"No Jews or dogs allowed" read the sign at the lake in the
town next door to where my dad grew up in America of the
1930s. "If those founding fathers could see what their town
looks like now, they'd be rolling in their graves," Dad
chuckles.
We look at the floor plans my father is in the middle of
drawing that show the house he grew up in, my grandmother's
house. Every six weeks or so, we'd all pile into the car for
the three-and-a-half-hour ride to visit her. It's been over
two decades since I saw the house, so the drawings help bring
back the memories.
"The house was built around 1901," Dad says as he sketches
the basement level. "My mother remodeled it in 1935. Here's
where the Cold Room was. We stored our own homemade wine,
jams, and jellies there." In the back yard, Grandma tended a
vineyard, apple, plum, and pear trees, and lilac bushes.
"Next to the Cold Room was a finished room where we held my
Bar Mitzva party." Abutting the finished room, Dad adds a
garage, followed by an outdoor patio.
"We children used to jump from the pastel-colored stones on
the floor of the patio. From grey to pink, yellow to blue .
. .
While I went back in time a bit, Dad has already finished the
diagram of the first floor. "Here was the front entry,
remember? You'd have a choice of going straight ahead to the
kitchen or up two steps to the landing." Grandma's kitchen
was yellow and sunny. I can almost still smell the fragrance
of the bowl of lemons she used to keep on the counter.
"Either you could continue up a flight of steps to the next
floor or you could turn to the living room, over here." My
memory takes me back into the green living room, gazing at a
large acrylic painting by Mom of a bird flying between two
trees.
The dining room held a heavy, dark table, chairs, and
breakfront, which usually contained candies for us
grandchildren. Grandma also stored there her Depression Glass
dishes, orange with rainbow colors faintly shimmering through
the plates.
"Let's go up the stairs to the second floor," Dad points with
his pen. "Here's the master bedroom where you kids would
sleep when we came to visit. Mom said she always had a hard
time putting you guys to bed." In the master bedroom is a
full-size picture of Grandma as a toddler with her mother.
Once, as a girl living in Europe, Grandma went outside to
draw water from the well for her family. Two Cossacks riding
by stopped and offered to help. Great-grandmother came
hurrying out of the house, quickly reassuring them, "No, no,
we can manage just fine." (The less one had to do with the
Cossacks, the better!)
Dad's bedroom was (predictably) blue and his sister's was (of
course) pink. The attic, which I never explored, held the
Pesach dishes, storm windows, and screens.
Grandma passed away 24 years ago. At some point thereafter,
the house was torn down and an apartment building was built
on the site. The first three steps remain from the old house
where Dad grew up in Spring Valley, located right next to the
town with the "No Jews or Dogs Allowed" sign by the lake, the
now bustling-with-Jewish-life town of . . . Monsey, New
York.
