I consider myself a pretty friendly person, always armed and ready with a “hi” for anyone I pass. But while taking a short walk with my son at a nearby park, it became evident that the simple salutation comes in many forms, and not always in the spirit of the greeting.

The usual M.O. is this: as you realize you are about to cross paths with another human, or group of them, you quickly size them up as to whether or not you will greet them and, if so, the degree of enthusiasm your “hi” will be. If it looks like the person or persons just decided rainbows are synonymous with chain restaurant salad bars, perhaps only an imperceptible grunt is in order. If it appears as if the couple just reenacted their honeymoon, then a bright smile accompanying a big, rousing, “HI!” is appropriate.

Today my son and I encountered a young couple who appeared to have just emerged from a manhole. Ostensibly in their late 20’s or early 30’s they were as unkempt as a third tier presidential candidate after a debate and just as surly. Nevertheless, we followed established hiking trail protocol and attempted a courteous, if not overly energetic “Hi!” The woman completely ignored us as the guy growled something that was unintelligible but more than the one syllable “hi” would require. My best guess was his rejoinder to our greeting was “yeahwuhuhhuhbrabwahfoo.”

On the other hand, my wife and I have been utterly delighted on several consecutive weekends to encounter a flotilla of Japanese canoeists passing us as we paddled along the Huron River. The occupants in the three boats never fail to wear big smiles and return our sincere “Hi’s” with even bigger “HIs!!!!”

We’ve been tempted to act out our hidden Joey Tribbiani from the old show “Friends” by changing it up and asking “how YOU doin’?” Luckily we’re strict “Hi”constructionists, which should be fair warning for anyone considering hitting us with a brazen “good morning,” or “nice day.” Our motto: “Just pass by. Just say hi.” Bye.

The first time I saw Yogi in person was my first ballgame. It was 1961. The Yanks vs. Tigers. We were perched in the mezzanine of Yankee Stadium in left field and Yogi was taking a rare day away from the plate and playing the outfield. The old stadium, before its renovation in the ’70’s, was a tight place where you sat right over the field and we could almost hear Yogi breathe. Over and over again, as he awaited the next pitch, he took his hat off, then replaced it, then got stock still anticipating the crack of the bat and the chance he’d need to make a play. He did make a few and his skills as an occasional outfield seem to be lost in time. Roger Maris hit two of his historic 61 homers that day, the Yanks won, but so did my dad, my brother and I as we watched Yogi Berra, just below us..now he’s looking down on us..probably wondering, “I like this place..it’s like heaven.” If I can find one here in Michigan, a Yoo-hoo will be tipped in his honor. As Yogi used to say in the commercials, “Me for Yoo-hoo…fudge bars too-hoo.” Boo hoo. RIP Yogi.

Smack in the middle of the Jewish High Holidays, my thoughts run to the concept of

buying tickets to attend Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur services. These are the two most important holidays in the Jewish calendar signifying the New Year, and, in effect a new start, as we seek forgiveness for sins we committed the previous year and a shot at making it into the Book of Life, which is like being friended by Him, so we can live to do it all over again next year.

In general, one cannot sashay up to the synagogue, pop on a yarmulke and take a seat in the sanctuary without coughing up some serious shekels. I should mention, however, many congregations offer free tickets to newcomers to the area or those who just afford them.

Unlike Christian houses of worship, Jewish law forbids handling money on the Sabbath or on High Holidays, so there’s no plate passing to help fund the place.

So we charge admission. As a kid in Hebrew school, we paid 50 cents to score a seat in the small children’s services, which were held in a basement lined with unsold cases of soda and styrofoam stuff. But that escalated to 3 bucks as we hit our teens and then, oy, it could get as high as about $200 for the privilege of schtupping yourself in a seat in the main sanctuary where the actual rabbi and cantor ran the show. In today’s world, one might find the coveted “main sanctuary tickets” available on Schlub Hub at a premium, of course, including fees, or on Chaim’s List. But some of those schmucks can be sketchy mama’s boys. 

If you didn’t mind a rent-a-rabbi, you could pay about 50 bucks and pray in the ballroom,  where the Sh’ma might be interrupted by the sound of crashing dishes in the kitchen or wafts of smoke from the janitor’s Cigarillos sneaking out from the spot where he slept instead of mopping the floor where the old men dropped their after-service balls of gefilte fish because they drank too much of the free Canadian Club or J&B scotch available on the Kiddush table. Note. No Kiddush on Yom Kippur when we’re all supposed to be fasting, before retreating to Don’s Chinese Restaurant across Union Turnpike from our synagogue, the Bellerose Jewish Center in Queens.  So, the old men would get drunk before fasting, which only served to make them more unstable and utterly unable to pronounce any of the Hebrew prayers. But they meant well and always enjoyed the nap during the rabbi’s sermon.

When I tell my Christian friends you have to buy tickets to pray during the High Holidays they invariably express their dismay and secret admiration for our very efficient fund-raising method since everyone pays the same price and no one can just slap the plate and stiff the congregation.

Really, one of my Hebrew School teachers put it quite succinctly when he described why we sell tickets. Mr. Rosenberg, a stout man with slicked back grey hair, a jowly red face and a blunt attitude explained there are those Members of the Tribe who only showed up to synagogue once a year on the High Holidays, taking their prayer shawls out of storage and never paying membership dues.  “You can smell them,” he barked and smiled at the same time. “Those camphor-ball Jews.”  Yup….seen carrying their talithim...and tickets.