Winter sleepovers at Grandma’s house rank especially high in my pleasure bank.
By SYLVIA ROSEN
My youngest great-granddaughter is fascinated by my elbow. She’s four, adorable, and interested in everything her eyes light on. Her fingers reach out to feel the elbow and stroke it. “Why is it so wrinkly?” she asks, as she bends her arm to examine her own. It is, of course, smooth, plump, and delicious.
I explain that it happens as we get older, and yes, in answer to her next question, hers will be wrinkly, too, in many, many years. That satisfies her, and she’s on to the next point of interest — the drawer where she’ll find crayons and markers and paper for her art work.
I’ve told her that my grandmother kept such a drawer for me. That’s her great-great-great grandmother I’m talking about, I realize, something the little one may think of much later when she remembers these times we spend together.
My favorite childhood pastime was dress-up, so my drawer at grandma’s held some of the relics of her younger days: opera-length gloves of soft leather with pearl buttons at the wrist, a small bejeweled hair ornament, and the paper rings from grandpa’s cigars to adorn my fingers when I went gloveless, among other trinkets. A larger drawer held freshly washed and starched sheer curtains that I used as a queen’s train or a bride’s veil, prancing around the house in great delight, with never a scowl or a sigh from my grandmother, about having to do up the curtain yet again.
Winter sleepovers at Grandma’s house rank especially high in my pleasure bank. I slept in her bed on a feather pillow, cocooned in a giant feather-filled comforter she managed to bring with her from Russia and used all the rest of her life
While I had my bath in the claw-footed tub, a thick towel and my nightgown sat toasting on the tall iron radiator. Content that I was clean enough, Grandma patted me dry with the warmed towel, wrapped me in its coziness and carried me to bed. Quickly she slipped the gown over my head, tucked me under the cover, and bent to kiss me. She turned to leave, and I think I must have fallen asleep before she reached the door.
I have this fantasy about how my grandmother must have loved sleepovers at her grandmother’s place.
I picture a large room, one wall featuring an enormous hearth. The blazing logs fight the winter’s chill and heat some large drying cloths hanging at the side. My grandmother sits in a large metal tub set in front of the fireplace as the day’s grime is washed away. Then her Bubby wraps her in the warm cloths and carries her to the sleeping room off at the side, where my grandmother snuggles under the welcoming feather-filled covering, gets her goodnight kiss, and drifts happily into slumber.
There’s something magical about this little bedtime ritual, I think. It’s more than just getting clean and warm. It is a legacy of love, passed on —L’ Dor V’Dor, — from generation to generation.
Springfield resident Sylvia Rosen gives writing classes at the Springfield Jewish Community Center in addition to doing freelance writing. She is a contributor to The Republican's recently published "Our Stories: The Jews of Western Massachusetts."