Matzo Balls, the San Diego Chicken & Bon Jovi: Memories of Grandma Rae

Rachel Epstein, my beloved grandmother, passed away Monday afternoon at the assisted-living facility in the Bronx where she'd lived for several years. While my family and I are all profoundly saddened by Grandma Rae's passing, it came as more of a blessing than a tragedy: She slipped away painlessly and peacefully in the comfort of her own apartment, knowing how much she was loved by the people in her life. She made it to 100 — and she may have been older than that — without any debilitating medical issues, and was very much her feisty self up 'til the end, and we are truly grateful for all of that.

Tiny, round, and cute as a button, my Grandma Rae had the most amazing smile — you can kind of see it in the photo above — where her entire face seemed to be grinning; it was almost a Buddha-like image of contentment. I saw this smile most often when she was feeding us; she was very much the classic Jewish grandmother, never happier than when she was surrounded by her family at the dinner table. And good lord, this woman could seriously throw down in the "Jewish Soul Food" department — the best matzo ball soup and latkes I've ever had (and believe me, I've had plenty), stuffed cabbage to die for, chopped liver, roast beef, brisket, etc., all whipped up in a kitchen so tiny it could barely fit two people. Even during her later years, when she found cooking more difficult (and when her health required her to go easy on the red meat and chicken fat), she would lay out even the smallest spread with such love that it felt like a feast. "It's made with my special ingredient," she would say whenever I complimented her on a dish. "T.L.C.!"

(Clearly her cooking made an early impression upon me. One of her favorite stories to tell was of the time she and my grandfather found me sitting on the walk outside my house — I was 4 or 5 at the time — putting pebbles down the barrel of my cap pistol. "What are you doing, Dan?" they asked. "I'm loading my gun with kasha varnishkes," I matter-of-factly replied.)

But for all the sweetness and love she radiated, Grandma Rae was no pushover. She had an inner toughness that was forged over the course of a very difficult life, one that began in a village near the Polish city of Łódź. Times were hard for her family, and her father and uncle left to find work in America when she was still a little girl. (That's her in the center of the above family photo.) After a couple of years, her dad amassed enough savings to send for the rest of the family, and Rae, her mother, sister and brother endured the long voyage over the Atlantic that so many other immigrants of the era took. But when they arrived at Ellis Island, her father was nowhere to be seen. Their uncle was there in his stead, and with a few whispered words, he communicated that they should pretend he was their father; my grandma's real father had died of influenza while their journey was taking place, and her uncle was justifiably afraid that the immigration officials might put them on the next boat back to the Ukraine, once they discovered that the head of the family was no longer alive to support them. I can only imagine the soul-crushing pain and trauma of that moment; but somehow, Rae and her family found the inner strength to push forward and begin a new life for themselves in their adopted country.

Rae's family initially settled on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, later moving to the Brownsville section of Brooklyn — both of which were rather rough enclaves of European Jews at the time. Brownsville, in fact, was the birthplace of the notorious Murder Incorporated syndicate; Rae's older sister Goldie even married a bootlegger named Abe Wagner, who was whacked in 1932 by gunmen employed by Murder, Inc. honchos Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Seigel. Rae didn't share her sister's taste for bad boys — her husband, my Grandpa Joe, was a diamond-setter — but there was always a tinge of classic NYC toughness to the way she talked. Irwin, my father, was always "Oi-win"; Deepak Chopra, who she'd seen on talk shows and found interesting, became "Deepa Copa" in her parlance. ("Are you talking about Deepak Chopra?" my Aunt Carole once asked her. "Yeah," she replied, somewhat impatiently. "Deepa Copa!") "Hello, Doll," she would say to me every time I saw her. "You look beautiful. Just bee-YOO-tea-ful."

Grandma Rae was a masterful story-teller (a gift we didn't even realize she had until after my grandfather died in 1982, thus leaving her to take on the role of dinner-table raconteur), a veritable shark at mahjong, and a big baseball fan. Maybe it's because I would typically see her during the summer, but I realize now that a large percentage of my memories of her have to do with baseball. When the Mets won the World Series in 1969, she and my grandfather sent me a full child-sized Mets uniform. They retired to San Diego for most of the 1970s, and they took my sister and I to several Padres games — though Grandma once took me aside beforehand to warn me that the experience of watching the hapless Padres might be a difficult one for my temperamental Grandpa Joe. "The Padres players pull such boners," she shrugged, "and your grandfather, he gets so upset." (Of course, my mental image of Padres players "pulling boners" was not the same thing she had in mind, but I kept it to myself.) I was also with her the one time I met the Padres' legendary San Diego Chicken mascot, who was shaking hands and handing out autographed postcards of himself at the park near my grandparents' apartment. I was a little nervous and shy about interacting with such a major celebrity, but Grandma Rae urged me on. "Go on, Dan," she said. "Shake hands with the Chicken." I sure wish I could find that postcard now...

Rae and Joe returned to the East Coast in 1979, settling in a cozy one-bedroom apartment in Freeport, Long Island. My sister and I spent a few weeks there with them in August of that year, and went with them on a local community center field trip to a Mets game at Shea Stadium. We saw Dock Ellis pitch that day, which was memorable in itself, but the other thing I remember most about that outing was a little Dennis the Menace-looking kid about my age — the grandson of one of the other attendees — who spent the entire trek up to our second-deck seats telling me about how he was gonna grab any ball that was hit to our section. "I'd hate to have to take a foul ball away from you, kid," he muttered, "but I will!" It was the weirdest thing, like he was an opposing player trying to psych me out. "Whatever, kid," I muttered back, but I was bugged — and I was even more bugged when a ball came flying towards us, bounced off the stairs, and the little fucker jumped up and snagged it on the hop in one fluid motion. Much fuss was made over the kid's catch, both at the game and on the bus ride home. "Your little grandson was the hero of the game," I heard some lady gush from the back of the bus, while I fumed silently in my seat. Grandma Rae, who was sitting next to me, patted my hand and whispered conspiratorially in my ear: "Biiiiig deal," she chuckled, and all was right in my world again.

One of Grandma Rae's amusing idiosyncracies was that, if you came in from the city for the day to have lunch or dinner with her, she'd ask you about your return train almost as soon as you finished eating. It wasn't that she didn't love the company, but the message was always clear: "Thank you for coming to see me, now go on and live your life." Of course, if there was a Yankees game on TV, you might be able to hang out in her apartment for a little while longer and watch a few innings with her. Though she'd lived much of her life in Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Mets territory, Grandma Rae became a born-again Yankees fan in the '80s, a conversion at least partly inspired by her crush on Lou Piniella. Looking back on it now, I think she had kind of a "thing" for Italian guys; I seem to remember her being pretty into Lee Mazzilli as well, and she briefly defected from the Yankees to the Mets when Mike Piazza set up shop at Shea Stadium. "I like the Yankees," I remember her telling me over the phone, "but I love that Piazza!"

Grandma Rae also had something of a fixation on Jon Bon Jovi, which began in 2002 when I was producing an episode on the making of Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet for VH1's short-lived "Ultimate Albums" series. I had come out east several times to interview members of the band, their former colleagues, etc.; Grandma never entirely understood what it was that I did for a living — "Well, as long as you're happy," she would say — so I think she inferred from my visits that the band and I had some sort of close working relationship. From then on, every time I would see her or talk to her on the phone, she would always bring up Bon Jovi; and as her mind began to slip a bit, the Bon Jovi connection began to take on new dimensions — for instance, she would tell me that the residents of her assisted-living facility (all of whom had to be in their sixties or older) were taking a bus to see a Bon Jovi concert, and that if only she felt good enough to go along, she would be sure to say hi to Jon backstage and tell him that she was my grandmother.

Last week, my father — who was wonderfully, even heroically attentive to her, especially in her declining years — informed me that Grandma probably wasn't long for this world, and that I should give her a call as soon as possible. It was probably the hardest phone call I've ever had to make; what do you say when you know that someone you love dearly is dying, and this may well be the last time you ever speak to them? I decided that, if nothing else, I was going to tell her that I loved her, because ultimately that's all that really matters. But I was too preoccupied by this churning thought process to consider recording the call — which I deeply regret now, as it turned out to be probably the sweetest and most oddly profound three-minute conversation I've ever had...

Her voice sounded unusually gravelly, and for a few seconds there I was worried that she wouldn't be able to remember who I was. But something clicked in her brain and she was suddenly right there with me, asking me about my apartment in L.A., my girlfriend, my cat — and, of course, Bon Jovi. "You know, I was thinking a lot about when you used to manage Bon Jovi," she said. "And I was thinking... if I were to run into him and tell him that I was your grandmother, well, you know, it would probably be a very pleasant conversation."

"Yes," I said, laughing and crying at the same time. "I'm sure it would be."

"Do you ever talk to him anymore?" she asked.

"No, Grandma," I said. "Jon and I went our separate ways many years ago."

"Oh," she said. "Well, you know... things change."

They do indeed, Grandma, but my love for you will never change — it will always be there in my heart. Thank you for all the love, laughs, food, trinkets and wonderful memories. You were beautiful, just bee-YOO-tea-ful...

 

 

Comments

[Stu]

so sweet, Dan. Thanks for writing this.

[Samantha Bennett]

Well done, Dan. My prayers for you and the family -- Sam.

[Mick]

Beautiful, Dan. I'm sorry for your loss.

[Ken]

A wonderful and poignant story, your grandmother would be proud. She sounds like a great woman. My condolences on your loss...

[hipspinster]

just reading this now. it's lovely. i'm sorry for your loss; she sounds awesome. the ending left me all verklempt. xxn

[Mark Heggen]

Great, great piece, Dan. You capture her so vividly I feel as if I knew her (and I never got to meet her).

Hope you are doing alright during this difficult time.

[chris tanti]

Hi Dan
Oi-win referred me to your piece on your grandmother. its moving and clear that story telling runs in the family. a nice gift to pass on from one generation to the next!
Best
Chris

[Ann Marie Cunningham]

Dear Dan, I'm walking (formerly running) partner of your step mom Fran, as well as next door neighbor on West 96th Street. Fran referred me to your post. I never met your grandma, though I certainly heard a lot about her. Thanks to you, I feel as if I knew her. I will be in LA sometime this summer (some of my former interns are recording with Warner), and hope to take you out. My deepest sympathies, Ann Marie Cunningham

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