In the 30 years that the author and his wife have been together, he has yet to be the target of a wielded tire iron, but says marriage to a political activist does require a certain flexibility of thought and dexterity of movement.
It took eight decades, but at last I know what is meant by "second childhood."
This is a report on a bar mitzvah, although you may not recognize it as such.
Say what you will about journalism as a profession, you are never unemployed. Instead, you are "between assignments," a condition I found myself in during the early 1980s at the same time that The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles was preparing to launch its new Jewish Journal. The two situations dovetailed nicely, and for the first 11 years of The Journal's existence, I was its associate editor, until I retired in 1993.
Recently, I told some friends that I was going to accompany my younger daughter while she tried on wedding dresses. Their reactions were as follows: From the women: "How very sweet"; "How lovely to bond with your daughter"; "I'm sure you'll enjoy it."
From the men: "Bring your checkbook
A few months ago, in these pages, I described a brief visit to Los Angeles to attend the wedding of my daughter, Dafna, 42, and
her fiancé, Scott, 36 ("Father of the Bride," July 11). It was a first marriage for both and celebrated without benefit of clergy -- Scott being Christian and Dafna, Jewish.
This drew some criticism from readers who felt that I was amiss in not discouraging my daughter from marrying a non-Jew. One, in fact, reminded me that some Jews sit shiva when such a marriage takes place and regard the offending child as dead. It seemed to me that is a bit strong. There was also a time when adulterers were stoned, but we seem to have progressed beyond that. (More to the point perhaps, how does one tell a 42-year-old daughter whom she should marry?)
Other than paying his share of the bills, the father of the bride has two principal responsibilities when his daughter marries.
n 1944, when I was 17 and a freshman at Cornell University, I introduced my mother to my new college girlfriend.
When the young lady left, my mother asked me how we met.
"We were sitting at the same table in the cafeteria and started to talk."
Her eyes opened wide. "You what? You mean you were not formally introduced?"
Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, in the early afternoon, I visit my younger brother at his nursing home, a mile from my home in Providence, R.I.
Many years ago, when my youngest child was still a toddler, the marquee of the Valley Cities Jewish Community Center in Van Nuys sported, for a brief time, this bold announcement: "Mother of the Month," followed by my name.
I have been asked by the Hillel Foundation at Dartmouth College to meet with them on the occasion of Israel's 54th birthday. There aren't too many of us still around who were there at its birth, and they would like to hear, from the perspective of a participant, what made it possible for the Jewish state to survive while the Palestinian state, also created by the United Nations, crashed in flames.
I have a recurring nightmare, one which I am certain is shared by many Elderhostel instructors.
Dear Mr. Prime Minister;
By now you have certainly received thousands of congratulatory messages celebrating the good news that you and your wife, Cherie, are expecting a baby next summer.
Thirty or so members of Generation X and I are taking a course at Brandeis University titled Politics and the Media.
Sooner or later, inevitably if uncomfortably, anyone who is concerned about Israel's future has to come to terms with the future of Jerusalem.
My brother, who at 70 is younger than me by two years, has a world-class collection of the mysteries of Agatha Christie and a complete set of the novels of Anthony Trollope. They are being joined, gradually, by the Greek historians and Galsworthy's Forsythe Saga.
By the time you read these words, the death of Joe DiMaggio will be old news.
My mother, whose family came from Lithuania, used to claim of my father's family, which migrated from Galicia, that in the Old Country they had earned their living as horse thieves.
Jonathan Tobin edits a Jewish newspaper inConnecticut, and his editorial opinions occasionally appear in TheJewish Journal. One such effort, "Distinguishing Fact from FictionIsn't Getting Easier," was published on Jan. 23. Herewith some factto counter Tobin's fiction.
Fifty years ago this week, on Nov. 29, 1947, the General Assembly ofthe United Nations voted to partition British-held Palestine into aJewish state, an Arab state, and a corpus separatum, comprisingJerusalem and Bethlehem, to remain under the control of the UnitedNations.
I visited Los Angeles recently and learned thattwo of those dialogues, in which I had been active, had expiredwithout ceremony. The Cousin's Club, which survived eight years oftension, argument and even, on occasion, genuine dialogue, was nomore. And the Arab-Jewish Speakers Bureau, born of the famoushandshake joining Rabin and Arafat in the White House Rose Garden,has likewise departed from the scene.
It has taken me 49 years of Israel-watching to find the answer to a question that puzzles us all, and I am pleased to inform you that the search has ended.