Memoir

Mike and I have been together for just about five years. In those five years, we’ve experienced many ‘coupley’ milestones, like first vacations, anniversaries, yada yada. In a few more months, we will come upon another highlight: moving in together (don don don). I actually couldn’t be more excited to move in with the person who has long been my best friend. I envision the movie nights followed by pancake mornings and dinner parties that end with me ordering a pizza because my ambitious menu was a little too ambitious. Most importantly, of course, I can already see how our future home will be decorated! (OK, not most important, but the interior decorator inside me is itching for an entire apartment to design!)

As I scour the Internet for the most fashionable furniture pieces, posh paint colors, and attractive accessories, I must constantly remind myself, “Remember what you already have.” What we already have are hand-me-downs from our most beloved relatives. And this is where my memoir begins:

A large percentage of my childhood was spent in the Bronx. My grandparents lived on Allerton Avenue. That doesn’t mean much to me, even today. All I knew was that it was walking distance to the “hat store” (dollar store where Grandma could afford to buy us a gift almost every time we visited) and to the pizza parlor where my Aunt Randi bought me my first grape soda (yum!).  There was a concrete playground in the backyard where my brother and I could pedal around in a plastic, orange car with the word “DAWN” stuck to the sides (Dawn soap, I later discovered- NOT Dawn, my cousin). Yet almost all of my memories from Allerton Ave. revolve around the kitchen table. In the Bronx, it was dark wood. The musty kind that leaves an ever-lasting impression on your nostrils (when Mike temporarily moved to his uncle’s vacant apartment in the Bronx this past year, my first words upon entering were, “Smells like the Bronx in here,” thanks to that dark wood furniture that was left behind.) The smell was strong, but my memories are stronger. That table is where we would eat mac n’ cheese and canned string beans. It was where Grandma would sit with her girlfriends, after we went to bed, and B.S. about one thing or another. It’s where I learned how to correctly swaddle a baby doll and sat while Grandma tediously combed my hair into a tight, tight ponytail and threatened to not let me watch The Sound of Music if I didn’t sit still.

Flash forward to Strawberry Road in Yonkers. Along with this new house came a new table. This one was lightwood and it didn’t smell at all.  But it did get a plastic tablecloth and clear, plastic cover over it to make sure it stayed in mint condition. I don’t blame my grandmother for taking such precautions: this table got a lot of action. It acted as a serving table for buffets and as a Seder table during Passover. It was a card table on the late nights that I couldn’t sleep and Grandma and I would stay up playing Rummy or Casino. It was Grand Central for her mail, bills, collection of stolen office supplies, and pictures of family and friends.  At the head of the table was my grandfather’s dining chair. This was also where the dog, Sahara, got most of her nutritional intake, since Grandpa shared most of his meals with her, throwing a piece of chicken here, a slice of bread there, until even the Cocker Spaniel couldn’t eat anymore. After he passed away in 2011, that seat became my Grandma’s. And you better believe that every phone call you got from her was made from that chair.

           

So when Mike told me “we have a table for the new place,” (his parent’s old kitchen table, currently located in his Connecticut rental), I had to deliberate with myself. My grandmother’s passing two months ago has made me want to hang on to every memory she and I have ever shared. So many of those memories, clearly, involve her kitchen table. I know that the rest of my family would want me to have it, to know that this piece of her estate (still in impeccable condition, due to the plastic coverings) was still used to make phone calls, pay bills, and seat the Diller clan. This thought has also taught me how to compromise with Mike on his decorating preferences. When he lost his Nanny last month, he became insistent that her old, forest-green La-Z-Boy would become a part of our living room (sans neutral-colored slip-cover). The designer in me cringed. The granddaughter inside of me, however, embraced his need to have this item as part of his life. While I do not know every memory associated with it, I know that it helps to remind him of treasured times with a woman he loved from the bottom of his heart.

And now I know that our future home together, in conjunction with the smell of burnt popcorn and Febreze Noticeables, will be a place filled with memories from both of our childhoods. A place where the lessons we learned from our grandmothers will be automatically instilled in our environment and their love will be with us always.