Grandpa Dave

Grandpa Dave

The Real Story (sort of)

Ida and Dave Simnowitz on their 50th wedding anniversary

This is a story someone said I should tell for children, my own or my grandchildren.  It was time, they said, either to leave a lasting memorial or to make a lot of money.  I can’t quite remember.  Everyone makes money by children’s stories.  So here goes.  But maybe, I have to warn you, it isn’t really for children.

 

Grandpa Dave was a giant of a man.

He towered above my father and mother.

Most of all, he towered above Grandma Ida.

He was well over six feet tall.

She was barely five feet small.

 

Right here there could be a picture which showed two old people, one very tall and the other very short.  A good artist would add ironical historical touches, and maybe remind the grown-ups that not everything is as it seems to children.

Grandpa Dave worked in the markets.

He brought fruits and vegetables from the farmers.

He sometimes travelled by train to the South.

He was taller than the farmers.

He bought the best fruits and vegetables.

He was a king in the markets.

 

Wouldn’t it be nice to imagine him really as a king, with a crown, or maybe because of the Jewish backgrounds to King David, it should be with a turban.  Then the farmers would look more like Bedouin that Georgia rednecks round the 1920s, the kind of people who lynched and scoffed at Grandpa Dave behind his back.

 

The farmers arrived early in the morning.

They left their farms when the night was black.

They arrived in the market when the sun was rising.

Grandpa Dave was there waiting.

He looked into the trucks to see what they brought.

 

An old photograph shows funny old trucks, with wooden sides, pulling into Washington Market.  The Italian grocers are standing around.  Grandpa Dave is taller than all of them.  They were hard times and he had three children home to feed.  I can never understand the kind of smile Grandpa has on his face: maybe he was tired and afraid.  The artist should make him happier.

Every morning, after the market opened,

and when the shopkeepers, who bought

fruit and vegetables for their shops,

went to display fresh fruits and vegetables

for housekeepers and restaurateurs,

Grandpa Dave left the market.

 

Such a long night, and every night he left grandma and the children alone, and he could hardly see them during the day, even if he wasn’t sleeping.  The little ones were at school and grandma was busy with everything.  The time passed too quickly, then, the boys were grown, the girl ready to leave school and start secretarial work, and the Depression making itself felt.

 

He came to our house.

We were getting ready for school and work.

It was breakfast time.

Grandpa Dave came with his bags.

He brought fresh fruits and vegetables.

 

How long did that walk take, from the markets when he was young and strong, to the mornings when my sister and I were young?  My father was already a dentist, already back from the army.  He must have been very proud of what he did for his children, two boys dentists, but did he think about the girl, the one he didn’t let go to college.  They were hard times and you couldn’t waste money or time. It was a long walk every morning. But the picture can’t show that, please.

             

"Here," he said, "try these,"

and he gave us peas and carrots,

crunchy string beans dripping wet with dew,

and big round tomatoes,

and long green stalks of celery.

 

What else could he give us? Or did he only come to look at how we were living and marvel at how much had changed since he had children that age, or was a child himself in the previous century?  Or was he avoiding going home, afraid to face the thoughts that almost found themselves as words when he had to sit at the table, the empty table, while Grandma Ida cooked in the kitchen?  Maybe he remembered how strong and tall he used to be. Someone at this point could start to hum an old Yiddish working song, the kind strikers sang together around the turn of the century.

"Don't cook anything," he said.

After he put the peas and beans

and tomatoes, the celery and the carrots, on our plates, he stood and watched.

He was so tall he touched the ceiling.

He looked down and smiled.

"Eat, eat," he said, "Eat

while it's all still fresh."

 

You could feel how proud he was of the fruits and vegetables he picked out, the very best that he was allowed to choose before anyone else.  He could give something valuable and healthy to his grandchildren, even though he was only a man who worked in the markets and he had two sons who went to the university.  Times had been very hard, and the grandchildren should never know.  The picture should make us remember how proud he was.  How hard he had worked.  How afraid he was.  The person humming now should start to whistle.  Grandpa’s favourite tune was “Goodbye, my Bluebell.”

So we ate our peas and beans,

our tomatoes, celery and carrots,

while Grandpa Dave beamed down on us.

We ate our fresh crunchy vegetables

for breakfast, and thought of cornflakes,

toast, and orange juice.

 

We were only kids and we thought it was crazy, and the artist can show how stupid we looked when we tried to be happy and eat vegetables for breakfast.  Children don’t understand what grown-ups feel, and children, your own especially, never can imagine how hard you worked, how many disappointments you swallowed for their sake and the dreams you just had to put aside.  But they will be healthy.  No picture, and silence.

And when we went to visit Grandma,

Grandma Ida who was so small

that before we were even ten

we were taller than she,

we had to eat her soups and stews.

 

Now let the artist focus on her, so tiny in comparison to her husband, but she worked hard all those years when he was out in the country or with his rough friends in the market.  No one ever helped her! And then those times she had to go down to the drinking place, and like Carey Nation, carry him home. So galling.  But now there were the boys grown up, and grandchildren to feed,  It was a joy. She didn’t think about the girl today, her disappointments.  Make something in the kitchen.  The artist will show her smiling as she stirs the pots.

She cooked all day and all night,

and always had pots on the boil,

everything simmering on the stove,

steamy odours in her kitchen,

out into the hall,

so we could smell her cooking

before we opened the door.

 

She didn’t understand why they had to move all the way to the Bronx, so far away from her friends.  But the younger boy knew best.  He always loved her the most, except for the girl.  She loved to see his strong, fleet body when he played football, but why did he let himself get thrown down and taken away on a stretcher.  Maybe he shouldn’t play any more,  Now he was a man, such a fine man.  So it was good to live near him and let him get some benefit.  But so far from her friends, from the other kids.  Nah, better stir the pots some more. She hums her own wordless-tune, a melody from the Old Country.

She made her soups and stews

from all the vegetables Grandpa Dave brought home,

the vegetables that needed cooking,

like potatoes and beets, corn and onions.

She added bones from beef and chicken.

She boiled and bubbled day and night.

The rich brown marrow oozed into the water.

 

The artist has a task here.  I don’t want Grandma Ida to look either like some crazy old witch standing over a cauldron or like an ignorant peasant woman from the Old Country.  She was a fine and delicate woman, educated in a refined home.  She could speak such a wonderful Polish, but then she had to use the Jargon for Poppa Dave and this crazy English for the children.  Please, show her to be a lady, not an old woman, though she is now old and tired, and so very very small.

But Grandma Ida could not taste her soups and stews.

She never knew when there was too much salt

or too much pepper.

Sometimes she forgot how much salt  she added

and sometimes she put in pepper twice.

 

I am sure she didn’t do it on purpose and no one should make fun of her as though she were getting silly in her old age.  Why should she have any enjoyment in making these young Americaners taste something bitter in their lives? They should always have better from their parents and should never have to leave everything so refined behind and sail across the ocean like she did.  Life is hard, but if you add a little salt it’s not so bad.  Nu, did I put in the pepper yet?

When she cut up celery leaves and parsley

she added more salt.

When she stirred the rich thick fat

she put in pepper.

When she chopped the onions,

squeezed the garlic

in went salt,

in went pepper.

 

This is a fun moment for the artist when he makes my book for children.  Everything should be cheerful, warm, all rosy-glowed in that kitchen of long ago.  All the smells should be seen wreathing about grandma’s face, and she has a wonderful smile on her face. Everything must be delicate, please.  She starts to hum George M. Cohan’s “Yankee Doodle Dandy”. and she does it in my honour.

 

Grandma Ida put the bowls on the table.

She took her great big ladle and served.

Big spoons of soup.

Big spoons of stew.

 

Everything about love can be measured in food, in spoonfuls of care and nurturing.  The soup is not just food, she knows, it is liquid love, and also—she gulps when she thinks this—its the tear drops of my Momma and even my Grandma.  She then whistles very softly a song she learned before she learned any language at all. She thinks she is not crying and cares about the new family but somewhere in her fingers she knows better than that.

 

Then she turned around

and put her hands on her hips.

"Well, she said, "children, darlings,

eat the soup."

She smacked her lips.

"Eat the stew."

She smiled and waited.

 

Here the artist has to be more sensitive than ever in order to catch all the nuances of her feelings, at the same time as he catches the bitterness that makes her hold on tight to the dream she has of her own childhood and her own mother and grandmother.  She knows these American people don’t understand or care, and she wants to tell them so, but how can she? She loves everybody too much, and it will hurt them.  She hums the same soft tunes her father did at the table on Friday night: he made all the bad feelings go away as he welcomed in the Sabbath.

Grandpa Dave stood next to her.

He was a giant who towered over her.

He too smiled and smacked his lips.

"Eat the soup.

Eat the stew.

Eat up everything, children,

while it's all still fresh."

 

This is a strange version of American Gothic, and it is not the kind of picture Norman Rockwell could have imagined.  Yet it is not so very different.  Only a great artist can do this for me.  Everyone has to be silent and listen to Grandpa Dave’s words here.  No humming, no whistling.