I remember Grandma. Her beautiful face haloed by her blue white hair. Her ready smile. Her slightly old-fashioned but meticulously made dresses. Her soft accent. Her warm manner.
I remember her sewing, her cooking, and her Ladies. My views shaped by the times the family would gather at the big dinner table to discuss issues on the ballot for an upcoming election. How she cherished her right to vote!
She played bridge and entertained her friends. I remember how hard she worked to raise funds for the City of Hope, always looking to help those less fortunate. She would drive to a tall apartment building and then send me door to door to solicit funds for this noble charity.
I remember the smells coming from her kitchen. The wonderful food. Seeing her sitting in the closet she had converted into her sewing room. Her hands and feet busy at machine and treadle. The beautiful fabric and lace. The precious buttons. Her homemade patterns.
I remember coming to her with complaints about my mother, her eldest daughter. She listened and nodded and said: "uh huh". She would let me come to the end of my lament without comment. Then she would always take my hand and tell me: "Remember Judi, your mother is your best friend." This left me slightly dissatisfied, but it didn�t stop me from coming to her the next time.
She told me about "tiptoeing" out of Tsarist Russia ... coming though Europe ... making their way to the United States. They were looking for freedom from bigotry and pogroms; for opportunity and education for their children. She was sixteen. Both she and my grandfather were the same age. They were betrothed. They had been since they were children. Not yet married at the time.
She told me of the reception their small group received in various countries they passed through on this journey. The kindness they were given by the people of Belgium.
With their small band of similarly young people, they traveled until they reached America, the land of their dreams.
They began their life in their new home, both working to save money to bring all of Grandma's family to the US. Grandpa worked as a barber. Grandma as a seamstress.
At seventeen, they were married. The next year my mother was born. The first of four children. The eldest daughter of an eldest daughter.
A picture hangs in our bedroom taken three or four years later. My Grandmother standing tall in the back, holding her second child, my Uncle Paul. In the front row, my Grandfather sits with his Mother-in-law (my Great-Grandmother), Lina Gordon. My mother, at about age three, is standing between them. To the right and the left of these five were Grandma's brothers and sisters. Seven in all. All of her siblings were still children with the exception of Aunt Elizabeth. She was a woman herself by the time this picture was recorded. My grandmother wore a slight smile in this otherwise serious portrait.
Grandma told me that one brother had to be left behind as he was crippled. Those who were lame were not allowed into this country at the time. I don't know what happened to him.
I remember Grandma's stories and homilies... I remember her gentle kindness and loving deeds. I could go on and on�.
"There are no great things, only small things with great love."
Mother Theresa