In the 30 years that the author and his wife have been together, he has yet to be the target of a wielded tire iron, but says marriage to a political activist does require a certain flexibility of thought and dexterity of movement.
It took eight decades, but at last I know what is meant by \”second childhood.\”
This is a report on a bar mitzvah, although you may not recognize it as such.
Say what you will about journalism as a profession, you are never unemployed. Instead, you are \”between assignments,\” a condition I found myself in during the early 1980s at the same time that The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles was preparing to launch its new Jewish Journal. The two situations dovetailed nicely, and for the first 11 years of The Journal\’s existence, I was its associate editor, until I retired in 1993.
Recently, I told some friends that I was going to accompany my younger daughter while she tried on wedding dresses. Their reactions were as follows: From the women: \”How very sweet\”; \”How lovely to bond with your daughter\”; \”I\’m sure you\’ll enjoy it.\”
From the men: \”Bring your checkbook
A few months ago, in these pages, I described a brief visit to Los Angeles to attend the wedding of my daughter, Dafna, 42, and
her fiancé, Scott, 36 (\”Father of the Bride,\” July 11). It was a first marriage for both and celebrated without benefit of clergy — Scott being Christian and Dafna, Jewish.
This drew some criticism from readers who felt that I was amiss in not discouraging my daughter from marrying a non-Jew. One, in fact, reminded me that some Jews sit shiva when such a marriage takes place and regard the offending child as dead. It seemed to me that is a bit strong. There was also a time when adulterers were stoned, but we seem to have progressed beyond that. (More to the point perhaps, how does one tell a 42-year-old daughter whom she should marry?)
n 1944, when I was 17 and a freshman at Cornell University, I introduced my mother to my new college girlfriend.
When the young lady left, my mother asked me how we met.
\”We were sitting at the same table in the cafeteria and started to talk.\”
Her eyes opened wide. \”You what? You mean you were not formally introduced?\”
Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, in the early afternoon, I visit my younger brother at his nursing home, a mile from my home in Providence, R.I.
Many years ago, when my youngest child was still a toddler, the marquee of the Valley Cities Jewish Community Center in Van Nuys sported, for a brief time, this bold announcement: \”Mother of the Month,\” followed by my name.
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