Goodbye Papa

My grandfather died earlier this week. I have so many rich memories with him, and it's hard to imagine that we've come to the end of our memory making. Here I want to share some of my fondest memories.

He was a baker, and I will remember his cookies and rugelach and potato nik and latkes and I'll remember him standing by the stove with an abundance of his creations. He'd work for weeks in advance of my grandmother's piano concerts to stock the house with all sorts of sweets. One day I begged him to teach me how to cook some of his trademark recipes. I wish that we had been able to spend that time together, but he was very independent in the kitchen. Instead, he found me a copy of his Practical Baking tradesmen's book and wrote in elegant cursive, "Dear Emily, Good Luck, Love, Papa." I've made a few recipes from it, especially the rugelach, and I think he's been proud that I've tried my hardest, even if he's been lovingly critical about the result! I also remember his trying to teach us how to decorate cakes when birthdays rolled around. He was proud of his baking.

He was a comedian. I'll always remember his dancing around the living room, twirling around with my sisters and niece....or dancing the "Rumpee" dance. I'll remember him singing Old Man River in a deep deep baritone voice and playing with words like "Hippy Happy Nippy Nappy." He would sing along with the Yiddish songs in the car as we'd drive together to restaurants. There were always funny faces and antics.

He was a pragmatic, wise man and enjoyed sitting in his recliner telling me how I should always pay off my credit card on time, how I should give something lasting to the world or publish a book, how I should make the best use possible of my "s" s in Scrabble, how I should choose carefully who I spend my life with. When my great-grandmother (on the other side of the family, of no relationship to him) was in a nursing home, he drove me all the way to the Bronx so I could visit her. That was very kind of him. In another poignant moment, we were at the beach one day and I was lollygagging by the water when most of the family had already started heading back to the car. I grew nervous, and then was relieved to find him still there. He smiled and said "I will always wait for you." He also tried to get me to be more resilient--tears come easily for me. He saw my feelings and my upsets...but wanted me to be able to stay stronger longer.

In hard times when I was feeling bullied in school and lacking confidence as a tween, Papa had confidence in me. He called me his "Sponge" because I learned fast...and he tried to share with me his own poems. He tried to learn piano, and it was poignant to watch Nana teach him Beethoven's 9th on the piano. I enjoyed trying to give him confidence, too.

Sometimes Papa was very quiet. I know he was glad that I learned Yiddish, and he wanted me to pronounce words his way. I knew he came from the "old world", and yet there's so much he never told me about his childhood and his growing up. I didn't know until just a few years ago that he had a whole network of cousins and family who were here in America to greet him when he arrived. When I asked him questions, he would answer and it was clear that he enjoyed talking about his world...but often he enjoyed being quiet and just listening, too.

I am sad.........and I am doing well. Soon I will bake some rugelach in his honor. But today, I must rest.

I love you, Papa. Thank you for everything.