Phylis

By Phylis Goldberg

2019 President’s Book Awards WINNER, Florida Authors & Publishers Association

WINNER of the 2019 Royal Palm Literary Award, Florida Writers Association

NOMINATED for the 2019 National Book Award

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Phylis: Tales of a Jewish Child during the Great Depression is a collection of charming short stories written by 91-year-old Phylis Goldberg, told entirely from the perspective of her precocious childhood self. Growing up on Long Island, the cherished youngest daughter of two Orthodox Jewish immigrants, Phylis’s clear-eyed recollections of her family life are fun and funny, unsparingly truthful, and sparkle like fresh paint. From the sacred celebrations of High Holy Days to the glittering thrill of the Woolworth’s counter, from the connections of a close-knit family to the loneliness of a quirky outsider, from times of plenty to the financial heartbreak of the Depression—Phylis spins an engaging, all-American tale that is instantly recognizable to everyone, Jew and Gentile, whether we are a first-generation immigrant or count as our ancestors earlier pioneers.

Phylis: Tales of a Jewish Child during the Great Depression will leave readers with the sense of having been there, right alongside Phylis, sharing her childhood adventures at a pivotal point in America’s history.

A Little About Phylis and Her Family

Phylis Goldberg grew up on Long Island in an area called Five Towns. Her parents were among the original founders of Congregation Sons of Israel synagogue in Woodmere; her mother would start the synagogue’s Sisterhood in the family’s living room. Phylis’s childhood, which is the focus of Phylis: Tales of a Jewish Child during the Great Depression, revolved around family life, synagogue activities, and elementary school.

More about the Author

Dr. Bliss’s waxed mustache, skinny and stiff as a toothpick, stuck straight out at least an inch on either side of his face, and ended in a needle-point tip. I was always afraid that he’d jab me accidentally and puncture my eye or skin with his mustache if he turned his face in the wrong direction. Why, I could have lost an eye from that man.

I was afraid I’d never see my Mama again, and all I had was the egg salad sandwich, a bottle of milk, and a Dugan’s cupcake with chocolate icing, which might have to last me the rest of my life.

I stared at the swinging kitchen door, not taking my eyes off it. I was so scared I didn’t dare put my chocolate cupcake down on the glass plate, afraid it would make a tiny noise and I’d be done for. I knew something awful was about to happen to me.

I loved listening to Papa chant the Kiddish and the blessing over Mama’s freshly baked round-raisin challah, still warm out of the oven. Papa had such a lovely deep singing voice. We’d all join with him for both prayers, and Papa would kiss me with his eyes.

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