For Zayde

I tried starting this email three or four times. I am starting the army tomorrow and I am pretty nervous and excited and kind of swinging back and forth between freaking out and calming down and seeing it as a grand adventure. But, honestly, that is not what is on my mind right now.

My grandfather is in the hospital, and my family is gathering around him while Barak and I wait by the phone. And I hate that I am not there with them. I hate that, though they are supportive and loving, my friends do not know him.

So what I want to do is tell you about my grandfather. I hope that is okay.

My Zayde is my grandmother's second husband and quite obviously the love of her life. She is his second wife as well and to hear him talk about her, it is hard to imagine he ever saw anyone else. Growing up, calling them was always a group event, as whichever one of them answered the phone, they would yell down to the other to join the conversation as soon as I told them it was me.

My Zayde is an artist. When they moved to New Hampshire, they converted an old slaughterhouse into their studio. Whenever he sent me a letter he would draw pictures of their house or the squirrel that had been feasting at their bird feeder. He once stopped me as I came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my head. I had reminded him of a Vermeer painting, and he went on to draw me as the Girl with a Pearl Earring. For as far back as I can remember he was teaching me things about art. He taught me to see the purple in shadows and showed me how one line could change the angle of an elbow. He is a brilliant painter.

My Zayde is a World War Two veteran. Growing up in a Jewish day school everyone had stories about where their grandparents were during the Holocaust, how they had escaped the Nazis, when they had come to America. But I always thought my story was better. My grandfather had fought in the American army. He had been the gunner in a B-17 and was shot down over Germany. He was a prisoner of war and weighed 70 lbs when the Russian army finally liberated them. He puts on his uniform every memorial day and participates in the town parade. One year he went and spoke to the veterans in a local jail. He loved having a "captive audience".

My Zayde tells alot of jokes. They are not very good, but they make me laugh. When my Bubbe hears them, her eyes crinkle up and she laughs and says "Oh, Russ!"

My Zayde is a father, a step father, and a grandfather. I was blessed with three grandfathers when I was born, but Zayde is the one that has always been a part of my life. He is the one I have spent my Channukah/Christmases with. He is the one that tells me stories of when I was little, he is the one I danced with at weddings, he is the one I wanted to introduce to the man I marry.
I love you Zayde. ברוך דיין אמת