My dad George started out as a good husband and father but sadly the influence of alcohol addiction squelched his personal and professional growth. After separating from George for a short time Elle agreed to get back together and they returned to live with George’s parents Anna and George Sr., both Russian immigrants. Had it not been for my dad’s growing drinking problem, things could have gone well as the couple viewed this opportunity as a time to work, save and rebuild for their future. They wanted to provide well for their little daughter.
My grandparents Anna and George Sr. lived in the city where there were mostly concrete sidewalks with only a few trees. Sidewalks connected the houses (unlike so many neighborhoods nowadays) and streets because neighbor’s lives were usually bound up with one another. One knew their neighbors and was never really alone. During hot summer months people moved outside in the evenings to escape the hot indoor swelter and enjoy drinking iced tea while passing time socializing with each other.
Today the sprawling suburbs have few sidewalks because visiting or spending time with neighbors is a thing of the past. Obsessed with productivity, we’ve become giddy with our speed of light pace. There is little time to move slowly or listen to someone else unless there is something in it for us- some bit of information we need or something we wish to sell them. Listening for its own sake is a dying art. The “ministry of presence” is an art that could use reviving.
Anna took care of me while my mother Elle worked during the day. Anna was one of the most industrious, ingenious women I ever knew. (My mother was probably quite the negotiator in the workplace but since she was working away from the home I rarely got to observe her in action.) My grandmother Anna was an amazing mix of diligent, resourceful homemaker and astute businesswoman. As I grew I was fascinated while observing her efficient, effective techniques for cleaning, ironing, cooking and dealing with customers in their family business. They owned the only neighborhood corner grocery store and Anna managed to do it all.
During my childhood I spent many days with my grandparents, especially Anna, and in their store. There are no recollections of my grandmother putting her feet up except for occasional television shows in the evenings as she got older. She married my grandfather when she was sixteen and her work ethic was sterling. My grandfather “Pop” worked hard in the store but perhaps since he spoke such broken English, he didn’t say much and it was Gran who was the life of the home. Since Pop came to American when he was sixteen and Gran when she was a bay they often spoke in Russian and I remember some words like the Russian word for “eat” because I heard it constantly form Gran as she coaxed my unfortunate finicky eating habits in her efforts to put some meat on my bones.
I still iron clothes using the same process as my Gran. First was “sprinkling” the garments one by one with water using her hand with water from a large bowl. Once the cotton item was good and damp it was rolled tightly to get the entire piece slightly damp and placed in the ironing queue. Then she would unroll one at a time and I’d watch as the wrinkled shirt body then the sleeves, collar, cuffs, pleats and shoulders were placed snugly on the ironing board in ways that made every wrinkle disappear. The shirt was transformed into a stiff, smooth work of art. While Gran ironed I sat in front of her and the ironing board watching her every move and the two of us talked. There is something comforting and secure about watching someone else work, observing their skill, especially when they are an adult and you are a child.
Gran’s house was always clean and orderly. People used to say they could ea off of her floor since it was so clean. There were rarely any bugs and Gran wiped up any mess as it was spilling. She preached to me that it was important above all else to have your kitchen clean and your bed made. If someone came into your home and you had the bed and kitchen in order (including the cleanliness of the kitchen floor) then you were a good housekeeper. This was a contrast to my other grandmother’s house (Mildred’s) which was cluttered, often dusty and home to kitchen roaches that quickly scattered anytime one opened a kitchen drawer at night when looking for a fork or spoon. I didn’t like the roaches but wasn’t afraid of them either because they were always there as residents sharing the house with us.
I remember my mother had some big heave ho cleaning days on Saturdays and holidays when she would tackle chores all at once. Only my grandmother Anna demonstrated how to maintain an orderly clean home on a continuous basis. It meant cleaning as you go (I heard McDonalds has this cleanup philosophy), putting things away when finished using them and never letting anything get out of hand.
I liked Gran’s approach to homemaking though one would never have guessed it by observing the piles of clothes and stuff in my room at my mother’s house. Hanging things up regularly or putting things away was a dreadful thought and simply impossible until I grew to adulthood. Obviously I had much more than enough when it came to clothes, toys and stuff. My mom admitted years later that she would buy things for me because she felt guilty that she could not spend time with me when she was working so much. I was also Mildred’s only grandchild so some say I was spoiled. Indeed I was spoiled with stuff. I had plenty of toys and dolls to play with yet I suffered in quiet, shy solitude in the isolated world of my fears and loneliness.
As a child I always missed my mother terribly when not with her and longed to be near her. Although I liked visiting grandparents it was always painful because I carried the unspoken, ever present ache of homesickness. For me, home was wherever my mother was and the childhood fears of vampires and monsters that plagued me every night lessened when I was with her. I don’t know why I got so homesick or how I became so emotionally attached to my mother. I find it difficult to understand it when children do not long for their mother because it happened like breathing for me. I don’t think I learned how to yearn for my mother- it was who I was.
Houses built around 1920 in the neighborhood where my grandparents owned a neighborhood grocery store
