וַיִּצֶר יְהוָה אֱלֹהִים מִן-הָאֲדָמָה, כָּל-חַיַּת הַשָּׂדֶה וְאֵת כָּל-עוֹף הַשָּׁמַיִם, וַיָּבֵא אֶל-הָאָדָם, לִרְאוֹת מַה-יִּקְרָא-לוֹ; ְכֹל אֲשֶׁר יִקְרָא-לוֹ הָאָדָם נֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה, הוּא שְׁמוֹ.
.Genesis 2:19:
And the LORD God formed out of the Earth all the wild beasts and all the birds of the sky, and brought them to the man to see what he would call them; and whatever the man called each creature, that would be its name.
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Shortly after my Grandfather Abraham was born he was given the name of the father of Judaism (and Christianity and Islam). And Sara’s name, of course, was from Sarah, the wife of the original Abraham and the mother of Judaism and Christianity. (FYI, Hagar is the mother of Islam.) Jews are the people of the book. Words, and most especially names, are filled with ancient history and meanings, special meanings, complex, hidden, superstitious, poetic, allegoric. Children ponder their names, teasing out their parent’s secret expectations, the special destiny or fate connected with the name. It probably was not entirely coincidental that Sara married Abraham and that their parents were pleased with both the physical union and the special significance of the joining of these two names.
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According to the Book, the first man gave the name woman to his fitting helper created by God from man’s rib. Most all the people of the Book understand that their Book’s stories and names and words are rich with many meanings and great significances. The idea of a plain reading, a literal interpretation, of the book would be exceedingly ignorant. It simply doesn’t make sense that way. After all, man hasn’t one less rib than woman. (Odd that many of their Christian cousins believe as such, despite x-rays to the contrary). What then is the meaning of the naming of woman and her creation from the rib? Ah, of course, that has been debated with passion for thousands of years. And there is a rough sort of consensus. An elegant interpretation is that the essential difference of man from beast, the essence of being human, is the power to name. The man’s first act (thus symbolically the most important) was to name the beasts. The meaning of the rib? Ah, that’s a tricky one. Is it that the male is superior to the woman? Although that interpretation isn’t really possible from a close reading of the text, that is how men (not) man have chosen.
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Abraham wasn’t a particularly religious man. Sara and he observed an informal and low-keyed religious ritual as compared to the other Jewish families in and about Starke Center. Then and now the Weiss family would be called assimilated. Nevertheless Abe was fully a member of that ancient people for whom the Book with words and names of importance beyond significance. That Book was the river that flowed though his veins, through the veins of his ancestors, and would flow, perhaps not forever, but at least through the blood of his offspring.
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Ophelia wasn’t a name in that river of meanings, myth and symbols. When his little girl pondered her name, trying to figure out who she was and meant to be, what was she to think? My God, perhaps that she should drown herself? So that is why Abraham Weiss forever held a grudge. It was in his people’s Book and blood. To name his child was a man’s and a father’s right; it was a man’s and a father’s delight. Of course he was delighted, delighted and proud beyond words. After 10 years of marriage, he and his beloved were to be blest with a child. He hoped (in vain as it turned out) that it would be a son so that little knot in his gut, that slight twist of fear, resentment, and anger could be forgotten.
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I suppose I shouldn’t make such a fuss about Abe’s little grudge. Of course it would have been much nicer for everybody in the family if he had a clean emotional slate. Ah, but who among us has an emotional tabla rasa? I nurture a grudge towards my Grandfather Abraham because he held a grudge towards my Grandmother Sara. And then his grudge crippled my mother, Ophelia’s happiness, because of that she carried a grudge in her gut as if she had swallowed a blacked brick from a tragic house fire. And me? I am perhaps telling this story to get even with Abraham. I know it’s the nature of tragedy, all this grudging nonsense. Why don’t I just get over it and get on with my life? Abraham and Sara and Ophelia are long gone. But yet, I want that Starke Center, the little townspeople, with their own little problems, not one among them who even remember Abe or Sara but for the old cornerstone on the dilapidated downtown building, these little people who have almost entirely forgotten Ophelia who once was a shining young woman, then later a rich and influential matron, that these village folks, only a few who even vaguely remember me, should remember our story. I’m not certain I even care about Starke Center. I often am not even certain that I care about Abe or Sara. Perhaps it is just my tight, dark, little grudge, echoing down 3 generations that I care about.
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This talk of grudges has my head spinning. What I need to do is just tell the story, the story of Ophelia Weiss. I would like you, my old and new Starke Center acquaintances, to get to know her better.
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