Letter to my grandmother

Granny,

This time of year always makes me think about you. We spent the High Holy Days together every year from when I was 8 until I was 26 and moved to America. By the time I got back you weren't up to going to Synagogue any more, and it felt incredibly strange, that first year, to go to 'our' synagogue without you, although I took with me the copy of the Machzor that you gave me when our Synagogue finally finished reworking them. Every year until I was 20 we could chose from a wonderful collection of editions of the old Machzor when we arrived at Synagogue - with every royal family structure from King Edward VII onwards in them. I always used to go straight to that page to see which edition I had. And all the loose pages, and the special matyrology section that was handed out separately mid-afternoon on Yom Kippur because the old Machzor didn't have the new readings and meditations in them. Anyway, finally that year when I was 20 I arrived at your flat to find a gift waiting for me in 'my' room. A copy of the new Machzor,just published, inscribed: "To Thalia, in memory of all our High Holy Days together, your loving grandmother, RLL, October 1986, Rosh Hoshanah 5747.

I still have it. I didn't take it with me to Synagogue last night because it's in a box somewhere. We still don't have any bookshelves in our new house. Next year I will get it out and read from it, although there's no point taking it to Synagogue because I don't go to 'our' place any more. You see, I got married a year and a half ago, and my husband isn't jewish. Our old synagogue wouldn't do anything to help us have a recognition of our relationship, so we went to talk to the Rabbi at the Liberal Synagogue. He was great, and agreed to perform a blessing of our marriage. My husband, H, and I had agreed early on that our children would be Jewish, and I thought that that commitment on his part might make a difference. It didn't. Legally, in the UK, a rabbi can only marry two people if they are both jewish (while a priest can marry a couple as long as just one of them is Christian). But in any case, Liberal practice still says that while our children can be Jewish, they wouldn't marry us even without the legal restriction. And we couldn't have a Chuppah (although I got the florist to decorate four columns and we stood in between them and that was the closest I could get). But we had a lovely blessing, and it felt as if my Jewishness was confirmed. But the Liberals have a slightly different liturgy, so the Machzor you gave me will be the one I use at home for thinking and reading, instead of proudly bearing it to Synagogue.

I think you'd like H. He is a lovely man. Mum adores him because he's so nice to her. He is lovely to me although sometimes I don't appreciate it. You would have liked the way he opened doors for you and waited for you to sit down before he did. You would have recognised the way he takes his tea. And I'm sure you would have loved the smile on my face as you two got to know each other - the smile I remember from when you first met my sister-in-law. You couldn't say much by then, but you smiled and patted her hand and wondered, vaguely, "who is the pretty blonde girl?" and "why are my nails not pretty today?"

I think you'd be ok that I "married out". You would have been disappointed, as my mother was, but then my mother married out, and although you were intially angry, you came round. You married the right man for you, but your family considered you to have married beneath you. The son of an immigrant wasn't supposed to be the right match for you. But you adored each other. The 15 year age gap didn't matter during your married life, although I know that being left a widow at 50 was a devastating blow to you. You were always madly in love, said my mother. "It was hard being the child of a marriage where the two parents were so obviously besotted with each other."

I miss you a great deal. I know you loved all your grandchildren, but you did make me feel special. Perhaps because I was the eldest, and only, daughter of your elder daughter? Or because of our special relationship around religion? After all, we just saw my cousins at Synagogue with my uncle and aunt, it's not as if they stayed with you over the the holidays, as I did. Maybe you were almost as close to my cousin C. I remember those trips to the theatre and the ballet together when we were younger. I was very close to her too, until the family row. We were only separated by a year in age but it never felt that much - well, a year, a month, and a day, as I used to point out to her. But after my father got fired from the family firm, and had his breakdown, and you all stopped speaking to each other, well, I didn't see C any more - except at Synagogue. And it did feel wierd, at the age of 10, to be dropped outside your block of flats and have to go up on my own because my mother wouldn't come in. But it was worth it to me to see you, and my mother never made me feel bad about it. So perhaps even before we had our special high holy days time together every year, perhaps I was already special to you.

I remember all those hours in your flat, in the evening when we got back from Synagogue on Rosh Hoshanah, or after we had taken your dog for a walk at Pesach, looking at the old photograph albums. The pictures of bearded men with big black hats, and solemn looking dark women with big dark skirts, looking back at us from the 1830s and 40s. Your mother with her mother and brothers and sisters - the photo of the portrait that now hangs in my cousin's house. The many pictures of you with your myriad of older brothers and sisters. A picture of you at a recital, aged about 8, your leg pointed out in front of you and your hair carefully dressed. The last photo of you with your father, a month before he died. You are wearing a white dress, a silver locket, stockings and big black boots. Your dark curls are held up on one side by a ribbon. You were five. You looked very much as I did as a child. You are wearing a similar outfit in your favourite picture of yourself with your beloved brother P, the closest to you in age. He is a in a sailor suit and has his arm round you. The sepia is fading a bit at the edges, but you both still look out at us, slightly apprehensive perhaps of the photographer, but clealry happy to be pictured together.

The album moves on into the 1930s and 40s, then the 50s. Pictures of fancy dress parties with everyone in amazingly elaborate costumes. My mother dressed as Prince Charming aged about 19, and my aunt as a Princess. My mother with plaits and my aunt with her curls. My uncle looking so serious in every picture. The pictures of you with my grandfather - him always with his round glasses and eyes sharply focused over the top.

I have all the photos. They seemed to mean more to me than anyone else, so I've been appointed the photograph keeper. The large portrait of you on your wedding day, opposite a portrait of Grandpa on the same day, are on display downstairs along with the portrait of my mother on her wedding day and that of me on mine. You, me and my mother, all wearing the tiara that you inherited from your grandmother. Everyone remarks on its beauty. I carried it to every wedding dress fitting and everyone who worked there used to come out to ask to look at it. It's very special to me but it's back in the bank now and I don't know if I'll ever wear it again. But it was a wonderful link to you.

I will do something with the rest of the photos soon, I promise. But I do look at them regularly, as I do the copy of the Persian Fairy Stories book you used to read to me. I've got it rebound because it was falling apart. I also have the mug I used to drink my milk from at your house. You promised it was my mug, even though it had to stay at your house. It's at my house now, although I don't use it much because although it's just an ordinary mug, I'm terrified of breaking it - or of H breaking it. I'm not sure I'd be able to forgive him.

This strength of relationship between us is why it hurt that one year when I came over to see you and you didn't want to see me. Sure, there had been plenty of times by then when it had been clear that you didn't really know who I was, but equally you'd seem to be sure that you loved me. But this one time during the Christmas holidays my mother asked me to go over because she was out of the country and couldn't make her regular every-other-day visit to see you and check in with your carer. So I went over, and took you a present of a manicure set with some new nail polish. You didn't want me there. You kept going to your carer and saying: "Take me away, take me away." I was devastated. I know you didn't really mean it - or that the you that you were five years before would never have felt that way. But maybe that person had gone by then. In any case, in my selfishness I did a lot of the mourning for our lost relationship that day. I cried all the way to my father's house, and then he, the one you'd refused to speak to for 20 years, he was the one who said, "Darling, your granny loves you. She's always loved you, it's not her that said that." And that made it a little better.

Eight months later you died. You spent nearly two months in the hospital, and I saw you a few times there. The last time I saw you you said, even though you hadn't spoken for days. "New Hair". I had just had a hair cut. It was so lovely that you recognised something in me that one last time. It made up for our terrible interaction a few months earlier, and it meant so much to me that you said it.

You died just three weeks before the High Holy Days that year, and six weeks after my first nephew was born. My mother had shown you the picture of the baby while you were in hospital. You'd stroked the picture and said: "Baby. Pretty". And that meant something to all of us. I cried at your funeral, as did my cousin C. Almost every one else held it together but the two of us were basket cases. My mother spoke the most wonderful Eulogy and the Rabbi, who was new to the Synagogue and so didn't really know you, he spent the time with my mother and uncle to make sure that what he said rang true. Just as the service was ending my brother, sister-in-law and my tiny nephew arrived at the back of the hall. Just as my mother was mentioning you stroking the baby's photograph. That meant a lot to us all too - that they'd driven all that way, and had a horrible journey, but they got there to hear my mother talk about how you'd managed to create a link between generations in the last few days of your life.

I've been commemorating your Yarzeit since then, and the new Synagogue now has you on their list and on the relevant Shabbas they ask me to open the Ark doors. It's a good way to remember you. But the time I really commune with my memories of you is on the High Holy Days, and on Yom Kippur in particular. There's something about Aveinu Malkeinu that brings out the memories like nothing else does. And Granny, I wish you were here. I remember you. Thank you for everything you gave me. Thank you for making me special.

Comments

[wessel]

Beautiful. You made me cry with this one.

[nina]

another lovely post. i don't know how you're able to write these wonderful thoughts, and still find time to leave supportive messages on so many other blogs. really glad you're out there Thalia.
i miss my grandparents too. i think about them all the time.

[DD]

Thalia, that was utterly magical. To share such a letter reveals more of your heart than any number of IF posts.

Nina is right. Your writing is genuine not only in your own blog, but your sincere concern is obvious in the comments for fellow bloggers.

Oh, if someday we could ever meet, I would be over the moon.

[mm]

Very sweet. Thank you for sharing.

[Lynnette]

Thalia, that was so beautiful. Fitting for me too, because I've been thinking of visiting my grandfather, whom I wrote a similar letter to, a few years ago. I think I'll go see him tomorrow, while I still can. Thank you.

[Teresa]

Hi Thalia. Grandparents are so important. I wonder, sometimes, if they know how much they mean to their progeny? What a lovely post.

[elle]

That was lovely. It made me tear up, thiking about my own, missed grandmother. I hope you find some solace in the holiday.

[millie]

What a beautiful post! Of course posts about grandmothers mean a lot to me right now but I'd love this one anytime. Thanks so much for sharing.

[Julianna]

That was lovely....just lovely.

[April]

Beautiful post. I absolutely dissolved into tears. Beautiful lovely post.

[fisher queen]

After this post and two posts ago- well, and all the others too- I want to come live in the UK just to be your friend.

[Jenn]

That made me miss your grandma.

[Sassy]

That was beautiful.

[Susan]

Thalia,
That was beautiful -- brought tears to my eyes. Shana Tova

Hi Thalia, I think a post like this reminds us all of why we want to be parents.

Hi Thalia, A post like this reminds me of why I want to be a parent and one day a grand-parent.

[Kath]

Thank you for that, Thalia. How beautiful!

[LEB]

Thalia, that was wonderful, thanks for sharing it us.

[Lori]

What a beautiful post. I teared up thinking of my own much loved and missed grandparents. Thank you for sharing.

[pixi]

Just found this post, and I'm very glad that I did. I miss my grandmother, too, and I talk to her when things get difficult. It's rotten that we can't have them forever. It's good to keep them alive, though, through memories and beautiful tributes such as your letter.

[cass]

wow. just... wow.