On the First Night of Purim, Wilbo Arrives to the Texas Hill Country to Spin Glaggers, Nibble the Ears of a Villian and Be Awed by Chanters of the Megillah

March 10, 2020 at 8:32 AM

The second day of Purim

McDonald’s on Huebner Road

San Antonio, Texas

Last night, I took three buses north from the south reaches of San Antonio to the north reaches of the city. We passed the chapels of Mission San José and Mission Concepción. We crossed the riverwalk several times. We traversed a barrio with taquerias with roots in Jalisco, one of the regions of Mexico. Jalisco hugs the Pacific Coast and includes the resort city of Puerto Vallarta, so they are great places to go for fish tacos. The trip took over an hour and a half. Not a bad deal considering I pay twelve bucks a week for a bus pass.

On Huebner Road, one enters the Texas Hill Country, a land of rolling hills forested with live oaks. I saw a sign as we pulled onto Huebner Road that declared, “Entering the Edwards Aquifer Recharge Zone”. The artesian springs fed by the aquifer have sustained San Antonio for more than three centuries.

Three centuries contain the time that Europeans have drank from the San Antonio River. The natives have lived here for far, far longer. In the recharge zone, the fissures of the Edwards Plateau feed water into the honeycombed water bearing rock that gives refreshment to the city. This would be no place for a trash dump or junkyard.

I noticed a Purim celebration at Congregation Agudas Achim, and that brought me to the edge of the Hill Country. I walked up to the entrance, one hour late, hoping to have dinner with the congregation before the reading of the Megillah, the story of Esther, Mordechai and a king named Ahasuerus who had given power unwisely to a rogue viceroy named Haman.

Thanks to the diplomacy of Esther, a holocaust planned by Haman was foiled. Mordechai wouldn’t bow to Haman. Thus, Haman decided to take revenge by planning genocide, plotting to murder Mordechai’s people, the Jews in captivity. Esther let the king know what an unfortunate choice he had made when raising Haman to unchecked power. She saved the life of Mordechai, a valiant man who had saved the life of Ahasuerus from death at the hand of plotting guards. The king needed reminding of that boon.

I walked up to the gate with my camera bag and I was assertively challenged by a security guard armed with two pistols. “May I help you, sir”? His voice was gruff and all business. I wondered why he had addressed me so powerfully. He searched my entire camera bag. He asked me to doff my corduroy jacket and reveal to his eyes the contents of each pocket. He questioned the lump in my left front pocket, and I pulled out my wallet for his examination. He gave me the okay to proceed.

I had to ask. “I appreciate your vigilance. What factor made you single me out”. “I’ve never seen you at services before today”. King Ahasuerus would do well to retain the services of this man. I will refrain from describing the horror that took place in Pittsburgh in the year 2018. Not on his watch.

I came to the door of the ceremonial feast, a treasured part of a Purim celebration. I was greeted by Samantha, who was speaking to me before I was aware of her presence. “Do you come to celebrate Purim”? I answered yes, but answering, “Yes, I need the mizpahs” would have made a better answer. “Are you new here? What brings you to San Antonio?”

She detected nothing Texan about me. “I’m traveling. I am a writer and photographer”. She asked her third and final question. “Where did you begin your journey”? “I set out the first of November from my home in Saratoga Springs, New York." Maybe she knew that Jewish children travel distances for ritual bathing in a secret spring located in Saratoga. Her manner lightened. She offered her hand.  “I’m Sammy. I work here. Please, make a plate. Happy Purim”. “Happy Purim”, I replied.

The children played soccer in the courtyard, a space unlike a courtyard in Southern San Antonio, landscaped for little water. Planted with lush grass and ornamented with young live oaks, the children wore costumes, Captain America and the Incredible Hulk and Batman and the heroine of the day, Queen Esther.

Purim Graggers, a spinning wooden noisemaker, awaited on the tables along with masks that wouldn’t look out of place at Mardi Gras. Kids spun them, making a clacking noise. I made myself a plate and picked out triangular cookies filled with plum called Hamantaschen. I had to look that word up. The cookies make fun of Haman, the evil villain viceroy. The cookies symbolize Haman's ears. I ate efficiently because Sammy announced that the sanctuary was open for the reading of the Megillah.

A man spotted me in the lobby, a good thing. I wasn’t certain what was required for entering the sanctuary. I read a few fliers on a round table, certain that I would be instructed. He approached. “You visit with us”? “Yes, I visit with you”. “You will wear a Kippah. Find one by the door”. He walked into the sanctuary, his Kippah already upon his head. I picked out a red Kippah, a word that translates to dome. A sign advised that men must wear a prayer shawl. I found a box by the door. I noticed a man wearing a baseball jersey that read “Israel” wearing a batter’s hat as a Kippah. I gathered the shawls could be left out for the day.

The reading of the Megillah began as the sun began to soften on the splendid lawn outside the Synagogue windows. Rabbi Jeffrey had written the program, mixing the ten chapters of Esther with commentary for children cleverly disguised as pop songs by Carly Ray Jepsen, Gloria Gaynor and Bruno Mars. He bopped around the sacred chamber dressed as a magician, tapping the air with a magic wand. One after another, young men and young women in their teens ascended to the altar to chant the sacred chapters before their parents and the faithful. I understood the chapters, thanks to the glosses. But I had no idea why a green traffic light flicked on and the chanting stopped and the clack of Graggers filled the room. It must be one of those matters lost in translation.

I stepped out of the door into the growing night. A parade of young couples arriving at the handsome oak door carried Purim gift baskets, hands full. Mishloach manot I think. I held open that door, pretending to be Mordecai at the palace gate.