Black tea with sugar.
Palm Harbor, Florida
I spent Easter weekend in Florida with my uncle Charlie. He’s an incredibly misunderstood man, or at least, I misunderstood him for most of my life. For forty years, he was a mechanic, and for many of those years he had a three-pack-a-day smoking habit. (He quit 10 years ago.) He had big scary dogs (they were actually pretty harmless, but I was scared nonetheless) and his kids were older and too cool for me.
Five years ago, Charlie’s wife left him. He was crushed. But instead of closing himself off and shutting down, he opened himself up. He started therapy, got to know himself, and started talking about his feelings. He called to check in on me, he gave me advice on relationships- on giving my heart freely and willingly to others. He frequently spent time with my father, who was grieving the loss of my mother four years ago. Charlie has proven himself to be one of the most gentle, caring, and warm people I know.
The morning after I arrived in Florida, he made me a cup of tea and some delicious French toast, and we got to talking about the family. He told me stories about growing up with my Pop-Pop, who died when I was three, though his mind was taken by Alzheimer’s before I was born. I learned that my Pop-pop was the child of a well-respected and well-connected Russian immigrant. His family was often spotted at the opera or the ballet. My grandfather always wore a tie- even when camping (I saw the pictures!)- and owned a camera store. His many nephews came to him for advice on fashionable dress, manners, decorum. One of those cousins would grow up to become one of the world’s pre-eminent urologists! (Who knew?)
There were stories about my grandmother, a woman I never felt close to though she was alive until I was 17. A new story about matzo-pancakes, which she made for her four children and served with cinnamon, sugar, sour cream, and syrup. (Or, as my Dad apparently used to say before he could pronounce the letter “s,” “yinnamon, yugar, your cream, and yrup.”) I learned that my grandmother volunteered at a local hospital for 40 years, and that she and her five siblings were raised by a woman named “Granny” after their mother (who had moved her family to New York City from Panama, where her husband worked on the Canal) died at 33.
We moved to the sunporch with our tea, and spent the next two hours looking through Charlie’s photo albums. I’d never seen photos of my Pop-pop as a young man. I had no idea what my grandmother looked like on her wedding day. Who knew my big brother looked so much like my Dad’s side of the family? After 24 years, I was finally able to piece together some of the stories I’d heard over the years, and to appreciate these people I’d never known. It was a truly wonderful gift.
