A Southern simcha

By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF

The invitation in all respects was normal; event, location, time. True, this simcha was a hundred miles away, in Birmingham, and even worse, the Mapquest directions would have instilled fear in the heart of Christopher Columbus, Magellan, and Vasco De Gama.

Turn left at the large tree with the purple leaves, follow the right split at the convenience store, go left at the bottom of the hill, stay right at the church. Which church? Which hill? Which convenience store? Which tree – the sycamore or the oak?

But given my Boy Scout and Army experience, I was not dismayed. No way would I miss this heart-ringing celebration – a baby naming – a glorious, radiant child birthed by my first Bat Mitzvah student of 25 years ago. A normally rebellious colt civilized by Judaism, the passage of time, and a slight application of discipline by her parents. Twelve year old girls have a long list of interests beginning with boys and ending with soccer – all preceding Haftorah.

But this child occupied a special place in my heart; and “do a semi-circle avoiding the Burger King’s plate glass front, then an 80-degree turn facing the big office building” was not going to stop this ex-Boy Scout with a merit badge in Map Reading.

So, my wife – map on her lap and pessimism in her heart because she knew, Boy Scout or not, that I once got lost in our living room when she rearranged the furniture – and I cruised down I-65 to Birmingham.

I was anxious to see the clever little girl I had once tutored.  And I was flattered that the passage of time had not destroyed sweet memories of our joint year of learning Torah, Haftorah, and blessings. Twenty-five years and she still remembered her old Bat Mitzvah teacher.  Life should be full of such blessings – far better than money.  A rare flash of light over thirty years of prodding, pushing – you could say shoving – kids to the “Light of Zion” as Isaiah might have put it.

Once off the Interstate “take the exit after the two hills separated by a brook with yellow pebbles”.  No, I exaggerate.  The exit was numbered as she said.  And my wife watched with wonder in her eyes as this ex-Scout, after twelve turns and only three stops for advice, pulled up at the front door of the only house on the block with a new baby and a table full of delicacies and beverages.

Being an ex-Army man, I did NOT cry as my ex-student – now mother – hugged me.  Misty, but not sobbing, I hugged her back. Rabbi Goldsmith of Congregation Beth El presided over a beautiful ceremony wherein the  young honoree was named Leah Rina bat Daniela – English, London Riley Pigott.  (I suggested “Broil” as her middle name, but was booed down.)  Then like good Jews from around the world we plundered a groaning table of bagels, lox, cream cheese naturally; plus nibbles from the four corners of the earth.

My cup runneth over, I thought.  But not yet, because the Bat Mitzvah girl honored me by requesting my signature on the naming certificate. Again, I showed my strength by a firm nod and a shaky signature.  This
child who had once provoked me to pounding the table and inaudibly thinking of many choice obscenities had brought new life into the world. To me, an elegant mitzvah of transcendental proportions – that magical transformation seen so often we miss the miracle – child into mother.

The ride home was uneventful until we passed the Galleria – the kind of mall that makes women pant.  My wife panted and her pupils widened like that of the female leopard when she sights a gazelle.  I yielded, but due to pulling and tugging, we logged the shortest shopping trip – 45 minutes – in the Guinness Book of Records.

To be a part of such a “simcha” warmed my heart the rest of the way home. My thoughts drifted back to pictures of me and the child at her dining room table practicing Haftorah. And we only had to stop twice
for directions.