Letter from Shiela

Shiela was one of Oma's dear and close friends for decades. Despite their often being on others sides of the ocean, they kept in touch up until Shiela's death some years ago. Shiela was such a colorful (and eloquent) person, that I felt a need to post excerpts from one of her letters to Oma...

Nov. 3rd or 4th or something!

Dearest Shirley-you-bitch:

Just when I had succeeded in throwing up some really nifty roadblocks: flares and blinking lights and tooting horns to distract myself from thinking about me, your letter. And I sat down in the middle of a bullpen of running people and let the words hit me.

Then I came back to my funny hotel room, ostensibly to work on some late copy that I really should be finishing this afternoon, and that goddam letter followed me all over the room. So I hung up my clothes and made a perfunctory pass at the tallest pile of papers (this place looks like it was inhabited by a little old lady miser afraid that they’ll come and take her away to the old folks home -- well?) and all the while your letter, following me.

Let me tell you what is happening – not the unimportant things, just the central stuff…
(In case it had slipped that fine mind of yours, pal, what I am doing in this letter is thinking out loud (on paper) all the things I’ve been avoiding thinking about for lo! these many days/weeks/months/years. Bear with me old pal, I think it’s moving…

How much shit does a friend have to read through? Sorry – I am long-winded, but in the midst of all of this babbling I have made a promise…

I am finding out things about myself: or at least asking myself questions that I’ve never really examined before… The question surfaces – where do I belong? Here? There? And the inescapable answer, getting stronger all the time, is that I belong inside myself…

Shirley dear… I am worried: keep me updated.
And understanding, so completely!, your preschool traumae. I have described a few of them, have I not? Or are your crazies different from mine? Or are we all preconditioned to suspect ourselves: our abilities, our consistency, our stick-to-itiveness…

Enough jabbering. Please write to. We have time for one more round, I think, before this trip is finished.

I miss you, too. Awfully!
Thank you for listening -- again!!

Love,

Shiela

Letter from Manny (Oma's Brother)

Losing Shirley was different than losing Rose [Oma's & Manny's mother]. Shirley used to joke about Rose every time we left Israel after our infrequent visits: "She'll bury both of us." Nevertheless, we could see the inevitable coming. Shirley, on the other hand, was always optimistic about her illnesses. "Oh, we have it under control. Feelin' great. No more treatment after next week. Etc." So her death was a surprise. She always was impulsive.

Growing up with Shirley was not easy. I was five years her senior so I was always being recruited by our parents to exert control over this unruly child. She was very independent. Peter and Rose worried about her constantly. And I was constantly telling them not to worry, she was an average kid growing up. There was no tension between Shirley and me - it was between me and our parents. They got very agitated when I refused to councel Shirley as a big brother should. I knew better than to waste my time and effort on a sister who had her own ideas. Rose and Peter had been spoiled by me. I was a goody-goody kind of guy when I was at home.

When we took up residence at the grocery store on Lapin Avenue in the late 1930s, Peter and Rose always called by her Yiddish name Shifra. Lapin was in an immigrant English-Irish neighborhood so Shifra became Skipper for some and Chips for others. I adopted Chips and that's the way I always addressed her.

When Israel was declared, much to Rose and Peter's great pleasure and pride (and surprise, I think) it was discovered that Chips was an ardent Zionist. And it was with mixed emotions that they greeted the announcement that she, her husband and her brood were emigrating. Peter and Rose were also very much involved in the new State - especially Peter - and now they had a wonderful excuse to visit.

I dimly remember the place in Jerusalem and the walks we used to take across the ravine to JU where Chips took classes. Then abruptly (characteristically) Ben was gone and Emil appeared. It was clear to everybody that Chips was very comfortable with Emil and the family quickly accepted the new arrangement.

After Peter died, Rose stuck it out in Toronto for a couple of years and then decided that she had had it with Canadian winters. Shirley was moving to Kvar Vradim and she added a room for Rose who moved in. From what we could make out from afar the arrangement worked smoothly in spite of some snarling on Rose's part in Emil's direction.

As you all know, as Rose grew older different living arrangement were made, and Chips handled it all with her usual aplomb and efficiency. She continued to go about her business, Rose's business, your business (she always kept an eye on all of you) as if
it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world. I think it was the three of you, the tight family, and constant communication, that kept it all together. It gave her strength and purpose. When Emil got sick we saw she had the right stuff. If there were any complaints we didn't hear them over here.

It takes and event like this to bring a life into focus. The picture that emerges is full of wonderful, gratifying detail and I have been examining them with memories I never knew I had. She was, to the very end, a "gitte neshima," as they say in Yiddish.

Letter from Emil to Shirley, 1975

5/8/75 (03:30)

Dear Wife,

My mother died today. I don’t understand why, but I am terribly conscious of loving you and not being with you. I am so very aware of both my father and mother being dead and longing to be with you again, to touch you and to hold you.

Interruption – you called! I love you all over and when I get home I am going to kiss you until your ears fly off!!

I was amazed at your parent’s concern about any display of emotion - not only on my part - but any other sympathizer as well. So we won’t tell anyone else that my mother is dead. Your father showed me his office as planned, we went to buy tapes as planned, records and when we got home I looked over their Hi-Fi, they were having trouble with it and played a record or two - went to Stratford, had dinner, saw Shakespeare – I drove – the country is so very serene - all of it was like a funeral – my mother is dead. Aid records, Hi-Fi, dinner, small talk and Shakespeare, I buried my mother.

Again you cried for me. Hearing you cry made me cry with you and not alone. I can’t remember anyone ever crying for me and with me. Only you know how I grieve – it’s not for my mother, she was an old lady and her time had come. I stood by her bed and just talked to her. I told her how happy I was, how good living is, I really and fully realized how not alone I am anymore. I told her all that and as I talked to her I realized how terribly alone I have been all my conscious life and how different my life is since I am with you. I watched the pulse monitor and every once in a while it went unstable – indicating (to me) that she was hearing me, and knew I was with her. I want to believe that she knew that I am no longer alone.

Dear wife, you are the love of my life, the beginning and end, complete without reservations.

Tomorrow I’ll try to find a Minyan and if not I’ll say Kadish by myself.

I love you Shirley,     

Emil               

Letters from Opa (Emil) to Oma (Shirley)

Since Opa is no longer able to make his own postings here, we'll post a couple of his letters to Oma, letters that tell of his beautiful & deep love for Oma.

Their love was very apparent, even over the past 6 years in Oma's loving devotion to Opa since a series of strokes (CVAs) left him needing the care of others.
Oma took her vow of 'to love in sickness and in health' literally, and their love was truly an amazing and heartwarming thing to see.

I'm sure that Opa will be happy with his wonderful contributions to this online kitchen, and we'll read them to him.

Are You in There?

Seeing Oma in the morgue with her eyes closed, I was reminded of a story Oma told about my early childhood:
One morning, while Oma was still sleeping, I came up to her, lifted one of her eyelids and asked her: "Are you in there?"
Looking at Oma's body, I knew, with a sad finality, that, no, Oma wasn't in there any more.