Grandparenting
copyright Ruth Lampert 2/22/13
We call the group “W.N.” which stands,
variously, for “What Next?”
“Why Now?” or whatever we happen to come up with on any given Tuesday afternoon,
which is when we get together.
Stephanie organized the group, which meets
at my place as a generous concession to my – um – “impaired mobility” which
includes the fact of my not driving. We don’t have an agenda (unless nibbling
cookies and sipping tea can be considered an agenda); we just start chatting
about whatever is on our minds.
Last
Tuesday we drifted into the subject of grandparenting , which is sort of a sub-topic of “Aging.”
Most
reminiscences about grandparents are about gentle folk, humorous, usually
sweet, sometimes wise……..but that’s not exactly how I remember mine. My paternal grandparents died when I was an
infant. The most cogent memories of my mother’s parents are after my father
died, when I was nine. We moved in with my mother’s mother into her flat, one
of six comprising the apartment building she owned in the Logan Square area of Chicago.
Nowadays I realize how her taking us in (we didn’t think of it in those
terms at the time) made it possible for us to continue a middle class standard
of living. Mother’s only working experience
was selling dresses, an occupation which did not pay enough for the four of us
to continue living on our own in the nice Albany Park neighborhood we had come
to think of as home. To me, and probably
to Cine and Bob and Mother, it was just one of the sad and dismal turns that
life had taken since Daddy’s death.
Grandma was Hungarian. She was born there, migrated to Chicago, leaving a large part of her heart in Budapest. She may have appreciated the benefits of
America (one of which was that leaving Europe freed Grandpa, who died not long
after Daddy, from serving in the
Kaiser’s army between World Wars) but what we got from her was mostly disdain
for the American way of life, especially its young people.
One
exception to this antipathy was my best friend, Margot, who came to America with her family as Jewish refugees from Germany.
Grandma liked her (something about “origins?”)
She also liked brother Bob’s friend Sid, who planned to take over his
father’s plumbing business rather than go to college after high school
graduation. Grandma scorned formal
education, and referred to the hours we spent working on our homework as “doing
humbug.” This is one instance of how she did not conform to the stereotype of
Jewish grandmothers.
Today
I realize that having a family of four, including three children ages from nine
to 16, move into her heretofore quiet
and orderly life, must have been quite a pain in the ass – to borrow one of her
oft-used phrases.
I am not proud of the way I interacted
with her. But in all honesty, she was not exactly a jewel of a grandma. She
disapproved of my activities, my ambitions, most of my friends, and my
brother’s other friend whom eventually I would marry. And more eventually, divorce. O.K grandma, I guess you weren’t so far off the
mark on everything after all.
Marriage
and motherhood led to grandmotherhood for me, and I guess I didn’t take any
prizes either, making my way a second time around as it were. But I guess wasn’t too bad. These days my beloved grown grandchildren reminisce
fondly about the “toy drawer” in my various small apartments, where they liked
to spend overnights. And now there are the delightful great-grandchildren. It’s
amazing, having five grandchildren and five great-grandchildren, ranging from
infancy to adolescence. (I’ve told you before I’m no youngster.) Not all grandmas spend their time baking
cookies and baby-sitting. Most of my progeny attended my second wedding, and they
think of Tony very much as their granddad.
How
did I meander to this point in the saga anyway? The same way we did at the Tuesday group. By indulging in the sweet activity of reminiscing.”
Anyone can do it, but grandparents have
a special gift.
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