Friday, June 17, 2005

…. and also much cattle. *

Tony was part of every child’s pantheon.  We all knew about him, along with Ronald and Mickey and Toucan Sam - these were characters, commercial though they have have been, who were members of our households, universally recognized if not always beloved. 

Well, Tony was beloved.  Whether your mom let you eat of the sugared cereal or not (for the record, mine did not), Tony was a good guy.  He was powerful, yet protective; dangerous, yet benign.  His roar signalled, not impending doom from slashing cruel incisors, but milk-resistent sugar-plated treats.  He was a carnivore who chose to stick with carbohydrates.  Among all our corporate logo buddies, he was the one you’d always pick first for your team.

I, however, had a special relationship with Tony the Tiger: he went to my syagogue.  He was, in real life, Thurl Ravenscroft, a distinguished-looking guy with white hair that swept back majesterially from a patrician brow, a silver mane for a cartoon feline.  His voice rumbled up from subterranean depths; his ruddy face seemed carved of pink marble.  In a congregation that hosted a cantor who sang with deep sweet profundity like no one else I’ve ever heard, Tony the Tiger had the voice we waited all year long to hear. 

He stepped up to the pulpit annually on Yom Kippur day - the day of atonement, the most solemn day of the jewish calendar.  By the time he mounted the bima, we were lightheaded and cottonmouthed from 18 hours of fasting and prayer.  He always came forward in the afternoon to read the traditional haftorah - the scriptural compliment to the week’s torah portion.  The torah is the first five books, Genesis through Deuteronomy; the haftorah is the rest of the bible.  Each week has its assigned torah and haftorah portions, and the haftorah for Yom Kippur is the Book of Jonah. 

So Tony the Tiger stood before us and read the entire story of Jonah, that deep booming voice working its way under our skin and into our souls, bringing to life the perilous seas, the leviathan’s hunger, God’s command and judgement.  He made it good, and we - accustomed as we were to the finest entertainment that Los Angeles could produce - sat in rapt wonder, living the bible through his voice. 

It’s been many years since I was in LA for the high holidays, many years since I last heard Thurl Ravenscroft do this reading.  I’ve found a congregation up here that plugs into my spirituality more effectively and intimately than any I’ve ever attended.  Even so, I never hear the Book of Jonah, or even think of it, without being reminded of that baritone tiger rumbling and roaring it out to me on those sweltering starved afternoons.

It all comes back to me now, out of time and out of season.  I read recently that Mr. Ravenscroft has lost a battle with cancer.  He now lives in remembrance, and on commercials of course, but never again will he recite the scripture to me. Luckily, I will never forget how it felt to hear it as he spoke it.  It was great. 

*Jon. 4:11