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Treasuring magic of grandparents
Some of Bubbe's cooking goodies that Lisa Goldberg still has: the famous cream of wheat; tea; her nana Goldberg's tea cups and Lisa's great-grandmother's quilt. The cookbooks are famous Jewish ones entitled: A treasure for my daughter.
With so many of the elderly dying from COVID-19, I find myself deeply saddened by the knowledge that many children may never get to know their grandparents. That precious generation in families and historical knowledge keepers who impart magical memories in their grandchildren to sustain them well into adulthood.
Over the last month, I find myself thinking frequently of my grandparents, and the many hours I spent in their company during my childhood. I often wonder what they would think about this pandemic, particularly given their collective experiences entailed living through the Depression, wartime and immigration. No doubt they knew a thing or two about living through a global crisis. Yet from my vantage point as a child, their stories were stories of encouragement, stories of humour and stories of love.
As a young girl growing up in Sydney on beautiful Cape Breton Island in a small Jewish community, I had the gift of my grandmother for many years. Bubbe, the Yiddish word for grandmother, came to live with us in the onebedroom apartment in the basement of our home after my Zayde (grandfather) died. Because my bedroom was also in the basement, I often spent time with my Bubbe. Although memories fade over time, as I am now in my 50s, images of my Bubbe remain permanently ingrained in my DNA.
She was thin, quiet and a little stern. Her nails were always painted to perfection with dusty rose nail polish; she smoked Rothmans cigarettes: king size. I used to sneak a few of them when she wasn’t looking. No doubt she knew but never said anything. Simplicity was her motto when it came to chocolate bars: It was Jersey milk or nothing.
Like so many Jewish grandmothers, she was a magnificent baker. To this day, I still dream of her hallah, luscious marble cake with chocolate icing, and poppy seed bagels all made with love from her little kitchen on Grove Street.
Even her cream of wheat was cooked to perfection. Not a lump in sight. Despite the many bagel flavours of today, including blueberry, cinnamon and chocolate chip, I personally loathe to eat them. How could anyone justify such flavours when raised on warm poppy seed bagels made from scratch? According to my Bubbe, bagels had no business on a dessert menu. Although I didn’t inherit my Bubbe’s culinary talents, I seem to thrive in the eating department, much like everyone in my family.
My sister and I were big fans of my Bubbe’s chocolate chip cookies: walnuts, a light dusting of powdered sugar, and melt in your mouth delicious. We would often run home from school and eat as many cookies as possible as fast as we could until she caught us. For some reason, which I could never understand, she wanted us to save some for my brother. Imagine.
Like so many, my Bubbe was a fan of the soap opera. I confess so was I. After school, I could be found sitting in her oversized velvet-like chair, sipping sweet milky tea while watching her favorite soap: The Edge of Night. It was during these times that I got to know my Bubbe. While not an overly emotional person, she was wise, had a dry sense of humour much like my father, and a strong moral compass. Perhaps, and I may be wrong, but I suspect my understanding of right and wrong and everything in between may have become more nuanced in these conversations with my Bubbe. I could tell her anything my vivid imagination would dream up and know it would go no further. That is the magical thing about grandparents: they are also secret keepers — of course, they must be benign and mine usually were.
I recall a Saturday afternoon with my Bubbe, after being treated to tea and a chocolatecovered donut, she bought me the most amazing life-size blue teddy bear. Returning home, I remember thinking I would never be given a more magical gift in my lifetime. To this day, I don’t think I have. That life-size teddy bear reigned supreme for many years, although I suspect teddy now takes up residence with some other lucky child. But that is the thing about teddy bears, they never go out of style. Perhaps Pam Brown said it best, “A teddy bear is your childhood wrapped up in faded yellow fur, and as such, he commands affection long after he is outgrown.”
Not dissimilar from our magical memories of the teddy bear, we also don’t outgrow the magical memories of our grandparents. We must therefore do everything we can to keep their memories alive long after they are gone.
I remember thinking I would never be given a more magical gift.