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Watching Antiques Roadshow Inspired Me to Donate My Great-Grandmother’s Matzah Cover

12 Jun

 

Matzah cover made by my Great Grandmother Chava.

Matzah cover made by my Great Grandmother Chava.

Watching the Antiques Roadshow, a PBS show, is one of my favorite television experiences.   I started watching it with my parents years ago. Whenever they came to visit, this was one of their favorite shows. They got me hooked on it!

I love learning about different items of furniture, jewelry and knick knacks. It is a history lesson along with seeing the beautiful items. But every once in a while, someone brings in a special ephemeral item: photos, letters, a diary. In my opinion, these items should really be in a museum, some place where researchers and students and others can see the items and learn from them.

It drives me crazy. I even say it out loud. Occasionally we find out that the family did donate the item. Like when a family had the musical notations of the “Star Spangled Banner.” They donated it to a museum, and that made me feel good!

I often wondered: would I be able to do that. Would I be able to donate a family treasure to a museum? The answer is yes.

When my siblings and I were cleaning out our parents’ apartment we found two items that my brother, sister and I all wanted, but knew something special had to be done with them. One was a program from the 1930s for a benefit to help the Jews of Europe, the other was a cookbook in English and Yiddish to help immigrants learn to cook American meals.

My sister contacted the Museum of Jewish Heritage in Battery Park and asked if they would want these documents. The answer was a resounding yes. So we donated them. This way they will survive, and others who might be doing research or want to know about life for immigrant women would have these items. They will be protected. The curator told us that they had only seen one other program like ours, but it was from a Chicago event. Ours was from a New York City event.

The three of us were glad that we made this decision.

I recently made another decision to donate.

I am donating the matzah cover my great-grandmother Chava made in 1901 to the same museum. I have thought about this for several years, and decided it was the best choice for this family heirloom.

The matzah cover is made of beige linen and a teal silk. I think the silk was originally blue. On the matzah cover my great grandmother embroidered the date she made it in Hebrew letters and the words: “Seder shel Pesach” (Seder of Passover) in Hebrew. It has beautiful cut work embroidery made into a Jewish star (Mogan Dovid) with embroidered roses along the edge.

My mother gave it to me about 25 years ago for several reasons: first because I was named for my great grandmother; second, because I also do embroidery; third because my parents would come and spend the second night of Pesach with me; fourth because my daughter is the oldest grandchild. I think they thought I would pass it on to her.

But I will not.

The matzah cover was made in Galicia before the First World War. I think it was made for my grandfather’s first birthday, as he was born in 1900 on the first of Nissan. It came to the USA in 1932. My Grandmother took my mother, then age 2, and her brother, age 5, to Europe for six months. They stayed with my great grandparents. And my great grandmother gave the matzah cover and some other family items to my grandmother to bring back to the United States with her family.

At some point my grandmother gave the matzah cover to my mother. And then it became mine.

I used it every year for Passover. I would cover the matzah on the table before the meal. But as soon as the food and wine came out, I would switch to a matzah cover that I made. I did not want anything to happen to this cover because I was not sure how I could ever clean it without destroying it.

As the years have passed, it has become more and more fragile. I want it to survive. My great grandmother did not survive. She and most of my grandfather’s family perished in the Shoah. This is the only religious item she made that remains.

I also thought about donating my matzah cover because I had a mild infestation of fabric eating bugs. Ugh. They are gone now. And the matzah cover is safe. But part of me was worried. What if they had reached the cover? Perhaps there is something better I can do with this item?

First I asked my daughter how she felt about my donating this item. She thought it was a great idea.

So I contacted the museum and the woman who helped us with the other donations. She asked for photos.

And then she said yes, they would like the matzah cover for their collection. She told me that the matzah covers they had that were that old were all stained and in disrepair, while mine was in wonderful shape. Which is true.

I told her I wanted to use it for one more Passover before I donated it.

2014 Passover Seder. Matzah cover in the middle of the table.

2014 Passover Seder. Matzah cover in the middle of the table.

She asked that I take photos of it in use. Which I did and you can see here.

She promised me that anyone in my family would always have the right to come and see it privately when it was not on display, although we would never be able to touch it again. (Probably a good thing as fabric decays.)

In August I will take my matzah cover from Kansas back to New Jersey, and then to its new home at the museum. I hope by sharing it with so many people, it will have continued life, and perhaps help people understand how extraordinary Jewish life was in Europe before the Shoah.

I donated the matzah cover on August 12, 2014.

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Why I love my pillow!

8 Jun

I love my pillow. It is a big, fluffy feather pillow covered in a rose color bunting. When I rest my head I have the happiest dreams and most pleasant thoughts. I miss my pillow when I am not home, and have a difficult time sleeping.

I did not realize my sleep depended so much on this pillow till about a year ago. Over the first 33 years of my marriage, I had many pillows. But I never slept as well as I did when I went to visit my parents in New Jersey and slept with my pillow. I just thought that when I was home with my parents, I was not worrying about them. But I realized that was not the truth.

My pillow started out as part of my grandparents’ feather bed. I am like the little child in John Denver’s song, “Grandma’s Feather Bed.” This song always puts me in a great mood. I hear that song and I am immediately smiling and singing along. And I think back to my Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat.

When I was a little girl, I loved sleeping at my grandparents in the winter. First of all, Grandma always put a lightweight flannel sheet over the cold sheets. Second…was the feather bed (or duvet). I loved when she threw it over me and it cuddled around me. It was so soft and comfy. Filled with feathers and love. Grandma always slept with me when I was little and staying at her house. She would whisper to me and sing me Yiddish songs under the quilt.

I loved that feather bed. In the mornings, I would wake up and snuggle in the warmth of the blanket. My grandparents would be downstairs in their bakery in West New York, New Jersey. Once I was ready, I would get dressed and run down the stairs to be with them, have my breakfast and start my day in the bakery.

They took the feather bed with them when they moved up to Kauneonga Lake, in the Catskills for the full year. I loved our visits over winter break, because Grandma always let me sleep with the feather bed.

But it did not last for long. Eventually Grandma decided it was time for the featherbed to be washed and the feathers sorted. There were not enough good feathers to make a duvet again. So Grandma had it turned into several pillows.   All I know is that I got one: my beautiful rose-colored feather pillow.

It is true that many people cannot sleep with a feather pillow. They have allergies; they do not like how they sink in; they have issues. But for me…a feather pillow is heaven. My feather pillow is especially wonderful!

My pillow came to college with me and was home whenever I needed it.

But when I got married, my Mom kept my pillow. She had it in a plastic bag on a high shelf. No one used it but me. Whenever I came home for visit, the rose- colored pillow came out for my bed.

My children did not like it or want to sleep with it, better for me. They are the only ones I would have allowed to use my pillow.

However, at home in Kansas, with my husband, I searched for the perfect pillow for me. I cannot tell you how many pillows I bought over the first 33 years of our marriage. I never found a good pillow. I never got really comfortable. I used two pillows. I switch pillows. I tried everything. But I never really slept well. I could not understand why. It never occurred to me that I needed that one pillow.

When my Mom had her stroke, I flew out quickly to New Jersey. My pillow was there at my parent’s apartment. Once again it was the comforter of my tears. Even though I could barely sleep, I still felt better with my pillow. I knew my Mom had kept this pillow for all these years just for me.

My Mom died a week later in the middle of the December 2010 blizzard. I was with my Dad, trying to make all the arrangements. While I juggled three phones and a computer, I held my pillow on my lap and at times had it behind my back supporting me. It helped comfort me.

I left the pillow at my Dad’s apartment. I used it whenever I went to visit him. But nine months later my Dad passed away. I spent that first night alone in my parents’ apartment with just my pillow for comfort. Later people asked how I could stay there by myself. It really was not difficult. I had so many loving memories. I had my pillow filled with feathers and love. I was fine.

I still left my pillow there, after that visit.

But 18 months later, when we finally cleaned out my parent’s apartment, the time had come. I told my siblings, I am taking my pillow. I found a box and stuffed it in along with a few other things. And shipped my pillow home.

And for the past year, I have slept the most wonderful sleeps. I have had the most wonderful dreams. My family still does not understand.

My daughter says, “Mom that pillow probably needs to be cleaned.”

HA!

It was cleaned 45 years ago. The feathers are probably 90 years old.   Why would I clean it? When I put my head on that pillow I am a little girl whispering with my Grandma. When I put my head on that pillow I am a teenager in high school. When I put my head on that pillow I am a young woman in love waiting for my wedding the next day. When I put my head on that pillow, I am visiting my parents with my two children. When I put my head on that pillow I see my Mom and Dad getting it down off the shelf just for me.

My pillow that I love is filled with memories that I love.

 

 

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Finally Fixing and Focusing on my Succulents

5 Jun

Each May my Dad would begin to plan his summer plantings for my parent’s Catskills home. Over the years he had added gardens and flowers to the property that was once owned by my grandparents. Where my grandfather once had a large vegetable garden, something my Dad had helped with for years, my Dad decided to focus on flowers.

Some of my Dad's planters at the Catskills' house.

Some of my Dad’s planters at the Catskills’ house.

He loved to garden. In the spring and summer, it was at the Catskills property. My parents would drive into Monticello and go to a garden center and pick out the perfect annuals. These he would plant around the front of the house and in the now filled in koi pond. In the back of the house he always planted around the garden he put around the well. And all along the side of the house were more gardens. Of course he had plants on their screened-in porch as well.

He was always ‘puttering’ in the garden or with his plants. One year he was so upset with the deer eating his rhododendron, he went out and got hyena or coyote urine to keep them away.

When the summer was over, he would mulch his flowerbeds to be ready for the next year’s plantings.

My parent's large cactus plant!

My parent’s large cactus plant!

The rest of the year he focused on indoor plants. He had many succulents, including a beautiful flowering cactus and a large spiny cactus. He kept them in great shape. As well as many other plants that grew in their living room, kitchen and on their terrace.

My Mom and I had always joked about our winter ‘schlumbergera’ flowering cactuses (Also known as Christmas cactus). We fought over whose had more blooms. I will admit, my Mom and Dad won that battle.

His love of plants worked to my benefit, as twice a year my parents came to spend 10 to 14 days with my family in Kansas. They came every Passover and Thanksgiving, and since Dad needed to keep active, I kept a list of ‘chores’ for him to do. Which meant every spring, he and my husband worked on outside gardens. When we first bought our home, 29 years ago. It was brand new, with no gardens. Over the years we have put in massive gardens and plantings. My Dad helped to dig out the first gardens. And as the plants and gardens grew, Dad was in charge of mulching and weeding. He also helped in choosing the perfect new plantings each year.

A portion of my outside gardens.

A portion of my outside gardens.

When my Dad became unable to do heavy work, he would just do the mulching with my son. We hired a gardener for the other jobs.   And then when he could no longer even mulch, he would sit out on a chair and direct and chat with John the gardener. John and Dad had lots to talk about. Thanks to both of them I have wonderful outside gardens.

In autumn, Dad would focus on my inside garden. I had many succulents, both inside and outside. But it was my inside ones that Dad kept going. Every autumn he would repot those plants that needed the extra space. He would trim back dead areas, and keep my plants look wonderful.

When he was not here, I just watered and removed dead leaves. I waited for him for any repotting needs. I knew he loved to do it. When my children were little they always helped. It was a great bonding time for them.

It worked out just fine.

Then the unspeakable happened. My parents passed away nine months apart. It was a stressful time. My Dad did not come out in the autumn, as my Mom was ill. He did make it in the spring, but was unable to do his usual ‘chores’. When he fell truly ill, he ended up being in a hospital and then rehab for the last three months of his life.

My Aunt and Uncle and parents with the cactus planter my Aunt now keeps.

My Aunt and Uncle and parents with the cactus planter my Aunt now keeps.

At his shiva, it was obvious his lovely plants needed help. My Aunt Mickey took the planter with succulents that was on the coffee table. My brother took the living ivy and small plants. My sister took the giant cactus. Since I lived in Kansas, I did not take a plant. Dad would have been happy to know his plants were in good hands.

Over the past few years, since my parent’s deaths, I have not touched my succulents, except to water them.   Included in my plants is an aloe plant that is over 50 years old. It had been my husband’s Mom’s. It became mine when she passed away 30 years ago. It, along with my other plants, began to suffer. A friend of mine would occasionally cut back the dead leaves. At times she watered them when she came. But even with her care, some succulents did not survive. I would take the empty pots and put them away.

Eventually she told me that I had to re-pot and care for my plants. She was right. My Dad would have been very unhappy with me. Even though I was caring for the outside plants, I had ignored the inside ones.

For some reason, this May I finally got the inspiration to fix my plants. I bought seven new succulents for inside. I bought several new ceramic pots. On Memorial Day, after I went to a veterans’ memorial service, I repotted my plants and I planted the new succulents.

Just as my Dad always did, I put old newspapers on my counter. I got the potting soil and the new pots and plants. And for a good hour, I worked on my plants. Placing some of them on my kitchen garden window, and others in my planter. I planted so many that I ran out of room. So I put two on my cookbook shelf.

My kitchen window garden.

My kitchen window garden.

While I worked inside, my husband worked outside. He planted herbs and flowers in the flower boxes on our deck. He planted new yellow speckled lillies in one of our outside gardens. And we planted a beautiful new peach-colored rose bush, called ‘Cinco De Mayo,’ in our front gardens. I chose this rose bush in memory of my Mom. I plan to plant a blue hydrangea for my Dad. We have white ones, but he always wanted some colored ones in my yard.

As I finally fixed my indoor gardens and saw my planters filled with the life of new succulents, I felt a burden lift from my heart.

 

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Uncle Stan And Garage Sales Filled Our Tool Needs

3 Jun

Every time my husband has to fix something around the house and uses a tool, I think of his Uncle Stan. He was a bundle of energy, with an ever-present unlit cigar hanging from his mouth.   But, he had one guilty pleasure, he loved garage sales. More important, he needed a reason to go. He wanted to go, but I think he knew he really did not need anything. So he searched for a reason to ‘investigate’ garages.

When my husband and I got engaged, we presented him with the perfect solution. My husband would need tools. Uncle Stan knew there was no way my husband’s Dad would supply tools or even know anything about tools. He was not capable of fixing things. In fact, whenever we came to their home for a visit, my husband’s Mom had a list of things for him to fix. We would definitely need someone to fill the tool void. And Uncle Stan was our man!

Uncle Stan believed it was unnecessary to spend lots of money on tools, when some people were basically giving them away at garage sales. He had a limit on spending. Most tools he bought were for under $5.00. Really most were for a dollar or two. And the best for my husband and I, we never paid a cent for any of these tools.   Uncle Stan did not pay for them either. He got all payments from my husband’s Mom.

After I was married, I was able to witness one transaction. We lived in a different city than my husband’s parents and Uncle Stan and his wife, Aunt Mat. Uncle Stan and his pals would go to garage sales early, early on Saturday mornings, when the sales were at their best, and before Aunt Mat awoke. When he was done, he would take his bag of goodies to my husband’s mother at the family travel agency.

Then the bickering would begin. The time I saw it, it went something like this.

“Hi Bubbles,” Uncle Stan said as he opened the door. ‘Bubbles’ was my mother-in-law’s family nickname.

“Not another bag of junk!” She said, as Uncle Stan entered the agency carrying a plastic bag that jingled.

“Bubbles, this isn’t junk,” Uncle Stan said. And then he saw me. “Hi Precious (everyone was precious to Uncle Stan) I got some more tools for your husband. Right here in this bag.”

Then he turned to my mother-in-law. “You owe me $20 this time,” he said.

“Twenty dollars! For that junk! Let me see it!” She exclaimed.

Price tag is still on this homemade nail and screw holder that Uncle Stan got for us for $1.00.

Price tag is still on this homemade nail and screw holder that Uncle Stan got for us for $1.00.

And out the stuff came. There was a screw driver; a really neat set of wrenches, all different sizes, in a pouch; a file; and some other stuff, including this very strange contraption that was somewhat circular and had tiny glass spice bottles attached by the lids and were filled with nails.

“This screw driver was a bargain, a bargain. I got for just $1.00,” He said. “It is a great one.”

“What’s this thing?” My mother in law asked, holding up the round spice jar thing. I wanted to know as well.

“It’s wonderful. You keep all your loose nails and screws in there. Someone actually made it. It is a great idea! It even hangs on the wall,” Uncle Stan announced. “He’ll love it.

“Well, I know where the loose screws are,” my mother-in-law answered. She was looking for her purse as she said it, but we know she meant Uncle Stan.

And we all laughed.   You see buying the tools at the garage sales was just the first part that he loved. The best part was haggling with my mother-in-law. She was a younger sister of his wife. Left an orphan when she was a teen, she came and lived with her sister and brother-in-law when she went to college at Washington University in St. Louis.

They had a most loving relationship, and buying the tools just gave them a reason to tease each other. Not that Uncle Stan ever really needed a reason to tease in the most friendly and loving way. He was always ready for teasing.

The tools were paid for, and Uncle Stan went on his way.
“See you next week,” he said as he walked out the door. My mother-in-law shook her head, “Not if I see you first!”

She turned to me. “I have lots of bags of tools and other stuff for you at home,” my mother-in-law told me. Maybe you can take a few with you.”

Not really. We were living in a small apartment.

But several years later, when we bought our home, and moved furniture there, the bags of tools came in the moving van. They filled an area of the basement. Besides tools, Uncle Stan got my husband containers, a toolbox, and even some power tools in carrying cases. All the power tools worked, Uncle Stan tested each one before he bought it. My husband set up a workshop in the basement with most of the tools, but some tools he put in the garage. Not to sell, but for easy access outside.

To be honest, there are some things that for the past 29 years, we still have no idea how to use or what they do. But we keep them, because Uncle Stan thought we might need them one day. And you truly never know.

I also have to admit there were some tools he could not find for us. But that turned out to be a blessing. It gave my Dad something to do. Once we bought our home, my parents would come to visit. It was my Dad’s great pleasure to go to an home improvement store with my husband. My Dad loved the Home Depot! He and my husband would spend hours walking up and down the aisles. And my Dad always found a tool or two that we needed to finish a project or start one, besides the items they really went to purchase.

Dad, Uncle Stan and my husband’s mom, Bubbles, are all gone. But their memories live in all the tools that help us keep our house in good shape. Most important, I cannot pass a garage sale without wonderful memories of Uncle Stan’s excursions to find us tools.

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The Beautiful, Yet Horrible Blue Flowered Dress

1 Jun

I close my eyes and I can still see the four dresses next to each other on the bed in my Grandma Esther’s spare bedroom at the apartment in the Bronx. Four identical blue dresses, with Peter Pan collars, bright yellow and red rickrack and springs of tiny flowers printed all over the gingham dress. The dress had a built-in sash and dirndl skirt. Each dress was a slightly different size: one each for my two first cousins, also sisters, as well as one each for my sister and I. I must have been about seven, my sister three, my cousins were about eight and ten.

My grandmother had an urge to buy us matching dresses. I don’t know if it was a special occasion, or she just saw them while coming home from working and decided to get them. I think there is a photograph somewhere of us all wearing the dress at the same time. But I do not know where it is, or if it was really taken. I have searched in my albums looking for some photo of these dresses. But they do not exist. (If a photo did exist, my sister probably destroyed it.)

All I know is that this was a wonderful gift. And we all said, “Thank you!” to Grandma Esther, who was very excited about getting these dresses for us.

The dresses came home.   I wore mine for school, occasionally, after the initial ‘for special occasion only’ wearing. In the early 1960s, girls always wore dresses to school. I had both school clothes and play clothes that I changed into as soon as I got home. So it was fine to have another dress to wear. But really this was to be my dressy dress, for special occasions.

I loved the dress. Blue is my favorite color, and my Mom often dressed me in red or pink because of my black hair. I do not like those colors. So I was happy to finally have a blue dress. I liked the rows of rickrack running along the bottom and bodice. I liked that it had some three-dimensional treatments. I loved the pretty flowers.   I wore it happily. And when I was handed down my oldest cousin’s dress, I was happy to wear that one as well. To me it was just the best blue dress ever!

Notice the generous amounts of rickrack not only on her costume, but also braided to make the headpiece.

Notice the generous amounts of rickrack not only on her costume, but also braided to make the headpiece.

Because of this dress I developed a love of rickrack. I do not remember having it on a dress before this special dress. I fell in love with the feel and texture of rickrack. I also loved to say the word! When I had a daughter, I often made her dresses and costumes with rickrack on them, using all different colors.

As for my cousins, they do not have the same memories of this dress. In fact, they do not remember this dress at all. My sister and I were telling one of our cousins about the dress once, and there was a blank look in her eye.   I think because they only wore the dresses for a short time, and did not have the extra dresses to wear, they did not have as strong an impression.

However, my sister will tell you a different story about the dress. She learned to hate it, even though I think was a pretty dress. But she does have a relatively good reason.

You see, as stated earlier, there were four dresses. She was the youngest. My cousins only wore the dress one year or two. But as each cousin outgrew the dress, it was passed down to the next child. Because one cousin was only nine months older than I was, I did not really get that dress to wear. But my sister did. She wore the same dress for years, as each one was passed down to her.

I should add, that my sister wore the last of the same dress for an extra long time. My Mom saved that dress. She even said to my sister, “That dress still fits you. It has a nice big hem.”

My Mom realized she could buy matching rickrack and lower the hem, then sew the rickrack along the crease where the hem had been.

Because they were dresses for a special occasion, they were not worn out. I think my sister wore some version of that blue dress till she was about 11 or 12…so at least eight long years.

When we talk about the blue dress, my sister gets a sort of pained look on her face and tightens up her body.   It is almost as if she is trying to get the memory of even wearing it out of her mind.

Her daughter did have a similar navy blue dress made by her paternal grandmother. But instead of flowers, it had the alphabet printed on it and apple appliqués. My sister had a difficult time even putting the dress on her daughter. She had a visual and visceral pain seeing her daughter in the dress. After that, her mother-in-law always let my sister help pick the fabric for dresses.

Because of the blue dress, my sister was against matching clothes for our daughters. Whereas some families get matching clothes for family photos, we never did this. We might mention a color theme, but NO matching clothes.

And when I think about it, I cannot remember seeing my sister wear navy blue dresses even today. The impact and memory of the beautiful, yet horrible blue dress lives with her forever.

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Grandma Thelma Knows What She Knows

29 May

We always wondered how old my Grandma Thelma was when she celebrated her birthday. She insisted that she was born in 1906 and arrived in the United States when she was 16. This is a debate that went on for years, as her passport had her as two years older.

Her explanation was that she was so desperate to get out of Poland, she made herself two years older to get out. In fact when she finally got her passport and papers in Poland, the official said to her, something like, “I hope you have a safe trip and return safely.” When she got to the door, she turned around and said, “I will never come back here, never.” And then ran for home. Her happiest day was the day she arrived into the New York City harbor.

I have her passenger records from Ellis Island. She arrived as Tauba (Tova), from Boleslawiec, Poland, on November 7, 1922. An 18 year-old, single female, she traveled by herself on the Gothland from Antwerp, Belgium.

Grandma reinvented herself to Thelma. She stopped using the name Tova except in synagogue.

She lived with relatives, her Aunt Gussie, her father’s sister, had agreed to sponsor Grandma. Aunt Gussie had four children, three boys and a girl. But the stories Grandma told always revolved around the cousin who was her age, Katie, who was treated as a queen. While my Grandma said she was treated as the “deinst,” the maid. She had to work all day, go to the school at night, and then when she was in the apartment clean and work for her board.

When Katie would have her friends over, they would tease my grandmother because she was a “greener.” My grandmother also had to ‘serve’ them, and was not allowed to really just sit and visit. It made my Grandma mad, as many of Katie’s friends were also once “greeners.” It also made her mad to be treated like that when she was family. However, she and Katie did become friends, because despite everything, they liked each other.

It was a difficult life made more difficult because her Aunt Gussie wanted her to marry an old widowed man with children. And Grandma did not want to marry him. She had met my grandfather, Nathan (Nissin) who was a baker and either four or six years older than her (depending on the birth year accepted). My sister and I think one reason Grandma and Katie became firm friends is that she helped my Grandma in her romance with Grandpa.

This became a battle with Aunt Gussie. My grandmother took matters into her own hands by writing her father, Avraham Shlomo, in Poland.   She told him about her love for Nathan and the pressure from Aunt Gussie to marry the other man. My great grandfather did what any good Jewish father would do for his daughter, he investigated Grandpa’s family; found out they were a good family of Cohen descent, and approved the marriage. When the letter arrived from Poland, my grandmother got her way, and married my grandfather.

 

Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat in their wedding finery. Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat in their wedding finery.

Grandma always kept in touch with Katie. Throughout their lives, they did not see each other, but they wrote many letters. We remember whenever a Katie letter arrived in the Catskills, Grandma sat down and read it. They were always in Yiddish. And then Grandma wrote her a many-paged response. Although Grandma loved her cousin, Katie, she never forgave Aunt Gussie for the harsh treatment. It was difficult because she was also always grateful that her aunt had sponsored her to come to the United States and gave her a place to live, however begrudgingly.

In the meantime, my Grandpa and his Uncle Yidel (Julius) had a bakery. Their business grew. At some point they decided to separate. Uncle Yidel stayed in New York, while Grandma and Grandpa moved to New Jersey and opened their own bakery.

My Grandma was a shrewd businesswoman. She enabled the business to survive through the 1929 stock market crash. She had two children to support, but during the Great Depression she gave out food on credit to those who needed it.   She invested in the Stock Market, but at the same time she had money spread out in lots of different banks. I remember going bank hopping with her in both New Jersey and New York City. She would bring all her bank passbooks at the end of each month, to have the interest entered.

My Grandma is 36 or 38 in this photo. My Grandma is 36 or 38 in this photo.

Over the years, my grandparents became financially and personally successful. They had the bakery and the building it was in; they owned a small bungalow colony in the Catskills, as well as a winter home about half mile from the bungalows. They had investments. They had two children and five grandchildren. All was happy and well.

The memories of Katie A and her parents, as well as their treatment of Grandma, had stayed within my Grandma’s memories and were not really discussed until one day in the Catskills. A day I will always remember, because it shows you how small the world can be, and how connections make changes.

Both my Dad’s parents and their siblings were born in the United States. His mom, my Grandma Esther, was one of five siblings, including her brother Sam. Uncle Sam was a little different from everyone else. He worked for the New York City Port Authority, and he was divorced and remarried. I loved my great Uncle Sam. He had a great sense of humor and was wonderful with us children. His second wife, Sylvia, had a little yappy dog, who scared us all. She carried that dog everywhere. Aunt Sylvia was always perfectly dressed, blonde hair in a French twist. She expected elegance wherever she went, thus she did not like to come to the Catskills because she felt it was too middle class.

Her feelings might have changed the day they decided to finally take a ride up to the Catskills and see everyone. My father’s parents and sister and her family stayed at the bungalow colony owned by my maternal grandparents. So first Uncle Sam went there to see his sister and visit. Later in the day, he and Aunt Sylvia drove up to the ‘big’ house where my maternal grandparents lived, and where we had our bungalow.

Of course there were introductions all around so that Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat could meet Uncle Sam’s wife Aunt Sylvia.

When my Grandma met Aunt Sylvia, she said, “I know you.”

“No,” Sylvia replied. “I never met you before.”

I started walking with Grandma back to the house. “I know her,” she said again. My Mom heard. “Mom,” she said. “She probably just reminds you of someone.”

I thought it was over. No big deal. But a short time later, Grandma came back to our bungalow, where we were sitting outside. She walked up to Aunt Sylvia and said, “Sadie, you are Sadie. You were a friend of my cousin, Katie. I remember you.”

Aunt Sylvia…now Sadie, looked at my Grandma and said, “Tova, is that you!?”

And it was. They hugged. They kissed. They spoke in Yiddish for hours.

When Uncle Sam and Aunt Sylvia left, my Grandma Thelma had a new ‘best’ friend. They had so many memories to share.

And then my Grandma turned to my Mom and said, “I told you I knew her.” We should have known that Grandma Thelma knows what she knows.

This incident impacted my Grandma Esther as well, once she heard what had happened. From then on, whenever her sister-in-law made her crazy, she would say, “Sylvia…she is so hoity toity, but she is really just Sadie from Brooklyn.”

Thanks to my sister for remembering with me.

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Beautiful Skies Light Up Catskills Nights

27 May

“Do you know what weekend you are coming?” My sister asked, when I gave her the dates I planned to come to New York for my annual Catskill visit. “It’s the weekend of the Perseid meteor shower!”

“Perfect!” was my response. “Do you remember lying out on the grass to watch?”

The night sky in the Catskills is so beautiful. No city lights block out the view. The nights are so quiet and so dark, (and sometimes scary), it makes watching the sky and the stars special.

In the Catskills, it is crisp and cool when the sun goes down. We often spent the nights sitting out on the wooden lawn chairs watching the sky, while wrapped in woolen blankets. Sometimes we would put blankets on the ground so we could look straight up at the sky. This gave us a much better view. But the grass was often damp at night, so my Mom had to give the okay to get some blankets wet.

Watching the sky during the second week of August was our favorite time. How many meteors would we see? Who would see the first one? How late would we be allowed to stay up to watch? How many nights would we actually be able to see the meteors? Although August 12 is the most active night for shooting stars, they appear for a few nights before and after.

I also remember my Dad pointing out man-made satellites and telling us how we could tell the difference between them and shooting stars. (Man-made satellites move steadily through the sky, while shooting stars go quickly and then disappear.)

When we had our own children and started taking them to the Catskills, we shared the love of the night sky and taught them to count the shooting stars. We loved passing along this tradition to our children. Sitting out on a wooden chair with a child in your lap is so warm and wonderful.

Occasionally, when we were little in the 1960s and 1970s, we were also able to see the aurora borealis. It did not happen often, but every once in a while, to the north, those greenish yellow lights would shoot up to the sky from behind the trees, or so it seemed.

I still remember the first time I really understood what it was when I saw them. I was about ten years old. And one evening, while looking for shooting stars, I noticed a yellowish glow above the line of trees. I was worried; was it a fire? The adults assured me it was not fire, instead it was the Northern Lights, the aurora borealis lighting the sky. I still remember the sight of the dancing green and yellow lights above the trees. This is the spot where, in the future, we would normally see them. I remember at night always turning to this spot on our property to look for the lights.

Whenever I see the aurora borealis, and I have seen it several times in my adult life, I always think of one of my favorite stories about my sister’s husband. Let me set the stage:

The first point is that my sister’s son was a very fussy baby at times. He did his best sleeping when being driven in a car. My sister and her husband spent many hours driving my nephew’s first six months of life.

The second point is that my sister’s husband had not spent his childhood summers in the Catskills, so had no true experience with the night sky. He was a metropolitan New York, Long Island boy, who had never seen the northern lights.

That is the setting. Now the story:

One night, when their son was being fussy, my sister and her husband took their baby for a drive in the Kauneonga Lake, Bethel, Swan Lake area, part of the time along old 17B. My brother in law kept driving and driving and driving, for quite a long time, along the dark, hilly, curving roads. Finally my sister asked, “Where are you going?”

“I am going to drive to those lights…to that city,” he responded.

My sister knew there was no city there. And those were definitely not the lights of any city.

“You will be driving for a very long time,” she told him. “Those are the Aurora Borealis.”

He had no idea that we could see them in the Catskills. He was mildly incredulous, but he did turn around and head back to my parent’s home.

We had been getting worried. It was the time before cell phones, so all we could do is wait for them to return. My father considered calling the state troopers. But they returned before the call was made.

When they got back, and my sister told us what happened, we loved it! Even better, my nephew continued sleeping.

I still love that story!

My husband did not have that problem. He recognizes the aurora borealis. He studied astrophysics and quantum mechanics at Cal Tech (in Pasadena, California) for two years of undergrad before he changed his major and his college. But his interest in the night sky started when he was very young, when he was growing up in St. Louis.   His Dad told me how he took my husband to classes at the St. Louis McDonnell Planetarium when he was a boy. And my husband told me how his Dad slept through the presentations. But at least his Dad went with him.

My husband’s interest in astronomy made the beautiful night skies an added attraction and enjoyment during his visits to our home in Kauneonga Lake. When he came up, he would set a blanket out on the grass at night and star gaze for hours. When our children were old enough, he would take them outside to watch the sky with him. They would stay out there for hours wrapped in blankets.

My children learned the name of the stars and the constellations at an early age. They also learned at a young age that Dad would wake them up in the middle of the night if there was something interesting going on in the sky. In the Catskills it was easy to see these special sky events, which made them much more fun.

There might more lights on in the Catskills at night now. But it is still dark enough to enjoy the night sky and the meteor showers. I cannot wait to see them this year. I wish everyone happy star gazing!

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Man Versus Squirrel: Devastation, Disaster, Depression and Destruction of Dreams

18 May

Since the moment we moved into our home 29 years ago, my husband has been in a silent battle with the squirrels that share our land.

Squirrel=proof bird feeders and flower boxes

Squirrel-proof bird feeders and flower boxes

It started simply. We wanted to feed the birds. There are beautiful trees in our backyard, including a mulberry tree, which attracted the birds. But we wanted to help them in the fall and winter. So my husband wanted to put bird feeders on the deck. His first ones were failures. Within minutes of the bird food entering the feeder, they were emptied. Not by birds, but by squirrels. Over a two-year period, my husband tried every type of birdfeeder and squirrel baffle.   Finally he found the bird feeders we have now. The squirrels can no longer get to the bird food. The only problem now is how quickly the birds eat the food!

His second issue with the squirrels revolved around our flower boxes. We have nine flower boxes adorning our deck. Each fall the squirrels bury walnuts in the flower boxes. Then they make a mess digging them up, throwing dirt everywhere. In the spring they often dig up the first flowers we plant. This is annoying, but there is really nothing my husband can do to stop the behavior. So he has learned to live with it, and just replants the flowers.

Issue number three caused quite a battle. Each spring my husband would plant tomatoes.   He would nourish them and watch them grow from tiny yellow flowers into little green tomatoes, until finally they were large and ripe enough to eat. We used to keep them on the vine until they turned red. BIG mistake. The squirrels would pick those red tomatoes, take one bite out of them, and then leave them on the deck right outside our kitchen atrium doors so that we could see the ruined tomato! It was so frustrating.

My husband dealt with in a mature way.   He started planting cherry tomatoes. Even if the squirrels ate a few; even if they took a bite or two, they still were not wasting an entire large tomato. Also, with cherry tomatoes, there were always some for us. Additionally, he started picking the tomatoes before they were totally red, and we let them ripen in the house.

But this final battle has devastated my husband. It has been a pitiful and emotional week.

We found out last year that the ash borer has entered our state. This is disturbing to us because we have eight beautiful ash trees on our property. The word from local arborist is that within five years all the ash trees might be dead. We have already suffered from the destruction of the elm trees. So my husband decided he would take proactive measures. He would start growing trees now.

He first planted a maple from seed. And it grew! He was so excited, he decided on another challenge. He really likes oak trees. So last fall, during one of our walks, he picked up acorns from the ground near an oak tree. He selected the best acorns he could find and brought them home.

After much research, he put these acorns into a zip lock bag with a bit of water, and kept them in our refrigerator all winter. He would check on them, add water when needed, and nurture them.

In mid March, he took the acorns outside and planted them in our flower boxes. He covered each box with the heavy metal tops to our outside tray tables. The trees could get water and light, and had room to grow. The metal screens kept the squirrels out.

Every single day after work, he would go out side to tend and speak to his acorns. And then, miraculously saplings appeared: six baby oak trees. He was so excited. He told all his friends his plans to replace our ash trees with the oak trees that he was growing from seed.

Slowly they grew to about six to eight inches high.   He decided it was time to make a change. They all had leaves on them. So he took them out of the flower boxes, away from their protective metal screens, and planted them in individual, deeper pots.

He continued to visit them each day after work. He was beyond excited.

Yesterday, the routine changed.

He came home and went outside to check on his trees. He was only out for a moment, when he came back in and flopped on a chair. I could see the dejection in his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Gone. They are all gone. My trees are gone. “

The squirrels had taken each and every acorn seed; dug them up and ate them. Besides that, they had stripped each little sapling of all of its leaves: leaving devastation, disaster, depression and destruction of dreams.

My husband was beyond comforting. He had nurtured and nourished those saplings. Now all his work was destroyed.

I was so sorry for him. It was the saddest I have seen him in a long time.
“Perhaps you can try again next year,” I said.

“No. I am done. I never thought they would eat them once the saplings were this big. I am done,” he said as he pouted in distress.

“Okay,” I responded. “But at least your maple tree is okay.   Perhaps you can grow more maple trees.”

“No, I don’t have the energy to do this again. I am done,” he replied. “I guess we are just going to have to buy new trees.”

The squirrels have won this battle.

 

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How My Grandparents Impacted My Life

15 May

 

Summer of 1979 in the Catskills. Eight months before my wedding.

Summer of 1979 in the Catskills. Eight months before my wedding.

I am so fortunate to have had all four of my grandparents walk down the aisle at my wedding! Two of them were alive when my daughter was born, and knew her. And one of my grandparents survived and knew my son as well. They had a major impact on my life, especially since I spent every summer in the Catskills with all four of my grandparents near by.

My Grandpa Harry, born in 1888 or 1889, was my oldest grandparent. He did not have the easiest childhood. The oldest of five children, he spent two years as a teen searching for his father who abandoned the family. He found him in Seattle, Washington, quite far from his family in New York City. Grandpa returned home, became a tailor and supported his family. All of his siblings graduated college, a feat for women of the time. And Grandpa supported them. The saddest part is that after they were college educated, they treated Grandpa as if he was not quite good enough for them.

I took sewing classes beginning when I was 14, and Grandpa and I started to really talk! He was proud of the things I made and would check the seams and my work. Grandpa taught me how to match plaids, not an easy thing to do. But from him I learned that to make something well, you need to take the time and effort to make it nice. To this day, I cannot buy clothing where the plaids or lines do not match up.

My favorite memory of Grandpa Harry was his guarding the sweet table every holiday. My Grandma Esther was a great cook and baker. Each holiday had amazing treats set aside on special table. Grandpa would sit at the end. I think he counted how much each of the nine grandchildren ate. If we came back too often, he would intone: “The Trolley car stops, too!” From this I learned moderation. You need to take a break.

(From my cousins I learned that there were extra treats hidden in the back bedroom.)

Grandma Esther was also born in the New York City area, but in 1898. She was also one of five children, and was surrounded by cousins. I have written about her teaching me to crochet and knit (See “Grandma Esther’s Afghans Wrap Me in Love” and “Knitting and Crocheting Brings Love and Memories.”) But she taught me many other important concepts as well.

When I was old enough to date, Grandma Esther sat me down to discuss choosing the perfect spouse. She had already dealt with my Grandpa Harry’s family for years, so it was not surprising when she said, “When you get married, you marry the family as well. So be careful. Check out his family before you say yes. Find someone whose family is like your family.” And I did. Almost 35 years later, I can say, Thank you!

The most important help my Grandma gave me was teaching me how to nurse my daughter. Grandma flew out to Kansas when she was 88 years old to meet my daughter. (My sister and her husband flew with her.) When she saw my feeble attempts at nursing, 28 years ago, she was shocked.

First she said, “Only poor people nurse. Your cousins’ wives did not do this.” My response was, “Grandma, they say this is much better for the baby. I want to do it.” Her second response, “Well if you are going to do it, do it right.”

And she showed me how to do it the right way. It made such a big difference. I then taught all my friends the tricks my Grandma showed me. Our mothers had not nursed. So we needed someone who actually had done it to point out the way.

The last advice she gave me was in naming babies. She was one of five cousins named Esther. And she hated that each of them had nicknames. She was Curly Esther because of her hair. But there also was Topsy Esther and Meshuganah Esther as well. I never heard the other nicknames. So she made sure her children’s English names were different from their cousins, even though their Hebrew names were the same.

My Grandpa Nat (Nissan) was born in Europe in 1900. He spent two years traveling to get to the Golden Medina, the USA. He arrived in 1920. Grandpa was a baker (See “Bakery Aromas Bring Back Delicious Memories.”) But most important is that he had a great work ethic, as well as a great sense of humor.

Every spring we had to help get his bungalow colony ready for another season. He would say to my siblings and I, as he handed us paint scrappers, “If you don’t work, you don’t eat.” Which is true. As an adult you have to have a job to get food. He was proud of our college educations. Having grown up in Europe and seen the treatment of Jews there, he said, “They can take everything away from you, but they can never take away your education.”

One of his fun, and my favorite saying of his, “It is as easy to follow a heavy cart, as it is to follow a empty one.” I am sure it is a translation from Yiddish. But it was his marriage advise meaning, try to find someone who has a little more assets. It will help in the long run. But all time favorite saying was “Every Pot has a Lid.” This might have been my Grandma Thelma who said this. But the main point is that everyone has someone.

Grandpa Nat loved us. His entire family, parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, many aunts, uncles and cousins had perished in the Shoah. (“Speaking Yiddish Always Brings Me Holocaust Memories.”) But he never lost a sense of humor, and he always showed us love.

But the most important person to him was my Grandma Thelma (Tova). She was born in Poland in 1906. Grandma was strong willed and determined; she came to the USA when she was 16, worked all day and then went to night school to learn English. She read, wrote and spoke three languages. And she was afraid of Nothing.

Grandma Thelma sang Yiddish songs to me to put me to sleep. “Ofyn Pripetchik “ was my favorite. Grandpa sang to us as well. Their singing of the Yiddish songs was so heartfelt. Grandpa’s version of “Rozhinkies mit Mandlen,” “Was itz Geven Ist Geven,” “Tum Balalayke,” “Eli Eli” and “Schtela Beltz “ still echo in my mind. He had a beautiful voice. My siblings and I often sang along with him.

Advice from Grandma Thelma was never ending. She and I battled for power constantly. She called me the Machshefah, the witch.   But from her I learned to be strong. I learned never to give up. I learned to trust myself.

When I was at college, she would send me letters with a bit of ‘gelt’ (money) so I could buy stamps and write back. Wherever I lived, not matter what I did or where I wanted to go, she was my ally. We could fight, but she backed me up always. When I needed to stand up to my parents, to be who I wanted to be, Grandma was standing behind me.

Her shopping advise was intense,  “When you buy jewelry, always buy real. When you buy gold, always buy solid, never buy hollow.” Grandma taught me how to sew jewelry into clothing, because you never know. She kept silver coins in every purse. And money buried in the basement. Her experiences growing up in Europe scarred her, but she was defiant and not scared. Luckily I never had to use this final advice.

I am who I am because of my grandparents. I think of them often with love.

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Remembering My College During Graduation Season

12 May

 

Walking through the balloon arch at Drew University graduation. This was in 2008.

Walking through the balloon arch at Drew University graduation. This was in 2008.

With the May graduation season, I always think of my own graduation. I graduated from college 37 years ago… I find that a bit frightening to admit. But it is true. I still remember the green and yellow balloons (In 1982 the colors turned to blue and green) that we walked under on our way to our seats. I still remember my excitement at graduating magna cum laude. I still remember that my grandparents and parents came to my graduation!

I loved my time at Drew University. It was the best place for me. A small liberal arts school, Drew is situated on the most beautiful campus. Large trees, quiet paths, lovely buildings, great professors all in one place, with easy access to New York City and an easy train ride home. I learned; I made friends; I found my place in life at Drew.

As an English major I had two professors in particular that had a major influence on me. Professor Joan Steiner and Professor Robert Chapman were my inspirations and both added much to my love of words.

Not only did I take Professor Chapman’s classes on literature, I also took classes on semantics and I was his paid assistant one year. He was working on revising his Dictionary of American Slang, and I helped. Dr. Chapman was well known for his dictionaries and thesaurus. He loved words and language. His excitement about words encouraged my love of language and words!

For the second edition of the Dictionary of American Slang, we had to find three references for each new word for it to be included in the dictionary. Each word was put on an index card…. no computers in those days. If we found a new word in a printed reference, we started a card with the referenced article. I had to do a lot of reading of popular publications: newspapers and magazines.

My biggest achievement was the word “carpool.” I will never forget the moment I found my third reference in Newsweek magazine. I was visiting my parents for the weekend. While reading my Dad’s Newsweek, I found it. I was beyond excited.

“Dad,” I said. “Read this page now. I have to take it back to school with me.” He didn’t even argue when I ripped the page from the magazine.

I remember racing to Prof. Chapman’s office in the Browne Hall with the page from the magazine in my hand on Monday. That was it. The word could now be added to the files for the second edition of the dictionary.   I then helped with writing the official definition of the word. I walked on air for days after that. The two of us were so excited. Carpool was officially a new word!

I know it sounds strange now. Carpool is such a common word. People use it all the time. Mothers and fathers plan carpools with friends in order to take their children to school and sports and afterschool activities. Co-workers organize carpools to work. But in the early 1970s it was a new word. And I helped define it for the dictionary.

I cannot remember the other words I helped uncover that year. It is the word carpool that forever stays in my memory. I get a moment of joy whenever I see the word in print or hear it used. “Carpool” is my word! And yes, carpooling is also my word!

Most important for me, however, was that Professor Chapman encouraged my love of words and added to my interest in language. His discussions on the leveling of language and how languages change stayed with me throughout my time in college, graduate school and in life.

Besides Professor Chapman’s support, I had the support of my advisor and mentor, Professor Joan Steiner. It was her encouragement throughout college that led me to become an English major. I had started my college career focusing on studying psychology. But after my first few literature classes, I realized that my love of literature was more important.

Joan Steiner and me graduation

With Joan Steiner as my advisor, I was able to focus on English during my last two years at Drew. But more important, she help me find what I really wanted to be, which was a writer. And with her help, I focused on journalism as a career and went on to earn my master’s degree in journalism.   I kept in touch with Professor Steiner for many years. Since I live in Kansas, our contacts were usually holiday greeting letters. But once my daughter also went to Drew for her undergraduate years, Professor Steiner and I had a bit more contact.

I miss her wonderful letters. And I feel blessed that she was part of my college life and that we had contact later in my life.

I so loved my time at Drew that when my daughter was a sophomore in high school, I took her to see the campus during one of our annual visits to my parents in New Jersey.   She fell in love with the campus as well. But not only the campus, the focus on political science and religion was important to her. (A Methodist seminary school is also situated on the Drew Campus.) When it was time to make her college choice, she chose Drew.

I am proud that my daughter graduated Drew 31 years after I did. She received her double major in Political Science and Religion. She participated in the semester at the United Nations through Drew and participated in many activities, although she did not follow my major and goals in college. I worked on the newspaper, the yearbook and was a member of the OC (Orientation Committee). She focused on political science organizations, mediation and policy. She even interned at the County Courthouse working with domestic abuse victims. But she walked the steps I walked and loved the school as much as I did.

Her graduation also included the blue and green balloon archway that led to the outside graduation behind Mead Hall. And she, also, graduated magna cum laude, wearing the cords from two honor societies. We did not have those when I graduated from Drew.

My parents were once again there, as was my entire family: siblings and their spouses, and all the cousins. My daughter, as the oldest grandchild, was the first to graduate college. And since my entire family lived in New Jersey, it seemed important that all be at her graduation.   Afterwards we had lunch with her then boyfriend’s family and friends. It was a wonderful celebration.

I love graduation. I love the transition to another stage of life. But for my daughter and I, I am so glad that we were able to experience college life at Drew. And share a graduation experience 31 years apart.

 

To see the beautiful campus go to : http://www.drew.edu/

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