In this issue
April 9, 2014

Jonathan Tobin: Why Did Kerry Lie About Israeli Blame?

Samuel G. Freedman: A resolution 70 years later for a father's unsettling legacy of ashes from Dachau

Jessica Ivins: A resolution 70 years later for a father's unsettling legacy of ashes from Dachau

Kim Giles: Asking for help is not weakness

Kathy Kristof and Barbara Hoch Marcus: 7 Great Growth Israeli Stocks

Matthew Mientka: How Beans, Peas, And Chickpeas Cleanse Bad Cholesterol and Lowers Risk of Heart Disease

Sabrina Bachai: 5 At-Home Treatments For Headaches

The Kosher Gourmet by Daniel Neman Have yourself a matzo ball: The secrets bubby never told you and recipes she could have never imagined

April 8, 2014

Lori Nawyn: At Your Wit's End and Back: Finding Peace

Susan B. Garland and Rachel L. Sheedy: Strategies Married Couples Can Use to Boost Benefits

David Muhlbaum: Smart Tax Deductions Non-Itemizers Can Claim

Jill Weisenberger, M.S., R.D.N., C.D.E : Before You Lose Your Mental Edge

Dana Dovey: Coffee Drinkers Rejoice! Your Cup Of Joe Can Prevent Death From Liver Disease

Chris Weller: Electric 'Thinking Cap' Puts Your Brain Power Into High Gear

The Kosher Gourmet by Marlene Parrish A gift of hazelnuts keeps giving --- for a variety of nutty recipes: Entree, side, soup, dessert

April 4, 2014

Rabbi David Gutterman: The Word for Nothing Means Everything

Charles Krauthammer: Kerry's folly, Chapter 3

Amy Peterson: A life of love: How to build lasting relationships with your children

John Ericson: Older Women: Save Your Heart, Prevent Stroke Don't Drink Diet

John Ericson: Why 50 million Americans will still have spring allergies after taking meds

Cameron Huddleston: Best and Worst Buys of April 2014

Stacy Rapacon: Great Mutual Funds for Young Investors

Sarah Boesveld: Teacher keeps promise to mail thousands of former students letters written by their past selves

The Kosher Gourmet by Sharon Thompson Anyone can make a salad, you say. But can they make a great salad? (SECRETS, TESTED TECHNIQUES + 4 RECIPES, INCLUDING DRESSINGS)

April 2, 2014

Paul Greenberg: Death and joy in the spring

Dan Barry: Should South Carolina Jews be forced to maintain this chimney built by Germans serving the Nazis?

Mayra Bitsko: Save me! An alien took over my child's personality

Frank Clayton: Get happy: 20 scientifically proven happiness activities

Susan Scutti: It's Genetic! Obesity and the 'Carb Breakdown' Gene

Lecia Bushak: Why Hand Sanitizer May Actually Harm Your Health

Stacy Rapacon: Great Funds You Can Own for $500 or Less

Cameron Huddleston: 7 Ways to Save on Home Decor

The Kosher Gourmet by Steve Petusevsky Exploring ingredients as edible-stuffed containers (TWO RECIPES + TIPS & TECHINQUES)

Jewish World Review Feb 6, 2012/ 13 Shevat, 5772

A graybeard at last --- minus the beard

By Mitch Albom

http://www.JewishWorldReview.com | I came. I saw. I shaved.

This was after five weeks of trying to grow a beard. You couldn't really call it that, a beard. More like a collection of facial hair, some here, some there and none everywhere else.

If my beard were clothing, it'd be jeans with the holes cut out. If my beard were a landmass, it'd be the Galapagos Islands. My beard had more patches than an Eagle Scout. More vacancies than the Bates Motel. Hairy clouds against a flesh-colored sk-- Well. You get the picture.

This, by the way, is why I never try a beard when I have to see -- or be seen by -- other people. You hate to enter a room and have everyone break out laughing.

But I recently had this five-week absence to finish a book, and I was holed up in a room most of the day, and the only people seeing me were members of my family and, let's face it, you could come downstairs in an clown suit and your family would say, "What's for breakfast?"

So, alone in my cave, I gave it a shot.


I have a history of doing this every few years. It goes back to the first time I envisioned myself with facial hair.

In the seventh grade.

I thought it would be cool. I thought chicks would dig me. Of course, back then, I was also hoping my voice would change.

But all boys secretly imagine themselves with a drooping Fu Manchu or fat sideburns. And so, unable to actually sprout hair on my own, I took a magic marker and drew a mustache over my lip. Then I smeared it to make it more "natural," which left me looking like a girl who applied black lipstick in the dark.

The next day, after a firm scolding from my mother, and perhaps some turpentine, I was once again "clean shaven."

But my dream would not die.

Now, there are two types of teenage boys: Those who grow five o'clock shadows by gym class, and those who grow nothing but the occasional pimple. I was the latter. I waited for facial hair. Nothing came. I examined my ears, my chin, beneath my nose. Hairless.

Soon the dream turned to envy. When Al Pacino sported that mustache in "Serpico," I wanted one. When those guys in "Miami Vice" had that sexy stubble, I wanted it. Burt Reynolds. Elvis. Walt Frazier. They were always so cool with their sideburns, Van Dykes, mustaches. Even today, from Brad Pitt to that guy from "The Hangover" -- Bradley Cooper -- I still look on jealously from the sidelines, wistful for whiskers, my hirsute merely hearsay.

So last month, I braved the waters once again. I stopped shaving. No one noticed for five days. Then the occasional comments from family members, which advanced from "Forgot your razor?" to "Going grubby?" to, eventually, "Hey, what's that on your face?"

The hair grew in these places: chin, cheeks, upper lip. The hair never grew in these places: sideburns, jawline and the area that "connects" a mustache with a goatee. I would press against the mirror, looking for the smallest green shoots. Nothing.

What I did see, once the chin hair thickened out, was this shocking development: It was coming in gray!

How is that fair? I never got a young man's beard, and now I was Santa Claus?

I had been leapfrogged, left in a squat, like a man who fell asleep in spring and woke up in fall, his summer stolen. Even if I were successful in my bearded efforts, I was now fated to be ... Sean Connery.

Who -- I realized -- was bald.

So last week, with the book completed, I got out the electric razor, the hand razor and some shaving cream. I am happy to report that there was some tug, it actually hurt a bit to cut it off. (Sweet resistance! Proof of existence!)

The bad news is, losing it took all of three minutes. And I was back to where I started.

And where I will remain. You have to count your blessings, and the Lord has left me with hair on my head if not on my face. Who knows? Maybe Sean Connery would see me and say, "I want some of that."

So I am clean again. Resigned to smooth cheeks and barren jaws. I came. I saw. I shaved.

Or as they might write on a bathroom wall, "Here I sit, broken hearted, minus the beard, that never got started."

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