W
e park the car in their garage,
which always smelled of tar
and gas, and I run toward the
elevator up to their room. When
the elevator opens to their hallway, I sprint down
to the end, all giddy and showered, dressed up for
Friday night. I could immediately smell chicken
and Bubbie’s perfume.
The door opens and Bubbie gives me a big hug
and a wet kiss on my cheek that I wipe off in feigned
disgust. I make my way into the living room to see
Yashie on the couch, reading the newspaper and
drinking Scotch. I give him a big hug, taking in a
whiff of his Old Spice cologne. My father greets
Yashie with a friendly “How ya doing, Arthur?”
while my mom, sister and aunt help Bubbie in the
kitchen. I chomp on some hors d’oeuvres.
After we light the Shabbat candles, Yashie
takes out his prayer book and mumbles the
blessing over wine — his eyes sharp with
concentration and his Brooklyn accent thicker
than ever. Then, I do the honor of blessing my
mother’s savory challah, sensing my family’s
anxiety as I cut the bread with my young, stubby
hands. We feast and converse about our weekly
highs and lows until our eyes grow sleepy and
our stomachs bloat.
Bubbie and Yashie were the names I called
my maternal grandparents. The Yiddish term for
“grandmother” is spelled “Bubbe,” but the fact
that my family spelled it with an “I” somehow
made it more special. As for Yashie, the term was
made up by my sister, who couldn’t pronounce
“zayde” — the traditional Yiddish term for
grandfather — as a kid, so Yashie stuck.
Growing up, Bubbie and Yashie were an
integral part of my life. In the late 1990s, they
moved from the retirement paradise of Florida
to a comfortable apartment in Los Angeles,
situated a few blocks from my elementary and
middle school. Almost every week on Friday
night, my family and I would gather for Shabbat
dinner at their place. It was undoubtedly the
best part of my week, not only because I got to
see Bubbie and Yashie, but because their home
was always a place for joy and comfort.
During the eighth grade, I frequently walked
to their apartment after school. Bubbie would
give me milk and cookies (either Dunkers or
Oreos), ask about my day and let me do my
homework in peace. I’d pop into their bedroom
to say hello to Yashie, who would be sitting in
his plush, white reclining chair. For what it was
worth, their presence in my life made me feel
safe, known and loved.
Bubbie and Yashie instilled invaluable lessons
during my childhood that would serve me later
in life. Yashie taught me how to play chess, to
cover my mouth when I burped and to pick up
my food with the fork facing up. Bubbie made
sure I washed my face every night before I went
to bed and every morning when I woke up, so I
could maintain my “shayna punim.”
Bubbie and Yashie shared a magnetic
warmth they carried everywhere they went — at
birthday parties, bar mitzvah ceremonies and
other family functions. But while they radiated
liveliness, their eventual path toward death
would lead to a period of pain for my family.
The summer before my freshman year of high
school, I started to notice a change in Bubbie.
Her skin became unusually pale, she was a tad
skinnier and she had a caretaker. My mother
informed me that the liver cancer she survived
a few years earlier, came back.
That fall, I felt alienated by Bubbie as the
cancer had swallowed the life out of her. She
became emaciated and jaundiced, confined to
the guest bedroom of my aunt’s house where she
stayed during the final months of her life. For her
final Hanukkah, she smoked medical marijuana
to ease the pain. It was the first time in ages I
saw a glimmer of the old Bubbie, laughing with
delight in her pink bathrobe.
But even then, I couldn’t enjoy moments like
that because I knew it would be short-lived.
After a particularly difficult evening in February
2012 — the evening I said my final goodbye to
Bubbie — I experienced my first panic attack.
It was in my bedroom that was re-done as a
graduation present. Taking in the newness of my
room and my farewell to Bubbie only minutes
before, I felt overwhelming fright wash over me
and I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. I felt
like the world was caving in on me. Everything
was changing too quickly. That night, I waited
in restless agony until my father came into my
room at two in the morning. Through baited
breath and tears, my mother informed me of
Bubbie’s passing on the phone.
For most of my childhood, Yashie suffered
from a series of physical ailments — first to a
cane, then a walker and finally a wheelchair.
As he became immobile, his loquacious
personality gradually disappeared, rendering
him monosyllabic and catatonic. After Bubbie’s
death, Yashie’s health continued to decline,
forcing my mother and aunt to put him in
several senior living facilities.
Like Bubbie, I felt alienated by Yashie during
the final months of his life. I was reluctant to
visit him at the senior living homes. Instead
of staying with Yashie during our weekly
visits, I opted to take long walks around the
neighborhood to cool off. I couldn’t bear to
see my mother and aunt weeping as Yashie sat
motionless in his wheelchair, closing his eyes
and opening them every other minute.
On his 90th birthday, I mustered up the
courage to say goodbye — holding his soft,
purple-stained hands and telling him I loved him
and that I was sorry I wasn’t there for him when
I needed to be. And for the first time in a while,
I saw his mouth move to speak. The words were
hard to hear and the sound was obscured by the
oxygen mask glued to Yashie’s face.
A week later, he passed away, my family
standing over him as he exhaled his last breath.
I remember a strange mix of relief and disbelief
wash over me, knowing that I spent the past
year mourning Bubbie and now had to spend
another year mourning Yashie — their collective
presence was officially gone.
There were a lot of things I wish I knew
about Bubbie and Yashie. I wish I asked about
what their lives were like growing up in New
York and what their favorite movies and songs
were. I wish they saw me graduate high school
and go on to study at the University of Michigan.
But then again I knew a lot about them.
Yashie fought as a private in World War II and
later took classes at Brooklyn College before
working many jobs. His biggest venture was
opening up his own business in New York,
where he manufactured women’s clothing for
stores like JC Penney. Most people called him by
his middle name, Seymour, growing up.
Bubbie didn’t have a middle name. She grew
up in the Bronx, went to Alfred University and
transferred to New York University. Afterward,
she became an audiologist for preschoolers
with hearing loss and later became a para-
professional social worker. Both of their parents
were Eastern European immigrants. Together,
they were perfect, beautiful, fashionable and
charitable. They were my role models.
Sometimes, Bubbie and Yashie appear in my
dreams. I’m not sure if it’s just my unconscious
mind fabricating images and memories, but
I’d like to think that they’re visiting me from
beyond. I still try to imagine Bubbie’s infectious
cackle and her delicious cooking. I yearn to hear
Yashie’s jokes and catchphrases and how they
made my family laugh hysterically. But most of
all, I wish I could go back to that apartment and
relive Shabbat dinner with Bubbie and Yashie,
together again.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017 // The Statement
6B
by Sam Rosenberg, Daily Arts Writer
Personal Statement:
The Ballad of Bubbie and Yashie
PHOTO COURTESY OF SAM ROSENBERG