My great grandfather, Jacob Thurman, moved to York Street in 1915. Surrounded by fields, his house was the first building on a road that would eventually become more densely populated, but always retain a gracious character. The homes had backyards, trees, garages, and front porches. Most had three full floors. When I was born, my great grandmother, Bella, lived on the second floor with her nurse. Bella required shots and pills each day. I realize that I’ve never asked what exactly was wrong with her. Was she diabetic? I can picture a woman dressed in a starched, white uniform jabbing a needle into my great grandmother’s thigh. Back in the 50’s, illness in my family was shrouded in mystery. The precise name of the ailment was never discussed.
The third floor included cavernous, cobwebbed rooms furnished with tarnished brass headboards, dented hatboxes, and dusty mirrors resting in wooden frames. Sometimes my grandmother, Sarah, would let my sister and me wander around up there. We felt like we were viewing a forgotten world. There were photographs of Sarah attired in a short dress featuring a drop waist finished with a satin bow on the side, a string of long pearls hanging from her neck, and a cloche hat pulled down over her ears. My sister, ever wiser and worldlier, told me that Grandma had been a flapper, whatever that meant.
My grandparents lived on the first floor, the home where they had raised my mother and uncle. Grandma’s kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a mélange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffin tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. Grandma's baked products were legendary. She had single-handedly catered wedding brunches and baby showers. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "...early is the best time to cook...before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt..."
The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter, and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I perched precariously on a high stool watching Grandma mix and knead, while sipping milk flavored with her coffee. The milkman would greet me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I'd laugh and explain that I was visiting for a few days.
There was a cozy comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from the huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read complicated books, and play Beethoven sonatas on her piano. In their younger days, she and my grandfather, Harry, had formed a musical duo, he with his violin and she on their piano. Sometimes I reflect on the ease with which she entertained endless groups of people and prepared enormous holiday meals. Would she have guessed that as an adult I frequently slip into one of her hand knit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I peruse her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.
As my husband and I rounded the corner, I could see that York Street was not the grand avenue I had pictured, but the tall oaks were flourishing and the houses were impressively intact, mostly in good repair. Sarah and Harry's house had been transformed from chocolate brown to Kelly green, and the wooden balcony balusters had been replaced with metal. The front stairway was fairly wide as was the porch, which could easily accommodate the rocking chairs where my grandparents liked to relax on sultry summer evenings, while my sister and I played hopscotch on the pavement. I could see the path leading to the backyard where my grandfather and uncle built an outdoor booth each fall to celebrate Succot, the Jewish harvest festival. That was pretty much the only time the yard was used. Life happened on the front terraces, the sidewalks, and the street. During this weekend afternoon, except for an occasional car parked near a house, all was quiet and there was no one in sight. I would love to have talked with someone. Pointing out the bedroom and den windows to my husband, I strained to glimpse inside. But it was okay to visualize it the way it had been, and to feel an overwhelming sense of relief that the building was still there.
