Generous People

BLOSSOMING

In the spring of 1956, when I was eleven years old, my Aunt Jean took me and my younger cousin Donna to Washington, DC. I had been on a big trip before, to a vacation in Florida with my grandparents, but this was on a different level, a mission to see the capitol city of the United States.

Dressed in brand new pastel-colored topper jackets, we boarded the train from Penn Station, Newark. We took a cab from Union Station and checked into the famous Roger Smith, my first time in a hotel. My aunt, a widow and single working mom, orchestrated the experience of a young lifetime for us.

And, she said we could order anything we wanted from the hotel menu!

The city was glorious in its abundance of cherry blossoms against bright blue skies. American history and the great institutions of democracy that I had studied in grade school came alive all around me.

That evening, standing on the the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, I stared in awe at the neon blue light washing over the statue of Abraham Lincoln. Aunt Jean, a county prosecutor, expressed her deep admiration for the character, courage and leadership of President Lincoln. To me, he looked worried over the troubled state of the country, carrying the burden of responsibility on his own, and I worried for him in return.

After that, when we recited the pledge of allegiance each morning in school, I held my head higher with the special knowledge of the buildings and monuments I had seen inside or up close.

The menfolk in our family were the photographers—Uncle Art, Donna’s father, took aerial shots of Niagara Falls; my dad, Julius, a member of a county camera club, documented scenes in a public park designed by Olmsted; and my Uncle Sid created albums in black and white of family gatherings in my grandparents’ backyard.

I don’t recall that we even took a camera. I’ve never found any photos of our trip. No matter. For a while afterwards, I fell asleep to dreams awash in a mysterious blue light.

My Aunt Jean had a reputation for toughness in the “man’s world” of the legal system back then. She was so smart and fought hard for recognition and promotions, never quite attaining the success she deserved. But to me, she was my aunt who treated me to a fancy hotel dinner and opened my eyes to new places far away, out in the big wide world.

NIGHT FLIGHT

In 2008, I was ticketed to visit my son and his family in Israel. A member of my synagogue asked if I wouldn’t mind accompanying her elderly mom on her flight to Tel Aviv. “Yes, that would be my honor.” I re-arranged my booking.

I knew that Dr. B. had been a prominent ophthalmologist in the Boston area, opening a practice with her husband in the 1930s. Upon her retirement, she had written an autobiography, focusing on her life as an independent woman in the early twentieth century and her career as a female pioneer in her profession.

Some weeks prior to our flight, she invited me to her house to pick up a copy of her book. I arranged to do so and otherwise finalize our travel plans. I was taken by the many original works of art on the walls and the contemporary sculptures throughout the house and garden. While serving tea, she asked if I wouldn’t mind reading her entire autobiography prior to the trip.

When I asked why, she explained, “Barrie, you will probably have questions about my life when we are seat mates on the plane. But I don’t want to waste my time talking about myself. I want to hear all about you!”

I felt a twinge of anxiety and thought, what on earth would I have to say to interest this amazing and accomplished woman for an eleven-hour flight? But she kept her promise and listened as I answered her questions about the arc of my own life, from childhood through teen antics (she loved these especially); dating, breakups, and courtship; family life with hairdresser husband, raising chickens, sheep, and vegetables; and my experiences as a woman in the legal profession.

I had never thought of my life as anything more than an ordinarily responsible one, starting in New Jersey and ending up in suburban Boston, a range of a mere 200 miles. My travel buddy heard something in my story that I didn’t quite see as worthy of telling.

Several years later, when Dr. B. celebrated her 100th birthday, she emigrated to Israel to live near her son and his family. She settled in an apartment in Netanya on the Mediterranean coast, where she frequently attended concerts with a group of new expat friends like herself. Her family hired an Indian lady to live with her as cook and companion. She wrote me that she now enjoyed all sorts of kosher Indian food as her regular fare. Dr. B. died peacefully in Israel at the age of 105.

She had waited until she retired to chronicle her life. Back then, I couldn’t imagine reaching that point. Now that it’s here for me too, the memory of that night on the plane together reminds that it is time—and that someone will want to listen.

UNCLE ALLAN

My brother-in-law Allan relocated his family to California but made sure to visit his elderly parents on the East Coast, my in-laws Meyer and Frances, at least once a year.

He grew up working in his dad’s Esso gas and service station—Meyer’s Automotive—on the edge of Franklin Field in Dorchester, then put together a mobile repair van when he moved. He seemed to have permanent grease stains on his hands from his years at the garage and his career as a “grease monkey.”

Allan didn’t make a grand living but had a heart of gold. I’m sure he gave away more of his services than he ever got paid for, helping people in automotive distress or dire financial straits. Allan simply couldn’t say no.

He called his mom daily from California. When her other sons, Paul and Mendy, visited her at the nursing home, she might not remember their names but instead greeted them with a cheery, “Oh, you’re the ones who don’t call me!” We chuckled at her snarky means of identification.

When Uncle Allan flew in from California, he would bring these crazy extravagant gifts to our kids, as if he had won prizes on the fairway at a Fourth of July carnival. One year, he brought a larger than life-size pink stuffed poodle with a rhinestone collar for my daughter. Her eyes opened wide as she accepted and then hugged the object of her good fortune, carrying it off to her room.

Then, just before he left, he would reach into his pocket and peel off twenties for his niece and three nephews. This was big money to little kids. He derived pure joy from the looks on their faces, knowing that they were already spending it in their heads, making their wildest dreams come true.

Allan died, so sadly, at age 67, ending the lifelong generous streak that defined him.