I received a call this morning from an unknown Israeli number.
“Hello Robbie,” the caller said.
I wasn’t sure yet who it was, but by calling me “Robbie,” I could narrow her identity down to someone who has known me since the ’60s, ’70s, or ’80s. By the ’90s, I had switched over to “Rob,” grandfathering in all the “Robbie” folks. I was “Robert” for a few minutes in 8th grade, and a few of those former classmates still call me that.
When I was young, middle-aged Jewish men called me Bob or Bobby. Now that I’m a middle-aged Jewish man, those men are, are sadly, no longer with us. I do get called by a few other names, but none of those are appropriate for a family-friendly article.
It turned out a childhood friend was reaching out to see if I could help with accommodations, kosher food, minyan times, etc., for a friend’s son from New Jersey who was coming to Albany to take the Bar exam.
“Absolutely. Please share my cell phone number. I’m happy to help.”
Not everyone who reaches out is a childhood friend looking for minyan times.
Earlier this week, I received an email addressed to “Mr. Kovach.” While I appreciate the respect, this was clearly from someone who’s never known me. I have never been “Mr. Kovach,” and I don’t think there has ever been a Mr. Kovach in my line. My father is Stu; his father was Joe; his father was Emanuel; and his father—if he went by “Mr.” at all—would have been Mr. Cohen, before Emanuel changed the family name.
This writer wanted me to end the war in Gaza.
“Talk to Trump. Talk to Netanyahu. Stop this war.”
Wow. Thank you for thinking so highly of me. I can call my congressman—and, in fact, I speak with him often—but Trump doesn’t take my calls. I have absolutely no influence on military decisions. I can send money to help rebuild a war-torn country and help terror victims receive the care they need, but stopping a war is not in my power.
So, to recap:
Call me Rob.
I can hook you up with kosher food.
I can help care for terror victims.
I can’t stop a war.
But I’ll keep doing what I can.