One should be able to control and manipulate experiences with an informed and intelligent mind.
~Sylvia Plath
My grandmother is a hilarious mixture of morbidity and humor. She has a line prepared for nearly every situation. Upon hearing that someone she knows is going to Israel, she responds, “Oh, really? I’m also going to Israel soon. I’m going in a box. I have an apartment waiting for me there on Har Hazeisim (a large cemetery in Israel). I heard the scenery is beautiful there.”
During the summer, Bubby is always sure to tell us that it’s so hot because God is reminding her of what’s waiting for her after she dies.
And when her freezer is very full, she says, “You couldn’t fit a cockroach in my freezer.”
Some of my fondest childhood memories took place in Bubby and Zaidy’s house. Sitting on the old green carpet telling jokes with my cousins. Playing with her bristle blocks and her toy gas station. Making sure not to touch her fragile glass coffee table. Watching her bake kugels and cakes. Trying to count how many plants she had in her living room.
I was always fascinated as I watched the chickens turning round and round in her rotisserie, or the vegetables sliding out of her grinding machine as she made gefilte fish from scratch. I can still smell her delicious chicken soup and hear the clang of our spoons against the old glasses she used to serve her homemade ice cream.
A couple of decades have passed since I was a kid. Nowadays, Bubby is one of the most active eighty-seven-year-olds I know. She still bakes and shops for her grandchildren every week. Every Friday night, Bubby and Zaidy are all smiles as their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren gather in their little apartment. They have somehow managed to live together with minimal help. Bubby’s sense of humor helps her get through the hardest times.
Some things have changed since my childhood, but many of my favorite things can still be found in Bubby and Zaidy’s house. My children know not to touch Bubby’s glass coffee table. They still play with the gas station that I loved when I was their age. The bristle blocks are gone, along with the rotisserie, the vegetable grinder and the ice cream glasses, but the feeling of home is still there.
My grandparents recently faced a difficult time when Zaidy needed a hip replacement. He was admitted into the hospital, leaving Bubby to spend her nights alone at home.
The day after the surgery, my aunt Rachel took Bubby to visit Zaidy in the hospital. Knowing that the hospital security guards require all visitors to present a photo ID, Bubby had prepared hers in her pocketbook. Then, when it was time to go, she accidentally took a different pocketbook.
When the guard asked to see her ID, Bubby smiled nervously. “I don’t have it,” she said, “but my husband is a patient here. He just had a hip replacement. And this is my daughter, Rachel. She has ID, and she can vouch for me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The guard waved her away. “I can’t let you in without a photo ID. Hospital rules.”
My grandmother stood as tall as she could while holding onto her walker. “Excuse me,” she said in a pleasant voice. “Do I look like a murderer to you? Are you afraid that I will murder the patients if you let me go see my husband?”
The thought was ridiculous, but the guard was not easily persuaded. He refused to allow her to enter the hospital.
Finally, Bubby turned to her daughter and said, “Okay, Rachel. You go up and see Daddy all by yourself. Take your time. You can stay for a few hours if you want. I’ll stay here and keep this nice security guard company. I will make sure he won’t be bored, and this way he can make sure that I’m not murdering anyone. Send Daddy my regards, and remember — don’t rush back. Feel free to stay for a few hours. The guard and I will have a good time together.”
“Okay, lady, you can go up this time,” the guard said with a huff. “But next time, we really won’t let you in without ID.”
Another victory for Bubby!
~Chana R. Rubinstein
