The tempter or the tempted,
Who sins most?
Shakespeare

The night before Yom Kippur, my family always eats an immense dinner in preparation for fasting for the next 25 hours while they ask God to forgive all the sins they have committed during the past year. When I was twelve years old, my family invited Buddy Glaser and his parents to join us for that meal. I sat next to him during the entire evening and I could feel his charm awaken my own budding femininity. We laughed while we gobbled up my mother’s chicken soup and fought over who got the rest of the chopped liver. We told jokes while we ate the chicken and tried to find the apples hidden in the stuffing. We finished off two helpings of apple cake and tried to guess which one of us would explode first from eating so much food. “It’s okay,” I reassured him. “We can’t eat anything all day tomorrow and by sundown we’ll be ready for my Mama’s blintzes.”

The next day, Buddy and I sat together with all our Sunday School friends at the back of our Temple and whispered smart remarks while the congregation prayed very hard. At noon, when everyone came out for a little air, Buddy drew me away from the crowd and said, ”Let’s take a walk down Collingwood Avenue. The trees are really beautiful this time of year.”

I had never seen the aesthetic side of Buddy Glaser and I was charmed. I gave him my hand and we strolled down the street discussing all the inconsequential nonsense that feeds young romance. When we reached Islington Street, Buddy clasped me in his arms and kissed me right on the mouth.

I was horrified.

This was my very first Big Sin.

My mother told me over and over again that on Yom Kippur day, Jews are supposed to abstain from food and all physical pleasures because they are so wrapped up in spiritual matters they don’t experience hunger or desire. I had a lot of things to discuss with God that particular holiday because puberty is a very difficult time for young girls to endure and I had not been storybook sweet most of the preceding 365 days. This service was my only chance to convince God to forgive me for my unbelievable misbehavior so I could begin my teenage years with a clean slate.

And now this.

I had not only encouraged Buddy Glaser to hold my hand, but I HAD ACTUALLY KISSED HIM BACK. Several times.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I whispered even though no one was near.

He looked puzzled. “Why?” he asked. “I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I whispered even more softly. “But this is Yom Kippur!”

“So what?” asked Buddy.

I blushed. “Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to have sex on Yom Kippur?”

Buddy looked at me as if I dropped my wits into a trashcan. “That wasn’t sex, Lynn Ruth. All I did was kiss you.”

Now it was my turn to be self-righteous. “Well, I said. “If that wasn’t sex, what is?”

This was too much for Buddy whose father had no doubt explained the whole rigamarole to him years ago. He took my hand and said, “It’s almost two o’ clock and my mother will kill me if we don’t get back to Temple on time.”

“She’s really going to kill you when she hears what you did to me,” I retorted.

“You’re crazy,” said Buddy. “But you are cute.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I let him hold my hand on the walk back because I figured it was too late to undo my awful transgression, but I resolved to discuss this with my father who always knew comfortable answers to my dilemmas. I wasn’t sure I would be brave enough to tell him about this one though because I knew that it was only all right to do something wrong if you didn’t know any better. My sister ate a whole chocolate pie that very morning and my mother had looked at her astonished. “It is Yom Kippur, Marsha Dee,” she exclaimed.

My sister carefully wiped a bit of fudge from her chin, “I was hungry,” she said. “Is there any milk?”

“I’m hungry too,“ I said.

“You’re twelve,” said my mother. ”You know the rules. Marsha is only five.”

“But she’s fat,” I said.

“That’s beside the point,” said my mother.

Well, having sex with Buddy Glaser was very definitely the point and I knew that if I was going to convince God to let me start over for the new year, I needed to get my Daddy to discuss it with Him immediately to set things right.

I sat through the rest of the services and felt just like a pariah. How could I recite all those sins in the prayer book when I knew I had committed The Really Big One?

After the services, I drew my father aside and burst into tears. “What’s the matter, Lynn Ruth?” he asked.

“Oh, Daddy,” I sobbed. “I have done an awful transgression! I kissed Buddy Glaser right on Islington and Collingwood!”

My father folded his prayer shawl and removed his yarmulke from his head. “So what?” he asked.

I looked at him, shocked. “Today is Yom Kippur!” I exclaimed.

My father gazed at me for a long moment and I could swear I saw a smile play on his lips. But when he spoke he was very serious. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked.

I nodded, numb with shame. “And did Buddy like kissing you?” asked my father.

“He said I was cute,” I whispered.

“Well, then you have nothing to worry about,” said my father. “Yom Kippur is a day to ask forgiveness and Buddy isn’t angry with you.”

“But God is, isn’t he?”

My father shook his head. “Absolutely not. “ he said. “God believes in love. In fact, he encourages it.”

What marvelous news! “Does that mean that I can let Buddy Glaser kiss me all he wants?” I asked.

“As long as he keeps his hands behind his back,” said my father.

“Why does he have to do that?” I said.

My father pinched my cheek. “Ask your mother,” he said. “And here she comes, now.”


Give a man a free hand and
He’ll try to put it all over you.
Mae West