Found at Bubbe's

Oil Paintings

By: @JewBoyProblems

After my grandfather passed away, Bubbe searched for hobbies to occupy her time and distract her from such a tragic loss. For the months leading up to my grandfather’s passing, she was his primary caretaker until Hospice took over. Bubbe essentially put aside her interests and leisure time to devote as much time to my grandfather as possible.

Bubbe has always been artistic, but never really practiced—especially when my grandfather was going through chemo treatments. She decided to enroll in art classes and found ways to express her feelings through oil paint.

Her interest (and art collection) grew as she attended more classes and found herself making friends and enjoying the efforts of her hard work.

To keep up with her various assignments and out-of-class exercises, she turned my grandfather’s former office into an art studio. Who knew a second bedroom could have so many functions?

Bubbe is inspired by the natural beauty of her community in Boca Raton. The flowers she captures in oil paint are found on her property and in local parks.

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Israeli Bracelet

By: Sarah Solomon

My Grandma recently gave me a bracelet and pair of earrings crafted out of Israeli and Egyptian coins. Granted the design is beautiful in itself, but that specific genre of jewelry was sold to American Jews during the Holocaust with the proceeds going toward trying to get loved ones out of Germany before it was too late.

The sentiment alone is priceless, and whenever I look down at my wrist I’m reminded that I’m not only living for myself, but family members who were senselessly murdered out of hate and fear.

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Bubbe Description

By: Lori Whitelaw

Laying on the guilt since…forever.

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Hunger

By: Lily Sherman

It appears Lily’s grandmother has two different kinds of hunger.

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Candlesticks

By: Kevin Frankel

When my great-grandfather came to the United States, he didn’t bring anything except for a pair of candlesticks and the clothes on his back. He worked for very little to provide for his family, who all lived in a crowded Manhattan tenement. Their family bore all the trademarks of an eastern European Jewish family; complete with large, family gatherings every week. The sounds and scents found in his home were transplanted directly from the old country.

My home bears no resemblance to my great-grandfather’s. My family does not keep kosher, we do not observe the Sabbath and we don’t even belong to a temple. My only tangible connection to Judaism is my affinity for pastrami sandwiches and appreciation of Phillip Roth. I am what you might call “culturally Jewish.”  Yet, we still have the candlesticks…these same candlesticks that were there during times of persecution against Jews I’ll likely never see in my lifetime. 

These relics of a distant past now sit on a shelf in a room next to a computer.  They predate the house they reside in by decades. My ancestor used them for hundreds of Shabbat dinners, and to me they have just always been there.

The path the candlesticks took was equally unpredictable and inspiring. It represents the culmination of everything my great-grandfather had hoped for. His leap of faith made my life, and all its comforts, possible.

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Menorah

By: Natalie Kircidel

My grandfather was born and raised in Rovno, Ukraine back in 1916. It was considered part of Russia during this time.

Toward the end of the Holocaust, my grandfather thought he escaped the forced deportations and took a small backpack with clothes, this menorah, and a small prayer book (which was packed away). He and his brother started heading west towards Russia. Along the way, they hid in barns, with families, and in abandoned houses for two years.

Eventually, my grandfather and his brother were captured by troops. They were both taken to a Russian labor camp.

One of the guards demanded that he have my grandfather’s shoes. My grandfather refused and the guard put a gun to his head. Before the guard pulled the trigger, another guard yelled out that the war was over.

Two years later, my grandfather and his brother made it to America. To this day, the details are fuzzy about his sisters, other brother, and mother. No one in the family is sure about the names of his siblings as well as his mother.

While I have many memories of my grandfather, this is the one that I cherish the most.

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Memories at Neiman Marcus

By: CeCe Cole

 

If you take one look at my grandmother, mother, and myself, you can’t deny that we all have an undying love for fashion. As an employee in the couture section of Chicago’s Neiman Marcus for over 30 years, [Grand]Ma introduced me to fashion at a young age. I always knew I gave my Ma nachas as I marched around her house in what I referred to as her “diamond shoes” and bright pink lipstick as a silly child.

All of my friends laugh at the amount of time I spend in Neiman’s, but what they don’t understand is that this fashion mecca brought me closer not only to my trendy grandma but also my beloved Papa.

My loving grandma still can’t help but smile when I—at 19-years-old—show up to our meeting spot in Boca Town Center’s Neiman Marcus. As we stroll together through the department store, we are constantly greeted by Kass, our makeup girl at YSL, April, our handbag aficionado, Martin, our shoe man, and of course, Lauren of the contemporary section, who is your classic Long Island Jewish mother. After we say hello to all our “little friends” as Ma likes to call them, we make our way up to Mariposa, and have a typical Neiman Marcus lunch. We dine on popovers, chicken broth, cheese biscuits, and a scoop of tuna salad (Ma obviously orders a Diet Coke).

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This past December, I lost my dearest Papa. For the past three years, I watched him suffer as he battled two different types of cancers: breast and multiple myeloma. When the cancerous cells started to spread, Papa’s mobility began to dwindle and therefore he was no longer up for an adventure to Neiman’s. Papa would love hearing about our recent purchases but the fact that he couldn’t wait outside the dressing room made it less exciting. He loved seeing his girls (Ma, my mother, and myself) all dressed up even if we had nowhere to go but the grocery store.

In the past, Papa and I would sneak off for cinnamon twists at the coffee shop next to Neiman’s. He would talk to me about anything and everything and was nice enough to always laugh at my jokes (I loved him for that since I am usually the only one who laughs at my jokes).

It’s hard for Ma to have to adjust her life without her best friend of over 50 years. I know Ma will be okay though because she still looks fabulous for my Papa every day.

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Never-ending refrigerator

By: Lena Elkins

As every Jewish grandchild knows, it’s impossible to escape your grandma’s house without gaining five to seven pounds. Regardless of how many times you insist that you’re full, you ate before, or you gave up eating gefilte fish years ago, you constantly find yourself losing the argument and being spoon-fed half a kugel.

To a broke college student with no cooking skills at all, this could be seen as a blessing. But to those of us who have mastered the art of eating cereal three meals a day, this situation could happily be avoided.

In my bubbe’s house, I am offered the same things every time I go there: leftover chicken from last Shabbos, extra brisket from a Hadassah meeting, and additional cookies from my bat mitzvah. When I explain to Bubbe that I’ve been vegetarian for several years now, she looks away in denial as she sticks an entire chicken into the microwave for me.

Recently, my bubbe showed her true passion for being a stereotypical Jewish grandmother when I helped her set up a new alarm system in her house. When I asked her what she wanted her password to be, after a moment of considering her options, she answered, “lunch.” “Why lunch?” I asked. “Oh sweetie,” she smiled, handing me an entire bakery box full of rugelach, “I could never forget lunch.”

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Pillow

By: Kayla Laskin

“The wise words of my Jewish grandmother.”

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Shirt and Ruler

By: Levi Teitel

I made the trip to my Nani’s house. Her husband died last month, her memory isn’t all there, and she isn’t doing very well mentally. Since my Papa’s passing, Nani always wants to give me his old clothes.

One article of clothing is a retro “Berkowitz Family Reunion” t-shirt. I would say that it’s my favorite shirt.

After rummaging some more, I found a Temple Beth El ruler. My grandparents were longtime congregants of the oldest synagogue in Michigan.

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Nani always tells me that her immigrant parents would only speak English in the house, and never Yiddish. They believed that if they were in America, they had to speak English. Her parents also proudly displayed their immigration papers in the front hallway of their home.

Now that Nani’s memory is fading, she barely ever makes her mandelbrot or brisket. In fact, every summer, she would send me a camp care package of chocolate chip mandlebrot. Her three varieties would always win the “Whose Bubbe Makes the Best Mandlebrot” award in my cabin.

I wish Nani’s memory weren’t going away. It’s hard to see somebody you love go through memory loss.

I will miss her stories about her childhood growing up in mid-century Detroit, her food, and her love.

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