Choosing Your Lot
![Image](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPBaErsL_kUQBtXL_ledHp4e7kQ3DnkWC5kJJWO1lUOMSXTkOD1L0V7Ik5hb9CXrIp57CiGLN1rQ_jGXU_hfwYtSdcNkxAscAvZw2jETj620N7EyABQVAbUrj3iEeIqREQBDyEgBa8BN6bCIXhYrEwpqg_eJTthDNdJheMpQkdaG7Jwbb1r52ifnU1RKs/s320/WhatsApp%20Image%202024-04-02%20at%2020.47.19.jpeg)
Purim, Oct. 7, and Our Next Generation - I grew up in a world where I could be anything I wanted, back in Southern California, in the 70s and 80s. I had the freedom to explore what life might offer, and my parents encouraged me to play and to learn. I needed a foundation and chores, mind you, but a musical instrument was essential to grow up in the human world. I was encouraged to dress for success, too. My parents tried anything they could to give me the tools they thought I would need in life. I liked art, they noticed, so my parents introduced me to a commercial artist to learn the ropes. After a year of piano lessons with Mr. Stytska playing “On Top of Spaghetti,” I quit. From a lack of social graces, I was forced to dance with a broom at cotillion (etiquette classes for middle-school aged children), so I quit. I had my own plans, you see, which needed forming ASAP if I was to prove my worthiness to my own ego first, then others around me, and only then to my parents. It was