she settled down in a big law firm. Nothing her mother said would make her go to Israel. Oh no, she objected to this about the place and that.
Rivka and I were very disappointed.
My Brendan was also in his twenties: fair-haired, leisurely and, I thought, very handsome.
He was almost qualified as an engineer but before his career began properly he would take a long holiday in Italy.
How Rivka and I would have liked them to go to the Negev Desert, to "our" kibbutz. They could have checked whether the gladioli farm had ever come to anything and what kind of women Shimon and Dov had married in the end. They could have fallen in love with each other, Brendan and Lida, against the romantic backdrop of those red cliffs and valleys. They would marry and give us three grandchildren, which Rivka and I could share. The young couple and their family would live six months of the year in America and six months in Ireland.
Well, stranger things have happened, you know. Like both our own mothers turning out to be quite reasonable in late middle age, people you could talk to, not automatically lie to. That had never been in the cards.
And though we sometimes sighed wistfully when we heard the radio play tunes for couples whose thirtieth wedding anniversary it was or saw a big celebration in a hotel, mainly we were fairly contented with the way things had turned out for us.
We were fiftyish, trimmer and better-dressed than when we were twenty-five and not too bad-looking. If we were to put ourselves out in the marriage market again we might not do too badly. But we didn't need to, we each had jobs we enjoyed, we each had a child we adored and for decades we had shared a friendship with no secrets, no disguises and the wisdom to know that such a great friendship was rare.
I remember reading once that your enjoyment of something doubled if you realized how lucky you were to have it. If everyone had a huge diamond on their finger, or if sunsets were universally scarlet and gold, then we wouldn't value them at all. It was like that with us.
Rivka
I sometimes give little talks, nothing too demanding, but you know the kind of thing—either for charity or to get publicity for Max's company. Or both, even. Anyway I have learned over the years that there are two subjects that never fail to hold an audience. One is how to drop five pounds painlessly before your vacation, and the other is the positive power of friendship.
The five pounds one is easy, it's got to do with having exotic fruits for breakfast and supper, mangoes, papayas and the like. And small portions of grilled fish or chicken for lunch. I sort of intersperse it with funny stories about times things went wrong, and I ate a box of chocolate-chip cookies or a tub of ice cream. They love that.
But they love even more my stories about my great friend Malka. I call her that, even though her real name is Maureen. I tell them how we met on a kibbutz and remained friends for a lifetime, and how love could come and go but friendship survived. That friendship was better than love in a way, it was more generous. You didn't object if your friend had other friends, you even encouraged it. But you did object violently to your love having other loves and did everything possible to discourage it.
I could see the audience nodding in recognition.
I always smiled when I talked about Malka.
We had great times together after that chance meeting on a kibbutz. My mom thought she was a nice Jewish girl and didn't realize that she came from a town of crazy Catholics who all worshipped some well in the middle of the woods. I mean, if you only saw it. Cherish friendship, I advised them, and then I gave them the hard sell about going on vacation with a friend rather than a spouse.
If your spouse didn't want to visit art exhibits, go shopping and sit in a piazza or a square watching strangers and making up stories
Rivka and I were very disappointed.
My Brendan was also in his twenties: fair-haired, leisurely and, I thought, very handsome.
He was almost qualified as an engineer but before his career began properly he would take a long holiday in Italy.
How Rivka and I would have liked them to go to the Negev Desert, to "our" kibbutz. They could have checked whether the gladioli farm had ever come to anything and what kind of women Shimon and Dov had married in the end. They could have fallen in love with each other, Brendan and Lida, against the romantic backdrop of those red cliffs and valleys. They would marry and give us three grandchildren, which Rivka and I could share. The young couple and their family would live six months of the year in America and six months in Ireland.
Well, stranger things have happened, you know. Like both our own mothers turning out to be quite reasonable in late middle age, people you could talk to, not automatically lie to. That had never been in the cards.
And though we sometimes sighed wistfully when we heard the radio play tunes for couples whose thirtieth wedding anniversary it was or saw a big celebration in a hotel, mainly we were fairly contented with the way things had turned out for us.
We were fiftyish, trimmer and better-dressed than when we were twenty-five and not too bad-looking. If we were to put ourselves out in the marriage market again we might not do too badly. But we didn't need to, we each had jobs we enjoyed, we each had a child we adored and for decades we had shared a friendship with no secrets, no disguises and the wisdom to know that such a great friendship was rare.
I remember reading once that your enjoyment of something doubled if you realized how lucky you were to have it. If everyone had a huge diamond on their finger, or if sunsets were universally scarlet and gold, then we wouldn't value them at all. It was like that with us.
Rivka
I sometimes give little talks, nothing too demanding, but you know the kind of thing—either for charity or to get publicity for Max's company. Or both, even. Anyway I have learned over the years that there are two subjects that never fail to hold an audience. One is how to drop five pounds painlessly before your vacation, and the other is the positive power of friendship.
The five pounds one is easy, it's got to do with having exotic fruits for breakfast and supper, mangoes, papayas and the like. And small portions of grilled fish or chicken for lunch. I sort of intersperse it with funny stories about times things went wrong, and I ate a box of chocolate-chip cookies or a tub of ice cream. They love that.
But they love even more my stories about my great friend Malka. I call her that, even though her real name is Maureen. I tell them how we met on a kibbutz and remained friends for a lifetime, and how love could come and go but friendship survived. That friendship was better than love in a way, it was more generous. You didn't object if your friend had other friends, you even encouraged it. But you did object violently to your love having other loves and did everything possible to discourage it.
I could see the audience nodding in recognition.
I always smiled when I talked about Malka.
We had great times together after that chance meeting on a kibbutz. My mom thought she was a nice Jewish girl and didn't realize that she came from a town of crazy Catholics who all worshipped some well in the middle of the woods. I mean, if you only saw it. Cherish friendship, I advised them, and then I gave them the hard sell about going on vacation with a friend rather than a spouse.
If your spouse didn't want to visit art exhibits, go shopping and sit in a piazza or a square watching strangers and making up stories
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