One day, while swaying back and forth next to my mother on our patio swing, I listened, rapt, as Mom, in her late eighties, reminisced back to her school days, when she'd washed her dress in the kitchen wash tub, nightly, and hung it to dry, so it would be clean for school the next day. It wasn't as if Jennie had only one dress. She had two. The one she wore to school and the one saved for special occasions. As to dolls, they'd proved scarce. In fact, she'd had one, made from a corn cob, dressed in scraps of Ella's yard goods. (Gosh, I really remember Mom saying that, but it seems too outlandish to be true. I mean, it makes more sense to believe that those scraps would have been sewn together and stuffed, thus fashioning a rag doll for a sweet, little girl. On the other hand, creating a rag doll would have taken time, whereas a corncob doll could come alive in no time, at all. Oh well, I guess that's one minor mystery, which will remain unsolved.)
This I recall vividly: I remember Mom laughing while reminiscing over her visit to the principal's office when she was in second or third grade. 'Jennie, while glancing through your records, I noticed that your birthday changes, every year. As that's not possible, I'd like you to ask your mother to let us know which one is correct.
When Jennie related this message at home, Ella consulted the current Jewish calendar, looked at the date upon which a specific holiday fell, counted back a certain number of days, and told her daughter that from this day forward, her birthday would fall on September 9th.
If you ask why Jennie's birthday had changed, every year, I'd reply: Upon emigrating to the new world from Russia via London, where Jennie had been born, my mother's birth certificate, penned in English, had been mislaid for many decades. As this had proved a tumultuous time for Ella who'd followed the Jewish calendar, which did not have the same number of days in a year as the calendar used round the world, she'd tracked the date of her daughter's birth in a manner that had seemed logical to her: Jennie had been born a couple of days before that specific Jewish holiday, so each fall, when it came time to fill out her daughter's annual school record, Ella sat down with the current Jewish calendar, looked up the date of that holiday, and being unable to read or write English, Ella told Jenny which number to write after she'd printed the month of September. As big deals had not been made of birthdays, that was that, until the year when September 9th became 'official'. Late in Jennie's life, her birth certificate turned up, showing her to have been born on September 29th, 1913 ... not 1914, as Jennie had been led to believe, making my mother nearly a year older than my father, who from that time on teased her about robbing the cradle ... See what I mean about memory playing tricks, most especially during trying times when your think tank and mine are grinding away in hopes of getting a handle on tumultuous goings on ...
Jennie, being the only girl amongst her rambunctious brothers, had pretty much been ignored while she went quietly about the apartment after school, managing many household tasks, which, if she knew what was good for her, had been completed before her mother's return at the end of each tiring day. All in all, everything Jennie'd learned to accomplish had been done well, because Ella had captained a shipshape home.
While swinging, peacefully, side by side, I asked my mother how she'd felt about growing up in her family. 'Well, my mother was too busy to take note of me, other than instructing or correcting me. My father was affectionate but seemed to have no clue what to say or do with me. I'd felt like he'd belonged to the boys.' Then, wearing a small, pensive smile, Mom went on ... 'My father was always gentle with me. I remember when I began to smoke, secretly. I'd lit up in the bathroom, and my father knocked on the door. Though I'd lit a match to cover the smell, that didn't work very well. As I'd left the bathroom, eyes down, my father took one whiff of the air and quietly said, 'Jennie, do you have an extra cigarette for me?'
'I'd loved my father and hated to disappoint him, so that's all I had to hear. I never smoked in the house, again.'
'Did you feel loved by him?'
'Well, I knew he loved me but in a reserved manner. Other than the boys wrestling around, there was very little in the way of touching, hugging and kissing. We had little in common, so we rarely talked.'
'Did you ever climb up into his lap and just cuddle?'
'You mean when I was small? I can't remember.'
I can't recall Mom ever referring to her father as 'Daddy or Dad'. I can't imagine family life without bear hugs and laughing jags, endless, good natured conversations and lots of light hearted teasing. While Grandma Ella had lived with my family throughout my childhood, Grandpa Harold had died many years before my birth, so most of my questions had focused upon fleshing in his character traits from his daughter's point of view. Interestingly, retrospectively, I don't remember Grandma Ella ever hugging and kissing my mother. I don't remember her ever talking about her husband. Except for that story about flinging her apron filled with apples straight at him.
Mom never had a negative thing to say about her father, whose life had been cut short, because stints were still decades away. With a faraway look in her eye I recall Mom reciting this memory aloud: 'When I was a teen, my father developed a heart condition, which caused him to age prematurely. At the age of fifty-two he suffered a major attack and died. I was twenty-two at the time. After his funeral, I needed a quiet place to grieve while family and friends milled around the apartment. So, I'd wandered into my parents' bedroom and found myself in their closet, surrounded by my father's well tailored suits and crisply starched shirts. I remember pulling a garment or two off of their hangers and holding them against me before sinking to the floor, where I broke into sobs at this painful, regretful awareness: Just as I'd never really known him, intimately, my father had not known me, and now, any chance of filling that void was gone. I remember feeling so alone when that sense of loss welled up and poured out."
At that point, Mom paused, pondering over the past, and while my heart mourned for her irreplaceable loss, I, who'd felt blessed to enjoy close friendships with both of my parents, slipped my hand out of hers in order that my arm could encircle Mom's shoulder and pull her into my embrace while asking, 'So, where did you fit in, Mom? At Aunt Bertha's?'
'Yes. My cousins were like my sisters. Milly, Rozie, Ila and Betty. I couldn't wait to be with them.'
'But even then, you weren't one of the sisters, right?'
'Right. I really didn't fit in anywhere until I met Dad, and then, my whole life changed ...'
So now, you can see why my mother felt like Cinderella until she and her cousins attended a dance, where a prince of a guy swept her off her feet and into his car, circa 1941 ...
Next up: Love birds
This I recall vividly: I remember Mom laughing while reminiscing over her visit to the principal's office when she was in second or third grade. 'Jennie, while glancing through your records, I noticed that your birthday changes, every year. As that's not possible, I'd like you to ask your mother to let us know which one is correct.
When Jennie related this message at home, Ella consulted the current Jewish calendar, looked at the date upon which a specific holiday fell, counted back a certain number of days, and told her daughter that from this day forward, her birthday would fall on September 9th.
If you ask why Jennie's birthday had changed, every year, I'd reply: Upon emigrating to the new world from Russia via London, where Jennie had been born, my mother's birth certificate, penned in English, had been mislaid for many decades. As this had proved a tumultuous time for Ella who'd followed the Jewish calendar, which did not have the same number of days in a year as the calendar used round the world, she'd tracked the date of her daughter's birth in a manner that had seemed logical to her: Jennie had been born a couple of days before that specific Jewish holiday, so each fall, when it came time to fill out her daughter's annual school record, Ella sat down with the current Jewish calendar, looked up the date of that holiday, and being unable to read or write English, Ella told Jenny which number to write after she'd printed the month of September. As big deals had not been made of birthdays, that was that, until the year when September 9th became 'official'. Late in Jennie's life, her birth certificate turned up, showing her to have been born on September 29th, 1913 ... not 1914, as Jennie had been led to believe, making my mother nearly a year older than my father, who from that time on teased her about robbing the cradle ... See what I mean about memory playing tricks, most especially during trying times when your think tank and mine are grinding away in hopes of getting a handle on tumultuous goings on ...
Jennie, being the only girl amongst her rambunctious brothers, had pretty much been ignored while she went quietly about the apartment after school, managing many household tasks, which, if she knew what was good for her, had been completed before her mother's return at the end of each tiring day. All in all, everything Jennie'd learned to accomplish had been done well, because Ella had captained a shipshape home.
While swinging, peacefully, side by side, I asked my mother how she'd felt about growing up in her family. 'Well, my mother was too busy to take note of me, other than instructing or correcting me. My father was affectionate but seemed to have no clue what to say or do with me. I'd felt like he'd belonged to the boys.' Then, wearing a small, pensive smile, Mom went on ... 'My father was always gentle with me. I remember when I began to smoke, secretly. I'd lit up in the bathroom, and my father knocked on the door. Though I'd lit a match to cover the smell, that didn't work very well. As I'd left the bathroom, eyes down, my father took one whiff of the air and quietly said, 'Jennie, do you have an extra cigarette for me?'
'I'd loved my father and hated to disappoint him, so that's all I had to hear. I never smoked in the house, again.'
'Did you feel loved by him?'
'Well, I knew he loved me but in a reserved manner. Other than the boys wrestling around, there was very little in the way of touching, hugging and kissing. We had little in common, so we rarely talked.'
'Did you ever climb up into his lap and just cuddle?'
'You mean when I was small? I can't remember.'
I can't recall Mom ever referring to her father as 'Daddy or Dad'. I can't imagine family life without bear hugs and laughing jags, endless, good natured conversations and lots of light hearted teasing. While Grandma Ella had lived with my family throughout my childhood, Grandpa Harold had died many years before my birth, so most of my questions had focused upon fleshing in his character traits from his daughter's point of view. Interestingly, retrospectively, I don't remember Grandma Ella ever hugging and kissing my mother. I don't remember her ever talking about her husband. Except for that story about flinging her apron filled with apples straight at him.
Mom never had a negative thing to say about her father, whose life had been cut short, because stints were still decades away. With a faraway look in her eye I recall Mom reciting this memory aloud: 'When I was a teen, my father developed a heart condition, which caused him to age prematurely. At the age of fifty-two he suffered a major attack and died. I was twenty-two at the time. After his funeral, I needed a quiet place to grieve while family and friends milled around the apartment. So, I'd wandered into my parents' bedroom and found myself in their closet, surrounded by my father's well tailored suits and crisply starched shirts. I remember pulling a garment or two off of their hangers and holding them against me before sinking to the floor, where I broke into sobs at this painful, regretful awareness: Just as I'd never really known him, intimately, my father had not known me, and now, any chance of filling that void was gone. I remember feeling so alone when that sense of loss welled up and poured out."
At that point, Mom paused, pondering over the past, and while my heart mourned for her irreplaceable loss, I, who'd felt blessed to enjoy close friendships with both of my parents, slipped my hand out of hers in order that my arm could encircle Mom's shoulder and pull her into my embrace while asking, 'So, where did you fit in, Mom? At Aunt Bertha's?'
'Yes. My cousins were like my sisters. Milly, Rozie, Ila and Betty. I couldn't wait to be with them.'
'But even then, you weren't one of the sisters, right?'
'Right. I really didn't fit in anywhere until I met Dad, and then, my whole life changed ...'
So now, you can see why my mother felt like Cinderella until she and her cousins attended a dance, where a prince of a guy swept her off her feet and into his car, circa 1941 ...
Next up: Love birds
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