 “I come up here to think about life a lot,” I told him as we both looked out at the Connecticut River from our high perch. It was 1965, I was 15 years-old, and my grandmother and her third and best husband, Lieberson, were visiting me at my boarding prep school, Northfield School for Girls, in Massachusetts. “Ah, my Lieber,” she said to me when they were first married just a few years earlier--both of them in their 60s-- “he’s such a good man and so intelligent. Anything he doesn’t know he goes and looks it up. He reads everything. He’s interested in everyone. I’m so lucky to have such a husband so late in life.” And then, with a gleam in her eyes and a smile that dimpled her cheeks she added, “and he’s very lucky to have me!” And we’d both laugh at the truth of all her words.
They were visiting The United States from their home in Montevideo, Uruguay and seeing me was their last stop before heading back home and then moving to Israel to retire. “This is one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen,” he told me as soon as they drove onto the campus, “will you walk around and show me your favorite spots?” While my grandmother took a nap in my room, Lieberson and I traipsed up and down the almost 300 acres of slowly goldening late September. “What are they singing there?” he asked as we passed the chapel where the choir was rehearsing. “That’s our school’s hymn, ‘Jerusalem’,” I explained just as the lines, “And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon England’s mountains green” wafted through the open windows toward us. Lieberson sighed, “It’s so beautiful.” “Yes,” I agreed, “A beautiful hymn.” “No not just the music,“ he continued, “everything here. All of you girls gathered here learning art and history and math and science and…(He swept his arms out) life. Show me more please.” And so we walked on and found ourselves at “Roundtop” looking at the valley below and the mountains in the distance. “A lot of us come up here to look out and sit and talk. It’s just breathtakingly lovely some days,” I explained as we sat on the ground to take a rest. “If you look out that way you can see where three states all come together—Massachusetts, Vermont, and New Hampshire.” “And you, what do you think about when you come here?” he asked with kind bespectacled eyes studying my face. With a rush of tumbling words I told him how we had been studying modern European history and both World Wars. And how the atrocities and hatreds seemed to never abate. How the angers were so pointless and cruel and how people could be so unwaveringly prejudiced and petty. “And I’ve been thinking, lately, with all the horrors that have happened to so many, why was I able to be born? I mean, even in our family so many died in the wars and why then was I meant to be here? It seems like I don’t deserve it.” I had not expected to say all of this, but he seemed to take it all in, listening and nodding as I spoke. Then, quietly, he asked a confusing question: “Tell me—is someone buried here? I see gravestones. Who are they for?” “The founder of this school,” I began, still confused, “Dwight L. Moody and his wife.” “Ah, I thought so,” he continued, “I read a little about this place before we came. He was a Protestant minister, no? And he began this school in 1879 for girls—both rich and poor?” I could see that Lieberson had indeed found correct information. He continued, “It seems to me he was a remarkable man. Girls in those days didn’t have much chance to such education and if they were poor then there was no chance. What a visionary he was! And look, from that beginning the school grew and grew and became this. Why do you think he did this?” I had never thought about that. “I don’t know,” I began, “but I do know that his father died when he was young and his family was quite poor for a long time. He had a lot of brothers and sisters and there wasn’t enough food for everyone. There were a lot of sacrifices.” “Ah,” Lieberson exclaimed, “so maybe because of what his life was like and what he saw, he began to understand who he was and what he could contribute. And maybe part of that was starting a small school for those with limited chances—nothing grand—nothing glamorous. Just a small school where girls from many different backgrounds could explore their own minds and hearts and souls. And it grew and now, look, here you are learning so much!” I was beginning to see his point. He continued: “Maybe part of our purpose here on earth is to remember the past. No one knows why some live and some die. God knows, but in our Jewish religion, He doesn’t really make it clear to us.” Now he chuckled, shrugged his shoulders and continued, “Religions have tried to make sense of this forever. Your hymn, Jerusalem, makes me think of that actual place. Three religions find their holy centers there, Christianity, Islam, Judaism—like your three states that you see from this hill. We keep struggling and searching to find that meaning from many different angles.” “So,” he continued as we stood up to head back, “your Mr. Moody took what was in his history—all the pain and joy and fear and wonder and he found ways to refashion and rebuild it in his present. And then it became the past and it also became the future—the one you are in right now standing here on his grave.” I could see what he was trying to say to me, although it would take me years to fully understand. We kept a companionable silence on our short walk to my dorm—each of us engrossed in our own thoughts. The air filled with the rustling sounds of early falling leaves gently landing on the browning grass. Suddenly I stopped and turned to him, “Lieberson, I just realized something—In the ‘Jerusalem’ hymn the writer of the lyrics—poet William Blake—tells us that if we want to have changes, we need to do what work we can to make it happen. And we need to remember the past to change the future. And we can start anywhere to help the world—and do it any time.” He smiled and hugged me and said—“From wherever I am in this great universe, I will be cheering you on.” Suddenly we both saw my now-rested and buoyant grandmother come happily toward us in the late golden light. As the chapel bells tolled the hour, and the three of us entwined our arms and walked down the path toward the waiting car, I could feel the roots of my life slowly growing downward toward the nourishing past as my limbs grew strong and reached upward toward the beckoning and mysterious future. “Hello, hello,” I called out loudly, but silence greeted me. There was no one in charge of the vegetable stand. It was an unassuming, rustic, road-side produce farm that I passed on my way home late last summer. I needed zucchini and tomatoes and they had a lot of them. I was flummoxed. There was only a small box with a sign to put money there and to take needed change. How would they know if I ran off without paying? How could they possibly have a business like this? I opened the box, put my money in (with considerable other cash in there) and left. A few days later I passed the same stand and a farmer was putting things out so I stopped to talk with him and ask him why he had that box—it seemed unwise. “You see, “ he told me, “I got tired of living in a world where I didn't trust others. I really thought about it—really thought long and hard—and I figured that most everyone is good and decent, but we run around fussing over and worrying about those few who aren’t. Don't want to give them space in my heart I decided. I want to live in the world I believe in, so I decided to. I plant my plants, take care of them, sell them and enjoy my family and my time with passers-by like you.” So I asked him if he lost much money. “See, that’s people’s first question. Ain’t that sad? Shouldn’t the first question be about how much I make?” He shook his head, “and let me tell you, I don’t feel like I’ve lost a penny. Maybe one or two got away. But you know what? Most people are good folk and decent. We’re all in this world together.” He swept his arm out to the fields, the sky, the house, the gleaming vegetables around us, and then to me, and continued: “And that’s the world that I want to wrap around me and my family. Around all of us.” He smiled and went back to his plants. So, my friends, I want to do that also. I remember this man often and think of his wisdom. And while we can’t all be farmers and have his kind of lifestyle, we can have it inside of us. We are the creators of our own lives. External circumstances challenge us all, but, ultimately we choose. We choose. And I choose to put that box outside my produce stand and assume the best from most (most!) of my fellow travelers of this life.   When I walked in she was on the sofa crying. “There’s no hope for any of us,” my mother spurted out between sobs. Just then my father came into the room with a glass of water and two aspirin. “Here, Sara, take these. It will help.” She looked up at him gratefully and swallowed the pills. “Mom, what happened?” I asked. “Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis has just died. Died,” she answered as she set the glass down and began leaving the room, “And I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
It was May 19, 1994, I was 44 years-old and my father and I were left to sort out the pieces of my mother’s grief. “I don’t really understand it, Daddy,” I began. “I mean, she hasn’t met the woman. She only knows her through stories in the paper and magazines and tv. Why is she so emotional?” Equally baffled my father posed some possibilities. “Well, they’re close to the same age. And maybe she’s afraid that if someone with so much power and money and connections can die, then, well….” Here he trailed off afraid to finish the sentence. But then looked me squarely in the face and did, “we can all die. We will all die. It’s a hard reality at our age and a sad, but inevitable, truth.” “You know,” he continued, “Jackie was beautiful and elegant, but your mother was so much more so. When I first met her I thought she was the most glamorous woman I had ever known. She still is you know,” he sighed. I had never really thought about their first meetings. Fresh out of a New York University Master’s program in economics, my American father had gone to Montevideo, Uruguay to start a branch of the Schick razor company. He was 25 years old. He spoke little Spanish and knew right away he needed help with not only the language but also the customs of the country. “When she walked into my office I found it hard to say anything. Her raven-black hair fell in waves on her shoulders and when she reached out her white-gloved hand to take mine, I knew I was a gonner.” He laughed remembering the details. “She didn’t seem like she had much experience as a secretary and really, after she started working, she was abysmal at it. Tried firing her twice, but she wouldn’t stay away and neither could I. When we formally became a couple I was finally able to meet her three-year-old daughter, you,” he smiled, “and I loved you from the first moment as well.” He hugged me and continued, “You know she had been in medical school but then stopped. She married Harry and you were born and then Harry was horrible to both of you. When he disappeared, everyone was relieved. And then we met, fell in love, got married, and moved here to the U.S.” It seemed so simple when he told it. But I knew there was more. Now she came back into the living room, her eyes red and puffy, a tissue clutched in her hand, and sat down next to me. My father took this as a cue to leave us alone and wandered off into the kitchen. “I want to explain,” she began, “what troubles me so much. Jackie Kennedy Onassis was a really complicated woman. She had a hard life.” I jumped in, “Sure. Her husband was president and then he was assassinated in the car, right next to her.” Now my mother continued, “Well, of course there was that terrible trauma. But, she was full of so many tragedies. She had miscarriages, and her husband had so many affairs. He was terrible to her. She only married him because everyone said that since she was already in her twenties she was getting very old to find a husband. She went to college and had a job at a magazine, but was told she really should just get married. I understand this. It was like that in those days.” Now she sipped the water she’d left behind, and I noticed a hint of her newly-applied lipstick on the rim. Even in her sadness my mother wanted to look “put-together” as she called it. “So she married JFK, helped him become president, had two children, and when he died, she was alone. Alone. All that wealth and popularity and beauty, and still alone.” “But then she married one of the richest men in the world, right?” I said. She continued, “Who knows why she did that? Maybe she loved him. Maybe she saw no choice. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe it was security. But that too wasn’t happy.” Now she looked at the large clock on the wall and fell silent. We could hear it tick, tick, tick the seconds away. She looked at me again. “When he died, she came back to the U.S. She began working with the arts and with publishing. You know, the press was not kind to her. But she kept going. Kept going. Until today.” Now my mother’s head folded down into her hands. “Mom,” I said as I put my arm around her shoulder, “Is it upsetting to you that if she can die, we all can? I’m trying to understand.” “No, it’s not really that,” she said as her tear-filled eyes searched mine, “It’s her story. Who tells her story now? How will we know about her life, her struggles, her energies?” Maybe my mother had a sense then that her arteries were starting their hardening, her heart beating out a new staccato rhythm, not allowing enough oxygen for her brain to connect the wandering memories. “Sylvia,” she continued, “I’m afraid that all our own stories will be lost. What will happen to all of the life we led? Where will it go?” “Tell me about the time you and father got the car stuck in the thick mud on your way to Brazil,” I began, making us both chuckle at an old family tale. We got out photo albums and talked over tea. My father grilled some steaks and we kept talking over dinner. And into the chill of the May night we laughed. Five years later, my father died of cancer. Five years after that my mother died of her heart conditions. And today I am here right now telling you, dear readers, their stories—keeping them alive. In the summer of 1999 my father was dying from various virulent and (then) untreatable cancers. By July we knew the end was near. It was an unbearably difficult time for all of us but he seemed to take everything with great grace and dignity. In early July after frantically looking all over the house I finally found him sitting in a chair in the backyard. “Daddy, what on earth are you doing out here?” He looked at me incredulously, smiled, and replied: “It’s a beautiful day and I’m enjoying the sunshine.” I was hardly able to hold back tears as I sat next to him and held his hand for a few minutes until he was ready to go back inside. About a week later again I went looking for him and again he was sitting outside. But this time there was a gentle but steady late July drizzle. His wet face was turned up to the sky, his eyes were closed, and he was softly smiling. I sat next to him again as he said, “Sylvia, you know, until today I had forgotten how delightful it is to feel the rain on my face, my head. And look,” now he opened his eyes and pointed to trees, the flowers, the grass, “look how they must love this! This life is so wonderful and mysterious and even with all the pain and fear, I am so lucky to be reminded of its magnificence.” The rain covered my tears. We sat there for a few minutes until he was ready to go back inside to his hospice bed. He died the following week. And this morning, more than twenty years later, as I ponder the fear and isolation and worry and pain in the world, I also look at the rain and the sun and a lone flower on my gardenia bush. I think of my dad. Now, I too, awe-filled, marvel at the fragile but powerful beauty of all life.  I had never seen my grandmother Annette cry. “She’s just a little sad,” my grandfather explained. The three of us had just finished dinner and we were sitting at their big dark wooden table where weekly my grandfather would write poems for me on any topic I came up with. It was 1957, I was seven years old, and in a few days I would be leaving my birthplace of Uruguay for The United States. My grandparents had immigrated there from Prague and while they each spoke many languages, my grandmother had never mastered Spanish, my only language at the time. She was a warm, large woman with silver hair, bright blue eyes, and an almost shy smile, who always seemed to look at me with absolute delight. But my grandfather often had to translate for her.
“In a few days you and your mother and your father will be going on a fine adventure to a whole new life in America,” he said. Ever since my mother married Fred Kuhner when I was four, my grandfather referred to him as my father, even though his own son, the scoundrel who deserted his wife and tried to harm his infant daughter (me), and repeated stole from his parents , was my biological father. “Fred Kuhner is a wonderful man and he will always take care of you and protect you in your brand new world. I used to dream of living there when I was younger,” he said with a small sigh and then continued, “I even tried for Annette and me to go after we were married, but we could not get papers.” Then he continued, “But now you, you will get to do this.” “Is abuela sad because we will be so far away?” I asked. He translated for her. She had been clutching a delicately embroidered white hankie which she then used to dab her eyes. She smiled softly and said something, slowly got up, and left the room. My grandfather translated, “Yes, Sylvia, she is sad because she loves you very much and she will miss seeing you.” My seven-year-old mind could not possibly comprehend the vast distances between where my grandparents were and where my future would be. “This is very important for you to remember,” he said, suddenly more somber and serious, “life is a mighty adventure and you never know what will happen. And even the briefest encounter with someone connects you to them somehow. We are all connected in this giant world. We are never, truly alone. So remember to be kind, always.” I understood. Even after the Nazi invasion of his homeland and the ransacking of their house and the killing of many family members and their sudden escape to South America and their scoundrel son’s painful activities, he never allowed me to use the word “odio”—hate. “Hate only kills parts of you, not the other,” he would tell me. “Your father has a father in The United States. Did you know that? He comes from Germany. We never met him, but we have written a few letters. I think you will like him very much. And you know what? We have the same name, Max.” My father had told me stories of his own dad and that of his mother, Wilma who had died just a few years ago. My grandfather continued, “I’m sure he has interesting stories to tell you about his old country. He’s a good man.” Months later I met my new grandfather, Max Kuhner, at his home in the woods just outside Worcester, Massachussetts. I liked him right away. Although he seemed a rather aloof and exacting man—a very prominent engineer by profession—whenever we would visit, he seemed to delight in telling me stories about his life. I was a child full of questions and he was happy to answer. There were walking sticks throughout his house and I asked about them one day. “Ah, I like to hike in the mountains. So beautiful. You know, your grandmother Wilma and I took our honeymoon in a beautiful place, not far from where we lived in Germany. The place was called Neroberg and it was magical.” I had never heard him use that word before. “How was it magical?’ I asked. He replied, “I’m not sure. But when we wandered through the hills and then ate and slept in the town, we both felt almost like there was a special something surrounding us.” Now he shook his head. “The people we met were especially kind. It seemed that everyone smiled. Like we were all connected.” He sighed. “That was the first week of June in 1922. About a year later we were lucky to get papers to come to America. So many tried but could not.” I nodded remembering my Meindl grandparents. But the past had even more surprises. Here I am years later, writing this in a lilac-filled early spring. Life’s twists and turns have led me to many adventures. I took with me the stories from all of my grandparents and have woven them into my own life-blanket which I wrap myself in for comfort and warmth and security. After we left Uruguay, I never saw the Meindls again—they died just a few years later. My grandfather Kuhner died in 1982, at his home in the woods looking out at what he always called the “most beautiful painting of all—the daily changing panorama of nature.” And yesterday, in finally clearing long-forgotten parts of my attic I came across a box from a relative of the Meindls who had sent it to me years ago. In it I saw a familiar photograph of the Meindls, Annette and Max, as a young couple. But this, I had never noticed (How could I haved missed it?) had been turned into a postcard—a common thing for tourists at the time—with my grandfather’s distinctive writing on the back. It was in German and I was desperate to know what it said. A translation group online quickly and generously helped me. It was a simple message of connection, “hope your children are well,” and “It’s hot here. We’ll be home soon.” But suddenly I saw it. Look where it was sent from—Neroberg, Germany. And when? June 5, 1922. They were on their honeymoon. In the same place, at the same time as my Kuhner grandparents. Right before I boarded the plane to America in 1957, my grandmother Annette gave me a doll she had as a child. My grandfather translated for her as she hugged me close, “I want you to have this because, dear child, we are always connected to the past in ways we can’t even begin to understand. And we must pass along not just the stories, but the love and the magic. Life is magic.” “No. Marta Sanchez isn’t coming. She wasn’t invited.” It was May of 1958, I was 8 years-old, and at Susie’s house, three doors down from mine in Passaic, NJ. We were talking about an end of the school year party at her house this coming Saturday. Susie’s house was the biggest and most perfect one in town with a pool in the backyard (with a slide!), a treehouse for her brothers that was off-limits to girls, and a permanently set up croquet course where we were right now. “But she has to come. I thought everyone from our class was coming,” I blurted out while banging my mallet against the wooden ball sending it precisely through the hoop. I continued, “Her mom even made us matching dresses.” Marta’s mom was known to be an excellent seamstress. Her work on wedding gowns was in constant demand. She would sometimes show me how to stich around a button, or under a complicated pleat, or behind an intricate embroidered area and tell me, “it has to look like it’s floating. It has to look like angels made it with magic.” Then she’d smile, look through her thick-lensed glasses, and get back to work. “My mom says that she’s Puerto Rican and they don’t belong at our parties,” Susie continued as she took her turn, hit the ball, and missed the hoop. Suddenly Mrs. Tannor appeared holding a tray of lemonade and cookies, her heavy, gold charm bracelet clanging as she walked. “Are you girls having fun?” She set things down on a nearby table, smiled and was beginning to walk away when I stopped her. “Susie says that Marta Sanchez can’t come to our party next week because she’s Puerto Rican. I don’t understand. She’s really nice. Everyone likes her. She says she’s going to be a doctor one day.” Mrs. Tannor sat down on a nearby chaise lounge, her soft yellow dress rustling around her, and motioned me to stand before her. With great solemnity she took my hands and looked me in the eyes. “Sylvia, dear, there are things in this world you just don’t understand yet. There are people we simply can’t be seen with. There is such a thing as a reputation and if you are with the wrong people…well, it’s shattered. You have to be very careful in this world. And she will not be a doctor. She’s a girl and look where she comes from.” I stood frozen with my wooden mallet in my hand as she stood up quickly, patted me on my head, told us we only had a few more minutes to play, and went back to the house. “Come on, Sylvia, we’ve got to finish. You’re beating me. You always beat me,” Susie giggled. The situation troubled me, and I thought it over and over in my mind as I trudged solemnly home. The next day at lunch I talked to Marta about this. She didn’t seem surprised. “My mom says this happens to us sometimes. But she tells me not to worry because when someone doesn’t like you even before they know you it’s not you they don’t like. It’s something in themselves that they don’t like but they have to find an outside place to put it. How can anyone really not like you when they don’t know you? She says, ‘Don’t listen to hate when it talks, Marta, because it will stop you. You are made of star light, so just shine and the whole world will see you are magnificent.’” “Magnificent” became my favorite word for the whole day. That night at dinner I told my father about the problem. His face was red with anger, but his words were controlled and clear, “ Well, you know how your mother and I feel about justice. You know how we feel that all people deserve dignity and respect and equal chances. There is a great deal of unfairness in the world. But this is becoming your world now--how do you think you should solve this?” I was confused. The party would be so much fun, but how could I enjoy it without my friend Marta there? And the matching dresses were beautiful. I came up with a plan. I told Susie I was really sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to come to the party. I asked Marta to come to my house for an adventure on the party day and that we needed to wear our matching dresses. My mother called her mom to get her approval and when they arrived, as Marta and I twirled around in our fancy white dresses with pale blue lace trim, I saw the adults talking but couldn’t hear any of the words. And then all of us climbed into my parents’ big black Buick, drove over the George Washington Bridge into New York City, and on to The Plaza Hotel for afternoon tea. We ate cookies and scones and whipped cream (right off the spoon!) and cakes. Then Marta and I were allowed to wander through the lobby by ourselves. We hid behind the huge potted palms and scampered and slid on the shiny corridors. Someone stopped us and asked if we were twins and we looked at each other and burst out “YES!” at the same time. On the way home we sang songs in the car and the adults told stories about when they were kids. The sun was almost setting as we drove west over the bridge on the way back to New Jersey and when we said our goodbyes, we all declared it to be “The best day ever!” I yelled loudly as they drove away, “It was magnificent!” We moved away the following month and continued move after move for many years. As happens, I lost touch with many of my childhood friends. But by chance I ran into Susie at an event almost thirty years later. We didn’t recognize each other at first but small talk about backgrounds quickly sorted that out. I asked about her family. “Well, I married a lawyer—he specializes in civil rights lawsuits. He and my mother barely talk to each other. I love her, but I just can’t agree with her ideas. It took me too long,” she looked down with sadness and continued, “but I did finally realize that people need to be treated with dignity. I remember listening to Martin Luther King’s speech and his line about basing your opinions about folks not on the externals but on the content of the character of the individual.” She went on, “My father died a few years ago. Heart attack. And my mother…Oh my…” now she chuckled at some long-held internal joke, “she had breast cancer.” I looked confused, but she continued, “so her doctor sent her to the best specialist and meticulous surgeon in New York.” At this point she was laughing so hard that she wiped tears from her eyes. “I went with her for the examination and imagine both of our surprised faces when we were greeted by Marta Sanchez!” Oh my. Now I burst out laughing. “My Marta?” I sputtered, “Marta? So, what happened next?” “Well, she had the surgery and it was successful. Marta saved her life. And while my mom was in the recovery room and Marta came out to talk with me, I listened carefully to all instructions about after-care, thanked her, and then I asked her how she could put aside such anger and obstacles that she was faced with. And know what she told me?” Now I was listening very intently as she continued, “She said you just have to love the world. You have to make things better that you can make better. That you just have to harness your internal star-shine and glow brilliantly, and eventually everyone will see your magnificence—that her mom taught her that.”   “Look, out there—over out that window—See ‘em?” A man with gray, thin hair, stooped shoulders, and a wan complexion—a stranger--motioned to me excitedly from just across the train aisle with the wild glee of someone whose joy needed to be shared. I had been sitting in the dining car after dinner with a cup of tea, looking down at my glossy magazine, lost in the swirling dresses of Vogue’s spring season couture features, dreamily accepting the clanging of the train’s wheels and the jostling of the items on the tables. We were on our way north from Fort Lauderdale to Philadelphia, a trip that typically takes 24 hours by train.
I looked up and followed his shaky pointing fingers just in time to see geese—flocks and flocks of them—flying in formation over the south Georgia savannah lands, their bodies making long shadows over the water. The sun was starting to set and a rosy golden glow settled over the marshes. He leaned his old, spindly body back in his seat. “I always say them birds is the prettiest thing I ever did see, excepting my Sally,” he said still looking out. He turned to look at me, “Sally was my wife. Died 4 years ago, Part of me died too that day.” He picked up a cup from the table. We looked out the window in silence for a few minutes, each of sipping from our vessels. Then I asked, and he told me stories. (“Oh, she was a terrible cook—poor dear tried so hard and served it up with so much love I never said anything but good.” And, “When our son was born and she was in so much pain she looked up at me and says to me that it was the best day of her life ‘cause there was a new human that combined the best of the two of us. And here I was all worried about the money and the work. But she cut right through to the important parts.”). “How far are you going?” I asked as we reached Jessup, Georgia. He answered, “I’m going all the way to Washington, DC. My son is meeting me there—going to go live with him and his family. Don’t know how that’s going to work. My daughter-in-law, she don’t like me much—always trying to tell me what to wear and how to talk. I expect she’s not too happy about this, but my son insisted. I gotta get some medical tests. Cancer spread. I told him I’d be better off just letting the Good Lord take me in my old green chair on my porch in Palatka, but he won’t hear of it. Truth is, I want to see my grandson. He’s almost 20. I want to tell him some stories—let him know the strong people he come from. We got to tell stories—It keeps people alive.” I smiled. The sun had gone down and the windows now showed only the reflection of the inside. “How far you going?” he asked of me. I answered “Philadelphia”. He continued, “That’s a long way. I take this train cause I like to see the real land—I flew a couple of times, but it don’t feel right. That’s a place for those birds—not for me. So why do you ride the rails?” he asked. I shook my head, “I have a problem with my ears. My balance system is thrown off if I fly—the pressure causes me to feel so dizzy that I fall down. Kind of like there are magnets in my head that pull me over. It lasts for 10 days once it sets in. So my husband and I figured out how to travel a lot by train. We really like it—get a little bedroom for sleeping, get our meals, and meet people.” I smiled at him and he grinned back. “You know, I hear-tell that geese navigate by magnets in their heads. Amazing aren’t they” he answered. Then went on, “when I was a kid my papa wanted me to go out hunting them birds with him. He showed me where to go and how to walk and sit real quiet, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I was born 9 months and a week after he come home from WW2 and he never once talked about it. Closest he come was when he’d just lower his head and say that no one should ever have to see what he saw. Then he’d just shut up. After he died, I learned he helped liberate a concentration camp in Germany somewhere. Found some medals he’d gotten too. But he never wanted to talk about it.” His gnarled hands were now clutching a spoon as he stirred the liquid in his cup. He continued, “When I couldn’t kill them birds I thought he was terribly disappointed and I ran up to my room and slammed the door shut, embarrassed. He came in after me and sat right there at the edge of my bed and said to me, ‘son, there ain’t no shame in not wanting to kill. You got to go with what your heart tells you is right and wrong. I seen too much killing and I think that it takes a big man to admit he don’t have the stomach for it.’ Then my daddy, he stood up, and get this, he salutes me. Salutes me, turns on his heels and leaves the room. Twenty years later when we buried him, I did the same for him.” His voice was quivering as we were coming into Charleston. “Is that one of the stories you’re going to tell your grandson?" I asked. He looked, up and I could see the tears on his deeply wrinkled face. “Sure is,” he said, “Sure is. Gotta keep people alive” It was late and we said our good-nights and headed down the narrow hallway in opposite directions. The next morning at sunrise I opened the curtains of my sleeping compartment just as we were heading into DC and was greeted with light dancing on the Potomac River. When we stopped at the station, I saw my companion from yesterday evening shuffle slowly on the platform, cane in hand. He glanced up and saw me. I waved and he smiled and tipped his brown hat. Suddenly there was a young man coming toward him—racing on the concrete, arms open wide to embrace him. Even through the train’s thick glass windows I could hear him yell out “Grandpa! I’m so happy you’re here,” as he grabbed his bag, held onto his arm, and both men walked, chattering gleefully, toward the exit. “Gotta keep people alive.” In the 8th grade my favorite subject was home economics. It was divided up into several units throughout the year—the last one, sewing, was taught by Mrs. Helen Rothman. I had heard rumors about her divorced status—but it was 1963 and divorce was only spoken of in whispers—if at all. She was a tall woman with sad eyes and a brilliant smile who always seemed delighted to welcome our small class of girls—boys took shop during those days—into her room. I was a bit of a challenge, but the considerable lack of talent and ability I had in sewing I made up for in enthusiasm. I loved everything about the large sunny room with its expansive tables and rows upon rows of bright-colored threads and notions. In May of that year our class was deemed capable of sewing our own graduation dresses. They had to be white, but other than that we had lots of choices. I was flustered and unsure I was up to the task. What if I chose the wrong pattern? What if I failed and it came out looking wretched? What if this was too difficult and I simply could not graduate? I articulated all of this to Mrs. Rothman one bright May afternoon after school when I wandered into the home ec. classroom and found her hunched over her embroidery work. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she began., “What you have to do is find a pattern that you like, figure out what things you’ll need to make it work, then go about piecing and cutting and sewing, until it starts to come together. First you follow the pattern. But if you don’t want to do it exactly the way it was designed—you can always change it. You just need to practice the skills to do that. Eventually (she looked wistfully out of the large paned window) you realize that you can make your own pattern. It may not be to others’ liking, but it will be your own.” Seeing that I wasn’t happy with my Simplicity Pattern #2427 she showed me how to alter it. Then she sent me to the massive closet to pick out colors and fabrics to add my own extra “pop” to the dress. For several weeks I spent every afternoon with her in that bright room, just sewing and learning. One day she told me about her Experience Box: “Sometimes I try a new fabric or pattern and really work at it a long time, but it just isn’t right and nothing can save it. I put those things in my Experience Box and keep it up in my attic. I’ll look through the box every now and then and remember how very awful some of it was, but how it helped me learn about my next project.“ I was startled to see that she looked terribly sad—like she was about to cry and then I saw her look down at her ring-less hands. She looked at me, “You learn from mistakes but you keep trying new patterns and making new patterns and eventually you’ll create something with your own hands that is totally you. And that’s powerful.” In June I was in a special school show at graduation and proudly wore my own creation with a baby-blue cummerbund and special tiny flowers embroidered in the hem. It looked similar to the others, but it wasn’t. It was mine. Throughout my life Mrs. Rothman’s words resonated with me. Although still not a skillful seamstress, when our daughter came along I decided to make her christening gown myself. It took me long hours and I did this without the help of a machine. Using the skills I had learned, I sewed tucks and smocking and tiny buttons throughout the gown, but not following any pattern—just creating as I went along. It looked a little like some gowns I had seen—but not really. I wanted my daughter to begin with something entirely unique, then, as she grew, to follow her own designs—as she has. And so I’ve continued throughout my life creating patterns, following patterns, and adding to my own “Box of Experience” which I rummage through periodically. All of it—all of it—has had the power of bringing me here, right now, to this wonder-filled moment—embellished however we choose—with you.    “La sociededad de mujeres intelectuales y brillantes,” she told me in Spanish. I translated quickly in my head—"The society of intellectual and brilliant women.” Aha. I smiled as I looked at the picture she put in front of us on the table. It was 1974, I was 24 years old, and my grandmother was visiting me for a week. She had come from across the ocean to my home in Maryland. I was embarking on my adult life having just gotten married, bought a home, started my teaching career, and begun my (first) master’s degree. Spanish was the language we communicated in, but it was her fifth language. As a young girl in Lomza, Poland, she spoke Polish, German, and Russian. She told me, “We never knew which language we might need. First one army invaded, then another. We learned to listen and speak what they were speaking. It kept us safer.” “French, too. Yes. I learned the language of fashion and hats when I was young. Oh, that was a musical language.” After she emigrated to Uruguay, in 1930 she quickly learned the native language, Spanish. “You know,” she said, “my name in Polish is Malka, but when I started my women’s hat-making shop in Montevideo, I changed my name to Margot. So much lovelier a sound. I love the sound of words,” and she sighed happily as she sipped her Earl Gray out of my new Wedgewood teacup—the Volendam pattern with a singing bird on a branch by its nest poised to take flight. She had brought some essentials for our visit: good sewing needles of various sizes, a collection of very old buttons, and some photographs. Today she showed me this picture, from 1916, of a gathering of young women. “You see, women were not thought to have very much in the way of brains for higher thought. Ha! How small minded those men were. We didn’t have access to libraries or lectures. But some of us were determined to hear the big ideas of the world. Our town was so small (on the far north eastern border of Russian), but our minds—they were big and they were hungry. We girls got together to talk. Our fathers thought we were discussing food or sewing, but some of our mothers knew the truth. Do you see her?” she said pointing to the girl in the far left chair, “her father was a doctor. When her mother cleaned his library book shelves she would take out books—one a time so as not to create suspicion—and leave them on the floor near the door. Annika –who was prohibited from setting foot in that room—would walk by, put the book under her skirt and bring it to our meetings. One time Greta—the girl with the tie standing up—paid a young peasant boy to go into the library and steal a book (a Martin Buber book!) because we were so desperate to read those ideas.” She paused to nibble on the chocolate chip cookies I had baked that morning. I knew that her father wouldn’t let her go to the university, and that she made money modeling hats in fine stores which she used to pay her way so she could secretly earn a degree as a pharmacist. (“No one knew I was a Jew. They would not have allowed me in. Hard enough I was a woman!”). But I had never heard of her life before that. “You know, Abuela,” I said to her as the sun shone through the big picture window of my living room, “even now in 1974 they tell me that women should not worry about getting higher degrees—being doctors or lawyers or philosophers or college professors. When I graduated from high school the best universities didn’t allow women to enter. Even now it’s such a small number.” I slumped lower into the couch beside her. “Look at this picture,” she said almost violently pointing. Look. You see these girls? We got together. We found a way. We began. See Elza there?” she said pointing to the girl with her chin resting on her hand, “she learned Morse code and helped get Jews out of our town in 1935 by tapping on walls and floors. She lives in Israel today and works as a translator. And Ada, sitting with her hand on her temple, she dressed as a German soldier in 1939 and led 25 children to safety. Then she became an artist.” She smiled and looked at the picture again. “And that’s me,” she said pointing to the slim girl on the far right leaning on the cabinet. “I’m going to be the first one of this group with a granddaughter who will get a doctorate degree.” I laughed and said, “Abuela, I’m only just beginning a master’s degree. I don’t know if I can go that far.” She put down her cup, grabbed me by the shoulder and looked me squarely in the eye, “Yes you will. Women have their own, personal, individual stars inside of them and we find a way—we find a way—to shine brilliantly.” Thirteen years later, eleven years after she died, I framed my newly earned degree in gold.  “Come on, hurry up, she’s just being rude and stupid. But what can you expect?” My friend Pamela was urging me away from Carrie Kavanaugh on the playground. It was March 16th, 1959 and I was 9 years old and once again in another new school—after five others in three different countries and languages. I had never before, however, encountered a demand by anyone that I must wear green. Carrie had approached me at the swings and said that I had to wear that color tomorrow because it was going to be Saint Patrick’s Day. As I began questioning her on this Pam pulled me away to play jump rope with a bunch of other girls. Our dresses twirled and billowed as we jumped double-Dutch—my specialty—and we giggled at the entanglements that kept happening as the cords twisted or we lost rhythm. Carrie came over and wanted to loudly remind us again of the impending green requirements for tomorrow. The other girls laughed derisively as she walked away, but I was stumped. So, I asked about this. “Well, she's Irish,” Sally said rolling her eyes. Cathy then continued, “My mother says that all Irish kids have dirty blood and we have to stay away from them. There are even signs that warn us about them.” I had seen those “Irish Need Not Apply” signs downtown, but I didn’t understand why. Cathy continued, “They have a holiday where they’re supposed to wear green to honor this Saint Patrick. They think it’s good luck or something.” I didn’t understand why they seemed against her. She was a smart girl and a whiz at arithmetic, and her beautiful crisp white dresses with lace were the envy of all the fifth-grade girls. So I asked. “We’re just not supposed to be around ‘that sort’—but I don’t know why,” was Karen’s answer as she shrugged her shoulders. “Come on,” she continued, “we’re going to be late for lunch.” I needed to know more. To everyone’s surprise, I went over to sit with Carrie at the long table where she was eating almost by herself. “Hi,” I began, “can I sit here?” She looked up in astonished and nodded a yes. “I’m sort of new here and I don’t understand about green tomorrow. Why is it so important?” She looked at me wearily and softly said, “Do you really want to know?” When she was sure I was sincere she explained to me why it was so important for her and her family to celebrate the day and why she just wished everyone did so they too could all have good luck. She told me about her grandfather who had been beaten up badly when he first came to America years ago, just for being Irish. And she talked about her mother whose red hair and freckles were the stuff of such mockery through her school years that she quit after grade 8 and helped her own mother take in laundry. Having been new in so many places myself, I quickly understood how difficult this must have all been. “Do you know about John F. Kennedy?” She asked. I did not. “My folks say that he’s a real ‘up and comer’ in politics and he might even run for president one day. He’s Irish. And he’s Catholic, like us. Maybe if he gets really important then people will stop making fun of us.” I saw that she looked down and was trying not to cry. I knew how that was—hoping that the feelings inside my chest wouldn’t spill out into my eyes. I quickly changed the subject. “Do you like peanut butter?” I asked pointing at her sandwich. “Oh I love it, “ she answered. “Well, everyone laughs at me because I think I’m the only kid who doesn’t,” I answered. “I’m just strange.” We both giggled at this as the end-of lunch bell clanged. Our afternoon classes were long and tiring and after being reminded that the next day we’d have a test on the names of all the presidents (“One at a time, in turns, you will each recite one name in order.”) we were dismissed to walk home. Walking with books in my arms and with all my friends was one of my favorite things to do. On the way I started talking about Carrie and Saint Patrick’s Day. I asked them about traditions in their families. It turned out there were lots of different ones. “So, I don’t understand,” I blurted,” why is it so wrong for Carrie to want us to wear green? Shouldn’t we help her celebrate? And she just wants us to have good luck too. And there’s even a parade in New York. I’m not Irish and I’m not Catholic, but I think I am going to wear green because I want to respect all those people who think it’s important. Why not?” That question stumped my friends. I continued, “Do you know that she likes peanut butter?” At this a great burst of laughter came from them all—my aversion to this food was well known. “See, I am much stranger than Carrie.” They nodded in their hilarity. Cathy spoke, “You know, maybe Sylvia is right. I mean, we’re not that different—we’re all just people. Maybe I’ll wear some green ribbons in my hair tomorrow.” In a rousing chorus of “Yay!” it was decided. The next day, Tuesday, March 17th, 1959, a very delighted Carrie saw a whole bunch of her classmates wearing green hair ribbons as we each stood up during our history test reciting first one then the next of the names of all the 34 presidents. She sat with us at lunch where we talked about scary snakes, and the impossibility of alligators living where there was snow, and if blue was really a color women would put on they eyelids, and if hair-perms were important. The next year I moved to yet another school far away. I understood nothing about politics, but when John F. Kennedy was elected the 35th president that November, I proudly wore a bright green sweater to school the next day.  |
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