When I was a child, I remember going to my grandparents’ cousin’s candy store on Bergen Boulevard near Journal Square in Jersey City. My brother and I have discussed their names, as it is a memory from long ago, over 50 years. He remembers the wife as Anna, and I remember the husband, as Morris Brenner. We will go with these two names.
Like my grandparents, they were from Europe. I believe that Morris was my grandfather’s second cousin. That is a connection I have yet to finalize. But I am pretty sure he was not a first cousin. However, in the area they came from in Galicia, Mielec, my grandfather’s family was large and very intermingled.
The best part of going to the candy store, of course, was the candy. We could eat whatever we wanted, within the reasonable constraints of my mother. The other part was seeing Morris and Anna, who were always excited to see us. They never had children of their own, but they loved us.
Sometimes, my Mom would drive my grandmother, my brother and I to visit them in the candy store. I have good memories of being there. My grandmother and Anna always had a good time visiting. So even though it was my grandfather’s cousin, my grandmother often went to visit without him. And since she never learned to drive, my Mom had that job and we got to tag along.
Morris always sat behind the counter and ran the cash register. He sat there because he no longer had legs, he lost them to diabetes. Anna ran the store. She was tiny and very energetic. That is why what happened is so sad.
Morris’ rocking chair. Now owned by my brother.
Anna died first. I don’t think she was that old. But when she died, Morris could no longer stay alone. The store was closed; their belongings were sold or given away, and Morris went into a nursing home. I remember my parents speaking about it, because we were gifted his rocking chair. It did not go to the nursing home with him. My brother still has the rocking chair in his home. The tangible evidence that Morris and Ann were part of our world.
The nursing home Morris lived in for the rest of his life was in Bayonne, New Jersey, close to where our family dentist had his office. Usually we all went to get our teeth done at one time.
But on this day, it was just my Mom and me. As we drove away from the dentist office, she turned to me and said, “I want to go visit Morris. I know he lives near here.”I don’t remember how old I was, somewhere between 10 and 12. To be honest, I thought we were going to the candy store. But I was in for an unpleasant and emotional surprise.
When we arrived at a large one-story building, my mother and I entered and went to the desk, where Mom announced that she wanted to see Morris. The woman stopped what she was doing and called to someone, a nurse/supervisor/care giver came out. Both were so surprised that we were there to see him. The supervisor said, ‘Oh my, who are you? You are the first people who have ever come to visit him.”
My Mom was stunned. “Are you kidding me. He has nieces and nephews.” But she was not joking. No one had visited Morris in the year or so he had been living there.
The nurse walked us to his room. In fact, by the time we got there, I think three or four nurses or caregivers were following us. Mom walked in first and knelt down beside Morris. “Morris, It’s me Frances, Nat and Thelma’s daughter.” She said in Yiddish as she reached out to him.
Morris started cry. He put his hands on either side of Mom’s face and sobbed, “Frances Frances.” Her name was like a chant. While Mom hugged him with one arm, she put out her other arm, I knew that meant I needed to come over.
“Here is Ellen,” she said. My face was now embraced by his hands as he cried into my hair and stroked my face. I was crying by then as well, as were Mom and the nurses/caretakers. We stayed and talked to him for about an hour. It felt longer. He spent most of the time crying and hugging us. And asking about all the family. I have never forgotten.
As we went to leave, the supervisor asked Mom for her address and phone number in case they needed to reach someone. They had no contacts for him.
We went and sat in the car. My Mom cried for an additional half hour or so. Just sobbing, with her arms crossed on the steering wheel and her face down in her arms. I cried with her. It was one of my saddest moments as a child. When we got home, my Mom called her parents.
I never went back to the nursing home. I think because every time I thought of him, I started to cry. But I know my Mom and my grandparents went. To be honest he did not live long after our visit. My sister, who is four years younger than me, does not remember Morris or Anna. But what she does remember is my grandparents and my mom talking about him. And my mother always talking about what happens to someone when they are all alone in the world.
For the past ten months I have been a Spiritual Care Volunteer at an elder care facility. Over and over again people have asked me: How can you do that? Doesn’t it bother you? Isn’t too difficult when someone dies?
The answer to all these questions is an emphatic NO. Each week when I go, I am greeted by smiles and joy. I speak to each one of them. Some days I give them hugs. Sometimes someone cries, especially if they have recently lost a loved one. Most of them have family members who often come to see them. Most important to me is that I know that I am going every week. I am giving them the attention that Morris so deserved and did not receive.
This childhood event definitely impacted my adult choices. Each time I go, I feel a little lift to my heart, knowing that I have helped to brighten someone’s day. It is the best feeling, because each time I go, a little of the sadness that has followed me for over 50 years, whenever I think about Morris, dissipates.
zicharonot 