Alan Wolkenstein, our treasured occasional columnist for the Chronicle, died Sept. 30. He is of blessed memory, and we are grateful for his contributions.
He brought a beautiful, folksy, old-world Jewish style to his work, grounded in truth and culture. He was so very real.
We remember him in this edition by presenting several of his columns, which had not yet been published. His son, M. Evan Wolkenstein, is a high-school teacher and writer.
Evan kindly shared this message with us, for you:
My father was excellent at all the things he did: drinking coffee, listening to jazz, conversing, remembering, and being Jewish. One who is familiar with his writing knows that he travels through time effortlessly, the way a scratchy record can bring us back to a bygone age. He remembers stories of growing up Jewish in Milwaukee, stories that were as influential to my Jewish identity as my actual childhood. Indeed, there would be no me without his nostalgia – and also, his realistic sense of the struggles of being a Jew in the modern world. And yet, with each piece I’ve read over the years, I’m struck always by his humor – and his wisdom. Indeed, it’s hard not to wish for a trip, myself, back to Sherman Boulevard in the 1950s. Well, there is much to read – so, as my Dad would say, “Why don’t you come along and join me?”
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