The Jewish Dolly

I remember the first time I met her like it was yesterday.

The bond was immediate, like we’d known each other in a past life. We hugged like we were already family, reconnecting after years apart. She had a small frame, a blond wig, and red, shiny lipstick that looked like it could almost drip from her lips. This woman is the Jewish Dolly Parton, I thought.

Marsha welcomed me into her home and, in true form, earlier than I was ready to discuss religion, asked if I’d be willing to leave my Southern Christian ways behind and join the Jewish faith. I remember thinking, This isn’t how it went in Sex and the City…Charlotte York had to beg.

Before I knew it, she had set up an appointment with her rabbi to discuss conversion classes for me, like Hashem’s own little Jehovah’s Witness.

The rabbi wasn’t as quick a sell. He was intrigued by my Southern roots, my confidence, and the fact that I had a car and could chauffeur him to our conversion classes in the city. Still, he wasn’t sure I was ready to trade shellfish for matza. The rabbi and I were an odd pair, both with thick accents from two different worlds, yet somehow we still found our rhythm. I felt comfortable leveling with him.

“I appreciate your classes, but I will always be who I am. I truly think I would learn more from my mother-in-law, because she does things her own way,” I explained.

He chuckled and nodded, “I guess I have to find a new ride to the city,” he said.

Marsha taught me the prayers in Hebrew, sounding out each word and explaining the meaning behind it. She taught me the different traditions, from washing hands before Shabbat (a holy rinse, not a soap-and-scrub situation) to why bread isn’t eaten over Passover. She never grew frustrated with my questions. When others would try to sway me to converting or tell me why I should do something this way or that, she would stand in defense of me.

“Ah ah, this is the way we do it…this is how I’ve taught her. Don’t correct her in my house,” she’d say.

Being two strong-willed women with very different roots, we butted heads sometimes, too. But we always figured it out eventually. When the dust settled, she would laugh and say, “I can’t argue with you, Eden. You’re too much like me.”

When I was in labor with Little Miss, Marsha, my parents, and Little Miss’s dad were all right there, patiently awaiting our little girl’s arrival. I was having contractions, hungry, and a little ill from so much chatter around me, because apparently labor comes with a live audience.

“If y’all are going to talk, can you please get behind my head and stop talking about food,” I barked.

“I’m just going to stand right here and read these prayers for you, okay, my love?” Marsha replied, opening her to-go Torah.

She began praying, still not behind my head.

“I appreciate that. I do. Can you read it to yourself, though? I know God will still hear you.”

She quickly scurried behind my head, maybe adding a new spin on a few of those prayers. But a few hours later, the only thing either of us could think about was the most beautiful little girl who had just been born. And just like that, a Bobbie was born too, a title she wore like a crown.

In the years that followed, no matter where I was or whether we’d just seen each other in person, I could always count on a Friday-afternoon text before Shabbat began.

“Good Shabbat, Eden! I love you forever and always!”

“I love you always and forever!” I would reply.

As seasons shifted, even when I was no longer her daughter-in-law, our bond never wavered. Marsha still made room for me the way she always had. When I visited New York City, I stayed with her, and when she came to North Carolina, she traveled like she was catering her own visit, coolers, bags, and ingredients you couldn’t talk her out of bringing. The kitchen would fill up fast, and suddenly our house felt like her house too.

Marsha was happiest with a table full of people and a feast of everyone’s favorites. If you complimented something she cooked once, she took it seriously in the best way. From then on it was “your favorite,” and she made sure it showed up every time you came over. Making people feel loved was her gift, and she did it the way she did everything, out loud and with extra servings.

Marsha never did quick goodbyes. She would walk you to the door, sometimes all the way down the steps, giving one more hug and extra kisses, like she could tuck a little extra love into your pocket for later. Even on the phone, she would blow kisses and say I love you on repeat until someone finally hung up.

Goodbye was never the point, though. The point was the love she pressed into you before you left, enough to carry you until the next time.

And on our last visit, which I didn’t expect to be our last, I did just that. I said the important part, over and over, the way she always did.

I love you… always and forever.