That year, I had offered to do a one-hour showtime program at The Baycrest Centre. Up to that time, I had been putting together skits for my National Council of Jewish Women chapter for our annual Mother’s Day luncheons, along with a few other fearless and lively members. The short play that stands out in my mind is Cinderella. I was an eight-month truly pregnant Cinderella. I was 5’5”, and the prince, another of our female members, was very tiny, barely five feet tall, dressed appropriately as the charming prince. A more well-matched couple you will never find!

The funniest part was when the clock struck 12. I forgot to leave my glass slipper behind, as the story goes. (It really was a spiked-heeled gold shoe, size 11. I have big feet. We couldn’t find any glass slippers!) There was a pause in the play for a few seconds as we couldn’t think of what to do. Then, from the side wings, I threw my not-so-dainty shoe onto the stage for the prince to find. It brought down the house. We couldn’t have planned it any better! 

So now, I had to come up with an hour-long program at Baycrest and turned to my talented mother for assistance. The stage was nothing new for either of us. I had been singing in youth choirs and for family members at parties since I was five. But I still was wondering how to fill that hour for seniors!

Mama came to the rescue with Charleston Daze, a nostalgia bit she had put on for the Creative Living Centre for seniors, where she was a full-time volunteer and a part-time office secretary. I added the Charm School number that I had helped write for a day program at NCJW, and we added “Bubie comes to Babysit” (does that ring a bell?), and the show was ready to go on. The collaboration was a success!

Soon after, we were immediately booked by seniors centres and closing programs for volunteer recognition days and synagogue shows. We even got paid! Our skits were exaggerated bits of life dreamed up on the phone late at night after my children Rhonda, then 6 and Darren, 4, were safely tucked in bed, and both households were quiet. My mother and I always felt that if we laughed till we cried, then we knew it was going to be good! We hired a pianist-accompanist, Ada Lewis, well into her 80s, and we were on our way. She mostly played on key.

The Charm School skit featured me as a rather haughty instructor at a made-up charm school. I had never been to a charm school, nor did I know there was really anything like it. But I suppose an imaginary finishing school would fill the bill.

Mama came on the scene dressed in a striped red and white t-shirt. Included under her shirt was a huge pillow to make her appear rather large. She wore tights and running shoes and carried a huge bag. I started giving instructions about exercise, and Mama got on the floor and did leg raises on her side while I turned my back and grabbed weights. I came to the part about the importance of eating properly – cottage cheese and fruit – and at that point, while my back was turned, Mama grabbed a large salami and a knife out of the bag. She cut off a piece of the salami and shoved it in her mouth. Again, as I turned my back, Mama snuck a huge bagel (about eight inches in diameter) out of her bag – bought at an Italian bakery. Without saying anything, she ripped off a piece and started to eat it. The audience went wild.

 The Bubie Comes to Babysit skit was so much fun to do we could hardly get through it without bursting out laughing.

We decided Mama would sport a very thick Yiddish accent, a cute, cut-out character of a little old Jewish lady. Yet she was the antithesis of my modern mother, who was born in Canada, had played baseball and rode a bike in her 20s and eventually ran an office single-handedly.

During one skit, Mama had a jar of chicken soup in her hands, “Oy Rosalie, look what I brought for you!” Rosalie replies, “I thought you were bringing me chocolate! Who wants chicken soup?”

Mama and Rosalie was truly a family affair. My husband Ray, a kibitzer in his own right, was a perfect foil for our humour and provided encouragement every step of the way. My kids always wanted to get into the act. My father, Sam, stayed close at hand, too, in case of an emergency, such as when one of the stage props, a salami, went missing! All he had to do was to run to the nearest deli and purchase a stand-in. My Aunt Sarah, my mother’s sister, helped backstage as a wardrobe mistress. We even performed at a large family bar mitzvah in Montreal!

Our last effort was the Yiddishe Cowboys, which was rather cheesy but funny – shtick at its highest. A year later, my mother went on to start a musical group for seniors, Doris’ Musical Variety Show. She received a government grant, which paid for rhythm instruments, flutes, recorders, music, a piano player and ukuleles for participants. The group sang and performed all over Ontario at seniors’ centres. The grant even included a bus for travelling. My mother had a bus! It lasted for seven years until she passed away. However, the group continued for many more years afterwards. Those seven years were the most fun time of Doris’ life, along with the Mama and Rosalie routine.

I went on to become a professional children’s performer, part of the Canadian duo Jim and Rosalie. We made five albums and we were nominated for two Juno awards. I’m glad my mother got to see that. I lost her too early when I was only 40, and she was 75.

Being part of Mama and Rosalie was a wonderful time of my life. It allowed me to work closely with my mother in a fun and collaborative way. Mama and Rosalie was written up in The Canadian Jewish News, and as The CJN’s Miriam Herman said in the article about us: “One thing is certain – Mama and Rosalie are in for a lot of fun, and so is everyone else who happens to be within listening pleasure.”