Growing Into My Genes

Growing up in the 1940's and 50's as the only child and grandchild of the four adoring adults who lived in our small two family home in central Detroit, I was indulged, spoiled and smothered with love.  I liked it!  In fact, though we lived quite modestly, I loved every aspect of these early years my family, my house, and my many friends. Completing the portrait of my idyllic youth on a street called Gladstone was my beloved Brady School. Incredibly, it was situated on a street called Joy Road. My joy at this school included serving as the proud and respected captain of the Safety Boys, winning the school spelling bee

and my friendship with the principal.

Our lives were exceptionally sweet in those early years. In fact, my usually quiet dad was so happy that he frequently broke out in song. My favorite was "My Blue Heaven."  Dad modified the words to describe our family: "Just Belly (mom) and me and Neily (me) makes three in my Blue Heaven."  That song said it all; for a while that is where I thought I lived.  Even after we moved away and throughout the rest of my life, I continued to hear my dad softly humming our special song. That happy tune has  accompanied me no matter where I lived or what challenges I faced; my spirits were always lifted by the memory of my dad's singing. Very often, I thought I was still in My Blue Heaven on a street called Gladstone, just a few blocks from Joy Road.

Many early memories also revolved around special times spent with mom's parents, who lived in the upstairs flat. They were among my best and closest friends. I went everywhere with them and got to know their siblings, cousins and even some of their aunts and uncles. I heard

about their lives in eastern Europe at the turn of the 20th century, I learned Yiddish and I polished my budding skills as a yenta.  There were problems about a child spending so much time surrounded by many old Jews.  I pretty much became one of them at a very early age and no one even noticed. For a while I even thought I came from a shtetl near Minsk myself. As a result I talked constantly with my friends about the old country, about Yiddish and about my Bubbi and Zyde (Grandma and Grandpa)  I couldn’t understand why the other kids wouldn’t let me teach them the Yiddish songs I loved; they just weren’t normal. In the eyes of my friends I

even became a teen-aged Zayde, for that is the nickname they gave me. I acted like a Zayde and even  talked liked  one. My future wife Cheryl, whom I was already dating at sixteen, thought it would all pass in time. But 50 years later she still listens to me sing Yiddish songs and talk about my grandparents and ancestors.

I continue to treasure the memories of those years, and especially the time I spent with my grandparents.  In particular, I still savor the memories of the intoxicating aromas and tastes of grandma’s kitchen.  When I recall her greetings as I entered that holy room I can actually

feel the warmth of her love, her smothering hugs, kisses and enthusiasm, and I can still hear her boisterous laughter. It didn’t take much for us to start giggling together about something no one else understood. We were kindred spirits in so many ways. In fact, she was the person I felt most comfortable going to with any problem, and she always seemed to be the most sensitive to my needs.  What I would give to feel Bubbi’s hug once more, to be able to throw

another hard-boiled egg or onion into her huge wooden chopping bowl as she made chopped liver, or to taste some of her kreplach, Matzah balls, gefilte fish, Sabbath chalahs or mandelbread. For me, no one's cooking has ever approached the sweetness and love of Bubbi’s creations.  And no religious service has ever matched the sense of family and spirituality that descended on our small home on Sabbath eve.