THE MEMORY IS A BLESSING

We lost a friend and comrade in arms this past weekend. The loss is very great.
Rafael Moshe passed away on shabbes.

I first remember meeting him at a pro-Israel demonstration in front of city hall several years ago. He and his wife and daughter were there, along with about fifty of us, facing a huge mob of pro-Palestinians screaming hate and threatening to kill us all. Which, unfortunately, is what the discourse more often than not has been like in this most liberal of métropoles.
All three of them were at numerous subsequent events where we found ourselves outnumbered by the hate-spewing wanna-be revolutionaries.
As you can imagine, that’s a basis for a profound bond.

Over the years we discussed Torah, Talmud, Rock and Roll, chemistry, potheads, politics, seedy dives, Kabbalah, the yetzias mitzrayim, the shir ha shirim asher li Shlomo, tattoos, zesty Philippinas, Palawan, laws, betelnut, and Cuban cigars.
That’s just a small sampling, there was more, much more.
Irreplaceable discussions, good cheer.
Plus drinks and curry.

Many of our conversations took place at demonstrations.
Remarkably, when a mob of venomous Berkeleyites and other front-men for the sitra achra are screaming their hatred of Jews, you find yourself tuning them and their voices out, and achieving clarity of focus. Moments such as that are to be cherished.

One time he, another friend, and myself, went off to a cigar-bar afterwards.
The next morning I got an e-mail from his eyshes chayil informing me that she had “dropped him off clean and pressed”, and that I had returned him “smelling like the men’s room at Grand Central Station”.
That was a long time ago.
I’ll have to ask her sometime how she knew about the peculiar perfume of that environ, but it won’t be for a while.
Best wait until we can smile again.

I remember him as having an exceptionally keen mind, before the crippling pain and the medication became dominant factors in his life. Both of those things narrow the mind's horizon. But even then, when there was a need, he could draft a darn fine piece of text.
Passovers were more than just a recounting of the escape from a horrid place, they were a celebration.
It wasn’t his family minhag but entirely accidental coincidence that every year someone would fall asleep on the lawn during sukkos.
Booths mean Slivovitz. I hadn’t known that before.


"I dropped him off clean and pressed, you returned him smelling like the men’s room at Grand Central!"

A flexible mind, and a traveler to strange and wonderful places.
With a devilish grin as he waited for the penny to drop.

Also, one or two “rule-circumventing” incidents...
For a good cause; no details will be provided.

Farewell, Rafael Moshe, we’ll miss you.
Say ‘hi’ to Dan for us.



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