You are currently browsing the tag archive for the 'Family' tag.
My cousin Paul has died. Paul was my grandmother’s first cousin. He was 106 years old. When I told people I had a cousin that old, they didn’t believe me. Not that he wasn’t that old, but that he was my cousin. Though my family isn’t gung-ho into genaeology, we do keep track of generations and know all the proper ways to call cousins and such. I was never the type to grow up with thirteen women called “aunt”. Not that we didn’t adopt people into the family; we just always knew who they were. So Paul was my grandma’s first cousin. His two daughters are my mother’s second cousins. The next generation — my third cousins — are four men who are now in their 40s. And they have, combined, 5 children, my first cousins once removed. My children will be their fourth cousins. And so Paul is my first cousin, twice removed.
I love that we’ve kept track of these things, that I can feel almost as close to that branch of the family as I do to my own first cousins on either side. I guess growing up geographically isolated from any family meant that I could appreciate and attach myself to family, no matter how distant — as the crow flies, or on the ancestor tree — they were.
When I think about Paul, I think of all he experienced in his 106 years. He remembered, of course, the Titanic’s sinking. He remembered all the wars of his lifetime. More significantly, he remembered when my family came over from The Old Country. Many many Eastern European Jews came through Ellis Island. Two branches of my family we know for sure did not. The branch of which I am speaking came through the port at Annapolis, and stayed with Paul and his family when they lived in Fels Point, a historic neighborhood of Baltimore. Paul remained in Baltimore his entire life. He remained independent his entire life.
Last year, when I was mired in my hospital-based adult practicum for my speech pathology clinical work, Paul’s wife, Marian, died. She was “only” 96 or so. We’re not sure; at least, I’m not. It’s easier to keep track of people once they reach 100. Before that, the math is fuzzy. They lived together in a condo of a predominantly Jewish suburb of Baltimore. When my sister last went to go visit Paul and Marian, Marian was upset that her little sister, who lived across the hall, had been ill. Seems there is longevity in that side of the family. When Marian passed away, it tore me up inside. I was facing death and disease on a daily basis at the hospital, and I was wrecked knowing that their partnership of nearly 80 years was finally over. When I first met Paul and Marian (in my adult life, in recent memory), it was at Paul’s 100th birthday. He was unfortunately hospitalized, and Marian sat by his side, holding and stroking his hand, as we crowded into the hospital room to wish him a happy birthday. Willard Scott did so on his broadcast on the Today show, and Paul mused that no one had seemed to care so much at his 99th birthday.
Six years ago, as I sat there watching in that Baltimore hospital room, I was passing through on my way to Philly for a job interview. Mr. Apron and I were just at the beginning of our relationship. That job interview, and all subsequent happenings, have led to the last three years of our married happiness. I remembered watching, and hoping that I will get to grow old with Mr. Apron, and still show as much kind, caring affection towards each other as did my two elderly cousins. When Marian passed away, I was upset for Paul.
If I didn’t think about him for a while, I was sure he would live forever, the birthdays just clicking past till he was the world’s oldest human. I figured, if he was alive and well, what mortal illness could possibly be his end? But last spring Marian died, and I worried for Paul.
I won’t be going to the funeral, but my mother is flying in. I wonder what people are going to share of their memories. I wonder how many facets of Paul’s 106 years will be represented, from his surgical career, to the 20 years he worked at the VA after he retired (finally retiring from full-time work at 85), to his family, his friends, the ghosts of his classmates, etc. I wonder if they can remember half of what he remembered, half of what he witnessed and saw in his lifetime. His immediate descendants all live in the Baltimore area, all are still close. His daughters have each been married around 50 years each. What a blessing to them it has been to have their anchors, their patriarch, their papa.
In lieu of the trite RIP which I see emblazoned on car windshields and inked onto biceps, I much prefer to evoke the Jewish tradition of mourning and say, Let his memory be a blessing. As his life was to all who knew him.
Looks like you get another break from brain surgery today, as I need a chance to unload about today’s events, and a certain family member. I’ll likely return to brain surgery tomorrow, but for today, I leave you this tidbit about my sister-in-law. Welcome to the family.
Oh, how people whistle a different tune when they want something out of you! ‘Twas not so long ago that Mr. Apron’s sister, whom I will call “Bianca” spotted Mr. Apron wearing a silk bowtie given to him in memoriam by his allergist’s widow. It’s a long story, but, briefly, Dr. Greene collapsed and died a few years ago, in the prime of his life. Mr. Apron, who had had a close relationship with his allergist, being an allergic, sniffling Jew with chronic post-nasal drip, was deeply moved and wrote a tribute, which eventually found its way to Mrs. Greene’s mailbox. She was so touched by the essay that she chose one of the doctor’s distinctive bowties and gave it to Mr. Apron because she knew he’d appreciate and wear it. It’s due to Dr. Greene that Mr. Apron started wearing bowties in the first place. So on this particular day Mr. Apron was wearing the prized tie in question, and Bianca remarked, snidely, “That looks like something Mrs. Apron would make.”
To us crafters, that can either be the ultimate compliment, or it can send us reeling back to high school when no one appreciated what we sewed, knit, collaged, or crafted, and thought we were just freaks, crudely copying fashion trends we were too cheap/poor/uncool to buy at the mall. Guess which way Bianca meant it?
Fast-forward. Bianca is now 7 months pregnant with her boyfriend’s child. After a freak-out session at Babies ‘R Us where she and the boyfriend were send into shock by all of the baby swag, she promptly texted Mr. Apron and asked him if I, alleged creator of knock-off schlock and assorted kitsch smacking of home-made, would do her the honor of making her a diaper bag. Dear friends, how could I refuse?
So tonight we journeyed down to the fabric store where I dropped $50 on materials to make her a custom diaper bag out of some admittedly really cool fabric. As we’re driving back to where she left her car, Mr. Apron asks how long she’s planning on working until she goes out on maternity leave. She casually mentions the due date, September 7, and the planned C-section, which will be scheduled the 39th week of gestational age, assuming the baby’s not ahead of schedule, which it looks like he might be because he was pretty big during the last ultrasound, etc. She’ll be out of work till late October when she’s planning on going back 2 days/week and just doing light-duty paperwork for a while. It’s not like she’ll be unloading stock with the lifting restrictions and pain. Though she’s such a champ with pain, who knows?
I’m sorry, planned C-section? I checked with Mr. Apron after we dropped her off at her car.
“Is there any medical reason she’s having a C-section?”
“Nope. Apparently Dr. Kim tried to talk her out of it, but you know Bianca.”
I quoted Mr. Apron’s father/mother/sister/self: “Nobody can tell Bianca nothing.”
Well, I’m sure Dr. Kim did her darndest, and then wrote the cover-your-ass note in her file: “Pt counseled on risks and benefits of elective C-section. Pt. verbalized understanding of all risks, but insisted on scheduled C-section vs. vaginal delivery.” I’m sure that’s how it read. It strikes me as odd that someone who admittedly doesn’t like kids and “wasn’t trying” to get pregnant in the first place, yet now is so gung-ho about becoming a mother, might have considered that whole Get-it-out-of-me dilemma before getting knocked up. I guess this was her solution. And, to quote the senior Mr. Apron once again, “Once Bianca gets an idea in her head…”
“You know,” I countered, “she won’t be able to pick up her own baby or lift more than 5 pounds?” Mr. Apron also tried to talk her out of it. Want to guess how that went?
So for all her tough talk about how great she is with pain and how the only discomfort she’s had during the pregnancy is having a bulbous belly – no swelling, no fatigue, no weird cravings, no feet turning into flippers – she’d rather have her abdomen sliced open and have to recover from a C-section than suffer the normal childbirth pains (or not – hello? Epidural?) from a regular vaginal delivery.
Mr. Apron hit the nail on the head, though. This way, it’ll be on her terms. And that’s the theme, folks, on her terms. She can schedule the birth, schedule the pain and time off of work. She can control when and if she likes my home-made items, and whether home-made is a good thing. All I can say is, she’d better decide she likes the diaper bag she picked out come September.
I understand the principles of buying in bulk — pay a smaller per-unit price, spend the next six months plowing through chicken parts, or cottage cheese, or Frosted Flakes, trying to beat the expiration date. And I’ll usually spring for the larger package if I can save money. However, there are those recipes that call for things you never need again: exotic spices you’re hesitant to omit, for fear the curry won’t taste right; bizarre condiments such as horseradish, that we only use around Passover anyway; and anchovy paste. Nuff said.
Today, I needed mayonnaise. Now, being a Jewish household, we are startlingly devoid of such products as Wonderbread, Kraft singles, and mayonnaise. I understand these three form the ideal trifecta of the cheese sandwich, or, rather, the processed cheese food product sandwich. Because, really, who needs gelatin in their sliced “cheese”? And does Wonderbread ever grow mold on it? And mayonnaise I happen to find most vile. Most vile indeed. I’d much rather Mr. Apron load up his sandwiches with horseradish dijon mustard, or vidalia onion spread, or red pepper hummus. That slimy white condiment has no right to smell “tangy”, except that it’s made with vinegar and eggs. What? How does that make for an opaque white sandwich spread? See? It’s highly suspect. And highly repulsive. Your opinion may differ, but it’s wrong. As my preschoolers would said, “Dat’s nasty, teacher”. Of course, they’d be talking about any number of things. I’m talking about mayo.
But I needed mayo today. Needed. As in, the dish I am making for Mr. Apron’s birthday meal contains mayo. And though I had joyously purged our fridge of our 90% full jar when we moved (does mayo expire?), I needed it now. Today. In the smallest possible portion so I don’t have to stare at its deviant whiteness for the next year and a half, or however long it takes Mr. Apron to take one for the team and use it on his sandwiches. They make an 8oz jar of real mayo, for $2.35. Or you can buy the largest vat with the easy access flip-top lid sold in the store for $2.50. That’s a full 32 oz of mayo. So you can get 4 times the spread for $.15 more. The really strange thing was that prices seemed to drop as I scanned down the shelves towards the larger vats. I don’t mean unit price — I mean retail price. The 15oz jar was $3.35, which seemed absurd to me. And then you can more double it to 32 oz for less money. Yes, yes, it was on sale. And I felt like a total douche for not getting the 32oz swimming pool. How much did my recipe call for, do you suppose? 1/3 cup. 1/3 x 8oz, or approximately a little less than 3 oz.
I think what I should start doing is ransacking the fast food restaurants for their comdiment packets. Then I can have all the mustard, relish, mayo, horseradish sauce (Arby’s), hot sauce, mild sauce, medium sauce (Taco Bell), barbecue sauce I need without the annoying wasted food. Of the above condiments, we stock only mustard in our fridge. That, and Heinz ketchup, which happens to be stocked in a 32oz squeeze bottle. All for me. Mr. Apron doesn’t like ketchup. So it’s all mine. In 32 oz. Cause it’s cheaper by the ounce, and I’ll use it anyway, somehow, before the expiration date. Don’t judge me.
At least it’s not “Miracle Whip”. or “Cool Whip”. What are those anyway?
Why did the parking lot at the Toys R Us where I bought my sister’s birthday present (shhh, I don’t think she reads often) smell of bacon?
It wasn’t just the elderly couple with wraparound sunglasses sitting in the car next to me eating with their windows down. It wasn’t the wings place at the opposite end of the parking lot. It wasn’t the shuttered JCPenney store next door to the Toys R Us. It was just the air in that parking lot. And it wasn’t just a slight whiff. It was the unmistakable overwhelming odor of pork products recognized as only a Jewish vegetarian can do.
I got the gift, though. They were holding at the customer service the last one of these items in the store, and, possibly, in the greater Philadelphia area. And now it’s all mine. That is, it’s mine, until I give it to her.
Happy Birthday Toto.
