Spelling Bee

Spelling Bee

Alby and I were compadres when it came to games and puzzles, so I came to Room Number Seven with some of our favorites. I’d thrown some pencils and game books in my bag and when the ennui set in I was ready to thwart it. Alby’s eyes lit up when he saw my stash and sorted through the pile to find the puzzle he wanted. It was a “make-a-word,” in which you’re given a word and have to make as many other words from it that you can. Pencils poised, we opted for a three-minute time limit and Mom was the timekeeper.

“Ready? Go!” he said and was already scribbling away while I was still trying to find any word that made sense.

We threw ourselves into the competition with fervor, Alby constantly psyching me out by muttering, “Give it up, Susie Q. You know I’m gonna win. . .”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” I answered which was an out-and-out lie. I could never beat him.

“Time!” Mom called in her best referee voice and we put our pencils down. “Okay Al, you go first. Read off your words and Susan will see if she has them on her list.”

He was getting cocky as he checked off his answers until I challenged him. “Wait a second! You spelled that wrong,” I said as I pointed to the last word on his list which would have given him one more word than I had and therefore made him the winner. “It’s a tie!”

“Where is my dictionary when I need him?” Alby answered, referring to my oldest son Sam. “He’d be able to prove I didn’t make a mistake because no one is better at spelling than he is.”

I knew just what Dad meant.

As a young boy Sam enjoyed learning new things and one of his favorite subjects was spelling. He loved to have us pretend he was in a spelling bee at the dinner table and he’d come up with a subject and we had to think of words he needed to spell. If he did them all correctly he got a cupcake; if he made any mistakes, he got a cupcake. Not a bad deal.

Mom and Dad were over for dinner and Sam decided that the evening’s subject for the bee was “Our Family”. He couldn’t wait to strut his stuff.

“Here’s your first word, Sammy. Spell DADDY.”

“D-A-D-D-Y.”

“Spell MOMMY.”

“M-O-M-M-Y.”

“Spell MANNY.”
”M-A-N-N-Y.”

“Spell LEAH.”

“L-E-A-H.”

“Spell Grandma Pearl.”

“G-R-A-N-D-M-A-P-E-A-R-L.”

“Spell POP-POP ALBY.”

“G-O-D.”

We were dumbstruck. Had he made a spelling mistake or was he, in his childhood innocence, privy to something on which the rest of us could merely speculate? No matter. “You are the champion of this family,” my father said and gave Sam a kiss, a hug and a cupcake.

I thought back to that night and still found myself wondering whether or not Sam understood the significance of his faux pas. And was it a faux pas or, rather, the purity of a child’s mind that allows him to look at things on a more basic level? Even in my grown-up, adult mind I couldn’t help agree with Sam’s perception of the man whom I believed could move mountains.

I agreed with my father. “No one is better at spelling than Sam. So since he isn’t here I’ll add some spelling words. See this I.V. bottle? It spells H-E-L-P.”

Alby pushed his glasses down to the tip of his nose as he often did, and looked over the top of them at me. “You’re off by one letter. It spells H-E-L-L.”

If he was right and it was hell, why did we all shiver?

Singin' In the Vein

Singin’ In the Vein

With a wince and a sigh, Alby had no choice but to accept the chemicals that entered his body. I felt his apprehension and shared his fears, but when he started to sing Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore”, I was instantly at ease. It wasn’t because his voice was pleasant; quite the contrary. Alby’s singing voice was a reliable emetic, making his listeners feel the need to throw up. In his forties he’d had polyp surgery on his vocal chords, changing his already mediocre singing voice into an instrument of torture. Add to the mix the fact that by the age of fifty Alby was legally deaf and couldn’t hear his own voice, well, you get the picture. So why did I have a sense of ease when he sang that day? Because I knew that underneath his misery, his mischievousness was waiting to come out and play.

The tune he was attempting to sing was coming out more like the sound of a cat being electrocuted. Apparently these delightful, lilting strains made their way down the hall sending Jenny racing into the room to find out what was wrong.

“Mr. Rich! Are you okay? What’s the matter?” she asked breathlessly.

“Just singing,” he answered, enjoying the disbelief on Jenny’s face. “Thought I’d hum a few tunes to pass the time. Any requests?”

“’Sounds of Silence’ would be nice,” I joked.

“Don’t know it,” he countered and resumed his assault on our ears.

“Al, must you?” Mom asked. “You’re going to make the patients even sicker than they already are.”

“I happen to know that sometimes it’s the people you least expect who appreciate bad singing the most.”

On January 7, 1987 my second son, Emanuel “Manny” Lev, was born. He was my parents’ third grandson and their first foray into the world of a baby who cried incessantly. Manny was challenging in our inability to calm him and all the tried-and-true parenting tricks were worthless. We’d rock him, walk with him, bounce him, stroke him, and he’d still scream.

My husband Gary and I didn’t know what we were doing wrong. After all, our first son, Sam, was happy and calm all the time but at merely two-years-old he was subjected to the upheaval of his baby brother’s unabating discomfort. Even Sam pitched in to try and soothe Manny and although he came closer than Gary and I, Manny never quite reached a state of peace.

Unnerved by Manny’s crying, my mother declared, “I can’t spend time with you until that baby quiets down. He drives me crazy.” She was as good as her word and made herself scarce; Alby, on the other hand, had a secret weapon.

He would turn off his hearing aids and in his silent world was able to hold and rock Manny without becoming edgy. This allowed me to shut the door, knowing my baby was safe while giving me a break. During one of these grandfather/grandson moments, Alby inadvertently began humming and that turned into singing. I was about to beg him not to do that when I realized that Manny had stopped crying and for the first time, my baby was cooing. My usually inconsolable little boy was making happy-baby sounds and now it was MY turn to cry!

It was almost laughable that all the time-proven methods of soothing my baby didn’t work and then my father’s tone-deaf, nauseating, absolutely offensive singing voice brought my son to Nirvana. I opened the door to find Manny staring up at my father adoringly as Alby stroked his grandson’s cheeks. If ever there was a perfect moment, this was it. I left the room and closed my eyes as I listened to my father sing, knowing the world’s most beautiful music was being played right there in my baby’s room.

“Dad, you go right ahead and sing. You never know whose life you might save!”

I hoped it would be his own.

If The Shoe Fits...

If The Shoe Fits

Jenny gave us a Hero’s Welcome. “I don’t do this for just anybody,” she said as she escorted Alby to Room Number Seven and even had a hot cup of tea awaiting him. “I thought this would make you a little more comfortable,” she said.

“You’re so good to me,” Alby answered. “And I got smart this time. Look!” he pointed to his slippers. “I’m sure this isn’t very common but I figured that if I had to be here for so many hours feeling poorly, my feet might as well feel good. Like ‘em?” He wiggled his feet inside the brown, fur-lined shearling slippers.

“They’re great!” Jenny agreed. “I know what you mean about having your feet feel good. I stand on mine all day long that’s why I wear these soft clogs. I’d never be able to make it through a work day in bad shoes.”

Before the conversation could continue, we saw a young girl dance by the door; she was visiting a patient down the hall and was wearing a white tutu and leotard with bright purple ballet shoes.

“Dad! Did you see that little girl? Her shoes were purple!”

He laughed in recognition.

Marcy and I were both enrolled in The Michael and Maria Ballet School. Marcy was graceful and talented and I, well, wasn’t. A one-legged half-dead duck had more grace than I. From the moment I walked into that place I was the red elephant in the room and trust me, red elephants definitely get in the way of graceful swans.

Marcy was already in the accelerated classes, having mastered basic ballet, tap and toe. I was placed in beginner ballet and attended the first class very half-heartedly. Unlike my sister, I wasn’t interested in dance but Mom insisted that both of her daughters be introduced to all things ladylike. I was happy with tree climbing but Mom said that didn’t count.

“I can’t dance,” I whispered to Marcy as we approached the studio entrance.

“That’s why you’re here! You’ll learn. I didn’t know how either when I started and look at me now!” she said as she twirled her way through the front door.

“Bravo Marcy!” Maria clapped. “A beautiful pirouette.”

Before I could even wave good-bye I was separated from my sister and led into a different classroom. All the girls were lined up in a neat row against the wall opposite the barre. They looked like cotton candy, dressed head-to-toe in soft pink; not surprisingly, they all stared at my bright red ballet shoes which had been Mom’s compromise with me. I’d go if I could wear red shoes.

Maria began the class by having us stretch and do some basic ballet steps. B-o-r-i-n-g. The other girls were quick learners and I found myself wondering why I couldn’t catch on nearly as well.

“Susan,” Maria instructed, “You’ve got to bend your knees, point your toes and extend your legs more, like this.” As she contorted her body I again wondered why this was important for my growth and development as a girl. Throughout the class I obeyed her instructions and participated as best I could and by the end of the session I knew with certainty I didn’t belong.

Maria bent down to talk with me at eye level. “Susan, next time you come to my class you’ve got to wear different shoes.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because all the girls in this class wear pink.”

“But I like red,” I answered. “I like pink too but I like red better.”

“Red is lovely but in here, we wear pink. Please tell your mother to buy you new shoes before the next class. See you all next week!” She waved her hand with a flourish and clearly not only the class had been dismissed.;

At the dinner table that evening Alby didn’t hesitate to try and make me understand that this was about more than shoes and to Mom’s chagrin, he was pointed in his lesson.

“Susie Q, there are two types of people in this world. One type wants to blend in and one type wants to stand out. Neither is better than the other but it’s important to know which you are and then live accordingly. Don’t let anyone try to change you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“That I should wear my red shoes?”

“Wear them, dance in them, be happy in them. As long as they’re what YOU want to wear.”

I dropped out of dancing school that week but quickly discovered that red ballet shoes were great for climbing trees.

“Comfortable?” Jenny asked.

“I guess I still can’t convince you to make it a Chivas and soda, huh?” Alby joked as he climbed onto the chair and rolled up his sleeve.

“Don’t ever change; you’re such a unique man,” Jenny said as she buried the needle beneath his skin.

“Must be the red ballet shoes,” he answered, winking at me.

Driving

Driving. . .Him Crazy

I pulled up to the front of Mom and Dad’s house where they were waiting for me to drive them to Dad’s next chemotherapy treatment; I got out and opened up the passenger doors so they could get in more easily.

“No hurry, we’ve got an hour before your appointment, Dad.”

We were all apprehensive and were glad that there was time to spare before he would be poisoned again. He’d felt pretty sick over the four weeks since his last treatment; how would he be able to tolerate another one? I could feel my jaw locking, a familiar symptom when my anxiety levels were growing.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said with wily eyes. “How about if you make a wrong turn and we get lost and end up somewhere else? Anywhere else; I’m not picky.”

In truth, that certainly wouldn’t have been too difficult for me. Alby and I shared a disability - we were Directionally Challenged and could get lost trying to make our way out of a paper bag! This posed quite a challenge when he had been teaching me how to drive: the blind leading the blind.

I got my Driver’s Permit and Alby was to be my instructor. He’d taught Mom, Harvey and Marcy to drive and I was glad I would receive his tutelage as well. I’d had a few hours of “Behind the Wheel” training at school, but essentially was a driving neophyte when Alby and I embarked on our first car ride.

It was 1973 and there were no laws about seat belts, so Alby and I got into Mom’s blue Chevrolet Malibu without any restraints or air bags. Brave. Stupid. Dad looked relaxed in the passenger seat while I, in the driver’s seat, wondered whether or not I’d wet my pants.

“We’re going right into the belly of the beast; head for the highway!” Alby hooted.

The highway? Had he lost his mind? Fast speed, narrow lanes and poor drivers gave Route 22 its nickname, “The Bloodiest Highway in the East”. Alby hadn’t thought this through and it was my obligation to point that out.

“Are you kidding? Dad, I’m not even remotely ready to go on the highway. Especially THAT highway!”

“Sure you are,” he replied confidently. “You’ve got the gas pedal, the brake pedal, your brain and me. You don’t need anything else.”

Except maybe a diaper. . .

I drove tentatively and as we approached the entry ramp to Route 22, I feared that my body would paralyze or that I’d somehow fall into a catatonic state. Horns honked behind me as I crawled onto the ramp at a wild and reckless five miles-per-hour.

“Don’t let them hurry you. Remember how I’d teach Harvey to wait for his pitch in baseball? Same thing here. Wait for your opportunity. Be patient. If people want to honk, let ‘em.”

My pitch came and I took it, merging with the traffic while my shaky leg pressed down on the gas pedal. Within seconds I was keeping pace with the traffic surrounding me and Alby’s steady voice offered comfort.

“You did it, Susie Q! Everything else after this is gravy.”

I was changing lanes like a champion, maintaining speed, and staying focused. That was until Alby decided we’d take a side trip. “Turn off here,” he said as we approached an exit ramp. “Let’s take some local roads.”

I was so busy concentrating on the mechanics of driving that I didn’t realize we were completely and undeniably lost. Alby was telling me to turn left, turn right, go straight, follow the curve, and I followed his instructions. I guess that’s why I was surprised when he told me to pull over.

“Susie Q, we are most definitely lost.”

So there we were. Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, neither one with a clue. “Maybe Mom has a map in here somewhere,” I wondered aloud.

“Even if she does, can you read it?” Alby asked.

“No. Can you?”

He laughed. “Aren’t you the funny one.” We both had our strong suits and map-reading was not amongst them.

“Yup. We are most definitely lost,” I agreed.

We remained by the side of the road, waiting for a passerby who could hopefully give us directions; we waited close to thirty minutes before we finally flagged down a passing car. After a few lefts and a couple of rights, we were back on the highway heading home.

As I drove, Alby pondered our fiasco with his customary philosophy. “You know, Susie Q, you’re going to get lost again and again in your life and it won’t always be in the car. If you can’t find the way on your own, find someone to help. Not everyone can read a map or remember the routes.

“You just need to make sure that you don’t get so lost that it’s impossible to turn around. And for as long as I’m around, feel free to ask me for directions. In the meantime, why don’t we stop at that diner ahead?”

Life lessons followed by chasers of coffee-ice-cream sodas. I knew then that getting lost wasn’t so bad as long as you’re not lost alone.

“Sorry Dad,” I said as we pulled into the Cancer Center’s parking lot. “I tried but couldn’t get us lost today because you need to be here. You’re our family’s map reader, remember?”

“I’m not sure if I can follow the route,” he answered sadly.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got my reading glasses on and I can see the map clearly. Let me drive,” I said as I took his arm and we walked onto the empty elevator.

Alby blog - Freckers

Connect the Dots

The constant gastric distress was making Dad grow pale. Even his freckles, which had always given his fair skin a lot of color, looked faded.
“How about sitting on the deck with me?” I asked. Although we weren’t in the depths of springtime, it was a sunny day. “A little Vitamin D might do you some good. Especially since your next treatment is coming up.”
Almost a month had passed since his first chemotherapy session and Alby was growing very disinterested in just about everything. His pleasures were few and his discomforts many. “Think it’ll help?” he asked almost child-like.
“Sure it will. With your jacket on, you’ll be nice and warm and I think it will feel good on your face. C’mon,” I said, offering my arm for him to hold.
We went outside and almost immediately after he sat down, he turned his face into the sun. “What am I supposed to be learning from all of this?” he questioned. But it was not directed toward me. It was a dialogue he was having between himself and, as he liked to say, “The Man Upstairs”. He looked at me and said sadly, “I’m asking but he’s not answering.”
“You need to do what you always taught me, Daddy. You’ve got to connect the dots.”

I was eight and decided that I didn’t like having freckles, or freckers as my family called them. Actually, it was more than dislike; I thought I was ugly and that the freckers made me look different from my friends who had none. I grew angry whenever I’d look in the mirror and despite the fact that both my father and sister had them, I didn’t want those brown dots anymore.
“I look stupid!” I’d declare. “A stupid freckle-face.”
At the beginning of my rants, Mom was understanding and tried talking me through them. But as my petulance grew, so did her impatience. Eventually, she asked Alby to step in because clearly, she was making no headway.
“Mom tells me you don’t like your freckers. I guess it’s time for me to share a secret with you,” he whispered as he took a pen out of his shirt pocket. “You can’t tell anyone or else they’ll all want freckers and, well, that’s just not possible.”
He had the most solemn look on his face as he sat down with me at the kitchen table. “Do you remember when you used to draw pictures by connecting the dots?”
Of course I did.
“Well, you’ve got to connect the dots of your freckers because then you get messages.”
Now I was interested. Messages?
“From who?”
“From God, of course. And he doesn’t send these messages to just anybody, you know. He picks special people to give them freckers so he can write to them; you just have to learn to read his writing. Here, let me show you.”
He rolled up my shirt sleeve and with his pen, creatively “connected” my freckles into the shape of a heart. “See? God is saying he loves you.” He rolled up my other sleeve and drew a smile. “God wants you to be happy.” He pushed down my sock and drew a Star of David. “God doesn’t want you to forget that you’re Jewish.” He rolled down my other sock and drew an eyeball. “God is watching over you all the time.”
Wow! God was my pen pal! “How do I write back, Daddy?”
Alby didn’t miss a beat. “You don’t have to because God uses his God pen and reads your freckers without you having to connect the dots for him. God picks out only the most special among us to share this secret code.”
For many months after that I found myself drawing on my skin, making all sorts of pictures that I “saw” in my freckles and it was then, at the critical age of eight, that I learned being different wasn’t so bad after all.

With my pen I connected the freckles on his arm, forming the words “I LOVE YOU” from wrist to elbow. “That’s what you’re supposed to learn, Dad. You are loved unconditionally and you can count on it. You will never be alone.”
Alby took the pen and with a shaky hand, drew a tear drop on my cheek.
“It’s okay for you to cry,” he said.
So I did.

Shed a Little Light, Oh Lord

Shed A Little Light, Oh Lord!

Always an avid reader, Alby found himself with a lot more time to enjoy his ever-present stack of books. Even before cancer invaded his life, he read an average of three books a week and now that he lacked the energy to do much of anything else, he read all day long. The novels offered a mental vacation and allowed him to forget how rotten he felt.
Alby got comfortable on his grey flannel chair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and turned on the table lamp; because he was blind in one eye, he needed the light on even during the daytime. I’m not sure what measurements are used to determine the lifetime of a bulb, I only know that their claims for being long-lasting found us replacing the bulbs fairly often.
I was sitting on the couch in the den, a few feet away from Alby, when the bulb blew out again. It popped and the tiny pieces of metal filament rained down along the inside of the glass like confetti. Alby put down his book and started to get out of his seat.
“Where are you going, Dad?” I asked.
“To get a new bulb.”
“You’re not going to change it, are you?” I asked, unable to prevent myself from laughing.
“Don’t get so smuckin’ fart with me,” he answered as his lips curved into an unavoidable smile. “That was a long time ago.”

In 1970 our family moved from our decades-old home in Hillside, New Jersey to a custom-built modern colonial in Springfield, New Jersey. The house boasted all the latest gadgets and fashionable accoutrements including green shag carpeting and bold floral bed linens. Of particular note was the upstairs hall bathroom (translation: MINE!); it was functionality and flair combined. After having shared one bathroom between the five of us for so long in our old house, coupled with the fact that I had just entered ninth grade, having my own bathroom was my idea of heaven. I practically lived in there.
It had a double-sink vanity with black cabinetry that stood out against the yellow tiles and painted walls. Above each sink hung a contemporary lighting fixture; hanging from a long chain was a conical-shaped black metal housing and within that housing was a mottled glass globe that held a light bulb. My mother had gone with the most chi-chi decorator who advised that these fixtures were “groovy” and “totally funkadelic”.
Alby, being Alby, couldn’t have cared any less what they looked like. He only knew that I was happy and that was all that mattered. All that changed, however, when one of the bulbs blew out. You would think it’s no big deal, but then you don’t know my father.
“Daddy, the light bulb blew out and, like, I can’t see to put on my makeup and, like, I need to be able to have more light in there and so, like, do you think you can, like, change it for me? Huh Daddy?” Precious, wasn’t I? One thing you need to know is that nothing, and I mean nothing, ever stood between Alby and me so if his baby needed something, he was a man on fire to get it.
Alby grabbed a pack of bulbs and the step ladder and immediately set to work.
If you’ve ever changed a light bulb then you know it doesn’t require a rocket science degree from Harvard. You’d think a C.P.A. from New York University, graduating with honors, wouldn’t have too much difficulty but I would urge you to think again.
I was in my bedroom, no more than thirty feet away, when I heard a crash. Mom and I practically collided as we raced from opposite ends of the hallway toward the bathroom to see what had happened. And there, like a frame from a newspaper comic strip, stood my father covered in plaster dust. All around him on the floor were pieces of the light fixture and fairly large chunks of the ceiling. Looking up I saw a cavernous hole from which black electric wires hung and dangled like intertwined snakes.
As though on cue, Alby took his finger and wiped away the plaster dust first from his left eyeglass lens and then from his right. He looked around at what he’d wrought as Mom and I tried to fan away the clouds.
“What in the world happened?” Mom asked.
With eyes dancing Alby replied, “Give me a pencil and a ledger sheet and I can work miracles. You want a light bulb changed? Call an electrician!”
Dad slowly climbed down from the stepladder and swept his hands up and down his arms to clean them off. Mom looked like she was going to erupt in anger as she looked around the groovy, funkadelic bathroom in its newly designed state of disrepair. I personally thought it was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen but knew enough to keep that opinion to myself.
Alby walked calmly down the steps leaving white powdery footprints on the carpet. Still looking ghostly, he opened up the phone book and found the listings for electricians. Zeroing in on one, he dialed the number and wiped his face on a towel while he waited for an answer.
“Hello? Yes. I need an electrician right away. There’s a bit of an emergency here. What’s the emergency? Oh, well, I tried to change a light bulb and now the ceiling has fallen and the wires are exposed. Kidding? No, why would I be kidding? No, really, that’s what happened. Okay. Tomorrow at 2. Thank you.”
Fourteen years of being his daughter taught me that Alby would have something to say on the matter so I just waited patiently, sipping a ginger ale and wondering what wisdom he would share.
“Susie Q,” he turned toward me, “We all have to know what we’re good at in this world and do it as best we can. And when we’re not good at something, it’s best to accept it, embrace our shortcoming, and then HIRE SOMEONE. For money you get honey.”

“You sit Dad. I’ll change the bulb,” I said and kissed the top of his head. As I pulled away, some of his hair that had begun to fall out from the chemotherapy stuck to my lips and I wished for that one moment that it was plaster dust instead.

How to Boil Water

How to Boil Water

By the next day Alby was physically sick and his emotional state was raw. Harvey, Marcy and I got to the house and found Dad sitting in the den staring blankly at the television set.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Marcy asked.
“I feel so blue, like my soul is gone.” His voice was hushed.
None of us was used to seeing Dad like this and even when he’d feel badly about something he’d somehow manage to find some humor. Not today.
“I’ve even lost my appetite,” he said glumly. Had the sun started setting in the east? Was the sky green and the grass blue? Had the North Star headed south? Alby had no appetite; surely the universe had run amok.
Harvey, Marcy and I looked at each other and we knew what to do without exchanging a word. “Come into the kitchen,” Harvey said, taking Dad by the arm. “Let’s set things right again.”
I went to the pantry, Marcy went to the refrigerator, and Harvey got out the utensils; there was no time to lose! Working as a team we had Alby’s favorite lunch made and on the table in less than sixty seconds. We placed a hefty, delicious peanut butter and apple sandwich in front of him along with a Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda.
The apples were sliced as thin as deli meat from a cutting machine and were placed in layers atop the creamiest peanut butter that had been spread onto two slices of good, old-fashioned, pillowy Wonder bread. Food of the gods!
Alby stared down at his plate and we could almost smell the fire of his wit starting to rekindle. “I see I’ve taught you well,” he said as he took a small bite of the sandwich. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He took tiny bites, nursing it down and periodically wiping smudges of peanut butter from his mustache; in very little time at all the sandwich was eaten and his plate devoid of even a crumb. He washed it down with some hefty gulps of Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda. The magic of comfort food hadn’t failed. Alby pushed his plate away, rested his hands on his belly and said, “If I knew just how good this would taste, I’d have made the sandwich myself. You know how good I am in the kitchen, right?”
Yeah. Right.

Although Alby had always been a modern thinker, there was a part of him that was old-school to the core. His mother had spoiled him and he came to his marriage with a clear-cut view of his role within the home; he would earn the money and pay the bills but when it came to the kitchen, that was women’s territory and men didn’t belong there except to be served and to eat.
One of Alby’s favorite jokes told of a very unintelligent woman who was learning her way around a kitchen. Her husband complained that not only was there never any food in the house, there was never any ice in the freezer. His wife sadly responded that the person with the ice cube recipe had died. That was how he viewed himself in relation to a kitchen – totally useless and ignorant by choice.
Alby had no qualms about admitting the fact that he didn’t even know how to boil water so when Mom had taken ill back in the early 1960’s, it was disastrous. Mom was felled with a thyroid problem that made her very sick quickly and suddenly Dad was in charge of the meals. Although he managed not to kill any of us, it was pretty close.
When he wanted a cup of tea he had absolutely no idea how much water to boil for it. He studied the drawers of utensils and cabinets of plates, trying to remember which ones were for meat and which for dairy so he wouldn’t mess up Mom’s kosher kitchen. He tried to make ice cubes and broke every tray when lifting the silver handle that loosened the cubes from their metal prison. He threw away the remnants of a dozen eggs that were shattered from his vain attempt to crack a single one into a frying pan.
The first night Mom was out of commission, Alby made us dinner. Clad in a flowered apron that tied around his waist, he was extraordinarily proud of himself.
“I made you kids one of my favorite sandwiches. Grandma used to make this for me when I was young and I loved it. Still do,” he said as he presented us with the serving plate.
We each took one, not having the slightest idea of the culinary disaster that we were about to ingest. Each of us took a bite warily because even at that young age, we somehow knew this couldn’t be good. Simultaneously we all three spit out the bites we had taken and complained loudly.
“Gross!” Marcy yelled.
“Ugh. This is disgusting,” Harvey added.
“I want Mommy,” I cried.
For the life of him, Dad was actually surprised that we didn’t like the sandwiches. And why would we? Between two slices of rye bread were thick slices of spanish onions piled high as a deck of cards; nothing else. No meat, no cheese, no condiments. Just these big, honkin’ pieces of onion so sharp that our eyes teared just from holding the sandwich near our faces.
“You don’t like it?”
Was he kidding? I was sure we were being punished even though I didn’t know what we’d done. It HAD to be punishment – why else would he do this? That was when I discovered my beloved Daddy wasn’t perfect. I ran upstairs to my parents’ bedroom and begged Mom to get better so we wouldn’t die from malnutrition or worse, from eating onion sandwiches. Sick as she was, Mom got out of bed, put on her bathrobe and took the steps down one at a time. She wordlessly entered Her Domain as my brother, sister and I sat down at the table and waited hungrily. Of course, it never entered our minds to do it ourselves but that’s a story for another day. A stir here, a pour there, and in no time we were scarfing down mom’s noodles and pot cheese with garlic bread; manna from the heavens.
“Al,” Mom started. “Al, Al. What am I going to do with you?” She cupped his face and kissed his cheek with the unconditional understanding of a wife toward her husband. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t make any more onion sandwiches. In fact, don’t make anything at all.” She cinched the belt of her robe and went back upstairs to bed. By the grace of God who took pity on us, Mom was able to put all our meals together while she recuperated and regained her health with amazing speed. She said it was because she needed to. Alby said it was because he begged her. I think it’s because she didn’t want her children to smell like they’d just walked out of an onion field.
All I knew were the facts. Alby was the greatest father who had his faults and was a horror in the kitchen; Mom could do anything even when she was sick; and onion sandwiches were grosser than a bag of worms.