02 - Remembering Papa

Thoughts for the week of May 29, 2005

Remembering Papa

Every young child, if they’re lucky, has a mentor. A hero with a warm and safe lap to sit in while they learn of the magic of love, beauty and the world they live in. For me that was my grandfather, Hyman Bobrof.

I lived much of my life with him until he died when I was 12 years old. Life after that was never the same. I became nobody’s princess. I thought that my fairy-tale world had dissolved. I was just an ordinary pre-teen girl living through the aftermath of the depression and aware of the struggle to survive. But my memories, and my appreciation of all things beautiful, kept Papa (my grandfather) with me forever.

I wrote a short story about Papa and will include excerpts here. It best explains who he was in my world.

(Excerpt) Papa

Where does a child first learn of beauty? Who tells them of the magic enchantment in the unexpected lilt of a bird’s song? Or the splendor of a sky lit blazing orange-red by the glow of the setting sun? Or the sheer delight of being removed of all clothing down to the underpants and allowed to run free under a sudden summer shower? Does anyone else take them by the hand to see the glisten of dewdrops on a rosebud? Who teach other children to listen to the birds, look at the sky, wonder at the dewdrop or stand in ecstasy as warm droplets of rain cool a too hot body? I don’t know who teaches other them. My precious grandfather taught me.

When I was a small four-year-old my grandfather would wake me in the early morning hours. He would lift me out of my bed and I knew to be very quiet while we crept down the stairs and softly closed the front door behind us. It was beginning of another adventure. We would drive out to the Ohio countryside until Papa found the nearest hilltop to climb. Then we would leave the old Model T Ford behind and make our way to the top of the hill so we could see what the world look like at sunrise. Patiently we stood there, my small hand in his strong one, my ears attuned to the morning sounds, waiting for the top of the sun to begin it’s glow over the horizon. We would watch the sun rise until it exploded in bright morning-color. It was so beautiful and I loved it all, especially because Papa was sharing it with me.

Oh, yes! everyone called him Papa and so did I. In my little world there really was only Papa and me. Of course I had a mother to run to with a scratched knee when Papa couldn’t be there. She was a substitute nursemaid who helped me bathe whenever Papa wasn’t home. When he couldn’t watch me while I giggled in the water and managed to splash ever so little in his face so I could see the quick play-anger make that face wrinkle savagely at me.

I had a father, too, who bought me dolls and sang silly songs to me at bedtime. But only Papa knew about the sunrise and the birds and the rose. Only Papa could understand a little girl who thought that God made bluebirds exactly that color because they matched the color of His eyes. The rest of the inhabitants in our home were simply a matter of convenience and interference.

What my grandfather and I shared, we shared with no one else. To the rest of the family he was loved, respected and definitely the head of the family. He was strong and capable of control and discipline. Only I, who entered our world with him found tenderness, sensitivity and abundant love. It was a magical world.

What other things did I share with him? Music? I remember a Victrola with a big black shape on the top that sent out the sound and a picture of a bulldog on the box where you put the record. I also remember listening to Caruso and other great operatic stars while I sat beside him and we shared the wonder of music.

My spirituality? Papa was an Orthodox Jew. The home I lived in abided by all the religious laws of Judaism. The Sabbath was observed by my grandmother's lighting of the candles. All meat was kosher and always separated from milk products. But it was much more than that. It was my learning pride in my faith. My being taught all that being Jewish meant and there were so many things. What I remembered most was practicing good deeds and the need for learning. I have always respected the dignity of my observant Papa. He implanted the pride with which I carry my faith. Do I practice Orthodox Judaism? No. But I do carry, deep within my soul, the knowledge and peace and joy of my heritage. Papa placed it there.

Papa shared so much with me and brought me into his world of understanding and beauty. It was that world that established my creative self. It gave me the ability to design, paint, write and, because of him and his love of classical music, I know delight of opera, ballet and symphonies. He truly tenderly molded me into who I am today. He offered me an interesting and colorful world. I am so grateful.