Jewish High Holy Days Inspire 5 Recollections

(photo courtesy of Kevetchingeditor.com)

During my childhood years in Forest Hills, my Jewish High Holy Days began with feasts that Grandma would warm up in the oven. She purchased enough rotisserie roast chicken, chicken soup with kreplach, stuffed derma, sweet potato tsimmes, and potato kugel to feed an army -- all from a caterer on the lower East Side. This was followed by mini-marzipan three layer cakes held together with raspberry or apricot jam and topped with dark chocolate. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, happily brought with it two days off from school, but Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement yielded just one.

My family did not belong to a synagogue. Instead we took long walks around the neighborhood and gawked at the hordes of people going in and out of synagogue. Forest Hills had several Jewish houses of worship, but by far the ritziest was the Forest Hills Jewish Center. Reportedly the doors were painted in gold leaf. In the basement was a small swimming pool. But for my grandparents, nothing signified affluence more than the number of mink stoles seen on the shoulders of women worshippers, and there was no better clientele for Orthodox Jewish furriers than the congregants at this great big synagogue on Queens Boulevard.

Jerry and I joined Temple Ohabei Shalom in Brookline, not long after Daphne was born. His parents had helped found Temple Sinai in Roslyn, New York during the late ‘40’s, and worship had been a significant part of his life. So he would chuckle when our own rabbi, a man with a sanctimonious personality, would write windy pieces in the synagogue news letter, The Tidings, saying that if people didn’t want to attend services, he’d prefer they stay home. Jerry thought if the guy were a nicer person, he’d inspire people to attend.

We chose to attend on just the High Holy Days. Daphne and I accompanied Jerry in the mornings. The temple was a beautiful building resembling a mosque, with seating capacity of 800, never needed except on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. As much as I liked hearing the sound of the cantor’s singing as we walked in, and loved hearing the part about “who shall live and who shall die” on the first holiday, followed by a lot of “we have sinned, we have transgressed, we have acted perversely,” on the second, by one o’clock I would announce that I’d had enough. Jerry would often go back for the afternoon service, especially on Yom Kippur when he fasted and I did not.

It has been many years since I’ve set foot in any house of worship, unless you count wedding chapels or the occasional funeral. But I have at least five memories of our days at Temple Ohabei Shalom:

(1) Shortly after Rabbi Emily replaced the guy who wrote those whiny columns about too few people being there to hear his brilliant sermons at Friday night services, she gave a thoughtful High Holy Day sermon. This was pre-Katrina so it was o.k. to talk about a guy on a roof-top declining help from different public safety agencies as the flood waters were about to overtake him – and all because he was waiting for G-d to help him. Whether she mentioned something about the need for modern medicine or flu shots, I don’t recall. Her point was to accept whatever help was available and be grateful.

(2) The scent of Shalimar perfume clashing with Worth’s Je Reviens could induce nausea. I won’t pretend to have multiple chemical sensitivity, but I will tell you that women, including me with my Fendi or Paco Rabanne cologne, sprayed the stuff on with so much abandon that the smell was overpowering. The High Holy Days were for seeing and being seen, and I usually opted for a new suit and high heels. (Mink stoles were no longer in fashion, except among the elderly.)

(3) Also known as the Days of Awe, the Jewish High Holy Days would attract people ordinarily too weak or feeble to attend services. An elderly man at my gym used to joke that these people came in from Florida on the Yom Kippur Clipper just for the holidays. Jerry would usually catch a few of them in his arms as they stumbled on the synagogue steps. In a similar show of kindness, he was there to help a young woman on the bimah, sparing her the embarrassment of losing her place as she read her aliyah in front of all 800 worshippers.

(4) At one point the principal of the religious school, consisting of two days from 3 to 5:30 and Sunday mornings, decreed that every child, accompanied by parents, must attend monthly Friday night Shabbat services. Despite her letter saying this would be a time of family togetherness, I found them anything but. Our own version of Friday night togetherness was my having enough time to cook rare roast beef with baked potatoes, embroidered by whatever breads and pastries Jerry would purchase as a “surprise” at the Savoy French Bakery across the street from his office.

(5) Less than two months before Jerry died at age 49, Rabbi Emily led a group of 8th graders on a “field trip” to a Jews for Jesus service at a church in Wellesley, and I went along to protect Daphne from something I felt could be menacing. Our rabbi considered this group an example of a destructive cult, and wanted the kids to understand how it worked and why this was neither Judaism not Christianity. Halfway through that service, I ran outside crying, fearful that my being at the wrong service might hamper Jerry’s very slim chances of recovering from lymphoma.

Mostly likely Dennis and I will spend the High Holy Days together at home, perhaps over a quiet dinner. For us the days will be a time of reflection, mostly about how lucky we are to have found each other after losing our first loves to cancer, and also to have kids and grandkids leading satisfying lives.