After my father died when I was seven, my brother, mother and I used to visit his older brother Harry’s home for special occasions. Aunt Vera, Uncle Harry’s wife was a beautiful aristocratic Rumanian woman who outclassed her husband. She had an exquisite sense of design and was a very gracious hostess to us, the “poor relations.”
We entered their large and spacious home with a brief climb up wide stone steps to a porch the length of the house. The maid Hannah with her toothless smile welcomed us. Their two-story home had a finished basement, and a library, living and dining room on the first floor. I rarely ventured upstairs to the mysterious bedrooms.
As a very shy child, I felt quite lost in that home and would wander through the first floor rooms and even into the basement looking for I don’t know what. My cousin Henry was always to be found in the wood paneled library, ensconced in a leather chair squinting at the New York Times. He wasn’t very social. The family story about Henry was that he was dropped on his head as a baby and this explained his strange behaviors and speech. He was probably severely autistic.
Uncle Harry always played the card game “Pisha Paisha” with me and only then I would feel connected. We sat in the living room at a card table and he would joke around with me. Then we all dined at the long mahogany table under an azure blue, wood beamed ceiling. The best part of the meal was the chocolates that Aunt Vera produced for dessert. With her black hair piled on top of her head and her aristocratic demeanor she was both generous and intimidating. I always felt like a second-class citizen in that home. Now I know that I felt shame.
****
In Wonder Woman garb, she leapt through the doorway and into the foyer of Uncle Harry and Aunt Vera’s Flatbush home. Her mother and brother followed. Everyone snapped to attention when this commanding eight-year old took the floor. She announced that her family was in no way inferior to those present, her father’s relatives. Just because her dad, their favorite brother George, had died, just because she, Mom and Larry lived with Mom’s first generation European parents, just because they lived in Crown Heights, they were most assuredly not second-class citizens.
In clear tones she commanded all those present to treat her own small family with respect. Finally, she told them not to blame her mother for her dad’s death, because her father had been a driven achiever and that nothing and no one could have gotten him to slow down in order to protect his delicate heart. She shouted that her mother was as broken-hearted as the rest of them.
Their mouths agape, they looked first at her and then at each another in wonder. What had become of the shy, retiring child they were used to? Was this really Ellen or a mutant? She ignored their display of disbelief and went on to announce that her maternal grandparents should never be objects of disdain. They had created in her home, however modest, a lineage of classical music, art and literature, especially poetry, that these relatives, who started out selling newspapers, did not possess. And, she said, that if it weren’t for Aunt Vera, Uncle Harry would not dwell in such an elegant house.
When she finished, with her mom and brother smiling broadly, they all turned on their heels and left her father’s family members in stunned silence.
With her cape flaring behind her like a pair of wings, she flew down the porch stairs as her mother and brother followed gleefully a few short steps behind. Instead of relying on Uncle Harry’s chauffer, they called a cab and returned to their Crown Heights brownstone.
We entered their large and spacious home with a brief climb up wide stone steps to a porch the length of the house. The maid Hannah with her toothless smile welcomed us. Their two-story home had a finished basement, and a library, living and dining room on the first floor. I rarely ventured upstairs to the mysterious bedrooms.
As a very shy child, I felt quite lost in that home and would wander through the first floor rooms and even into the basement looking for I don’t know what. My cousin Henry was always to be found in the wood paneled library, ensconced in a leather chair squinting at the New York Times. He wasn’t very social. The family story about Henry was that he was dropped on his head as a baby and this explained his strange behaviors and speech. He was probably severely autistic.
Uncle Harry always played the card game “Pisha Paisha” with me and only then I would feel connected. We sat in the living room at a card table and he would joke around with me. Then we all dined at the long mahogany table under an azure blue, wood beamed ceiling. The best part of the meal was the chocolates that Aunt Vera produced for dessert. With her black hair piled on top of her head and her aristocratic demeanor she was both generous and intimidating. I always felt like a second-class citizen in that home. Now I know that I felt shame.
****
In Wonder Woman garb, she leapt through the doorway and into the foyer of Uncle Harry and Aunt Vera’s Flatbush home. Her mother and brother followed. Everyone snapped to attention when this commanding eight-year old took the floor. She announced that her family was in no way inferior to those present, her father’s relatives. Just because her dad, their favorite brother George, had died, just because she, Mom and Larry lived with Mom’s first generation European parents, just because they lived in Crown Heights, they were most assuredly not second-class citizens.
In clear tones she commanded all those present to treat her own small family with respect. Finally, she told them not to blame her mother for her dad’s death, because her father had been a driven achiever and that nothing and no one could have gotten him to slow down in order to protect his delicate heart. She shouted that her mother was as broken-hearted as the rest of them.
Their mouths agape, they looked first at her and then at each another in wonder. What had become of the shy, retiring child they were used to? Was this really Ellen or a mutant? She ignored their display of disbelief and went on to announce that her maternal grandparents should never be objects of disdain. They had created in her home, however modest, a lineage of classical music, art and literature, especially poetry, that these relatives, who started out selling newspapers, did not possess. And, she said, that if it weren’t for Aunt Vera, Uncle Harry would not dwell in such an elegant house.
When she finished, with her mom and brother smiling broadly, they all turned on their heels and left her father’s family members in stunned silence.
With her cape flaring behind her like a pair of wings, she flew down the porch stairs as her mother and brother followed gleefully a few short steps behind. Instead of relying on Uncle Harry’s chauffer, they called a cab and returned to their Crown Heights brownstone.