On this Memorial Day, I am thinking of my mother-in-law, Rachi, who died 6 years ago today, just shy of her 90th birthday.
I couldn’t have been luckier when it comes to mothers-in-law. She did a lot more than give birth to the baby boy I would later marry.
I met Rachi (and her equally wonderful husband Hugh) on a hike at Tennessee Valley, a couple of months after Jonathan and I started dating. Within fifteen minutes, she pulled him aside and declared, “She’s perfect.”
Rachi won my heart, too: during the usual get-to-know-you chit chat, she asked about my siblings and what they did. I mumbled that one of my brothers was kind of embarrassing, not wanting to admit that he was a Rajneeshee.
Rachi ventured a guess: “What? Is he a corporate attorney?” Nothing could be more horrifying to this Old Leftie. Rachi loved the unconventional, so my brother passed the test with flying colors.
So did I. Over lunch at the Pelican Inn, I basked in my future in-laws’ ready embrace, a warm, supportive love that was easily reciprocated and never diminished.
Hugh and Rachi met at Antioch College; their first encounter was an argument over his support for the socialist Norman Thomas for President (despite her own socialist leanings, she was always a pragmatic voter, viewing such idealistically cast ballots as a wasted vote). This sparked a life-long love cemented by politics, a dedication to civil rights, the peace movement, and all manner of intellectual debate. Hugh and Rachi began a tradition of political betting–whoever won got to donate a small sum to their chosen cause. Hugh died a month after Trump was elected president. When we were cleaning out his stuff, we found an index card Rachi had written in early 2016 betting that the Republican nominee would win.
When Jonathan and his sister were kids, Rachi spent a month in jail with fellow anti-Vietnam War protestors who had staged a sit-in to prevent young men from being drafted. The sentencing judge wanted to make an example of them. She spoke highly of the prison food (I suspect she relished the break from cooking) and of the women who were in custody on prostitution charges. In their later assisted-living years, Hugh and Rachi stood with Seniors for Peace every Friday afternoon at a busy intersection protesting the latest madness. Rachi rode an adult tricycle everywhere that sported an “I’m Already Against the Next War” bumper sticker.
Rachi always made people feel like they were the best, most interesting person she’d ever met. An accomplished writer and editor herself, she enthused over every thank you note, Christmas letter, and essay I wrote. Rachi loved her grandchildren, though she was never the sappy, sentimental type. When our oldest daughter, Emma, was a toddler, and insisted on pushing her own stroller, stopping every 10 seconds on Marina Green, Rachi fumed, “This isn’t a walk, this is torture!” She found it hilarious when Emma, politely said of the doll Rachi gave her when our youngest, Ally, was born, “I don’t like dolls berry much.” Not so much new sisters, either.
Years later, Rachi gave thousands of dollars to a scammer who convinced her that Emma was in trouble and needed the money to get bailed out of a drug charge. Although Rachi was embarrassed to have fallen for it, she said she’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant helping her granddaughter. This same granddaughter spoke at Rachi’s memorial service about how much her grandmother’s love of the unconventional had meant to her as a quirky artist whose straight-arrow parents never quite got her.
Rachi devoted herself to good causes her entire life. She tutored disadvantaged kids in East Palo Alto. True to her principles, she refused to buy wrapping paper from our kids’ schools’ endless fundraisers, saying, “Kids shouldn’t have to beg, we should raise taxes.” Once when her pearls were stolen after a robbery, she expressed gratitude that the burglar hadn’t made a mess, and thought he probably needed the money anyway. (Rachi cared not a whit about fashion and appearances, and was the least materialistic person I’ve ever known.) A fervent defender of Palestinian rights far ahead of her time, Rachi endured years of abuse from people who called her a self-hating Jew and much worse (almost all these people now share her views).
Despite her clear-sightedness and despair about the world’s injustices, Rachi was generous, funny, and joyful, with a wide circle of friends and family. She was an inveterate writer of Letters to the Editor–the New York Times alone published more than 150.
After Hugh died just shy of his 97th birthday, Rachi was heartbroken, and went downhill fast. Their’s was a life-long true partnership of love and respect. We still have their commingled ashes, and spread them bit by bit on beautiful hikes for commemoration.
That’s what comes to mind on this Memorial Day. Rest in peace, Rachi. You’re the best.