Bobby Pin

We have some odd traditions. Some are way out there, but others are actually sort of nice. This is a short story that recounts the intersection of one of those nice traditions, with my brother.

Every Saturday, whether we liked it or not (and we did not like it) my mom did the best she could to get us to synagogue on time. ‘On time’ is a pretty subjective thing, because if you really wanted to, you could head to synagogue for about 7:00 AM, and catch an old fart or three actually praying…or perhaps napping, as when you are that old, its tough to differentiate between the two activities.

Our scheduled entry-point was approx 9:45 AM, which was about an hour behind the 7:00 AM Super-Jew set, an hour before the ‘Making an Appearance’ Jew, and almost two hours before the “Just Here for the Feedbag’ Jews arrive

Every Saturday morning would pretty much start the same way, with the sound of the old Dual turntable wafting up to the second floor. And while my dad had plenty of Big-Band LP’s to choose from, it was always the “It’s a Jewish Folk Music Party!” that got the play-time. And man, I don’t care how big a fan you happen to be of the genre, at 7:30 AM on one of only two sleep-in days in the week, being roused by the sound of Shlomo ‘Good-Time’ Shilenski’s fiddle was cruel and unusual punishment.

After about the third LP track, and about as many rousing choruses of yaba-biba-biba-bums anyone could stand, my brother Edge, and my sister Mim would each drag their asses about for as long as possible, and eventually get into our Saturday Suits. My little brother, who was only 6, needed a bit more help with his outfit, but he never really protested much at that age. He was saving up his disdain for his teenage years.


Dad’s role in all this was to basically make sure we had enough to eat so we could endure the pray-o-thon. I’d be happy to eat a whole dang bowl of the cereal, but there was a lock-down on the good stuff. The much coveted Harvest Crunch was sparingly spooned out over top of some dry dust-like concoction. I would often dream of eating an entire bowl of those honey-clusters of oats and nuts. My dad was a dentist, and Harvest Crunch was fine, but in moderation…real moderation. He also gave out toothbrushes and Trident gum on Halloween. Yes, we got free eggs delivered to our door each year.

Now that I think about it, Harvest Crunch is now probably considered health food, because now the kids want Honey-Soaked Bunches ‘O Chocolate Donut cereal. Man, my five year old probably will be fantasizing about mainlining Jolt Cola soon.

So with DJ-Dad spinning the sweet sounds of Jewish folk music, mom flying around the house in her heels and various forms of undress (really, a story for a different time) and with the not-so-sweet breakfast cereal being forced down the family gullets, the clock was-a-ticking closer to doomsday with every unsatisfying crunch.

We could drag our feet all we wanted, or complain all we liked, but somehow my mom would find a way to get us into that cavernous Travel-All truck by 8:25 AM sharp (that’s the huge version of the International Harvester truck I would inherit five years later.

I’m sure if the truck had come with another option besides AM radio, we’d be listening to the All-Jew-Jamboree station, but instead we endured the CBC, which droned on and on about where best to plant your friggin’ petunias, or how to rid your whatever-bush of brown scab-like blemishes. Hey, it could be worse, we could be standing in our suits, listening to some old dude in a huge hat and ZZ-Top beard drone on-and-on about who knows what, in Hebrew. But of course that’s exactly what we had in store for us, and the Saturday drive up Rideau Street was indeed a joyless romp.

Upon arrival, we had to time our entry, because you could only get in at specific intervals. If we missed that sweet-spot between 8:45 and 8:50, we’d have to wait till perhaps after 9 AM to get to our seats. My mom made sure we never missed it.

The synagogue seats were actually pretty comfy, but the problem is you really never had a chance to keep your ass in it for longer than 5 or ten minutes at time. This, in and of itself, was some wacky form of torture, in that as soon as ya got comfy, ZZ-Top would signal for everyone to get up and stand up and pray. In retrospect, I’d have preferred spine-buster McDonald’s seating that I could at least park my ass in for a bit. And no, before you dismiss this as the misguided rant of a spoiled brat, we’re talking about almost FOUR HOURS of up-and-down Jack-in-the-box pious calisthenics.

Sermons? Sure, I recall them happening, but I have no idea what the hell he was talking about. There was no singing choir, no instruments, save the occasional musical interlude of elderly congregation passing wind in various high-pitched squeals.

So what does an 11 year old boy live for on a Saturday of synagogue servitude? The little brother’s inevitable pee-break.


I could take him out for a pee, if I promised to come back straight away.

And off we would go, back up the isle, past the disapproving frowns of the congregation, all secretly wishing they too could leave, but bound by some odd ritual. I would often shoot a glance over at my sister, trapped in the girls section with my mom – unable to use her siblings bladder size as an escape hatch. I swear you could hear the angels singing on the other side of those 20 foot high stained glass windows…calling our names, beckoning us to the land of the free.

Naturally we didn’t come straight back, or straight away. We made a bit of detour to see if they had put out any food in the back hallways in preparation for the after-praying feedbag. Sometimes it was a great big spread, as someone in the community was either honoring an event, or honoring someone dead. (I’ll bet the dead folk never got a spread like that when they were alive to eat it.)


At any rate, as I mentioned earlier, there was a tradition I really liked, and it involved having the dead peoples names up on fancy regal looking small brass plates, that hung on the marble walls inside the atrium of the synagogue. I used to try and do the backwards math to figure out how old the people were when they died, and imagine stories. There was no commentary a la “our beloved mother Carol, teacher, friend 1923-1956’. It was just the name, and the dates they were on the earth. I suppose that given the dusty farts just waiting to expire just beyond those doors, they had to conserve space for the future plaques.

The plaques stretched probably 150 feet down the hallway, and each small brass plaque had a tiny light bulb next to each name. When it was the anniversary of the dead person’s death, someone would screw in the light bulb so that your eyes would be drawn to the name, and you would remember that person. As you can probably tell, I don’t have much need for sentimentality, or trite tradition that bears no purpose, but this one I sort of liked. The wall always had a sort of ominous haphazard glow about it, like a holiday light-string with too many burnt out bulbs.

Now the funny thing about this memorial wall is that it was some sort of sin to screw in the bulb if it wasn’t actually the anniversary of the person’s death. Now perhaps it wasn’t really a sin, but more perhaps just plain disrespectful, but it still struck me as odd. What’s the thought process there?


“Oooh Ethel, look, Deborah Weinberg’s light is lit…wait…she didn’t die this month, did she? She couldn’t have, remember? She died the same month as Mitzie.”


Confused old biddies would race home, check whatever Calendar of the Dead they had going at the time, and fret away the afternoon.


Anyway, one previous sunny Saturday me and my brother screwed in as many bulbs as we could reach, and then in reaction to this, some wise-ass decided to remove all the bulbs that didn’t need to be lit. Problem solved, except that now it was some poor idiots job to add the proper bulbs – then remove them later – lest the hooligan Klein kids run amok again.


So I’m way down the hall, looking at the plaques, noting the obvious lack of lit ones, and wondering why this one dude has a birthday the same year as his doomsday, when I hear a real sickening sort of SHHHHHWATHK!!.


The lights flicker, and then go out. This was quickly followed by a hushed ‘ooooh’ from inside the synagogue.

My sister would later tell me that when the flash of light occurred, my mother slumped down in her chair. While everyone else craned their necks to see what the brief flash just beyond the stained glass doors was…my mother knew.

She couldn’t have known the what, but she knew the who. Actually, she was half right. While it was usually a solid bet to assume her eldest son had done something awful, this time it was little Edgie, all of six, who brought most of the congregation to their feet – although they had sadly just sat their asses down for only a second or two.

Little Edgie’s yarmulke (the head-gear we all wear in synagogue) was prone to slipping off his dome, so mom would pin it with a small bobby-pin. I suppose had they not removed all the damn bulbs he wouldn’t have thought to give this little experiment a go, but hell,


empty light socket,


6 year old kid,


bobby pin…


I suppose this was inevitable.

When both the spry and curious of the congregation exited the prayer-hall, they found a bewildered little boy, sitting on his butt, up against the wall across from a secluded section of the memorial wall. In his outstretched hand was the remnants of his bobby pin, and across from him on the opposite wall was a small scorch mark that circled the hole where the light bulb should have been.

Now to this day, I’m not sure who the jack-ass was who wired that wall, but how the hell could a kid with a bobby pin not only shut down the sacred-memorial -wall, but the overhead lights as well? Could all those little light sockets all really have been wired in parallel? We do a friggin’ awesome smoked fish, but apparently picking an electrical contractor isn’t our forte.

So Edgie was in the end none too worse for the adventure. He lost most of the hair on the front of his head, and his unnaturally long eyelashes were singed, but good. My mom quickly made her way through the small crowd, picked up her youngest son, dusted off his butt, took a good long stare into his eyeballs, and marched him (and myself) by the scruff of our necks, out the huge glass doors to the street.

Somehow, like Bonnie pulling up just in time for Clyde’s exit form the bank, there was the International Harvester, rumbling at the curb, ready to whisk us all away from the fracas.

It was a quiet ride home, as I wondered how they would bobby-pin proof the wall in time for next weeks fun.