Opinion | A ‘Mixed’ Marriage, a Lifelong Journey
Bert and I met on June 9, 1963, fell madly in love, talked incessantly, got engaged in October and married two months later, astonished by our commonalities and delighted by our differences.
Bert and I met on June 9, 1963, fell madly in love, talked incessantly, got engaged in October and married two months later, astonished by our commonalities and delighted by our differences.
Then I saw her. Across the crowded room. Dancing alone in a red dress. It wasn’t just her beauty. It was a spirit emanating from her being. I approached her and we talked a bit. I found out her name was Rusti. Enchanting. But she was swarmed by other boys—she was beautiful, talented and smart.
Nevertheless, when I returned to my fraternity house that night, I told my brothers that I would marry her. It was love at first sight.
The man had just eaten the lunch of Jewish champions. There went my heart quandary; he embodied the simplest and best parts of being Jewish. With that one “lunch,” I realized he was the perfect Jew for me.
“Was that your friend Bill Shakespeare?” my youngest son, Alex, then six, asks after my husband, Steve, hangs up the phone.
If that seems like a crazy question from a child, it was par for the course in my household, because it was words that wooed me, words that won me, and words that keep us – the entire family – in thrall.
From the very beginning, in fact.