WHEN I was six years old, in the first grade, I lived in Atlanta for about eight months. The night before we left Jerusalem for Atlanta, while my parents were tying up last minute loose ends, I can still remember Noa, our babysitter, putting us to bed in our tiny little box, Jerusalem home.
That was the first time I heard the story of Jack and the Beanstock. I can almost still feel a shiver up my spine when I think of it. I was terrified. We were awakened when it was still dark out. And we drove off to the airport while it was still dark. By the time we arrived at Lod Airport, it was morning.
As far as I was concerned the house in Atlanta we moved into was a palace. It was, to my Israeli apartment mentality, huge. It was a split level (three floors!), with a gigantic front and back yard.
We even had a creek at the side of the house, the gentle sound of moving whooshing water the background to our outdoor play. The street was called Holly Lane. My mothers name is Elaine. I was six. Plus, Israeli. Lane-Elaine . . . it all sounded the same to my little ears.
I thought in America that was how it worked. That when you lived on a street, it was given the name of the mother of your family. Holly Elaine.
One day my mother noticed me referring to our street as Holly Elaine. That was when she explained to me about Lanes and Streets and Avenues . . .
Just a couple weeks after we moved to Atlanta my sister Shana was born. To this day she is proud of her Southern roots and identifies with the Peach State. Indeed, she is our own southern belle.
My five-year-old sister Mimi spread the word at school that my mother had given birth to twins. I guess that was what she wished for and played the fantasy out.
Next thing we knew there were piping hot meals galore (that was how we met the adorable Lila Perry, the Atlanta babysitter) and double baby gifts at our doorstep. Blissfully unaware of the rumor Mimi spread, my parents thought to themselves . . . geez, that Southern hospitality thing is no joke.
ITS interesting, I remember Atlanta vividly. I remember grocery shopping with my family at the Piggly Wiggly. I remember long Shabbos walks to the Beth Jacob Synagogue. There was the youth minyan with lots of packaged cookies adorned with sprinkles or thick dry bubblegum pink frosting on them for kiddush.
I can picture the youth director who led our little minyan just cant think of his name.
I remember first grade at the Hebrew Academy. Mrs. Frankel and Mrs. Baron. I remember the first time, me the Israeli, finally scored 100 on an English spelling test. Mrs Baron and the entire class organized a surprise party for me in honor of that milestone. They were all cheering me on.
I remember my first grade buddies Daniel May (of blessed memory), with his adorable smile and bright carrot top red hair, who went onto become a Harvard scholar, but so sadly died a young husband and father; as well as Nechama Dina, the Chabad emissarys daughter. I think there was an Estreicher boy or two around my age as well. And the Dershowitz girls.
Mostly, though, I remember our friends. I suppose I never really had to remember them, for in those short eight months my family forged lifelong friendships with many of those Atlantans we met that year. Seriously though, that southern hospitality thing? It aint no platitude.
Rabbi Emanuel Feldman, together with his gracious wife Estelle, were the spiritual shepherds of the community. They were the true inspiration and builders of the Atlanta Jewish community. But Uncle Ben and Aunt Sonya, as this dynamo couple was known to all Uncle Ben was more like the mayor of the Atlanta Jewish community. A kind of hybrid leader-mayor, at the same time heimishe uncle to all, type of a guy.
If you are from Atlanta, ever lived in Atlanta, or were somehow connected to Atlanta, Uncle Ben means one thing to you and one thing only. No, not white instant rice. But Uncle Ben (Benny) Rabinowitz.
My family and I just found out that he passed away recently and we just cant believe it.
BEN and Sonya were the most alive people I have ever known. There was just something about their energy and enthusiasm as a pair that made you laugh, and instantly raised your mood and energy level 10 notches.
For starters, they were the funnest people around. Ever. They traveled, they ate, they explored and lived each day to its fullest. And they were always together. The newness of the honeymoon period just never wore off for them.
Ben and Sonya were like cream and sugar, peanut butter and jelly, bread and butter, mustard and ketchup. They just went together. They were like one person, one was the right and the other was the left. One soul.
They met in their youth at a Jewish summer camp and were inseparable since. Sonya hailed from the South, as she would say, in her twinkling and mischievous, high pitched southern lilt. Oh she was southern all right. I picked up a lot of little southern expressions from Sonya.
In true southern form lots of her comments were metaphors. She would pepper her conversation with them and would say them as naturally as ever. She was chock full of them: Hes fit as a fiddle! Its as hot as a blaze! She is cute as a button! Ooh . . . Prettier than a picture! Slower than molasses! Skinny as a rail! Hotter than a pistol!
Uncle Ben was a big teddy bear, with an even bigger heart. He had the Atlanta southern dialect going in his accent. And boy did he take pride in that southern twang. There, along with his devilish jokingness, was pride in his words.
But for Ben and Sonya, what came to be their true passion and love was Judaism. And especially Israel which, till Sonya died, they called home.
Tehilla [with a confident and challenging swagger in his step and voice], do you know what a pruzbol is? Uncle Ben had just returned from a Torah class and, pleased with himself, proceeded to explain the halachic matter to me in detail. I believe it was a Gemara class with Rabbi Gold, that time.
The truth is, it was hard to keep up because when Uncle Ben retired to Jerusalem he immersed himself in Torah learning and loved hopping from class to class.
He and Sonya traveled the length and breadth of the land with all their new friends.
It was hard to catch them because they were always off somewhere for a few days. They developed a true chibat haaretz, an abiding affection for the land.
But their home was always Jerusalem. I can still remember their excitement as we were approaching Jerusalem from the airport me exhausted from the flight, and they began nudging me excitedly so I wouldnt miss the verdant green sign in the grass Bruchim Habaim L Yerushalayim Welcome to Jerusalem.
They were bowled over with joy. Youd think it was their first time seeing the sign approaching Jerusalem.
They had such a love of life. It was as if everything was experienced for the first time. It was no show. They were the genuine article.
I stayed with Ben and Sonya on that trip, and I have an abundance of fond memories. With the three of us squeezed into their tiny Jerusalem apartment, it was a little adventure of fun and laughter. They were just always up for a good time.
Later, when I moved to Israel, we would bump into one another from time to time. I remember I was once with a friend visiting for a long weekend from abroad, and we all just spontaneously spent the afternoon together.
I FEEL privileged to have celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with them, together with hundreds of their friends, in Israel. It was a grand party, in Uncle Ben and Sonya typical style, infused with their by then Israeliness.
From the moment I received the invitation of Ben and Sonyas black- and-white vintage wedding portrait only this one with their current faces in place of their youthful ones I just knew I wanted to be there. And I was.
Ben and Sonya were so fully present in everything they did, and how they lived their life. They wore their hearts on their sleeves and exuded joy, love and partnership.
I only realized the extent of this after Sonya died, when Uncle Ben became so sad.
Together with my family we visited Sonya at Shaare Zedek hospital on erev Shabbos. By Sunday morning she was gone. Uncle Ben just wasnt the same after that. Leaving his Israel, too, broke his heart.
But he was back in Atlanta with his beloved children and grandchildren over whom he and Sonya always kvelled.
Who, along with the rest of us all, loved Uncle Ben so much.
Copyright © 2011 by the Intermountain Jewish News
