In honor of this day, I thought I'd tell you about a pair of really terrific grandparents who graced my life when I was young.
Ladies first, so my mother's mother, the awesome Naomi Wilhelm, née Rupert. Pre-stepfascist, she shared the raising of me with my mother, watching me while my mother worked. I inherited her love of animals, especially birds, for whom she would empty the toaster tray periodically to give them the crumbs to eat. Her patience with my continual chatter and queries was saint-like, and her ability to adjust her conversation to a child's level and teach me is something I still appreciate.
Grandma was a prodigious cook and baker. My mother, the youngest of five children, remembers that frequently friends came home and ate at their house. With all those mouths to feed, Grandma would make a 25 pound bag of flour into bread for the family every week. While making the bread for the day, Grandma would prepare soup, chili, stew or spaghetti sauce -- something that could simmer all day while she turned out loaves of bread. Have you ever kneaded bread dough? If you haven't, let me tell you kneading that much bread dough gave Grandma a tremendous arm workout, especially forearms and triceps. The weaker sex? Yeah, right!!
And talk about delicious, let me tell you, nobody on earth could touch Naomi Wilhelm's bread. Nobody. And nobody ever will. The shame of it is that Naomi Wilhelm's granddaughter has yet to successfully bake a loaf of yeast bread fit to eat. It's one of my aspirations, though, and I'll keep trying. Grandma used to bake a loaf or two for us when I was little, and give me a pinch of the raw dough to eat. To this day, when I make pizza crust, focaccia or yeast doughnuts, I'll eat a pinch of the raw dough in her memory.
Grandma was smart, too. Although she only had an 8th-grade education, Grandma liked to read, devouring two newspapers on a daily basis. And I remember her playing Jeopardy back in the day when its host was named Art Fleming and the highest dollar value of a clue was $100. Naomi OWNED that show -- fuhgeddaboudit. Same with Concentration -- nobody could touch her.
She had a few opinions, too (the women in my family are well-known to), and she didn't hesitate to share them. She didn't like airplanes ("They're messing up the weather!"), and you never could convince her we landed on the moon, but she loved the Beatles and Jack Kennedy, wrestling and roller-derby.
Grandma died at age 67 of breast cancer that had metastasized. I was not quite 7 when she died. I think the saddest part for me is that she didn't live long enough for us to have an adult conversation. So many questions I wish I'd had time to ask her. I'd love to hear her thoughts on so many things -- computers, TV, modern life, books, my mother, my father, my stepfather, me. And have her teach me how to bake bread. God, I miss her! :'(
And there was my stepfather's dad, Herman "Pete" McCall. I treasured him for his consideration and sensitivity. Mother and stepfascist hadn't been married long and wanted a weekend alone. Off I was shipped to Grandma and Pap's. Well, Pap knew they were strangers to me and I was probably nervous, so he explained procedures around their house every step of the way. He did it in a kind, reassuring way designed to make me feel comfortable and part of things. It was very sweet of him and made a 4-year-old feel more at home with them fairly quickly.
I loved spending time with him and remember hanging around him watching him do the most mundane things like cleaning the big grandfather clock in the dining room, mowing the grass. He had special work clothes for these kinds of tasks -- overalls and work shirts and shoes, and he used to remind me of Mr. Rogers in that he had different clothes for different activities that he would change into with some ceremony. He never went out to the (Eagles) Club without bathing, shaving, changing into nice clothes and wearing aftershave, unlike my stepfather, who usually couldn't be bothered to do those things and stunk everywhere he went.
I've said here before that Pap was the only one who ever spoiled me. He did that in so many ways, large and small, that told me the one thing we all need to know about those who love us -- that he paid attention to what I liked and did/got for me when he could; he tried to please. He knew all my favorite snacks and drinks and he made sure Grandma always them in the house. And the times my parents were away salmon-fishing he and Grandma would have me over on two consecutive weekends, he found out what my favorite soups and TV dinners were so he could make sure to have them "in case Claudia gets hungry". The first year, we went to Williamsburg, PA (not far from Johnstown, the site of the infamous Johnstown flood) to bring Grandma's mom home for a visit.
As we traveled across the mountains, I drooled over the peaking fall colors, praising the beauty of the mountains ad nauseum. From then until my parents' divorce, every year we "just happened" to go across the mountains that same time. And if the fall colors weren't always peaking at that time, I still knew we were going because Pap loved me.
That evening when we got home, Pap scandalized Grandma by taking me with him to order pizza. (Grandma was never known to spoil me in any way). Left to his own devices, Pap would have come home with an extra cheese and pepperoni pizza. But with me as his willing accomplice (Pap: "You like mushrooms on your pizza, don't you? Sure you do! Put some mushrooms on there, Angie!" on and on in such a way through all the toppings on Angelo's menu), we came home with one plain cheese pizza, and one mondo-mondo, fully-loaded pizza. Grandma was visibly (and audibly) in a high state of piss-off over the expense, and his spoiling of me, but her mom (called "Big Grandma" by all her great-grandchildren) settled the matter by defecting over to mondo-mondo, and leaving Little Grandma all alone with her cheese pizza and her piss-off.
Every year in in November, the Catholic church that Grandma went to would have its big to-do, the highlight of which was a multi-ethnic food festival. I always went with my mum and Grandma, hitting the Italian booth for lasagna and ravioli, the Polish booth for apricot kolachy, the Syrian booth for baklava and whatever booth for cheesecake cookies, enjoying them all with great relish. One year, a week before the festival, I overheard a convo between Grandma and my mum to the effect that Pap was going to be home that year instead of going hunting as usual, and boy, he would really love it if Claudia would stay home with him instead of going to the festival. He would (read: induce Grandma to) cook something really special ;) and we could watch the Steeler game. Would I? Awwww! Who wouldn't, when someone wants them around so much! Just to make sure I didn't miss the Italian booth too much, he (made sure Grandma) cooked spaghetti and meatballs ;), then he violated his own rule that Sunday Dinner Must Always Be Served At Noon, waited till 1 PM, thus allowing us to sit out in the kitchen and watch the Steelers beat whoever-the-hell-it-was, and then, just to make sure the spirit of indulgence was complete, he let me drink a beer during the game. A great time was had by both.
When I was about 9, I stayed with them one weekend. Saturday was a bit chilly, but I went out to play after breakfast. It began to rain lightly. Light rain was not usually a cause to bring me inside in my mother's book, but Grandma read differently, and ordered me inside. I pussed, but Pap had an idea. While Grandma buzzed about her Saturday housecleaning, he went up to the middle bedroom, pulled down a ceramic box and came into the kitchen with it. The box contained a bunch of foreign coins Pap had collected at various ports during his World War II service in the US Navy. Each coin came with a story from his time in its country, and his memories of the port, the sights, sounds, food, and people that lasted the rest of that morning and well into the afternoon. All well-sanitized for young ears, I'm sure, but a caring man's way to connect with his granddaughter and amuse her on a rainy day. As I got older, I heard some of the stories over again and less-sanitized but I cherished every one. I still do.
Pap died November 1984, also from the demon cancer. It went to his brain and savaged it in the end, so he didn't know my voice at times when I braved my stepfather's possible meanness and called. I hate it that the acrimonious divorce robbed me of three years with Pap. I hate it that a weak part of me is glad I never saw him sick and suffering, and remembers him big and strong and healthy.
But I love it that I got to tell him I loved him three months before he died. And that he told me he loved me, too.
All you that have living grandparents, please cherish the time you have with them. Please don't resent it if they go on a bit at times with their stories. Take notes!
After all, those are some of the stories you're going to bore your grandchildren with! ;0
Now, go call your grandparents!
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
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