The Salad Bowl
Soon after my engagement, a very elegant,
conceited, self-righteous relative of my parents
came to the house, and brought me a
beautiful, highly polished, wooden salad
bowl. The manner in which she presented it to me said,
“I know you won’t know what to do with this, but I’m
giving it to you anyway.”
I duly admired it, told her how beautiful it was, and
how much I appreciated it, and thanked her profusely.
But she wasn’t finished. She said, “You can buy
some magazines to show you how to use it.”
Just then, my chasan came to visit. She showed him
the bowl and condescendingly asked, “Do you know
what this is for?”
He said, “Of course. It’s a shissel tzu hocken fish.” (A
chopping bowl for making gefilte fish.)
I was thrilled that he had unwittingly taken her
down a few pegs.
Wilmington
This is a story that my husband used to tell.
“The rabbi of a shul in Wilmington, Delaware
was going to be away for a Shabbos
in the middle of the winter, to attend his
sister’s wedding. So he contacted his yeshivah and
asked them to send someone to speak in his stead for
that Friday night.
“Although I was only nineteen at the time, the
yeshivah sent me. This was my first experience in an
‘out-of-town’ community for Shabbos.
“They gave me the address of the home in which I
was going to be sleeping. When I got there I found an
old Yiddish-speaking couple. Before I left to go to shul,
the woman gave me a key to the house. I asked her ‘Is
there a place where I can hide it outside of the house?
There is no eiruv here.’ She smiled sweetly and answered
in Yiddish, ‘Just put it in your pocket, no one
will find it there.’
“I looked around outside and found a place for it.
“When I got to the shul, I found a bare minyan of
old men. I can honestly say, the davening on Tishah
B’Av was more cheerful. I wondered why these few people
needed a speaker.
“After the davening, I went to the old-age home
where I had been told to go, because that was the most
kosher place to eat. Once there, I was given a bowl of
corn flakes and milk. I asked for - and somehow they
found - two little rolls, over which I could make
Kiddush and Hamotzi.
“When I finished eating this ‘Shabbos seudah,’ I
walked back to the shul with tears in my eyes. What
had I gotten myself into? It was cold outside, and even
colder in my heart.
“This time the shul was filled with men and women,
elegantly dressed, who had come for a mini-service. I
gave a drasha and my job was done. There was a chazan
who conducted the rest of the ‘service.’
“When that was over, everyone was invited downstairs
to the social hall for an ‘oneg Shabbos’ of tea and
cake.
“The next morning, I went back to shul, and again
there was the same bare minyan of older men. The
davening of Pesukei D’zimrah was very cold and dry.
“Just before Shochein ad, the door to the shul suddenly
burst open and in walked my classmate Shmuel,
with his eight brothers and their father. The father’s
beard was full of icicles. They had trudged about a mile
across the snow-covered city, because Shmuel had told
them I was there, and they had felt sorry for me. The father
went over to the amud and davened in a full, beautiful
voice.
“After davening, they took me home with them for
the rest of Shabbos.
“At the beginning of the Second World War, the father
had brought some relatives to America, as refugees
from Europe, and had helped them establish homes in
Delaware. We stopped to make Kiddush in the house
of the relative closest to the shul. There I had a special
treat - petcha. After that, every few blocks, we stopped
off at their various relatives to warm up.
“At home, we had a wonderful Shabbos seudah, with
singing and divrei Torah. After the meal I was a given a
bed in a room next to the father’s beautiful, wood-paneled
study. When I woke up, I heard the sound of
the father learning - it was music to my ears.
“I’ll never forgot the chessed of my friend Shmuel and
his family who restored that Shabbos for me.”
And he never did. He repeated the story many times
during the rest of his life.
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