Reminiscences of Grandparents and Special Elders

In the simplest ways, my grandmother mended my soul. She was the smartest person I knew. She read at least one book a day. I sat and read with her. She loved mysteries. So did I. She could answer all of the questions on Jeopardy. I thought that an old woman could know everything. She looked like an old lady. Old ladies knew how to dress then. They had special black, old lady, lace-up shoes, not the running shoes grandmas favor today. Sometimes she let me tie her shoes. In this way, I helped her. She had beautiful handwriting. Thirty years after her death I can remember her shopping list, composed in her ornate curves: beets, mixed vegetables, cottage cheese.

My grandmother used to have a stool in her kitchen, a little rickety, three-stepped thing meant to help her reach the shelves. For me, though, it was a throne. "Keep me company", she would say, "Sit right here." And there I sat, regaling my grandma with three-year-old wisdom. She'd laugh as she baked and cooked; I was her entertainment. And her pre-dish-washing batter licker. She added her own stories, too, of life in Europe before the war, of her brothers and sisters, her friends and aunts and neighbors, who all perished and vaporized. She'd talk about it like it was no big deal that her world vanished when she was 18.