Cakes My Mother Baked

I’m baking a cake.
To test its doneness,
I use the testing stick
My mother whittled years ago.
It waits in my kitchen drawer.

She used it to test that cheesecake
She always made to greet me
When I came to visit.
It was my very favorite cake
Only she could make it so well.

She served it on a crystal platter,
With the gold-rimmed plates,
With wordless love,
And a small bouquet of flowers
On a hand-embroidered table cloth.

Now I am the age she was then,
And I have an adult daughter
Who comes to visit.
I thought, then, that my mother made the cake
To please my palate.

Now I realize she was saying,
I may not understand your new opinions,
Or talk with you about your new ideas.
But I know you can taste my love
In the cake I bake for you.

He wakes up in the very early morning, sometimes two am sometimes four. The time doesn’t really matter to him as he is unaware of the day or the time, the month or the year. So he asks and if I don’t answer he repeats my name over and over each time a little louder until I have no choice except to respond for if I say why did you wake me up he’ll say “just answer the question.” I have found that if I answer him immediately and then say I won’t answer any more questions he might go silent for at least a few minutes and I can fall back into a light sleep.

The questions that he consistently asks are who killed JFK, what happened to Oswald and Jack Ruby which then segues into what happened to Robert Kennedy. This morning his obsession was “when did Harvey die?” Four years ago I say. “What did he die of and then again he’ll ask how long ago. We eventually move onto Carl, Jessie, Miriam, Audrey, my Uncle Sidney, Sol, Harold and Lenny G. Then he asks do you speak to Harvey’s, Harold’s or Carl’s wife?”…..and so the morning that began at two or four eventually passes until I finally get out of bed make my coffee take a shower and walk the dog. He does not stop talking until he finally falls back asleep around an hour or two later.

This morning at approximately three thirty I awoke to a song. “A la mem, a la mem, a la mem kah temple mazel mazel cross word puzzle, 171 rah rah sis boom bah.” This was his Boy Scout troop song when he was ten or eleven. Nights before last he recited the Gettysburg address, Paul Reveres Ride or Captain my Captain.

It’s impossible for me to get angry because I know that he is hanging on for dear life to whatever memory he still has. It’s impossible for me to get angry because I know that if I was the one with the memory problem I know exactly how I would want to be treated. It’s impossible for me to get angry because too often he makes me laugh. I know I could get infuriated, instead I get frustrated. I know I could easily yell at him and tell him to please be quiet, instead I wish for selective deafness.

I do all this without a thought because I know that my husband who was once upon a time my very best friend has no future; that his present is just a fleeting moment that will immediately be forgotten and that all of his memory is a flashback.

HOT SUMMER NIGHTS

On hot summer nights, we would, my brothers and I, go up to grandma and grandpa’s apartment on the second floor of our house and sit out back on their porch. It was the shady side of the house so it was cooler up there. We’d sit with a cold drink and some cookies in the waning evening light and watch the sky change colors. Planes slowly made their way across the horizon on a long descent into Idlewild Airport. Birds flew in formation.

“Those are killy-lou birds,” Grandpa intoned.

“What are killy-lou birds, Grandpa?” we’d all chime.

“Killy-lou birds fly backwards to keep the dust out of their eyes! Watch! Do you see them flying backwards?,” he’d ask excitedly.

We’d sit and watch intently but we never could tell whether they were flying backwards. Grandpa always assured us they were.

I wish I could see killy-lou birds again.

Sometimes on hot summer nights, Dad packed us up in the car and drove us to Rockaway Beach to watch the free fireworks. There was always a breeze off the ocean and the air smelled of salt, hot dogs and cotton candy. We’d sit on the edge of the boardwalk, careful not to get splinters in our fannies. I’d stick my hands into my sweaty armpits and surreptitiously sniff the sweet, earthy odor that came away with them. I tried my best to ignore my brothers who acted like morons. Mom would ooh and aah over every rocket blast but too soon it was over and, as the last sparkle drifted down and sizzled out in the water, we turned and went home.

I wished I could sleep on the beach, all night.

On hot summer July 4th nights, Dad would let us have sparklers in front of the house. I’d wave them around and feel the tiny pricks when the sparkles landed on my arms. Dad’s favorite though was to set off big firecrackers. Sometimes he would put them under a metal garbage pail and run like hell. The blast seemed enough to knock houses off their foundations.

I wish I could have sparklers again.

On hot summer nights, at my best friend’s beach house, it was often too hot to sleep in the attic room so we’d talk and giggle far into the night. One night we saw a light flashing from out on Long Island Sound. We decided to signal back with our flashlight. I think I got the idea from reading too many sea-faring stories. Little did we know that we were luring a boat to the rough shore. Kathy’s father ran down to the beach and managed to avert the boat before it ran aground. Needless to say we were in big trouble. In our adult lives, Kathy and I drifted apart and eventually lost entire contact with each other but that’s another story.

I wish knew where Kathy is now.

On hot summer nights, my boyfriend and I would go out on his boat, drifting and gazing at the millions of stars in the sky, stars that danced like fireflies and twinkled like tiny, baby teardrops. Sometimes dolphins would splash by. The boyfriend’s long gone but,

I wish I could see the stars again.

On hot summer nights, while camping, it was never too hot to make a campfire. My kids would gather round and we’d roast marshmallows and make camp pies. They never seemed to mind the heat. A campfire was de rigueur for them.

I wish I could smell that wood fire again.

On a hot summer night in July, 1986, our whole family gathered at my brother’s house in Jersey City in celebration of the Statue of Liberty Centennial. Elaborate fireworks were planned for the night and we all trooped to the waterfront overlooking New York Harbor to watch the festivities. My mother was as excited as a little kid, and worried that it might rain and spoil the celebration. As it turned out everything was wonderful. Mom oohed and aahed just as she had some thirty years before on the boardwalk.

I wish I could see my Mom again.

In St. Elizabeth Hospital, after she gave birth to her first child, a boy, the nurse asked her for the baby’s name for the hospital records.

My sister replied, “You have me in isolation because one of my stepchildren at home has a rash and the doctor slapped a quarantine sign on the house. I cannot name this baby until I talk to my husband and to my father.”

But, after feeding him, she had ample milk, she cuddled him and called him her “Snooky-ookums” a phrase from a popular tune of the time. In due time, they named the boy Nathaniiel after her little five-year-old brother who died of infantile poliomyelitis five years earlier. But, all the family and all his friends called him Snooky.

He had thick, honey golden hair which framed his face with curls. It is a wonder he grew up to be a normal man because Anna kept him in the long hanging curls and dressed him in a velvet jumper with satin blouse. She took him to a professional photographer every six months for his first four years. People teased Snooky. They called him a little girl. He would fly into a rage. Even at an early age, he knew it was better to be a boy than to be a girl. Finally, Anna agreed to have the curls cut off. Before she let the barber use his scissors, she tied each curl with a piece of narrow blue satin ribbon to keep it intact. (Note. Although Nat died many years ago, his daughter still cherishes the silver box containing a heap of golden curls, each tied with a blue ribbon.)

He then wore his hair in a Buster Brown cut with bangs instead of the traditional male haircut of the time. His fourth birthday picture shows a very handsome little boy dressed in a navy blue sailor suit.

During Anna’s second pregnancy, Phil often took Snooky with him to the job sites where his work crews installed the pumps and tanks in gasoline stations which were springing up like mushrooms after a rain as more and more people bought automobiles.

Few manufacturers made automobiles in the early 1920s. Ford, Chevrolet, Hudson, Studebaker and Rolls Royce each had a very distinctive and recognizable profile and a decorative radiator cap on the outside of the front of the car. Nat learned to recognize and could name the makes of the cars after the hours he spent riding with his father. And another thing he learned from the hours spent with his father; this angelic looking child could swear like a mule skinner. Even as a two-year-old, he could recognize the noise made by starting the Hudson Super Six seven-passenger car which had been Phil’s engagement present to Anna.

If his parents wanted to go out at night, after putting Snooky in his crib, and leaving him in the care of his grandfather and several teen-aged aunts, they had to put the car in neutral and push it at least a block away from the house before they could start it. If Snooky heard the car start he would scream and hold his breath until he turned blue.

When Phil gave Anna the car, she learned to drive. She also learned to change and repair a flat tire. This involved using a jack to lift up the car, a lug nut wrench to remove the lug nuts holding the wheel on the axle, then remove the tire from the rim and the inner tube from the tire. After determining where a nail had punctured the red rubber inner tube, she repaired the hole using the little vulcanizer kit. Then she would reassemble everything and finally, using a pneumatic hand pump, fill the inner tube with air.

Anna, a talented pianist, wanted Snooky to play an instrument. I don’t know why it was decided he would learn to play the violin. Each week, he spent one hour taking a violin lesson. I don’t remember that he spent much time practicing at home.

When his music teacher invited the parents of her students to the annual musicale to showcase the talents of her pupils, Snooky played Beethoven. Beethoven lost.

Most of Snooky’s childhood and youth seems in retrospect unremarkable. He earned good grades, progressed to high school, spent two summers at a sumer camp.

Girls found him attractive and the feeling was mutual. Everyone still called him Snooky.

Then in 1943, he needed his birth certificate and permission from his mother to marry Doris Fader. To our surprise, his birth certificate from the Bureau of Vital Statistics of New Jersey listed him as ‘BABY BOY LUTZ.”

Now, an adult, married, a Lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force, his wife insisted that we call him Nat.

I did not see him often. He lived in New Jersey, and I lived in Alaska; but I happened to be in New Jersey in 1943 and attended his wedding to Doris Fader held at the Robert Treat Hotel in Newark.

I happened to be in New Jersey again years later to attend the bris of his first son, Phillip.

I last saw Nat in mid 1960s when my husband Jack and I visited my Martee and Sherman, who then lived not far from Philadelphia. Although the area experienced the worst blizzard ever recorded in a hundred or more years, Nat made the lengthy and exhausting drive from Short Hills, New Jersey with his wife, my brother Matthew and my brother’s mistress. It was so wonderful to see Nat again. We went down memory lane together. I sat next to him, holding his hand. Sometimes, I inadvertently called him Snooky, and he would call me “sis,” which is the name with which I grew up.

Looking back, he was five years younger than I. At first I played and watched over him as if he were a wonderful live baby doll. But, when in my teens, I considered him a nuisance when I had to take him to the movies with me. I considered him a very spoiled brat.

But I must admit my beloved nephew Nathaniel developed into an exceedingly handsome, considerate,loving,kind, gentle and intelligent son, husband, father, grandfather, nephew and cousin. He died of cancer at the age of 59 but lives on in the hearts of the many people who knew and loved him.

By
Reiss

They are excited to show us the renovations to their, already, beautiful house. We are guided from newly done room to newly added room. The house is fantastic. It’s close to perfect. What more can two people want, need or expect? We are ushered into a room they call the “music den.” The first thing I see is the upright piano sitting against the west facing wall. “Out here, we have redone the side patio and....”

Those are the last words I hear as I’m no longer with them, I am in Werline’s Music Store in New Orleans. It’s a cool October morning. Daddy is not sure what to make of this walk through the large store with pianos lined up and down the long aisles. It’s one of our Saturdays when he comes to take me to visit his family on Decatur Street just east of the French Quarter. Today is different. I insist on a detour to Werline’s and here we are.

On our regular Saturday visits, Daddy often buys little things for me. It’s not important what he buys but, it is important that he does. A few weeks ago it was a watercolor set I spotted in the store on Esplanade Avenue. Last week, he bought a football I “had to have.” It was now routine, I expected something... anything, as long as daddy bought it for me. I learned, very early on, he had a very difficult time saying no, especially is I was persistent enough. Most of the things he bought were inexpensive as he usually mumbled his favorite song, “Daddy’s broke. Money is tight right now.” That was not a song I understood or wanted to learn. He’s my daddy. He’s not home to buy the big things. Mama does that. I see no reason he can’t buy things for me when I spend time with him. Mama thought it not very nice that I would beg, pester and bribe him that way. She, you see, had resigned herself to making it on her own and was determined to give her kids the necessities without begging him. I, on the other hand, was old enough, aware enough and was willing to get whatever I could from him. He was my Daddy and that was the least he could do.

I always, while hugging him when he arrives, am looking at his watch, a ring he might be wearing or his newest jacket and decide which one should be mine. In due time they usually are. Mama says I have no shame. I agree. At eleven years old, I have his number. If I have him within reach of my begging and my tugging at his sleeve he has little or no resistance.

“May I help you?” The Werline gentleman walks up smiling the smile salesmen the world over master if they are to be successful . Daddy, responded, “Non, Merci.”

“Yes, you may. This is my daddy and he’s going to buy that piano over there for me.”

“Ah, very nice. Great choice. Have you played it yet?”

“Yes, I have.. yesterday.”

“Ah, yes. You were here with some other young people.”

“Un Hunnh.”

Daddy steps back and is not smiling. “Mais non, Book-a book, Daddy can’t buy that!”

“Yes you can. Talk to this man.”

On cue, the salesman looks at Daddy and smiles, “Monsieur” and, ever so graciously, leads him toward the piano, ....more of the smile.

Great! This guy knows his stuff. He knows exactly how to approach Daddy.

Confident the fate of my piano is in perfect hands, I decide it’s best to disappear from the discussion. My part is done. I watch the Werline man put his arm around Daddy’s shoulder as he starts his pitch. I think every metronome in the store is timed by his patter. Wow, that man can talk and he can talk to Daddy in French. My deal is on its way. I wander to the sheet music department where I can watch the drama. I look at new arrivals with one eye as I watch the struggle between daddy and the salesman. Daddy wants, no, needs to get outta here. The salesman smells a sale. I envision that piano in my room! I see Daddy look, pleadingly, in my direction, but I can’t admit seeing him, I’m busy studying a piece of music I’ve taken from the shelf. Poor Daddy. He’s trapped. The man is talking, Daddy is squirming. I’m singing, “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover..”

Ah ha! The man is leading Daddy to a desk at the rear of the store. Stay calm. Don’t barge in. Don’t ruin it. That salesman knows his job and he’s doing it! “....That I Overlooked before.” Daddy can’t seem to get away. The man is smiling. He’s pulled a chair out and daddy is resisting but he’s sitting. He’s sitting! “...One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain, Third is the roses that grow in the lane.”

He’s showing some papers to Daddy. Daddy looks stricken. His face is red. His eyes are darting all around. The man has the papers in front of daddy and he’s going over them very carefully, line by line. Daddy seems to be sagging into the chair. “...No need explaining, the one remaining is somebody I adore.”

The man has a pen in his hand. Daddy has taken it. He’s signing the paper! “I'm looking over a four-leaf clover, That I overlooked before.”

Mama’s expression was one I had never seen before when I announced as I walked into the kitchen, “My new piano Daddy bought for me will be delivered on Tuesday.”

“Hey, Reiss, we’re outside on the patio. Come on out and see how great it is.”

“What’s with you? Where were you?”

“In Werline’s. ... I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover.”

“Huh?”