“It’s so good to be with Jews again,” he says wistfully, before finally heading out
I look up from my perch behind the cash register at Country-K, the summer grocery and pizza shop my husband owns in Tannersville, New York. It’s opening day, so we’re not quite as busy as we’ll be during the rest of the season, but things are moving pretty quickly.
The bareheaded fellow introduces himself as Greg from Long Island, and we get to talking.
“I’m not religious,” he says, “but these days, we need to stick together.”
We nod, and in front of the counter, my husband gives him a little hug. It’s 8:30 p.m. — Minchah time — and men are gathering on the store’s front porch for minyan. I assume that Greg will buy his rugelach and leave. But I see him drift off to the porch, davening Minchah sans siddur and sans kippah with the rest of the minyan. He stays till closing time, gives my husband another hug, and sighs.
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