A family story about being a Cohen

I was just reading something my father wrote last year and came across this passage:

By the way, my father’s synagogue was basically a store front kind of place, and the people in it were all from Ostrova. My father and I were the only Kohanim in the congregation, so at the important holidays the few Leviim would wash our hands and we would bless the congregation.

Every one, of course, knew each other. It wasn’t a big congregation, all poor people who couldn’t afford a Rabbi, so everything was done by the people themselves.

On Saturday, after services, there would be a small piece of cake and some schnapps, so I got used to strong liquor from when I was a child. I wore tzitzit till I was sixteen, and in my second year in college, when I guess it got too embarrassing for me.

At some point one of the writers, who must have been widowed, for one of the Jewish newspapers, not an Ostrovan, joined the synagogue, and many of the congregants (the word doesn’t feel right, but it fits) would vie to have him come for Sabbath lunch – he was, after all, an educated man.

Given my reconnection this past Shabbat, I found this very interesting and timely.