Tag Archives: #family

The Four Cohens

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My sister Laura Appel passed away after a short illness on Friday, August 29, 2025. I had written an earlier version of this story but am sharing a revised post in light of our family’s recent loss.

It is a hot day in late June. I wait impatiently on the front porch of our old Victorian house in our small upstate New York town. The blue sedan finally pulls into the driveway. My father climbs out from behind the wheel. As I skip down the steps and run across the yard, Dad opens the door on the passenger side. My mother holds a bundle wrapped in pink. I gaze in wonder upon a full head of black hair and an infant’s face crunched up and bright red from crying. “Meet your little sister, Roberta Jessica,” Mom said quietly.

That was my first memory. I was four years old, turning five and starting kindergarten three months later. I was thrilled to be a big sister. 

I was probably the happiest member of the Cohen family that day. My sister Laura, upon hearing before her thirteenth birthday that another child was on the way, immediately weighed in. “Why didn’t you consult me first?” she demanded. When told she was not part of the decision-making process, she stated, “Well, if you think you have a built-in babysitter, you have it all wrong!”

Jay, who was nine, only wanted a brother. When Dad woke him on the morning of June 25 to tell him he had another sister, he groaned, pulled the covers over his head, and went back to sleep. I am not sure he gave the newest addition another thought. 

And I am not sure how happy my parents were when they realized that they were to be a family of six. Dad barely made enough money managing a small store to support a family of five, much less another child. Mom was thirty-six, looking forward to putting her youngest in full-day kindergarten and having a life without diapers and bottles. 

But from the moment Bobbie came home (“Roberta Jessica” would forevermore be saved for formal documents), I was fascinated. When my mother filled up the old bassinet with water to bathe her, I was right there beside her to help. When she needed to be pushed in the carriage, I wanted to be the one holding the handles. And when Bobbie needed casts on her legs to correct weak, turned-in muscles, it was I who watched over her in her crib, which was set up next to the twin beds in my room.

I have heard stories about older children being jealous of their siblings when they came home from the hospital. Children who resorted to tantrums. Children who wanted to know when the baby was going back to the hospital. A five-year-old who rode her bike up and down her street crying, “Does anyone want a little girl? My parents don’t love me anymore!” But I never remember being jealous. She was my little sister, my live baby doll.

If there were any difficulties between us, it was probably because everyone who met Bobbie immediately fell in love with her. She was always smiling, always happy, always easygoing. This was in stark contrast to me  — moody, anxious, and often fearful. Little Miss Sunshine could charm her way into everyone’s heart, a direct contrast to my Little Miss Worrywart personality.

And Bobbie was beautiful. I was chubby, with thick glasses that covered my only good feature, my blue eyes. On the other hand, Bobbie had black hair, high coloring, freckles sprinkled across her nose, and eyes that rivaled Elizabeth Taylor. 

As we grew up, Bobbie and I continued to be inseparable. She was always part of my parties, my sleepovers, my bike rides. In every one of the few pictures we have of our childhood, Bobbie is always front and center, her smile lighting up the world. Years later, when I asked my mother what it was like to have a baby at thirty-six years old, she said, “I didn’t raise her. You did!”

The four Cohen children were fortunate indeed. Whereas some of our friends had strained or non-existent relationships with their siblings and/or their spouses, we all remained close—maybe even closer when we realized that life could change on a dime. When Bobbie called to share the news that she had breast cancer, our first thoughts were, “This can’t be happening to our little sister.” But it was her “Little Miss Sunshine” attitude that got her through surgery, radiation, chemo, and her recovery. When Laura had a stroke a few years later, she often referred to Bobbie’s spirit during her cancer ordeal and was determined to be as strong. She was. 

And now one of us is gone. Laura, 83, had  just completed a fabulous cruise to the British Isles with my brother Jay, his wife, Leslie, and a friend. Unfortunately, two days after she returned, she was hospitalized in Upstate New York with breathing problems. Doctors were trying to determine the exact cause of her symptoms when she took a turn for the worse. Diagnosis: a rare form of pneumonia. Grim news followed: Laura was on a ventilator in the intensive care unit. We had two days of optimism when she was taken off the ventilator. She was looking forward to her life after hospitalization and rehab: a highly anticipated move to San Diego, California, to be closer to her children and grandchildren. But her 83-year-old body failed. She passed away on Friday, August 29. 

We  three surviving siblings and our spouses,  her children and grandchildren, and her many other relatives, and her friends will miss her terribly. As I told my 10-year-old granddaughter, who hated to see me so sad, we mourn because we experienced the privilege of loving our sister and being loved by her.

One of my parents’ favorite pictures of the four Cohen kids was taken just before Laura graduated high school. We are sitting on a couch in our house in Keeseville—Jay on the arm, followed by Laura, Marilyn, and Bobbie. In a home with few family pictures, that particular one graced my parents’ living room for the rest of their lives. We siblings all kidded my parents and each other, wondering, “Is this the best we ever looked?” 

The evening after my mother’s funeral, we pulled out that picture. Bobbie’s husband Emil posed us all on my family room couch with the four of us trying hard to duplicate our fifty-plus-years-ago expressions. Then we took a more serious one, without the silly grins.

 After that day, we continued the tradition. Each time we were together, whether it is at a bat mitzvah or a weekend reunion, we would line up—Jay, Laura, Marilyn, and Bobbie—snap a picture, and were grateful that the “Four Cohen Kids” were happy, healthy, and together again. 

Sadly, the tradition will no longer continue. Rather than four siblings, there will be three shown and one residing in our hearts. So, I will share one word of advice: please give extra hugs to those you cherish and tell them you love them every time you speak to them. EVERY TIME. Life can turn on a dime. It did for us.

May Laura’s memory be a blessing and inspiration.

Four Cohens
Four Cohens
Four Cohens and Partners

My Mom and Ol’ Blue Eyes

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“What’s that you have in your ear?”

We were on our way home from a family event in New York City in March, 2009. Larry was driving, and my sister Laura was in the passenger seat, and I was sitting in the back with my mom. “This is my iPod. I can listen to music on it.”

“Can I try?” 

“Of course!”

I removed the earbuds from my ears and put them in my mother’s. Then I scrolled through my playlist. Nearly 90% were Broadway musicals. I knew my mom would love them.

For the next two hours, my mom was in Broadway heaven. She zoned out on the music, sometimes singing along tunelessly.

I knew I had to get my mother a similar device. We had lost our father in November 2008, and my mother was now alone in her independent living apartment. She was doing amazingly well. “Life is about change, and you have to move on,” she told us. But the evening hours were long, and she missed “MY Bill. That week, I ordered a iPod Shuffle from the Apple website. The device was very simple. It could store 100’s on songs in its small flash drive, which resembled a Bic lighter. Placing the one earbud into one’s ear was also easy to use.  I loaded it with Mom’s favorites: Dozens of my Broadway musicals, Judy Garland, and, of course, Frank Sinatra.

Ah, Ol’ Blue Eyes! Mom was married with a toddler when the skinny Italian from Hoboken,New Jersey first came crashing onto the scene. She may have not been a “Bobby Socker,” the name given adolescent girls in the 1040’s. But she loved his choice of songs, his voice, and especially his sense of timing. “Just listen to him, Marilyn,” she would tell me. “No one can sing as well as him!” 

My mother was thrilled with her new toy. She used the Shuffle for the next two years. Thankfully, it took little work on my part. I left a charger at her apartment to use as needed. Outside of that, she could listen to music to her heart’s content. I would often walk into her apartment and find her sitting in her favorite Lazy-Boy, singing along to Frank.

On December 22, 2010, four days after I had retired, Mom had a heart attack. At the hospital, the emergency room doctor cautioned my husband Larry and me that she may not make it home. If she did, she had three to six months at best. Her 92-year-old body was failing. 

You couldn’t tell a day after her heart attack. She sat up in her hospital bed, catching up with family and friends on the phone and endearing herself to the nurses who tended to her. I brought the Shuffle to the hospital, and she spent time in between phone calls listening to her favorites.

She also used the Shuffle over the next few months. In late February, she read her last book, did her last Word Search, and balanced her checkbook. Then she had a stroke. As all her children and her wonderful Hospice nurse watched over her, she slipped into unconsciousness. I placed the Shuffle on her ear as she slept.

Mom passed away early morning on March 2, 2011. My three siblings and I worked quickly to clear the apartment, knowing we would be responsible for the full month’s rent if we weren’t out by March 5th.

I remember taking home the Shuffle, but a week later, it was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere with no luck. It was gone. It was just “stuff,”, but somehow that little device was important to me. I grieved for its loss.

Fast forward to Late May, 2015. Larry and I had made the decision to move to Florida, and we were packing up the house. I was cleaning out the three drawer oak chest that was in our foyer. When finished, I pulled it out from the wall to make sure I didn’t miss anything behind it. Stuck in one of the slats was what looked like a Bic cigarette lighter. “How did that get there?” I thought.

It was Mom’s Shuffle. Obviously, I had brought it home, placed it on the top of the dresser, and it had slipped off and “adhered” itself to the back of the oak chest. 

I charged it up and VOILA! Frankie crooned in my ear. 

June 1st will make ten years since we made our move. I still have Mom’s Shuffle. It has been replaced for the most part with my iPhone and my Alexa. But there are days when I miss my mom and want to feel close to her. So I pull it out of my electronics box, charge it up, stick it in my ear, and sing along with Frank. “I’ve got you under my skin,” he croons.” You make me feel so young!” And of course, “I did it myyyyy way!” “I shed some tears, think of Francis Albert Sinatra and Frances Evelyn Cohen, and I feel my mother’s love all over again. 

Mom and I at Coburg Village on a beautiful fall day.
My mom, in the 1930’s. No, she wasn’t a “Bobby Socker!”
Mom and Ol' Blue Eyes

Running for Katie Revisited

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Katie Lynch, who would have been 47 on January 16, 2025,  tragically succumbed to cancer in 2008. The following article  was originally published in 2017. I am reposting it  to update the story and to let my readers know of Judy and Charlie’s most recent fundraising efforts ancon behalf of their beloved daughter. 

My husband Larry and I  met Judy and Charlie Lynch and their two girls in 1984. It was the first day of Clifton Park’s tee ball practice, and our two six-year-olds were assigned to the same team.  The parents and our two three-year-olds got to know each other while watching the games. Our son Adam spent most of his time in the outfield picking dandelions. Katie’s beautiful red hair couldn’t be contained under the maroon baseball caps all the pint-sized players wore.

In 1987, our families connected again at the Knolls Gang, a locally-run summer swim team. On the first day of practice, our daughter Julie brought over  “my new friend, Julia” to meet us. The two older siblings remembered each other from tee-ball. The four adults spent the next several years sharing conversation and stopwatch duties at the meets.

Larry and I left swim meets behind when Adam and Julie got involved in running. Charlie and Judy continued to breathe chlorine at various Capital District pools as their two girls continued competitive swimming. Our four children shared classrooms and proms and family get-togethers.

Meanwhile, as the years passed, Judy and Charlie became two of our dearest friends. We frequently met for dinner or a movie, a concert at Saratoga Performing Arts Center,  or a leisurely tour of the Clark Museum in Williamstown, Massachusetts.

Katie was co-valedictorian of the Shenenehowa graduating class of 1996. She went to Drew University on scholarship, where she was the captain of her swim team. In 2000, she graduated with honors, got a job with Ernst Young in New Jersey, and eventually met a wonderful man. Friends and family waited expectantly for an email announcing their engagement.

In  September 2008, Judy sent out a completely different e-mail with devastating news.  “Katie is sick” read the subject line. Katie had been  diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia (AML), one of the deadliest forms of blood diseases. Because of her general health and young age, she had at best a 50/50 chance of recovery, and an aggressive medical approach was needed— immediately.

Katie, always one to accept a challenge,  determinedly underwent everything the doctors threw at her: chemotherapy, numerous hospitalizations, painful side effects and biopsies, and countless blood tests, and transfusions.

While Katie was undergoing treatment, friends and family reached out to ask how they could help. Judy, a runner, had heard about Team in Training (TNT) through her many years of running, the  flagship fundraising program for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS). LLS is the world’s largest voluntary health organization dedicated to funding blood cancer research, education and patient services. TNT volunteers, many themselves survivors,  train to complete a marathon, half marathon, cycle event, triathlon or hike adventure, while fundraising to support the fight against blood cancers.

In 2009, Judy signed up with TNT  to raise money by her participation in the New Jersey Half Marathon. Katie had gone into remission, and Judy regarded the race as a victory lap, with Katie and her now-fiancé meeting Judy at the finish line. Friends and family, including Larry and I, donated money to LLS in Katie’s honor.

Katie would not watch her mother complete the race. The cancer reoccurred, and she was in the hospital preparing for a stem cell transplant. Judy’s fundraising became her fight for her daughter’s life. She raised over $12,500.

Tragically, Katie’s positive attitude, her strong will to live, and the undergoing of every conceivable treatment were not enough. Less than fourteen months after her diagnosis, the Lynch’s beautiful, sweet, intelligent daughter died on October 26, 2009. She was 31.

Before and during Katie’s illness, running had been Judy’s therapy, her go-to for coping and figuring things out. After Katie’s death, it was her bridge into life without her daughter, a way to move forward and memorialize Katie. She would tell the world about Katie at the marathon, wearing a shirt with her picture, her dates, and messages to fight leukemia, donate blood, and join the bone marrow registry. Immediately after the memorial service, Judy signed up for the 2010 Boston Marathon. A torn hamstring delayed that goal, but she found other races—in Atlanta, in the Capital District, and in 2011, her first Boston Marathon.

Judy felt the need for something positive to result from Katie’s tragic death.  She made a personal commitment to do one event a year for TNT, raising as much money as she possibly could each time.

With Katie as her inspiration, Judy accepted challenges she never would have considered. Along with running races ranging from 6.1 miles to 26.2 miles, she expanded her fundraising efforts to include triathlons,bike rides, and even hikes in Rocky Mountain National Park and the Grand Canyon.

Charlie has been Judy’s number one supporter, joining her on her most recent fundraiser, a hike in the Grand Canyon, or cheering from the sidelines.  Together, the Lynches have raised the amazing  total of nearly two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for blood cancer research. This year, Judy will  take part of the America’s Most Beautiful Bike Ride on with Team in Training  on June 1 to raise more crucial funds for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s (LLS) ground-breaking research and patient support. 

“I run not only for Katie,” said Judy, “but also for the fighters, the survivors, those not yet diagnosed, and especially for those whose lives were cut short way, way too soon.”

On January 16, 2025, Katie would have turned 47. Through their tzedakah—their charity and giving, Judy and Charlie have kept Katie’s memory alive not only in their hearts but also in the hearts of their many supporters.

I often think of Katie’s determination, courage, and grace under terrible circumstances. And I deeply respect and admire my dear friends for their incredible fundraising efforts they have undertaken in memory of their daughter. Their hope is that other families can be spared the devastation of losing a child or loved one.

For more information or to donate to Judy Lynch’s cause and TeaminTraining, please  click here. 

Judy at Boston Marathon

Celebrating Christmas vicariously

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I love Christmas. I love looking at all the lights on people’s homes and all the twinkling trees inside. I love holiday cookies. And I love how some people fill every inch of their house with Christmas decorations. That being said, I am very happy to celebrate the season vicariously.

With a name like Marilyn Cohen Shapiro, you probably have realized that I have never actually celebrated Christmas. Growing up as the only Jewish family in a tiny upstate New York town, we never had a Christmas tree or strung red and green lights across our eaves. Once I married Larry under a chuppah in 1974, I continued our own Jewish traditions in December: lighting the menorah, making potato latkes, giving gifts to each other and to our children over the eight days. And never once in my life have I had the urge to celebrate the secular elements of the Christians’ beautiful religious holiday. In honor of Hanukkah, here are my eight reasons why. 

  1. I cannot untangle the wires on my earbuds. How would I ever manage to take yards and yards of Christmas lights out of storage and unwind them to put on a tree?
  2. In 1996, Larry climbed up on a ladder to shovel snow off the roof. He slipped and fell, shattering his heel. That was the end of his running life. It was also the end of Larry ever climbing up on the roof. The idea of stringing all those lights onto the eaves is frightening prospect!
  3. I look terrible in red and green. While all my Christian friends “don their gay apparel” from Thanksgiving to January 1, I am content to pull out my Israeli blue sweater, tuck my dreidel earrings into my lobes, and enjoy the holiday season with colors that compliment my blue eyes.
  4. Remember I said I love to EAT holiday cookies? That doesn’t mean that I want to BAKE them. I have never done well making sugar cookies, which requires mixing the dough, rolling it out, and then cutting them into cute little shapes. I either made them too thin (i.e. burnt) or too thick (underdone).. And forget about decorating them with tubes of frosting. I can’t DRAW a straight line! How am I to master all those borders and curlicues? 
  5. Speaking of cookies, I gave up on cookie swaps years ago. I don’t need to start baking thirty kinds of cookies in October so I could share with friends whose cookies always looked prettier and tasted better than mine. I will stick to my yearlong custom of baking what are known as “Marilyn’s World Famous Chocolate Chip Cookies” and not share a single one. 
  6. I have friends that have bins and bins of Christmas decorations stored in their attic, garage, or expensive storage units. Every inch of their house becomes a winter wonderland. They have multiple trees, dozens of nutcrackers, Christmas towels, napkins, and even toilet paper. My friend Bonnie, who loves to decorate for every holiday,  even has a twinkling alligator holding a candy cane and sporting a Santa hat! While I love walking through their homes, I am so glad I am not responsible for putting out all the tchotchkes and then packing them up for storage in January. My single decoration—an electric menorah that sits in my window throughout the eight days of Hanukkah is just fine, thank you very much!
  7. As my readers know, I love Hallmark Christmas movies. I get to see everything I have written about above in various permutations of the standard rom-com: The setting: an idyllic small town in United States where everyone, no matter what their occupation, has thousands and thousands of dollars to spend on Christmas decorations. The Plot: either boy meets girl or or two high school sweethearts reconnect; boy and girl dance around a relationship (Think “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid;); 20 minutes before the end of the movie, boy and girl face a conflict; 20 seconds before the credits roll, boy and girl kiss as snow flakes gently fall on their perfect locks as Christmas music plays softly in the background. Perfect people. Perfect families. Perfect smiles.Why face the reality of a real family when you can kvell for a perfect one?
  8. And speaking about Christmas music, I only learned recently many of the most popular holiday tunes were written by Jews. The most famous is White Christmas by Irving Berlin [born Israel Beilin]. Here is just a sampling of my other favorites: “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” by Mel Torme [born Melvin Howard Torme]; “The Christmas Waltz” by Sammy Kahn [born Cohen] and Jule Styne; “Santa Baby” by Joan Javits and Phil Springer; “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” by Kim Gannon and Walter Kent [born Kaufman]; “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” by George Wyle [born Bernard Weissman] and Eddie Pola [born Sidney Edward Pollacsek]. Even “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” got his shiny nose from two Jews from New York City’s suburbs. Johnny Marx, who also went on to write “Rocking Round the Christmas Tree” and Burl Ives’ classic “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas,” never—like me—actually celebrated the holiday. Marks’ co-writer Robert Louis May allegedly shared with multiple sources that the lyrics actually represented the ostracism May felt growing up as a Jew with a large nose. Hey, what better way for Jews to live vicariously through Christmas by realizing those songs you are hearing everywhere were written by members of The Tribe!

So, as Larry and I walk through the neighborhood during this surprisingly cold December in Florida, I will rejoice in the shining lights and lovely music and delicious smells of Christmas emanating from my Christian friends’ homes. Then we will go home, light our hanukkiah and enjoy some hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookies as the candles flicker and burn, content in knowing that, for the Shapiros, that is enough. Dayanu.

Source: Albert, Maddy. “11 Iconic Christmas Songs That Were Written By Jews.” Kveller. December 22, 2020.

Bonnie’s wonderful decorations.
My preferred way to celebrate! I look good in blue!

Where did the last fifty years go?

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Come my love and we will wander, just to see what we can find. If we only find each other, still the journey is worth the time. 

Along with school opening and all that is happening in the world, September is a memorable month for Larry and me. 

 Fifty years ago on September 8, 2024, Larry and I got married in Upstate New York. For those who have been reading my column for a while, you may remember many of the stories. We met at a Purim (not porn as some people misheard!) party held by the Jewish singles club in Albany New York. It was love at first sight, and we got engaged six months later. Our wedding was held on a relatively hot September afternoon, the week after Labor Day to accommodate Larry’s parents’ store’s school opening weekend and at two p.m. to accommodate Hebrew school hours. Despite the fact that the rabbi barely knew us, he gave a very long talk, of which we remember nothing. The reception was provided by the Sisterhood, who served chicken, peas (Larry hates peas!), and un-Kosher wine provided by my mother whose label was covered with aluminum foil. The band forgot the words to our first dance (“He Touched Me,” by Barbra Streisand. On reflection, it was a dumb choice. If we got married today, Larry and I would choose “Moon River.”) My father got a little tipsy (totally out of character) and thanked Keeseville National Bank for the loan that paid for the wedding. 

If the wedding and reception was not perfect, our honeymoon was a disaster. Twelve hours into our stay in Quebec City, Larry woke up in agonizing pain from what was later diagnosed as a kidney stone. The next morning, I drove Larry to a hospital and drove myself to a $9 a night rooming house across the street. Three days later, newly relieved of his stone through surgery, Larry sat in the passenger seat while I started the drive back to my parent’s home on Lake Champlain. Mistaking the Canadian kilometer per hour speed limit for the United States miles per hour speed limit, I hit 90. Larry told me to pull over, and he would drive. When we arrived three days early at my parents’ cottage on Lake Champlain, they initially thought the marriage had already tanked. (Fifty years later, despite the fact that I am an excellent driver, I still defer to Larry to drive when we are in the car together.)

Thus began the “getting to know you” stage of our marriage. In that first year, a co-worker of Larry’s noticed that my usually slow-to-anger husband was banging drawers and mumbling expletives under his breath. “What IS your problem?” Helen asked. “Never get married!” Larry shouted. “She leaves her shoes in the middle of the room,” he steamed. “When I got up to go to the bathroom, I tripped over them.”

A half a century later, we have learned to accept each other’s quirks. Larry is a terrible backseat driver; I leave cabinet doors open, lights on, and discarded shoes all over the house. Larry is quiet and private; I am talkative and too forthcoming. Larry thinks often in mathematics and statistics; I am more focused on the written word. Case in point: Larry thought our 49th anniversary was more exciting because 49 has a square route; I had to use this column to share an essay on our fiftieth. In the glow that surrounded our memorable anniversary, I could come up a handful of things about Larry that bother me. Larry came up with fewer. 

When my parents celebrated their fiftieth anniversary, we had a huge party at our home in Clifton Park. The four children and their spouses had chipped in to give Mom and Dad their first ever and only cruise. I will never forget the joy and amazement when they opened up the envelope with the voucher.

Of course, we all thought they were old. As a matter of fact, I had commented earlier that summer that it was a ridiculous that a couple were getting divorced after 35 years of marriage. Why bother starting over at that late stage?

Now, we are the ones celebrating a milestone anniversary. The past fifty years have flown by in a flash, a blur, a nano-second. We have a lifetime of memories and experiences and ups and downs and ins and outs. We have enjoyed working in career fields we loved, raising two children, watching them grow, spread their wings, and fly onto new adventures; sharing friendships; and sharing close family ties only enhanced most recently by mishpachah (extended family) and three grandchildren.

Despite the speed the last half century has sped by, I will not trade one moment of our lives together for anything else. Larry is my best friend, my soul mate, my companion, the wonderful father of my children and the amazing Zayde of our grandchildren. For his 75th birthday, I wrote a list of the same number of things I love about him. In the past year, I’ve added several more. 

How will we celebrate? Our children gave us a weekend at a beautiful bed and breakfast. Later this fall, we will be taking a trip to Italy.. But most importantly, I will never ever lose sight of the fact that marrying my Larry was the best decision I ever made. And thankfully, he feels the same way about marrying me.

Celebrating our Fiftieth in Winter Park, FL

I would do it all over again: Dealing with Aging Parents

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My parents would have celebrated their 82nd anniversary on August 20. In honor of their memory, I am publishing this article which was first published in The Jewish World on January 15, 2015.

When my parents moved up from Florida to Coburg Village in 2005, we knew they were settling into a place that offered them independence and the kind of life they wanted to lead. As it was only four miles from our home, Larry and I, as well as my siblings, had peace of mind knowing we were close enough to be there when they needed us and to watch over their physical and emotional health. At times, however, providing that oversight was not easy.

Every Sunday, Larry and I had a standing date with my parents to go out to eat at a local restaurant. Mom’s favorite choice was a Chinese buffet as she loved spareribs and anything fried. Dad said he preferred Italian, although his choices in those restaurants were sometimes more McDonalds than mangiare bene. He once insisted on our driving to an Italian restaurant in Schenectady in the dead of winter and proceeded to order minestrone soup and chicken nuggets.

One week, on the advice of friends, we decided to take them to Verdile’s, a landmark Italian restaurant in Troy. As was the custom, Larry and I picked them up in the front of their building. I helped my father get into the front passenger seat, helped my mother get into the back seat behind Dad, and took my place behind Larry. Larry put the car in gear and headed to our destination. Around two miles down the road, my father said, “Oh, damn! I forgot my teeth!”

“We’ll turn around and get them,” offered Larry.
“That’s okay,” said Dad. “I can just gum my food.”
Larry ignored him and turned the car around.
When we got back to Coburg, I took my parents’ keys, went through he foyer, ran up the stairs to their second-floor apartment, unlocked the door, grabbed a set of dentures out of a bowl in the bathroom, wrapped them in a paper towel, relocked the door, and headed back to the car.

“Thanks, Marilyn,” said Dad, as he started putting them into his mouth. A second later, he yelled, “Hey! These aren’t my teeth!”

“Oh, they must be mine!” Mom chimed in from the back seat. “I forgot them, too! Hand them back, Bill!”

As Mom was getting her bridge into her mouth, I went back to the apartment, found the second bowl with Dad’s teeth on the bathroom vanity, and ran back to the car. Now that all the dentures were in place, we were ready to complete our trip to Verdile’s.

All was fairly quiet for a couple of miles. “I read an interesting article in Consumer Reports this week about one of my prescription medicines,” Dad piped up. “You know how I am always having to run to the bathroom? Well, that’s one of the side effects of one of the damn pills I have to take.”

“You have congestive heart failure, Dad,” I said. “Your doctor put you on diuretics to prevent fluid from building up in your lungs. You’ve landed in the Ellis Hospital emergency room three times since you moved here when you failed to take them.”

“Well, the heck with all these doctors!” said Dad. “I am tired of constantly having to pee. I’ve decided to stop taking them. Haven’t swallowed any of those suckers for four days!”

I immediately conjured up in my mind another ambulance ride for Dad and another lost day of work for me. Meanwhile, I thought Larry was going to drive off the road.

Mom patted my hand and whispered to me, “I’ll take care of this, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” By the time we got to the restaurant, all four of us were on edge, hungry, and ready for a good dinner. Fortunately, Verdile’s lived up to its reputation. Our pasta-based meals were delicious, and the staff was friendly, kind and accommodating. Judging from the demographics of the people sitting around the room, the staff in the restaurant was obviously used to serving senior citizens.

As our waiter cleared the table before he brought coffee, my mother popped out her bridge and wrapped it in a napkin. Although I was used to this in our own homes, I was a little grossed out that she was doing it in public. I also worried she’d lose the bridge—an expensive proposition.

I started to stammer an explanation and warning to the waiter. “Err…please don’t take the napkin. My mother’s teeth are in it.”

He broke out in a big smile. “Don’t worry! We’re used to that here. Can’t tell you how many times we’ve had to do a dumpster dive for a set of false teeth or a hearing aid!”

We drank our coffee, paid the bill, and drove my parents back to Coburg Village. The next day, I called my mother, and she assured me that Dad was back on his water pills.

“Thanks for dinner, Marilyn,” Mom said. “Dad and I really enjoyed our afternoon with the two of you. We’ll have to come up with another fun place to eat next Sunday.”

“Sure, Mom,” I said aloud. “Let’s do that!” In my mind, however, I was thinking, ‘Let’s just make it less exciting.’

The four of us enjoyed many more Sunday outings until my father’s passing in November 2008. Larry and I kept up the tradition with my mother until her death in March 2011. To this day, despite the misplaced teeth, the medical revelations, and the not-so-healthy Chinese buffets, we fondly remember those Sunday dinners we shared with Mom and Dad.

Bubbe Butt Paste and Other Love Stories

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Soon after my daughter Julie and my son-in-law Sam told us they were expecting our first grandchild, my husband Larry and I discussed what grandparent name by which we each hoped to be called. 

Larry determined quickly that he would be called Zayde, Yiddish for grandfather. It was a family tradition, he stated. His father’s father was Zayde Max, and his own father was Zayde Ernie to his seven grandchildren. 

Choosing my name didn’t come as easily. My friend Lynn, whose granddaughter lived in Israel, suggested the Hebrew moniker Saftah, but I didn’t think that would work for our future grandchild, who would be living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado at 9100 feet above sea level. The paternal grandmother, who had a four-year-old granddaughter, already had dibs on Nana. Additional members of the Grandmother Club told me about their sometimes unusual titles: MeeMaw, GG, G-Ma, CiCi, NayNay, Gemmy, and even (Graham) Cracker. Although Bubbe went well with Zayde, I dismissed it as too old fashioned. I pondered the numerous options over the next few months. 

Larry and I were in Colorado the day Julie went into labor. While waiting for the Big Moment, we took a hike up to Rainbow Lake, a lovely spot a mile up the mountain near Julie and Sam’s home. On the trail, we ran into another couple who, noticing Larry’s Syracuse University hat, told us they were also from Central New York State. After chatting with them about the Orangemen’s basketball team and the amount of snow that fell the past winter, Larry and I told them about our grandchild’s imminent birth. They congratulated us, stating how much they themselves enjoyed being grandparents. 

“What do they call you?” I asked the woman, whose name was— ironically—Julie. 

“Grandma,” she said. “I waited a long time for grandchildren, and I am proud to go by the standard name.” 

That sealed it for me. Meeting a Julie from Syracuse on a hike the day my grandchild was born was b’shert—meant to be. I would stick with the classic “Grandma.” 

Larry and I were introduced to our granddaughter an hour after she was born. When I held her in my arms in the hospital room, I was in heaven. I was finally a grandma! I enjoyed every moment of that summer and the three visits over the next year. 

By the time we returned to a rented condo for another Rocky Mountain summer just before her first birthday, our granddaughter was talking. We secretly hoped that, along with her rapidly expanding vocabulary— Dada, Mama, dog, bear, boo (blueberries), yesh, and dough (no)—she would learn and say our names before we went back to Florida. 

Happily, over the next six weeks, we spent many hours with her, not only with her parents but also without them as exceptionally willing babysitters. As she sat in her high chair eating her meals and snacks, I determinedly coached her. 

“Dog,” I said, pointing to Neva, who was waiting patiently with her tail thumping for the next dropped morsel. “Grandma!” I said, pointing to my chest. My granddaughter would smile and laugh and offer me her smashed banana or mushed piece of challah. Nothing in her babbling, however, even came close to “Grandma.” 

Four days before we were to return to Florida, Larry and our granddaughter were playing on the floor with her blocks. “Zayde!” she suddenly stated emphatically. Larry’s face lit up like the Syracuse University scoreboard. She said it again—and again. From that moment, Zayde became her favorite word. She called out “Zayde!” the minute Larry walked into the room, and she yelled it out if he disappeared behind a closed door. Talk about melting a grandfather’s heart! 

As happy as I was for Zayde Larry, I was a little—well—make that extremely jealous. My efforts to hear Grandma—any version— intensified. “Grandma!” I said every chance I got. As the hour of our departure got closer, I became desperate and switched tactics. “Bubbe,” I tried, deciding an old sounding name was better than no name at all. 

The morning before we were to fly back to Florida, I babysat my granddaughter while Julie and Sam were at work and Larry was returning the rental car. After her morning nap, I lay my granddaughter on the dressing table to change her diaper. She looked into my eyes and clearly said, “Bubbe!” “Yes! Bubbe!” I cried. My granddaughter had spoken, and I was going to be Bubbe! I was over the moon! I immediately shared the news with Larry. Our granddaughter said the magic word again after lunch and after her afternoon nap. When Sam returned home from work that evening, this 

Bubbe was bursting with joy.
“And she repeated this every time you changed her diaper?” Sam asked somewhat hesitantly.
“Every time!” I said. “She clearly said Bubbe!”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Marilyn,” Sam said. “But she wasn’t actually calling you Bubbe. It’s her word for butt paste. She has had some diaper rash this past week, and—well—she likes to hold the closed tube after we finish applying it.” 

“Butt Paste!” Larry chortled. “She is calling you Butt Paste.” 

The day after we returned to Florida, our Colorado family FaceTimed with us. The minute our granddaughter saw our faces on the computer screen, she yelled out, “Zayde!” 

“And look who is with me!” said Larry. “It’s Bubbe Butt Paste!” 

Sigh! 

It took another two months to realize that our now sixteen month old granddaughter  could not say the “gr” sound. “How about you call me ‘Gammy?’” I asked her.  She smiled broadly and said  “‘Gammy!’”

Six years and more grandchildren later, I am now a confirmed Gammy. But I will be happy to receive their smiles, their laughs, their hugs, and their unconditional love—no matter what I am called.

First published in The Jewish World, September 1, 2016