A reader challenges me on my criticism of Christopher Buckley and his uncharitable published memories of his father and mother: “You wrote a memoir, and if memory serves painted a portrait of your adopted parents’ religiosity that some readers might have found uncomfortable or inappropriate.” It’s an interesting point. Where do legitimate public recollections about your own life become sheer, mean gossip?
In the book, I think I was fair to the Reform rabbi of the temple where I grew up. I also disguised him — changing his name and the name of the synagogue. But on one occasion I was giving a speech in Philadelphia and a woman came up afterward. She’d read my book and asked me if it was Temple [Whatever] that I attended and whether it was Rabbi [Blah Blah] who was the rabbi there. I said yes, it was. She said, “Well, I just wanted you to know that Rabbi [Blah Blah] is my brother and you made him look like a complete idiot,” and walked off indignantly.
