PhilYouIn.com

Growing up my favorite person – by far – was my Grandmother. Never raised her voice, or bossed me around, or complained about my grades. We were always happy when we were together. She loved me.

Came all by herself from Poland when she was a girl. Had to scrub people’s floors to make a buck. After four years she decided it would be easier if she married, so at least she could scrub her own floors.

Had three kids. First a son, who was so appreciative of the fact that Gram scrimped to put him through college that he refused to bring his friends to the apartment because her Yiddish accent and lack of education embarrassed him. He became a famous designer, but not before changing his last name so no one would suspect that he was a Jew.

Next came my mother, who loved her. Third was a daughter, who also went to college and became a successful interior designer. Travelled the world. She, too, had no use for her mother and stopped speaking with her by the time I was eight years old.

Nice people.

When I was five I asked Gram what heaven was like. She looked at me and said, “Heaven? There is no heaven! When you’re dead you get buried and that’s it! Six feet under. When you’re dead you’re dead!”

So, I learned two things at age five: what happens when you die, and what they mean by ‘never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.’

Twelve years later I would visit her at her apartment in Borough Park, Brooklyn, every Saturday when my boss would give me a two hour break; it was 1972 and I was all about the Olympics. The USA basketball team was entering the gold medal round against Russia, and I was telling Gram how they were going to win it all.

“The Russians will cheat,” she said. Being from Eastern Europe, my Grandmother really had it in for the Russians. “Listen to me! They will cheat!”

How silly, I thought. Until the Russians missed their last shot and the game ended and the U.S. won by one point, except the Eastern European judges decided to put an extra three seconds on the clock, but they missed anyway, and the game ended again, then the judges decided there were actually two more seconds left, and they finally hit their shot, and the gold went to Russia. (I am not exaggerating. Not one bit. Google it.)

The next Saturday I went on about it at my Grandmother’s house and she got really upset with me.

“So? Didn’t I tell you they were cheaters? You didn’t believe me??!!” And with that, she threw me out of her apartment. Told me she wanted me to leave.

When my mother found out I got tossed, she called my Grandmother on the phone, screaming, and told her she was done speaking with her. Like, forever. Whereas I appreciated the moral support, it made little sense because it put all the pressure on me; I was the only one left to care for her. I still went to visit every Saturday, only I needed a much longer break because I had to walk her up and down the two flights of stairs in her building to walk her to the supermarket.

This went on for about a year and a half, until my Grandmother suffered a stroke. My mom and aunt found a nursing home on the Upper East Side with an empty bed. I continued with my weekly visits.

One summer’s day she told me she wanted out, so I pushed her in her wheelchair out the front door of the ‘home’ when no one was looking and took her on a mini tour of the neighborhood. Down 2nd avenue to 75th street, across to 1st avenue, then uptown again. She was kind of out of it but seemed to appreciate being outside.

Gram got thirsty and started to yell for something to drink. And I mean yell. I stopped outside a small grocery store and asked what she wanted: apple juice? Orange juice? (This was before the advent of bottled water.)

“Beer! I want to drink beer!” she screamed.

So I locked the wheels on her chair and went inside to get her a Budweiser. Which she downed in about three huge gulps

“More! Get me more beer!” she insisted.

Another Budweiser and another three gulps.

By the time the nurses lifted her into her bed Gram was sound asleep.

That night my mother phoned to tell me she had gotten a call from the nurse in charge of my Grandmother’s floor.

“She told me Gram reeked of beer. Any idea why?”

“Nope,” I replied. “No clue. Maybe she asked one of the aides for some.” I always put self-preservation before honesty.

“Why would she do that?” my mother replied. “Your Grandmother never tasted beer in her whole life!”

Six months later, I made my daily phone call to the nursing home to see how she was doing.

“I’d like to speak with Rebecca in room 1279, please.”

A pause on the other end.

“Who?”

“Rebecca. Room 1279.”

“Rebecca? Oh, she died.” Just like that.

So much for compassion.

——————————————

Twenty-five years is a long time, but it goes by pretty fast. So, there I was with our youngest son, Matthew, behind the counter of the card shop I owned in Brooklyn. Matthew was ten.

At the counter were two women, regular customers, who were always pushing Jesus on me. Always smiling and talking way too loudly. When they were on line that day, they really annoyed me. They were conversing about an acquaintance who had recently died.

“He’s in a better place.”

“He’s with Jesus now.”

“Jesus has called him home.”

“He’s looking down on us and smiling.”

I rang them up, then said, smiling, in my most soothing voice, “I overheard what you were talking about, and it made me think about what my Grandma used to tell me about what happens to us when we die.”

Matthew looked at me, pleadingly. “Don’t,” he whispered.

“Really! And what was that, sweetheart?” one of the ladies asked. She just couldn’t wait to hear my heartfelt story…

And so, on that day I taught them the same lesson my grandmother taught me so many years before. NEVER ask a question that you don’t already know the answer to…

.