I have talked at length about my mother's side of the family (Taylor (Siskinovich) to Levy) but not so much about my dad and his side of the family (Marx to Levy (Levine) to Levy). That is in part due to the strength of the Taylors and the fact that we lived with my mom's mother, Dorothy (I had a grandmother Dora who was actually my great grandmother living with us and Dorothy's given name was Dora as well (the other Dora being her mother-in-law) so I merely called her Dorothy with no further appellation).
My mother was an only child, as am I, but my dad had one brother, which means I have only one uncle and aunt but slews of great aunts and uncles (or had). My mother loathed her sister-in-law (who, since the passing of my mother, has truly adopted me and my parents would be doing a collective grave spin if they knew that). Anyway, mom loathe my aunt, partially because she and my uncle were professionally successful (he an automotive engineer who designed exhaust systems (catalytic converters) and she a teacher and principal at the local Jewish day school). My dad was a salesman, she a high school graduate, living with her mother all her life. Oh, once they looked for homes but the reality was my mother couldn't have cared for a house, much less a child, without considerable help. My dad's father was a lawyer, the youngest graduate from the Detroit College of Law who had to wait until he was 21 to take the bar. His wife, Celia, was a house frau but she had a special talent. She was a no so much gifted but an enthusiastic student of the piano and, as befitting her Polish heritage, loved Chopin and could bang it out with the best of them. They used to live on Collingwood in Detroit, right by the fire station which I remember clear as day us visiting and playing in the fire trucks while grandma looked on. They then downsized the house (the old house had a peach tree and made lousy fruit) and moved to Northlawn, a stone's throw from my other grandmother's home. Every Sunday we would go over for an hour or so. Irvine rarely said a word. His son, my uncle, rarely speaks. My dad was pretty quiet, too, but could also be an absolute charmer when need be.
My aunt grows orchids. She has most of her adult life. She breeds them as well, if that is the right term. My mother wanted her to give her an orchid and always resented the fact that none was forthcoming. After she passed and I mentioned this to my aunt she said all my mother would have had to do was to ask and she would have given her as many orchids as she desired. But that was my mom. You had to anticipate her needs and fulfill them in advance of any stated desires. I spent the better part of my young life trying to placate her in advance of her disappointments. Petite fours from Ranier's Bakery, carnations from the florist, all things I gave to her once a week or so, as my allowance would permit. By the time I was ten I was able to go up to Livernois, the Avenue of Fashion, and go to the various stores, mostly to pick up cigarettes for my mother but some times to buy her gifts to make her happy which she never was regardless of my gifts.
Once both my parents died what was left of both families told me (after the fact) how sorry they were that I had such a shitty childhood and how they wished they could have done more for me given the sobriety issues of my mother. My aunt adopted me of sorts and treats me like one of her own. That means I get weekly calls and updates. And what is nice is she treats me like an adult, something my own parents didn't see fit to do or feel comfortable doing. She even named an orchid after me...immortality at last.
My uncle is still quiet (the Silent Bob of the family)...my aunt still grows orchids. They are in their eighties. She calls once or twice a week. I rarely see my cousins, two of whom have moved to the West Coast. But my long winded aunt calls and pontificate about any number of things, mostly politics, which I enjoy discussing with her and something I could never do with my parents. That's another reason my mother disliked, nay hated her: she knows everything. And she does. I can talk classical music and opera with her...not my parents. I can talk history and culture...not my parents. Ah, well, my parents did encourage my love of music, but denied me the pleasure of learning the violin at a young age and only reluctantly agreed to guitar lessons as I was a jack of all trades and master of none and had a habit of trying things and moving on. But, hell, that's what childhood is for. I would play my guitar nightly to the critical ear of my mother. "Sing with schmaltz" she would implore. But, alas, I had no schmaltz to give her. But my grandmother Celia would encourage me musically and tell me to bring the "git-fiddle" over on Sundays.
My mother never visited my grandma Celia. She was always home Sundays doing laundry (read hung over). A special treat was when my uncle and two of the three cousins would come and I had someone to play with instead of being the object of such scrutiny by my grandmother. And a super duper treat was when my grandmother Celia would invite both sides of the family over to her duplex for a rare Sunday supper. All the cousins, all the in-laws...twelve people around her massive dining room table. And mother would do nothing but complain about having to go, about being there and the lousy food Celia prepared (I liked it...it was always brisket and roasted veggies, a salad with her famous red dressing (ketchup, oil and vinegar...silly me I liked)). No more visits to the fire house but occasional visits by my the cousins and I felt whole then, like the Fridays and later Sundays with the Taylor side of the family.
I do believe I get psychiatric problems from both sides of the family. Celia was a very depressed person in her later years (She, too, hated my aunt, believing her son married beneath him like my grandfather married her (a German Jew marrying a Polish Jew...How crass and low brow)). My mother, I think, was also bipolar and self medicating with alcohol. I think some of that was brought on by the untimely death of her father, who died two days before my birth and for whom I was named. I think she looked at me at times and saw her late father and got depressed and drank herself sick. Celia used to bang her head against the wall (in front of me...something I have done myself to the point of concussion) when very depressed.
So here I sit with some bad genes, a Russian, Polish and Prussian mutt of a girl, cerebral and moody.
But on my good days I remember playing on the fire trucks on Collingwood.
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