Cantor Stephen H. Merkel, Of Blessed Memory

Dear Readers,

It has been an excrutiating week - which is why I haven't posted in a while - as we prepared for the death of our synagogue's cantor, Stephen H. Merkel. He died after a long battle with cancer at 11:40 AM on Sunday, Feburary 18.

Right now all of us at the synagogue are preparing for the funeral. It is different from preparing for a congregant's funeral in that we need to figure out how to address the needs of all of our 1,200 households who will want to express their grief and sympathy. Adding to the pain of this passage is the timing. Cantor Merkel died during a week when many of our families are on vacation - and during a season when many more of our elderly members are wintering in sunnier climes. While many will want to attend Thursday morning's funeral, we anticipate that many will feel a double sense of loss that they cannot return. We are holding consecutive evenings of shiva services at the synagogue, and on Shabbat we will honor Cantor Merkel at our service.

The thumbnail sketch of his life and the details of the week are encapsulated in the obituary that I wrote for tomorrow's New York Times:

STEPHEN H. MERKEL, CANTOR: The Congregation, Clergy, and Staff of Westchester Reform Temple mourn the death of its Cantor of 19 years. A native of Winnipeg, Cantor Merkel was a Juilliard-trained baritone and celebrated performer noted for his passion for Jewish music and Yiddish culture. A graduate of Jewish Theological Seminary, Cantor Merkel also held a Masters in Social Work and was a beloved counselor and teacher. He is survived by one brother, David and sister in law, Joyce; two nephews, Jarrod and Tyler, of Vancouver, BC; faithful assistant Lynn Hellman and devoted caretaker Susan Wiener, of Scarsdale. Funeral services will be held at Westchester Reform Temple, 255 Mamaroneck Rd. in Scarsdale, Thursday at 10:30 AM. Shiva will be observed at the Temple on Thursday, Saturday, and the following Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, from 7-9 PM with a service at 7:45. Contributions may be made to the Cantor Stephen H. Merkel Fund for Jewish Music and Yiddish Culture of Westchester Reform Temple. It is written: "With my song I shall thank God" (Ps. 28:7). Cantor Stephen Merkel's song will long resound.

Ellen Sunness, President
Richard J. Jacobs, Rabbi
Jonathan E. Blake, Associate Rabbi
Jack Stern, Jr., Rabbi Emeritus

These few words don't really capture the essence of the man. That task we will undertake in the services throughout the week, which will combine some of the music we associate with Stephen and a host of personal remembrances. For those of you who knew Cantor Merkel, it will not surprise you to learn that he planned every minute of his own funeral service with exacting precision and forceful opinion. He even called one of his dearest colleagues, Ida Rae Cahana, before he died to convey his wish that she come in from Portland, Oregon, to sing at his farewell service. He was a man of refined musical tastes and his service will feature, among others, a world-class cellist and clarinetist. That's our Stephen.

Though I am not delivering a eulogy at the service, I would have many remembrances worth sharing. Cantor Stephen Merkel was a colorful, intelligent, passionate man who loved life. He possessed a true operatic baritone that could blast the roof off the sanctuary, one of those voices that evinces profound natural resonance and professional training. True opera singers can sing without microphones. They have trained their naturally astounding voices to project to the back of concert halls. It was sometimes hard to sing next to Cantor Merkel because he was just singing so darn loud without even realizing it. But he was always generous with me on the bimah - he would point to me when he wanted me to sing a verse of a song and would lean on me for rhythm and timing (not his forte). He liked that I know my Schubert from my Schumann (two of his favorites).

When I came to our synagogue, Cantor Merkel was addressed only as "Cantor." Everyone at the Temple called him by his title. "Cantor would like to see you." "Cantor is going to Balducci's for lunch. Would you like a coffee?" And, "Why is Cantor's dog wandering into the sanctuary?" And so forth. After about six months, I asked him why everyone, including his colleagues on our clergy staff, called him "Cantor" instead of "Stephen." He shocked me by saying, "I never asked for that." So to me, Cantor was Stephen. And he called me "Jonny."



No one calls me Jonny - not even my wife. But Jonny it was, as in, "Jonny - remember, no brown shoes on the bimah on Yontif." He said that to me before my first High Holidays. To Stephen this was rabbinical mentoring.

Stephen loved his dog Boujie, that poor, old, scruffy, blind-as-a-bat terrier. I am told that Boujie turned Stephen into a man of open and warm affection, breaking his longtime stentorian demeanor. That dog drove us all nuts, wandering around the office like a homeless Roomba. Poor Boujie. He loved Stephen. I think he's going to live with Lynn, Stephen's assistant from work.

Stephen was fancy. He loved finer things. If he were going to drink wine, why not a $50 Cabenet? He went to all manner of shows - Opera, Broadway, Klezmer. He bought me great CDs - Debussy, Schubert, Schumann, and a terrific disc by Fado singer Misia. He adored the rising baritone star Matthias Goring.

Before Stephen got sick we talked constantly about our favorite restaurant discoveries in New York City. And in the final months of his illness he insisted that he was going to prepare a feast for me at his home - and so nudged me day after day to remember to give him a recent New York Times feature on preparing rabbit in the Tuscan style, Coniglio con something or other.

We didn't get a chance to eat rabbit together.

If he were going to buy a pair of plain black trousers, why not Prada? He gave me those Prada pants. He had bought them two sizes too small. When he offered them to me, I said, "You have ten seconds to rescind this offer." In an eerie coincidence, I was wearing those pants when I received the call informing me of Stephen's death.

Stephen took an interest in my professional development. He wanted me to pursue a Ph.D. but also understood my affection for congregational work. He had no sense of propriety about interrupting me when working - I'd be in the middle of a meeting with a Bar Mitzvah student when he'd barge in my office and say, "I need to see you." Invariably, he wanted to tell me about what he'd had for dinner last night.

There are many more remembrances to share but I think these need to be saved for our memorials later in the week.

Stephen died too young. I think he was 57.

I won't forget him.

A Latent Appliance Fetishist

So Kelly and I spent the entire day reading ten-digit sequences of numbers and letters to each other in hushed tones. It was a sexy time, let me tell you.

We were typing up lists of product codes for appliances to order for our kitchen renovation project, also known as "I can't believe you've been using drawers held together with duct tape for over three years."

Turns out, I kind of like major appliances. We are ordering all stainless-steel major manufacturer, middle-of-the-road kind of equipment, nothing too fancy, but attractive and functional and all that. We are presently using a 25-year-old Hotpoint double-oven with only one working oven, the small upper module. The lower oven has a quirk I call "500 or nothing," meaning that it kicks on at about 500 degrees Fahrenheit and not before, then scorches the hell out of everything. We found this out the hard way our first Thanksgiving.

The duct tape reference wasn't hyperbole, either - we really do have drawers held together by duct tape and prayer. So it's time for a major facelift - wood cabinets, bamboo floors, a backsplash, all that HGTV crap that I for some reason always watch, wide-eyed and rapt.

And those handsome stainless steel appliances. The real disappointment is the oven/range because we love to cook, and gas is the only real way to cook, but our condo only allows for electric stoves. Many stores stock fewer than three electric models anymore; all anyone wants is gas. I was losing hope.

Then I saw a Viking ceramic-top electric range at P.C. Richard & Son tonight. Sooner than you could say "Pavlov," I began to salivate. It is the apotheosis of the electric stove, muscular and metropolitan, like a Mondrian canvas brought into three dimensions. Behold its glory and tremble, ye mortals, before the fiery blast of its iron heart!

I was getting carried away.

At this point I should tell you that our stove budget is somewhere between $500.00 and $1,000.

I located a sales associate: "How much for the Viking?"

"Five thousand dollars."

"Thanks!" I said, barely stifling the heartbreak.

So ... we left P.C. Richard & Son (losers didn't even have a consolation prize, i.e, a Wii, for me, though that hasn't stopped me from asking everywhere we go - I'm almost at the point where I'll stop at a falafel stand in midtown and ask when the next shipment is coming in - and we're not so debased to pay the $700 (!) that Colony Music wants. We/Wii will have to wait.)

We made one last stop tonight, at COSTCO, and that would not have been very interesting (no stoves, no Wii), save for a very weird landmark in their parking lot. We were driving out when all of a sudden Kelly (whom I sometimes call "Eagle-Eye McCormick") put the car in reverse and said, "take a look at that."

On our right, protruding from the wall of rock that leads up to Stew Leonard's, was a hulking granite tombstone, mostly covered in green tarp and duct tape (the universal constant, it would seem!)

Below the tarp we could just make out the traditional Hebrew inscription for "May the soul be bound up in the bond of life everlasting" and the year "2006."

Why is there a giant Jewish gravestone in the middle of the Yonkers Costco parking lot?

For the answer to that question, stay tuned to my blog!

PS - The title of this posting is taken from "A TOKEN OF MY EXTREME" from the Frank Zappa rock opera "Joe's Garage." Dan Saltzstein, you were right.

10 Things You May Not Know About Me

Like I don't have anything more important to say....

Based as it is on the premise that everyone wants to read your diary, The Blog strikes me as the ultimate self-indulgence. On top of that, I've actually had a very busy week at work and could probably come up with something truly worthy of your attention for this week's posting. So, brave reader, if you continue, consider this parallel to opting for a trashy magazine over something of substance.

In no particular order, ten things you may not know about me. Of course, if you're Mom, Dad, Becky, Kelly, or most of my other faithful readers, you probably know most of these.

10. I am the tallest member of my immediate family at five feet and nine inches. (In heels, it's gotta be at least 5'11".) My paternal grandmother's maiden name was the Yiddish Kleinerman ("Litte Man") which was in all likelihood purely descriptive from time immemorial. My uncle Ben is over six feet tall but he married into the family. And he's not Jewish, go figure.

9. I own twenty-seven pairs of shoes and regularly wear about eighteen. My wife calls me Imelda.

8. On my right hand I wear the signet ring ("HG") of my late maternal grandfather Harry "Acky" Garb, who served with the First Marines in Iwo Jima and Okinawa during World War II.

7. I subscribe to music magazines Blender and Rolling Stone but intend to let the latter expire because I think their reviewers are in the pocket of the major labels. My tastes run to the eclectic and indie (see elsewhere on this blog) and some of my favorite artists and records never even make it into their pages. What's more, you can now read most of Rolling Stone online.

6. I used to be terrified of flying but now I would describe my attitude toward getting on an airplane with the phrase "strong distaste."

5. I was rejected from my early-decision college but ended up loving my alma mater. On a similar theme,

4. I once got kicked out of band for a day back in junior high school. I used to play trumpet. Mr. Fegley, our conductor, had finally gotten us quiet enough to begin, and raised his baton. At that moment, I leaned over to my stand partner Matt Kohler, pointed at the music in front of us, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Gee, look at all the little black dots," a reference to an old Far Side cartoon. Mr. Fegley made me call my mom to pick me up, and made me explain to her what I had done. That was probably the worst thing I ever did in school.

3. I attended the National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan in the summers of 1985 and 1986. Next week I'm going to my first-ever Interlochen alumni event, the play Frog and Toad are Friends.

2. I like to cook and experiment in the kitchen and sometimes it even comes out tasting pretty good. Perhaps if enough people ask I'll blog a few recipes, like Adobo Sauce, Afro-Caribbean Salmon, and the snack I made the other night. I was so hungry when I came home at around 10:00 but the fridge resembled a loony bin of unmatched ingredients. (Aging clementines, a salami, capers, greek yogurt, blackberries, a head of cauliflower.... You get the idea.) I scavenged enough fresh ingredients to put together a rolled omelet wrapped in a white-corn tortilla with muenster cheese, tomato chutney, and sliced avocado. Great success!

1. I play XBOX live with some friends (including another rabbi) under the perhaps-too-revealing handle, "RabbiBlake." I am not particularly good as most of my friends will readily attest. Our game of choice used to be Halo 2 but most of my friends in California upgraded to the XBOX 360, leaving me and my archaic black and green behemoth behind. Never fear; I plan to be the first among us to get a Wii.

If they ever restock them.