I called the Sunday summer pool parties held by my Holocaust survivor parents and their friends “Greener Acres” after the hit television comedy show “Green Acres” about a Hungarian accented city socialite transplanted by her rural-loving husband to a… farm.
Not one of the Greeners (from the term for a recent immigrant, “Greenhorn”) seemed to mind.
In fact, they laughed and laughed!
They understood the irony of Polish (mostly) survivors belonging to an exclusive “private club” in bucolic Bergen County, New Jersey.
Every Sunday for about nine weeks, weather permitting, about thirty Yiddish-speaking friends gathered at the Englewood, New Jersey pool home of Teddy and Marilyn (what else?) Greenbaum.
Teddy was a survivor. Marilyn was American-born but chose to surround herself with survivors and by osmosis became one as well.
Most of my parents’ friends did not have a single relative left in the world after the war and so they formed new families and attachments.
When one family moved to a neighborhood, sooner or later, another family joined them. After a while, they had homes in Teaneck, Englewood Cliffs, Fair Lawn and Ft. Lee. The men were all self-employed. They created sweaters, toys and, in my father’s case, furniture businesses.
They were close to each other and, by extension, we, their children, were close as well.
The best Yiddish speaker of my generation was my friend, Pearl.
I don’t know how she did, but she could do Polish-Yiddish dialects.
Her mother, all 4’10” of her (her bouffant hair raised her height to about 5’3”), was excruciatingly funny as well, so I suppose Pearl inherited her humor from her. They both had a Jack Benny sort of sardonic, pitch-perfect open-eyed, exquisitely timed sense of humor.
I spoke Yiddish (or so I thought), but Pearl put me to shame. I remained silent when she spoke.
The Greener was a raucous and life affirming group. They brought the party with them, wherever they went.
Each woman would bring a covered dish containing a delicacy. My mother’s specialty was stuffed cabbage. People literally craved my mother’s cabbage rolls, which were called “holepshes.” She was Romanian, one of the few non-Polish people in the group. Apparently there was a difference between Polish and Romanian stuffed cabbage. To make things even more complicated, most of the Greeners were Galitzianers (from southeast Poland) whose stuffed cabbage was even more distinct from Romanian stuffed cabbage. Nevertheless, everyone treated my mother (and her food!) with affection and, in retrospect, some distance. The Polish Jews (to my young eyes) could be quick-witted and blunt. My mother had not been raised in the competitive world of Polish Jewry but in an isolated hamlet of the Carpathanians. I think they saw an Old World modesty and gentleness in my mother that they knew they would never see again.
We ate and ate, then ate some more. We frolicked in the blue water.
Teddy was a talented photographer and took many pictures of “the festivities” which he hung on the walls of his home.
There was much laughter at Greener Acres.
As the afternoon wore on, the card games began.
My dad, ever the serious stoic, thought gambling was a waste of time, but everyone else (with the exception of my mother who sat and spoke with Marilyn) played cards.
They loved the company, the camaraderie and would stay until darkness fell.
In years to come, after many of the members of Greener Aces had passed away, my aunt told me something of which I had been unaware. She said that money had been collected each week at the pool party and at the end of the summer, the funds were used to purchase an ambulance for Magen David Adom.