July 13, 2020

The Bubbe Meise

My friend Ruthie texted me. ‘Avital Kaplan had twins.’ Avital Kaplan was the daughter of one of our old friends from Ottawa.

I texted back, ‘Mazel tov!!’

I don’t know why people are compelled to tell me these things. But they do. And now my friend Golda was going to call me from Israel and tell me the Avraham Kashitsky story again. Every time someone had a multiple birth, she would call and tell me the Avraham Kashitsky story. She loved that story.

I don’t blame her.

It’s a great story.

Only, it wasn’t true.

‘Gotta go, Ruthie,’ I texted. ‘Golda is about to call.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked.

‘Because I know.’ Just then the phone rang. It was Golda.

“You heard about Avital Kaplan?”

I said, “Yes. Mazel tov, mazel tov.”

“Soon by you,” said Golda. Am not sure why she was hoping I impregnate someone at this stage of my life, but I said what I always said:

“Thank you.”

Golda did not waste time.

“Twins,” she said. “Baruch hashem. It makes me think of Avraham Kashitsky.”

“Golda,” I said gently. “That story is not true. It is a ‘bubbe meise.’ An old wives’ tale.”

“Of course it’s true! We know him. It is ‘emes.’ It is a true story. It is a beautiful story.”

“You know him?”

“Of course!”

“Tell me again how you know him.”

We had had this conversation a dozen times. But it didn’t stop Golda from telling me again.

“You know the Kornblatts next door?”

I knew the Kornblatts.

Golda wasn’t waiting for my response.

“Reuben is our next-door neighbour. He has a cousin who lives in Crown Heights.”

“His cousin is Avraham Kashitsky?” I knew the cousin wasn’t Avraham Kashitsky. I was just egging Golda on.

“No, the cousin got married. His best man was Nachum Kashitsky. Avraham Kashitsky is Nachum Kashitsky’s brother.”

“Okay. So Avraham Kashitsky is Reuben Kornblatt’s cousin’s best man’s brother?”

“Yes.” Golda did not think for one second that it was a bit of a stretch. “I don’t understand why you don’t believe the story.”

“I do believe the story,” I said. “I just don’t believe it is true.”

“You’re impossible,” said Golda.

“The story is apocryphal,” I said. But she had already hung up.

Now here’s the thing about the Avraham Kashitsky story. Even though I didn’t believe it for a second, I actually told it all the time. Because, you know, it’s a good story.

The more I told it, the more people told me they had heard the story themselves. My friends Donnie and Beth said their accountant went to grad school with a woman who knew Avraham Kashitsky’s wife. My niece Rachel’s boyfriend Daniel said he heard Lebron James had told the story in the Cavalier locker room. It was ridiculous. The story was completely made up. And I would have continued to believe it was a bubbe meise if my friend Solly’s appendix had not burst.

Lewberg, Goldfarb and Lewberg’s friend Solly had decided to go on a once-in-a-lifetime golf trip to Pebble Beach. Pebble Beach was also on my bucket list, but they had chosen to go in February and I refused to fly across the country for three days of freezing weather, rain, and howling winds.

Also, Goldfarb was a bit of a mope.

But then Solly’s appendix burst and the flight, hotel, and rounds were prepaid and non-refundable, so I decided to bite the bullet.

But the weather, shockingly, proved to be perfect. There was a slight breeze coming in from the ocean. The views were breathtaking.

It was a stroke of good luck and we should all have been thrilled.

But Lewberg, true to form, was bitter.

The Pebble Beach bar did not stock Ketel One.

“Absolut,” he said as he poured his usual splash of cranberry. “$500 a round and they have Absolut.”

We both knew after three drinks the brand would not matter. But it was all about principle for Lewberg.

“Are we at war?”

Goldfarb was also a little bitter. He didn’t like playing with strangers. The starter had asked us if we would mind if a fourth joined us. Of course we would mind! But none of us had the guts to say it. Pebble Beach rounds were notoriously slow. Now we would have to spend the next five hours with a complete stranger. He would be in our group pictures.

The starter pointed him out. He was hitting balls on the range. He had a nice swing. “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

Both Goldfarb and Lewberg looked like they were about to cry.

The fourth saw us walking towards him and he stopped his practice and turned to greet us. We all took off our caps, as golfers do, shook hands and made introductions.

“Avraham Kashitsky,” he said with a grin. “I appreciate you guys letting me tag along. My partner cancelled at the last minute.”

I said, “Did you say Avraham Kashitsky?”

He said, “Yes.”

“You’re not from Cleveland by any chance?”

“I am, as a matter of fact. From Shaker Heights. Do we know each other?”

I said, “No, but I have been waiting to meet you for 25 years.”

Goldfarb was thrilled I volunteered to ride in a cart with Avraham Kashitsky. After we all hit our tee shots on number one, I turned to Avraham Kashitsky and said, “I tell an Avraham Kashitsky story.” He said, “You tell an Avraham Kashitsky story?” I said, “Yeah.”

He said, “What Avraham Kashitsky do you tell?” I said, “I tell the 770 Parkway Story.” Avraham Kashitsky said, “That’s funny, I tell the 770 Parkway Story too.” So I said, “Why don’t you tell me your version and I’ll tell you how it compares to my story?”

So Avraham Kashitsky began to tell me his Avraham Kashitsky 770 Parkway Story. I had waited all my life to play Pebble Beach.

But I had waited even longer to hear the Avraham Kashitsky 770 Parkway story.

This is the story he told. It was, to a word, the exact same story I told. 

Avraham Kashitsky and his wife desperately wanted to have a baby. But they had no luck. They tried all the medical options and procedures but to no avail. Avraham Kashitsky’s brother Nachum said that the best man at his wedding, who was Reuben Kornblatt’s first cousin, suggested he go get a blessing from the Lubavitcher Rebbe in Brooklyn. Avraham Kashitsky said he didn’t really think a blessing from the Lubavitcher Rebbe was going to help. His brother Nachum responded in the quintessential Jewish manner.

He said, “It couldn’t hurt.”

So Avraham Kashitsky and his wife travelled from Shaker Heights, Ohio, to 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn which was the headquarters of Chabad Lubavitch. They stood in line in the hot sun for five hours waiting for a 10-second audience and blessing from the Rebbe.

The Rebbe had a tradition of handing out crisp one-dollar bills to everyone who stood in line. The recipient would then give the dollar to charity.

I told Avraham Kashitsky that I was not a religious man but I was a huge fan of the tenet that the meeting of two men should benefit a third.

When Avraham Kashitsky and his wife finally got to the front of the line, they told the Rebbe they were trying to have a baby and wanted his blessing.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe gives everyone a crisp one-dollar bill.

But he did not give Avraham Kashitsky and his wife a crisp dollar bill.

He gave them three.

I said to Avraham Kashitsky, “Are you fucking with me?”

And Avraham Kashitsky said, “My hand to God.”

The number seven hole at Pebble Beach is the signature par three. It is generally considered the most famous par three hole in the world. It is very short, downhill, with the Pacific Ocean in the background.

The hole was only playing 122 yards that day. It was downhill and there wasn’t much of a breeze. Lewberg and Avraham Kashitsky were longer hitters than Goldfarb and I, and they both hit a sand wedge. Goldfarb hit a pitching wedge. All three hit the green. Lewberg said four balls on the green would make a great picture.

“No pressure or anything,” I joked. I then took out a gap wedge. I hit it pure. I hit it very high. It landed on the green, took two bounces and plunked right into the hole.

It was my first-ever hole in one.

At Pebble Beach.

On the iconic number seven.

Nobody said anything for a second. I think we were all in shock. Then Lewberg said:

“Fucking Zakarian!”

And then Goldfarb said:

“Fucking Zakarian!”

Then I said:

“Fucking Zakarian.”

Avraham Kashitsky, who had no idea what we were talking about, who had no way of knowing that Zakarian was a golfer at our Florida country club who dropped dead of a heart attack after making a hole in one, gave me a high five and then said:

“Fucking Zakarian.”

Not going to lie. I texted or emailed everyone I knew. Plus a lot of people I didn’t know. We took a nice picture of the four of us standing next to the pin with me holding the ball. I had no shame. I sent everyone that picture.

My friend Golda doesn’t really understand golf, but she knew a hole in one was a big deal. She texted me a mazel tov. She recognized Lewberg and Goldfarb, they were two of my oldest friends, but she wanted to know who the other guy was.

I said it was Avraham Kashitsky.

This story has a great kicker. It is coming up. But my favorite part is not the kicker. It is what Golda said next.

She didn’t say, ‘No fucking way.’ We had both been telling the Avraham Kashitsky story for 25 years, but she was totally nonplussed he was in my hole-in-one picture.

She didn’t say, ‘Omg that is unbelievable!’

Instead she said:

‘He’s taller than I thought.’

I fucking love that line!

I texted, ‘Hold on, I am going to send you another picture.’

I did.

It was a picture that Avraham Kashitsky had emailed me after the round.

Of his triplets.

Three crisp one-dollar bills.

Then Golda said, “Bubbe meise my ass.”

No, she didn’t really.

She’s not like that.

The end.