SOUVENIR JOURNAL - Loon Lake Jewish Center

this earth is the memory of swimming in thelake in the evening or at dawn. We valuethe people who help to sustain thiscommunity as we do members of our ownfamily. And there isn't litigation in sight. Timedoes wonders. May our children enjoy thecelebration forty years hence."From Aileen Kershner:"Our fondest memories of Loon Lakeinclude 1) my father calling his stay there hisjail sentence; 2) my mother (EstherWealcatch) chopping down a wooden fenceput up to bar our old ingress to our propertyby Mrs. Eisner, who had promised not to!"From Len Wisse:Chinderelly (with apologies to.everybody)"Once upon a time, in a little village calledNitogedakht, lived a little girl namedChinderelly, with her wicked stepmother,and her ugly stepladder--I mean stepsisters-named Yente, Shmente, and Tsatske. Well,from Chinderelly, the wicked stepladder--Imean stepsisters--as well as the handsomeprince, Mazal Tov to the Loon Lake JewishCenter on this wonderful 40th anniversary,"From Aaron Hershtal:"One of my fondest memories of Loon Lakewas celebrating my bar mitzvah there. TheSandorfy/Hershtal family has been a part ofthe Loon Lake community for as long as ithas been around. I found it truly special tobe able to celebrate a milestone in my life,like my bar mitzvah in a place so rich in myfamily’s tradition. As well, since I have beencoming to Loon Lake (starting at 10months), I have developed a relationshipwith the other members of our community tothe point where I consider the Loon Lakecommunity part of my extended family."From Jean Wepner:"Our best regards to all our friends. We willmiss Loon Lake."From Clifford Ungar:"My special memories of Loon Lake includehunting for golf balls with Dad,thunderstorms, and early morning loons onthe lake."

From Danny Hershtal:"Hiking, swimming, beaching, basketballplaying, climbing, walking, swimming,canoeing, sailing, golfing, Torah reading,bonfiring, singing, storytelling, marshmallowroasting. Freezing, boiling, sweating,burning, swatting, squashing, scratching.Eating, veging, resting, relaxing, revitalizingand refreshing. All these actions make up acollective memory of my summers at LoonLake, impossible to pinpoint to a specificevent or moment in time. The magic of LoonLake is that time somehow ceases to existas memories are compiled into a lethargicblob and melt together, as the worries andhassles of the past spring and the everapproaching fall melt away. Too often welive our lives according to events that occur.Wrapping up from the previous in order toprepare for the upcoming. However, themoments between these events are oftentaken for granted. These moments are ourchances to breathe, relax and reflect. Theseare our times in Loon Lake."“I have always believed inGoethe’s dictum that greatthoughts are inspired by theoutdoors” – Rabbi Jacob Agus,from American Rabbi The Life andThought of Jacob B. AgusFrom Sybil Hershtal:"I first came to Loon Lake in 1958 to visit myaunt and uncle, Hymie and IsabelMoskowitz, who had just bought a cottagethere. My aunt lived in New York and welived in Montreal. We came on a Sunday,just to visit for the day. But I fell in love withthe place immediately and convinced myparents to let me stay with my aunt for theweek, even though I hadn’t brought achange of clothes with me. The next weekwhen they came back for me , I managed toget another week in Loon Lake out of myparents. It seems like I’ve been negotiatingto spend more and more time in Loon Lakeever since."From Ruth Muss (as told to GoldieUngar):"My fondest memories are of the old daysin Loon Lake, when the community firststarted. In those days the men came out forthe weekends and went home during theweek. The women stayed in Loon Lake forthe whole summer. We came from differentcities and we were different ages, but wespent time in each other's homes givingcooking and baking classes to each otherand trading recipes. That’s how we got toknow each other, and how we became acommunity. Then on Shabbat we would taketurns inviting the entire community to ourhomes for Kiddush, trying out our newrecipes, and making new friends. "

TTHHRREEEEVVIIEEWWSSOOFFLLOOOONNLLAAKKEEThe Tenth ManA short, short story by Stan UngarPROLOGUE: This short story is based onan actual incident, which occurred in asmall, remote mountain lake community.Any similarity in names andcircumstances is entirely intentional.Shia counted slowly – 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,9 .again and again only through nine.There was simply nobody else that couldbe found to make up a minyan at the smalllog cabin shul at Loonsea, a small lakesidecommunity in the mountains. With Shmuel,the Builder and his family off to a large cityto the east to celebrate the marriage of theirfirst born, and with Daniel, the chemist andMoshe, the Tooth Puller, off with them,those left behind would surely have to prayalone. Was their tradition of so many yearswithout missing a minyan about to bebroken?But wait, an hour before Shabbos there is aknock on Shia’s door. “Who is there?” heasks.“It’s me, Menachim, a visitor to Loonseafrom Plattsville, the nearest large town somedistance away. May I come in?”“But, of course, please do.”as a Teacher at the Academy in Plattsvillewith an old time acquaintance. He goes onto say that he went to school with Shmuel,the Builder.And yes he would be happy to complete theminyan and be the tenth man. Not only that,but he goes on to say that he is a great,great, nephew of a famous shtetl storyteller,Sholem.A minyan is reached, Shabbos is welcomedin and the songs of all fill the cool mountainnight air.After shul the ten men go their separateways to their cottages. As Menachim goeshis way distant laughter can be heardechoing back on a gentle breeze.Upon Shmuel’s return Shia gives himregards from his old classmate, Menachim.“Menachim? I knew no Menachim atschool.”At a later time, visiting the Academy atPlattsville, Shia asks about their Teacher,Menachim, who had visited Loonsea.“Menachim? We have no Menachim here atthe Academy,” says the Director.But surely there must be such a person. Weall prayed with him. We saw his smilingface, we heard his gentle laughter as hewalked off into the night. Who is he? He isthe tenth man.Loon LakeMenachim, a round-faced, smiling manenters and explains that he is visiting thearea to discuss questions about his dutiesAugust 1995

Route 99A short story by Wendy Ungar"There it is, I see it!" Helen proclaimed."Finally, the turn-off to get us to Route 99."My friend Helen and I had been driving forclose to three hours on our way fromOttawa, looking for the shortcut to oursummer haven of Loon Lake in theAdirondack Mountains where our familieshad cottages. A left turn off NYS Route 30and in a few miles we would arrive at theentrance to Route 99, the road that wouldlead us through the "backdoor" wildernessand directly into the hamlet of Loon Lake. Itwas about 6 pm. We had been enjoying aneasy drive; it was a beautiful sunny earlysummer day. The sun still shone stronglythrough the tops of the tall white pines."Slow down, Wendy!", Helen cried. "You'llmiss the turn!"I saw the right-hand turn-off for 99, but wassurprised at its sharpness and how easily Imight have driven past it. The car swervedas I veered suddenly to make it. We justbarely stayed on the road."That's funny, it doesn't look like it should besuch a sharp turn," I commented, attemptingto understand how I could misjudge it.We looked ahead. A short steep hill climbedup and curved off to the left. Near the top ofthe hill stood the 99 sign, slightly tilted, itstwin 9's carving out two eyes that twinkledwith an evil smile, beckoning us forward.That first glimpse of number 99 at the startof a new summer season has always mademe glad. Ninety-nine - the keeper of theforest, the gateway to the wonder andbeauty that lies ahead. Just beyond stoodanother sign, "ROUGH ROAD NEXT 12MILES" and then another, "NOT A GOODROUTE TO NYS 3". Helen and I looked ateach other and laughed, amused that theState of New York Department ofTransportation would actually make anofficial road sign that said "not a good route"to someplace.

"Why not just hang a skull andcrossbones?" I joked.Helen hadn't wanted to take the back part of99. Earlier in the day she suggested that wego the long way around, without explainingher reticence. But I told her, "No way. That'lladd forty-five minutes to the drive. Besides,this road is so picturesque."We started forward on Route 99. The roadquickly narrowed to one lane - one veryrough lane. Although only minutes ago thesun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky,now the light appeared to wane. The treesclosed in on us, draping a canopy ofbranches above our heads."Can you believe how dark it's become? I'mgoing to have use my headlights!" I said toHelen with surprise. We continued to drive.The road veered sharply right and left,endlessly twisting around corners whileclimbing and descending short steepgrades. Whoever posted the speed limit at35 miles per hour had a somewhat macabresense of humour, I thought to myself. Withthe angle of the turns on this windy road,one would have to slow down to 15 milesper hour just to keep from going off the side.Anyone daring to "speed" along at 35 milesper hour would find a branch crashingthrough the windshield in no time.It grew darker."Is that fog?" Helen asked with disbelief,staring at the mist illuminated by theheadlights."It looks like it, doesn't it? How can that be?"I asked.Helen squirmed a bit in her seat. "Don'tworry Helen," I said. "I've driven this roadlots of times and have never had aproblem.""Well I don't like it. In my family, we call it'Dead Man's Drive'," she said somberly,without offering to elaborate.I looked at her with amusement. "Don't besilly!" I said, trying to hide a growing senseof foreboding.We continued on. It was dark except for thegleam of headlights pointing the way fromone sharp bend to another. All we couldhear was the wear of the tires against therough hewn asphalt. "Why don't you turn onthe radio," I said, hoping that some music orchatter might provide a soothing distraction.She switched it on. Static. She moved it upand down the dial. Nothing but static."It's no good," she said. "You can't get anystations up here. The trees and themountains block everything." Just as shewas about to switch off the radio, there wasa loud crackle and a voice started comingthrough. It was muffled and had a strangeintonation. After some playing with the dial,Helen was able to get a clearer signal.".And we now continue with Orson Wellsstarring in 'The Thin Man, the ContinuingAdventures of Harry Lime'." spoke the radioannouncer."Oh. it's one of those old-fashioned radioplays," I said. "That should keep usamused." We listened to the drama; it was amurder mystery. The road winded on andthe fog thickened. It was getting harder tosee. The radio play was interrupted for acommercial.A funny voice that sounded more like BugsBunny than a radio announcer said "Justarrived on the lot . Brand new 1949 TownCars! See them here!" How strange, wethought. Maybe the old commercials weretaped along with the radio show. Then weheard another commercial, a jingle singingthe praises of 'Clarke's New MiraculousSalve - the perfect treatment for inveterateulcers, bad legs and sore heads, patented1942'!We were amused and bit bewildered by theretro advertising. Then very suddenly theplay stopped and the news came on. "Goodevening. Here is the six o'clock news forJune 27, 1931."

"What? 1931?" Helen and I looked at eachother, completely puzzled. "What is goingon?" I said aloud. "The radio play was fromthe nineteen fifties, the commercials fromthe forties and the news from the thirties?This is so bizarre!"At that moment the radio went dead.Silence. Not even a crackle or whisper ofstatic. Just silence. I slowed down to 10miles per hour. "This is too eerie," Helensaid. "When are we going to get there?" sheasked anxiously."It can't be much longer." I tried to reassureher as I felt my own anxiety growingstronger. "We should soon be arriving atthose tattered old abutments on either sideof the road. You know, where the railroadtracks passed overhead in the olden dayscarrying rich folks to their summer retreat atthe Loon Lake Hotel.""Oh yeah," said Helen. "We have one of theoriginal 1889 Chateaugay Railroad ticketsfor the trip from New York City to LoonLake." Our imaginations began to wander tovisions of the old railway and the poshprivate cars loaded with steamer trunks andpersonal servants. Every day during thesummer seasons following the turn of thecentury, trainloads of vacationers wouldarrive at Loon Lake Station where the localstagecoach would carry them along Route99, the historic turnpike from Port Kent toHopkington. The stage would drop them offat Loon Lake House, one of the earliest andgreatest of the Adirondack Great Camps.Under the proprietorship of Mrs. MaryChase and her ne'er-do-well husband Fird,Loon Lake House began in 1879 as a cabinfor hunters and fishermen on 10 acres ofland on a small bluff overlooking Loon Lake.By the 1920's, it had grown into a resortspanning 4,000 acres and included 53cottages that housed 800 guests, amongthem U.S. Presidents, film stars and theManhattan elite. Our daydreaming wassuddenly interrupted by a faint noise off inthe distance."Did you hear that?" I asked Helen."It sounded like," Helen began, "A TRAINWHISTLE!" we both exclaimed at the samemoment. I stopped the car. We held ourbreath. Sure enough, off in the distance inthe direction toward which we were driving along mournful train whistle blew in thedarkness."But there are no trains around Loon Lake,"I protested. "There haven't been for 50years!""There are no trains anywhere near this partof the Adirondacks," Helen added. Now wewere completely baffled. Our apprehensiongrew."Well, we have to press on," I said. "Maybewe'll find an explanation when we get toLoon Lake." I started the car and we movedslowly forward, following the unendingcurves that brought us closer to ourdestination. I concentrated hard to stay onthe road while I increased my speed to 30miles per hour. We turned a corner and thenabout 50 feet ahead in the distance we sawwhat appeared to be walls on both sides ofthe road. We got closer. The abutmentswere bleached bright white. The familiargraffiti that had for the last few decadesadorned the crumbling walls was not there.Not only that. The cracked plaster anddecaying concrete were replaced by tallsmooth walls. The structure looked as if ithad been built yesterday! Then, just as wegot close enough to drive between theabutments, we noticed an unfamiliarsilhouette in the twilight above."Oh, my God! shouted Helen as she pointedstraight ahead above the car. "Look at that!"I couldn't believe what I was seeing.Spanning across the road from oneabutment to the other was a wooden trestleholding a single track of railroad."Where did that come from?" Helen asked inutter amazement.I looked at Helen. "A better question," Ibegan in a slow whisper, "is where are wegoing?"

There was no place to go but forward. Wehad to have an answer. We crossedbeneath the trestle and drove on. After ashort distance the trees abated briefly oneither side of the road. Up ahead on the leftwas the old ticket office. It gleamed like awhite ghost in the approaching nightfall. Wedrove by slowly. As we passed, we noticedthat lights were on inside. Smoke streamedfrom the chimney."Does anyone live in that old ticket officenow?" Helen asked."Not that I know of," I replied, afraid to tellher that last summer I had heard that theticket office was slated to be torn downsince it was derelict and considered a firehazard.Mixed with trepidation and relief we soonarrived at the outskirts of Loon Lake. A fewfamiliar looking camps dotted its shoreline.These camps were part of the old hotel buthad long since been purchased by privatelandowners who converted than intosummer homes, just as our families haddone in the mid-fifties when the hotelproperties were sold off. By now darknesshad fallen and a full moon had risen, castinga grey glow over the shadowy waters of thelake. The road meandered along, close tothe shores, high above the water. We camearound a turn and the headlights illuminateda strange moving shape in the distanceahead. The large object appeared to bemoving slowly forward in the same directionas we were. We caught up to it. The highbeams cast spotlights on two white wagonwheels and the back of a woodenstagecoach. We were aghast. I had neverseen a real stagecoach, except inmuseums. The wheels were huge - higherthan the car. The road was two lanes widenow, as we were very close to the town. Ipulled over to the left to pass. I couldn't seeany people on top or inside of the coach, butthere was a dim light coming from inside thecabin. I had to stay over on the left-handside of the road long enough to safely passthe team of six horses that steadily climbedRoute 99, bringing its load ever closer to ourcommon destination. By now Helen and Iwere completely mystified by what we hadseen and heard. Nothing could explain it.Everything around us had seeminglyreverted to how it had been 100 years ago.Yet the trees, the mountains, the lake, andmost importantly, Route 99, lit up by thebright moonlight, looked exactly the same.We arrived at the sharp left turn thatdemarcates the centre of the hamlet of LoonLake. I turned right into the laneway wherethe cottages belonging to our families stoodon the corner. There they were, same asalways, but looking a little brighter andfresher than usual. I parked the car by theside of the road and we got out. Both of ourhouses were completely dark. We looked ateach other, not moving."Why don't we explore a little?" I suggestedto Helen, unwilling to admit my fear ofentering that dark house alone, not knowingwhat 100-year-old surprises might bewaiting to greet me."Good idea, Wendy. Let's check out TheCircle," Helen said.The Circle is a wild and overgrown patch ofbrambles just down the hill from our houses.It was once a circular garden standing at theentranceway to the main building of the oldhotel. After the fire which destroyed thestructure in the mid-fifties, before we wereborn, little was done to keep up theappearance of the grounds. As children weused to play on a large stone statue of anIndian with a broken headdress thatadorned the circle, in the days when thegrass was still being mowed. We ran downthe hill and stopped suddenly in our tracks.The full circumference of The Circlegleamed in the moonlight. It had beenplowed save for a few pine saplings thatstood proudly, guarding the glimmeringIndian Chief, his stone feather headdressintact. Helen and I approached. We steppedfoot onto The Circle and gazed up and toour left. There, towering over our heads wasa massive four-storey building topped by alarge square cupola. Tall Greek columnssurrounded the building, reaching up to theprotruding third storey. Loon Lake Housestood before us in all its splendour andglory. We could se

vacation home in Lake Placid. We came to Lake Placid in 1989. Arthur was a Torah scholar and really felt that he had found a home in Loon Lake. We knew Merle and Gershon Stern through mutual friends. They were gracious and extremely hospitable, as was everyone else at the Loon Lake synagogue.