The Jew had made orange juice for the community all his days, the sort that did well with a hearty breakfast of toast and marmalade.
My Grandpa, the Jew, with his soulful laugh and the sort of brown eyes that bring hearth-sipped hot cocoa to the memory.
There was a creativeness to the Jew that made us all better, that brought the best out of each of us and raised the intellectual bar we expected of ourselves.
The old Jew had worked the land and loved her so, as good farmers do, a custodian of the land and a good neighbour to the community in these parts.
My Jew grandfather could have made you a suit that would have lifted you from the ground and into the heavens, and he would have done so just to see you smile from your soul.
We expected her Jew blood to make her brilliant storyteller, one capable of igniting happiness and love in the world, and on that Christina delivered, every time.
There was the Jew in her, a witty sense of humour that could bring light to the deepest of caverns.
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