The last two weeks I have been involved in Friday night Sabbath services, one at the synagogue and one at the home of the Old Duffer. I had to literally play for my supper. Old Duffer wanted everyone to sing after dinner but nobody, including me, wanted to. Still he managed to squeeze out a Shalom Aleichim and another song before people began to leave, perhaps hastened along by the musicale. I mention this as it brought to mind Fridays nights at home in Detroit. My great aunts and uncles would come over, all unmarried, and my grandmother would prepare a feast of brisket, tsimmes and noodle kugel. We would get to eat in the dining room around the table big enough to seat the whole of the family. After dinner we would adjourn to the living room where the women played canasta and the men slept off dinner. Speaking of sleeping off dinner, my aunt Sally used to be assigned the task of putting me to bed and then she would fall fast asleep while I remained wide awake but snuggled up close to her. Mom was in her room sleeping off not dinner but her daily ration of bourbon.
Segue to a few years later. The Friday dinners became Sunday dinner at another sister of my grandmother, this one married. She would have her house boy, John, whip up extravagant meals but before meals we would gather around the piano, me with my guitar, and crank out the old sings and everyone would ring around us and sing along.
Segue to 1976 and, as my mother would have it, I ran away from home. This time to the bosom of East Lansing and the sanctuary of graduate school. And I stayed. No more Friday and/or Sunday dinners. The last Seder I attended was so outrageous that I never went home again for any holiday. The Seder started late and people were thoroughly snockered by the time it commenced. The gentleman who was leading the Seder, when asked to speed it up, uttered the famous Jewish prayer "suck it up your ass". No more family gatherings would I attend. Well, no more other than funerals.
When I first started this blog I mentioned that I still had great aunt Martha's obit in my inbox. I still do. She was the last of my extended family to go. The last of the Taylors. Aunt Martha left instructions in her will that the nieces and nephews, including me, get a small inheritance. Nice to be remember and I donated the money to MSU. Still, my last memory of Detroit and the family was Cousin Douche Bag, who had drawn up the will/trust finagling the lion's share of her estate for themselves. And this was definitely a case of the rich getting richer. Cousin Douche Bag, or DB for short, inherited an oil distribution company from his father. A company my grandparents helped finance. The company has done extremely well and DB's two daughters (and the thought of him having daughters seems poetic as he was a little abusive with me) are now running the company and it is even more successful. And they wanted more. And they got it. They even denied to the daughters of an heir, since deceased. his share of the estate, which would have amounted to $10,000. Nope, DB's got it and made no apologies.
This is my final memory of Detroit. Not the family sing-a-longs, not the Seders and Sabbath dinners. Not aunt Sally falling asleep. Not aunt Martha, a teacher, insisting that I had a brain and was smart; encouragement that was not forthcoming from my parents. Not the last of the Taylors being laid to rest, roses on her coffin on dreary late fall afternoon, with no one inviting me to join then for a meal. No it is the Douche Bag and his dysfunctional family making a puppet out of aunt Martha and bending her to their will. Yes, DB was the chosen nephew. Harvard, UofM Law School, married well. Sole heir to a sizeable estate. Manipulating Martha. I didn't want the money and didn't need it, hence my donation. But the daughters of the deceased cousin getting squat and the haughty attitude taken by the DB's daughters angered. It was at this point the I broke the last tie I had to the Taylors, with one exception. I never go to Detroit anymore. All the graves I have responsibility for have perpetual care so they are tended.
So now, essentially, I am alone. Old Duffer and the Missus seem to have adopted me, their own children having turned their collective backs on them. Sabbath dinner is now back in my life with no aunt Sally to put me to bed. I put myself to bed now, accompanied by the cats. Memories I can cling to. The DB is losing his mind due to early onset dementia. Again poetic justice, or am I being too mean? Let his daughters prevail.
I truly miss my grandmother Dorothy and all her sisters and brothers. The new Sabbath rituals hark back to my childhood. Memories are all I have. I must learn forgive the DB? Not so much. He had made his bed and his daughters lay in it. Let the be good memories as well as new ones.
Shabbat Shalom.
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