I see you've gone and changed your name again...

"I see you've gone and changed your name again…"
-Leonard Cohen

Names are difficult to remember. This is not only because we are more interested in having people remember our names than we are in remembering others' names. As one of the heroes of my youth, Dale Carnegie pointed out, a person's name has little to do with the person. When we are born, our parents pick a name they fancy. By the time we can read write and date, we are stuck' with our given names, whether or not we happen to like them.

My parents decided to name me Melvyn. No regular name for their first born son. They couldn't even have gone for Melvin, that would have been mundane. As with East European Jews, my Hebrew name is the name of a deceased family member, in my instance, Elimelech (or "Mailach”) in memory of my paternal grandfather.

By the time I started Hillcrest High School in 1964, my name had shortened to Mel, a considerable improvement, and with some brief intermissions, it is still the name I have used for over forty years.

When I came to Israel in 1969, the folks at the Kibbutz 'christened' me with the more common name of Yossi. It didn't stick. I then tried 'Eli', another common Israeli name, and a short form of Elimelech. But when people called me by my new name, I didn’t turn around. Back to Mel.

Nowadays with the advent of the internet, having an uncommon name is a distinct advantage. I am now corresponding with an old high school colleague, Terry Bura, who looked me up over the internet. If you google Mel Rosenberg, you find two characters. One is me. The other is Mel Rosenberg, a fictional mayor in the novels of Anne Roiphe. Not much competition, given that that other Mel Rosenberg doesn't answer e-mails. Since my books and articles are under "Mel Rosenberg", the only time you'll find me under "Melvyn Rosenberg" is on my patents (need real names there).

Terry Bura is not a common name. Neither is Hani Shukrallah. Hani was an Egyptian who studied with us at Hillcrest High School. We had animated debates (an understatement) on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He was extremely eloquent. Still, I was astonished to hear from Terry that Hani went on to become the managing editor of El Aharam. I'm trying to track him down (can anyone help?) hoping that we can establish some rapport now that peace talks are underway.

So if your folks decided to call you John or Peter, and your family name is Smith, chances are that people will have trouble finding you, unless your parents have been prescient enough to call you John332 or Edw@rd.

For me, it all turned out well in the end. After all, smell well doesn't rhyme with Peter, does it? And who was it that said "A Rosenberg by any other name would smell as sweet"?

Having Sax

Last night, I watched one of the modern masters of the tenor saxophone, Scott Hamilton, perform his magic at the Tel Aviv Opera House in front of a huge, immensely appreciative crowd. Scott has distilled the art of Ben, Lester, Coleman and Gene, and delivers an immaculately smooth sound with more subtle hues than the autumn leaves back in his native Rhode Island. His trademark ballads transport you like a 12 year old single malt whiskey. Scott was accompanied by his rhythm section (John Pearce on piano, Dave Green on double bass and Steve Brown on drums) direct from London. They were an immense treat. A quartet of great musicians and lovely people (I got a brief chance to chat with them).

Adolphe Sax invented the saxophone in Belgium about 160 years ago. He died long before it found its true vocation as the instrumental voice of jazz in the 1920s. I wish he could have been in the crowd last night. My father-in-law calls music "the food of the soul". There was a lot on the menu last night.

Lightfoot

Gordon Lightfoot is one of my favorite songwriters. He makes a fellow proud to be a Canadian. Two of my favorite songs are "In the early morning rain" and "Affair on 8th Avenue."
"In the early morning rain" is the classical song of getting stuck, somewhere, anywhere, emotionally or physically (or both). The guy in the song may be somewhat of a broke hobo, but it speaks to us all.
When I was a teenager, flying was extremely expensive. Flying from Canada to continental Europe cost a fortune, because of the IATA monopoly, to get a cheaper fare one had to fly Icelandic Airways to Iceland, and from there with Loftleider (have I spelt that right?) to Luxembourg. Jim Shalom and I did that once, but that's another story.

Within North America, flight was also expensive, but there were discounted standby fares for students. Which meant that you waited until the very last minute, and if the plane wasn't full, they would let the scruffy students aboard. However, if a previous plane had been delayed or cancelled (and with the Canadian weather this happens not infrequently in winter), dozens of adults with full fare would shove you aside and you would end up getting to spend the night at Dorval or some other airport.

"This old airport's got me down, it's no earthly use to me. 'Cause I'm stuck here on the ground, cold and drunk as I can be"

In the summer of 1969, as I mentioned in my previous blog, Jim and I were visiting Camp Galil in Pennsylvania when Don Kelman came down with appendicitis. I was asked to replace him, went back to Ottawa, packed, and travelled to Dorval or Mirabel (can't remember) for a flight to Philadelphia. The guy at US customs asked me if I was flying to the States to work. "I'm going to be a camp counsellor", I told him. "Are you going to make any money?" he asked. "Yes, I proudly said, fifty dollars." "Well then, young man, you can't enter our United States without a work permit," he responded. Oy vey! What a jerk I was. I never boarded that plane.

I'm a sucker for a lot of Lightfoot tunes, but my other favorite is a song about perfume, titled "Affair on 8th Avenue".

The perfume that she wore was from some little store

On the down side of town

But it lingered on long after she'd gone
I remember it well…

Kind of says it all, doesn't it? Odors can stick in our mind for decades, and remind us of otherwise long-forgotten experiences from our distant youth. For me, it's the smell of autumn in the air while, as a young child, I throw the football around with my Father or friends.
What's your best smell memory? Let me know...

Frank Parkinson

It is the early summer of 1959. Ottawa. The crocuses have blossomed.
I have just completed my first year's study of piano with the formidable Sandra Coupal (I am glad to see there is now a prize given in her memor each year). She is a stern, but excellent teacher of classical piano on Daly Street. I am one of her better young first year students, and am elected to play God Save the Queen at the yearly concert. My other piece is Clowns by Kabalevsky. I can still hum the tune.
After months of practice and preparation, the day of the concert arrives. The students are catatonic. Like gymnasts, we stick our hands into powder, to keep the sweat from causing our fingers to slip. I can still remember how nervous I was.
The concerts take place at the cavernous Academic Hall. It seems to me like there were five hundred people in the audience (more like 150 according to my parents). I finish my pieces thankfully, and can lean back and listen to the others. Helen Fields was good. But the best of all was another first year student, who was about sixteen at the time.
His name was Frank Parkinson, and he was awesome. I can't remember the piece he played, but it was daunting for any first year student of any age.
Two years later, another concert at Academic Hall. I can't remember the pieces I played, but I recall Frank's performance like it was yesterday. He played Rhapsody in Blue for two pianos, accompanied by our teacher, Sandra Coupal. It was awesome. Frank blew the audience away. Gershwin was bopping in his grave. It was clear to all of us that Frank was on his way to becoming an international musical
phenomenon.
Where did Frank go from there? I have no idea. He disappeared. The very next day he stopped playing the piano. As it turned out, Frank's dream was to play Gershwin's masterpiece. He did, and that was that.
I have no idea what mountains he has climbed since. But I remember his remarkable tale to this very day.