Among my earliest memories of Jonah and driving is that of him and Aiden camped out in the backseat for each summer’s trip from Cleveland to Kutz Camp, watching enough DVDs to fill the entire 11-hour expedition. We never heard a peep out of them which, as everyone knows, is the pinnacle of successful parenting. But I also remember one time getting stopped for speeding and being horrified that my children in the backseat were looking on as the police officer wrote out my summons. This being the nadir of my parenting, I wondered how I could possibly mold them into responsible human beings (let alone, drivers) if their dad was a hardened vehicular criminal.

This is how he treats his mother?
Hawaii, April 2005

When it came time for Jonah to occupy the driver’s seat, I had my concerns. At the age of fifteen, he’d staged a hit-and-run photo with Ellen where he looked just a bit too happy at the wreckage he’d wrought. So on his sixteenth birthday, when Jonah didn’t rush me down to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get him a Learner’s Permit, I was kind of relieved. No, I was very relieved.

It would actually be closer to his seventeenth birthday before he’d studied the Driver’s Manual and took the test to get his permit. Okay, “studying” is an exaggeration here. As I recall, he took the online quiz over and over until he could pass it, and then felt ready for the real thing.

Of course, then he had to actually learn how to drive. I got to teach Jonah how to parallel park. Out in front of our house, Jonah would explain to me the simple geometry behind this ubiquitous maneuver and was then surprised when he’d hit the curb (which is pretty much how I’ve parked the car for decades but is an instant “fail” on the test).

Teaching Jonah how to drive was a thankfully uneventful and rather enjoyable experience for me. When my daughter was learning how to drive, I wasn’t quite so sanguine about it. Once, on Saw Mill River Road in Elmsford, I ejected Katie from the car when I felt she wasn’t driving safely. Apparently, my tolerance level rose considerably by the time Jonah got behind the wheel.

Jonah finally took his driving test on December 31, 2007, halfway through his senior year. Why did he wait so long? I think it was part of his growing-up process. Driving was something Jonah viewed as a responsibility, more so than just a doorway to teen freedom. He knew that once he got his license, not only would he be asked to run errands for his parents, he’d have a potentially lethal weapon in his hands. That second thought, I believe, gave Jonah sufficient pause. When he did get his license, he became a terrific driver. Very responsible. Very attentive. Very safe.

That was always the wonderful surprise of Jonah’s life. He broadcast an air of unconcern, yet had this knack for doing really well when things mattered to him. Our job as parents was to try and make sure that whenever he found something that did matter, doors (on cars and elsewhere) opened for him. These successes made Jonah feel better and better about himself as he grew into the mature and able young man who went off to college. It gave his mom and dad a lot to smile about too.

Two more driving stories.

Portrait of a safe driver?
Kutz Camp, Summer 2007

First, during the Spring 2008 production of “Hair,” Jonah drove himself and Aiden to their weekly PGT rehearsals. Aiden remembers Jonah backing out of the driveway as they set off one afternoon for White Plains, and then pushing the pedal to the floor on Oak Street for the hundred yards or so to the first corner. Coming to a stop before the turn onto Woodlands Avenue, he looked over at Aiden as if to say, “Don’t ever let Mom know I did that.”

Second, before moving up to Buffalo this past fall, he sat me down and very earnestly tried to explain the way things now needed to be. “You know, Dad, since half the drivers in this family are now living in Buffalo, it seems only fair that half the cars should be there as well.” More geometry that, to Jonah’s disappointment, didn’t translate to reality.

Every parent both welcomes and dreads the day their child becomes licensed to drive. Jonah had given us the gift of delaying that day until he was genuinely ready. Risk-taking only within a stone’s throw from his home, he brought his characteristic spirit, intellect, charm, humor and heart to acquiring one of life’s mundane yet essential (and potentially hazardous) skills. Doing so, Jonah gave us yet another enduring memory of the effervescent and endearing young man we simply loved to watch grow.

Billy

Dear Jonah,

For quite a few seasons, you were the only thing that stood between me and your mom … at the Rosh Hashanah service for young families. It was a gig that Mom and I’d had since we’d moved back to New York in 1995. No matter what else was going on during the High Holy Days, this was our opportunity to share the bimah even if only for 45 minutes, and then, even if half our congregation was crying and wetting their pants! Our spiritual Vaudeville act overflowed with singing and storytelling, but we were delighted when 11-year old Jonah, who’d been learning how to play the shofar, joined us in September 2001. It was shortly after 9/11 and synagogues worldwide were consumed with processing our nation’s trauma. But for 3/4 of an hour, we were all smiles as you, barely able to hold my large Yemenite shofar aloft, created tiny toots (so as not to scare off the little ones in the room) followed by the longer, traditional blasts so recognizable for countless generations.

Eventually, your skills would earn you an invitation to serve as ba’al tekiya (shofar blower) for Woodlands’ main services on Rosh Hashanah and at Yom Kippur Neilah. You’d do that for one year and then never again which was, of course, vintage Jonah. As with so many of the things you loved in life, you weren’t interested in tainting your favorite activities with the distraction that came from other people relying on you too much. So for seven years, until your graduation from high school, you stood between me and your mom as a hundred little kids delighted (or so their crying and peeing seemed to indicate) in the playful toots of your truly expert shofar playing.

By the way, one year there was almost no Jonah-on-the-shofar at all. You’d found out that I’d let a bunch of kids try to get a sound out of our shofar and were thoroughly disgusted at the thought of sharing that mouthpiece after “germ warfare” had rendered it toxic. Similarly, when you were eight, our friend Josh Davidson presented you with a trumpet as a Hanukkah gift. It had been Josh’s trumpet from forever and he felt that you were the right person to give it to. For two reasons: a) Josh loved that you’d been learning to play the shofar; and, b) you shared the same initials – JMD – which was imprinted on the trumpet’s case. You were thrilled to receive the instrument but commented to me that “it looks a little old.” When I told you a polishing would make it good as new, you still couldn’t fathom ever using the mouthpiece because “it must be covered with millions of disgusting germs.” Not that I was ever privy to this, but I imagine that love’s first romantic kisses cured you of that phobia.

While I was disappointed you didn’t want to be on our main bimah, I grew to admire you for the choices you were making. You were becoming so aware of what made you feel good about yourself. It’s not that you didn’t love center-stage (as anyone who ever heard you sing “Makin’ a Motzi” can attest) but it was important to you that you protect from criticism the things (like shofar and guitar and ukulele) you so profoundly enjoyed. The “Luckiest Dad” award goes to me because I was one of the few people on the planet who got to hear you often.

But others were watching. And your “limited engagements” were making a difference in some of their lives. After you died, I received a note from a mom who wrote about attending the young families service when her children were younger. Her son became quite taken with your shofar-playing – that this “kid” could stand up and do it so well – and announced he was going to learn how to do it too … just like Jonah. And he did. Today, he’s one of the newest generation of ba’alei tekiya at Woodlands. His mom wrote, “Jonah truly inspired him to reach for and accomplish this goal.”

It seems that it doesn’t really matter so much what we do with our time, so long as we do it as well as we can, and with as much heart as we can. Someone’s always watching, and we may just be the one who, for them, makes all the difference.

Thanks for the lesson, Jo.

Love you forever,
Dad

Dear Jonah,

This past Friday night, your synagogue celebrated the 12th grade Graduation. I’ve always loved religious school Graduation and this year was no different. Except that last year, you were there. Which means that this year at the prayer Mee Khamokha, I felt you playing “Redemption Song.” When the Torah came out, I felt you reading your verses. And when I blessed the class, I felt you standing right beside me.

Interestingly (though not surprisingly, because you always loved to take the unexpected path), you would not consent to reading your Graduation Statement (summing up your Jewish journey thus far) or to even have it printed in the service. I have the only copy. Here’s a bit of what you had to say but wouldn’t:

Jonah and “the Dreskin kid’s Dad” … Bar Mitzvah, Confirmand and Graduate (2003, 2006 and 2008)

A lot of people these days don’t really understand what it’s like to grow up in a Jewish home. Lets just say, the Jew-to-other-people ratio in my house is very unbalanced. The long-term damage done to my sick little mind was helped along by middle school. I came to the conclusion that being Jewish was bad. And where I would normally spend my Friday nights at temple and learn diligently in religious school, I began to order and ingest ham sandwiches during lunch as my way of “sticking it to the man.” My Jewish identity returned to a positive state in my high school years when I met a guy named Scott. He was big, he was smiley, and he taught at Academy. One of the first things we did in his class was watch an Israeli movie. It was in Hebrew, and there were boobs. This guy knew how to win over a class of 9th grade boys. Judaism was improving. That summer, I attended the URJ Kutz Camp NFTY Leadership Academy. I think that was when I found the path I had long-since abandoned. It’s hard to find cool Jews these days, but I did it there. I also met my first Canadian. Two summers later, it was time to return to the URJ Kutz Camp NFTY Leadership Academy. Unfortunately, someone had torn down all the red buildings, replaced them with beige buildings, and changed the name to NFTY’s Campus for Reform Jewish Teens. So I went there instead. I believe it was at that point that my Jewish identity came together: I am Jonah, and I am Jewish. That’s my identity. What else do I need? I’m no longer known as “the Rabbi’s son.” Rather, the Rabbi is now known as “that crazy Dreskin kid’s Dad.”

As with all three of my children, Jonah, you had to figure out for yourself what part of being Jewish was foisted upon you by your rabbi-and-cantor-parents, and what you had come to value and to love as your own. Kutz Camp, WoodSY, and NFTY-NAR meant the world to you. As did lighting Shabbat candles at our dinner table, begrudgingly accepting your parents’ Shabbat blessing and kiss, and even your work with the little ones in religious school. Flipping the definition you’d felt others had thrust upon you as “the Rabbi’s kid” served as the most significant confirmation that you’d made Judaism your own. In the months since your death, I’ve heard so many young people describe you as the person responsible for their comfort and successful integration into NFTY/Eisner/Kutz/WoodSY. I couldn’t be prouder to assume my new title, “that crazy Dreskin kid’s Dad.”

Addressing the graduates this past Friday, I told them about my words to last year’s class, in which I reflected on God’s promise of blessing (in parshat Behar) if we live by the mitzvot. Back then, I had asked your class, “Blessing can’t possibly be granted all the time, even to the deserving, right?” My answer then was, “Yes and no. Life can hit us hard, and it will. But pain, even suffering, doesn’t necessarily end the blessing. It’s going to depend on how we look at it.”

Those of us who knew and loved you wonder at the irony of last year’s message. This year, we’re asking, “When someone we love dies so young, where’s the blessing in that?” Perhaps it’s in the verses we’ve read from Behar for this Graduation – the commandment to leave land fallow every seventh year. This mitzvah comes with another promise from God – that if we take the year and we don’t farm our land, we won’t starve to death.

Sometimes life hits us hard … really hard. And the pain is so great, we may think we’ll never feel joy again. Our land lies fallow and we fear we may starve.

My dear sweet absent Jonah, your death reminds us that, eventually, we all get hit. By disappointment, by failure … by tragic loss. Some of the hits will be terrible. But they can’t be helped. We’re human. We’re vulnerable. We don’t get to suspend the laws of physics.

But we mustn’t let that stop us. Despite the worst life throws our way, the land will return to full bounty again someday. And during the times it lies fallow – those times we feel our deepest sadnesses – even then, there will be enough to eat. We won’t starve. Love and companionship, and life’s continuing beauty … will eventually get us through.

Your life has ended. My sadness is vast and penetrating. But as I watched this group of young, bright, eager and idealistic 18-year olds, I understood that the future is still a bright one. Blessings still abound. And for those of us traveling in the valley of the shadow, the promise of blessing in our own lives has not disappeared. Even if it feels that way.

Life’s blessings will be tempered by loss, to be sure. But like your eternally radiant (if not incorrigible) spirit, they will endure.

Love you forever,
Dad

Dear Jonah,

I have this friend who loved to give me pens. “They’re not for you,” he’d say. He’d tell me to give them to someone in my house who loves pens. That would be your mom. Once, however, he handed me a pocket knife, and I immediately thought, “Oh, this must be for Jonah. Jonah loves knives.” And then I remembered. You aren’t here anymore.

You really did love knives. An unavoidable fact that didn’t exactly make your parents comfortable. Why did you love them? Who knows? But from the time you were a little boy, you were always bugging me to get you one. Of course, in a million years Mom would never allow that. So you and I would content ourselves with visiting the Swiss Army Knife store in the Westchester Mall where you would amuse yourself perusing the wide selection of stylish pocket versions. But you’d get the biggest kick out of asking me to buy you the ten-inch bladed Rambo knockoff. You’d smile that big Jonah smile and I’d think, just for a second, “What harm could it do?” And then I’d picture myself trying to explain it to your mother. No sale, Jonah.

Katie, Jonah and Aiden
Road Trip, Summer 2000

That may be why you once “procured” a small pocketknife during our family’s summer vacation road trip through Pennsylvania. You were eight or nine years old. I only noticed it a few months after we’d returned home. Imprinted on the handle was the name of a town we’d visited, and since I knew you hadn’t purchased it, you must have lifted it. So I lifted it from you. I don’t think I ever gave it back. I’d meant to lecture you about it, but I don’t think that happened either. I must’ve had too much faith in the goodness in your heart, that it would never lose out either to dangerous play or continued shoplifting. Far as I can tell, I was correct. You wouldn’t hurt a flea. And you ended up saving instead of spending so much of your money, you never again had to resort to dishonesty to obtain the things you wanted.

I gave the knife to Aiden. No lecture. I’ve always had faith in him too.

Love you forever,
Dad

Dear Jonah,

I’m perfectly aware that there are some people who don’t care for Greek chili (the fact that “watery” is part of the description probably stops more than a few from even trying). But in the Dreskin family, it’s an age-old tradition. And you carried that tradition proudly. In March of 2005, you and I drove from New York to Ohio, just to go to Skyline Chili. More on that in a bit.

Not the Empress my dad took me to, but a later incarnation

As a little kid growing up in Cincinnati, I would tag along with my dad either on his hospital rounds or to the library. Sometimes (probably a lot more than sometimes but it was a very long time ago) he’d take me to a little restaurant downtown called Empress Chili, the original purveyor of Cincinnati chili, a Greek spin on Texas chili and Coney Island hot dogs. It was there that I and my five sibs acquired our deep love for Greek chili (I don’t actually know if all five of them loved it, but to this day, when Uncle Michael and I find ourselves in the same town, Skyline is going to be one of our meals, even if we have to make it ourselves). As a teen, I spent many a Saturday night hanging out at Chili-Time in the ‘burbs, where I could combine cool with the food I loved. And if you’re wondering … yes, lots of my friends liked it too … otherwise, how could it have been a hangout?!

I never meant to settle in the midwest, Jonah. But after ordination, I needed a job. And Cleveland was calling my name. When I married your mom, I’d agreed to never take a job in New Jersey, but Ohio isn’t in New Jersey so, with one-year old Katie in tow, off we went to Shaker Heights. A year into our Cleveland experience, you were born and Wednesdays became Skyline Chili days (these two events are not necessarily connected, but they’re not necessarily not not connected either). We ate dinner at Skyline so often that a couple of kooky things happened. First, Katie and you got to know the manager by name (even if the name you gave him was “Mr. Skyline”). Second, Mr. Skyline named dishes after the two of you. Katie could order a “Katie Dog” (a hot dog with plain spaghetti on it) and you could order a “Jonah Dog” (a hot dog with spaghetti and black olives on top). Third, in 1993, when my birthday fell on a Wednesday, our family didn’t have to think twice about celebrating it at Skyline. Mom even stopped by earlier in the day to stash a cake and presents so I wouldn’t know what was up.

When we left Cleveland and moved back to New York in 1995, you were five and none too happy about our move. Leaving your best pal Ryan behind was not an idea to your liking and you made plans to run away back to Cleveland. Those plans never panned out, but you frequently let us know how much you resented our decision. It would be years before you mellowed on that one. While you never mentioned it, Skyline was missed as well. So in 2005, when I asked if you’d like to drive back to Cleveland for chili, you immediately responded, “Yes!” On March 10th, after you finished a PGT rehearsal for “The Laramie Project,” we got into the car and drove to Cleveland. Our plan was to drive half the distance that night and arrive in time for lunch (Skyline, of course) on the 11th. We would spend two days in Cleveland, for the sole purpose of dining four times at Skyline. We had to do something to kill time between meals so we found your friend Ryan (he’d gotten bigger), Uncle Tony (still older than me), and Fairmount Temple (BIG temple where you made quite a name for yourself … story for another time … while I learned how to be a rabbi). The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was our last stop on the 12th, after which we’d intended to enjoy our fourth meal at Skyline and then drive the first leg homeward. But as it turns out, Greek chili takes a toll on the body and, when we’d finished at the museum, we simply couldn’t stomach returning to our restaurant. So with some regret, we decided to relinquish meal number four and just get back on the road to drive home. We also decided to see if the Beatles had written ten hours of music by playing them exclusively for the entire drive home. We sang a lot of songs that (amazingly enough) we both knew, and got home about three that morning, with music to spare, our stomachs sated (if not ulcerated), and a shared adventure between father and son that I think we both really enjoyed and whose memory we cherished ever since.

You would never admit to having stopped yearning to move back to Cleveland, nor would you have ever allowed yourself to use the words “cherished” or “yearning.” If you heard me using them, that would be one of those moments where you’d roll your eyes, look at me with disdain and say, “You’re such a rabbi.”

Once upon a time, my dad took me to a chili parlor for hot dogs and spaghetti. I, in turn, took my own son for the same. For decades, the families that created Greek chili have protected the recipe and its “secret ingredients.” As I look back on my mind’s pictures of fathers and sons sharing this American ethnic concoction, I wonder if perhaps the secret ingredient (for us, at least) was love.

Love you forever,
Dad

Jewishly parenting Jonah while being a congregational rabbi had its tricky moments. When Aiden was born, we brought the entire family to synagogue (back then, Fairmount Temple in Cleveland) for Aiden’s naming during a Shabbat Evening service. Ellen and I envisioned having the five of us strike an Ozzie and Harriet pose on the bimah (see en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventures_of_Ozzie_and_Harriet for some good examples) but Jonah, all of four years old, would have none of that. Instead, he ran up and down the center aisle of the chapel making sure everyone understood that “normal” in the Dreskin family would have a definition all its own.

Fast forward twelve years. Jonah is in the tenth grade Confirmation class. My tenth grade Confirmation class. Or so I thought. Now don’t get me wrong. Jonah turned out to be a great student. While he never (ever!) set aside his sense of humor, he was never disruptive of my class either. In fact, he clearly enjoyed discussing with me and with his classmates all of the topics I threw their way. In retrospect, he must have been saving up for the Confirmation service itself. Read on.

Each student, under the guidance of our Confirmation faculty, composes a statement about the meaning of Judaism in his/her life. “Under our guidance” means that we knew what each student would present, thus preventing an embarrassing moment either for the student or for (uh) a student’s father who happened to also be the rabbi. We knew Jonah was questioning everything, and that was quite acceptable. What we weren’t prepared for was this.

Jonah with Mom and Dad
Confirmation, June 2006

Jonah is called to the bimah. His statement is waiting for him on the lectern. He glances at it, then looks up and (ignoring everything on that page) says the following: “Picture this. You’re driving into the temple on a Friday night and you get out of your car, ready for a very soothing Friday night service. You look up and realize that there, on the roof of the temple, are Rabbi William Dreskin and Adolf Hitler having a light saber fight.” Then, without missing a beat, he turns back to the page in front of him and continues with his prepared statement. Did I want to throttle him? Nope. I think I decided early on that, so long as Jonah wasn’t hurting anyone, I was going to give him lots and lots of room to express himself and to work out the concerns he may have had about being the son of a rabbi and a cantor.

By the way, his Confirmation statement was indeed filled with many questioning comments on Jewish life. But at the very end, he said the following: “I confirm that I am Jewish, and that I am having a lot of fun being such. From WoodSY, to blowing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, from Pesach at home to the Kutz Camp dining hall, I like being Jewish because it is fun. I am Jewish and having a great time doing it.” And then he said the words that made me love him all over again: “I also take pride in the fact that my parents taught me to be a good person.”

When Jonah finished presenting his Confirmation statement, he walked over to the open Ark, in front of which was standing his “Rabbi Dad” (as he called me). I placed a Torah in his arms, whispered some (hopefully profound, but certainly heartfelt) words to him, then placed my hands on his head and gave him the Priestly Blessing. As I finished the blessing, I reached out to kiss my son’s forehead, and he reached right back. With his left arm (the right, still holding the Torah) he hugged me in that way that we who have received a Jonah-hug know and love and never (ever!) forget. Heaven.

Which, every now and then, was what it meant to be Jonah Dreskin’s dad.

Billy

A brief history of Jonah Maccabee Dreskin and the URJ Kutz Camp in Warwick, New York: Jonah loved Kutz, Jonah hated Kutz. And then Jonah loved Kutz.

Katie and Jonah at Kutz Camp
Summer 1991

Here’s what went down. Our family started spending all or part of our summers at the Reform movement’s teen leadership nexus beginning in 1991. We were living in Cleveland back then and, for four summers, made an 8-hour drive in 11 hours (lots of pitstops when you’re driving with little kids), and stayed on for two weeks. Jonah was only one at the time, so he was pretty agreeable to almost anything. Life was good.

In 1995, we moved back to New York. Ellen started spending the entire summer at Kutz, while I continued spending two weeks there. This meant that Katie and Jonah, now joined by baby brother Aiden, spent their entire summers there too. I would drive up after Woodlands’ Shabbat evening service and stay over until early Monday morning.

During “Phase One,” Jonah was very happy. Basically he, along with a moderately-sized mob of Fac Brats, had the run of the place. Since all the program participants (PP’s) were teenagers, it was like having 250 babysitters at your beck-and-call: no one bossing you around, but everyone making sure you’re safe and well-entertained. Arts and crafts, swimming, movie nights, and minimal parental nagging, all ensured that Kutz Camp was as close to heaven-on-earth as a kid could ever wish for.

Until “Phase Two.” Around 1999, someone came up with a really great idea. Bottle the formula that was providing all the Fac Brats with such great summers, then invite Warwick residents to sign their kids up to join the fun, and you’d have a new source of income for the camp. The formula worked. Except for Jonah. The problem? Jonah had known the sweet taste of freedom. He enjoyed waking up whenever he wanted, taking meals whenever he wanted, doing whatever activities whenever he wanted. Get the picture? Jonah hated Camp Shalom (as it was called). He detested having to show up at a time of someone else’s choosing for an activity of someone else’s choosing. And Jonah refused to comply (which should be familiar to any of you who knew him when he was younger). He argued, he brooded, and he stomped his feet. And when that didn’t work, he took off. Camp Shalom ended up having to assign a counselor to the job of finding where Jonah was hiding each day … several times each day.

Until “Phase Three.” As soon as he could, Jonah got as far away from Kutz Camp as … well, as far as Eisner. For quite a few years, Jonah took up summer residence at a camp where, if he was going to have to do what others told him to do, at least let it be geared toward his own age group. And for the most part, he loved it (I’ll fill you in on that story some other time). But come ninth grade, Ellen and I were somewhat stunned to hear Jonah say, “I want to go back to Kutz. I spent too many summers there as a Fac Brat watching others have a good time. There’s no way I’m missing out on seeing for myself what that’s all about!”

Jonah at Kutz Camp
Summer 2008

And so in the summer of 2005, Jonah went to Kutz as a full-fledged PP. He adored it! He loved it so much that in 2007, he went back and did the PP thing again. And then last summer, in 2008, he joined the Kutz Staff. The Kutz Staff! He worked in the kitchen where he loved being able to do a job that he could finish without having to think too much about it (“I’m good at it,” he’d tell us), and then to have time to relax and enjoy basking in the beauty (and fun) of the Kutz community. Then for this coming summer (2009), in typical Jonah-fashion, rather than move on to a job in a cabin as an RA, he asked to be placed back in the kitchen – where he could do his job well, and where he could also most likely do what so many of his contemporaries loved about him … be fun, be funny, do some good thinking, and be a good friend to lots of good folks. That, after all, was what Jonah loved best in life. He was gifted in that way, and it was his gift to us all.

Billy

February 2008
Jonah’s 18th birthday @ Cheesecake Factory

Dear Jonah,

You had four years on Aiden. With that great an age difference you might think that growing up, the two of you would have had little in common. But you lived life on your own schedule. So at the same time you viewed Aiden as your bratty little brother, you also found in him a perfect friend and playmate. Across the years, the two of you loved playing together. Whether it was crossing Jedi light sabers, constructing elaborate Lego universes, or guiding the fantastic adventures of some of the hundreds of 4-inch high action figures you owned between you, the two of you boisterously filled countless hours of your shared lives. But more often than not, these hours of fun would typically end when you would get angry, destroy the universe you’d built together, and then turn your focus on making life for Aiden as miserable as possible.

In the last years of your life, as you came to appreciate more and more just how special and wonderful a human being you were becoming, you (mostly) ceased battling your little brother. More often than not, 19-year old and 14-year were likely to greet one another with … Jonah: “Dreskin.” Aiden: “Larger Dreskin.” And with that, mom and I were able to sit back and enjoy the still-boisterous but consistently caring play between two brothers.

Oh, the occasional crossing of Jedi light sabers was still part of the equation.

Love you forever,
Dad

July 2005 at Kutz Camp
playing ukulele with Dan Nichols

My 19-year old son, Jonah Maccabee, died on March 5, 2009. As you can imagine (or worse, know firsthand), grieving for a child is a horrendous place to have to put your heart. They say that time will heal, to which I can only respond, “I hope so” … but I seriously doubt it. I expect to get better at living, but I don’t think my grief for Jonah will ever diminish. Time, of course, will tell.

The reason for this blog is not to track my grief (although I suspect that will happen). Rather, I intend to share — with anyone who would like to spend some time with Jonah — the stories and ideas that were part of his life. His was a fascinating one, and his journey was extensive. It breaks my heart that Jonah’s life has come to an end. But while he lived, he did so fully and honorably. The words found here will record and celebrate that fullness. Jonah’s time among us was far too brief. But the impact he left behind is enormous.

So here’s story #1. Jonah loved music. He adored listening to everything from Nickelback to Tchaikovsky, and playing whenever he got the chance (probably not Tchaikovsky, though who knows?) on his guitar, ukulele and mandolin. At his funeral, our good friend Dan Nichols sang Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” because it was among the last tunes Jonah had listened to on his iPod. The title of this blog, “A Thread That Has No End,” is taken from a Led Zeppelin tune, “All My Love,” which Jonah had listened to (in his dorm room) just a few hours before he died. Ironically, Robert Plant composed “All My Love” in memory of his own son who’d died (at age 5) of a respiratory infection.

Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light
To chase a feather in the wind
Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight
There moves a thread that has no end.

I am now feeling myself connected by “a thread that has no end” to a dad who lost his beloved son, and (through that dad’s music) to a son who shared more threads with me than I ever truly knew. For the remainder of my own years, it will be my great honor to safeguard those threads.

You’re welcome to join me along the way.

Billy