It’s fair to say, 2020 was a difficult year. Two years ago, around this time, it was my Uncle’s birthday, followed closely by his untimely passing. A few months before then, another uncle of mine passed. It had left an empty sad space inside of me. Now, my beloved Babushka (grandmother) is dying.
It’s been an ongoing journey to this for a while now. She’d been getting sicker and sicker. For the last few months, it’s been more touch and go. Many close calls. However now, it’s real. It’s happening.
And I’m not there.
It is with good reason I’m not: I’m a danger to my grandparents; their home is a danger to me. It’s the unfairness that is both life and 2020.
Since I cannot be there, I thought I’d write out my thoughts. It’s better (maybe) than eating PB with a spoon out of the jar, stress shopping and writing some depressed, angry Facebook status.
Kid, I’m writing this as I go balls deep into a new PB jar with the biggest spoon I own.
Many of you do not know my Babushka Olga, you haven’t met her. I feel bad for you because she’s wonderful.
Babushka Olga was born and raised in a shtetl (village) in Belarus. She was primarily raised by her own grandparents. At age 5, she lost her mother, and her father was a soldier in WWII. When he got back, he remarried and moved to St. Petersburg, Russia for better opportunities, while my grandmother stayed with her grandparents. Perhaps for stability - I don’t really know. I do know sometimes she’d start talking about it, then trail off. As a personal rule, I don’t like pushing people to tell their stories. It’s theirs, I respect that. But she did talk about how she wanted to be successful, so she could achieve her dream and move to St. Petersburg too. Yet another story of a small-town girl, looking for big-city success. She achieved it. She became an engineer. I can’t remember anymore, but I believe she was a radio engineer. Somewhere in there, she’d been set up with her friend’s dashing brother, who’d later become my Dedushka Isaak. He too was a small town Belarussian escapee. A true Soviet Union romance. They’d go on to have two kids, my uncle Ilya and six years later my mother Larisa. They let my uncle name his baby sister, which he did, I’m told, after his favorite cartoon.
Many years later my parents would meet, marry, emigrate to the US through Austria and Italy, and finally settle here in Boston, MA. Sadly, their young Soviet union romance wouldn’t last, but they did arrive with something that would: me. Like some banged up gift. From Russia, with love. I’d be born sickly, a tough thing for two young immigrants with nothing. So, Babushka Olya decided she would fight for a pass to come to America. When she first saw me I was so small, I fit into her palm, like a doll she’d say. She’d also say I was the reason she came to America. Not for some big opportunity, but for me.
As today unfolds, I crochet my fingers off, anxiously awaiting a call from my mom to let me know it’s happened. Trying not to totally lose my shit. It might already be too late for that. I think back to a better time. I think of New Years, or “Новый Год”. The Soviet answer to a secular “Christmas”. (Not to be confused with the actual Russian Orthodox holiday that falls on Jan 7th) It’s a bit closer to the Pagan version, Yule, with the added bonus of Grandfather Frost. But really, the family’s biggest holiday get-together. — So I hold onto better, happier times.
When I’m six, helping my grandma peel potatoes or some other menial task that she tells me will build character. We sing, she recites poetry while making another amazing dish for a table that will surely already be overflowing. “You must be a good host!” she tells me. She yells at my grandfather to turn down the TV and go put out the nice dishes. We’re setting up for guests. I’m not to be trusted with the nice teacups, but I can put out the silverware. She yells again for my grandfather to not forget to put out the nice liquor. A fight would proceed, most of it I don’t understand because they do it in Yiddish. She continues to cook and put together plates of typical “zakuski” or hors d’oeuvres if you want to get fancy.
By 6 PM or so, we start putting plates down. Sparkly red caviar with thickly buttered toasts, perfectly laid out Russian antipasto plates. Cheese and breadboards that’d make Pinterest blush. Black bread, rye, white. Whatever you like. If we’re very lucky, we’ll have black caviar on the table.
As the last of the dishes get put down, people start coming in. Usually my great aunt, my grandmother’s cousin. Next comes my grandparent's friends, they’re going to have to leave early anyway. Soon enough, my mom, maybe a few family friends roll in, never empty-handed. Bouquets of flowers, bottles of liquor. Followed by a cool gust of cold and a strong smell of cigarettes.
Everyone finds some seating, I specifically find my spot, and save spots for my favorite uncles. I squeal happily when they both get there. “Finally the party can REALLY begin!” I’d say. As a kid, I was gregarious, tiny with a loud shrill voice that carries. No one seemed to mind, I’d make my Babushka proud, sing or recite some poem she’d taught me. None that I can remember now, of course. I don’t really remember that kid, but thankfully there are pictures and videos.
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When I’m 12, stealing pieces from the highlight dish, most beloved of mine, Olivye (potato salad). A potato piece here and there. Following my lead, my little cousin and baby brother would follow my every move, until my grandma yells at us to get out. We giggle and go find our own entertainment until the party starts. It goes like the previous times, but now there’s my brother’s dad, my uncle’s wife. I’m still the center of attention, always the jester. But now, I can rope my brother and cousin into my shenanigans. Things are good, my grandmother is quite proud of this new generation of Americans she’s helped raise.
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Things aren’t good. Life happens. We still get together for New Years, It’s perhaps the only good time we all have. Times when things aren’t tense. My grandmother’s commitment to the dinner and us is unending. While my mom and I struggle to find our relationship, she’s our rock.
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As the years go on, relationships between family members have their ebbs and flows. As life goes on, we have our own new years plans, we stop in, grab some salad, sit with my grandparents and family for a bit, and go on our own ways. My grandma asks if I have a nice boy in my life, I joke I have many. My grandma gives me a look and laughs. She studies my face, finally, she says “Are you planning on putting more holes in your face? I don’t have enough jewelry for all of them.” Our snark flows both ways, flawlessly. She reminds me I look nicer in lighter colors. Compared to my dark lipsticks and nail polish. I kiss her and tell her, next time.
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I’m now married, my grandfather cutely calls my husband “my friend” still. Things are slower, fewer people. My grandma can’t cook as much as she used to. She has a lovely helper lady. Who tries, but the food she makes just isn’t quite the same as Babushka’s. Realistically, “herring under the fur coat” is an easy enough dish, but somehow, no one makes it as good as my grandma.
Last year, besides celebrating my uncle’s birthday on December 29th. It was a hard time. He was already dying, it was an awful time. My grandparents were already not well. This horrendous, unspeakable loss seemed to just be too much.
So we’re now back to where we started.
It’s New Years', there is no big table of food, there are no big family get-togethers. I want to hug my mom, my brother, my cousin. But especially my grandparents. I’d give anything to feel their warmth, love and hospitality right now. Now, all I have is memories, I should be happy to have, but I’m not there yet.
Maybe, one day I’ll be.
Update.
My beloved babushka passed away at 4 pm on January 3rd, 2021. This piece is dedicated to her memory.
Olga Borisovna Mnushkina
11/23/1936- 01/03/2021
Dear friends, please, please stay safe this year, stay home. So G-d willing, your table will be full next year.
