Jan (Shark) Frisch and I are members of Adath Jeshurun Congregation and often marvel at how closely our experiences of growing up Jewish in central North Dakota line up – despite the three decades that separate our childhoods.
Yet for Jan, born in the ‘40s and raised in Devils Lake and later in Fargo, and me born in the ‘70s and raised in Minot, it was our parents’ emphasis on Jewish education and holiday traditions like Passover that laid the foundation for our deep-rooted Jewish identities.
Exodus to the Prairie
Before diving into our personal Passover stories, it helps to understand how Jews came to North Dakota. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Jewish migration was driven by economic opportunity and available land. The Homestead Act of 1862 offered Eastern European Jews independence, safety, and refuge from persecution.
With support from organizations like the Jewish Agricultural and Industrial Aid Society, small but vibrant Jewish communities emerged in towns like Devils Lake, Minot, and Fargo. Despite long distances and limited resources, settlers built modest synagogues, upheld traditions, and gathered regionally to celebrate Jewish life.
Jan’s family story is rooted in this landscape. Her grandparents – Herman and May Shark – moved to Devils Lake for stability after Herman’s years as a traveling salesman – at one point selling bootleg liquor during Prohibition. With May’s relatives already in town, they opened a men’s clothing store and became deeply embedded in the community where Jan was born.
My great-grandparents, Harry and Mary Porter, migrated from Russia to Devils Lake then to a farm in Russell, North Dakota. After Harry passed away the family moved to Minot. Their son, Harold, co-founded with his three brothers Porter Bros. Dakota Hide and Fur Company. He married my grandmother, Edith, in 1947 and raised my dad, Gary, along with my Uncle David and Aunt Carol. After college at Denver University, where my dad met my mom, they returned to Minot to raise our family while working in the family business.
Matzah, Miles & Hotel Rooms
Jan’s Passover story involved traveling nearly 180 miles by car from Devils Lake to Fargo. Where they attended the Fargo community seder, held at Temple Beth El, a cornerstone of Jewish life in Fargo throughout the 20th century.
The Reform congregation’s seder typically drew 25-30 attendees and was held in the social hall of a split-level building. The tables were set with paper cloths – one head table and two long side tables – with individual seder plates at each seat.
The Sisterhood prepared the meal, featuring gefilte fish, matzah ball soup, chicken, potato kugel, carrots, and store-bought macaroons and cakes. Guests dressed formally, and the Rabbi-led service lasted several hours, with about 60 to 90 minutes of ritual before the meal.
At one memorable gathering, Jan took the rabbi’s instruction to drink four glasses of wine quite literally ending the night giggling and rolling across their hotel room floor to her parents’ amusement.
As she raised her own family, Jan continued traveling to Fargo for Passover, even passing on a playful tradition: sending her son Matt under the seder table to retrieve the hidden afikomen matzah, continuing the joy and mischief that made the holiday so meaningful.
A Side of Chopped (Chocolate?) Liver
For me, Passover meant the joyful arrival of relatives from Denver, Colorado, most notably my grandfather, Eli Milstein – lovingly known as Papa and my Aunt Shirley, my mom’s oldest sister. Each year, he flew into Minot’s one-gate airport, carrying a large bag of homemade soups marking the unofficial start of the holiday.
To our Denver relatives, Minot felt as distant and mysterious as Minsk, Russia. I still smile recalling the story of my parents’ engagement, when the Denver family scrambled to find an atlas, curious to locate where, exactly, Minot was.
My mom’s menu honored her mother’s traditional Passover recipes. Though her mom – lovingly known to the grandkids as Nanny – passed away when I was a toddler, I’ve come to know her through the familiar flavors of her chopped liver, matzah ball soup, brisket, and sponge cake.
Just as Jan’s family dressed up for the Fargo seder, we did too. My mom wore a dress, my dad a sports jacket and tie. Our second-night seder became the centerpiece of the holiday, the table set with my mother’s best dishes and linens.
We followed the familiar blue Maxwell House Haggadah. My dad led with a balance of patience and humor, and everyone read a passage – including the youngest. I can still hear the silverware clinking, my grandfather’s gargled voice, and the off-key chorus of “Dayenu.”
Years later, travel flipped. My parents flew from Minot to Minneapolis to celebrate Passover with us. The tradition stayed intact – same chopped liver (which my son used to adorably call “chocolate liver”), same off-key singing. Only now, I was setting the table, creating new memories to build on the ones that came before.
Shared Legacy
Though our stories are separated by time and geography, the core of our Passover experiences is remarkably similar: the journeys made, the food prepared with love, the laughter around the seder table, and the deep pride in carrying our Jewish traditions forward – no matter where we are rooted.
