WHEN I WAS IN ARIZONA

MORRIS  19

The number nineteen has appeared on the bark of some small trees outside my room this morning. Though it is just a trick of light and shadow; an effect to be blamed on the low angle of the sun rising in the east, and a few intervening leaves; the effect, if you will, is endowed with a peculiar power to draw the eyes. A pair of eyes surprised by the clearly defined numerals emblazoned there on the double-barrels of those somehow correctly-spaced arms of the scrubby little oak. One moment in time when all the disparate elements are in alignment; one viewing-position that reveals the instant of miracle.

The mind of a man goes racing along; looking for some correlation; some reasoning that explains the value thus displayed; some need for this information that has brought this body, so expertly, to this exact place, at the most propitious time. A reminder perhaps, of a time when one was nineteen years of age; a time when one was in the right place to learn, or should have learned some important facet of this curious existence; some realization that now, in this very specific time, needs application; a solution for today's problem, which had been learned so long ago, that a jog to one's sluggish memory is required.

By the time I had recorded the occurrence; added how it felt, this apparition had dissolved back into the random pattern of light and shadow; nothing outside to draw the eye, but the spot on those slim boles marked in memory. Memory; one of the great keys to our humanity. For the rest of that day, Morris would search for the number nineteen; knowing all the while that, if he searched for it, he would be finding evidence of it virtually everywhere, but maybe there would be that one case...  once when that particular number had surfaced without his having looked for it; maybe that one case which would be convincing, even unto the most rigid scepticism.

All that day; that wonderfully long Fall day, that had been a Sunday; the goya holy day he'd reminded himself; a day that began with bright and unobstructed sunlight, and would end the necessary few minutes earlier than the previous day had ended; had ended when Morris, and those like Morris, had noticed the third sparkling star, visible to human eyes in the rapidly-cooling evening sky; the firmament. All that day, while searching for the appearance of a certain number, among other numbers also appearing, Morris thought of Father; thought of his Father's wisdom, and his cold calculations; wondering what sorts of things his old man had discovered, when examining closely his own thought processes; discovered and kept to himself.

His father had been Orthodox in the outward observance of their Law; was always home, and at the dinner-table, when his beautiful, and impetuous Mother lit the candle. They would eat, savor the traditional flavors and discuss, in the most serious manner, how the seemingly innocuous things that happened to them on the previous day...  Father often reminded them, at their supper, that another day had just begun; Morris often catching himself, just as his head had turned those ever observant-eyes of his toward their windows, verifying the darkness outside which had enveloped their cozy, and predictable home  ...might indicate certain adjustments to their plans, to their estimations of who exactly they had, or could become, in a world that belonged to others and to seek agreement, among themselves, regarding what alignment, with such a powerful creative force, was worth to the worthy. There was usually laughter, but that came after...  ; after some serious consideration of what they now knew of a hostile world, dominated by mindless persecution,...  and some...  very, completely mindful.

Morris reflected often on that day; his bar-Mitzvah; that day he'd read from Torah in the Synagogue. Such a day; a day of limitless expectation; a day that brought such endemic disappointment. He'd studied his Father's perplexing face, staring across the polished table through the heated air rising from the candle...  ; that symbol of an illumination that the world could never be allowed to extinguish. He saw it there; through the distortion of the reflected light; saw all the strength it took from his Father during the months, weeks and pregnant days that led up to the most propitious event. Why must he wait?  ...Why wait 'til after...  ??

Morris had always marveled at the new things he found buried in the memory of that day when he'd been twelve; marveling in the complexity of those relationships; one he'd developed with his Father; another...  different kind of relationship  ...very different, it had turned out...  ; that relationship that his Father had developed...  had very consciously built with his only male child. There were other relationships he'd discovered there; each of them had a unique relationship with the harshness that was the world around them; the many diverse races and beliefs that was a structured medium in which each living creature had to overcome many difficulties, in its pursuit of a kind of survival...  pursuit of a mate, so that another generation can find a starting point...  pursuing a desire only dimly perceived deep inside. A relationship-like perspective one would choose; a stance taken with regard to this God-concept floating around; an abject denial of any such unseen, undetectable and, in the end, undiscoverable manipulator of all the things seen, felt and intuited by more powerful minds, or as his Father preferred to express it, a denial of these denials.

He'd seen in his father's face, on those occasions leading up to the moment when his struggle must end, a desire to say something to his son, that had not been said...  was impossible to say. Morris could see he wanted to say these things; was keenly aware that preparations were being made for their saying; a carefully planned speech that Morris would hear on the day he was just old enough...

Many of Morris's companions in the Hebrew Academy, that was a horribly ugly building in the neighborhood they'd moved into when Morris had been only six; that place that each of them was expected to labor in for years...  ; from inside of which, each one of them had begrudged, so thoroughly, those afternoon hours taken from them...  hours that the other, luckier boys, spent playing ball, or fishing down in the creek that divided the neighborhood[Morris dearly loved fishing]; hours some spent working in the stores at the Village Center, earning money they spent on all sorts of things boys needed...  ; many of these from his peer-group had entered the strangeness of an adult world, before his time had come; before he was quite ripe enough...  and had come to him with their stories; many of them perplexed by those things repeated to them by their very patient fathers. At one point, Morris had grown anxious; worried that some of the stories he'd been told, might hold something that could corrupt...  yes, ruin the talk that he knew was coming.

That day had contained much more potent sources for this kind of corruption. Every relative he'd ever met was crammed into their home on that day; their must have been a hundred cousins...  and their cousins...  all there in one punily-designed dwelling; pressing the flesh; confusing his ability to figure out who each one was; how they were related. If Morris couldn't cipher-out who each one of them was, then who was this Morris? How did he...  a tiny focal-point in a huge, and variegated fabric that was a tribe-sized family; a family whose history had been rehearsed so many times...  a history known to each one of them...  even the very young ones who had not yet learned to keep their mouths shut about most of it; how did he fit into it all?

He felt ashamed somehow, that the passage he'd so proudly read for those Elders, just a few hours beforehand, seemed totally unrelated to the important stuff playing out today; the acceptance by the tribe, that this boy of only yesterday, could walk as a man among them. And then there was the money; most not only wanted to touch him, but left evidence that was hard ca$h, that they had indeed been there, when Morris 'crossed over.' These gifts piled up so fast, that nobody who was there could keep up with just what the new total in Morris's personal savings must be now; the difference between a boy, and a Man Morris reasoned; a Man's worth not quite known, because it was moving too fast.

And yet, when the time came, and Morris was alone with his obviously proud Father, he did not forget to broach the subject that had dominated his thinking throughout all this synthetic festivity. He remembered not to ask; he told his Father, in the best matter-of-fact tone that he could muster, that his plans did not include any further attendance at the Hebrew Academy down on Acorn. That's when the most disappointing part of this talk between men manifested between them; at the moment he was being let down so far, Morris had no thought of the preparations he'd suspected, from his dissection of so many subtleties there in the man's face, as they shared those evening meals that led up to the anticipated moment.

His Father had laughed at his clear statement of his intentions. He'd said, "The 'damage' has already been done Morris. Learning Hebrew has thoroughly molded your thinking. No matter what problems you face, as an adult,...  there is only the one path open to you now...  one solitary process that cannot be discarded, when tackling a problem. Your teachers have completed their mission. I'm not displeased with the accomplishment, which we all persist in thinking of, around here at least, as Morris."

"I thought that you would expect me to continue learning about the Torah, Dad. I'm not cut out for any of that." Morris's voice became slightly tentative, as he forged ahead, "I might never even enter the Synagogue again, Father." Morris blushed; aware that the formal address had not been called for. "I want a life for myself,...  Dad,...  that's a little more...  no Dad, a lot more mainstream, than...  than most of my peers will ever be able to adopt...  "

Morris's Dad interrupted his diatribe at exactly this point; the assumption that Morris must make, was that he knew the rest by heart, and that their time would be wasted if Morris continued, so, "Some of the old men that you read for this morning, have developed a deep wisdom, and at some cost to them...  and to their families as well, Morris. The strict observance of the Law they practice in their homes, has never been about reminding them of who they are; these observances, their oppressive repetitiveness and the need for continuance, has for them, always been about reminding them of who, and what they are not! Loving God, for them, has become a constant searching...  searching continuously for the tiny cracks in their beliefs; those little weaknesses that can be exploited by those wise enough to look for, and find them, in a way that just might allow for one far-wiser than they, to slip some tiny change in thinking...  what might just pass for a new idea...  just past all that tradition, into a secret place, where it can grow, extend some roots and become whatever it will, when nourished by what already exists inside this citadel of Laws, that is there to protect those nutrients."

Morris had no response ready when his Dad quit talking; his Father had provided no clarification for him, with regard to where he stood on this God-problem. In Morris's mind, it was like playing a game of Battleship; he had no clue where his Father's ships might be; actually, he was not sure there were any ships at all, or if he would know when he'd scored a hit, even if he aimed one of his missiles at a place where one might be, and was not afraid to fire on it. His Father just continued, "I know you'll make wise decisions, Son; I know too, that you'll make many perplexing mistakes. That's who we are Son; your family will be here for you when you make these inevitable mistakes, and need some support, while getting on with making more wise decisions. When you don't need our help, we'll brag about you in public, and talk about you behind your back. Son, just let us love you, the same way those wise old men seated in the Synagogue, love their God."