Labor Day Loves and a Few Big Lies

My folks used to come up from Baltimore and spend Labor Days with us. Once they came for two whole weeks. That was when Bob made a bet with me that I couldn’t go 24 hours without lying to my parents.

“I’m glad you can stay two weeks,” I said, as I hugged my mom.

Lie.

Bob whispered, “You said you could stand 5 days max! You’re lying already.”

“You didn’t say when the 24 hours started.”

“Right now.”

Actually, the lying began before I got married. Back then, when I had guts, (which meant I did courageous things without obsessing about every conceivable down side) I was teaching at Cape Cod Community College. One course was called Life After Divorce. Bob was enrolled. That’s how we met.

Later on, when we were dating, I lied to my parents about my social life. Bob isn’t Jewish. And having been raised in an Orthodox home, I wasn’t even allowed to have non-Jewish girl friends, much less suitors.

But lying used to be easy. When Bob found a carton of spoiled milk in my fridge, I said it was a Jewish tradition. “To commemorate the sour times the Jews had on their journey through the desert, we all keep rotten milk in our refrigerators.” The blue spots on the rye bread? “That’s what makes certain food kosher - the ability to grow mold. Cheese is kosher. So is zucchini. The Hebrew prophets said we should always remember - with age comes new growth.”

When Bob occasionally answered the phone, I lied to my mother saying that he was just some local guy who helped me around the house a lot, repairing things.

By the time we were engaged, I made the dreaded phone call home. “Mom,” I said, with much throat clearing and nervous sighing, “Bob and I have sort of developed a serious relationship.” When I told her we planned to marry, she laughed and said, “I knew that. Bring him home.” My mother saw right through my lying. Imagine that.

And so, it is with great humiliation that I tell you I lost the Labor Day challenge. Here’s what happened.

They had this canine mutant named BooBoo. I’m not prejudiced against small shih-tzu type yappy (whoops) dogs. But there was only one way to describe BooBoo: greasy. He always kept his paws around my calves. When I feigned tenderness as I removed him, my hands got coated with oily yuck. Plus, you can figure out how he got his name.

So when Mom asked if we’d take BooBoo when they went on their cruise, what could I say? “He’ll throw my fung shui out of whack, thus creating dis-harmony in my environment?” No. “The projectile vomiting I do when I’m around him is a dander allergy?” No. I said, “Sure. I’d love to.” And that’s when Bob shouted, “Gotcha!” which made everybody jump.

Our wedding was bittersweet. It was especially painful for my father that because of Bob’s religion we couldn’t get married in the synagogue. A makeshift alter was put together in another room and I heard banging noises from the kitchen as we said our vows.

My parents railed against modern times and aging bodies by tightening the reigns of their heritage. Grandma Perelovski’s brass candlesticks were retrieved from the basement and Friday night Sabbath was, like it used to be, brightened with prayers and a family circle. Flickering candlelight once again illuminated my parents’ faces.

As their life-shaping traditions enveloped them more, their pleasure in my happy mixed marriage grew as well. They pulled off a pretty remarkable transformation, if you ask me.

And so, before each one died, I felt great peace in knowing that my husband was “mishpocheh”, which meant family  . . .  not just in my heart, but in theirs.