NONFICTION 
It was so hot and dusty, that  -  -  -  
                                ​Photo by Weebly.com                                    

The Ties That Bind
by  Matt Ginsburg

​I grew up in Chowchilla, a small town nestled along Highway 99 between Modesto and Fresno in California’s Central Valley. The town was founded in the early 20th century by a real estate developer who planted hundreds of palm trees, indigenous to more verdant regions, along both sides of the main street. Approaching, one could see a line of elevated palm tufts punctuating the plains from several miles away, giving first time visitors the impression of a beckoning oasis.
 
It was a mirage. Rainfall averaged about ten inches a year. Summer temperatures exceeded 110 degrees. It was so hot and dusty that the crusty, sunbaked soil incubated a fungus that when inhaled could cause Valley Fever, a disease marked by fever and fatigue.
 
As a residential community, Chowchilla got off to a rocky start. The developer went bankrupt during the Depression. Despite booming growth throughout California in the post-war years, by the time I was growing up in the 60s and 70s our arid outpost still had fewer than 5,000 people. Some of its streets were unpaved, there were no stoplights, and for the town’s only Jewish family, there was no synagogue.
 
My father’s parents immigrated from tsarist Russia shortly before the Bolshevik revolution. They met on the East Coast and continued westward, settling first in one of the Valley’s agricultural towns further south. In the early 20s they moved to Chowchilla. It wasn’t the promised land, but it was a place they could afford.
 
It must have seemed a world away from the shtetl they had escaped. On the plus side, there were no Cossacks to regularly raid the village. On the minus side, there were no Jews. Not only were they the first Jews to live in Chowchilla, as far as I know, other than my family, there haven’t been any others for nearly 100 years.
 
My grandparents didn’t outwardly practice their religion. They blended in with the other immigrant farming families that flooded into California in the early 20th century. Only their surnames and eastern European accents betrayed their religious affiliation. Most of the locals either couldn’t connect these dots or didn’t care to. Whatever prejudice my grandparents experienced was insignificant compared to the pogroms they had escaped.
 
I never learned how my grandparents felt about their spiritual isolation but they must have found other things in our humble hometown that provided the opportunity to create meaningful friendships and engagement. Communities are knit from an infinite variety of activities, many seemingly trivial. Perhaps they enjoyed a regular card game, a book club, a bowling league, or the Friday night football games. Whatever the case, they settled down and raised two children, my father and his younger sister, and slowly turned the profits from my grandfather’s cattle trading into a successful family farm. They became prominent residents in the community.
1
​My grandfather died when my father was finishing college. He had studied business, and probably had other plans, but was forced by circumstances to take over the farm and support my grandmother. My mother had grown up in an impoverished family in nearby Merced, the second youngest of five children. Her father was a mason who was frequently unemployed, suffered from depression, and was institutionalized for a spell. Although she was one of the top students at her high school, there was no money for her to attend college. She was working as a bookkeeper when she met my father. After their marriage in 1950, she became a full-time homemaker. Raised a Methodist, she had never bought into the implausible aspects of Christianity and acknowledged that all religions were founded on fantasy. Nonetheless, she enthusiastically converted to Judaism. Many years later, one of her older sisters would snicker, “she thought she’d married up.”
 
My parents weren’t religious. My mother, because her conversion required a bit of study, knew more about Judaism than my father. The only time he mentioned “God” was when he cursed. When anything displeased him, his face turned crimson, veins bulged from the sides of his bald head, and he invoked the Lord. Most of the time that was enough to vent his anger.
 
As the only Jews in the community, it was easy for us to ignore religion. There was nobody to identify with, and my parents weren’t the type to inspire belief by setting an example through study and devotion. Since we never actually discussed it, I didn’t know, and tended to doubt, if they even believed in God. And, though we heard comments evincing anti-Semitism, they were rare and not nasty enough to establish a strong sense of being an outsider. My Jewish identity felt flat, two-dimensional; it was a label no more substantive than my surname. I rarely thought about it.
 
Instead, I thought about my many friends and the activities I was engaged in, like baseball, swimming, and the 4-H club. I may have thought occasionally about schoolwork. These things were enough to occupy me and my twin brother, Mike, and our older brother, David. But my father thought something was missing. We weren’t Jewish enough. He sent us to Sunday school to receive a “Jewish education.”
 
The closest synagogue was 40 miles away in Fresno. It was the biggest city in the Valley, a hub for the state’s thriving agribusinesses, and had a large, established Jewish community. So, every week for eight years, from first grade through eighth grade, we drove for an hour to attend school at Temple Beth Israel, hoping to fulfill my father’s goals. He expected us to befriend other Jews, learn about our people’s history, and study and absorb its values. We would find a sense of community that we didn’t have in Chowchilla among people in Fresno with whom we shared a common bond. It didn’t work out as planned, but one day, at least for me, something like that happened.
*          *          *
2
​The only thing I worshipped on Sunday was football. I’d become a sports nut in elementary school and enjoyed rising early to watch the televised highlights of Saturday’s Notre Dame game on Sunday morning. Of all the colleges in America, somehow there was a program devoted solely to Notre Dame football, and it aired early in the morning, before the NFL games started. Score one for the Catholics.
 
I’d sit in my pajamas in front of the TV shoveling spoonfuls of Captain Crunch into my mouth, munching the tiny toasted candied squares until the roof of my mouth ached and a sugar high warmed my spirits. I got fully amped just in time to be torn away from the broadcast to get ready for Sunday school. I moped into my bedroom forced to imagine what might be happening in the game and suffered the further indignity of changing into my Sunday attire. It was the only time during the week that I wore a shirt with buttons, pants other than jeans, and dress shoes. If I thought about God while I was getting dressed, it was the same thought that my father frequently expressed.
 
Before leaving town, we stopped to pick up Grandma Jenny who lived a few blocks away. She was small, shriveled, and shuffled when she walked. She dyed her hair black, but nature pushed back so quickly that I thought her wavy hair was a blend of black and white. Although she looked like an ordinary old lady, her Yiddish accent blessed her with an air of mystery. She had been widowed for decades, rarely smiled, and was often in a dour mood. In hindsight, listening to her kvetch may have been the most Jewish thing I remember about growing up.
 
She, like my parents, found the weekly visit to the city conducive for shopping. Chowchilla had few stores, so these trips provided the opportunity for better prices and a wider variety of goods. It was the closest we could get to buying wholesale. Before we returned home, my father often had to rearrange the shopping bags to close the trunk.
 
Our car had a bench seat up front, so Grandma squeezed into the middle between my parents, the top of her head barely visible over the back of the seat. When she got settled, she would remind us that she was proud of us for learning about Judaism, as if we’d chosen to come along. That was about the most positive thing I ever heard her say. I was glad to make her happy—at least the day wasn’t a total waste. With the six of us stuffed into the sedan, we rumbled south along Highway 99, seeking enlightenment for the three pubescent pilgrims packed in the backseat.
 
The adults talked over a radio broadcast locked onto my dad’s favorite station, KCBS, a news channel that repeated the top stories every 30 minutes, guaranteeing that we would hear some stories two, three, or four times by the time we returned home later in the afternoon. We were barraged and bored by “breaking” news decades before CNN and the internet made that part of the zeitgeist. While anticipating stories we already knew, the three of us were supposed to remain silent in back, neither seen nor heard. But we couldn’t behave like choirboys for an hour even if we were dressed like them. Something always happened, a pinch, a poke, a fart, something set things off. Accusations, recriminations, and laughter ensued to the point where eventually my dad had had enough.
3
​He was a big man, with large feet and hands, and not particularly agile. I never saw him do anything athletic. But when the backseat got out of control, he expressed his displeasure with a move that would have impressed a mixed martial artist. “God damnit!” he’d shout, psyching himself up to strike. Forewarned, we braced ourselves, hiding our faces under our arms the way boxers protect themselves against the ropes. His right hand would fly back from the steering wheel, his forearm skimming across the top of my grandmother’s head, and the back of his hand would strike whatever it could. He repeated this maneuver in rapid succession, mussing his mother’s carefully coiffed curls as he sought to land a solid blow.
 
The best place to be in the back was furthest away, on the passenger side behind my mother. But my dad was like a baseball player who could hit to all fields. No place was safe. His arms were long and if he twisted his body just a bit—there was no shoulder strap back then—he could get you anywhere. I knew not to look up until I was sure he’d stopped. Otherwise, I could take a direct hit, his knuckles crashing across my face.
 
My experience in Sunday school wasn’t anything like what my father intended. Mike and I, along with a kid named Brad who came from another small town, were the only kids in our class who didn’t live in Fresno. We liked Brad but had a hard time integrating with the city kids who knew each other from activities they shared outside of Sunday school. Many of them attended regular school together. It didn’t help that our dad was a farmer, and their fathers were doctors, lawyers, bankers, and in one case a well-known radio DJ. And, of course, we came from Chowchilla. The only thing they knew about it was that there was no reason to go there.
 
They regarded us like we were the Beverly Hillbillies, albeit without any money. Even the cantor referred to us as his “country Jews,” and the teachers sometimes patronized us. Whenever anything rural was discussed, for example, the efficiency of the drip irrigation system in Israel, all eyes turned towards us as if we might have some special insight to offer.
 
When you’re treated like an alien, it’s easy to be alienated. I daydreamed, fidgeted, and fooled around until the two-hour class was over. I was supposed to learn why the Jews were chosen, but for the most part I chose not to learn.
*          *          *
4
My parents and grandmother were just getting started with their shopping when they picked us up. It was noon and we would stop for lunch, sometimes at McDonald’s, more often at Munchies, a cheaper alternative. That place offered 12-cent hamburgers and fries that cost less than a dime. Each of us was given a dollar, enough to procure a bellyful of fast food.
 
After lunch, shopping continued. If we had to go inside and it was a department store, I wandered over to the TV section and watched the NFL games. My brothers weren’t interested. They either stuck with my parents or more often found something else to look at. I was happy watching the games alone. Nobody bothered me and the TVs were bigger and better than the one we had at home. I didn’t care if the sound was off, I knew what was happening. Unfortunately, I never got to see much. Just when I started to enjoy the game, it was time to move to another store.            
 
The most memorable time my parents came to pull me away was during the third Super Bowl in January 1969. I was eight years old. Before the game, “Broadway Joe” Namath, the quarterback of the New York Jets, had predicted victory over the heavily favored Baltimore Colts. If they won, it would be the biggest upset in NFL history. To this day, more than 50 years later, there has never been a Super Bowl team considered less likely to win.
 
I stood in front of the largest TV, initially watching with a handful of men who had escaped from their wives. A paunchy guy with ruddy cheeks and specks of gray stubble asked me who I was rooting for. I said I liked the Colts and named my favorite players, a litany of all-pros that made the team so formidable. He too was a Baltimore fan and we were both curious to see how Namath would handle his inevitable humiliation.
 
To our surprise, the Jets took an early lead and held it into halftime. Word must have spread because by the start of the second half the area became crowded. Several fans were hooting and hollering, and the salesmen were watching with us. Even the Baltimore supporters were marveling that Broadway Joe, a blowhard that people either loved or hated, just might pull it off. The Electronics Department had become a sports bar without alcohol, and I was in sports-fan heaven.
 
In the fourth quarter, the Jets were still ahead. But when the Colts got the ball, Johnny Unitas, their legendary quarterback whom many considered the greatest of all time, came into the game. He had been injured earlier in the season and hadn’t played in weeks. Now here he was, trotting onto the field to rally his team. Just the sight of him fastening his chin strap gave me a jolt of adrenaline. If anyone could bring the Colts back, it was him. He had done it many, many times before.
 
Although I had initially wanted the Colts to win and thought the world of Unitas, something about Namath’s audacity, charisma, and rebel spirit caused me to switch sides. I wanted the Jets to hold on. As time drained off the clock, my body tensed, I started to sweat, and my heart pounded like it wanted to break out of my rib cage. 
5
​Unitas broke the huddle, shouted his signals, and hunched behind the center to take the snap. I saw my family approaching. My face flushed and I felt lightheaded. This couldn’t be happening now. I thought of hiding behind the forest of men surrounding me. I wondered what I could possibly do to watch the rest of the game. I had never prayed before, not seriously, but I would have, had I thought of it.
 
When my dad put his hand on my shoulder, I knew what was coming. My thoughts spun like the numbers on a roulette wheel. As I searched for a reason why I should be allowed to keep watching, my mom said it was time to go. Grandma wondered what type of sale would interest so many men. Even my brothers weren’t keen to hang around; they complained that they were tired of shopping. My stomach churned, I felt dizzy. My eyes welled with tears. I thought my family was so lame I wanted to collapse, cry, and melt into the floor.
 
“Please,” I begged. “Unitas just came in. Let me just see if the Colts score.”
 
I was too old to start bawling; nevertheless, I was on the brink of letting go. I was starting to shake and cast my head down, clenching my fists and holding my breath while several tears splashed between my feet. The situation seemed hopeless. However, the man who had been watching with me from the start had observed my ordeal. He waddled a few steps towards us, hitched up his pants, and said to my dad, “Come on. Your kid knows every player on the field. Let him watch the rest of the game.”
 
My dad’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He regarded this unkempt stranger for a moment before he blinked, looked towards the TV, surveyed the crowd, and stared down at me. He saw me wiping my eyes and when I looked up at him his face was pale. He didn’t grimace and he didn’t smile while he lifted his hand off my shoulder. I explained that the game would be decided in 15 minutes. The adults agreed to check out another department while my brothers stayed with me.
 
I never had a spiritual experience at Temple Beth Israel. I didn’t develop my sense of identity there. I didn’t even make any friends, except maybe Brad, the other outsider. But that day, in the TV section of a department store, through what felt like divine intervention, I found community.
 
The crowd numbered at least 30 men. Many had heard my pitiful plea. As my parents walked away, several of them stepped aside and motioned for the three of us to move to the front. I felt like I had a VIP seat on the 50-yard line, accompanied by friends of all shades, shapes, and sizes. From there, we watched the conclusion of football’s greatest upset.
 
As my grandparents demonstrated, we don’t have to share the mainstream myth, or any specific belief, to create community. A myriad of things, great and small, can bind people together. And fortunately, it doesn’t always have to take a miracle.
6
Vertical Divider
​​​Matt Ginsburg received an MFA degree in Creative Writing with a concentration in playwriting at San Francisco State University. His work often explores his interest in business, economics, and politics. Matt has written several short stories, monologues, and comedy routines in addition to his focus on playwriting. His plays have been read or performed at numerous theaters in San Francisco. He has had two works published in previous editions of Vistas & Byways: “Finding My Father,” a memoir piece was published in fall 2019, and “Midnight in Morocco,” a short story was published in fall 2020.
Other Works in this Issue: 
​Editor's Preview
Vertical Divider

We Welcome Comments
Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction and poetry by members of Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University​.​
Vertical Divider
Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at San Francisco State University (OLLI at SF State) provides communal and material support to theVistas & Byways  volunteer staff.