Mix Well and Shake

Some people are naturally adept at public relations, others at private ones.  My cousin Linda belongs in the latter category.  But she needed every item in her arsenal once she announced her engagement to Lou.  For Lou was as devoutly Catholic as Linda was Jewish, and their families' predictions of doom and gloom filled the air.  Undiscouraged, the young couple eloped anyway.  Linda's faith in her secret weapon was unabashedly boundless.

We had an opportunity to see it at work shortly after the wedding.  On a visit home Linda and Lou dropped in at our house first‑-and, typically, without warning.  In her hand Linda carried a huge laundry bag.  "I've come to see you and your machine," she announced, heading for my laundry with her customary aplomb.  Lou stared after her, shaking his head.  The dazed look of the early bridegroom was still on him.

When their clothes had emerged from our dryer, Linda held Lou's jeans against her waist.  His pant legs stopped three inches above her ankles; although both of them were 5'8", Linda's legs were longer.

"The jeans shrank," complained Lou.

"They did not," she countered.  "You did."

A stricken look passed over Lou, and we watched dismayed.  He didn't like his wife being as tall as he.  Knowing this, Linda had determined to lay that ghost once and for all.  Assuming a maternal look, she poured out her advice in baby talk: "Just stand up on your tippy-toes and kiss me."

With his burst of laughter, Lou's doubts were exorcised.  But Linda had known they would be; mirth, she'd always maintained, slew every dragon.

She went after the demons that haunt mixed marriages with the same astonishing weapon.  Barely an hour passed that she didn't refer to her husband as "you delightful dago, you" or "my glorious guinea wop."  Lou, who was becoming used to this, was far less taken aback than we, her other listeners.  He in turn would call her a kissable kike or a meshuggeneh (crazy) sheeny.  By the end of their visit, we'd stopped wincing too.  Our smiles were proof that her system worked on everyone.

Linda and Lou each wore bracelets with both a Star of David and a crucifix; each went to the other's house of worship on Holy Days.  But the children, they'd agreed, would be brought up Catholic.  Thus when we arrived at their house one June morning and wondered where Donna, their four-year-old was, we were surprised at their answer.

"Donna goes to the Baptist Bible School every morning.  It gives us time to be alone."

We stared at them bewilderedly.

"It's the only place that takes kids that young," Linda offered.

"And we need that time for prayer," added Lou.

"For prayer?" we echoed.

"Yes," he explained.  "We pray neither set of grandparents finds out."

We visited them again the following year, having made the trip this second time to attend the wedding of Judy, Linda's younger sister.  Recalling her parents' consternation at Linda's marriage to a Catholic, Judy was determined not to repeat the situation: she married a Protestant instead.  And rather than elope, she insisted on being married by a rabbi, with a gala affair to follow the ceremony.  Linda was to be the matron of honor, and Donna, now five, was to be the flower girl.

She was adorable scattering rose petals on her way to the chupah, the canopy under which Jewish brides wed.  Reaching this, she genuflected, crossing herself.  I could see Linda's desperation as she grimly motioned her daughter up, muttering between clenched teeth, "Up, Donna!  Donna, get up!"  Hastily I averted my eyes‑-I didn't want to be the only one laughing at a ceremony traditionally connected with tears.

Married, Judy and her groom moved swiftly back up the aisle, followed by Linda and the best man.  Bringing up the rear was the rabbi, with a very firm hold on Donna's hand.  Considering the expression on Donna's face, it was clear she viewed her own promenade as a triumph superior to the bride's.  "Mommy!" she shrilled, when she caught up with Linda at the door.  "Did you see me walk with the priest?  Did you see him hold my hand?"

Linda scooped her five-year-old up and thrust Donna at me.  "Entertain her," she commanded and vanished through the door.

Not at all sure at which of us Linda's injunction had been directed, I nuzzled the child.  As the older one, I finally decided the responsibility was mine.

"Listen, bedbug," I started, "that wasn't a priest.  That was a rabbi."

Donna's face fell.  "What's the difference?" she asked, dismayed but curious.

I have rash moments, yes, but I'm not so foolhardy as to explain the difference between Catholicism and Judaism to anyone‑-least of all to a five-year-old girl.  Still, I didn't want to discourage her from asking intelligent questions.  Hastily I explained that rabbis could get married but priests couldn't.

Incredibly, Donna's face was joyous again.  Nuzzling back, she confided to me, "Then I'm going to marry a rabbi instead."

And may she be as happy as her parents if she does.