The Ten Best Days of My Life

by Adena Halpern

  During World War II, uncle Morris made sure my grandmother got stockings and my mom got bubblegum (both were hard to come by at that time). When cashmere sweaters were all the rage in the 1950s, my mother had six. He was our Santa Claus.

  So, now that you know the ins and outs of the Firestein/Salis clan, you can tell that they were really special people.

  Like I said, I wish I could give you a bunch of different days, but since I can’t, I’ll give you the last one I remember (and if you’re keeping track, the third best day of this essay).

  I should mention something before I start though. Both my grandparents and uncle had heart issues. They weren’t huge problems, mind you. Nothing that probably couldn’t have been prevented with a good diet and exercise (of which there was none except the occasional dance). I just remember none of them eating salt in those last years. Nothing in their homes had salt in it. You don’t really realize how much flavor salt brings to a meal until it’s taken away, and when it was, dinners at my grandparents’ house were never the same. Corn without salty butter or potatoes without salt, ugh. There was no more brisket marinated in ketchup or kosher legs and thighs of chicken full of brine or matzo ball soup with extra cubes of bouillon to make it thicker or even a slab of butter on an onion bagel. From then on it was egg whites with wheat toast, and dry white-meat chicken and fish that tasted like nothing. That was the only thing, though, that was noticeable through my eleven-year-old eyes, and I wasn’t necessarily pissed off about it, it’s just what was. Grandmom would ask if I wanted salt, but I wouldn’t have any part of it when I was at their house. The thought of generously pouring the white taste sensation on anything and everything made me feel bad, like a slap in the face, because I could have it and they couldn’t. So I stayed away from it, too. Oh, that, and Grandmom had to wear this bandage on her arm. It was like this big Band-Aid patch that she wore above her elbow. I asked her what it was, if she had fallen or something, and she said it had glycerin in it, medicine to make her feel better. How a patch of medicine on her arm could have made her feel better, I didn’t know at the time, but I found out later in life.

  Everything, though, was normal in our family. There was no stink made about the patch or the salt. Maybe there was, it just wasn’t in front of me—don’t upset the miracle child—but I can’t remember that there was ever any cause for alarm.

  Anyway, that’s all you really need to know about that.

  So, the last time I can remember all of us being together, the show Annie had come to Philadelphia’s Walnut Street Theatre and I was psyched as psyched could be. We were going to make a party out of it. Penelope was allowed to come, and I was allowed to pick the restaurant. First I picked Murray’s Deli. I was always a cabbage borscht fanatic, but Grandmom said, “I can make you better cabbage borscht at home. Pick a better place.” So I picked Benihana.

  “With all that salt in the food?” Grandmom complained. “You can do better.”

  So I picked a place that I knew she loved.

  “How about Bookbinder’s?” I said, trying to please her.

  “That’s a great idea!” she said, hugging me. “You are the smartest girl in the world.”

  Bookbinder’s, if you don’t know, is a very famous seafood place in Philly. It’s been around for like a million years. My grandparents and uncle went there when they were younger; so did my parents. It’s an old standby. It’s got everything anyone would want, even if you don’t want salt in your food.

  The best thing about the place is their strawberry shortcake, the second main reason I picked it, other than my grandmother coaxing me to go there.

  We all got dressed up for the theater that night: Grandmom, Mom, and Penelope and me, in dresses; Daddy, Grandpop, and uncle Morris in suits. Grandmom always said that when you go to the theater, “You must dress nice so you can pay respect to the people on stage doing their job.” She even called Pen’s mom to make sure she wore a dress. Whenever I go to New York to see a show, I still dress up (or at least I did). It pisses me off that people don’t get dressed up for the theater anymore. It’s so sad. I’m the only one dressed up when I go (or used to).

  Back at Bookbinder’s, I had the snapper soup, which is something that Bookbinder’s is famous for. Pen had the fried shrimp and we split french fries (without salt so Grandmom could pick a few). I don’t remember what my grandparents and uncle got, but I’m sure it had no salt in it.

  Everyone talked at the same time in my family, and this particular night was no exception. I actually never even noticed it until Penelope pointed it out that night. When she said it, though, I could suddenly see it was like a blanket of words thrown up into the air and directed to anyone who wanted to comment on it.

  “It’s like a secret language your family has,” she said at the time.

  How could Pen not hear what everyone was saying? Mom and Grandmom talked about the latest gossip, and Daddy broke in occasionally and said, “You’re out of your mind, Evelyn, Mort Gainsburgh is not cheating on Sylvia.” Daddy and Grandpop talked about the Phillies, and uncle Morris broke in, “Harry, you’re crazy, the Phillies have a major advantage over Detroit in Mike Schmidt.” uncle Morris talked to the bar about their liquor stock, and Mom would break in, “Morris, is that the vodka you had me try last week? It was great.” And there were people in the restaurant to say hello to, a lot of people. That was something that always happened. Whenever all of us were out, people came over to the table nonstop to say hello.

  “It’s Carol and Richard!” Grandmom would shout out as Carol and Richard ran over to the table to say hello and talk about the Philadelphia gossip of the day.

  “It wouldn’t be a Saturday night if Evvie and Harry Firestein weren’t out on the town,” Ruth and Lou Goldman would announc as they came over to our table.

  “Bill Dorenfield,” some lesser real estate guy would announce, coming to the table. “We were just talking about your Spruce Street project the other day.”

  That was how it always was. I ignored everyone (but heard everything) and talked to Pen and ate my snapper soup as the parade of people went by. Occasionally, someone would refer to me. “Look how pretty she is, just like her mother,” Ruth Goldman would say, but I’d just keep to myself and crack an embarrassed smile at Pen.

  “I’ll call you on Monday about that proposal,” the guy would say, trying to land some business from my dad.

  “We’ll have lunch next week,” Carol would say to my grandmother.

  That was my family.

  After dinner, we all went to see Annie. Do you know anything about the play Annie? You probably do, but just to give you some backstory, Annie is based on this cartoon character, Little Orphan Annie. Annie is chosen by the orphanage to spend Christmas with this really rich guy, Daddy Warbucks (a single rich man, which could make you wonder what some grown man would want from spending Christmas with a little girl, but we all bought it and I digress). Daddy Warbucks takes a liking to Annie (cough, cough—but, again, I digress) and wants to adopt her, but she thinks her real parents are going to come and get her. There’s this whole thing about Miss Hannigan (the head of the orphanage) who is jealous that Annie might get adopted by Warbucks, so she and her brother pose as her parents to get her back, but, as all great stories go, in the end they are found out and Annie stays on and gets adopted by Warbucks and it’s all happy and wonderful.

  Girls my age were consumed with Annie mania when it hit Broadway. Everyone was sure that they would be the next Annie to appear in the show. Dana Stanbury and Kerry Collins started taking singing lessons, and when the talent show came around, it was wall-to-wall renditions of “Tomorrow.” I knew I had no voice though (unlike Dana and Kerry and Olivia). My grandparents asked me to sing to them, but I refused. Once, when no one was around, I sang the song to Penelope.

  “You have the worst voice I’ve ever heard in my entire life,” she said as we both laughed. Pen was the only one who could ever set me straight.

  Still, I loved the sh
ow. I loved the story about this little orphan girl getting to be showered with everything she ever wanted. I didn’t realize it then, but I do now. I was what Annie got to be.

  We all sat in the theater’s private side balcony as we watched the show. Grandmom snuck cashews in for us to eat (sans salt, of course). When Annie was forced to leave Daddy Warbucks and go with Miss Hannigan, Grandmom and I both cried.

  What a show. (Just out of curiosity, do they have shows up here? They must. If so, I’d love to see this show again. It’s been years.)

  After the theater, we dropped off Pen, and we went back home and ate chocolate mint ice cream from Baskin-Robbins, my fave, on our patio behind the house. It was a really warm night. You heard crickets and saw fireflies light up in the air, and I sat between Grandmom and Grandpop and listened to the grown-ups gossip about Ruth and Lou Goldman and Richard and Carol and asked who that greasy guy was who was trying to get business from my dad. At some point, someone told me I had to get ready for bed, so I brushed my teeth and went into my pink room with my pink canopied bed and my dolls from all around the world and my Snoopy doll, my constant sleeping companion.

  I went to sleep that night (as I did many, many nights before that) with the sounds of my family laughing and talking outside:

  “How many times do I have to tell you that Mort Gainsburgh is not having an affair behind Sylvia’s back,” Dad screamed at Grandmom.

  “I know for a fact that Mort Gainsburgh can’t get it up for anyone,” uncle Morris said.

  “Where do you get your information?” Mom and Grandmom shouted at the same time.

  “Everyone down at the bar knows that Mort Gainsburgh has a weak peter. He had that prostate trouble a few years back!” uncle Morris said. “He complains about it all the time—the women he used to cheat on Sylvia with.”

  “So he is cheating on Sylvia! I knew it!” Grandmom laughed.

  “Well, he might have been, but not anymore,” Dad, uncle Morris, and Grandpop said at the same time.

  The patio erupted in laughter as I laughed from my own bed.

  This was the last night my family would ever be the same. It wasn’t anything so out of the ordinary. That’s why I’ll always remember it as being one of the best days of my life.

  Because after that, everyone started to get sick.

  It started out small. I came home one day and my mom said that Grandpop was in the hospital, but he would only be there a few days.

  Days turned into weeks and pretty soon uncle Morris had moved into our house to take care of me because my parents were always down at the hospital. I never got to visit Grandpop in the hospital. In all that time, except for when I was at school, I rarely saw anyone except uncle Morris. Never take the miracle child to a hospital where there are sick people.

  It was always the most fun when uncle Morris would serve me breakfast. He used to make French toast or pancakes. He’d play the part of the French waiter with this heavy accent and say, “Mademoiselle Dorenfield, I have taken zee liberty of adding fresh-squeezed orange juice to your breakfast this morning.”

  “There’s pulp in this,” I’d act, shoving it away.

  “My sincere apologies,” he’d beg. “I promise this will not happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” I’d mock. Then we’d burst out laughing and give each other a big hug.

  I took the biggest delight when he would flip pancakes up in the air and then right back into the pan. The best was when they fell on the floor and the five-second rule would come into effect. If uncle Morris couldn’t get the pancake within five seconds, the pancake was thrown out. If he could, he threw it out anyway, but it was fun counting.

  That didn’t happen this time though. When Grandpop was in the hospital, uncle Morris served me cold cereal and left the room.

  Finally, Grandpop came home to his house, and I got to go visit. He was much thinner than he had been, and Grandmom made him stay in bed all the time. He gave me a hug and I tried to sit on his bed with him, but Grandmom wouldn’t let me. All I remember is her propping up his pillows all the time and her saying to everyone, “He needs his rest, leave him be.” That was also when I noticed the patch on her arm. “What’s that for?” I asked her. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “It’s just medicine for me,” she said. “It helps me so I can take care of Grandpop.”

  It was during this time that I got used to hearing the phone ring in the middle of the night. Sometimes it got to be such a common thing that I would just sleep right through it, but that wasn’t often. The phone would ring and I would wake up. I’d see my parents’ bedroom light shine from my door. I could hear the rumblings of my parents getting dressed. I’d get out of my bed and go to their door.

  “Is Grandpop all right?” I’d ask them.

  “He’s fine. Go back to bed, sweetheart. Uncle Morris is here if you need him.”

  So I did.

  I’d find out later that it was something like Grandpop’s temperature getting too high or that he was unable to breathe and an ambulance had to come pick him up. I wouldn’t find out, though, until years later when it came up in conversation with my parents.

  This became routine for the next six months or so.

  I rarely saw Grandmom anymore. I finally said one day, “I want to see Grandmom,” so they took me over to her house. She was lying in bed with the patch on her arm when we got there, and she let me get into bed with her.

  “Look at your teeth,” she said. “Such beautiful teeth. Do me a favor, always take care of your teeth because dentures are a bitch.”

  “Mom!” my own mother said, horrified hearing the b word used in front of the miracle child.

  I didn’t think anything of the teeth thing until later. I didn’t think anything of Grandmom being in bed until later. I just thought she was tired.

  And then one night the strangest thing happened.

  The phone rang. I woke up. The light went on and shone from my parents’ bedroom into mine.

  I heard my mother start to cry. I heard uncle Morris walk down to my parents’ room. He started to cry. I got out of my bed and went into their room.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Sweetheart, come over to the bed,” Mom said, sobbing while motioning me to where she was sitting.

  “I have some very sad news for you. Grandmom has gone to heaven.”

  “You mean Grandpop?” I corrected her.

  “No, sweetheart.” She had to pause and blow her nose as she went on. “Grandmom’s heart started to hurt her this afternoon and now she’s gone to heaven.”

  I didn’t get it. Why would Grandmom die? She wasn’t sick. She ate everything without salt in it. She wore that patch on her arm.

  “But she wasn’t sick,” I said, really perplexed at this point. What the heck was going on here?

  “We didn’t want to worry you with anything,” Dad said calmly. “When people get old they can get sick very quickly and this is what happened to Grandmom,” he said with tears in his eyes.

  That’s when I started to cry. I had never seen my father cry before. To this day, I’m not sure what had me more upset, Grandmom dying or seeing my father so upset.

  “What about Grandpop?” I asked them. Maybe it was all a ruse. They thought I could handle Grandpop dying and not Grandmom.

  “He’s still in the hospital,” Mom eked out.

  Three days later we had the funeral for Grandmom. Grandpop wasn’t there. For five days after that, the house was wall-to-wall with people.

  “Your grandmother was one great lady,” Carol and Richard told me.

  “We’ll never know anyone more full of life than your grandmother, ” Lou and Ruth Goldman said to me.

  “Your grandmother was so kind. She never talked behind anyone’s back,” Sylvia Gainsburgh said, standing with her husband, Mort Gainsburgh.

  Two days after everyone left, I came home from school and they were back again.

  Grandpop had died.


  My grandparents died two weeks apart. Some said Grandmom had to get to heaven before him to get the dinner reservations in order. Some said she had to set up the house.

  When I got up here, I asked Grandmom, “What did you say to Grandpop when he got here?”

  Grandpop imitated her answer.

  “Jesus, Harry, you can’t give me two seconds of peace and quiet, can you?” he mocked in her high-pitched nasal voice. We had a laugh about that.

  uncle Morris moved into our house full-time after that, but there was no dancing anymore. The wonderful smell of his cigar no longer wafted through the house. There were no pancakes to be flipped. He sat in his bedroom most of the time, watching television. He wasn’t taking care of me anymore. I was taking care of him.

  I served him pancakes with lots of syrup. I missed the smell of his cigar so I cut one for him. He cried while smoking it.

  We watched a lot of television. I didn’t care what was on. I don’t think he cared either. I just wanted to be with him. His best friends had died and he was too sad to think of anything else.

  I asked him to dance with me once, but he said, “I don’t feel like it,” and he shut his bedroom door.

  Then one day I came home from school and Matilda had come into our lives. Matilda was uncle Morris’s nurse. She later became our housekeeper.

  “What’s wrong with uncle Morris?” I asked my parents.

  “He’s just sad,” my mom said. “He needs some help.”

  uncle Morris lasted six months without my grandparents. It was a Saturday, and I was in my room watching Mildred Pierce on Channel 12, a favorite of my grandmother’s. uncle Morris had a stroke sometime earlier that morning. Mom found him in his bed. I wasn’t allowed to leave my room. I didn’t want to anyway. uncle Morris was dead in the other room. It was years before I ever walked into that guest bedroom again.

  I heard the sounds of my parents murmuring to each other. I heard some people come to the door to take uncle Morris.