they were so different, especially to me as a child. one couple so vibrant and colorful, fashionable, active. the other quiet, methodical, less mobile. as a child, i always found myself drawn to the colors, the action. i didn't see the merit of the others' ways. found them dry and dull, as if they could be in black and white and it wouldn't change a thing. i'd cry when left with them to babysit me. i couldn't understand their slow movements and soft words.
the first pair had their own way of doing things as well, but were more with the times. they would take me to rated R movies and cover my ears at the curse words. she walked the aisles of marshalls with my mom and looked for me countless times as i hid under the shirt racks to scare them. she let me try on her jewelry and make-up, and he worked in the empire state building until his retirement. people always liked them. they looked and acted younger than most people their age. they had about them a certain grace and charm. she never went to college, and often referred to herself as "a dummy" but she had a way with people, all people, that only a very special person could have. i remember one particular time, at a young age, i turned to her and said "you need to go on weight watchers" which, i don't even think was true, but i was learning about what not to say to people, and that was a pretty darn good example. she rose and held her arms out to her sides proudly and spun around for me, wiggling her body, and asked me "does this look like the body of someone who needs to lose weight?" and even though i knew i had hurt her feelings and i felt terrible because i realized my words hurt, we laughed together and i suppose i learned something that day, sitting on the linolium floor in my parents' kitchen. she never showed me anything but her smile, all the way to the end, even though i knew it was coming. and he sat by her side so many nights, and even all these years later still tears up when he talks about her, his love.
the other pair, i learned, probably could have been in black and white. but even though as a child i believed that was not a good thing, somewhere along the line, i learned about the simple charm that made them magical. he would sit there for hours peeling one orange or grapefruit. first until there was none of the white left on the flesh on outside of the fruit. then, he would divide it up into the pieces, and pick each one clean of its natural skin. he would then pile the sweet pieces in a bowl and my brother and i would devour them in minutes instead of stopping to enjoy how sweet and fresh, and totally skinless the fruit was. instead of becoming frustrated, he would start on another, patiently, calmly. i can still picture him sitting at the kitchen table peeling grapefruits. when i think of my parents' home, a ghost of an image always flashes through my mind and i can see those moments. they dated their canned goods stocked in their spare bedroom in their garden apartment, often called "the attic". when they'd come over, they'd bring a can of olives with the date they bought it on a tiny sticker on the top of the can, sometimes traced over two or three times to make it darker. i always stuck the olives on the ends of my fingers and wiggled them, thinking they looked like alien fingers. to this day, whenever i buy olives myself, i put them on my fingertips and reminisce for just a minute. he was a salesman at sears until the day he retired, and she used to be secretary or bookkeeper who never really learned to drive. in their younger days they always took classes together at the local college and learned about art or finance, or whatever they had interest in that year. they both had cancer. he lived with his for 17 years, maybe more, before he begged for the end. she lives with it, still... doesn't really realize she ever had it, i don't think, but i still find her brave and strong. i've always been told i favor her (besides the 7 inches i have on her... or as she'd say "i can eat applesauce off her head") and i hope i do. somewhere in me is the patience and slowness i learned from them. somewhere inside me i live in black and white.
when we all got together, all four would talk about us in yiddish. their kids understood a little, even though they couldn't speak it, and my brother and i didn't understand a word, even though one of them tried to teach it to us when we were little. i recently asked her if she could teach me how to say a sentence in it, but it seems time has taken that away from her. she still speaks it and jokes in it sitting around that kitchen table at chromed tube chairs on the linoleum floor with the rest of them, with the rest of us. they're all passing on their traditions, their ways... the colors and the black and white
