admin
My Great Grandmother Fannie
Living with an aunt, her parents dead,
she departs from a dot on the map,
the village of Horby in Belarus.
Her brother saved enough money
laboring as a cap maker in a factory
in Philadelphia to send for her in 1893.
Like a prayer the story is recited
by parents to children— she traveled young
on trains across Europe, a ship over the sea.
What memories and ephemera to collage
a life, this person with inner strength
embarking on a long uncertain journey?
Photos captured at the turn of the century,
her husband, a daughter with long blond braids,
a day at the beach in bathing costumes.
Divorce decree, 1910. She, the libellant,
Cause: Cruel and Barbarous Treatment.
With strength taking steps to end the pain.
Celebration of women’s suffrage in 1919,
smiles, cigars with her daughter, cousins, nieces,
portraits with her second husband.
A handwritten note on a scrap of lined paper,
letters in Yiddish from her grandson,
(my father) penned in basic training in 1944.
Tiny chiclet teeth, musical accent, broken English,
I visited her apartment hotel in Miami Beach, 1968.
Only now knowing I should have asked about her life,
only now knowing it was special to be with her,
only now knowing of her incredible strength.
Obituary September 30, 1971.
The Year Was 5717
I was 8 years old
in Sunday school class
called upon to recite
the Four Questions by heart
the prize—
my own Haggadah
a yellow and red book.
I brought it home
so proud to show my family
it stayed by my side
at the Seder.
My mother had changed dishes,
rid the house of chometz,
bought matzah, gefilte fish,
horseradish,
dusted off the Seder plate,
opened her Jewish cookbook,
invited grandparents,
ironed the tablecloth,
set out flowers and china,
cups of sweet wine
grape juice for the kids
my favorite — Charoset
fresh chopped apples,
nuts, raisins, and cinnamon.
Wrapped in a linen napkin
the Afikoman was hidden,
the prize— a dollar,
prayers spoken,
dipping parsley in salt water,
retelling the story
of Passover.
Tempting aromas of brisket
wafting through the house,
we understood
dinner must wait
until after the Seder service.
Excitement, expectations,
singing at the top
of our voices:
“Go Down Moses…”
“Dayenu”
“Eliyahu Hanavi”
When the time came
I was called upon
to ask the Four Questions
even though I was not
the youngest child.
_________
Lois Perch Villemaire of Annapolis, MD is the author of My Eight Greats, a family history in poetry and prose and a new chapbook, Eyes at the Edge of the Woods (Bottlecap Press). Her work has appeared in such places as ONE ART, The Ekphrastic Review, The Blue Mountain Review, and anthologies including I Am My Father’s Daughter. Lois researches family history, enjoys fun photography, and propagates African violets.
Superb!
Thank you so much!