To Build and Be Built

 To Build and Be Built

Dinner. Songs. A walk across the bridge to the girls’ side of camp to join all the other staff members at the campfire site. It was my first night at Interlaken and while I had spent many summers at other camps before, it was different. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t know what I was doing.

The fire blazed in the circle. Surrounded by towering pines that must have stood for decades. The light of the fire ascended to make a funnel to the starry night. The benches, half logs painted white were rickety from years of use and wood rot from perpetual exposure to the Northern Wisconsin clime. Sparks of light rising and the warmth moving outward enveloped me in what would ultimately become a community.

Ateret, the camp director, who offered me the job as counselor and nature specialist one winter day in her office, began to speak.

The Ba’al Shem Tov, in times of threat to the community, would go into the woods, to a place well known to him, light a fire, and say prayers. And the crisis would be averted.

Another generation came. They remembered the place and the prayers, but no longer knew how to light the fire. And again, the community was protected.

Yet another generation remembered the place, but neither the fire nor the prayers. Still, the crisis was averted.

Finally, a generation came that no longer knew the place, could not light the fire, and had forgotten the prayers. All they knew was how to tell the story.

And that, too, was enough.

Elie Wiesel reflected on this: “God made man because he loves stories.”

Mornings at staff training week were called avodah. Work. The staff was marshalled to do the physical work of preparing the camp to open. Putting in docks, straightening and reinforcing the bridge, cleaning, painting, and pulling out the various pieces of equipment that were stored the previous season brought a sense of purpose and connection. It also helped in getting to know the other staff.

This was reinforced during song sessions after lunch and dinner. The sessions included folk songs from the pioneering days of Israel. They expressed the importance of dreams, ideals and effort to create meaning. The chalutzim adage of “We came to the land to build and to be built by it” had real meaning in our daily lives.

It didn’t take long to realize that there were lots of Davids at camp. In fact one year we had a David day because there were so many, including some with the same last name! There had to be a way to keep track of the various Davids - and I became David Nature. Sometimes Naitch, sometimes Nature Dave, but officially David Nature. One of my now longtime friends became David Israel. We simply added his middle name to form a camp name.

Nature came from the activity I was to lead and try to get campers interested in - Nature. It didn’t have the pizzazz or sexiness of horseback riding, waterskiing, sailing, theater, canoeing, or pretty much anything else - but it was me. Nobody could have been more shocked when campers actually signed up for Nature!

When my group wasn’t trekking around the environs of camp to discover all kinds of things about the Northern Wisconsin ecosystem, we’d talk about our earth. A year earlier, in 1970, the whole country seemed to get behind Earth Day. We decided that we would have an Earth Day at camp. It included reclaiming land from what was an in-camp dump behind the garage and adjacent to the mysterious bog, a few marches, some letter writing, and walks to discover and celebrate the biodiversity that camp contained.

For me, the day concluded with grabbing a shovel, digging up a few young pine trees from the forest, and planting them beside the tennis court on the athletic field.

Years pass. In 1985 I returned to Interlaken, but now as the Camp Director. My trip into the camp became a blend of nostalgia, anticipatory excitement and nerves. Deep memories of Ateret telling me how she never could sleep at camp returned. On the way to what had become my camp cabin, which previously was Ateret’s, I passed those trees that had grown to be 25 feet tall and were taking shape.

I pointed out to my wife at the time that I planted those trees years back. A smile came to her face, but I knew that she, having grown up on a farm, probably found a few trees growing pretty ordinary. I passed those trees many times a day, and countless times over the years. Somehow, within something so ordinary can live the extraordinary.

During the fall of 1998 I spent a week in the Sylvania Recreation Area, right across the Wisconsin border in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I was on a trail maintenance project sponsored by the Sierra Club. We’d paddle our canoes from lake to lake and on the portage trails remove downed trees, clear paths, and make the wilderness experience there a little more accommodating. At the end of the week, on my way back to the Rhinelander Airport, I took a detour to camp. It’s a very different feeling being there alone.

Walking through on a crisp fall day I was struck by the sight of a cabin tent still up from the summer. Normally we put those away right after the campers leave. At the flag rectangle, I stopped. The quiet of the day was broken only by the squeal of the chimney cap turning in the wind atop the Chadar Ohel, the old dining room.

Years later, at the 50th Anniversary of the camp in 2015, I returned again. The trees had become mature pines, providing shade and a windscreen for the court. Today, more than half a century after I planted them, their presence is steadfast. The tennis court has been replaced by sand beach volleyball courts. Beneath the pines, picnic tables, already weathered, provide a respite from the sun.

It strikes me that nobody else knows how those trees came to be there. It wasn’t random. Whether it is a certain place in the woods, a tree, a fire or even a prayer, what seems ordinary can become profound. Seldom do we have the benefit of knowing, in the moment, what actually matters.

Much has changed. The painting of the song “Eli, Eli” that I did on the trip shack one night in the ’70s is long gone, but the memory is vivid. The trees grow in a place that evolves, and I remember… 

Oh Lord, My God
I pray that these things never end
The Sand and the Sea
The Rush of the Water
The Crash of the Heavens
The Prayer of Mankind

“Eli, Eli”—words by Hannah Senesh; music by David Zehavi.

 ONLY CHILDREN WITH SIBLINGS

New Book by Allison B. Friedman

Nearing publication (Fall, 2026)

Author:  Allison B. Friedman        

Sign Up for updates at:  www.allisonbfriedman.com

They were all dead in one way or another.

When Gia’s “perfect” older brother Brett has a fatal accident while studying abroad, his death is an unbearable wound—for everyone but Gia. 

Gia and Brett’s parents have lost their only son. Both are floundering, desperate to quell the pain—a disturbed mother sinking deeper into madness, a father, spiritually adrift, floating aimlessly into depression and alcoholism. 

Brett’s best friend, Caleb Silver, witnessed Brett’s death and is reeling with grief, while his parents are trying to sort through their own fractured marriage. 

Joss Ji-Tan is devastated by Brett’s death; he was the love of her life. Joss’s autistic twin brother, Li, doesn’t know to how to help her, and neither can lean on their perpetually rage-filled parents, who don’t acknowledge the tragedy or the pain their kids are enduring

Brett’s death leaves Gia the unwilling keeper of a secret that, if told, will destroy her family and murder their memory of Brett as well. Gia must make a terrible choice, but keeping Brett’s secret is already killing her.

While Brett’s family and friends grieve, unexpected and troubling new insights about him begin to emerge, and his true nature is revealed.

Crane Lake Road Trip with Howard And Harold

 By the late 1990s, January through June at Eisner might as well have been renamed “No Room.” Each year the camp filled earlier than the year before, and we spent months telling parents there was simply no space left. We added bunks, shifted the dining hall to shifts, but it was never enough. And there were limits to how big Eisner could—or should—grow.

Nationally, talk of expanding the Reform Movement’s camping program was heating up. Smitty, our National Youth Director, warned of the daunting costs: a new camp might require $35 million. Howard Kaufman, longtime chair of the Eisner Camp Committee, often asked if that number was real. I told him it probably wasn’t far off—if you were building on raw land. But there was another option: buying an existing camp.

In June 1998, just before camp opened, I learned that Ed and Barbara Ulanoff, who had run Crane Lake Camp for nearly fifty years, were considering retirement. A tip from veteran staff member Les Bart put me onto it. After walking the grounds, I called Howard. Crane Lake clearly wasn’t anywhere near Smitty’s $35 million price tag.

Howard liked the idea and suggested we visit. He also invited Harold Grinspoon, a Springfield businessman and philanthropist we both knew, to come along. Harold met us at Eisner, and the three of us set off for the ten-mile drive to Crane Lake.

Howard and Harold made an unlikely pair. Howard, raised in Pittsfield, had once dreamed of teaching English but instead became CEO of Kay-Bee Toys, turning the family business into a national chain. He approached decisions empirically—testing new ventures, expanding what worked, and discarding what didn’t. His first major gift to Eisner had been the swimming pool, and as chair of the camp committee, he was the Movement’s point man in the Berkshires.

Harold’s path was rougher. He grew up poor in Springfield and struggled in school. As a young man, he sold encyclopedias door-to-door, saving enough to buy a duplex. One property led to another until he owned close to 10,000 apartments. For Harold, giving was about planting seeds that would grow. He had begun funding scholarships for Russian immigrant children, which soon expanded into $1,000 grants for any Jewish child to attend camp. His role in Jewish philanthropy was still emerging—but his energy was unmistakable, as was his expectation that everyone involved be fully committed.

At Crane Lake, Ed and Barbara welcomed us warmly and showed us around: the fields, the pool, the cabins, the dining hall.  We were struck by the small kitchen and the old tables and squeaky floor.  The setting was beautiful, though worn from years of use. I loved the sweeping vistas and was especially thrilled that the camp had a real waterfront—something I missed from my Wisconsin days. When Howard asked about selling, Ed raised the thorny issue of capital gains. His proposal was to donate the camp in exchange for lifetime income.

On the drive back through West Stockbridge, Howard turned to Harold. “Let’s buy it,” he said.

Harold exploded. “Pull the fucking car over!” For a split second I thought he was angry. Then he pointed at a bank. “Let’s stop here so I can pull the cash out of the ATM.” It was pure Harold—startling, funny, decisive.

The momentum seemed unstoppable.

But not everyone agreed. Smitty and Arie Gluck, the URJ’s national camping director, came to inspect the camp. Arie dismissed it as “an antique” in need of rebuilding. Smitty argued it was too close to Eisner, in the wrong place for the Movement’s expansion. I was even asked to talk Howard and Harold out of the idea.

Howard wouldn’t budge. He called Eric Yoffie, the Movement’s president, who sounded intrigued, even enthusiastic. Then he enlisted another Eisner stalwart, Martin Messinger, to join Harold and himself in making the first payment.

Howard, Harold, and Martin were certain: Crane Lake wasn’t just a good deal—it was the beginning of a new era for the Reform Movement.

Shelter from the Storm

Len and I pedaled into the hills on an early spring night with the moon and starlight guiding us. It seemed a near-perfect way to enjoy serenity not easily found in the day-to-day life at school. Our battery-powered headlamps were bright enough to give only subtle hints of the road beneath us.

Earlier that day I had heard from Ateret, my camp director. She told me that camp would, at my recommendation, add bicycles to the trip options for the coming summer. Not only that, but she was happy to see me attend the National Leadership School for bike trips sponsored by the AYH—American Youth Hostels. How rewarding for dreams coming true.

Ateret had strong opinions. She loved a good argument and didn’t readily cede ground. She carried an edge that wavered between judgment and love, between challenge and care. During the tumultuous 70’s she seemed to have a remarkable ability to encompass contradictions vividly.  She would often claim she “hated” the out-of-doors, but much of her life was bound up in it. She loved stirring the pot!

It was remarkable to hear her speak at campfires. The crackling wood, sparks rising into the tops of the pines, the wide-eyed silence of campers gathered close—somehow the world seemed complete in those moments. And though her words were for everyone, I often felt they were addressed directly to me.

Bill Nelson was the leader/trainer for this program. He met each of us as we arrived in Cassopolis, Michigan, for the training. Big dark cowboy hat and an alpaca wool Peruvian poncho he had picked up on one of his trips to South America, to explore the Pampas. His contagious love for helping young people come together in the outdoors was present throughout the program. The wonderment of life could be as tiny as making it up the next hill. How fortunate I was to have two powerful figures who demonstrated looking at an experience from very different perspectives.

It was all about bikes and exploring. Len and I decided to throw the bikes in my vintage Datsun pickup truck and head north to Eagle River for the weekend. Springtime in Northern Wisconsin can be iffy. Deep snow lingers and frozen lakes remain even as the freezing temperatures give way to warmth. We arrived and unloaded the truck and hopped on our bikes. Heading north, toward the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, our adventure began. The pine forests provided fresh spring scents and the quiet roads gave us the sense of being far away from the day to day.

Pedaling the miles, caught in another worldliness, we missed the obvious. The mix of clouds and sun shifted to darker skies. The cool weather of the day turned bitter, and the dry became the famous Wisconsin spring mix of rain, sleet, and mist, frosting our bikes—and us—in ice.

At an intersection we spotted what looked like salvation: an abandoned gas station with a sagging roofline and a wide overhang where pumps once stood. The place was silent, windows boarded, the sign long faded. We pulled our bikes under the shelter, shivering, grateful for a reprieve.

I dug into my pack for a snack bar, and Len shook the rain off his jacket. The stillness felt almost too heavy, like the building itself was holding its breath. Then the door creaked open.

Out stepped a grizzled man, hair matted, eyes sharp. His voice cut through the rain.
“Long hair and brains don’t go together,” he growled. “Now get the hell out of here.”

The words hung in the damp air, colder than the sleet.

I tried a feeble protest, tossing out that Jesus had long hair. But he wasn’t buying scripture. His glare said all we needed to know. We grabbed our bikes, hearts pounding, and rode back into the storm—bewildered, chilled, and suddenly aware that shelter could feel more dangerous than the road itself.

At last, we made our way back to the heated cab and protection of the Datsun. We headed to Interlaken and found an open cabin to squat in for the night.  

The morning was more winter than spring. A fresh dusting of snow with the ice on the lake still intact.   The contrasts that an experience offers remain vivid.

A Short History of America - Classic R. Crumb Poster

 

A Short History of America

R. Crumb Poster

Published by Denis Kitchen

Arguably cartoonist Robert Crumb's most popular and most timeless image, this poster shows the gradual metamorphosis of a single plot of land from virgin wilderness to urban decay in 12 panels. It first appeared in black & white in 1979 in the ecological magazine Co-Evolutionary Quarterly and in Snoid Comics. It was rearranged and colored by Peter Poplaski in 1981 and quickly became Kitchen Sink Press' best-selling poster. After the popular but depressing 12-panel poster went out of print, Crumb added three panels to answer the "What next?" question posed in his original final 12th panel. In this 15-panel version Crumb depicts three possible futures:

a.) Lower left shows the "Worst case scenario: ecological disaster;

b.) Center: "The fun future: Techno fix on the march!"

c.) Lower right: "The ecotopian solution."

Measures 22 inches high x 24 inches wide

Ships rolled in a sturdy tube

$30 Including Shipping (In US) - Click Link

 

GIGI

Summer came, and again I made my way to Eagle River and camp after picking up my certification as a National Trip Leader with the American Youth Hostels. Preparations for trips were in full swing - new bikes to assemble, old canvas tents to waterproof and patch, and paddles and canoes to check.

One of the first trips of the summer was a canoe trip with sixth grade girls. We put in on the Wisconsin River near camp, where the highway comes close to touching the banks of the river. We scrambled up and down the steep banks to load the canoes with the supplies and the campers ready for launching.

A rarity occurred. The girls had sufficient canoeing skills to arrive at Planting Road, our destination, earlier than expected. It was a beautiful sunny day, with a light cooling breeze.  I asked if they wanted to continue down the river to the Rainbow Flowage, figuring we’d find a good campsite along the way.  This group enthusiastically said they did!

Several hours of paddling carried us onto the Rainbow Flowage, a vast, open expanse of water that stretched like a silver mirror under the sun. Headwinds whipped up whitecaps that slapped against the canoes, and spray stung our faces with every stroke. The girls paddled steadily, but even their skill couldn’t fully counter the relentless push of wind and wave. What had begun as a near-perfect glide became a tiring struggle: shoulders burned, arms ached, and the rhythm of the river seemed to slow with each passing minute.

At last, we spotted a clearing along the upper reaches and pulled over. The site wasn’t one I’d used before, but it had road access and enough space to set up camp. We pitched tents, got a fire going, and settled in as the sun slipped down. I thought we’d found a great new spot—just a short walk to the trailhead in the morning to guide the truck that would return us to camp.

I walked down the road to figure out how to let our driver know where we were. I knew they’d be coming down Oxbow Road looking for us—but they didn’t know where to turn in.

I spotted Oxbow Road ahead, maybe a quarter mile from the camp site. Relief quickened my pace. But as I got closer, my stomach sank. What I hoped would be an easy access and pickup became a nightmare. A heavy locked chain stretched across the road, anchored into posts, and just before it yawned a deep pit—built to make sure no vehicle could ever reach our site. My nerves began to fray. How would we get the canoes, the gear, and the campers out of this blockaded spot?

Back at the camp site, I decided on the only solution I could come up with: start carrying. I hoisted a canoe onto my shoulder and began the long walk toward the roadhead. With five canoes to move, I knew it would take multiple trips, and the next morning would be swallowed up by hauling gear, so getting the canoes out of the way made sense. At least it was a plan—a way forward.

The gunnels of the canoe pressed down on me in that familiar way, every step a mix of balance and strain and knowing that each round trip would feel heavier and longer.  Then I felt tugging and pushing at my back.

“Who’s there?” I called.

“It’s me, Gigi!” came the reply. Gigi, is a petite eleven year old who throughout the trip kept a smile on her face as well as her cabin mates.  One of those unusual kids who meets the moment and enjoys the adventure and who makes all feel comfortable in her presence.  She darted into view, her grin nearly as wide as the canoe itself. “I’m here to help you, David Nature.”

With that, she pressed her small hands against the canoe, steadying it as I walked. Her laughter bubbled up in the dark, lighter than the load on my shoulders. In that moment, the weight of the canoe seemed lessened—not because the work had changed, but because it was shared.

By the time we reached the roadhead, I realized something I would carry long after the canoes were hauled and the campers safely home: leadership isn’t always about being the strongest or solving every obstacle. Sometimes it’s about making space for others to step in with their own courage and joy. Gigi reminded me of that truth. What could have been remembered as a grueling, exhausting mistake became instead a story of resilience, laughter, and an eleven-year-old who taught me what it means to truly help carry the load.

The First Camp Bike Trip

 I slit open the first box and pulled out a gleaming new Huffy. Twenty-nine more bikes waited in the truck. By the time I lined them up, they looked like stars on a showroom floor—each one destined to carry its own story.

They weren’t the finest machines, but they would do. People joked the name came from all the huffing and puffing they caused. For days I tightened bolts, pumped tires, and coaxed stubborn gears and brakes into working order. I also prepared a trailer for my own bike to carry the essentials—water jugs, tools, a first-aid kit, and the all-important repair supplies.

The inaugural trip was with the oldest girls from Cabin Tent Judah. Their sleeping bags, tents, and food went by truck to our campsite on Planting Road, a well-worn stop from canoe trips along the Wisconsin River. The place was a meeting of worlds: pine forest against a sandy cut bank, the river curling at its edge. The only neighbors were loons and the occasional muskrat.

Ateret, the Camp Director, met us in front of the office to wish us well and remind us about bug spray. She had a knack for worrying about everything that could go wrong, yet she also understood how rare and valuable these kinds of trips could be. She liked to tell me, with a wry smile, that she hated the outdoors. I never fully believed her. She thrived in a classroom, but never admitted that camp—the pine woods, the campfires, the quiet lakes—was just another kind of classroom.

Then we were off—a long, single-file line of bikes gliding down a quiet country road, me riding caboose. On one side stretched cranberry bogs and potato farms; on the other, pine forests and blue lakes flashing through the trees. Spirits were high, and the road ahead felt wide open.

The day’s highlight came at a tiny convenience store in the middle of nowhere, where we bought ice cream and sodas and devoured them at rickety picnic tables out front. To the girls, it was paradise—a world away from the polished comforts of their upper-middle-class suburban lives.

Later, we stopped at the dam at Rainbow Flowage. Together we stood in silence, watching the torrent spill and thunder over the rocks, as if the whole trip had been carrying us to that moment.

The way back was harder. The sun beat down, and even the light winds seemed against us. Legs grew heavy, spirits sagged. The girls’ chorus alternated between “How much farther?” and “Car!” each time a lone vehicle passed on the road. I rode at the back, pushing them along with encouragement and silent prayers.

At last we rolled into our campsite. The Wisconsin River shimmered gold and bronze in the slanting light. The girls tumbled off their bikes and sprinted for the water, their shrieks and splashes echoing through the trees. I stayed back, leaning against a pine, my legs aching but my heart light. We had made it.

Dinner was a simple stew, simmering in a blackened Dutch oven over the fire. Around the flames we traded stories and songs—the kind that rise unforced after a long day outside. A cool night breeze drifted through, easing the memory of the sun’s heat. Moonlight and stars filled the sky, and in that glow of fire, song, and laughter, the group felt truly bonded.

When the campers asked if they could sleep beside the fire, I agreed. We pulled our bags into a circle around the glowing embers, heads toward the warmth. Sleep came quickly and something –perhaps primitive– makes time by a fire feel healing, restful, and renewing. 

The peace of the night was broken when I woke to nudges from both sides.

“David—David—wake up! Look!”

I opened my eyes. Across the firepit, directly opposite me, a black bear stood. It wasn’t large, but one of its claws had hooked Leslie’s sleeping-bag zipper. The animal pawed and twisted, trying to wrench itself free. Leslie froze, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only sound was the frantic thrash of fabric and the soft pop of fire’s embers.

I sat up fast. Two aluminum plates from dinner lay near the firepit. I snatched them up and clashed them together with all the force I could muster. The metallic clang split the night air. The bear jerked, startled, and with a final rip of fabric tore itself loose. It bolted into the woods, crashing through the underbrush until the forest swallowed the sound.

The group went from frozen to blast-off in seconds. The campers scrambled to their tents without a word. I walked past each tent, heart still pounding, listening for the girls’ steady breaths.  Returning to the fire, the smell of scorched stew and marshmallows still lingered in the coals. Gradually, the night’s serenity returned: the
soft rush of the river, sparks drifting upward, the wind in the pines.

That night, under the stars, I learned that bike trips—like canoe trips—held their own kind of wilderness. Sometimes it was laughter and soda at a country store; sometimes it was the heavy breath of a bear in the firelight. Whatever the experience, we were in it together.