“Harold, I found the little people!”

In the middle of her 6^th grade year, my daughter decided that she wanted to join a synagogue. What 12-year old does not want to explore their ancestry? And with her mix of inquisitive Russian-Mexican genes, it had only been a matter of time. So, in the well-worn words of Harry, Duke of Sussex, “What Jesse wants, Jesse gets.” Ever the loving Jewish mother, we joined the Conservative congregation. The first time we walked down the aisle of the antiquated smaller sanctuary, I cried. It was as if we had wandered back in time 5,000 years. The history, coupled with a feeling of finding my roots, hit me hard. I had been brought up very Reformed, and it never quite filled the hole.

The Talmud teaches that the sanctity of the post-worship meal merits promising judgment in the next world. For Jesse, who wanted to be with her friends, I attended Shalosh Seudot every Saturday morning after services. Walking into a huge auditorium filled with Ashkenazi strangers was not always easy. In the wise words of Nashville’s caterer to the Jews, Goldie Shephard, I chowed down Kugel with the best of them—which wasn’t saying much, for these folks were as cliquish as their daughters, who eventually tossed my baby out like the proverbial bath water. Ah, the things we do for our daughters.

It can be challenging to live as a single mother, navigating social constructs while trying to make sense of a bizarre new world. When you are divorced, people don’t consider you any longer for social situations. And as an introvert, I hated the constant challenge of walking into a room alone. I was sitting at a half-empty 6-foot round with some of the elders of the synagogue. I gravitated to older people, perhaps a yearning for grandparents I never knew. Comfortably conversing with my senior tablemates, one asked where I was from. 

“Cleveland, Ohio,” I replied.

“O-o-o-h. we used to know some people from there. We enjoyed them but then they disappeared. We always wondered what happened to them. Harold, what was the name of those little people?’  

“Cavitch,” Harold dribbled out, in between bites of Goldie’s legendary potato kugel.

“What?”

“Cavitch.”

Well I nearly tossed my French croissant. 

They were referring to my “diminutive” parents, Zolman and Jackie, 5’4” and 5’ tall respectively. I guess that must have been when they had moved from Longboat Key to Tarpon Springs. 

“Harold, I found the little people!”

I love “small world” stories, don’t you?