Reflections on Becoming a Life Member of Hadassah

“Kol ode balevav p'nimah, nefesh Yehudi homiyah; Ulfa'atey mizrach kadimah, ayin l'tzion tzofiyah...”

I sang along in the hotel ballroom as the ladies of my mother's Hadassah chapter stood for the Israeli national anthem at the start of the fund-raising luncheon. I was then a young student in my twenties, standing next to my mother at the table with her friends. I could feel her pleasure at having me there and her pride at being able to show off to her friends that I knew all the words to Hatikvah. I was glad to give her a reason to kvell – I loved pleasing her.

Today, more than forty years later, she would be pleased to know that I am now a Life Member of Hadassah, the organization she so believed in and served with such enthusiasm and commitment. My road to life membership was not a typical one. After college, I married an Episcopalian boy from Birmingham, Alabama, who swept me off my feet with his good looks and Southern charm and who sealed the deal by agreeing with me that we should raise our children in the traditions of both of our families. And so we have.

We moved from the Northeast to Alabama over 30 years ago, shortly after our first son was born, and I was welcomed warmly into my husband’s family. We settled about 30 miles from Birmingham, in a roomy house on a country road where our three boys grew and thrived. Along with exposing them to the liturgy and practices of the Episcopal Church, I taught my sons everything my parents had taught me about being Jewish. I was aware that there was a Jewish community in Birmingham, but we were far from the city, and life was busy in the country.

The years passed and lo and behold, the children were grown and gone, my work schedule lightened, and I had time on my hands. So I reached out to a Jewish educational organization in Birmingham and got involved in a project. Again, I was welcomed warmly. I discovered that my particular “skill set” can be put to good use in Jewish community projects and I love being involved.

Last year, I became a member of Hadassah. This year, I jumped on the $100 Life Membership Centennial Anniversary Offer, which is a deal my mother, the consummate bargain-hunter, would have approved of wholeheartedly. I’m excited and proud to now stand alongside my mother and the other women of Hadassah who have made a lifetime commitment to an organization whose good works have made a difference in so many lives.

I feel I’ve fulfilled a calling of a sort. I began to ponder this after a conversation with my daughter-in-law-to-be, a lovely African-American girl who has added a new cultural ingredient to our personal family melting pot. One day when the two of us were alone, I brought up the subject of “getting to know each other better,” which is a desire of my heart. She’s a quiet girl, and I couldn't easily discern if she wanted to keep her distance or if she wanted to get closer. I told her I wanted to get as close to her as she would like. “I’m a Jewish mother,” I explained, “and I’ll be a Jewish mother to you if you want me to be.”

There was a long silence after which she asked, “What does a Jewish mother do?”

“Oh, honey,” I thought, “Where do I begin?”

I responded, “Well, there are a few stereotypes associated with Jewish mothers, like being pushy and overbearing. Then there’s the whole guilt thing – like the Jewish mother who gives her son two ties for his birthday, and when she sees him wearing one, asks, “So you didn't like the other tie?” Jewish mothers have elevated this kind of logic to an art form.

But there's much more to being a Jewish mother than just the stereotypes, and I wanted to offer a real answer to my son's betrothed. I thought a moment. “At heart,” I said, “we’re family women. We want to be close to our families and involved in their lives.”

There was another pause, during which I wondered if I had scared her. Then she replied, “That sounds O.K.” And so we’re building our relationship, my daughter-in-law-to-be and I.

We’re family women, we Jewish mothers. If we push or meddle or interrogate, it's because we want to be on the inside with the ones we love. We want to be more than connected; we want to be intertwined.

There’s another important element to being a Jewish mother: we want to help. We want to make a difference and we want to make things better, especially where our family is concerned.

For the Jews, our commitment to our people is profound and complete, and the magnitude of our family is as large as we will make it. Hadassah makes our family very large indeed, by innovating health care for a nation and equipping the children of the land to continue the legacy of education and progress that sets Israel apart.

I am proud to be a Life Member of Hadassah and I hope to carry on the tradition of service and friendship exemplified for me by my mother, Molly Siegel Rabinowitz, who taught me to be a family woman.

Deborah and Molly, circa 1995

Talking Families: The Wedding of Shara and Adi

My cousin Shara has a photo on her Facebook page of five family members representing branches of a family tree that has grown organically from old love and new love, marriage and remarriage. She calls it “Talking Families.” I love this photo, because it echoes my understanding of what’s possible in the phenomenon of family, given an open heart and a sense of humor: you can have a family tree that grows leaf by joined leaf into ever-widening and intersecting circles.

Last weekend there was a delightful convergence of brothers and sisters, parents, stepparents, godparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, nieces, nephews, and friends of the heart in Berkeley, California for Shara and Adi’s wedding. We came from New York and Chicago, Los Angeles and Palm Springs, Alabama and Wyoming, Oregon, Florida and Germany. We all stayed at the Rose Garden Inn, a compound of Victorian houses on Telegraph Avenue surrounded by graceful wrought iron fencing and filled with beautifully tended gardens. The place was basically ours for the weekend and we settled in like kids at summer camp, ready for fun.

Shara’s father Richard is my first cousin. Our mothers were sisters. Richard and his sisters Barbara and Geri and I are peas in a pod, as our mothers were, and we always have a good time together. But on Shara and Adi’s wedding weekend, the fun just started there. Between them, the bride and groom have families that are far-reaching and multi-configured. In conversation with the friendly, creative folks who make up the extended tribe, I had to map out little family trees in my mind to understand where each person connected and who was connected to whom.

Of course, it was Shara and Adi who connected us all – this couple who epitomize the Jewish concept of bashert: destined for one another, foreordained to be together. And we, the extended, evolving family, spent three days knitting our hearts together with laughter and interest and compassion before we gathered at Tilden Park, high in the Berkeley hills, to be witnesses and celebrants as Shara and Adi became echad: one in unity. We all felt it: the blessing of God is on this union of his design.

Marlene, Shara’s maid of honor, put a fine point on it in her toast to the couple. She said that when her son was about five years old, he said to her one day, “Love is the best thing.” She understood then and shared now, that this is the truth upon which to build one’s life. On that full moon, starry evening filled with joy and meaning and promise, we concurred unanimously.

An Adventure After Dark

Our old hippie ways almost got us into trouble the other night. It was Friday night on a holiday weekend. “I have an idea,” I said to my husband as we sat on the deck towards dusk sipping cocktails, “Let’s eat dinner at Bernie’s in Columbiana and then drive down to the lake and go skinny-dipping after dark.” It was a plan. We got ourselves together, packed a bag with towels, jumped in the Firebird and hit the road.

A few weeks ago, we had been driving around looking for a public place to swim on Lay Lake. We found one about half an hour from our house. We followed the ‘Public Boat Launch’ signs to a serene and beautiful part of the lake with the kind of verdant surroundings you see only in Alabama. There was a boat ramp, a nice, new t-shaped dock, and some grassy areas that served as a small beach. The list of rules posted in the parking lot said “No swimming within 50 feet of the launch.” There was plenty of room to swim on the other side of the launch. We swam and sunned that day and met some nice boat people. The cool lake water was still and deep. It was great place to swim, we decided, as long as you’re mindful of the boats coming in and going out. After dark, we thought, it would be perfect for skinny-dipping.

So, on this particular Friday night, we drove to Columbiana and had a nice dinner at Bernie’s, all the while keeping an eye on the last bits of daylight coming in through the front windows. When it was dark, we paid our bill and left, anticipating our private moonlight swim. We drove with the top down through the cool of the evening, breathing the deliciously fragrant air of summer in Shelby County.

When we got to the boat launch at about 9:00, there were quite a few trucks with trailers in the parking lot, which meant that there were still people on the lake who would be coming in at some point. It was quiet, so we decided we could get in a quick swim. We walked out to the dock, stripped and jumped in. The water was surprisingly warm – the long days of sunshine had warmed it up. It was perfect.

Soon my watchful husband saw a boat approaching on the water without lights or motor. We ducked under the dock. I squinted to see what he was seeing. Yes, there it was, a small fishing boat being paddled in. We wondered why they were coming in so stealthily.

Suddenly, the water lit up with the red, white, and blue flashing lights of the Water Patrol which had also spotted the dark boat. The cops herded the little boat to the dock. They were coming right towards us. It was an ‘uh oh’ moment. My husband moved to stand in chest-high water in the shadows, and I stood behind him. We were very still, hiding on the other side of the dock, naked.

Three standard-issue redneck kids, 18 or 19 years old, were in the boat. They pulled closer and closer to the dock. We could see them, but they couldn’t see us. The cop stood up and began questioning the boys. One boy said their front light was broken and they didn’t want to attract attention by running with just the back light, so they were hoping to sneak in. But the Water Patrol had good eyes. So good in fact, that the cop’s next question was, “Have you seen any people swimming nekkid out here? There’s their clothes up on the dock.” No, the boys hadn’t seen anyone swimming nekkid. Not yet, I thought.

What a pickle we were in. My husband whispered, “You can write about this in your blog.” I whispered back, “Let’s see if there’s a happy ending first.”

The cop started shining his flashlight over the water, looking for nekkid swimmers. My husband stepped out of the shadows and raised his hand, smiling calmly. I stayed behind him, mostly out of view. “There they are,” said the cop. He addressed my husband, “You know you’re not supposed to be swimming out here.” My husband responded, “I’m 50 feet from the launch.” The cop couldn’t argue with that.

He asked, “Are these your clothes up here?”

“Yes, our clothes are up there, but our bathing suits are down here.”

“Oh,” said the cop with relief in his voice, “So you’re wearing bathing suits.”

“Of course,” my husband replied.

I thought I might faint.

“Well,” said the cop after a pause in which he clearly pondered his next move, “that’s fine then. We’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

We stood where we were in the water and waited while he lectured the boys at length and wrote out a citation. I fought a fit of nervous giggles. We waited. We were glad the water was warm.

We waited while the Water Patrol pulled away and the three boys maneuvered their boat to the dock so one of them could climb out and get their truck, then we waited while they maneuvered the boat to the launch ramp. We waited while the truck backed down the launch and the boys hooked and tied and chained it all together and then pulled the boat out of the water. It’s a long, slow process. When you’re standing naked in the water, it seems very long and slow indeed.

We were hopeful that these kids would drive away quickly, but it was not to be. Another truck arrived with more kids in it – friends of the boys in the boat. Suddenly there was a party in the parking lot. Then another boat motored in from the lake and pulled up to the dock -- a family. I groaned. The mother and her teenage daughter got out on the dock with their freshly-caught fish, stepped around our clothes, and went to get their truck. We were surrounded. I hoped no one had a video camera.

We considered our options. A) We could wait for all of them to leave, but there would probably be more boats coming in for the next hour or two, and we had had enough of standing in the water. B) We could make a naked dash to the bank and down the dock to where we had left our clothes, but that clearly would have been an uncalled-for spectacle. We opted for plan C: My husband quickly hoisted himself up on the dock and grabbed our underwear. His could easily pass for swimming trunks and mine could be taken for a beige bikini if you didn’t know what a bra and panties look like. We slipped into the shadows and somehow got dressed underwater.

We walked out of the lake holding hands and avoiding eye contact with the crowd of people around us. I think we appeared nonchalant, but inside I was wavering between hysterical laughter and absolute mortification. We walked casually to the end of the dock. I slipped into my dress, we gathered our things, and headed for our car. Eyes were averted as we passed. I appreciated, once again, the innate politeness of the South.

A happy ending was had by some: the boys got a ticket, the family got a load of fish, everyone got an eyeful, and we had our swim.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, we finally burst out laughing. We could see the headlines in the Shelby County Reporter: Skinny-Dipping Seniors Busted at Lay Lake.

I, for one, have learned my lesson: wait until midnight next time.