Grandma Rose

Grandma Rose exists firmly in my memory. I remember her distinct way of speaking, the sights and smells of her kitchen, how she stuttered while going through all of our names till reaching the right one when we were doing something wrong. She was quiet and reserved and never one to display broad emotions. She never learned to drive.......the “machine”, as my Grandpa always called whatever Buick he owned at the time.

Grandma was first married in the 1920’s to Abe Goldzwig. Abe went swimming at the YMCA with his father-in-law, my Great-Grandfather Max Schneider (who died before I was born) and somehow......some way: he drowned. Then, according to an old custom that I know nothing about, his brother Saul stepped in and offered to marry my grandmother. Saul was my grandpa.

I have few photographs of Grandma Goldzwig. One I re-discovered recently shows her walking in front of a garage, probably at their home in Miamisburg, Ohio. She is very well dressed and turns to the camera as if caught off guard.

In another photo she appears inside the store she owned with my grandpa, Fashion Dress Shop, also in Miamisburg. This photograph is dated - June, 1969 -
and she is dressed in an old-fashioned costume for some sort of town hoopla. I look at the image and think of the devastating history taking place in this country that year and I also think of how often Grandma looked this way in photos. Not exactly ill-at-ease but still slightly uncomfortable with the attention being placed on her, a bit stiff and unwilling to yield anything of her inner self.

Once, when my grandpa was in the hospital undergoing serious surgery for stomach cancer, my brother and I kept my grandma company at her house. Our family doctor had confided to me that grandpa’s chances were not good, so I was worried and also concerned for grandma’s well-being. I remember sitting with her at the kitchen table, listening as she unrolled a whole host of interesting stories from the past. She came alive as she recalled people and events from long-ago times. For me the best stories were about a distant cousin known as Red. He was someone completely unknown to me. Grandma’s words painted a vague portrait of a real character, someone who gambled and travelled around, involved in who-knows-what kind of shenanigans. He was my kind of guy - and - best of all........he was my relative.

Grandpa survived the surgery and went on to live for another decade. Grandma did not - she died before him with Alzheimer’s.