My Grandparents
I must have been around two years old — maybe a little younger. I was teething and cranky. Papa would put me on his shoulder and stroll up and down the hall singing into my ear “Peaches are ripe in the summertime…” I can still remember the melody. His voice was soft and soothing. Papa had a firm gentleness about him that was noticeable all through his life. Leon had the same trait.
Another vivid memory of Papa is when I probably around seven or eight. We would take the trolley to 333 Washington street in downtown Boston. It was an impressive multi story art deco multi story building that housed many jewelry stores and watch repair shops. We would say hello to the elevator operator who was dressed like an airline pilot and skilled at making quick adjustments to bring his craft to safe landing on the fifth floor.
Paps’s partner (or employee — I can’t remember which) Roy Frost was already there at his bench peering through his eye piece into the intricate mechanism of a watch. Roy was always very friendly with me. I never thought to ask Papa how he and Roy hooked up. Roy was much younger and, surprisingly, not Jewish— unlike most inhabitants of 333 Washington.
Papa’s office was more like a shop or laboratory than an office. It had workbenches with adjustable lamps, sets of lenses, scopes, pliers, pics, tiny screwdrivers and an array of other specialized tools. I remember a machine with jars of blue liquid that would spin on a turntable. It was probably used for removing rust from the tiny metal gears. Just a guess, There was also a display case of expensive looking time pieces — wrist watches and pocket watches. I’m not sure if he ever sold them or they were just for show. There was also a calendar girl pinup on the wall which added a touch of spice to the shop.
My “job” was to sort a pile of mainsprings and place them into small envelops with tags like “25 mm” or some such identifier. I would spend all day in the office taking breaks for lunch (I remember corned beef sandwiches).
Sometimes, we would visit other jewelers on the floor. One of them was a minor celebrity because he had once published a joke in Reader’s Digest. He had the joke mounted on fancy plaque in his office. I can’t remember the joke.
At the end of the day, Papa give me a crisp $5 bill for my work. Such a lovely man.
Here’s a picture of Papa at his bench. I love his concentration as he focuses on the inner workings of a watch. He was a time piece surgeon.
hese days, like Papa, I also have a shop and a grandson (Jameson) who has visited me there. In this picture, we are working on a tool tote for him. Maybe someday, he’ll be old enough to sort my wood pile into appropriate bins in the same way I tried to sort mainsprings in Papa’s shop. And if Jameson does a good job, I may pay him $5. (I know it should be more like $50 due to inflation).
There are so many vivid memories of Nana Rose. Here’s a picture of Rose and Hyman. They look to be in their early fifties.
Nana Rose was a force of nature. She was always on the move: cooking, cleaning, organizing, shopping, chatting with friends, running the show wherever she went. She was a handsome European woman and always held herself proudly. She ran an antique store in Dorchester (where my parents met as teenagers). Years later she was wheeling and dealing in Boston real estate having owned several properties in posh areas of Back Bay. I can’t imagine what these properties are worth today. Ben and I visited one of these properties (179 Bay State Road) around 2008. It’s a Boston University residence now.
Nana Rose was a fantastic cook. There were many memorable meals — especially passover and thanksgiving. I’m sure all my cousins remember these meals over the years. Here is Nana Rose setting the table for thanksgiving. We would all leave the table happy and stuffed. And after the meal Papa would entertain the kids with the “maisela” trick (making a mouse out of a cloth napkin).
Mostly, I remember Nana Rose as having boundless energy and setting high standards that everyone tried to live up to (not that anyone did—especially me). The only time I remember her angry at me was when I borrowed her Pontiac and returned it almost empty of gas. Thoughtless.
One summer when I was eight years old Nana Rose took me with her for a 3 week vacation on Hyannis, Cape Cod. I suppose my parents needed a break. We stayed in a guest house a few blocks from Craig’s beach. Nana would take me to the beach and let me swim out to the raft where local teens would hang out. She told my mother that she got a stiff neck keeping track of me while I disappeared beneath the raft.
I also remember her taking me to the local drive in where I had hot dogs and we watched “Three Coins in a Fountain” — title song by Frank Sinatra. I probably aged her a few years that summer.
When I think of Nana I think of her smile, her laugh, her energy and her lust for life when in times happy or sad. A force of nature.
Perhaps the most enduring memory of Nana Rose is her advice to us all when we were going through a rough patch (of which there were more than a few):
“…and this too shall pass!”
I’m not absolutely she was saying this in this picture, but it could be so.
