Sad and powerful my friend. I’m sorry that you didn’t know your grandparents—a generation of knowledge and love that slipped away before you. Thanks for the moving tale of family.
Wow. This was powerful, almost visceral, as it built into a real roach-ridden crescendo. It's such a sad story, which you sum up so memorably: "the squalor of the sprit that produces such putrefaction of the flesh." Superb writing and some of those scenes will stay with me!
“The squalor of the spirit that produces such putrefaction of the flesh.” From garbage gifts to the bag of cockroaches, this mesmerizing essay draws beauty from familial mishigas.
You have to do something with familial mishigas, right? Thank you, Rona. I always appreciate what you have to say in response. You must be a writer . . .
Wow - riveting, moving, precise, and so well-paced. I’m inclined to wonder about the early history that brought Minnie to such a culmination. What did she know of mothers and grandmothers? There is so much children never know. Well done.
Thank you, Tara. How little I know about my father's early life and my efforts to learn more are part of his greater story, as I try to tell it. I have no idea what might have contributed to Minnie's becoming the person she did. I do know that she left my father and Goldie in the care of her parents and one sister, and they did lovingly care for then until the grandparents died -- how I don't know but have speculated given the timing -- and it was then that people and forces beyond the two children's knowledge led him on their long path to the U.S.
An amazing story, exceptional in itself, but in also depicting what, for several generations of immigrants, was not exceptional at all. Such a harrowing period. For an Aussie like me, who has never been to the Big Apple, your description of New York and a fragment of its diverse culture is fantastic.
A terrifying story of a descent into a particular type of madness also called senescence. It is difficult for a child to see that descent in their parent. That your father kept up his weekly visits speaks to his sense of duty as a son. I wonder if he did it more for his sense of who he was than he did it for Minnie.
David, I think you're exactly right about my father. He was lovingly cared for by his grandparents and aunt, until the grandparents died, and I believe that model helped shape his natural devotions, to his own family above all, but also to all who might be relations, for whom he acted a sense of obligation to relations they didn't always necessarily deserve.
These sentences of yours below conveyed so much: I have difficulty visiting my father who has various fantasies that he repeats. But otherwise is genial.
The example of your father makes me realize that more of my patience and duty are called for.
"I observed as he planted his elbow on the kitchen table, sunk his grave face into his hand, heard as he told my mother how it drained the spirit from him to see how Minnie lived, crushed what remained for her to treat him as she did."
Sorry to hear that about your father, David. While my father was fully mentally competent until his death at 94 (and only physically ill the last month), my mother suffered a long physical decline and several years of Alzheimer's. I know it's tough. Dad wasn't a great talker, so he didn't teach in anyway. He set what seemed for much of my life only a modest example. In time, I recognized it as much more than that, and the devotion and duty of love he displayed was a great part of it.
Mmmm. Every time I come to your writing, I’m impressed with how it draws me in, how I live in the moments you open up, and how you make beauty of whatever you’re showing—even the despair inherent in the kind of deterioration contained here. And I admire that deeply because it’s truth, that there is some beauty in it all, in the pull to contextualize and honor what was/is.
This piece especially put me in mind of my own father’s mother and of the way his past can drain him.
"because it’s truth, that there is some beauty in it all, in the pull to contextualize and honor what was/is." Yes. That's the task, isn't it? And you do it in your own writing. And I see you know something about this subject. Thanks, Holly.
Bank books and roaches, let's go to the deli. Just fine, fine writing. The Grand Concourse.
Thanks, Ehud, and I think, the way you put it, a perfect comment in response.
Beautiful, harrowing writing.
Just the feelings I would hope to produce. Thanks for saying so.
Sad and powerful my friend. I’m sorry that you didn’t know your grandparents—a generation of knowledge and love that slipped away before you. Thanks for the moving tale of family.
Thanks for reading, Dee. We take what comes out way and try to make something of it.
And you have 💪🏻
Wow. This was powerful, almost visceral, as it built into a real roach-ridden crescendo. It's such a sad story, which you sum up so memorably: "the squalor of the sprit that produces such putrefaction of the flesh." Superb writing and some of those scenes will stay with me!
Thanks so much, Jeffrey. The powerful, memorable response is what I hope for from a piece like this. That's the reward.
It now feels as real to me as some of my own family memories. Kudos to you!
“The squalor of the spirit that produces such putrefaction of the flesh.” From garbage gifts to the bag of cockroaches, this mesmerizing essay draws beauty from familial mishigas.
You have to do something with familial mishigas, right? Thank you, Rona. I always appreciate what you have to say in response. You must be a writer . . .
And to think that I could have gone to law school!
The Supreme Court's loss, our gain!
Wow - riveting, moving, precise, and so well-paced. I’m inclined to wonder about the early history that brought Minnie to such a culmination. What did she know of mothers and grandmothers? There is so much children never know. Well done.
Thank you, Tara. How little I know about my father's early life and my efforts to learn more are part of his greater story, as I try to tell it. I have no idea what might have contributed to Minnie's becoming the person she did. I do know that she left my father and Goldie in the care of her parents and one sister, and they did lovingly care for then until the grandparents died -- how I don't know but have speculated given the timing -- and it was then that people and forces beyond the two children's knowledge led him on their long path to the U.S.
An amazing story, exceptional in itself, but in also depicting what, for several generations of immigrants, was not exceptional at all. Such a harrowing period. For an Aussie like me, who has never been to the Big Apple, your description of New York and a fragment of its diverse culture is fantastic.
A terrifying story of a descent into a particular type of madness also called senescence. It is difficult for a child to see that descent in their parent. That your father kept up his weekly visits speaks to his sense of duty as a son. I wonder if he did it more for his sense of who he was than he did it for Minnie.
David, I think you're exactly right about my father. He was lovingly cared for by his grandparents and aunt, until the grandparents died, and I believe that model helped shape his natural devotions, to his own family above all, but also to all who might be relations, for whom he acted a sense of obligation to relations they didn't always necessarily deserve.
These sentences of yours below conveyed so much: I have difficulty visiting my father who has various fantasies that he repeats. But otherwise is genial.
The example of your father makes me realize that more of my patience and duty are called for.
"I observed as he planted his elbow on the kitchen table, sunk his grave face into his hand, heard as he told my mother how it drained the spirit from him to see how Minnie lived, crushed what remained for her to treat him as she did."
Sorry to hear that about your father, David. While my father was fully mentally competent until his death at 94 (and only physically ill the last month), my mother suffered a long physical decline and several years of Alzheimer's. I know it's tough. Dad wasn't a great talker, so he didn't teach in anyway. He set what seemed for much of my life only a modest example. In time, I recognized it as much more than that, and the devotion and duty of love he displayed was a great part of it.
Mmmm. Every time I come to your writing, I’m impressed with how it draws me in, how I live in the moments you open up, and how you make beauty of whatever you’re showing—even the despair inherent in the kind of deterioration contained here. And I admire that deeply because it’s truth, that there is some beauty in it all, in the pull to contextualize and honor what was/is.
This piece especially put me in mind of my own father’s mother and of the way his past can drain him.
"because it’s truth, that there is some beauty in it all, in the pull to contextualize and honor what was/is." Yes. That's the task, isn't it? And you do it in your own writing. And I see you know something about this subject. Thanks, Holly.