by,

Reiss

I think of her often. Her name comes up regularly in family conversations and we all still miss her. She died in 1956 yet, for me and the others, she is still very much alive. We tell nieces and nephews, too young to remember, about her ... who she was, what she was like and how she affected our lives, especially mine. She was my Aunt Ruth.

She held the same position I enjoyed in my generation of our large family... the youngest of her siblings and cousins. She was my mother’s younger sister. She had a keen interest in current events, politics and was a rebel in our narrow political world. She was verbal about that interest and was not timid, shy or reserved like the other ladies in our community who allowed the men to deal with matters political while they provided the “nice house and home for her family.” Aunt Ruth was outspoken, liberated and was the mistress of her fate...well as much as her health allowed. She, sadly, never enjoyed the good fortune of an extended healthy period in her short life. She did not agree with the mandate, in our world, that “nice girls” find a suitable mate, marry, have lots of children and kept a clean and respectable house. She saw no reason why she could not be a nice woman, a woman who managed on her own, earned her own keep and functioned perfectly without a husband, thank you. She saw no reason to “have some man rule her life, take what she earned and make life miserable.” She refused the title “old maid” or “maiden lady” that was tagged on other unmarried women and was simply, Aunt Ruth.

She was not pretty like Mama, but was very attractive. She had pretty red hair and “carriage.” The kind that comes from breeding and a “good family.” She dressed very nicely and had a passion for diamond rings. She had them, she wore them, she bought them herself!

It was my good fortune to spend long days and evenings with her in the neighborhood store she owned and operated without the help, guidance or strong arm of a husband. She was, to a whole neighborhood, Miss Ruth. Miss Ruth who ran the store, who was the source of sound advice, a shoulder upon which to cry, the provider of good council when needed and the lady who was very liberal in her collection practices for the poor people who had running accounts in her little corner store. She, on the surface, had no fears, was strong of will and belief. She maintained her Catholic faith and religion but was not one to “waste time fawning over the priests and nuns,” as did so many ladies in the parish. The priests had a job to do. She had a job to do. If they did theirs and left her to her own devises, all was well. She did not, as was the mandate from the priests, look down on non Catholics, and always showed respect for and interest in the stories her customers shared about the Baptist Church across the street from the store. She loved the music that flowed from the church and was often seen tapping her foot and swaying to the sounds that were hard to miss when the music filled the neighborhood on Sunday mornings. Together, we read the newspaper, listened to the news on the radio and had discussions about the happenings of the day. I was acutely aware of the political climate in the country when other kids my age only knew the president’s name was Eisenhower.

The priests and the nuns worked very hard, spent long hours of countless days and endless years teaching us Catechism, religion, Apologetics and morality. Aunt Ruth in the short hours I spent with her in her little corner store taught me respect for people...no matter their religion, color, status in life or their educational level. She taught me that all people were worth and due equal respect when earned. I am grateful, to this day, for the life lessons and the example of a short life well spent that Aunt Ruth shared with me.

Joel and I were middle-aged when we got together; both well entrenched in our personalities, our likes, our dislikes, our hobbies and our habits. For the most part, these meshed. But then there were the other times.

I grew up in a family where nature and learning were very important. In my childhood, my family gardened, watched birds, and collected butterflies, shells, leaves, fossils, and rocks and minerals. We learned the names of all of them. As a young adult I moved to a different part of the country where the vegetation and birds were very different and I didn’t continue with these hobbies. But I did notice the differences in the flora and fauna. Joel, on the other hand, grew up in a family that probably never gave a thought to the name of a tree or an animal.

He had an active sense of humor, or what he thought was a sense of humor. When I’d say, “Oh, look at that tree. I wonder what it is,” his standard answer was, “A wooden one.” Or when I’d say, “What kind of bird is that?” his answer was, “A feathered one.” Once I very excitedly pointed, “Oh look, there’s a heron.” He quickly quipped, “Where’s the Damon?” Oh groan. I wasn’t quite sure which was worse: his sense of humor or the fact that I understood he was making a play on the German words for male and female, or husband and wife. At least I think that was it, I didn’t ask. His quips were bad enough, but then there was that smug little, “Aren’t I cute” smile on his face. Sometimes I just wanted to bop him on the head.

When we traveled by car Joel always drove as he was a lousy passenger. That was fine with me because it meant I could look around and see the sights. And of course, I pointed out to him all the things that he couldn’t see because he was supposed to be keeping his eyes on the road. He became well practiced at appearing to hear me, and I narrated as though he cared.

On a trip to central California one summer we passed through a town that was brilliant with color. Almost every home was surrounded by gardens with a variety of plants, all in full bloom, and each a different color. It was an artist’s palate. I, of course, narrated for Joel’s benefit.

“The shade of red on that rose bush is just spectacular. And that hydrangea bush is so full of blue blossoms that I can hardly see the green leaves. And” I excitedly tapped on my side window, “look Joel, there’s a naked lady!” His head spun to the right, followed by his body, then his arms and the steering wheel. I thought the car was going to do a 360. I continued my narration, “That pink flower over there is a Naked Lady Amaryllis. I haven’t seen one of those in a long time.”

He shot me a ‘to kill’ glance, swung the car back, sunk his head into his shoulders and stared straight ahead. I’ll swear I could see puffs of steam coming out his ears. I continued my dialogue and a few more times pointed out the Naked Ladies. He reacted beautifully, although a little less each time. I couldn’t mention too many of them; that would make it seem deliberate. Besides, it was very difficult to keep a nonchalant, straight-laced look on my face when inside my insides were jumping up and down and laughing with that smug little “aren’t I cute” feeling.

After our return home, we went to dinner with a couple who were longtime friends of Joel’s. They were of his ilk, not really interested in nature. We told them about our trip and of course I had to dialogue about all the flowers. Their eyes kind of glazed over as they politely listened to me name the plants. When I started to mentioned the Naked Lady Amaryllis, Joel immediately interrupted and crowed, “Yea, I got whiplash from looking at all the naked ladies.”

Yup, payback is such fun.

Black cinders drifted through the open window. The oily smell of coal smoke permeated the car. On the prickly, woven straw seat a little girl sat with her grandmother. The girl wriggled uncomfortably, twitching this way and that. Her grandmother, concerned, bent over to soothe the child. Soon after the conductor came along calling “All tickets, all tickets.” Seeing the uncomfortable child he began talking with her and telling her how pretty she looked in her sundress and white shoes with her curly blonde hair billowing around her chubby, baby face. He noticed the dirty cinders and kindly offered to close the window so she wouldn’t get all grimy. He told the little girl it would be a long trip and why didn’t she lie down and take a nap. “Before you know it,” he said, “you’ll be in Southampton. Her grandmother made a little pillow out of her sweater and the little girl lay down and fell asleep. Suddenly she awoke to the sound of the train whistle, “Whoo whoo!”

At the station, the little girl looked around in amazement at this different world. Sunlight was peeking through the leafy trees and a gentle ocean breeze was cooling her skin after the long, hot train ride. A little boy and his father met them and drove them to their house. It was a big white house with many gables and porches. There was a flagpole in the front yard and the little boy took her around to see the stables and the animals that lived on the property. Horses, ducks, chickens, dogs, cats, it was a child’s picture of heaven.

Later the she noticed the most delectable aromas permeating the air. Food was being prepared in the big house. The boy’s mother called out to them, “Dinner’s ready.” Dinner in an Italian household is generally a grand affair but it being summer the courses were fewer than usual. The main course was eggplant parmesan. It was the girl’s first taste of eggplant and she, enticed earlier by the aromas of frying eggplant, ate as much as she could hold.

Soon it was time to go home and grandmother and granddaughter made the trip in reverse, the girl sleeping all the way home dreaming of delicious eggplant, kind conductors and the new friends she made in the “country.”

She was my “fun” grandma. How she got to be fun is a matter of speculation. Much of her life story is heartbreaking. Her parents were German immigrants. Her father owned a knitting factory which made bathing suits. Grandma was born in 1898. She had two older brothers and a younger sister and brother. When she was about 13 her mother committed suicide. This could have been the result of post partum depression as the youngest child was still a baby. Grandma, being the eldest girl, had the responsibility of caring for the baby and the household. I think it was like a Cinderella story as she got little sympathy from her emotionally distant father and older brothers. A few years later her younger sister died in a car accident.

Eventually, she married my grandfather and they had two children. However, he died of tuberculosis when the children were still babies. In order to keep a roof over their heads, she went to work in her father’s factory as a sewer. By this time her older brothers were partners in the business and eventually inherited it. My grandmother got a house financed by her father, but nothing else. Her brothers got the business and became very wealthy.

Had enough? Wait there’s more! About ten years later, she married her husband’s brother and had a third child. Unfortunately, her second husband was an alcoholic and given to rages and abuse. When my father got old enough and big enough he finally confronted the brute and got him kicked out of the house. Eventually, they were divorced.

Things were always exciting when Grandma was around. She loved to cook and for special occasions would make a traditional German meal of sauerbraten, dumplings and red cabbage. The delicious aromas would drift down from her third floor apartment and we would sit in anticipation of having a wonderful meal.

She ate with relish but, according to my mother, her manners were atrocious. Mom didn’t have to say much but from her expression and the way she would roll her eyes at some of the things Grandma did I knew she disapproved. That made being with Grandma all the more exciting. There was an element of danger about her. Or maybe I knew of that element of danger from some of my experiences with her.

Grandma lived on the third floor and my bedroom was on the second as was the apartment for my other grandparents. The rest of my family lived on the first floor. One night I woke up suddenly to a strange noise. Someone was banging on the floor. It sounded like it was coming from above. Then I heard my Grandma yelling, “Hansie, Hansie!” That’s what she called my father. More banging and more yelling. I was kind of groggy but I remember thinking what is she up to now? Finally, after what seemed like a long time I hear my father go up the stairs. Thump, thump, thump.

“What’s the matter,” he called out. Back down the stairs he ran. Thump, thump, thump. I was kind of curious and peeked out of my door but Dad, mustering up some authority while standing in his undershirt and boxer shorts, ordered me to stay in my room.

Up the stairs he ran again and back down, this time taking my grandmother with him. The next thing I knew, I hear sirens. Up the stairs come three firemen with a hose draped over their shoulders followed by my Dad. I was ordered to go into my grandparents’ apartment and stay with them. Suddenly torrents of water came pouring down through the ceiling. My other grandmother was saying “Oh my, oh dear” and Grandpa was just standing there, at a loss as to what to do. Finally, the firemen came and said everything was safe. Apparently Grandma had been smoking a cigarette and set the sofa on fire.

About this time, my mother returned from her evening out with the “girls”. What a shock it must have been for her. We all trooped downstairs and the adults rehashed and retold the story. In a short while they were laughing and joking about the incident. Dad in his BVDs, water pouring through the ceiling, Mom coming home to a bunch of fire engines in front of her house, Dad being a fireman but ignoring all the rules of a fire emergency.

Rule # 1 GET EVERONE OUT OF THE HOUSE!

That’s when I burst into tears. If I had only gone downstairs and called my father earlier this wouldn’t have happened but I had just sat in my bed listening to the banging.

The next day my mother had me stay home from school and Aunt Norma’s mother took me and her granddaughter to the city to see a vaudeville show and movie at the Palace Theater with lunch at Horn and Hardart’s automat afterwards. I got all dressed up and felt very special. And that’s how I recovered from the trauma. But not really.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I learned of her addictions to codeine and alcohol and I learned of her traumatic life.

On weekends, Grandma would have breakfast and lunch with us. She’d sit at the table with a feast of pumpernickel bread, butter, German cold cuts and coffee. First she’d pour a big cup of steaming hot coffee and add some cream. Then she spread the bread thickly with sweet butter. Then, to the amazement of my brother and me, she would dunk the bread in her coffee and take a bite sighing with contentment. Nothing looked more delicious to me than that bread – that forbidden fruit.

One day, during a family holiday, I walked in the kitchen and there was Grandma downing a shot of whiskey. She held up the glass, winked at me and said, “Down the hatch!” With one gulp it was down. She licked her lips, wiped her mouth and left the room. Of course, I couldn’t resist because it looked so good so I took a small shot glass and poured myself about a half a shot glass of whiskey. I knew the grown ups were busy in the living room by all the laughing and talking going on. Down the hatch I silently said to myself and took a big swallow. Aaargh, It was the worst tasting stuff ever but it got me to thinking. Grown ups were really strange if they enjoyed something like that. I decided to stick to Coke.

On New Year’s my parents usually went to a party and Grandma was in charge of us kids. For a couple of hours we had to suffer through Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians but she always let us stay up until midnight. Out would come the pots and pans and we’d all troop out to the front porch and bang them with all our might, yelling “Happy New Year”. One night, while in her charge, she and I decided to bake some cookies. However, she didn’t know how to turn on the oven. So she set the temperature dial while we were preparing the cookie sheets. We popped them in the oven and then she lit a match to light the oven. “Whoosh” a flame leaped out at us. Luckily we weren’t hurt but I had singed eyebrows and hair for a couple of weeks.

When I was thirteen, my youngest uncle got married. I loved and admired his fiancée and, being the age I was, it was a wonderful day for me and for the whole family. The wedding and reception were perfect (“entrancingly romantic”) and when the reception was over we all piled into cars and went back to my house for a little more revelry. I was anticipating being at the continuing party but it was not to be. We had relatives from out of town, so my grandmother was using my room and they were using her apartment. I would sleep on the living room couch which was okay by me since it meant I would get to stay up until all the grown-ups went to bed.

Now most of the family had been drinking but none more so than my grandmother. She had been reconnecting with her ex-husband and I noticed she was a little drunk. After my father ditched the ex, he asked me to take my grandmother up to my room. She was pretty woozy and needed me to help her get undressed. As I removed her clothes, I saw the vacant space on the left side of her chest where her breast had been removed. I had never seen a grown woman’s breast before and indeed I hadn’t yet fully developed myself and, although I knew she had had her breast removed, I was unprepared for the shock of the sight of the raw-looking scar tissue and the violation done to her body. I don’t remember ever talking to my parents about this incident. I guess I felt it was too shameful to talk about.

When I was sixteen, about eight years after the fire incident, I returned home from my first New Year’s Eve date. Mom met me at the door. “Dad’s very upset so come in quietly and go to bed. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

In her usual manner, Grandma had been celebrating New Year’s Eve with a drink or ten. Only now she didn’t have us grandchildren or any friends or relatives to celebrate with. When Dad came home from work, he found her drunk and hysterical. When he searched around her apartment he found several empty bottles of codeine cough medicine and some empty bottles of whiskey. I guess she had stashes all over the place. Anyway, she wound up going to a mental institution where she remained off and on for the rest of her life. I learned later that she had shock treatments and other forms of therapy but none of them worked. Her days dwindled down over the next 16 or 17 years until she finally died of emphysema.

I have many pictures of my grandmother as a child, a girl and a young woman and know some of her story but not all. I wish I could fill in some of the gaps. Get some kind of explanation. I wish I had done more myself. She must have had terrible feelings of abandonment. She must have been terribly lonely but at the same time she kept people at a distance because of her behavior. How I wish it could have been different for her.

HATE, ENVY AND JEALOUSY by CECILE bETTS


I hated Peggy Siff. I also envied Peggy Siff and suffered the pangs of jealousy, envious and jealous of her appearance, her very life. She never did anything to harm me, I doubt if she even knew I existed, but I knew about her. My sister Anna played poker each week with Peggy’s parents, John and Margaret Siff. Both Mr. and Mrs. Siff taught in the Newark High School, but Peggy, their only child, attended Penn Hall, a private boarding school for girls. My sister told me about Peggy’s beautiful room to use during school vacations, with its own pink bathroom and a double sized closet for all Peggy’s clothes.

Now, I realize my sister wished she could have been more like Peggy Siff when she was in her teens. But, the oldest of nine children, she did not realize her own beauty and suffered from extreme shyness. She had few suitors, most eligible young men served in the military during World War I. She thought I would be happier if I were more like Peggy Siff, transferring her own feelings to me.

Peggy, a blue eyed blonde, with naturally curly hair and a perfect peaches and cream complexion sailed through puberty with not a single pimple, blackhead or blemish to mar her face or back. Peggy had a perfectly proportioned figure and knew how to play tennis, golf and how to swim and ride a horse. Since a private school for young men adjoined the Penn Hall property, girls who attended had a full social life and no problem with finding dates for the weekly well chaperoned school dances. I don’t know if it was in the curriculum but Peggy must have been born with the knowledge of how to captivate and manipulate men. I saw her in action the one time I actually met her. My sister invited Mr. and Mrs. Siff and Peggy to go with us to visit her two sons at Camp Cherokee. Also with us was a young man, a year or two older than Peggy and I, who worked at the camp. The son of another of my sister’s friends, he needed transportation back to camp after two days off. It was like a well orchestrated ballet to watch Peggy in action and she made a fool of me. She claimed she did not know how to swim, batted her eyelashes demurely and and in a soft voice confided really felt afraid to go in the lake. I generously offered to teach her to swim and assured her she would be in no danger. But, when we actually got in the water, she was a better swimmer than I. I felt humiliated and foolish.

I, on the other hand, was very shy, like Anna when in her teens, couldn’t dance, suffered with the blemishes for many years and then had scars on my face from squeezing the pimples and blackheads. I could swim and I got good grades in high school, but I felt I disappointed my sister. She would have been ecstatically happy, I felt, if I were more like Peggy Siff.

So, when I enrolled in New Jersey College for Women in the class of 1940, I had no problem with selecting my elective classes. Lacking hand-eye coordination I knew I could not learn to play tennis or golf/ I chose riding in the spring and fall and swimming in the Olympic sized pool in the winter. Anna traveled to New York City without me and at Lord & Taylor, a very expensive store, requested that they model some riding outfits for her. Since, at that time, I was a perfect size 10, she bought the entire outfit, black riding breeches, black leather boots, turtle neck shirt, derby hat, gloves, suede jacket and whip. It was a perfect fit. I enjoyed the riding lessons and finally gave Anna a photograph of me and the horse I usually rode. She proudly displayed the photograph in the living room. And when I attended my first formal dance, wearing a white silk gown glittering with sequins, formerly worn by Peggy Siff, she rushed me to a photographer to have a photograph taken. This joined the photo or me on a horse. I received several more evening gowns from Peggy Siff and forced myself to write a note of thanks.

I did not complete college, my sister eventually moved to Florida, I moved to Alaska. But, sometimes when I see a photo of a young woman riding a horse, I wonder what happened to Peggy Siff, who never knew how much I hated and envied her. Nor did she know how much she influenced my life.