By the time I was in middle school we had seemed to settle permanently in the midwest and every summer for 2 glorious weeks I would go to New York to see my grandparents. It was equivalent to a Beatles reunion concert and my Bat Mitzvah rolled into one in that it was a personal and cultural juggernaut.
My grandfather would send a check and within a few weeks I was placed on a TWA flight from Milwaukee non-stop to La Guardia. (It wasn't until much later I realized it wasn't "La Gwahdia" but there was actually an 'r' in there.) Back then, flying was kind of a big deal and I would put on my white high- heeled sandals and some pink and green patterned skirt with a Gunny Sack blouse and off I would go. The airline attendant (back then we called them "stewardesses") would hand me a Coke and my kosher meal and my heart would soar like the plane with what was to come.
When I was 9 my grandfather had re-married the greatest woman in the entire world. Grandma Rita was a widow who had no grandchildren of her own. Except now me. She worked on 7th Avenue as a bookkeeper at a furrier. She smoked Pall Malls non-stop and wore blue eyeshadow up to her eyebrows. I adored her. My grandparents would meet me at the gate with huge smiles, hugs and the faint scent of bagels. We'd all pile into the Chrysler New Yorker and head home.
Their apartment was on the 8th floor of a non-descript post-war high rise in Queens on Parsons Blvd. I had a great view of Lower Manhattan (and the Twin Towers) from their balcony. The place was filled with all my favorite foods; bagels, lox, cream cheese, Breakstone's butter, Frosted Flakes and cookies from the bakery. To this day, if I see a white box with red and white string I have a very strong emotional reaction. There was unlimited amounts of Coke and iced coffee (when I got older) to go along with the unlimited amount of affection and attention. It was Heaven.
Sometimes we would take the subway into the City but for the most part we spent the days at "the Club" which was a pool club smack in the middle of Flushing. Club membership consisted of grandmothers playing mahjong in skirted bathing suits and grandfathers sleeping in lounge chairs. There was a small snack bar with hamburgers and italian ices. Ashtrays were coffee cans filled with sand and they were scattered everywhere. They were filled with bright white cigarette butts shining in the sun stained with red lipstick. We would arrive in the late morning and leave around dinner time. The club was also conveniently located next to a Chinese restaurant. (The city planners must have been Jewish.) At night, we'd go back to the apartment and watch t.v. My grandma would come in before she went to sleep in her house dress smelling like Pond's cold cream and kiss me goodnight. I would stay up for hours eating black and white cookies watching t.v. "DO YOU NEED A WAWTAH HEATAH? COME TO VINCELLI'S, YOUR WAWTAH HEATAH SUPERSTORE." I'd fall into a blissful sleep on the pull-out sofa bed. I'd never be so happy my entire childhood.
My yearly visits ended after I graduated high school-my Grandma Rita got colon cancer she and died the next summer. I went back a few times while in college and graduate school. By that time there was a newer model Chrysler New Yorker that I would drive up and down the Long Island Expressway. The membership at the club slowly dwindled as everyone either moved to Florida, died or both. My grandfather passed away 5 years after Grandma Rita. What happened in apartment 8H and the people who lived in it will always be my most treasured childhood memory. It was the only place and time where I experienced true unconditional love growing up. I think of my grandparents every single day and I miss them desperately. I miss New York bagels, too. Possibly even more.
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