As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in Dallas, Texas in the 1950’s. Not only was I a transplanted Yankee; I was also a Lutheran. A Papist among the Baptists and Methodists! Lutherans, Catholics, and Episcopalians were all pretty scarce commodities in Texas in those days. Surprisingly though, there was a fairly large Jewish population in Dallas. Now my maiden name was Waldman, a good German Lutheran sort of name. There were lots of Waldman’s of Jewish ancestry in Dallas, and they were all cousins and somehow related to one another. Every time I met another Waldman, I was always asked if I were related to one family or another. Our standing joke became that I was their adopted cousin. I wonder what old Martin Luther would have thought about that one. I suspect he would have approved.
Our next door neighbors on Willow Brook Road were a mixed couple. He was Catholic, and she was Jewish, although neither was overly religious. Being a mixed family, they celebrated both Christmas and Hanukkah. I was always somewhat jealous—more presents. They always had one or two Christmas trees in their house along with the Menorah for the Hanukkah. Presents, presents, presents!
Their son, Ricky, was the same one that my sister and I used to pelt with little horse manure missiles until he cried. In retrospect, probably not a very nice thing to do, but it seemed very appropriate at the time. He was the dreaded smart-aleck and tattletale, so with the code of justice of little kids, we determined that he deserved it. Ricky’s mother, Sylvia, was the prototype Jewish Mother. Her son, Ricky could do no wrong, and oh did he know it! That may have been a contributing factor to our rather obnoxious behavior that I mentioned above. A bleached blond, somewhat on the plump side, she had the proverbial heart of gold. She also had a hot temper and a very colorful Yiddish vocabulary, and I learned many a phrase that a little kid should probably not be using, at least not in polite company. I also learned to appreciate a lot of very yummy Jewish foods, although I never developed a taste for gefilte fish or the doughy matzoh balls!
Sylvia’s brother was a very prominent Dallas attorney who lived in Highland Park, a much more hoity-toity part of Dallas than our quasi rural area. He had a daughter about my age. In the strange ways of parents and adult friends, I was sent a couple of times to spend the night at their house. Maybe they thought I needed to broaden my horizons a bit or that their wealth might somehow rub off on me. Alas, I don’t recall her name, but I did enjoy those visits. They lived in a two-story, red brick, colonial style house. She had her own beautifully decorated bedroom with carpeted floors, twin beds with fancy bedspreads, and matching lamps. I suspect these visits may have just imbued me with a little pre-adolescent class envy! My wooden floors, space heater, and occasional scorpion just didn’t quite measure up! We never became the best friends that some of the well-meaning adults may have hoped for, but the visits were a nice diversion.
I attended numerous Bar Mitzvahs and Bat Mitzvahs for my Jewish friends, and in the summer months I also often attended that iconic tradition of the Southern Baptists, Vacation Bible School, with various friends where we sang songs, learned Bible verses, and did little crafts. My Lutheran upbringing was far more traditional and liturgical. In 8th and 9th grades, we had the dreaded Confirmation Classes every Saturday morning for two or three hours. Week in and week out we studied the Catechism, scripture, and various aspects of the church and church history, and woe be unto you if you didn’t do your weekly homework!
My parents were not great churchgoers themselves but faithfully dropped us off on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I don’t know what they did while we went to Sunday School, Church, and Confirmation Class; I suspect they had a quiet cup of coffee somewhere or went to breakfast without us! All in all, I had a very ecumenical sort of childhood.
©The Eclectic Grandma, 2016
