Thursday, April 20, 2006

A Tale of Two Grandmothers.

Grandma Herta, my dad's mother, was queen of the domestic arts long before Martha Stewart turned those skills into a Fortune 500 money-maker. In the 1930s, She emigrated from Germany to Pittsburgh, PA, hated it, went back to Germany long enough to be called a "dirty Jew" and this time came back to America for good.

Black and white photos of her family in Germany hung on the walls of the dining room of her one-story, ranch-style house, as did a portrait of her in formal dress from when she was young and attended balls with my grandfather. It was absolutely the most glamorous thing I'd ever known. That knock-out black silk evening dress is now mine, and fits as though it were made for me. Maybe someday I’ll even wear it out of the house.

Herta could turn ladyfingers, chocolate frosting and a can of slivered almonds into a "hedgehog" cake that delighted my sister and me and became a mythic dessert in our family.

She created table centerpieces out of boughs of silk flowers and silver candleholders and plastic berries that lasted until she tired of them.

She served breakfast at the table, with linen and china next to a side table with two toasters that popped out slice after slice of the thinnest white bread with jar upon jar of her homemade preserves: marmalade, strawberry, and my father swears, kumquat.

She created terrariums out of ferns and moss and rocks from her garden and added plastic animals for effect in glass fish bowls. She sewed her own clothes, and focused many of her later efforts on elaborate doll outfits for my sister and me -- a novelty for we of the feminist upbringing and doll-free house.

My grandmother Helen, my mother's mother, worked all her life, was an orphan who grew up in New York City and lived in a high rise with an endless supply of obsequious doormen, who never went to college, had only a sister as family, learned fluent French, loved foreign cinema, hated cooking and always had a white box tied with red string from the bakery filled with slices of seven-layer cake, brownies and black and whites for when we visited.

When my mom, divorced, would take us to stay with Helen while she slipped out to see a movie, I'd sneak out of bed and eat in her postage stamp kitchen at the plastic-covered table. I'd munch on toast with Smuckers jam while she told me stories of my mother as a little girl. She didn't like us jumping on the bed, but my sis and I did anyway. She did let us play with the peacock feathers in a vase in the living room, and my sister and I broke every single one. She didn't care. She cared for us, wildly, although was never shy when she wanted us to leave. "Miss you already!" she'd say, closing the door firmly behind.

I loved them both. Both are now gone, but very much a part of me.

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