The Picture on my Grandmother's Wall - A Veterans Day Reflection

Flashback:

It is any year between 1950 and 1990, and I am visiting my Grandmother's apartment.  These apartments grew increasingly small as I grew older, but there was one constant.  In a prominent position on the living room wall, there always hung a large, framed, sepia colored picture of a smiling, handsome soldier, in dress uniform.  The photograph was surrounded by a matting decorating with stars, within a large frame.

It was a picture of my Uncle Oscar, the only one of my Grandmother's four sons to have been killed in World War II, and my father's younger brother.  Uncle Oscar was a pilot in the air force, and died overseas when his plane was shot down.  He was 23 years old.  At the time he died, the family had recently lost the boys' father to an early death from cancer.  When my Grandmother received the telegraph announcing Uncle Oscar's death, she fainted, and had to be revived with smelling salts.  My mother told me that on the day Uncle Oscar died, his picture, sitting on my parents', bureau fell over.  It had never fallen over before.

Without anyone specifically telling us, my generation grew up knowing that life was precious, and not necessarily long.  Besides losing Uncle Oscar, each of my parents had lost a parent while they were still in their teens.  I believe my family honored the lives of these loved ones,  by being a little more caring and loving to my generation.  Both my parents and my Grandmother seemed to delight in showing the children a good time.

My Grandmother invited me for sleepovers without my siblings, gave me her undivided attention, and made me feel special.  She passed on the family stories, and shared the books on her shelf.  I moved within walking distance of her apartment when I was a young mother, and she delighted in my children as she had delighted in her grandchildren.  We visited often, and she passed on family treasures to us, such as her father's kiddush cup, and her beloved sewing machine.

My parents made living a happy experience.   When I was small, my father sang his children funny songs from the Vaudeville era or from Gilbert and Sullivan.  He sang these songs almost every night, as he washed the dishes after supper,  the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and his tie loosened around his collar.   On weekends, my father taught us to play catch and to ride our bicycles.  He even gave me extra help learning to jump rope.  My parents, Grandmother, and aunts and uncles, always made sure that holidays were celebrated with ceremony, delicious food and family visits.

Family outings were a regular event.  My parents always looked happy when  we had a day at the beach.  They would stake out a spot at the beach, smiling at the sun and the water, offering us an extra hard boiled egg or a  piece of fruit from the picnic basket.  Every summer we had rides in the country, picnics at a state park in the woods on warm nights, and weekend afternoons at a local pond. We always stopped for my father's favorite treat, "frozen custard", as it was called then, at the local Dairy Queen.

My parents were happy to be able to give us privileges that they could never dream of, growing up in the depression years.  We had annual family vacations, weeks at summer camp, and new clothes each school year. We had trips to local museums and to the great museums in New York City, and lots of books on the shelves at home.   We had religious school on Sundays, and birthday parties, and presents.

My parents were especially proud that they were able to send all four of their children to college, and that they never needed to ask the children to help support the family.  Earnings from summer jobs were for college books and clothes.  When my parents offered to send me on a junior year abroad, and I worried about paying them back for the extra cost, my father graciously said, "My parents did the best they could for me, we're doing the best we can for you, and you'll do the best you can for your children.  That's how you'll pay me back."

Through all the happy times, Uncle Oscar was never forgotten.   In part, this was accomplished by the ever present picture.  The anniversary of his death was marked by the lighting of the traditional yahrzeit candle, and his name was listed each year in the Yom Kippur remembrance book.
There were also the yearly trips to the cemetery.  Every Memorial day my family all piled into the car, and after a quick stop for a pot of red geraniums, went to the cemetery.  Uncle Oscar was buried in a military cemetery, with rows of uniform markers.  My father, however,  knew the exact location of Uncle Oscar's grave.  The pot of red geraniums was respectfully placed by the grave, and we all remained quiet and solemn as we passed a few moments, each with our own thoughts.  Just once, in all those years, my father began to cry.  "I never realized how young he was"  my father said.

The tradition which most made Uncle Oscar live on for us, was that my parents, when speaking to their children, always spoke of my father's younger brother as "Uncle Oscar".   It did not matter that he had died before any of the children were born, Uncle Oscar remained an important part of the family.  The very use of the term "Uncle", connoting both respect and a close familial tie, helped us to feel the loss to the family caused by his death.

More than this, my parents always always spoke of Uncle Oscar with love and respect.  There was never bitterness, never regret.   For example, my father told us that Uncle Oscar had almost died of lead poisoning from a pencil when he was a boy.  We could still hear the worry in my father's voice as he related the story.  My father also told us also that  everyone had worried about Uncle Oscar because, after he had his tonsils removed, he couldn't walk.  Finally, someone realized that Uncle Oscar had put his shoes on the wrong feet. My father would laugh with amusement and relief as if that cute child was right in front of him.   

One time, my Grandmother showed me a picture of Uncle Oscar winding up a crank on an old fashioned car, with his trademark smile on his face.  She smiled back at the picture.  My mother  always said that Oscar was the most handsome, and the most personable of all the brothers.

They always take the best of us, she mused.

Beyond this,  my Uncle Oscar's legacy lived on in a very special way.  As my generation of the family grew and began to marry, religious intermarriage became the norm.   Although in some families this was a problem, my family, including my Grandmother,  was particularly tolerant.   "Your Uncle Oscar was dating a non-Jewish girl, " she said, "and if he had only lived, I wouldn't have cared who he married."

Flashforward:

 It is 2012, and, at the end of the PBS news hour, pictures of recently deceased military personnel are shown in a moment of silence, with their names, ranks and ages.  To me, these pictures look like the picture of my Uncle Oscar, with the smiling handsome or beautiful proud faces.  What bravery these sons and daughters of our nation must have had,  what grief must their families be suffering.  Each one of these brave souls will be mourned by a family, and will leave a legacy for future generations. How will their memories be honored by their families?  How can we, their fellow citizens, honor their lives? Perhaps by flowers, perhaps by love, perhaps by courage.  Perhaps by the way we raise the next generation.  Perhaps by tolerance and understanding among all Americans.  Our heros deserve no less.

Telling Stories

Flashback:

It is March, 1958, and my father is taking my picture outside.  I am wearing my blue dress coat and my Purim costume.  As always, I am dressed as Queen Esther, the beautiful heroine of the Purim story.  Queen Esther saved the Jewish people of Shushan, Persia, when she foiled the plot of the evil Haman, adivsor to King Ahasuerus.  She did so by becoming the wife of  the King and then revealing to him that she was Jewish.  When the King realized that Haman's plans to kill all the Jews would result in the death of his  beloved Esther, he put a stop to the plans, and executed Haman instead.

Purim is a joyous holiday.  It is celebrated with costumes, a carnival, and hamentaschen, a triangular filled cookie, said to be shaped like Haman's hat. Best of all, when the Purim story is read in the synagogue, the children are encouraged to make as much noise as possible, booing and shaking groggers (noisemakers) to drown out the name of the evil Haman, whenever it is mentioned.

The Purim story is captivating, but it is a fairy tale.  There are other stories that captivate me more.  These stories transport me to another time and place.

There are the stories my grandmother tells, of life in the Ukraine in the early 1900's, gathering berries in her pinafore in the Spring, and staying inside for months through the long cold winter.  She tells of the relatives she left behind, of how they were never heard from again after one pogrom or another.  She tells of her life as a teenager on the lower East Side of New York.  She talks with pride of her work as a seamstress, and laughs that her parents thought she was an old maid because she didn't marry until she was 23.

There are the stories my Mother tells about growing up in Depression Era Hartford.  She talks of their tiny apartment, where she lacked privacy because she slept in the living room.  She talks about owning two outfits, when one was being washed she wore the other, and about  walking to girl scouts in shoes that were too tight.  But she also talks of playing with the other kids in the apartment building when it rained, and that  she was chosen to play Goldilocks in the school play because of her beautiful strawberry blond hair.

I love these stories because they are larger than the facts they convey.  They tell of finding the strength to go on, of finding happiness in unexpected places, of the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living.  I know that one day my story will be a part of these stories, part of our family history, and I feel proud.

Flashforward:

It is March 7, 2012, and once again, it is Purim.  I consider going to the synagogue to hear the Purim story.  Although it is a holiday with large appeal to children, I have often gone to hear the story since my children have been fully grown.  At times, I had been motivated to go because I gave a ride to a disabled adult in our community, who had become a friend, but she passed on several years ago.  At times, my husband and I drove up to Newton, Mass, to attend the service with our grandchildren, but John's work schedule does not allow that this year.  I consider going just to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, and to hear the story once again.  This year however, I have an opportunity to hear other stories, stories that will captivate me more.  I choose to take advantage of that opportunity, and get ready to attend our monthly writer's group meeting at the Town and County Club.

The Town and County Club provides a unique opportunity for cultural enrichment for women in the Hartford area.  It's activities include luncheon and dinner speakers, musical presentations, discussion groups on books and current events,  foreign language conversation groups, and trips to museums and historical sites.  It's members come from many backgrounds, and articulately express a wide range of views on any subject.

Of all of these activities, I especially look forward to the writer's group, and to the stories that the women will tell.  These stories transport me to other times and places.

On this night, I hear the story of a young couple in Depression Era Nebraska, gamely trying to start a new business.  I hear the story of a widow in Virginia during the Civil War, and her struggle to keep her farm going and to keep her children alive.  I am transported to a town in England, where a young American boy tries to fit into a new culture, and to the home of an aging couple, trying to adjust to retirement.  On this night I am given a window into personal stories: the story of a woman who reaches out to help others by bringing her dog on visits to a nursing home, and the story of a mature woman recalling family gatherings of her childhood.  I tell the story of one Passover, when many of the guests made an effort to attend, despite suffering from assorted maladies at the time.

The stories are endless, stories of lives well lived, of struggles to get by, and struggles to understand, of triumphs large and small.  The stories reflect the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living.  I know that my stories are now a part of these stories, part of the history of these diverse American women, and I  feel proud.