On the Doorposts of All our Houses (and what went on inside) is the title of my memoir about growing up with two immigrant Jewish families. Although they lived less than a hundred miles from each other, they first met following my parents’ announcement of their elopement and marriage––performed by a gentile justice of the peace. This double whammy produced a lot of handwringing on both sides, a rabbi, and a religious ceremony as soon as it could be arranged.
My life didn’t turn out according to the family plan either. Despite the piano and tap-dancing lessons with which I was lavished, Hollywood never needed a Jewish Shirley Temple. Although I stretched every day, my legs didn’t grow long enough to become a beauty queen––or to qualify for the national search underway to find the young heroine for the movie “National Velvet,” and that’s how Elizabeth Taylor became a star. (Actually, I did marry the prince, but it doesn’t count because we didn’t live happily ever after.) Because of all these setbacks, I eventually mastered the significant skill of converting lemons to limoncello––which still comes in handy today.
“Doorposts” sprang from my memories of our family reunions. In the early days, my extended family assembled several times a year––on Jewish holidays––in my grandparents’ small apartment above their fish market. This could mean as many as fifteen people sharing one bathroom. Later, our reunions became more elaborate until they included a golf tournament, an engraved trophy, a banquet, and my personal favorite––the bargaining session to establish our handicaps, where I discovered my true talent: bickering.
(To view our complete family slide show, just click on
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