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

