I entered the hall and spotted the mother of the kallah, my neighbor. Zeroing in to her corner, I wished her mazal tov and much nachas. In a moment she was busy greeting new guests and accepting their brachos. At the table nearby was an older woman.
She was no more than four feet ten, outfitted in sensible shoes, a knitted black and white top over a black straight skirt and a light blond sheitel which ended in a gentle flip. Her eyes glistened as she leaned over to tell me in her soft melodic voice, “I have already passed 90. I came to Israel when I was five years old and I have lived here for eighty-five years now.”
I’m no youngster anymore, but 90 is a number to treat with respect. Especially when this woman was actively participating in the simcha of her granddaughter’s engagement. This was my neighbor’s mother, Bubby Yaffe, and she fascinated me.
Different married grandchildren approached to greet the matriarch of the family. They would stand close and say, “Bubby, mazal tov! This is Dini (or Tova or Bracha, or Chava).” Then Bubby would proceed to ask about each of the children in their family by name and delve into particulars that were occurring in the person’s life.
I eventually surmised that Bubby’s sight was compromised but not her memory.
During a lull in the festivities, Bubby turned to me once again radiating delight. “So much bracha. Hashem is so good. The couple should have a wonderful life together. You know, that Hashem surrounds us with good.”
Nodding in agreement I offered, “It is so true that we are showered with good. But it is our choice whether to see it or not.”
Like a bird’s wings, her hand fluttered over my arm eventually landing near my elbow. “Yes, it is up to us if we see it or not. Whether we’re happy or miserable is in how we see our lives. What do we notice? The things that surround us or the things we think we need. Our happiness or misery is up to us to choose.”
A caretaker appeared and asked if there was anything she could bring Bubby to eat or drink.
“Just my walker, please.”
As the three-wheeled apparatus was delivered Bubby positioned her hands, firmly grasping the handles and rose with dignity and determination. Maneuvering the walker toward the buffet table, she leaned over close to the food, examining the display of fruit and cakes. Purposefully she lifted a strawberry toward her and said a bracha, then shut her eyes as her mouth closed around the berry. My own mouth salivated as I watched Bubby enjoy the fruit. No mindless chewing on Hashem’s bounty while reaching for the next piece for this woman of distinction.
As Bubby glided her three-wheeler back to her seat more of her offspring drew near to wish mazal tov. Once seated Bubby continued our previous conversation.
“When I arrived in Israel, I lived in Geula. From when I can remember myself I was best friends with Ruti Pisga. Hashem sent her to make me feel welcome and part of this new country. We remained friends all through our growing up, getting married and marrying off children. She was a true friend.”
“Are you still friends?”
“She passed away a number of years ago. But I think of her a lot. The memories keep me company.
“Geula was not the same as it is now. There were so many shopkeepers that lived there. Some were religious, some not. But it was a community. We all were one. And Ruti and I would go everywhere together.”
I returned home from the engagement as the phone rang. It was my son, Yehuda.
My recounting of the evening centered largely on the bubby. When I told my son who it was his response was, “Such a special woman. Such a special lady.”
“You know her?”
“I don’t know her personally, but her husband was a famous mashgiach. She was born in Europe and was orphaned at the age of five. She was sent to live with her uncle and aunt here in Israel. They raised her as their own.
She married Rabbi Y. and they lived in Rechasim for over fifty years. He passed away about five years ago. The same week she was sitting shiva, a young avreich in another city was niftar at the age of 43. This elderly woman got up from her shiva and traveled over an hour to try and console the young widow. She wasn’t thinking of her own loss but how she could help someone else. She is a very special woman.”
I had been right. She was an unusual person. I continued to recount the details of my conversation with Bubby. When I got to the point of her friend Ruti Pisga, Yehuda laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
“Do you know who the other side of the shidduch is? It’s Ruti Pisga’s grandson! They were friends for more than eight decades and now two generations later, the two families are mechutanim! True friends to the end.”
