My grandmother was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. Her father abandoned her family when she was just a small child leaving her mother and to fend for two little girls on her own. Shortly thereafter, her mother died and then it was just the two little girls. I am only going to talk about one of those girls here, my grandmother.

There is much I don't know from this time in her life. For example, I have no idea what my great grandmother did for a living or what her cause of death was. If I had to guess, I'd say seamstress and cancer. Seamstress because it was New York at the turn of the century and cancer because well, everyone in my family seems to pass away from cancer.

So yes, my grandmother appears to have cancerous masses in her brain, chest, and breast according to her second MRI. And yes, it's likely to be terminal (I can't say it *is* yet). In the meanwhile, they'll be more tests and talking to doctors and social workers and all of those things that accompany these situations.

My grandmother was taken in by an aunt after her mother's death. That aunt was somewhat evil, an alcoholic who was fairly disinterested in life in general. The aunt would sit around eating sweets and drinking milk but never offering the children so much as a taste. My grandmother passionately craved those chocolates and as an adult her candy dish has always been filled to the brim. My grandmother also forced glass after glass of milk on me in an attempt to right her aunts wrongs. I can remember sitting at the kitchen table, late into the evening staring at a full cup, knowing that I'd have to remain put till I drank every last drop. I still hate milk.

At some point (after high school I imagine) my grandmother left her aunts and moved in with a girlfriend's family. Her girlfriend had a thousand brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles all living in a one bedroom, cold water flat. Imagine if you will the most Depression Era scene you can. Now add five more people to that scenario but somehow include warmth and huge bowls of steaming pasta and gravy that somehow make sleeping on the floor seem less hideous than it is. According to my grandmother, she'd never been happier then she was in that overcrowded tenement.

A funny side note about that family that my grandmother went to live with, a family that was to become my own. There were roughly twelve children in that flat. My great grandmother did try to practice birth control but alas there were few options in that era. It was a sub par condom or nothing and here's the part you might want to skip - when my great grandparents were "done" with the activity, the condoms were washed out and put away so they could be used again. I can only assume that this had something to do with the twelve children.

Back to our story. There was a boy who lived in that flat, well there were several but there is only one that matters as far as this story goes and that is my grandfather. A few years older, incredibly kind and warm and gentle, I think he was probably the first person besides God (as identified by the Catholic Church) that my grandmother trusted. I know little about their courtship except that my grandfather treated her generously and with great respect and that there was a lot of love. I also know that he took her out to Harlem to see Ella Fitzgerald in a club once and that there was this beautiful mink at the coat check. As they left my grandmother jokingly said "mine is the mink." The coat check didn't get her sense of humor (a poor little gal who was always tiny in stature requesting this huge, expensive mink - that's funny) and handed her the garment. My grandfather told her to put it on, just to see what it looked like before giving it back (he had plans to someday buy her one of her own). Reluctantly, she donned the mink. It was many sizes too big but it felt like heaven nonetheless and she paraded about in it as if she were a star. She felt a tap on her shoulder as she struck a glamorous pose for my grandfather and whirled about to come face to face with Lady Ella. "I believe that's my coat you're wearing miss," she purred in that throaty sex kitten way jazz singers have. My grandmother turned crimson and removed the mink. Handing it to over Ella, I'm sure she apologized profusely but could she have possibly know how this tale would become the stuff our family history is made of?

There's more I'll share about my grandmother. This journal may take on a different feel for awhile and I think that's okay. I'd rather have it feel and sound different than not write here at all. In addition, if you are a family member and you're reading this and you see some detail that you just know is totally wrong, please keep it to yourself. I like my memories just the way they are and if they are not 100% accurate, that's fine by me. Vaseline on the lens of the camera of my mind.

12:16 p.m. - 2003-08-18

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