Knowing Bubbie

I was afraid of the woman with the black cat glasses and the large wart on her cheek. Her hair was thin, her body was fat; she was short. My first memory of her is when I was four years old and she is standing in the side foyer of her house hanging up her coat. I shied away from her. I don’t remember having anything to do with her before then, though now I know she had held me, fed me, bathed me, made me laugh. She was my grandmother Marion, my Bubbie.

It took me a short while to get used to her. We spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house in Detroit. In the 60s, though all of her neighbors were Black, she had friends up and down the block. Small children loved her. Soon I learned that behind those scary-looking thick plastic glasses was a woman who loved dogs, always had lovely-smelling pink cotton sheets on the sofabed for me when I slept over, and, though her scrambled eggs were runny and her matzoh balls usually came out of a jar, loved to nourish those around her with anything she had in her kitchen. When we drove away from her house, she stood at the top of her driveway and waved until I couldn't see her anymore.

As much as I'd like to be able to say that I am never judgmental, that I harbor no biases, like all humans, I do. One of the very first ones I remember was my Bubbie, but I am happy to report that as soon as I got to know her, she became a mighty oak in my life. She liked to hum tuneless songs, sit on her fancy living room chair while the family bustled around her. She read paperback romances, loved to carry home leftover restaurant food in styrofoam containers, and was tickled beyond belief with her great granddaughter. Although she couldn't understand what Maddie was saying, she loved to listen while Maddie babbled weekly to her on the phone.

My Bubbie died on March 28, 2002. I miss her every minute of every day. But as mighty oaks do, she has left acorns in her wake and they will take root and grow themselves.