Dad

My father goes to synagogue maybe once or twice 

a year. For a while, he started going to the 

Orthodox synagogue, which is odd because he is 

not an orthodox Jew. A couple of Yom Kippur’s ago, 

he begged me to come with him to his new place of 

worship. He said, “It would be good for our 

relationship.” After much consternation, I finally 

decided that I should go. Why? I am not sure. 

Maybe because I thought it would help strengthen 

the bond between us. Or, maybe it was because I 

was curious to see what the inside of an Orthodox 

synagogue looked like.  

Walking into the synagogue, I was struck by the fact 

that the men were not sitting with the women. Only 

in modern Orthodox synagogues is this ancient 

custom practiced. As the service wore on, I got 

bored. The Rabbi was making many references to 

God - a God I am not even sure that I believe in - 

and in an attempt to tune him out I started counting 

the pages of the prayer book, trying to figure out 

how much longer the service would take (something 

I have been doing for as long as I can remember). 

OnYom Kippur it is customary for the service to 

end at sundown. But every year, the service seems 

to end a little bit later (in synagogue, we all 

speculate about whether or not the other 

congregations’ services have ended or not). As I 

flipped the pages of my prayer book my father 

looked over at me knowingly and whispered in my 

ear “This guy (the Rabbi) really likes to drag it out. I 

think Temple Shalom (the local reform 

congregation) is already out”! 

My father and mother were raised in a fairly liberal 

Jewish tradition. My dad grew up on the prairies 

(Moose Jaw, to be exact), and my mom in Seattle. 

My father’s parents were Russian immigrants who 

came to Saskatchewan sometime in the 1920’s. 

My dad grew up during the Depression in a home 

that was hardly religious. Nevertheless, the fact 

that he experienced anti-Semitism firsthand and 

lived through the Second World War forever 

codified his Jewish identity.  

Mom 

(Pictures of Alan’s Mother and her family, retro 

Jewish (kosher) advertisements and video) 

My mom’s family was originally from Minnesota, 

and moved toSeattle when she was quite young. 

They were Orthodox Jews who decided not to be 

Orthodox anymore. It all happened, my mom said, 

after her mother took a trip to the kosher butcher. 

“It was during the depression,” she recalls. “My 

father wasn’t working, so there was hardly any 

money to go around.” My mother asked the 

butcher if she could get a good cut of meat for the 

upcoming high holidays. The butcher gave her the 

meat, which he said was his finest. When she 

served it, it was like shoe leather, completely un- 

edible. And that was that. My parents decided that 

they were not going to keep kosher or obey any of 

the tenets of orthodoxy.