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I grew up in a little town in New Jersey called Hammonton, which is known for blueberries — and for being the most Italian town in the country. There was a small synagogue — ninety seats. At its peak, the Jewish community in Hammonton was about twenty-four families. When my family moved there, in 1965, it was maybe eighteen.
By the time I started Hebrew School — and we did have Hebrew School, one weekend a month — it was down to twelve to sixteen, depending on the year. And as the kids older than me went on to become bar mitzvah, the class shrank and shrank. So it was kind of a tough place to grow up. Most of the people I knew didn’t know many Jews. It was strange.
We weren’t especially religious. The synagogue was a strange combination of Conservative and extremely Ashkenazic traditional. There were lots of heavy Eastern European accents like my grandfather’s. There was also a sense of dwindling — of an aging community holding on.
By the time I was twelve, when I started studying for my bar mitzvah, my grandfathers — the two of them — sat me down and explained, “You’re a levy That means more than getting the second aliyah.” They said, “there are responsibilities.”
And they opened up Leviticus and said, “Here’s the book. Here’s what you have to do.” They explained what they had done.
My mother’s father had been a member at the synagogue in Atlantic City since he moved there in the early 1920s, and he had been active in the men’s club, served on the board, done all sorts of things. My mother’s father was one of the founders at Temple Beth El on Roosevelt Boulevard in Philadelphia.
And they said, “This is what you have to do.”
So, okay, I had to.
My father was a dentist, and he worked on Saturday mornings most of the time — unless someone needed to have a minyan. In that case, we packed off to the synagogue on Saturday morning so somebody could say Kaddish.
Normally, we went fishing. But on the weekends when fishing didn’t happen, it was because somebody needed to say Kaddish, and we had to make sure they could. You go and make sure they’re there. You go, and you make sure they’re counted.
This was before women counted, so that also contributed.
One other piece of information about the synagogue: I said there were ninety seats. There was one seat in the back of the sanctuary where an old man sat. His name was Jack. Unti I was about ten, I thought he knew one word — and that word was “Shah!” (“Be quiet.”).
He had a very stern face. His hands were twisted with terrible arthritis, like bags of walnuts. He walked with a cane and shuffled when he moved.
He was always there. Always. Every single week, Jack was in that seat.
And it was on the occasion of my bar mitzvah that Jack sat in the back of the room as usual. Afterwards, when I came down the stairs, finally walking down with his cane, grabbed me by the hands — and for the first time, I ever saw him smile.
I didn’t think he could smile.
He said, “My friend, congratulations. You’re a man now. You have responsibilities. Come and attend services.”
In my house, my grandfather, my father, and I were now three. The next year, my brother had his bar mitzvah — so now we were four. That got to be really important, because by the time I was fifteen, getting ten men for the start of the service was a challenge. But we made sure we were there.
Then, years later, I met Leslie. I got fixed up with Leslie — and it worked. The first time, not so much; the second time, it happened!
And I got to know her family. Peter and Caroline Piven were already very involved here in the synagogue. Peter was then president — or just about to become president — and Caroline was on the Education Committee, they were very involved.
They did what you’re supposed to do: they showed up and helped run things. Peter is a mensch — if something has to happen, he makes sure it happens.
I first met this congregation on the occasion of my 27th birthday party, which happened to coincide with Peter’s 50th birthday party. We share a birthday. So does Walter Ferst, he’s part of the trio — well, that’s when I met Bob and Terri, and a number of other members of the congregation.
Many of those people welcomed me in, and over the years, I’ve come to know others in the same way.
And you know what it takes to be here? You just show up. You do your thing.
That’s why I don’t think there’s anything exceptional about me — at least, not any more than anyone else here. Because I’m just doing what all these other people do: they show up.
Ric, Carmen, Jay, all the people Leslie and I have grown up here with — you show up. You don’t have to do big things. Just be here. Be part of the group.
That’s what I’ve always tried to do — that’s how I got here, and that’s how I hope to keep showing up.
And my daughter is following along — she’s doing what has to be done, too.
Thank you.
