde II We reclined every Passover to be ready for prophetic redemption He reclined after Thanksgiving's rich repast to rest for an arduous retail season One winter vacation's late afternoon at bis hours' drenched store, During my insensitive high school days, whi le packing up Santa displays And pi ling wreaths which never hung in our home Came forth this son's decree, shallowly seeing myself a latter-day Maccabee Now freed of an anxious mercanti le legacy My sureties soon to strike at and shove aside an industrious father's loving intent 6 Poetry - I cringe as adulthood's unforgiving refit "You don't need to keep this business Smug certainty dismissing the fragile e My father's duties, the sales-driven bas1 Failing to secure validation before a bo Amidst adolescent arrogance when im1 All too shrill and surely proclaim, a sec Yet too much a child to discern how ear And pass onward a man's practiced era A previous generation's priorities, and m A gender lame with words hoped to fir The communion of deeds wherein ide1 Are remedied by proximity, not emotion: And leave their audience mute if dazzlt A seasoned merchant shall wisely displ: For far beyond making a living, it is virtu This too is an Art whose studio is shop Availability of proprietor and product are These are skills books will not impart ar So too one family's Willy Loman groM Quicken and become the daily felt substa I ponder the sentences he couldn't forr Appeals and acclamations though somt Amidst the shoppers and trade well am So poorly attuned, to the vocabulary of Slowly pushed open as decades pass on And I now watch my young boy's eyes s My own gestures of legitimacy and stun As I recall a clock shop's unappreciated n med uate success story :ermath and worthy cast or Stalin 's rage on's absentia, :le in merca ntile ascent d wiles lt fa re Nould many dutiful men H's dark twelfth month '.!ebrate so as to guarantee . ri sked an ocea n's roa r barn 's better future oa rd his O lds '98 rried ruminations sted to the days he knew x, 8-track sound prowess md custo mers sho pped ; fond, unspoken affections ler-absent Festival of Lights { less prevalent as a parent 1gency ;low suburban and solitude mptio n arduous reta il season 1ed store, 'Santa displays tter-day Maccabee •LIS fa ther's loving intent The Clock Shop Sage - Analecta l cringe as ad ulthood's unfo rgiving reflections rewind to a son's needless distinction "You don 't need to keep this business fo r me!" Smug certa in ty d ismiss ing the f~agile epicenter whereupon fe ll My fa ther's duties, the sales-d ri ven bastion of his dign ity Faili ng to secure valida tion before a boy we ll shy even two decades on this earth Amidst adolescent arrogance when imprudent passio ns, if given tongue All too shrill and surely procla im, a secession from all thi ngs paternal Yet too much a child to d iscern how earnestly fa thers wish to vouchsafe, not separate And pass o nward a man's practiced craft into welcoming hands, strong to embrace A previous generation's prio ri ties , and maybe too, a profession it may come to impart A gender lame with words hoped to find in shared skills and hours together, The communion of deeds wherein identities and unannounced anguishes Are remedied by proximi ty, not emotions' eruption when well-styled words burst out, And leave their audience mute if dazzled Ill A seasoned merchant shall wisely d isplay and array timely attractions For fa r beyond making a living, it is virtue and vendor's skill to know one's customers This too is an Art whose studio is shop, stall, and aisle Ava ilability of proprietor and product are to commerce and cl ient as free will to the soul These are skills books will not impart and as dawns this insight and understand ing, So too one fa mily's Willy Lo man grows fo rgiven as consciousness and compass io n Quicken and become the daily felt substance, indeed the penance, of all those tuitions I ponder the sentences he couldn ' t fo rm , those sentiments remain concealed Appeals and acclamations though so mehow never spoken , went better heard Amidst the shoppers and trade well attended , while a son stood by illiterate, So poorly attuned , to the vocabulary of the marketplace, an occlusion of the hea rt Slowly pushed open as decades pass once death has come and taken my Dad away And l now watch my young boy's eyes stare at me and scrutinize, My own gestures of legitimacy and stum bling linguistics of affirmation As I recall a clock shop's unappreciated soul , what will my offspring pass me by? 7