Feeling warm and fuzzy about oneg — chicken dance and all

Every time a doctor on "ER" says, "I need two units of O-neg, stat," I chuckle. Not because there's anything amusing about an altered m.v.a. head lac whose pulsesox is down to 60.

I laugh because it's unlikely any of those handsome goyishe TV doctors have a clue as to the other meaning of the word "oneg."

In case you don't either, it's short for oneg Shabbat -- "the joy of Shabbat" -- or the little shindig held after Friday night services.

For years, when my son was young and on a very short leash, we took him to the monthly tot Shabbat. Many Bay Area temples offer tot Shabbat services, but for the non-breeders out there, trust me: Tot Shabbat is a riot. Literally.

The service usually starts with the rabbi standing on the bimah singing kiddie versions of kabbalat Shabbat songs. My favorite is "Bim Bam," which goes: "Bim, bam, bim bim bim bam, bim bim bim bim bim bam." Rinse, repeat.

The parents gamely sing along while their kids, especially the very young ones, either scream or cry. This is followed by older children, at varying levels of reading ability, reading from a kids' siddur. It's cute when it's your child; but when it's not ... Oy vey.

The rabbi races through the truncated kid-friendly service and soon enough, it's time for the oneg. Parents line up against a wall in the social hall, sipping cups of low-grade decaf coffee. The boys play slip-and-slide on the parquet floor while the girls dance to Israeli folk songs.

Then there's "The Chicken Dance," the most insipid tune in the history of Western music. Still, the song inspires some parents to drop to a crouch, flap their elbows and clap their hands. Oh, it's a scene, man.

Snarky as I may seem, tot Shabbat was a wonderful way to impart to my son the regular rhythms of Jewish life. So what if the temple was more a playground than a house of worship? He thought of it as his place, and that was good enough.

I recount this tale not to nitpick about tot Shabbat, but to tell the story of Joyce, a sisterhood stalwart who must have been executive vice president in charge of onegs. Whether tot Shabbat or adult service, Joyce was there, serving coffee and cookies, thrilled to share the joy of Shabbat.

She was probably in her 60s, maybe 70, and always alone. But she was adorable, sporting a red beret and a striped blouse, her lipstick and rouge just this side of overshmeared. She looked like a Parisian doll.

I couldn't imagine oneg without her. Whatever else she did in her life, making sure everyone enjoyed the oneg was a mission she took seriously. It was her piece of the tikkun olam pie.

One day I noticed Joyce had stopped coming to any onegs. By then, my son was nearly 13 and we had stopped going to tot Shabbat. Though Joyce's absence puzzled me, I was too caught up in my own world to inquire about her.

A year later, I was visiting my stepmother in the Alzheimer's ward of a nearby convalescent hospital. There in a corner, to my great surprise I saw Joyce sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a drab hospital gown, no make-up, head bare, and looking utterly forlorn.

"Joyce?" I said, approaching her. "What are you doing here?"

She explained that her health had deteriorated, and because she had no family, she thought it best to turn herself in to a nursing home. She managed a smile, though she lost it when I asked if she was in touch with anyone from the temple.

"No," she said. "Nobody's called."

My stepmother passed away not long after. I never returned to the hospital and I never saw Joyce again.

Today, looking back many years later, I recall how going to tot Shabbat services seemed at the time mostly a chore I undertook for my son's sake.

But sometimes I wish I could relive one of those Friday nights. Like a scene out of "Our Town," I would slip quietly in the back and watch my little boy giddily go sliding on the parquet floor, while Joyce served coffee and cookies with a smile.

I know now about the joy of Shabbat.




Dan Pine lives and kvetches in Albany. He can be reached at .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address).