My grandparents were all born and lived their entire lives (with a small exception) in New York City.
My Grandpa Joe (father’s father) was one of eight kids. His father died when he was twenty. He married a woman seven years younger than him (who became my grandmother). He opened up a company in New York City that made wire hangers for dry cleaning companies (what did you think? That they just bred in your closet? 
). He and his wife managed the business until they gave it over to my father.
My Grandma Charlotte was a strong-willed person who often clashed with her sister-in-law. The end result was a rift in the family that continues to this day; despite the fact that all the principals are now dead.
They lived average lives, had two kids, spent most of their adult lives in Queens.
As they got older and retired, they bought a condo in Florida. At first, they went there for the winters, but stayed in NYC the rest of the year. My sister and I used to go visit them every year in Florida. We would often spend nights at their house in Queens.
My Grandma Charlotte was a diabetic. She maintained pretty good control over her illness, from what I recall. I remember as a little kid watching her inject herself with insulin, and wondering how she could do that.
The last time I saw my Grandpa Joe was on my wedding day. He and Grandma came up from Florida (where they now resided full time). Had I known that it was to be the last time I would see him, I would have spent far more time with him then. Alas, hindsight is 20/20.
After my Grandpa Joe passed away, my Grandma Charlotte went to live near my father in the New York area. However, shortly after my grandfather’s funeral, something happened to her. I’m not sure if it was a stroke, or a mental failing, but afterwards, she was never the same.
She was present at a celebration we had for my firstborn when he was a month old. She held the baby (she was still OK then), named, in part, for her husband (my wife was three months along when my Grandpa Joe passed away).
I last saw her at a going-away party that was held for my cousin (her oldest grandchild) who was moving to Israel.
My Grandpa Harry (my mother’s father) grew up in New York City. He was eighth of fourteen (yes, you heard right) kids by his father. He married his fiancee, Pearl (my grandmother) the day before he shipped out for the Pacific in World War II in 1944.
When he came back from the war, he and his wife settled down in Brooklyn. He always wanted to name a child after his (immediate) older brother, who died in France during the war. Alas, he had five girls. It got to the point that (as the story goes), after he had four daughters already, he told my grandmother “Pearlie, let’s have another girl.”
He opened up a factory in Manhattan that made umbrellas. They also made those little umbrellas that get put into drinks. He would often give those out to myself, my sister and cousins as presents.
He, too, lived a simple life, taking extreme pleasure in his family. To him and my grandmother, it was always “do anything for family.” When his father became ill and needed full time care, they took him in. When his sister’s kids (three teenage girls) needed a place to stay, my Grandpa Harry and Grandma Pearl took them in. When my grandmother’s mother took ill, she came to live with them too. When my parents broke up, she took in my mother, sister and myself. And all this in a three bedroom apartmetn building on Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn. At one time, there were three of their daughters (two younger ones and my mother), my great-grandmother, my sister and myself, and three of their neices in the house at once. Quite a crowd, if you can imagine.
At some point, (I’m not sure I can pinpoint the date), he sold his business and retired. He did some traveling with my grandmother. He bought a two family house (together with one of his daughters), complete with a pool in the backyard) in Staten Island and settled down.
The highlights of my years growing up was the yearly Channukah party that my grandparents threw. It was always a family-only affair. It was always very simple (at first in my grandparent’s apartment, then later, at one of their daughter’s houses). The number of presents each year was legendary.
My grandfather’s golden years were stolen by diabetes. I saw him decline from a happy go-lucky man who enjoyed living life to it’s fullest to a broken man, going blind, with one leg amputated, who simply wanted to die. It broke my heart to see him like this.
One thing he was looking forward to was his 50th wedding anniversary. The entire family got together and had a beautiful party. My oldest son (now about five months old, their only great-grandchild at the time) was there.
However, after that, he simply had nothing to live for and nothing to look forward to. Shortly after their 51st anniversary, he passed away.
This time, however, I learned my lesson. There was a birthday party (fifth) for my cousin (the daughter of the daughter with whom they bought the house). At first, I was going to beg off going. In the end, I went. I got to talk to my grandfather and spend some quality time with him. I’m certainly glad I did, since he passed away two days later.
My Grandma Pearl is (thank God) alive and well today. She still lives in her house in Staten Island, and spends a lot of time with her granddaughter.
The effects of my mother’s parents philosiphy is still felt today and will be down the ages. My wife marvels at the fact that my mother’s family will all get together at the drop of a hat. All my mother’s siblings, (along with a few cousins) will very often just get together, with kids and grandkids on any given Sunday. I can’t imagine the fighting and distance that existed (and to some extent still does) on my father’s side happening at all on my mother’s side.
Anyway, I know this post ran quite a bit longer than expected. Thank you for putting up with it and for giving me the chance to relive some cherished memories.
Zev Steinhardt
