The Woman Who Was Born of Fire

Today would have been my grandmother’s one hundred and first birthday.  She died just after turning 82, only a few months after we buried my grandfather, her husband of six decades.  At my grandfather’s funeral she held my three-month-old daughter for the first and only time, a moment that inexplicably brought her back to the present with a palpable spark.  That fleeting cognition lasted only a few hours, enough to treat the assembled family to a final show of her grace and sweetness.  We will never understand the role my daughter played in jolting Nanny back to us, out of the mental cave that her mind had come to inhabit.  There are times, however, when I suspect a generational hand-off took place in that meeting, a passing of the spiritual baton from her soul to that of my daughter.

My daughter is an enigma to us.  She has an uncanny ability to hold her tongue in a family that says too much.  She does not need to be the center of attention.  She does not need validation from anyone.  We used to make the mistake of thinking her lack of contribution meant she had nothing to say.  On the contrary, there is no detail or gesture that goes unnoticed by her.  She has everything and everyone sized up and tied with a bow, and when she deigns to speak, her observations convey an insight and honesty that betray an old soul.  If I happen to be sitting next to her at a large family gathering, she will occasionally squeeze my hand to indicate understanding or empathy, letting me know that she too resents a snarky remark, or simply offering me her tacit support. 

It is uncanny how these small acts by my daughter evoke Nanny’s essence for me.  I like to think that my daughter is the perpetuation of her spirit.  Nanny was the backbone of the family in every sense, working in her own way behind the scenes to promote domestic tranquility.  She mediated between warring spouses or siblings, often repeating her mantra, “Blood is thicker than water.” I always felt that she was my “fairy godmother,” sent to look out for me and to ensure my well-being.  Oddly, my daughter fills that role in my life today, the wise young woman who keeps her frantic mother in check.  We are remarkably in tune with one another, though I suspect that the sensitivity beyond her years can be a burden to one so young.

Nanny was born in New York on March 25, 1911, the night of the famous Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fires; until 9/11 occurred, it was one of the greatest disasters in New York history.  It was a common practice back then for the factory management to lock the doors and stairwells to promote worker productivity and prevent employee pilfering; when a fire started high up on the eighth floor the workers were locked inside.  As the fire spread quickly, many jumped from the eighth, ninth and tenth story windows to the street below.  Most of the 148 who died in the blaze were women and children—a frightening number, teenagers.  As a direct result of this tragedy, the International Ladies Garment Worker’s Union was formed.

Because of the commotion and the crowding in the streets, my great-grandmother was stranded at home on the lower east side as she went into labor.  The doctor was forced to find his way to their apartment by climbing over the rooftops; the streets were jammed with people making their way toward the fires.  In the midst of this turmoil, Nanny entered this world.

She was a tough girl who always did what had to be done.  She was centered and serious, maintaining self-discipline and a high standard in every aspect of her life.  As a young girl she worked in Woolworth’s to earn her own spending money.  At one point she saved for weeks to pay off a new coat on layaway.  When she finally brought it home, she allowed her sister to wear it on a first date even before she herself had had a chance to wear it out.  She already had a boyfriend, but her sister needed every advantage to impress her new young man.

Having been promised at a very young age to her “college boy,” my grandmother herself wanted to go to college.  She fought bitterly with her father, who thought it was unnecessary for a young girl to receive an education.  He was an immigrant; she convinced him at long last to apply for citizenship papers in order that she would be allowed to apply to college.   Nanny loved to tell stories of the “olden days;” some of my favorites were about their lives during World War II.  My grandfather became a dentist, which afforded him extra rations during the war, particularly for fuel.   My grandparents had a large extended family with many nieces and nephews—almost all living by then within a three block radius—and they always made sure that everyone was well cared for.   My grandmother made certain that each one had a coat, shoes, and when the time came, a proper suitor.

Visiting my grandparents’ house as a child was always a special time for me.  They lived humbly, but there was always a hug at the door and a piece of cake on the table.  I learned many stereotypically female skills at my grandmother’s side.  I remember a time when she was into knitting.  I would sit near her feet hypnotized by the fast-moving needles; watching a sweater take shape was much like watching a flower bloom in time-lapse photography.  I begged her to teach me.  She gave me a ball of pink yarn and a pair of needles and carefully cast on a row of pink stitches.  I loved to sit awkwardly by her side, the two of us working our needles rhythmically like a “Tale of Two Defarges.”  Her work would be stitch perfect, often embellished by slipping the occasional sequin or bead between stitches.  My twenty stitches would morph from row to row, sometimes growing to as many as 25, sometimes dropping one or two.  After a few dozen rows, my would-be rectangle would have a very haphazard shape to it.  In the morning, however, I would wake to find a perfectly honed patch about the size of a potholder; I, the unsuspecting beneficiary of her quick work after my bedtime.

My favorite thing was to work by her side in the kitchen, whether it was measuring ingredients or peeling potatoes.  Each of her recipes had an encyclopedia of stories attached, and I would love to listen to each new tale as we mixed and measured.  During one visit to her home in the Bronx she bought me the best gift ever:  an Easy-Bake Oven.  One morning, while everyone in the house was still asleep, she whispered to me, “Would you like to bake some cakes?”  Still in our robes, we arrayed the silly miniature mixes on the kitchen counter, one chocolate, one vanilla.  Perhaps anticipating the fight that might ensue over the chocolate cake, she asked, “Why don’t we make marble cake?”  She let me blend the ingredients for the two cake mixes in separate bowls, and then we took the tiny cake pan and poured half of the vanilla batter into it.  Next, we dripped half of the chocolate batter into the same pan and pulled a knife around in it to create a chocolate swirl.  We repeated the process to use up the rest of the batter.  Instead of one chocolate and one vanilla cake, we produced two identical marble cakes.   I was awestruck; if she had spun straw into gold I could not have been more impressed with her "thinking outside the box."

Though her house was a safe haven, Nanny was no pushover.  Family solidarity was her credo; yet she was not afraid to give any of us a well-deserved kick in the butt if she deemed it necessary.  But more than anything else, she was a blessing upon my life.  She always made me feel important and relevant, never failing to listen, whether it was about a silly boy at school, or a paper I was writing, or about how my parents did not understand me.  Even in a house full of people, she would always sit beside me and hold my hand.  There was electricity in her touch; it is the same sensation that passes from my daughter’s grip to mine.  This connection with the next generation keeps my grandmother alive for me.

I have a lifetime of memories from Nanny’s house:  playing under the round marble table with the lion’s head embellishments, pretending the crystal sconces were huge diamonds, trying to avoid staring at the odd painting of a bare-breasted woman that hung over her bed (referred to, affectionately, as ‘Nanny When She Was Young’).  There was nothing that was off base in Nanny’s house.  She would let me play with her nail-polish, her clothes, and even her jewelry.  Today, it is bittersweet to wear her diamond wedding band, which came to me on my fiftieth birthday.  As I look at it on my hand I remember modeling it as a young girl with my tiny fingers, wondering if I would grow into it someday.  It is the greatest treasure in my possession; but I would trade it gladly for just one more day with her.

Tomorrow's blog:  Palms Spring Eternal