Meet The Rabbi

Rabbi Kramer

The rabbi came straight out of Central Casting.  He looked like Moses.  He'd married Sammy Davis Jr.  His face was immortalized on the carton of Kosher Yogurt.  On top of that, he was a hyphenate.  Multi-faceted.  Not just a rabbi.  Historian, too.  Author.  Professor.  Lawyer.  Family counselor.  Actor.  Art collector.  Los Angeles institution.  Rabbi Bill Kramer, funny and wise.  We met at the office of his Burbank temple.  He looked at us, studied us one at a time, then said, "Weird." Were we brother and sister, he wanted to know.  He was liberal, but not that liberal.  We told him no, we weren't related.  We told him the date:  August 23, 1980.  He said he'd clear his schedule.  He wore a long white robe to match his long white beard.  We stood beneath the chuppah.  Your folks.  My folks.  Siblings.  Best friends.  The chuppah threatened to topple.  Rabbi Kramer cracked jokes and we giggled throughout.  We've been giggling ever since, in between the other emotional displays that come with marriage.  We've lived here, there and everywhere.  The one-bedroom apartment.  The two-bedroom apartment.  The move to the Valley, where we swore we'd never live.  We got our shots and our passports.  We never looked back.  The townhouse.  The "earthquake" house.  Like the chuppah, the chimney threatened to topple.  This house we live in now.  These sons of ours.  This life we've built.  A good one.  Very good.  So, happy anniversary, hubby of mine.  Thirty-six years of non-stop bliss.  Would we do it again?  Abso-freakin-lutely.