Shattered Glass

MARCH 25, 2020

I knocked down a very thin double hand-blown espresso glass early this morning while emptying some mugs from the dishwasher.  I froze as it shot off the high shelf and shattered, hitting first my cooking counter, then the stove and finally crashed its way to the floor. I stood paralyzed, horrified at the mess I just made. Shards were everywhere.

Of course, I was barefoot. 

I’ve been mostly barefoot since 1962.  My father moved our family to California, in part, because of how clean and temperate it was compared to the bitter climate swings of New Jersey.  Even as a child I could see it was beautiful here.  Early June, warm and everything so green. I was only 5 ½ but already I loved running around without shoes.  My parents didn’t argue about it, but it was hard for my mom to enforce my shoes when my Dad was also often barefoot. Asserting my right to bare my feet extended through Jr high school, where I’d often take the bus to the beach after summer school every day. Shoes were the first to come off, and after a day at the beach, walking the pier, I have vivid memories of filthy dirty feet.  I wish I could capture that girl now, the one not too worried about dirty feet.  Feeling proud of her callouses from summer days of hot pavement, not afraid of germs, or dirt, or even feeling dirty.  I know by the time we all made it to the beach, we hit the water and washed off whatever grime had followed us to the ocean. 

I can’t blame my fastidious and meticulous cleanliness on fighting breast cancer, and all that has entailed over the last 13 years.  I can only blame my father.

I think I matured and internalized the adult voice of my father; the guttural (and cultural) “ulch” a sound of great disgust.  Plus hearing him mutter “how disgusting” and other such derogatory comments pointing out the horrors of seeing other people who were, in his words, “dirty slobs”.  Even the tiniest stain on a tee shirt was met with disapproval and disdain. 

Message delivered, dad, loud and clear.  Wear clean clothes. Have clean feet.  Or perhaps it was the timing of my sudden boy craze that inspired me to shop for cute shoes and stop walking barefoot so much.  Maturity like enlightenment, can happen in big bunches.

Barefoot, and standing perfectly still in my kitchen, surrounded by glass, I look for the closest pair of flip flops.  Putting them on, I try to mentally hatch the best containment/clean-up plan.  I am not a good cleaner-upper in these situations.  Whenever I make a grand mess, my go-to joke is “well, it’s time to list the house”.  This morning I feel overwhelmed by it all.  And like I might cry. 

This glass is everywhere.  I feel paralyzed - the task at hand, potential deadly tiny shards of glass splintered all over my cook top, the knife rack, the counter, the drawer edges, the bar stools, and the floor.  How do I keep people safe? What if there is a shard embedded in the rush seat of my barstool and it cuts someone?

It was still early for me, well before 8:00am.  Today was a week post my last chemo infusion, my energy pretty low.  My only intention was one small task; empty my dishwasher and instead it turned into marathon cleaning, wiping and containment project. 

While I was cleaning my mind-chatter was loud.  SHARDS! Now into full blown stream-of-conscious-girl, I flash back to a time when Rabbi Klein gave a bicentennial speech and I was honored to provide some original artwork for her slide presentation.  I can recall vividly cutting up my art and reassembling to show these sharp edges, these shards.  Later I know I will look for that collage artwork.

More mind chatter back to my dad.  I realize it is his birthday today, he would be 90. I am laughing to myself thinking that if he walked in now, he’d probably still be wearing those crazy black glasses, plaid short-sleeved shirt with a pocket for his cigarettes he no longer smoked.  He would not be the roll up his sleeves and help me type.  He would likely stand at the doorway and point out shards of glass and other areas I may have missed cleaning. 

More than my kitchen mess, I would love for him to see his (5) grown grandchildren.  I can imagine his face turning emotional, his eyes filling with tears of pride. These (5) kids were the light in his life for the ten years he lived after my mother died.  Two of them mine, and three of them my sister’s, the (5) cousins still thick as thieves.  And now all young adults.  With jobs, degrees, spouses and adventures.  All independent but even so, I don’t think that would stop my dad from issuing safety warnings to all of us.  Trying his best to point out the stumbles we may encounter.  Where to be careful and of what to be careful.  Now I know that’s what parents do.  They try to protect and keep their kids and families safe. 

My dad’s top slogan was “Watch how you go”.  It was said at every departure, in the way some families say “Goodbye, I love you”.  “WATCH HOW YOU GO” the all-time family favorite chant, my sister and brother-in-law say it to me anytime I leave their house and we laugh. 

When we were young, my dad’s line was “watch Mother”.  My mom had a physical handicap from surviving Polio, and we all did our utmost to keep her safe and stay out from under her feet.  To be mindful.  And of course, we always “watched Mother”. 

I sweep and think some more about my dad and can picture his face smiling and laughing.  We argued and butted heads all the time, but the memories that stir are all connected to laughter.  We laughed often.  I’m glad my memories have softened to the good, the smiling, the laughing and the feelings of love.  It gives me hope that someday my own kids will remember me similarly.  With kindness, forgiveness, love and understanding.

The floor is now swept and vacuumed. My counters are wiped clean. I’m confident there is not a spec of glass to hurt anyone who takes a seat in my home.  The knives are all rinsed, the salt bowl emptied and washed.  Sponges and dishes and containers line my windowsill, soon to be soaked in sunshine. My kitchen windowsill has become the emotional autoclave of my home.  A safe space to further disinfect potential bits of corona-virus I may have missed. 

In the late afternoon sun, the top of my sanitized barbeque becomes an outdoor autoclave; all adding to my sense of false security and what I need to survive.  This barbeque sun-clave further sanitizes my broom, the dustpan, some Tupperware bowls, and the dog’s food bowls for safety sake.

All the sweatshirts that I wear to walk my dog hang outside from the gazebo.  Airing out in the sun, killing any random corona-virus.  I am obsessed with fresh air, “opening up the house” and airing things out.  It is reminiscent of my childhood in a vague way, perhaps my mom used to open up the house, to let germs out and fresh air in.  My own house, with every window and blind open, letting fresh air in, another sense of security.  I take deep breaths and open up my lungs.  I figure it cannot hurt.

Little did my dad know, when raising me with all his worries, that he would prepare me to be more careful, more diligent, meticulous and yes, a bisel mishuga (little crazy) about cleaning and washing my hands.    

My father led by example; every night we set the dinner table with a white folded paper napkin under the fork, Emily Post style, to the left of the plate.  Many nights my sister and I would need more than one little paper napkin, especially for a meal like lambchops, corn on the cob, chicken drumsticks, and the like.

Every night, when clearing the table, my father’s napkin remained in place, pristine.  He’d hand it to us, laughing.  Unused.  He ate with his knife and fork.  His hands were clean and meticulous as always. His nails always trimmed, filed, clean, groomed. Immaculate.  It’s a high bar but turns out its timely and important.  Glad I’m a clean freak like my dad. Glad my kitchen is put back together, and it feels safe and germ free. Glad my emotional autoclaves are holding up. I can use all the support I can get. And glad for that shattered glass and all the memories it crashed out of me this morning.  Happy 90th birthday, dad.  I miss you every single day.

###

The Aromatherapy of Comet

MARCH 15, 2020

 Scouring out the sink, I laugh to myself at how comforting I find the smell of Comet. Smells of my childhood. My mother’s sink was always spotless and being told to “comet out the sink” was an expression that needed no explanation.  I shake more powder out, wishing it was still green. 

While the powder is now white, thankfully the Comet-smell remains intact.  The smell of Comet bringing me memories of helping my mom.  She taught me how to clean.  How to dust the “right” way.

“Flori, wipe underneath the table’s edge.  And wipe down the legs, they are covered in dust”.  I attack our living room coffee table, wiping every single weird gold-leaf leg with a can of lemon spray pledge and a dust rag.  Then I finish up with Windex and paper towels for the glass. 

I’m not sure what you’d call that coffee table style. The table had a weird spray of fake gold-leaf florals, soldered to the base like a sad bride’s bouquet with petals as sharp as razors.  Impossible to clean without getting bits of paper towel stuck on every petal, and impossible to remove these bits without suffering a few good scratches.

A design aesthetic sorely lacking in beauty, this barely secured floral arrangement was always about to break from its perch. If my sister and I ran around the apartment, the floral bouquet would start to bang. It was early 70’s ugly. 

I’m speculating that the aesthetic concept was to have something to look at through the glass top, besides the green shag carpeting.  In my household that was unnecessary.  The table was filled with “tchotchkes” (Yiddish for nick-knacks).  There was a heavy green cut glass square ashtray.  A small metal coaster stand, I have to this day.  Candy dishes for filling before company arrived.  An antique French porcelain pink and gold cigarette holder, part of a set of beautiful smoking accessories.  Now I have all these precious tchotchkes, a lovely connection to my parents, my childhood and the 70’s. 

About once a month my parents would host a card game called PAN.  That was the time I really liked helping my mom to get ready.  In addition to the dusting and vacuuming, I would help her cut up the fruit. It was a work of art.  And a labor of love. 

She taught me how to make a fancy watermelon basket, carefully cutting the edge in a measured zig-zag before opening the melon.  And she showed me how to make fruit balls out of cantaloupe, honeydew and watermelon to fill that basket.

The fruit baller had a different size scoop on each end.  We used the large one for most of the fruit and the small one to get the last bits.  We’d cut up a fresh pineapple as well, saving the top to decorate the watermelon basket.  It was the Carmen Miranda of fruit bowls. My mom would carefully remove all the seeds from the watermelon, that was her love for my dad shining through.

I also had the job of putting a fancy party toothpick into the different pieces of fruit in the basket. Alternating colors of fancy toothpicks and fruit and artfully arranging them all.  I still have my mom’s fancy plastic party toothpicks, each one with a different colored plastic rose on the end.  I loved to help create these beautiful arrangements.  I also liked the dedicated time with my mom, feeling kind of grown up.

My dad would get the tabletop out of the storage area from the building’s laundry room.  This was a large octagonal topper that converted our folding bridge table into a PAN table.  Similar to a poker table, or maybe the exact same, I’m not sure. I was just a kid. The multiple decks of cards would be mucked (mixed) and placed on the special spinning deck holder.  Chips were sorted and distributed, and not a speck of dust remained on the felt table top.   Their friends would arrive around 8:00PM, and my sister and I would say hello, and then go stay in our bedroom.  It was grown-up time, and we knew not to bother our parents or their friends. 

As much as I liked helping, the gem of the evening was listening to the banter.  Borscht belt humor prevailed, and the dirty jokes and innuendo were comedy supreme.  Jewish humor and kibitzing.  Half the punchlines in Yiddish.  Some of it went way over my head, but some of it I understood.  My parents and their friends were hysterical and there was no better feeling than listening to a house full of laughter as I drifted off to sleep.

Back in my kitchen, nervous as hell about this coronavirus pandemic, I’m done loading the dishwasher and now it’s time to “Comet out the sink”.  And that familiar smell somehow calms me.  I laugh to myself and think this is weirdly Jewish neurotic of me, to feel calm after smelling Comet cleanser.  I miss my mom so much these days.  I think it’s natural during times of stress or when we are ill, to “want our mommies”.  I am back to having conversations in my mind with mine.  “Ma, it’s funny about the comet smell, don’t you think?”

I know many of my friends believe in aromatherapy.  Especially the calming effect of lavender and other essential oils.  But what about the calming effect of Comet?  I wonder about research on the smells of childhood.  Stream-of-consciousness-girl while she cleans the kitchen. The smell of Comet…breathe in, breathe out.  Maybe not so close to the powder. 

I’m thinking about the smells that comfort me.  What about the smell of brisket when the foil first comes off and all the love pours into the air? What about Potato latkes frying and all that they imply (Chanukah, presents, candles, gelt)? Don’t forget Peppered steak; the smell of onions and peppers slighting burning and the steak definitely burning! That smell was a sure sign Grandma Molly and Poppy Al were visiting from back east and making MY favorite Peppered Steak.

Our upstairs neighbor’s homemade gefilte fish; a smell that my mother loved, (me, not so much).  Reminders still the same; neighbors were family, and the smell of love and caring easily overrode all else.  And the Big Kahuna of smells----the smell of Chinese Food every Sunday night!  Just typing this sentence brings my Uncle Irv’s face clearly to mind.  A mischievous gangster badass type, he was one of the most generous people I’ve ever known.  Whatever our family needed was provided a week later.  He loved my family unconditionally, deeply, fiercely. 

Treating my family to Chinese Food every Sunday night, all 8 of us squished into that coveted back table booth, sharing dish after dish from the lazy-Susan.  Spareribs were my favorite along with sweet and sour anything.  The restaurant was jam-packed with families and friends from the neighborhood.  So much laughter, noise and the sounds and smells of happy times.

It’s late and my sink is clean.  I do feel calmer and realize I’ve made it through another day.  I hope for everyone that the comforting smells of childhood are enough to see us through the terrifying smells of this pandemic.  And as I wipe the counter, I note with a grip in my stomach that I’m on my last can of Comet.  In my mind, I lock eyes with my mom and we both smile and shrug.  Tomorrow is another day.

Easter on Pinafore St.

APRIL 12, 2020

I think almost everyone who lived in our apartment building on Pinafore Street was Jewish. I really didn’t know what it meant, except I knew that my family was Jewish.  I also thought that anyone with an east coast accent was Jewish - and that they were also my relatives.  That fact took me many years to sort out, and to this day I have an over-familiarity feeling towards any New Yorker. 

I was just a little girl back then, the years somewhere between kindergarten and second grade.  1963-ish.  I definitely have memories of cooking and celebrating Passover, being excited about finding the Afikomen. The brisket, the jello-molds, and gefilte fish.  Boxes and boxes of matzah; egg, egg and onion, and plain water.  Everyone had a preference. 

Anyone without a place to go was invited to Seder at our tiny apartment. My mother’s talent for inclusion was achieved by simply adding a bridge table dominoes style.  But this is not a Passover story.  This is an Easter story, my Easter story and some of my best memories right after we moved to California. 

Today, on Easter Sunday, during this coronavirus lockdown, I keep seeing my grandma Sadie’s face. She always looked and smelled freshly washed.  Her white wavy hair cut short and set so the bangs would curl down on her forehead. She rarely wore make up, maybe a little coral colored lipstick, her skin was good, smooth, moisturized.  She wore metal glasses and had clear light gray blue eyes. She also had the softest most silky skin I’ve ever felt.  I don’t have her light eyes, but I have her silky skin. 

She was very sharp, but quiet and not too outspoken.  She’d mutter a comment under her breath, but mostly kept to herself. She had a funny habit of holding on to her purse, even at our house, it sat clutched on her lap. I have that same habit too.  Grandma Sadie was quick to laugh and jump in on any joke, often in Yiddish so my sister and I would not hear the dirty words.  But I would nag until they told me the real joke.

Her smile was quick and tight; I think she was self-conscious and didn’t often show a big grin. But the feeling I got from her was a beaming smile, along with a look of pride and the feeling of unconditional love. She hugged often, and when I slept over at their house she often laid down in bed with me until I fell asleep.  I was her first born grandchild, and she was smitten with me her whole life. That feeling was mutual. 

On Easter Sunday, Grandma Sadie and Poppy Harry would come over with Easter baskets.  The baskets were huge; one for me and one for my little sister.  They were hand assembled and lovingly hand-wrapped in Jewish cellophane (saran wrap). I’m sure that Grandma Sadie worked on these baskets for weeks.

Because I loved white chocolate there was usually a very tall boxed White Chocolate bunny standing on the top of the basket. The bunny’s box had a cellophane window so you could see the actual bunny inside.  None of these details escaped me.  There were several foil-covered bunnies, the bunny foil-stamped and wrapped in side view. And several in flat view, all wrapped in bright foil outfits. So much candy!

Robin’s egg chocolates were buried throughout the basket.  Jelly beans, unboxed, fat and brightly colored hidden everywhere.  Milk Chocolate bell shaped lollypops that came in a flat white box where each lolly fit into its own slot. These milk chocolates melted in your mouth and I usually ate one of these first.  As a little kid it was one of the highlights of my life. 

And the baskets were so heavy! There were always plenty of pennies hiding in the bright plastic Easter tinsel at the bottom. I’m certain there was some Hanukkah Gelt (chocolate coins) mixed in as well. 

The true treasures for me were those magical sparkly hard sugar-eggs with the little window scene preciously cut out.  These eggs were by far the prettiest candy I’d ever seen.  I can remember studying them in detail, just in awe of the cuteness of the little baby animal scene inside the egg. 

I loved the little peek-in window meticulously decorated in pink and yellow piping.  The raised adornments on the outside, peaked dots and flowers and textures and swirls and it was all amazing. I would save the sugar eggs for weeks, and only eat them when they had dried out and were starting to break apart. 

We ate Passover leftovers on those Easter basket days. I remember having plenty of time to take apart, trade, show off, admire, count candy, count pennies and reassemble the beautiful baskets.  It was a mixed message delivered with ease and no commentary.  Matzoh and brisket, yes, Kosher for Pesach. Easter candy--definitely not Kosher for Passover. But we were little and never questioned the Easter part of Passover.     

I was 29 when my grandma Sadie died. I wrote out a small story about what she meant to me, and what I received and learned from her.  I realized that she taught me about unconditional love. The gift of feeling totally loved, accepted and not judged. 

Something hard for our parents to give; they need to teach us, and so appropriate conditions need to exist. But unconditional love is almost a natural job for the grandparents.  I can see my grandma’s face as if it was yesterday. I can hear her laugh, and I can feel her love.  You never know the gifts you get from other people.  

During this weird social-emotional period of isolation, how lucky that I am feeling so emotionally close to my grandma Sadie. That is more proof that love never dies.

###

High School

MAY 23, 2020

I had to get high every day in order to cope with high school and my parents. I smoked a lot of weed to keep my inner wild child from losing her mind.

All I really wanted was to be seen and supported. My parents could not relate to me; I questioned authority, I didn’t go with the flow, I was a rebel, I ran barefoot in tight bell bottoms and a halter top, I was a wild teenager who defied them with my “fresh mouth”.  I started most fights at the dinner table, the worst possible time of day for winning. It was my first time being a teenage daughter and I didn’t have a single “how to get along with your parents” book on my shelves. 

Every day at high school felt like a personal insult to my intelligence.   I still remember a spelling test given by Mr. Ash. “Spell Tentative…Tentative, the word that comes after Nine-tative.” And then he laughed too hard at his own bad joke. I’d been reading and writing since I was four years old. This was a baby class. Insulting. And I felt suddenly trapped.  My heart would race and I had to escape.

Taking the bathroom hall-pass I left the classroom and headed straight to the back of the school yard towards my escape route.  My usual way out was quickly climbing the full height chain-link fence. As my bell bottoms hit the ground to freedom, I heard the whoop-whoop of a siren and our school Narcs pulled alongside me.  I was busted!

They told me to get in the back of their narc car and they had to take me back into school and call my parents. If WTF had existed I would have said it to them—WTF? Call my parents? I’m a grown 16-year-old!

Instead, every thought I had was geared towards avoiding getting into that car. So, I did what every wild teenager does when she is trapped…lies. First, I burst into tears. Next, I begged them, “Please don’t make me get in the car. It’s too embarrassing. I promise I will meet you at the front of the school.  You can even take my purse. Please I begged, please don’t make me ride in the car. I promise I will meet you there”.

It worked!  They did not take my purse, but instead they followed slowly alongside me as I walked head down, long hair swinging over as much of my face as possible; they still hadn’t taken my name.  I walked my fastest down Canfield Ave towards the school.  Satisfied that I was keeping my promise, they sped up a bit and drove ahead. As soon as I saw their car turn right I turned around and ran my ass off the four blocks home.

My parents were at work so the house was empty. I went inside, locked all doors. I closed all the blinds. No lights on. I laid on my bed breathing hard and listening to my crazy racing heart. But I didn’t get caught and I didn’t get busted. Being wild paid off.

I rarely was able to stay in school for more than a week at a time. I’d ditch whole days, and then some days I’d ditch only certain classes.  Writing my own elaborate absence notes and forging my mother’s signature got years of my absences excused.

Until my excuses got too elaborate for my own good. Most of my excuses were routine. Cramps. A cold. Or a 3-day fever. Migraine headaches could go 4 days. But then my last forged note said I was absent due to strep throat and mono. I had to come up with something big to cover 14+ days out of school.

When she read my absence excuse note, the attendance office lady said I had to get a doctor’s note to bring in to clear me from strep/mono. They were such a pain in the ass. Where was I supposed to get a doctor’s note? We belonged to Kaiser. You couldn’t even get a doctor let alone a note. And even if I had a great Kaiser doctor who loved note writing, what I didn’t have was strep throat or mono.

By later that week I was called out of class into the girl’s VP office. This time I was both trapped and busted! As I walked in I could see MY mother-bear sitting there with a large stack of absence notes stapled to attendance records and she was opening them one by one, writing FORGED in green marker on every note that I had forged.

But much to the credit of MY mother bear, as she was opening these notes and writing forged across them, she was also scolding the girls VP saying “if my daughter felt engaged by her teachers, she wouldn’t feel the need to leave school all the time.” Grrrrrrr!  My normally calm and kind mama bear was pissed and she was taking it out on the school. I couldn’t believe my ears!

That jab resulted in them hatching a plan for me to go on work experience and from that time on I had a 4/4 schedule. Meaning I was still trapped at school for four hours a day, and then I got work credit and could go to my job for four hours a day. I loved working; I worked at a clothing store and the creative independent animal in me was so nurtured working there. Even with the 4/4 schedule, I still had to get loaded every single day of my life to cope with the insufferable atmosphere of high school. And to take the edge off the constant tension in my household. 

Every day on my walk to school, I smoked some pot. Except on days when our first period elective was bowling, or ice skating.  Then it was pot and Quaaludes. It was the only way to take the edge off my rage and to survive. Otherwise the wild animal in me might have done some irreversible damage. 

It was horrible not to feel seen by most of the adults in my life.  I felt invisible to my parents, and to my teachers.  Since graduation was approaching, and while I had this Invisible super power, I decided to get my records out of the attendance office. I felt the school didn’t need this evidence against me. I felt just the opposite, that I should have it as evidence against THEM.

I was so brazen, I just walked into the office one morning as if I worked there, and pulled my brown records file out of the file drawers, took all my notes, slips and report cards, and dumped the entire contents into my purse. Put my empty file back. Shut the drawer. And then simply walked out. I still have these notes in a Robinson’s gift box. Elegantly stored for 45 years.

They were part of a lecture series when my kids started high school.  Known as “If you don’t want to go to school, you need to tell me and I’ll call the office and have you excused”. The lecture began, “You two are not to become forgers. And I will be a moderately cool mom but if you take advantage of my absence excuse policy, I will revoke my offer”. This box of forged notes is somehow an important part of my childhood; they represented a pivotal moment, when my mama-bear taught me that you do not shame your child in public, you protect and support them.

And then maybe you punish them in private at home. I don’t really remember getting punished, I’m just wondering if my mom kept the whole thing quiet from my dad. The same way she left our shopping bags in her trunk, as my occasional ally. Maybe she was starting to see me for the very first time. 

In June of 1975 I managed to graduate high school with my class despite missing more than a third of all the school days for three years. Our class was so large that graduation was held at UCLA’s Pauley Pavilion. In that tunnel under Pauley Pavilion, while lining up with my classmates, I took a Quaalude along with hits from a joint that was being passed around. The atmosphere was excitement and also melancholy for all the goodbyes being said between friends. 

I was indifferent to graduating. I was emotionally indifferent to almost everything - it was the only way for me to cope.  I have a handful of photos from that day.  Me wearing a cheesy powder blue cap and gown and goofing outside of my parent’s house, with some of my friends.

Later that night, I experienced a very distinct physical feeling. I felt physically lighter, and I could breathe. My lungs relaxed.  My stomach unclenched.  The burden that I had carried for those three years of high school were lifted off of my shoulders. I think I felt HOPE for the first time in three years. Something huge had shifted and I was free.

I didn’t know it then, but that day in the tunnel was the last day I ever did drugs. I just never felt the urge or the need again. I was so fortunate.

I was also very lucky for so much beautiful reconciliation and repair with my mom once high school was done and I moved out. We both grew up. She finally understood and validated my experience. She made space to hold what I shared. We grew close. My wild inner child was finally soothed and my rage was replaced by love. 

###

Ketchup and the Beverly Hills Hotel 1977

JULY 11, 2020

I’d say “keeping a straight face” was the theme of planning my entire (first) wedding.

Finding a few fancy white dresses that I really liked, I was very excited to take my mom back to the shop.  As soon as we walked in the store on that crowded Saturday morning I realized it was not a bridal shop but a shop for buying a dress for your Quinceañera.

My mom and I were trying to keep a straight face while I, a 20-year-old Jewish girl, took several fancy Quinceanera dresses into the fitting room which was filled with teenage Latina girls. The sales woman was kind and brought a chair so my mom could sit. 

“I’m plotzing from this place” my mom says to me. I try not to laugh. We started our day at the snobby bridal shop in Saks.  There, the sales women were very snooty, and didn’t appreciate my feedback that everything they had me try on was too itchy.  Here, the sales woman was kind, even though my mom and I were the only two not speaking Spanish. And I’m sure my mom was the only woman speaking English with Yiddish seasoning. 

One dress in particular, was very pretty, and I felt beautiful in the way I think all brides should feel. It was off the shoulders and had layered tiers of sheer fabric. And it didn’t itch! Not at all! I sashayed out of the fitting room. Did a spin! Look ma, no bra! Big grin on my face. She was mortified at my loud announcement but at the same time she started to laugh. How much, she asked?  The dress was less than $200, which made us both very happy.  I was already getting a wedding at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I didn’t want my working parents to spend thousands on a wedding dress.

We did wind up going back to Saks and buying a veil.  I tried it on with my new quinceañera dress that I brought in with me. The sales woman’s nose was so high in the air all we could see were her snobby nostrils. But I didn’t give a fuck. I made a pig face behind her back and again my mom and I busted up.

The days spent planning my wedding hold very wonderful memories of time spent with my mom. She was enjoying being the mother of the bride and I was enjoying being the bride.

My favorite memory was when my mom and I went to the Beverly Hills hotel to meet with the banquet manager.

Back then there was just one person who was in charge of everything for your event. His name was Otto Bangamann and he had a very thick accent. He was barely 5 feet tall, or as my family would say, no bigger than a fart.  We had to finalize the menu, which gave our guests a meat or fish option. 

We were escorted down to Mr. Bangamann ‘s office. It was a very glamorous space, but small; I still remember the heavy gold metal chairs, with the faux bamboo backs, upholstered in peach velvet.  My mother could not budge her chair it was so heavy, but Mr. Bangamann being ever the gentleman, helped her get seated.

He then proceeded to discuss the menu with us. The one thing that stood out was my mother trying to explain to him how in addition to the very elegant dinner we were serving, we had to have Heinz ketchup bottles on every table.  Of the 10 tables of 12 people each, at least 60 of those people were flying here from New Jersey—Our East Coast family. My entire family has a unique affinity for Heinz ketchup.

Apparently, they can’t even begin to eat a meal unless there’s a bottle is in plain sight. And it can’t be anything off brand. It’s got to be the real deal. And it can’t be decanted into a fancy bowl because then it is unverifiable. And that is, of course, unacceptable.

Once I was out to dinner with my family when the idea that the restaurant was using Heinz bottles but filling them with off brand “catsup” came up. This started a table war with everyone patting out puddles of ketchup on their plates, dipping their fries and taste testing. My dad called the waitress over and my mom politely asked if they were filling the Heinz bottles with non-Heinz ketchup.  She looked mortified, going one step further and saying she had filled the bottles herself and yes, it was all Heinz.  She then quickly cleared all our ketchup-filled plates. And brought us the check. We looked at each other knowingly. There was no fucking way that was Heinz ketchup and we left.  My dad still left her a good tip. 

Back at the catering office Mr. Bangamann was looking a bit mortified himself.  Mrs. Klein, he said to my mother, I’m sorry, vee cannot have catsup on zee tables. Zis iss not done at zee Beverly Hills Hotel.

I look over at my mom and I see her holding her face so she doesn’t laugh. Kind of pinching in her cheeks.  Just seeing this classic move of hers makes me start to laugh. I’m terrible at holding in my laughter.  But I was very good at fake sneezing so I throw in a few sneezes. This odd outbreak of sneezes breaks the tension and gives my mom time to compose herself. And stop her face pinching. 

We do not wish to insult Otto Bangamann. He’s been very nice and very accommodating. But between his thick accent, and his attack on Heinz ketchup, I can see my mom winding up for a come-back.  “Mr. Bangamann, she begins, while I appreciate your position, this is our affair. We must have ketchup on every table. It must be Heinz. And it must be in the original bottles. One bottle per table.” I am now doubled over coughing trying to camouflage my laughter. My mother is back to pinching her own face. Wisely Mr. Bangamann moves the topic forward, to that of the cake.

 How many layers would you like on the cake? My mom and I look at each other— how the hell should we know? My mom asks what he suggests, how many do we need to feed 100 guests? He launches into a big explanation on layers of cake, and layers of people. My mom is again face-pinching.  I’m not even breathing, I’m trying so hard not to laugh. Next, he puts on teeny-tiny wire framed reading glasses and gets out a very long piece of paper.  Just the site of this long paper makes my mom and me both grab our cheeks.  What the fuck could this long paper be? Would he next don a velvet coat and play a trumpet?

He starts reading down an enormous list from the game show $100,000 Pyramid. Category: things you’d find on a wedding cake. Whatever he asks, we just nod yes.  It’s the best we can do.  We are mother-daughter cheek-pinching bobbleheads. Then he clears his throat and like any good game show host, he reads us back our answers: 
Layers - 3 plus topper
Cake - White
Icing - white
Beading: yes
Strings of pearls: yes
Garlands: yes
Dots: yes
Bows - yes
Piping - yes
Flowers - yes
Petals - yes

He suggests lemon filling. I say fine, thank you.  My poor cheeks.  If he doesn’t stop, I’ll have to start sneezing again.  Finally, his checklist is done, the ketchup dilemma not really solved but I can only hope that the message was delivered by my mother’s raised eyebrows.

 I overhear my mom talking long distance, to her cousin one night.  “Harold, you wouldn’t believe the aggravation we had with this pip, Mr. Bangamann.   He didn’t want to put Heinz out on the table. He kept suggesting that they serve it in a silver dish. I had to explain to him so many times that we need the facocktah bottles of ketchup on the facocktah table. I told him if he doesn’t have the ketchup on the table, my entire family is going to ask for the bottle so he might as well put them out ahead of time.”

On the night of my wedding the rabbi came to our room for us to sign our marriage certificate. While we were signing there was a knock at the door. Somehow, we accidentally had two rabbis show up to marry us. We also had a wedding crasher at our party, and not Owen Wilson. Bad omens? As soon I began my walk down the aisle on my father’s arm I started crying.  Another omen. Later that night I thanked my parents for a beautiful wedding. I say to my dad it was such a wonderful party - I wish people could get married more than once in their lifetime. I meant that in the best way possible, because it was such a fantastic party. 

In hindsight it was a terrible thing to say and the color drained from my dad’s face, faster than the money drained from his checkbook. Also, in hindsight, how was I supposed to know that I’d wake up one day and want a divorce? But that night of my wedding, the wild child in me felt tame.  I saw how happy my family was. I was finally settling down. With or without ketchup, I was turning out okay.

Reincarnation & Making Closure

SEPTEMBER 14, 2020

My mother always joked that when she died she wanted to be reincarnated as a French Poodle living in a Jewish household. I always thought it was hysterically funny. Interesting that no one disputed her joke.  My father never said that’s ridiculous there is no such thing as reincarnation. Instead they were many examples of the spiritual world in my household. Especially from my father.

He was always having a dream, a feeling or a premonition. One time they were going to a summer wedding, and my dad said he dreamt that the bride fell. My mom laughed at him, she was used to his dream declarations. Later that night, when they came back from the wedding, we found out that my mom fell!  She was wearing a light cream-colored dress.

My dad shaved every day with an electric razor sent to him by my Poppy Al, his father-in-law. Whenever the razor wasn’t working properly he say to my mom, Jude, we’d better call your father.  I have a bad feeling. Every time it turned out to be correct. My grandfather had a stroke. My grandfather fell. And each time the razor wouldn’t work until after the calls were made. It was super-weird but something they both accepted as “matter of fact” - the literal definition of that expression.

My dad was so superstitious, that he had a hard time committing to doing things much in advance. “Let’s see, he always said, let’s wait for the weekend to decide, let’s see what happens by the weekend.” Many times, he would shake his head no saying he didn’t have a good feeling - we shouldn’t go there. And then there were just as many times where he would say, “Yes let’s go!”

Sometimes we’d pack the car and head to “Vegas” where he was in superstition to the 10th power mode. 

Standing well behind the ropes and behind him at the black jack table, I could see I was bringing him good luck.  His stack of chips was growing.  I’d stand like a statue, watching, he’d barely acknowledge me except to see my out of the corner of his eye. He knew, that I knew not to move.  My special good luck powers were working, until the dealer said to him with a nod towards me, “is she yours, she’s nice.”  My father’s relaxed demeanor snapped to anger, looking like he might kill the dealer for making such a crude remark about his teen daughter. 

Cigarette hanging from his mouth, he cashed out and we walked across the Casino to play Roulette.  Once again, I stood behind the ropes and behind him as he played roulette.  A game of chance and intuition. 

My parents always played the same numbers; our birthdays, their anniversary and a lucky number 26.  It was fun to watch! Guess red or black coming up next, I was learning to feel the feeling and not to think the answer.

After years of being a heavy smoker, my dad did not get lung cancer but he did get cancer.

Towards the end of his life, his first cousin Marvin came from New Jersey to say goodbye to him. They were more like brothers. The kids and I went over to see Marvin and to spend the afternoon with him at my dad’s. They reminisced. They told us crazy stories of shenanigans from years ago.  And we all laughed till we couldn’t breathe.  Especially them.

On the way home, my daughter got very upset and said to me, “why are Poppy and Marvin just acting like everything is OK?”

I explained to her about having closure and saying goodbye, and that Marvin came to say goodbye to his dear cousin.  And how they were connected from early childhood on, and their way was through laughter, memories and not tears.  I explained that having the opportunity to have closure with someone when their death is around the corner, and to be able to say your goodbyes and reminisce and laugh is a blessing for all. 

The next day my daughter told me she wanted to “make closure” with Poppy.  And she wrote him a heartfelt letter.  And at the awkward age between girlhood and womanhood, my daughter sat with her Poppy in the big chair and read him her love letter. My dad wept as she read to him. Expressing her love and all her favorite things about him. I was not that brave. 

That prompted his grandkids to do the same; and one by one they “made closure”. What a rich life when your grandchildren love and adore you enough to tell you so before you die.

We had a soft-spoken male caretaker stay at the house when my dad lost the ability to walk. I would stop in and sit with my dad, as much as he would permit, the end was getting near.  Even then, sitting in the kitchen and doing art while he was in the other room, me just trying to be there with him--annoyed him. What are you doing in there? he’d shout. Nothing dad I’m just painting. Well, don’t start rearranging the cabinets. (For the record I have never rearranged his cabinets).

A couple days later I was sitting with him in the family room, his eyes resting closed.  Suddenly he chuckled and said to me, do you see them? See who, dad?  Grandma and mom, and the others; do you see them? And then he said never mind, bubby, you can’t see them. And then he smiled to himself, once again resting his eyes closed.

I have the same eyes as my dad; the same shape and the same hazel color. In the mirror, I can see my dad in my own eyes; in the best of ways and sometimes in the worst of ways.  When I got ready to leave him that day, hovering over his face for a forehead kiss, he again reassured me, with what had become his standard goodbye; Don’t worry bubby, I am okay, watch how you go.  Okay dad I said, I’ll see you tomorrow.

He died that night.

For weeks I looked for signs of him. Only once I have I ever seen him. It is not a vivid memory. It was evening and out of the corner of my eye he materialized, he was there, in my home, sitting in a chair. It was a sideways flash of energy - lasted a second. I gasped, my heart pounding. But it was him. 

I’m sure he just stopped in to check on me and the kids. And maybe to show me he was okay. Hi dad, I said out loud. Thanks for coming to see me and the kids.  We miss you Dad, and we are all okay. Give my love to mom and the others.  Watch over the kids, Dad. 

And come back to see me anytime. 

###

Polio and the Ocean

MAY 2, 2020

You would think that after contracting the polio virus “down the shore” at age 12, my mother would grow up to become a lifetime ocean-hater. But thankfully she managed to remain an ocean-lover. I’m not sure that she ever went back to that Jersey shore after her year-long recovery from polio, most of it spent being paralyzed and in an iron lung.

By the time she had married my father, at age 20, she was back in boats with him and back on the water. Her love and her trust in my dad was so evident by her return to the beach, to the water and eventually to them buying a small sailboat. 

My own earliest memory of the ocean was summer of 1962; we had just moved from New Jersey to California. I was 5 ½. My sister was 2 ½. My mother was 25 ½. And my dad a few years older, 32!

Although I never felt poor, I know that we were not rich. It took my dad over three months of being here without us, to save up enough money to send for my mom, my sister and me. He wanted to make a better life for my mom, one that was void of snow and ice. And it took my mom selling nearly all of our furniture and toys, leaving her parents, her friends and family, and lastly leaving her beloved baby grand piano - to pay off all their debt. She bravely boarded that flight to LA alone, with two little kids and $16.00 in her wallet.

After we were settled in to our new apartment, we took a lot of car rides on the weekends. Exploring our new home and what seemed like paradise, especially to my parents who were born and raised on the east coast. California was so clean my parents would often say. I was allowed to play outside barefoot, and my summer shoes now consisted of what we called “stickin’toes or zories”. Thin vinyl flip-flops in bright colors, bought cheap at Fedco.

I remember very distinctly our first ride to see the beach. We drove from Baldwin Hills to Santa Monica. I held my dad’s hand for that long walk from the parking lot to the sand. I’m sure my mom stayed in the car with my little sister. The walk would have been too much for her. I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit, but I was wearing shorts, and my stickin’toes. Walking towards the water, I can remember the bottom edge of my dad’s blue beach shorts, and the side of his thigh in my peripheral, and me keeping one hand on the hem of those shorts as we walked down towards the ocean.

When the parking lot and car were no longer in waving sight, I put my hand in my dad’s hand and I can remember being quiet for once, and taking it all in. He was silent, too. When we got to the wet sand I stopped to dig, to feel it, he said “come on bubby, let’s go down to the water”. I remember the smell of salt in the air and the power of the waves and the roaring sound with the spray as they crashed in front of us. We walked a few more feet, to stand in the water, and my grip on my dad’s hand tightened.

Standing next to him in the water, the strangest thing happened; as the waves came in they passed by us fast but calmly. But when they pulled out going very fast, I experienced the weirdest sensation of motion and I felt like I was moving sideways, away from him, and going very fast! I could feel the sand moving under my feet, but was I moving, too? I didn’t understand what this flying on the sand was all about! I was both terrified and in love, I screamed and grabbed my dad who started to laugh.

I watched a few more waves trying to figure it out. Each time I tried to keep my eyes in a place so I would know I wasn’t really moving. The water was not past my calves. I felt safe, until I was sure I was moving and I’d scream and grab onto my dad with both hands wrapped around his legs.

Again, my dad laughed, “don’t worry bubby, it’s just an optical illusion”. This explanation seemed to satisfy me, although as I grew up I realized my dad knew two technical terms. One was “optical illusion” - I’m sure due to his love for all Las Vegas-type magic shows, and the other was “super-imposed” due to his love of TV watching.

We must have headed back up to the car soon after the sand-flying, because my mom would have been waiting with my sister in the car all this time. She was physically handicapped from polio, so it would’ve been very difficult for her to walk so far in the soft sand.

Because of their love of the ocean, we wound up finding Mother’s Beach in Marina Del Rey. Back then in the 60s, before ADA and ramps and accommodations, you could park curbside at Mother’s Beach and the walk to the sand was short. Plus, that sand was densely packed and easier for my mom. My sister and I were happy playing at that little beach. My parents sitting on lounge chairs and reading the Sunday paper, I have such nice memories of our early days in California.

To this day I love being at the ocean; it is the only place I can truly relax. It’s where I can finally breathe.

###

Good-bye Cousin Florrie

JULY 25, 2020

There are crumpled blue masks on the floor in the back of my car.  It’s unlike me to be so messy but I’m scared I’ll accidentally put on a used mask and it will kill me. 

Speaking of death, one of my mom’s beloved cousins died yesterday. Like the rest of the first cousins, she still lived on the East Coast. Most of her first cousins, which includes my uncle, have remained close throughout their lives.  They even have a monthly “cousins club”.

In the past few months, this beloved cousin has had some episodes. It was unclear whether it was some strokes or seizures. But it was clear that she was not doing well. She and I kind of shared a first name. Her real name was Florence, but for as long as I can remember, she went by Florrie.  And it was pronounced “Flahrie” which to my ear was distinctly different from how my name is pronounced. 

Sometime in the last decade she decided to adopt my spelling for her name. It was another little bond we shared. Throughout the years we kept in touch via Facebook, or the occasional email and every blue moon a phone call.  

I get important family news in phone calls filled with information bursts surrounded by comedy IF the news is good. Bad news is delivered via early morning calls with cryptic and vague information.  All spoken in whispers and low hushed tones, as if the FBI was listening on the line.  

Overall, bits and pieces of family news morphed as in any good game of “telephone”.  I have to talk to at least two different first cousins, to confirm any story.  And if you are at the end of the line, as in Pacific Standard Time, the story was just that - a story.

Over the years, I’ve learned not to ask too many questions - literally no one was in the same loop! I learned to just “feel” the phone call, did it feel like good news? Bad news? Gossip or a cry for help? Sometimes I’d call my sister and we’d try to compare notes.  But, to be honest she didn’t have the decoder ring either. 

Florrie was not the first of my mother’s cousins to die. She was among the youngest of the cousins, or as my aunt said today, second youngest of “the bloodies”.  I’m not sure there if could be a worse descriptor of the cousins, “bloodies” meaning the related by blood cousins, not the spouses. All I asked was for the age order; was Florrie the youngest of the cousins?  It took me a minute when my aunt said, “you mean youngest of the Bloodies?”  But, it’s an excellent example of the warped and constant sense of humor, even in the midst of the Saddest Sad. 

Florrie was alone in the hospital when she died.  I have given a lot of thought to the subject of being alone. I’ve decided that I am not all alone--because I have myself. I have ME. I’ve also given a lot of thought to being alone because during this fucking pandemic, anybody going to the doctor, or into the hospital is guaranteed of being there alone.  This might also include dying alone! Dying alone is hardly the “dying peacefully surrounded by family and friends” or “dying peacefully in our sleep” that we all love to read, write and imagine.

When I think about Florrie, most of my best memories are from when we were all much younger and when her mom, and MY mom were still alive. That side of the family is warm, loving, noisy, musical, fun and funny. Maybe even zany.  

Florrie also had an amazing capacity for love; for being a caregiver, for being a nurturing mother and an uber-supportive wife. She was a giver, not a taker, and probably to a detriment. She was as funny as she was kind.  I know she will be dearly missed.

I like to think that in her last days, when she was alone in the hospital, she was feeling fully cared for.  I believe that the nursing staff during these pandemic times recognize the need for human connection, they recognize that patients only have themselves.  I like to imagine that Florrie was at ease, relaxed, and felt cared for.  I hope she felt a small reprieve and got to feel what it’s like to just let go and let someone else take care of you.

Last night during (online) Shabbat services, I said the Misheberach for her, a prayer for healing.  But what I was really thinking was that I hoped she would pass peacefully and without much suffering.  And that she was deep in rest and would rest in peace.  

### 

Moon River

JUNE 9, 2020

Songwriters: Johnny Mercer / Henry Mancini
Moon River (Sung by Audrey Hepburn) lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

🎵 Moon river, my parents sang, wider than a mile
I can see them now,
Judy at the piano
And Morty, poised from behind,
belting the words while looking over her shoulder
and reading off the sheet music,
a cigarette in his right hand.

🎵 I’m crossing you in style, some day
My mom’s graceful fingers gliding over the keys,
She put her whole body into playing.
Foot tapping, head moving, mouth smiling, eyes gleaming
Watching us watch her.
As usual, she was not reading the sheet music but playing by ear.

Classically trained, she played at the level of a concert pianist.
And she did learn to fluently read music, but she still played by ear.
It was a gift she both cherished and shared.

My dad, on the other hand, was not trained in any musical style.
He loved Frank Sinatra and sang along Sinatra style.
Morty’s smile and charm made up for what his voice lacked.
Judy, improvising her own touches,
and changing the key so my dad could easily sing along-
Off key

He sings out, smoke and notes
🎵 Oh, dream maker,

My mom sings-
🎵 you heart breaker

The two of them, smiling and singing together;
🎵 Wherever you’re goin’, I’m goin’ your way

There were many moments like this in my childhood.
Just the four of us, gathered around the piano.
We could ask my mom to play any song.
If she hadn’t heard it, we could sing it and she would pick it up and play along.
Judy the Beauty had an extraordinary gift at the piano.

Play ob la dee obl a dah I would ask. And ask.
Immediately we could recognize the snappy chords,
and the opening to the song-
🎵 Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace
Molly is the singer in a band
Desmond says to Molly, girl, I like your face
And Molly says this as she takes him by the hand

Dueling generations; my dad wanted showtunes.
I wanted The Beatles.
Morty usually prevailed.
Judy liked to please him.

Every day at 4:00PM my mom would freshen up.
“Girls, your father will be home soon.
Clean up all these toys, and let’s set the table”
With fresh lipstick, and perfume,
my mom was ready to greet my dad.
Dinner and my dad, both carefully orchestrated to appear every night at 5:30.

I still live a mixed message when it comes to men.
Fuck you if you think you’re smarter or better than me in any way having to do with being born a man. On the other hand, when I cook dinner and set a beautiful table, you will be served first. Old school. And you can bet I’ll have on nice clothes, fresh lipstick and perfume.

🎵Two drifters, off to see the world
My parents both sang this line, eyes locked and smiling.
It was obviously meaningful and private.
Maybe a reference to moving to California and their future dreams…

🎵 There’s such a lot of world to see,
Sang my mom, in a key far too low for her.

🎵 We’re after the same rainbow’s end, waitin’ & ‘round the bend. My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me. They sang the end together, loud, laughing and totally enjoying the moment. I can remember feeling a little left out. Looking back, I’m grateful they found a way to incorporate these private and intimate moments right in the center of our family. It made for a nice relationship and a lasting marriage.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of my parents in some way or another. And it’s true, love never dies.

###

Burnside Ave.

SEPTEMBER 13, 2020

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My grandparents lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of an old building that is still standing in the Miracle Mile area of Los Angeles. 

The elevator held 3 people at most; it always smelled somewhere between old people, death and formaldehyde. I used to try to hold my breath for the long ride up as it was very slow and old-fashioned.  

There was a noisy metal accordion gate that my Poppy Harry had to slide open in order to access the actual elevator door.  The elevator door was too heavy for my Grandma Sadie to pull open; it was made of thick metal and had a small jail cell window, complete with thick wire glass.  It was way too high for me to see out, I was around 7 years old and not quite tall enough. Sometimes my Poppy would pick me up so I could look out.  I suppose the window was to see out and avoid opening the door into waiting neighbors.   

Crammed into this smelly elevator, I stood between my short round cozy grandmother, her large purse, and my tall and slim grandfather, who was carrying all my sleepover stuff plus whatever else they had to bring up from the car.     

Poppy Harry was quite physical for his whole life and sometimes I’d take the stairs up or down with him.  But never if my Grandma was with us.  I’m sure that’s because she was not very physical, had a heart condition and already stood on her feet cooking and baking for their small business downtown.  They owned a luncheonette counter in an office building somewhere in downtown L.A. They loved their customers, most of whom were the building maintenance personnel.  And their customers loved them; an older Jewish couple from Newark, NJ who served fresh home-cooked meals for a fair price.  All the food for the counter was cooked by my Grandma in their tiny apartment.

And that apartment was very tiny. One bedroom, one bathroom, with a claw bathtub, no shower. One sink with separate faucets for hot and cold water.

They had no air-conditioning, no view, and their two double hung windows overlooked the back alley. It was clean and tidy and when I say clean I mean Jewish Grandma clean. Sanitized. Cloroxed. Cometed. Windexed and Pledged.

I’d say you could eat off the floor except there was NEVER a time anyone ate ANYTHING off the floor in the history of my family.  If food hit the ground, it was discarded.  And then the floor was cleaned, and your hands were washed.   

My grandmother who loved to cook and bake somehow made do in that tiny kitchen. Once I helped her make Rugalach (a favorite Jewish tradition cream cheese dough, rolled and filled cookie). We prepared three different fillings; raisin-walnut, chocolate chip and strawberry jam. She was an extraordinary baker and rarely wrote her recipes down.

Even as a child I could see how labor-intensive it was to bake. Cracking walnuts by hand. Then hammering the nuts in a baggie with her heavy rolling pin, so they would be the right size to mix with the raisins. The ten million steps for the dough. In and out of the refrigerator. Cutting it into triangles and carefully and lovingly filing each triangle with a dollop of something sweet.  The magic crystal sugar on top.  And the smell of sweet baking while waiting for the different cookie sheets as they went in and out of the oven.  I enjoyed that time with my Grandma so much, I can still remember the expression on her face as we baked. It was a tiny haven, her kitchen of love.   

I felt very grown up to be allowed to spend a night with Grandma Sadie and Poppy Harry. My grandmother was a night owl, staying up past 3 in the morning. When I slept over, I would sleep in her bed in the bedroom with my Poppy and she would sleep on the couch. He went to bed very early, around 8:00PM, so I’d get to stay up later with my Grandma.

In the morning we would go to Van de Kamp’s coffee shop and bakery and have breakfast there. I loved the big windmill outside, and the pastries inside. Orbach’s was right down the street, so we might stop in for some browsing. Back then, it was a long exciting walk, something I rarely did with my parents.  After breakfast and a walk, we’d go back upstairs and I’d play cards with my Poppy. 

Poppy Harry taught me how to play cards, Gin Rummy not Go Fish! He was a card shark. He could tell you what card you were holding and what cards were in the deck anytime we played. And he would get so aggravated if I discarded a card that he needed to win! He didn’t understand why I couldn’t remember all the cards in his hand, in my hand and in the deck. I was probably seven years old when this early gambling took place. Eventually he taught me rummy 500.  I loved playing cards with him, and despite my young age, I’d sometimes win fair and square. Even though he had the deck memorized, I still had luck!

After cards, he’d sit back in his recliner chair to read the Sunday paper.  It was the set up for a coin hunt.  As soon as he would get up from the recliner, my grandmother would say, “hurry--go and see what fell out of his pockets” and I would run to the chair and search the crack and there would be pennies and nickels and dimes that had “fallen out” of his pockets. I would gather up all those coins and my grandmother would ask me how much I got.  And if she didn’t think it was enough, she’d yell at my grandfather in Yiddish to give me more money. 

All in all, I might have collected a dollar or two.  And sometimes my grandma made a secret with me about keeping the money and don’t tell Poppy how much I found. But everybody was in on the secret. Still it was very exciting to have a pocket full of coins when I left my sleep-over at their house.

Another classic story was the time Poppy Harry accidentally cooked some money.  My grandmother hid money all over their apartment.  Including a couple hundred dollars in a paper bag, in their oven.  I’m not sure why she hid money all over the apartment, on rare occasion the super needed access to fix something, they were required to let her know.  But I think she worried that they would come in when she was gone.  Anyhow, being the only cook in the family, I guess she felt safe with her money hiding in her oven. Of course, until that one day my grandfather came up first and turned on the oven.  

Suddenly she smells smoke and realized her money was burning, she began screaming!  “Harry what did you do?” They quickly turned off the oven and pulled out the charred bag of bills.   Of course, my grandfather was aggravated - neither of them had money to burn. For Christ-sakes he would mutter and for cryin’ out loud! He didn’t know there was money in the oven! Oy, my grandmother yelled at him, taking her anger out on him, not muttering but yelling. And usually cursing and most often in Yiddish. 

And he grimaced every time she yelled. I hated it when that yelling went on between them. They were both pretty quiet most of the time. But burning money, well, he’s lucky she didn’t kill him. The story had a happy ending.

Since they had a good relationship with their bank, and were honest people, the bank was able to reimburse them for whatever amount my grandmother told them burned along with the bits and pieces of the charred dollar bills. Thankfully that was the last time she hid money in the oven.

My grandparents were extremely hard workers. One day my grandfather collapsed in the apartment and my grandmother called an ambulance. He was rushed to Cedars of Lebanon, back when the hospital was still up on sunset. He had a bleeding ulcer and he had emergency surgery to stop the bleeding. Along with a blood transfusion. After that, he seemed to rebound and I imagine the tremendous stomach pain he quietly endured had resolved. Shortly after that my parents insisted that they retire. 

When my grandmother was diagnosed with “stomach cancer” there was very little shared with me at the time. She didn’t last very long and my father decided not to tell her she had cancer.  I was already in my early 20s and went to sit with her at the hospital following a surgery. She was very sick. When I arrived she was sitting on a chair by the nurses station, because she was very agitated from the anesthesia after surgery. The nurses found that she was calmer if she could just sit in a chair near their station. She recognized me and was glad for my company.  But she made a small continuous sound of pain. My heart broke to see her suffering.  We made our way back to her room and I sat with her until my Poppy arrived.  That was at the new Cedars-Sinai on Beverly Blvd.

When they sent her home, I was not privy to the discussions with the doctors. My father, their only child, was in charge. I wish I had asked more questions. I remember disagreeing with my dad about not telling her, but he was adamant that she not be told she had terminal cancer. Probably pancreatic, if I had to guess. I would call her every single evening, but she was in so much pain and suffering. She didn’t last long thankfully and after she died, my parents moved my grandfather into a senior living center that was close to their house.  

When I went to help my dad close up my grandparent’s apartment, I checked every pocket of every house-dress, every nook, corner, cranny, every purse, and every drawer - THERE WAS MONEY EVERYWHERE!  Not millions but a few thousand cash. It was a good amount of mad money!

My grandparents grew up in New Jersey. And during the depression, my grandfather who had a milk and bread delivery route, was also running numbers.  He was a “bookie” plus the family was running poker games.  They needed to survive and they managed to make money to feed themselves and their family. 

My tall thin quiet poppy, was a total badass in his youth. Including getting caught with his book, which was thought to be a set up, so he had to do jail time! These fascinating facts were not readily shared and quite honestly hard to imagine. Poppy Harry was just so quiet. So not only was he arrested and served some jail time. Poppy Harry’s brother in law, Sam Van Poznak, spoke to the judge and managed to get him out of jail. 

My Poppy lived a very long time, well into his 90s, his heart was so strong and he was so physically fit. For as long as I could remember, he took super long walks. And he would hold onto both sides of our stair railing and swing back-and-forth. This was a trick he performed for anyone passing by.  He taught me how to whistle thorough my fingers; first using two fingers from both hands and then how to use one hand, forming a circle with my thumb and middle finger.  I can hail a cab New York style thanks to him.  He was quiet but generous.  Quiet but funny.  He loved the fights and when cable first started I would order the games so he could watch. 

He’d sit directly in front of the tv and swing his arms as if he was punching.  Yet I never saw him swing at another person.  Eventually he needed more than a senior living home, and my parents moved him to a group home run by a lovely Filipino family, out in the valley.  He had his own room and he seemed pretty happy.  They ran the home as if everyone was part of a family, celebrating birthdays and holidays. My grandfather did well there until his peaceful death well into his late 90’s.