It’s Thursday
night, and I’m setting the table for Shabbos. As I spread the snowy white
tablecloth onto the table, I feel something crunchy beneath my feet. I peer
down and spot a lone Cheerio laying peacefully on the rug. I smile as I pick it
up then start to unfurl the plastic table covering. Oops, there’s something
else underfoot. This time, it’s a piece of pretzel coating from the schnitzel
we had for dinner the night before. And look, I see a piece of construction
paper over there.
Our son and
daughter-in-law and our wonderful grandchildren came for a whirlwind trip to
visit us. What fun we all had. They trooped into our house one fine evening,
tired and hungry, with big grins on all their faces as they ran into our
waiting arms. It was delightful watching them explore their new surroundings
and asking a thousand questions all the while. After a filling dinner, it was
time to surprise our son with a birthday cake and ice cream, complete with
noisemakers for everyone, which made our house sound like a flock of geese
flying south for the winter.
There was laughter
and noise and just plain happiness. Thrift- and dollar-store toys were handed
out amid our grandchildren’s delightful squeals and watchful eyes as they spied
trinkets around the house that happily ended up into their eager hands. There
were chachkes to be found, like a
wooden box to hold precious treasures, and one granddaughter became the happy
owner of some cozy slipper socks for just-bathed little feet. The birthday “boy,”
our oldest son, was curled up on the couch with a book he had found. He looked
just like he used to look over 25 years ago, completely absorbed in the story
but with his adult eyes and ears now tuned in to the whereabouts of his
rambunctious one- and three-year-old children. Exactly the same and yet so
different.
Our daughter-in-law
was quietly caring for her children. Bathing, changing, feeding – it was all the
same to our grandchildren but more exciting in Bubby and Zaidy’s house. “Tell
me the time that Tatty…” one grandchild said. “Come snuggle with me under the
blanket,” piped another one. “Can I have this seashell?” one grandchild asked
with a gleam in his eye. And on and on it went for two glorious days.
We decided to take
a day trip. I remembered when our own children were young and the long process of
getting ready for such an excursion – the “What time are we leaving?” questions
that were woven between making cream cheese sandwiches, changing diapers, and changing
clothing because one of the children just happened to find some water and now
all of them were wet from head to toe.
This time, I was
no longer sitting in the driver’s seat but was a passenger instead. Oh, I
wasn’t sitting around and watching. No, I was schmoozing with this grandchild
or that one while making macaroni and cheese to feed the children between
breakfast and lunch so they wouldn’t be hungry by the time we got to the
museum. I was busy oohing and aahing over handcrafted art projects created by
loving little hands while laminating them to store in my giant notebook, which was
already crammed with projects from our other grandchildren. I put an endless number
of towels into the wash and stripped the bed linens. Dishes were washed, and numerous
scraps of paper and other odds and ends were thrown out again and again.
But I wasn’t in
charge. It wasn’t up to me to pack the suitcases. I didn’t need to decide when
we should leave and how much time we should spend at the museum, so we could
get home at a decent hour. I was the giver and the helper. I was engaged, yet I
was an observer. What a lovely space to occupy. The smiles and the hugs and the
question of “When are you coming to our house?” were indescribable. We took
pictures to add to our visual memory boxes of treasures. In my mind’s eye, I
kept flashing back to the visits to my own grandmother and how much alike I was
as a little girl to these grandchildren who had come into my home and captured
my heart.
Everyone is gone
now, en route to their own house. My house is quiet, and everything is back in
order. Beds are made, chairs are put away, dishes and laundry are done. And as
my foot crunches on yet another grain of something unknown – or when I see the
magazine basket turned upside down or find some cellophane wrapping left over
from a new pair of little scissors – my eyes light up as my laugh lines become
more pronounced. I wouldn’t trade any of this for all the tea in China. The
echoes of little voices calling for Bubby and Zaidy are more precious to me
than ever; they are frozen in time like the photographs taken today, which will
soon hang on my wall. I just hope and pray that Hashem continues to bring us
this nachas, rich and sweet.
Zahava Hochberg
created the weekly column Musings Through a Bifocal Lens for the Monsey Mevaser
newspaper. She also created a new section for the paper called
The Silver Slant.
Zahava can be reached at zahava.hochberg17@gmail.com.
