My Great Grandma Ida as a Great Grandpa Izzy with Ida 

young woman.

At the turn of the century, Ida Gross was living in New York City, the eldest of eleven children when her maternal grandmother died. Her mother was "frum" or religiously observant in the Orthodox Jewish tradition.  She had married a devout, studious and religious man, though she was not raised with similar observance. 

Her father had founded a thriving department store and the family was wealthy when her mother died. However, my great, great grandmother was so bereaved that she refused any inheritance, announcing that money was of little importance to her, as it was only her late mother that she craved.  Soon, my great, great grandfather remarried and the sizable inheritance went to his new wife and her children. Ida and her 10 siblings were left destitute.

As the eldest, Ida was called upon to help look after her younger siblings. Additionally, her mother insisted she quit school and find work as there was little money coming in.  Ida found work in a lace factory sweatshop on the lower east side. The work was difficult, tedious and exhausting, her eyes fixed on the tiny crochet needles she used to repair the delicate, white lace. She was determined to, one day, be freed of the exhausting servitude and poverty she suffered. 

My Mother's Stories

But the ending always comes at last
Endings always come too fast

They come too fast, but they pass too slow
I love you, and that’s all I know

When the singer’s gone,
Let the song go on...

From “All I Know” by Art Garfunkel

I used to sit with my mom on her bed or at the oval kitchen table in the mornings and beg her to tell me stories about what it was like when she was a child.  I'd bring her a cup of freshly brewed coffee(Maxwell House, then, in later years, Zabar's breakfast 

blend) in a brown speckled, ceramic Dansk mug with two teaspoons of sugar and a couple drops of half-n-half. 

I didn't drink coffee, but the stories were my "caffeine".  I lingered on her every word, coaxing more from a dignified woman who would talk about summers on Lake Michigan, extended family relationships or her love of books and classical music  but never, ever about the boys she dated before meeting my father.

 In time, I understood why she refrained from touching that subject. Mom remembered the sad twinges she felt each time my grandmother talked about how she could've married someone else.  Though, I'm sure there were other choices Mom might have made, and

 being human, I imagine she thought of them during difficult times, she never expressed regret about the decisions that brought me into this world.

So, sometimes I ask myself why I'm writing this blog and putting these stories out there. 

Then, I think about how some of these family legends would remain sealed within me. The stories were gifts from my mother, meant to be shared with future generations. 

Last night, I dreamt about my mother. I was in her bedroom, hoping to hear another one of her stories. Her beautiful face appeared outside the window. I couldn't hear what she was saying but I could tell she was encouraging me to continue writing her story....

My mom, Arlene with me in my photo studio, 1995.

Sibling and Summer

Arlene at the age 7.

                                            

When my mom (Arlene) was 4 years old, Alyce gave birth to her sister, Beverly.  The baby was soon given the nickname, "Buzzy" due to her tight curls. The name stuck, and to this day, I refer to my mom's sister as "Aunt Buzzy".  (I also have an Aunt Birdie, but that is a story for another day..)

In those days, after giving birth, a woman might be in the hospital for weeks, unlike today, when she could be out after one day. Older siblings were kept away from the newborn due to fear of infection or the spread of germs. The separation was difficult for Arlene, though she stayed with her grandmother, Ida, who she adored. 

During the long, steamy Michigan summers, Arlene would go up north with Alyce and Ida to stay at a cabin on Lake Michigan. Her father, Bernie, would come up on weekends. My grandma would set up a spot on the beach and relax for the day.

While the lake breezes offered some relief from the oppressive humidity, Arlene was forbidden from going into the water beyond the point of dipping her toes. This was a time when Polio, a paralyzing disease, was spreading. People believed that Polio was contracted from swimming, so many children were restricted from this activity. 

It must've been torture for her to stay rooted to the searing sand in July and August. 

One time, unable to resist the draw of the lapping waves, my mother toddled into the lake and nearly drowned. Luckily, my grandfather raced to the water just in time, grasping her and lifting her from the water as she choked and fought for air.

Arlene took refuge in her books and the library became her haven. She loved the "Little House on the Prairie" series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  She also enjoyed "All of a Kind Family" by Sydney Taylor and "Little Women" by Louisa May Alcott. She wished she had a big family with lots of brothers and sisters.  My mom dreamed of having six children and giving them names like the characters in "Little Women". 

It was during these summers that Arlene began to imagine another life for herself, one very different from the restrictive one she would quietly rebel against with a determination to be the opposite of her own mother in every way.

Baby Book?

Okay, I had to add these pages from the baby book Grandma Alyce made for my mother. Notice how on the baby's teeth page, she decided to place photos of her own mother and herself squarely across the page. Gotta love those heart shaped vignettes....

My Mother, Arlene's Birth

   

  The year my mother was conceived, 1933, marked a particularly trying time as it was "the worst point in the depression as more than 15 million Americans, one-quarter of the nation’s workforce were unemployed." (source:Encarta: http://encarta.msn.com/encyclopedia_761584403/great_depression_in_the_united_states.html)    

My Grandma Alyce was in her early 20's, slim, fashionable and doted on by her parents.  Only a few years earlier, she was given a car as a birthday present. Her mother, my great-grandmother Ida, would deny her daughter nothing after having been denied so much herself as a young woman growing up on the Lower East Side.  

Add to the mix, my Grandpa Bernie, the son of recent immigrants, a dutiful son, who was told to go into medicine despite his burning desire to become an architect. He despised the daily grind of dentistry, the endless rotting teeth and complaints, the uncomfortable arch of the back required to reach and peer deeply into countless mouths. His skin would break out in raging pustules as his nervous condition worsened in response to the stress.

 If a patient couldn't pay, Bernie would nod his head sympathetically, and let it go. 

My grandmother suddenly found herself  scrambling as there was never enough money. She offered to find work as a hygienist, but Grandpa refused to allow his wife to work. It would have looked to others as though he were not a good enough provider.

Regret is born of clawing circumstances and suddenly the lighting guy, her former beau, was beginning to look less "plain" in retrospect. In time, he'd be painted in a golden glow as Grandma imagined the palatial homes she might've owned or the cruises to Europe she might've taken.  

My mother, Arlene, was born in early September of 1934.  According to the baby record Grandma kept, she had peaches and cream skin, blue eyes (which would later turn hazel) and light brown hair.  

Alyce had prayed for a girl, as she was certain boys meant trouble. She would watch her nephews run around the house hollering. She called them vildechayas (meaning wild animals in Yiddush) and she wanted no part of them or their gender. 

 Alyce and Great Grandma Ida adored  my mother during those early years.  They would sing her lullabies like Oyfen Pripichik, Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey? and Billy Boy as she was rocked in her cradle. 

 

Grandpa

   

Grandpa's citizenship certificate

Photo of my grandfather (he is standing on a chair) with his siblings, Goldie (in highchair), Ansel(seated), Sarah and mother taken in Russia when he was a little boy just prior to coming over to America.

As I wrote in the previous blog entry, Grandpa Bernie came over from Russia in the early 1900's when he was 4 years old.  According to my mother, the journey in steerage was so traumatic for him that he forgot every word of  the Yiddush he knew. This is not surprising considering how deplorable the conditions were in steerage. People were packed together in uncomfortable wooden bunks, many were sick from the roiling and pitching of the ship among other factors. 

I recently taught a 2nd grade unit on Immigration and visited the Ellis Island Museum, a must see site for anyone interested in this history.

There is only one story that I remember hearing about life in "the old country".  My Great Aunt Goldie (Bernie's sister- the baby in the highchair above) was holding a piece of bread and standing outside of their home. Suddenly, a large boar (I guess wild pigs ran amuck in those old villages...) clamped it's mouth around the bread, which happened to include Goldie's little hand, and by extension, the rest of her body. The boar proceeded to run away with Goldie in tow.  The eldest brother, Ansel (he's the one seated in front of Bernie in the photo), heard her shrieks and came to the rescue. Yes, he slew that mighty porker by slamming a heavy object on it's hairy head. 

Alas, I digress-  as I want to focus on the above document, Bernie's certificate of citizenship. Since his  certificate is a bit small to read in the photo I've included here, I'll give you some details.

He was born on February 18, 1906. His complexion is described as "ruddy", his height: 5' 8" and his weight was listed as 155 pounds (he was slight and reedy in stature. Grandma said that was because he had a "nervous stomach" and couldn't eat much). The certificate was issued on December 30, 1955 and this is the part that confuses me. Why was he nearly 50 before he received this document even though it states that he "became a citizen thereof" on December 4, 1920?

Grandpa didn't talk much about his life in Russia or the journey over. I had the sense he wanted to forget all about it. Still, there's no question it affected him deeply throughout his life which I can touch on more later.

Box #1 Background on Grandma and Grandpa

     

(left: Grandpa Bernie as a young man and Grandma Alyce in her early 20's) 

This was one of my Grandma Alyce's collected tins. 

It is mostly filled with my grandparents' documents.  Last year,  I added some photos and negatives of my parents and the eulogies on CD from Grandma's funeral on January 14th, 2008. She died at the age of 96. I miss her and have come to realize that she loved me fully and unconditionally.  She had a way with the people who were friends or caregivers and they wanted to bask in the love that she lavished on them.

Some history on Grandma, my mother's mother. 

Grandma was born in New York City on March 2, 1911.  At the age of 3, she came down with Scarlet Fever and had to stay in the hospital for weeks. She had such a sweet, lilting voice, that the nurses would beg her to sing for them from her crib.  

 Unfortunately, I do not have a recording of her  voice from when she was little girl, so you have to take it on faith (as I did), that her voice was absolutely, heartbreakingly charming.

Fast forward to her late teen years, and she  grew into a real looker. According to Grandma, there were numerous wedding proposals from her many beaux who called upon her often. 

She went to the University of Michigan and trained to become a hygienist. This was where she met Grandpa Bernie, as he was in dental school.  

For as far back as I can remember, she told me she should've married the other guy who was wooing her around the same time. The "one who got away" made a fortune in NYC selling lighting fixtures. This must've hit her especially hard during the Depression and every time she turned on a light and saw the other guy's company name emblazoned on the glass.

That said, my Grandpa was someone I truly loved and felt drawn to. He was handsome with wavy, white hair and a warm smile. Grandpa was stoic, hardly complained and would read the same storybook aloud to me over and over.

Now that you have a little of the history, the following documents may be of some interest:

1.An envelope filled with eulogies from June, 1976 for Grandpa.  

Some highlights:

He loved working on inventions.

He wasn't ostentatious.

Trusted everybody, would never count change.

His patients loved him.

2. My grandparents' marriage license. Wayne County, Michigan, January 19th, 1932. He was 25, she was 20.

It was the Great Depression, money was tight, so they eloped.

 I always found it upsetting that Grandma voiced regret about marrying Grandpa. I kept wishing the story would change, that she would reveal that Grandpa was her true love.

Didn't she realize that none of us would be here if she'd married the lighting mogul?

My mother, a strikingly beautiful woman, took after my grandfather- and like him, she was stoic and loving.

A few years ago during one of my annual visits to Albuquerque where my Grandma was in an assisted living home, I asked her again. "Was the lighting guy as handsome as Grandpa?"

"Oh, no, " she chuckled, "He was nothing to look at."

Never underestimate the power of attraction...

Introduction to Keeper of the Green Flame

In this great future called life, you can’t forget your past;

Bob Marley

I've heard it said that our parents are the keepers of our histories. 

After my parents died within the past five years, my siblings chose me to be the chronicler of the Green family history, the keeper of our flame.

I was the natural choice, as I have been a professional photographer for the past 24 years. The gravity of the role mixed with the leaden weight of my grief has made it a difficult task as each time I opened a box, I was faced with questions or the renewed feeling of loss. 

Now that my children are nearly grown (one is still in college), I know it is time to put the pieces together for the next generation.

This blog will be a documentation of this process- the sifting and organizing of countless photographic images, negatives and documents.

My quest is to take all of this and put it into a form that is easy to view and share with or without the use of a computer.

I'll give myself a year which seems a fair amount of time to look back in order to go forward...