Herschel's Cleaver

I went to my grandmother’s house on Shabbat (I call it that for cache but it’s not like I ever lit a fucking candle) to make her dinner because I’m a good grandson. A bad son, employee and rotten shaver, but a good grandson. My grandmother Flora has declined several invitations to dinner, stating that the cold air stops her from breathing. What a complaint-nik. When I was her age we didn’t complain about breathing. But it saddened me to think that she might not get to eat a decent meal until the spring thaw, if she lasts that long. So I trundled over in snow pants and we had tacos together.

Before I left she gave me a cleaver made by my great-grandfather Herschel. It weighs about 500 pounds and hasn’t been sharp enough to cut anything in decades but what an artifact. Herschel was a blacksmith in turn of the century Toronto. He sold his property to the city (for what is now the Toronto Bus Terminal), opened a furniture store, and made his fortune. The cleaver, which I suppose my great-grandmother used for lopping off kosher chicken heads, is one solid piece of iron. It’s been pounded out somewhat cavemanishly with bumps and grooves and squared off edges like a Walt Simonson cape.

I don’t think it’s going to be hacking through oxtail anytime soon. But it’s what I’ll reach for in the middle of the night if I hear strange noises. If, by some chance you plan on robbing me (I have a lot of nice comic books) this thing would squash your head like a melon. And the story would be, “Herschel Litvak foils prowler from beyond the grave.”