Walking through the small, neatly kept Congregation Kneseth Israel cemetery in Annapolis, Md., on Sept. 23 was, as usual, a bittersweet experience.
Visiting not only my parents’ graves but those of many people I knew from childhood triggered a host of recollections, from heartwarming to tragic: the brave World War II naval captain and hero who later, as president of the congregation, steered its move to growth in the suburbs; the lively woman of deep faith, my mom’s close friend who died suddenly at 47; my own good friend’s twin brother, who died in infancy, the small gravestone symbolizing a life unlived.
As I walked alone in the stillness, I relived a world of memories, noting that there seem to be fewer people each year with whom to share them.
Indeed, I know more people in the cemetery in Annapolis than in the synagogue, many of whose members have moved to the community in the years since I moved away. Coming back to my childhood home puts me in a time warp — a pleasant, even embracing one — where I have to remind myself that the building I still refer to as “the new shul” is almost 50 years old now, and where some of the older congregants no doubt would ask me if I still want to be a shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles when I grow up. (In truth, looking at how the team has played the last 14 years, they could probably use me in the infield, even if I am ancient — and left-handed.)
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Gary Rosenblatt is editor and publisher of the New York Jewish Week, where this column originally appeared.