What I Learned From Dennis Jones

Sunday may be a working day in Israel, but when I was growing up in America, it was family day. I will never forget the occasional Sunday visits from my Great Aunt Ruth and Great Uncle Ed.

They lived in a ritzy co-op on Park Avenue in New York. They would pull up to our rented house on Tennyson Place in Passaic in their chauffeur-driven Cadillac limousine. It was 11-feet long. I measured it once. Their chauffeur was an African-American named Gresham. Gresham would drop them off and come back a few hours later to pick them up.

If Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ed weren’t ready to leave, my mother would go out to the driveway where Gresham parked and invite him in for coffee and cake. To her, Gresham was family too and my mom always involved him in the conversation.

My mother was both kind and color-blind. She taught me, by example, to treat every person with respect, even if he looks, or worships differently.