The meeting (redux)

I posted a picture of my mom and dad, the weekend they met 80 years ago next week, on this, the 8th remembrance of her passing. The picture seemed to have struck a cord with a lot of folks, so I am reposting (from my old blog) this account (approved by my mom when she read it) which was originally posted July 6 2005.

It was 1937.  July 4th weekend, Mount Freedom (New Jersey, I think). A resort of sorts. She was 16.  He was 18.

She was there with her brother and his friends as a thank-you for helping out in his office while his assistant was on vacation.

He was there with his buddies, Harold and Phil, part of an irrepressible boyhood trio that stayed friends to the end of their days.

She was watching some boys play ping-pong.  Her brother asked if she wanted to go along to watch some tennis.  "No", she said.  "I'm going to stay here and beat this boy at ping pong."

They played.  The ball bounced from side to side.  Quips and laughter also bounced between them.  The game ended.  I never learned who won.

She joined her brother for lunch.

He found his buddies.  Years later Harold told her that he pointed her out to his friends at lunch.  "Which one?", asked Harold.

"That one", he replied and pointed to her as she walked away with her brother.

"Ah," said Harold.  "The girl with the resonant buttocks."

It must have been quite a walk she had when she was young.

Later that day, she went swimming.  Suddenly, he popped up in front of her in the pool.  He'd done a stealth approach, swimming up underwater, to surprise her.  They spent the afternoon together, but he didn't show up at the dance that was held that night.  There is a picture of him with another girl he knew from that weekend.  Nearly 70 years later, she recalls that he never told her where he was that night and why he didn't come to the dance, but she suspects it had to do with the other girl.

The next morning she packed up to go home to Brighton Beach.  While her brother was checking out, she stood alone.  He came and joined her and asked if he could call her.  She gave him her phone number.  She was 16.  He was 18.  When he died, 44 years later, that scrap of paper with her phone number was still in his wallet.  "I still have it somewhere", she muses.

He did call.  And took the train forever and  a day from The Bronx to Brighton Beach.  They walked with friends along the boardwalk.  As they strolled, they met her father and uncle, coming back from their morning walk.  It was the only time he met her father.

He wrote her letters.  Beautiful letters.  A love poem that was a parody of The Raven.  She saved it for years, but then got mad at him one time and threw all his letters out.

"Are you sure you want to do that?", her younger brother asked.

"Yes!", she replied vehemently.

"You may marry him some day." her brother said.

"Never!" was her response.

Her brother retrieved the love letters from the trash and copied them in his own hand.  Sent them to the girl he would marry--who once confided to her that Her younger brother was such a good writer and a poet.  Did She know that  Her brother written a love poem based on The Raven?

She was furious.  "It was good stuff." her brother told Her.  "And you didn't want it.  Why should it go to waste?"

Their second date, they met at Cousin Ethel's house rather than him having to make the long train trip out.  And their third date, too.  After that, she knew him well enough to meet him in the city.  They dated on and off.  She went to College--Brooklyn College.  He took time off between college and starting Medical school to go to Albany.  He asked her to meet him at the train to see him off.  His whole family was there.  It was the only time she met his father.  "If I'd have known his family was going to be there, I wouldn't have gone!", she now confesses.

She was 16, he was 18.  They dated on and off, and she would get mad at him and tell him to go away.  He was too fresh.  But he always came back.  One night her aunt complained to her mother that she was sitting out on the stoop too late in the night with that boy.

"Mama," she said.  "Do you know what we were talking about?  We were discussing the dorsal dissection of a cat."

She'd send him packing.  He'd come back.  Other boys wooed her.  They didn't win her.  For, suddenly, one day, she realized she loved him dearly.  And couldn't live her life without him.  When he'd hear her tell the story, he'd smile.  He knew, you see.  He knew from that first day.  When she was 16 and he was 18.

Pictures from the Mt Freedom Weekend. She made the sundress she was wearing. He probably threw the game to talk to her some more

Rutheli Redux

For those who read my earlier post, Rutheli, about the wartime wedding of my parents, I found this picture from a scrap book of the second wedding, June 13, 1943. The reception took place at The Commodore, "New York's Best Located Hotel" on 42nd St.
You two created a family filled with love. You're gone, but your memory still brings joy. L'chiam!

RuthEli

Ah those crazy, impetuous kids, and entirely sensible kids. The wedding invitations said June 13. The dress was finished, tuxedo fitted, seating charts finalized, chuppa at the ready. A crystal glass waited to be broken. The marriage license obtained in advance, to make the religious ceremony legal, was tucked away with the groom's gear. The Rabbi had the date in his book. Even Zaydeh was remembering his youth, dreaming of dancing with a beautiful bride.

But it was June 3, 1943, and here they stood, in giddy anticipation. He'd gone to enlist in the army, and when the sergeant heard that a wedding in 10 days would change the check in that little box from single to married, he shook his head and said (paraphrased here, of course), "Look kid. Take my advice and go take your girl to city hall and get married now. Trust me. It's easier to do that than to get your marriage status changed in the army. Then come back and join up."

So, he called his girl, and explained the situation. She took an early lunch break from her job in a lab at Brooklyn College, and grabbed her younger sister Shayndyl. He grabbed the rings and his best buddy Harold. Off to City Hall they went, license in hand, rings in pocket, witnesses at their side. 

Before a New York City administrator, they promised to love and cherish each other. He pronounced them husband and wife. They kissed to seal the deal, hugged their witnesses, and thanked the official. Then he went back to join the army. She went back to work. I imagine each had a secret smile on their face.

Ten days later, they wed. I don't know if her grandfather or brother walked her down the aisle, as her papa had passed 6 years before. (She was always happy that Papa had met her Eli one day, as they walked the boardwalk at Brighton Beach, where she grew up.) But I've seen the film of the wedding reception, and know that that Zaydeh (my great grandfather) danced with his granddaughter, the first of his grandchildren to wed. It brings tears to my eyes every time.

Not so long ago, the shade of my heart (Wheel of Time reference there, for those who didn't get it) gave me a ring to replace my engagement ring, which has become perilously frail, having been worn first by my mother who gifted it to my beloved to give to me when we pledged our troth and became engaged. The new ring, a blue topaz, is slightly too big, and I've not yet resized it. I pulled two plain bands from my jewelry box to use as ring guards for my lovely ring, and alternate which I wear. The rings have been mine for only 6 years, but in my life always. They are my parent's wedding bands, which I visualize as holding the joy of their long marriage, releasing the rest.

Today, I smiled, and slipped both rings on my finger, with my own wedding band and the topaz. Reunited. Happy anniversary Mama and Daddy. Ikh hob ir lib.