FEATURED JOBS
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She was part of my life for just eight years, but it felt like 20. The mention of her name would elicit smiles and praise. I knew I’d marry her son after he called me one night and revealed his greatest source of pain—the news that his mother would need a mastectomy at age 43. It was the longest conversation we’d ever exchanged, and he did most of the talking. I figured that any guy who could have that kind of empathy came from good stock.
I got that right. I had never encountered a family as nurturing as the Minkove-Friedman bunch. At its core was the woman who would soon become my mother-in-law. Bea (“Bootsie”) Minkove, z”l, of blessed memory, was a force. The quintessential matriarch, she presided over holidays and family gatherings, which almost always convened at Bootsie and Mickey’s modest semi-detached home on Wallis Ave. Never fussy, these events featured abundant hugs, tasty food and family stories. And no matter how many times we heard those tales recounted in Bootsie’s quasi-Southern, nasal drawl, we’d laugh uproariously. Soon it felt natural to call her Mom.
From the moment I joined the family in 1976, she enveloped me with affection. At 22, I knew little about keeping house, running a kitchen, balancing work and dealing with my husband’s grueling medical training. I learned to cope by studying her ways. The first thing I noticed was how organized she was. Every week, in flawless teacher’s script, she’d make her shopping list and review her errands and commitments.
Her husband, a man of few words, worked alongside her. He baked challah; she made babka; she washed the dinner dishes; he dried. They’d hit the grocery store on Wednesday evenings, after the dish drainer was scrubbed and dried. When they returned, he’d wash the fruit and let it air dry. All she had to say was “Mick,” and he’d be there, attending to a concern about a drawer that stuck or the fridge’s temperamental thermostat. I marveled at the efficiency of it all, punctuated by loving glances or private laughs—never a harsh word, at least in my presence. But Hebrew school lesson plans, graduate studies and most of the cooking were her domain.
Most nights, at around 7 p.m., Mom would call to see how we were doing. She could detect stress a mile away. When I’d confess to feeling overwhelmed, she’d listen and offer advice, frequently ending with the expression Gam zeh yaavor. Don’t worry, This too shall pass. Truth be told, there were times I resented hearing that aphorism. After all, she couldn’t possibly appreciate the strain of balancing on-call schedule, job and, before long, child care. Besides, sometimes I felt smothered by her calls.
But as soon as I’d see her again and feel her warm embrace, I’d set aside my irritation. After inviting us for a Shabbos meal, she’d ask if she should include any of our friends to make it more enjoyable. And after our son was born, she’d relish watching him one day a week while I worked. When I’d come to pick him up, Mom would be reading to him or playing with him on the floor, her eyes twinkling with joy. At those moments, I felt so blessed to have such a doting mother-in-law, a.k.a. Savta.
Our lives fell into something of a happy routine. But alas, it was short lived. Cancer had struck again, and neither her son the doctor, nor her brother the doctor, nor her physician nephews could halt its progression. As Mom soldiered through the treatments that made her retch even before they began, we watched her steady decline. We felt utterly helpless. Her death at age 54 rocked our world and the many lives she touched, particularly her parents, whom I also adored. Hundreds packed the funeral home to hear eulogies that befit a queen. For as far as we were concerned, Bootsie Minkove – Mom—was royalty.
Oddly, as we mark her 25th yahrzeit, I feel her presence more than ever. Maybe it’s because I’m the same age she was when she left this world. Or maybe it’s because I’m aware of our common age when I catch my father-in-law’s eye across our dinner table every Friday night. As he lifts the monogrammed sterling flatware that she used only for holidays, I wonder if he makes the connection.
More likely, I feel Mom hovering as our daughter battles cancer. We have a lone photo of Savta holding her first granddaughter—a beautiful creature with arresting big blue eyes and delicate skin. They had only five short months to bond, yet I’m certain something mystical transpired between them. Our daughter displays the same fortitude and optimism we saw in Mom throughout her battle. Fortunately, cure rates have risen dramatically in the 25 years since Mom’s death, and we have reason to be hopeful.
We’ve just welcomed Adar, our happiest month, and soon we will bake hamentaschen. By then only two more chemo sessions will lie ahead for Rachel. Before we begin gathering ingredients for our Purim cookies—based on the family recipe recorded in Mom’s exquisite handwriting—Rachel will remove her rings. One favorite, which had been misplaced but recently resurfaced, originated in Jerusalem. Rachel had purchased it shortly after witnessing a suicide bombing. The Hebrew inscription etched into the sterling band reads Gam zeh yaavor.
And I truly think it will, as Mom’s spirit reminds me every day. May she rest in peace, and may her memory be a blessing.
Judy Fruchter Minkove is a senior writer in at Johns Hopkins Medicine’s office of marketing and communications.