My Grandma Gitel was born Gussie Dickstein in Parritz, Russia in 1891. She lost her mom Jennie when she was very young, possibly at childbirth; her father Izzy (Israel) remarried soon as he could in the custom of the day, needing someone to help care for the family. She spoke ill of her stepmother, an unpleasant woman who singled her out for harsh treatment and favored her own children. If there was a bit of fruit or an occasional sweet for the family, it was she and her sisters, the outliers, who went without.
When Gitel was fourteen, she managed to book passage and emigrate to America with her older sister Mary, perhaps with the help of their cousins on the Lower East Side. She earned a few dollars performing piecework for a furrier. She must have learned to sew as a girl in Russia—I remember the treadle machine in her basement that she used for mending.
She married my grandfather, Chaim Weiner, a bricklayer originally from Shchedrin**, Russia, in New York City in 1908. They settled in New Jersey, surrounded by Grandpa’s large extended family and her dear sister, my Tanta (great aunt) Mary. A third sister moved to Brighton Beach, New York.
Grandma was an enterprising woman with an instinct for survival. She gave up the tedious piecework for the opportunity to open her own business—a grocery store out of the first floor of their multi-family house. No matter that it was not in the downtown center but on a neighborhood street, Grandma went ahead with it. A two-parent working family a century ago—it’s not that new.
Their first child born in 1909, my Aunt Jean, learned Yiddish as her primary language in the household. She quickly picked up fluent English when she started school at three years old, a smart cookie as the family referred to her. My dad Julius was born in 1912.
Uncle Harry arrived in 1914, a sickly child who would not or could not nurse. The doctors sent my grandmother home from the hospital, telling her that there was nothing more they could do. Family lore has it that she wrapped him up and left on the trolley car, bought fresh butter from the local farm, and fed him chunks to melt in his mouth and save his life, as the doctors could not manage to do.
Jean played piano, my dad learned the trombone, Harry played the alto sax, and Elsie (little sister born in 1923) the clarinet, her house full of children engaged in musical pursuits.
As a child in the 1950s, I often slept over on the weekends. Harry lived in the upstairs apartment with his gorgeous wife Rose. Jean, widowed by 40, lived in the spare downstairs bedroom with her daughter, my cousin Donna.
I remember the tomato plants in the backyard tied to wooden stakes with long strips of cotton torn from old sheets. Gardening was men’s work back then, but even so, no one weeded the crabgrass taking over, no need for a manicured lawn.
Grandma fed us hot meals even in the summer, favoring heavy protein and gravy-rich dishes along with a pile of mashed potatoes to keep everyone in the family strong and nourished, as she had not been.
Food was her language of love, whereas my grandfather was a romantic fellow, exuding joie de vivre and calling her his “Silver Queen” in homage to her prematurely gray hair. If he broke out in song to her, she turned away from his public show of affection, clearly embarrassed, “Enough, Chaim, enough!“
When my grandfather became impaired with what we now term Alzheimer’s, they moved in to the Workmen’s Circle Old Age Home. She sat by his side, a watchdog, and fed him coffee ice cream before dinner because that’s what he wanted, and that’s what she wanted for him.
Food was Grandma’s medicine for the ailing . . . and her most powerful expression of love.
Grandpa died in 1975, a few months before my first child was born, allowing me the honor of naming my son Mordechai Chaim after both of my grandfathers in the Jewish tradition of tribute to deceased family members.
Jean brought Grandma up to Massachusetts to visit me, the new mother. I remember her pulling the umbrella stroller behind her with one hand, it was a funny way to do it and so I snapped a photo of the moment. By then, her doctor had ruled against travel, but she was determined to make the all-day train trip from Newark to Boston.
Grandma passed away in 1977 at the age of 86, but not until she’d made sure to see me with my newborn. She transmitted directly to me and my son the immense blessings and sacred touch of the revered elder generation who endured hardship in their countries of origin and found a way to cross the ocean to the golden door of America.
There, she had single-handedly saved the life of her own child with the mother’s great love that defined her . . . but her work was not done. She could not rest until she saw for herself that my own little boy, her great-grandson, was safe with his own fierce protector.
Years later, during my career and family years, raising four children just like my grandmother did, she decided to visit me again. I woke up from a vivid dream in which she had been standing on the grass in front of our house. She didn’t knock on the door but instead walked slowly, full circle around the perimeter, until she, and the dream, disappeared.
Long live the Queen—The Silver Queen.
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**Shchedrin, town in southeast Bobruisk Oblast, Belorussian SSR. In 1841, Chayyim Golodetz, a timber dealer, established a Jewish colony on the estate of Shchedrin. Some of the settlers engaged in general agriculture and some in the timber business of the Golodetz family. In 1897, there were 4,022 Jews in Shchedrin (95% of the total population of the town), about 40% of them engaging in agriculture. A decline in the Golodetz family resulted in a general emigration from the town.
In 1926 there were 1,759 Jews (91% of the total population) in Shchedrin. The Soviet government attempted to develop agriculture and in 1930 over half of the 380 remaining Jewish families were engaged in that occupation, about half of them living on the Kolkhoz, Sotsialistishe Veg (“Socialist Way” in Yiddish). With the German occupation in 1941, all Jews of Shchedrin were killed.
Thank you Barrie! You told so much that I didn’t know and brought back memories. Relatives I only remember by name, tomato plants, coffee ice cream. The sewing machine. Best to you!
Thank you Bob for reading my Silver Queen piece. I never miss a chance to praise the amazing people who gave us everything we’ve got.
It’s always such a joy reading your story Barrie. How you became the wonderful person you are. The memories are precious. Keep well my friend. Lots of love and admiration.
Thank you Magdeld for your supportive comments, you are too kind. And I hope most sincerely that you are doing well.
You bring back a lot of memories and it’s funny but the one that jumped out at me was the cloth strips holding up the tomato plants. We always did that but I haven’t thought about it in years. Thanks for the Memories.
Thank you Barbara for reading and commenting on my tribute to my grandmother. These little details (the cloth strips) can bring their world back to us — I am thrilled that it resonated with you.
Beautiful story! I love the fact that she saved her baby, Harry, by feeding him butter!
Thank you Hilary, I suppose you could call it the alternative medicine of that era. Along with chicken soup!
Barrie, I always enjoy reading your blog. Your writing skills are exceptional and your descriptions of your family are so vivid and clear.
Thank you Dale for your compliments on my writing. I’m glad to have you as a loyal reader, my friend.
Beautiful, Barrie. I love your Caregivers and Grief Matters, too.
I am working on a website. Any advice is appreciated.
Hi Barbara, and thanks for your nice comment on my Silver Queen story.
I would never have been able to start this WordPress blog on my own. Fortunately, David, my admin, set it up beautifully, but it was time-consuming and requires tweaking from to time after that.
As for starting a website (as opposed to a blog format such as this one), I would seek advice from a techie friend or maybe a local computer place for advice, unless you have made headway already on your own. Sorry I can’t be of more help.
Grandma Gitel LIVES! When I was small I thought she was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, even with flabby skin hanging off her arms, because she loved me so much. I enjoyed having her trim the bottom of my long hair with her seamstress’s eye, always perfectly straight. Some folks rely on well crafted words to express their love, but in Grandma it was all about action. A lot of the best in us comes from her. Thanks for the tribute!
What a sweet memory, having Grandma cut your hair, I didn’t know she did that. For sure, she poured so much that is good into us, our endless source of influence and strength.
Loved these recollections Barrie. It made me remember my own grandmothers, especially one, Nana Ida who also came from far away, possibly Latvia. I don’t have all these details at my fingertips but I certainly loved reading about yours! What a beautiful woman!
Love,
Janice
Barrie you have such a wonderful way with words that I find that I become part of your story.
Enjoyable reading. You have an incredible knack for bringing people to life through your writing. Hope you had a pleasant Fourth of July.
What a heartwarming story. Your grandmother was a strong and determined woman. She created a large loving family and many moving memories. Your tribute to her is a testimony of her influence and enduring presence in so many lives. Thanks for sharing her.
What a beautiful story
Another wonderful story Barrie. “Sail on Silver Girl”.
What a great story! I giggled at the pic of her pulling the stroller!! LOVE!!!
Barrie. Absolutely epic !!! The richness of personality, the drive of these people ! They survived and conquered every plight at every turn. The
very essence of pluck; rock solid sense of family etc. Just when you think they’ve taken earthly endeavor to its zenith, “The Silver Queen” pays you a visit by way of a dream. Love the mystical dimension here. Totally real, I’m down with that all day every day.
Much as I hate to acknowledge it, (I have to) your footnote chronicling the tragedy of the town of Shchedrin is a brutal heart break. This reads like a Russian novel. A masterpiece Barrie. Frank
Frank