My Book of Ruth
Reflections of a Jewish Girl - a memoir in 36 essays
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
I was ten years old in l938. My friends were going off to the Y sleep-away camp and I told Ma I wanted to go with them.
“People like us don’t go to camp,” she declared.
“But Winnie is going, and so are The Twins,” I protested.
“Their fathers are business people,” she explained.
“Vera’s father works for the post office.”
“He’ll have a pension.”
“If we can’t afford to pay, the lady at the Y said we won’t have to.”
“If we can’t afford to pay, we stay home.”
I never got to sleep-away camp—not that year, or any other.
“People like us don’t go to camp.” Those words rattled around in my head. There were so many things people like us didn’t do.
My father sold fish in Uncle Benny’s store. He earned just enough money to pay the rent for our three-room apartment and to buy food for the delicious meals my mother cooked up. I knew that beneath her stern exterior lay her fears: my mattress would be infected with fleas; I would drown in the lake; I’d be prey to bears and wolves, maybe even tigers. Worse yet, I would contract polio. Look what happened to Grandpa.
My zayde, a virile immigrant in New York, ready to conquer the world, had indeed succumbed to polio. Paralyzed and unable to walk, he came to live with us when I was fourteen. “Where will you put him?” everyone asked. Ma stretched the walls of our tiny apartment—created a dormitory in our one bedroom for him, my father, and my brother, while she and I became roommates in the living room. I watched her scrub her papa’s soiled underwear, bring his favorite foods into the bedroom, and help him to the bathroom—the only walk he ever took. But she never complained. People like us honored our mothers and our fathers. I thought that’s what all families did for each other.
People like us didn’t go to camp. But did they play the piano? Seated around the table at a Passover seder, Uncle Benny announced that his neighbors were selling their old upright mahogany piano. I thought everyone in the room could hear my heart thumping. Would this be the answer to my not-so-secret dream, taking lessons and learning to play?
“Ma, please, can we buy that piano?” I pleaded.
“People like us don’t buy pianos,” she answered, not unexpectedly. Uncle Benny offered to pay half of the awesome price of fifty dollars. I glanced at Ma’s expressionless face, daring to hope. Ma asked about piano lessons and music books. And where would she put a piano anyway? How far could walls stretch?
Ma was proud. People like us don’t go to camp. People like us don’t buy pianos. Yet, there were little collection cans strewn around the kitchen in which we deposited pennies, nickels, and dimes for the orphans, the sick, and the elderly. People like us gave to charity. We were not recipients.
I grew up knowing what people like us did and didn’t do. I knew it was the family expectation that when I finished high school, I’d quit my part-time job as a stock clerk, become a secretary, and contribute my salary toward household expenses. That’s what people like us did in the Bronx in 1945, when very few high school graduates went on to college. But as graduation day drew closer, and I saw some of my friends preparing to go to Hunter or to City, both tuition-free city universities, I dared to envision myself a co-ed, in saddle shoes and Chesterfield coat. Once again, I confronted my mother.
“Winnie and The Twins are going to City College,” I began. “I want to go too. If I enroll as an evening student, I can work during the day and….” My mother, shaking her head, didn’t let me finish. My stomach flip-flopped. I knew what was coming next.
“You know what will happen if you go to school at night for years and years, after working all day?” she asked. “You’ll be worn out and discouraged. You’ll never graduate and you’ll be a drop-out.” Then she added, “Go to college fulltime, during the day, and continue working part-time.”
“But, but,” I sputtered, “what about my secretary’s salary? I only earn fifty cents an hour working at Klein’s.”
“If you pay for your books, clothes, and carfare, we’ll manage without your salary. And I’ll pack you a lunch every day.” I was overwhelmed. Imagine—people like us going to college—full-time, during the day!
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
Ruth Lehrer's memoir in thirty-six essays is a compelling contemplation about her life as a secular American Jewish woman. With humor and passion, she tells of her family's arrival in America in 1920, her Yiddishe Mama, Catskill vacations, Bar Mitzvahs, Christmas trees, war and peace, religion, God, and politics. She delights in books, theatre, and film with Jewish content, and laughs loudest at jokes told in Yiddish. When she hears of a crime, she prays that the perpetrator is not Jewish. A Judaica gift shop is her favorite place to browse.
“Religion-lite may be hypocritical,” Ruth writes, “but what we need to be worried about is religion-heavy.” She still wears her 1960’s pendant trumpeting “War is not healthy for children and other living things.” Jewish Mother jokes, a sure-fire winner in a comedian’s arsenal, are stereotypical and exaggerated. But for her, they contain more than a nugget of truth. Her big regret is not speaking Yiddish with her sons.
About the Author
Ruth Lehrer began writing personal essays after she retired from her elementary school classroom in 1984. Some have appeared in Newsday, The New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Hadassah, Jewish Currents, The Reporter, Gluten-Free Living, and in the anthologies Mother of the Groom, Women Celebrate, and Chicken Soup for the Mom's Soul. Ruth has been married to Arthur for sixty years. They live in Queens, New York.