My paternal grandmother, known affectionately as Gramichee, came to this country in 1900, at the age of 19, from the town of Gbely (also known as Egbell) in what is now the western part of Slovakia. She married, bore five children in approximately ten years, then separated from my grandfather, and raised the children alone.
All but one of Gramichee’s children married, so she lived with my unmarried Aunt for most of her life. They would, from time to time, get on each other’s nerves as mother and daughter are wont to do, and it was then that Gramichee would stay with one of her other children for a couple of months until things settled back to normal. The story I’m about to relate happened during one of the times that she was staying at our house.
I must have been about 13 at that time, my sister would have been 8, and Gramichee had to have been 69, and a very spry 69 at that.
My parents had gone somewhere right after supper, but not before instructing my sister and I to wash and dry the dishes as we would normally do. We, of course, assured them that we’d take care of everything, but we somehow managed to put the task off for a longer and longer amount of time. Gramichee had prompted us, a couple of times, to get on with the chore, but we still futzed around doing I can’t remember what – it was anything but the dishes.
I guess that we had delayed long enough to wear out her patience, because Gramichee got up and began running water into the kitchen sink, all the while muttering to herself just loud enough for us to hear. I wasn’t paying much attention to what she was saying until I heard “… these kids wouldn’t care if I fainted right here in front of the sink.” PLOP! Down she went, ending up flat on the floor with a weird look on her face. I jumped up and ran over to her, asking “Are you OK, Grandma (yes, it was ‘Grandma’ now)? Stay still. Don’t try to get up – I’ll call Dad.”
She revived quickly enough to tell me not to bother, but I headed for the phone anyway only to hear, in her usual strong voice, “Don’t call your father, don’t bother him, I’m fine.” I looked back to see that she was already on her feet after a truly ‘miraculous’ recovery. I realized later, when my sister and I were doing the dishes, that we had been faked right out of our senses, at least I had been.
I recall hearing about Gramichee being with my family when I was just a toddler; she taught me to recite ‘The Owl and The Pussycat’, and as a result I recited it with a distinct Slovak accent. I’ve been told that my Irish mother was a little annoyed with that. She was also a great baker whose apple strudel (made with the tissue thin dough) and kolatchki were mouth wateringly delicious.
She could also be quite a tease, especially with Duke, my boxer dog. Gramichee usually wore sheepskin lined slippers as she sat in the living room either crocheting or listening to the radio. Duke laid on the floor close by her, dozing. It was then that Gramichee would begin to wiggle her foot ever so slightly, just to get the dog’s attention. Once she had gotten him to look at her, she would stick her tongue out as she pushed her nose up and made a strange little menacing noise. This would never fail to get the dog growling in a playful manner; his chest would be on the floor while his rear end was up in the air, stubby tail wagging madly. She’d then, speaking in Slovak, call him “You black devil.” Old Duke would get this quizzical look on his face because he had never bothered to learn Slovak. It was a hoot to watch, and went on for several minutes until she’d put her hand out to pet him… game over. I have to laugh with each recollection of the game.
Gramichee, on occasion, liked to have a teaspoonful, just one teaspoonful of kummel (a colorless liqueur flavored chiefly with caraway seeds) in her tea. I recall getting the bottle out of the cupboard and watching her hold a spoon over her cup while she poured her “teaspoonful”… blub, blub, blub. It was always “just one teaspoonful” no matter how many blubs I heard – “… one is good for you.”
My grandmother lived a good, long, and healthy life until Christmas night in 1971 when, after having celebrated the holiday with her daughters and son-in-law, she went to bed and died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 91. I remember her with great fondness.
F. A. Zedik
05-31-05