When I was a little girl, going to Grandma and Grandpa’s for dinner was a special treat. I looked forward to the delicious smells that greeted us at the bottom of the stairs making our mouths water as we climbed up to the little apartment on Lafayette Avenue. Most often it would be the yeasty aroma of homemade bread mingled with the tantalizing smell of roasted chicken or beefy pot roast. The homemade bread would ultimately be slathered with butter and homemade jam. A freshly baked cake (not from a box nor even a recipe), frosted with Emily’s very, very vanilla icing, would usually be sitting in the middle of the small metal table in the small kitchen. Baking, cooking and feeding us was my grandmother’s way of expressing love. And how I loved to watch her as she moved about her domain always at high speed. No slow-motion for Emily.
She was almost five feet tall, well-rounded and very soft. To be hugged by Emily was like burying your face in an old featherbed; soft and warm and welcoming. Her dress was always hidden behind a full flowery apron, and she always smelled fresh and clean, like just- folded laundry. Her kitchen sink was naked, with nothing to hide the water pipes and various cleaning items stored beneath. She would place me on a stool in front of that sink and wash my hands, gently massaging them with soapy water and drying them one finger at a time, a ritual that made me feel very special, expressing another unspoken, “I love you.”
Occasionally, these visits became even more interesting when Emily, who never failed to speak her mind, would undiplomatically note that something did not please her. Perhaps it was that her sons did not find time to visit their parents more often (probably the fault of the wives), or her grandchildren were not being taught good manners (probably the fault of the wives), or . . . well, you get it. This characteristic loose tongue could and did spark heated discussions between the sons or the wives, sometimes to the brink of physical violence. Then Emily would step in and shame them into apologizing to one another, even as she expressed her deep sorrow and disappointment that her children didn’t get along better. And, of course, “You’ll all feel better when you get some food into your stomachs!” Did I say she was a Jewish mother? Perhaps that is something you had already discerned.
Emily said that she didn’t argue - only “discuss.” But she loved a good “discussion,” and could generally get one going without much difficulty. She liked to play cards, and everyone knew she cheated so they watched her closely and she giggled like a school girl when she was caught. Raymond, my grandfather, and Emily often had heated discussions during the course of a game. He would boom: “Woman! You trumped my Ace!” She would vigorously defend herself and the game would continue, as would the verbal eruptions from time to time, sometimes in German to protect innocent ears. Most of us would say that they did a lot of arguing about minutia. But Emily, after Raymond died, swore that they never argued. Maybe she was right.
Emily was twenty-one when she came to America from Budapest in 1912, with her sister. Both girls were fiercely independent, well-educated and able to make their own way in Chicago where they settled. Emily was multilingual and found work as a translator. When she met and fell in love with Raymond, who had immigrated from Belgium in 1907, her decision to marry him severed forever her relationship with her family in Budapest. Raymond was Catholic.
Raymond and Emily moved to Mason, Michigan and purchased a small plot of land where they grew potatoes and other vegetables, and Raymond drove an ice-truck, delivering blocks of ice around town. When their family began to grow, they moved to Detroit where they could both work to put food on the table. Times were hard and money was tight. Emily did a little bootlegging during Prohibition to help out. Word has it she even played the numbers in those days. Providing for her family was first and foremost in her mind, and she would do whatever she had to do.
When I was eleven, my Dad took me to the apartment on Lafayette Street to see his sister, my Aunt Josie, who was dying. There, in that tiny bedroom, Emily cared for her only daughter as she battled liver cancer and there, she held her thirty-seven year old daughter in her arms as she drew her last breath. At the cemetery, Emily fell to the ground, pounded the dirt with her fists, sobbing and cursing God. Losing a child is the ultimate obscenity.
Years later, Emily cared for Raymond as he struggled with colon cancer. Raymond was tough and fought hard with the iron-willed Emily at his side. He died at the age of 75, and Emily lived alone for a few years with frequent visits to family and friends where she could always stir the pot to encourage a lively discussion.
When she was eighty, Emily moved into an assisted living facility where she found new friends who liked to play cards, and who may (or not) have overlooked her occasional “mistakes.” She made friends easily and lost them just as easily if they were thin-skinned. She had a zest for life right up until the end, declaring that she was too ornery to die anyway.
Some say I’m a lot like my grandmother, Emily. I hope so.
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