When I have been mentioning to my clients that I would be out later in the week to attend services for my 99 year old grandmother, these clients would exclaim, "Bless her heart!" or, "If only we could be so lucky to live to such a ripe old age!" And it's true: we want to live a long, healthy, vibrant life. But what's funny to me is that my clients' questions soon begin to paint a picture of a feeble, weathered, little woman, meekly tiptoeing away from life. For anyone who's ever met my grandmother – this was not the case!
Stella Warren was born Stephania Lech, on August 1, 1910; the daughter of two Polish immigrants from the Warsaw area, who settled in Cambridge, Massachussetts around the turn of the century. She was one of three daughters, all of whom remained very close throughout their lives, spent in the New England area still close to Boston.
To appear more Americanized, Stephania changed her name to "Stella,"perhaps around the time of the popularity of A Streetcar Named Desire. Stella left home, and rented a room in an apartment shared with a few other young women who all worked together. Around this time, in the mid 1930s, she met my grandfather, Harris "Speed" Warren, who was working as a cab driver to sustain himself through the Great Depression. (My grandfather acquired the nickname "Speed" while being the star quarterback at his local high school. It was a nickname that stuck with him until his death at 85, a decade and a half ago. It was the only name by which he went, and I used to love the fact that this wobbly old man still went by "Speed," despite walking with a cane later in life.)
If my memory serves me well, I believe my grandparents met at a coffee shop that they both used to frequent with their co-workers after they retired from the day's shift. They caught each other's fancy, and soon began to date. Unfortunately, I don't know the details of how long they dated before they got married, or many of the fun stories they might have shared from that period. I do know that after several years of marriage they had their first daughter, Diane, and then four years later, they had my mother, Jane. I also know that they bought they first and only house for $7,000, which still remains in the family today.
Back to my grandmother... I have been thinking about her so much over the past week, having a good chuckle here and there at what I will call her "Stella-isms." When I saw her last summer at a family reunion, she didn't recognize me at first. She stared at me with a squint and a grimace, and then broke into a mischievous grin. When I asked her what she was smiling at, she replied: "You look good – now that you got fat!" Feeling a little pinched by the comment, and taken-aback, I couldn't help but laugh. And I still laugh now, thinking of it. This was just her way...
And she truly meant it, every word. She *did* think I looked better with more weight on my frame. She had spent her life as a professional baker, so I think she subconsciously didn't trust people who were that thin, or who didn't partake in her heavenly, sugary concoctions. I, of course, have a pretty intense sweet tooth, and have inherited what I refer to as my grandmother's "Polish center of gravity." (aka: my "bubble butt," or "my ass that won't quit!")
But she was infamous for these kinds of Stella-witticisms. She also once told my sister-in-law that she looked good, now that she wasn't so "pinched and drawn." Um, thank you?!? (Why I outta...) Or like in the mid 1990s when I asked her which Presidential candidate she'd be voting for, since we never spoke of politics at her house, and I began to wonder on which side she would fall, she simply replied: "They're ALL schmoes!!!" Well, okay then! I'm still no closer to unraveling the mystery of her political leanings.
Even though she had this biting, snarky charm for quick witted one liners, this woman loved to laugh. She had a tough exterior, but once you got through it, she would roll with the punches, right along with you. So much of my childhood was spent around her enormous dinner table with my extended family sharing jokes and anecdotes that would get us all roaring. We were a family that loved to laugh, my grandmother included. Ironically, her tastes were perhaps a little more prudish than the rest of ours at the dinner table, as she was a teetotaler, who would only have a sip of Manichewitz wine at Easter, (how's that for some cultural identity confusion?!?). And although she didn't offer up her own boisterous hilarity like the rest of us in the pack, she certainly laughed right there along with us. Or at least "at" us!
She had her own brand of humor, which resided more on the one on one basis of communicating. Like when I was a young child and eagerly asked her what we were having for dinner that night, she responded in Polish: "Goobna na potico." (Pardon my spelling, and pardon my French, as I believe it loosely translates into: "shit on a shingle.") She wasn't angry at me, and didn't even intend for her statement to be mean – it was just her brand of humor and wit. Her snappy come backs, and pursed lip, squinty eyed glints from the across the room; these were her charms. And I mean it!
Even though she could be a bit brash at times, it was clear that she loved us, and only wanted the best for us. I honestly think that much of it was simply a cultural road block. My brother, cousin and I, as third generation Americans, might not have been privy to her Eastern European sensibilities and sentiments. Somehow, her seemingly staccato quips revealed her tender, adoring sentimentality. Like the boys of yesteryear who only dunked the pigtails of the girls they had crushes on into those inkwell, my grandmother would only metaphorically pinch those of whom had already been let in to her heart-full inner-circle.
My favorite memories of her where from my earliest parts of childhood. We would visit our grandparents nearly every weekend, as my dad's career relocated my parents from the Boston area, to the Connecticut suburbs before I was born. My grandmother would eagerly welcome us with every visit. Since she had been a professional baker before she retired, we often spent weekends rolling out some age old recipe, or cutting out my favorite shaped cookies. She was infinitely patient with me, as it was often just the two of us in her kitchen, crouching over her salmon colored counter tops, with me inevitably dusted in flour from head to toe. She would quietly spell out every step of the process, and grant me enough latitude to perform my assigned duties with skillful precision, making her smile with each step completed.
Or while we had "down time" after baking, I'd beg her to teach me words in Polish, or we would play a few rounds of this unique card game she taught me as a child, seemingly related to a version of two people solitaire ("Steal the Old Woman's Bundle," or something like that?). She'd always be so patient with me, and we'd have so much fun, just the two of us. But my favorite thing of all time as a kid was trying to trick her into thinking that I had been awake for hours...
While staying at her house as a child, anytime I'd wake up and come downstairs to find her sitting at her kitchen table, she'd always say: "Good morning, Sunshine!" Something about it would kind of drive me crazy, I don't know why... It was just so funny. So, I concocted these schemes, where I'd sneak downstairs, and slip into the kitchen, pretending like I had simply been there the whole time, as if she just failed to notice me for three and a half hours. Without skipping a beat, she'd always catch me, have me figured out, and would still pipe up with: "Good morning, Sunshine!" She was on to me...
When I step back and think of her objectively, she was kind of amazing! She could whittle a sheet cake down to looking like an open bible for a baby's christening, or would frost the most heavenly multi-tiered wedding cakes that would make every woman in the room want to get married just for the sweets. Her niece Laura wrote a children's book about my grandmother and her two sisters – how fun that she was not only a character in real life, but now she will live on into eternity as a character in this book as well!
But there are other things, more subtle things that come to mind, that perhaps not everyone would know about her. Like: She had incredible taste in wallpaper. Her house had this gorgeous powdery silver wallpaper, with ivory toned patterns in nearly every room. Not only did she have great taste, but she also used to apply all of the wallpaper herself – an impressive feat, considering that it still was intact, nearly 70 years later. And that's what I remember about my grandmother – her impeccably clean house, despite her later years, when her mobility became more of an issue. Everything always had its place, and if you put your cup down for more than five minutes, she'd do a "sweep through" and it ended up being washed and back in the cabinet before you even had time to want a refill.
And the day bed our family bought for her was always precisely made and decorated with every stuffed animal we ever got her during our lifetimes. What a trooper – I mean, who really needed the commemorative Kermit the Frog, Missy Piggy in her Christmas stole, sad puppy dog with a puffy heart in his mouth, white teddy bear holding a bouquet of flowers, and the tiny kitten curled up, which was possibly made out of real fur? But she proudly displayed them as not only our tokens of love for her, but her love for us as well, as she moved them on and off her bed daily with each bedtime routine. A woman who was, for all intents and purposes, a minimalist – kept every gift we ever gave her, ridiculous or not. She appreciated every single thing. Sure, there were some holidays where she cried and said that we shouldn't have, but she never once asked to return or exchange whatever we got her – she was grateful that we thought of her at all.
But there was something almost queen-like about her. Because of her years of baking, she completely wore out the cartilage in her knees, and as she aged, she often sat with her feet up to help with circulation. Whenever we'd come in to see her, we'd all gather around her, and lean over to kiss her on the cheek, as her hair was always done perfectly, her nails polished and shaped, and a nice throw draped over her legs to keep her warm. And most recently, she had been in a nursing home, and was wheeled everywhere in a wheel chair, with a procession of family and staff following right behind. Very queen-like, indeed.
I'm happy that she had such a close knit family, who– through everything, loved to laugh. I'm thrilled that she got to see my cousin get married, that we were all together for a family reunion last summer, and this past Christmas. I *love* that she got to witness a Polish Pope – a score for the mother land...
Whether you knew her as the fabulous baker, the sassy sayer of quick witted one liners, the paper-er of walls, the one who spoke Polish with her sisters as their secret language (we all suspected they used to talk about us unknowingly); whether she was your mother, your sister, your aunt, your grandmother, your neighbor, or just the funny little grinning granny at the table next to you at the wedding – she definitely had a presence. She was one tough old bird, and one that I was proud to know, and call my grandmother.
I hope for her sake that heaven does exist, and that it reunites her with my grandfather, her parents, her sister, and Pope John Paul II. Rock that party, Gram! Love you ~
Stella Warren was born Stephania Lech, on August 1, 1910; the daughter of two Polish immigrants from the Warsaw area, who settled in Cambridge, Massachussetts around the turn of the century. She was one of three daughters, all of whom remained very close throughout their lives, spent in the New England area still close to Boston.
To appear more Americanized, Stephania changed her name to "Stella,"perhaps around the time of the popularity of A Streetcar Named Desire. Stella left home, and rented a room in an apartment shared with a few other young women who all worked together. Around this time, in the mid 1930s, she met my grandfather, Harris "Speed" Warren, who was working as a cab driver to sustain himself through the Great Depression. (My grandfather acquired the nickname "Speed" while being the star quarterback at his local high school. It was a nickname that stuck with him until his death at 85, a decade and a half ago. It was the only name by which he went, and I used to love the fact that this wobbly old man still went by "Speed," despite walking with a cane later in life.)
If my memory serves me well, I believe my grandparents met at a coffee shop that they both used to frequent with their co-workers after they retired from the day's shift. They caught each other's fancy, and soon began to date. Unfortunately, I don't know the details of how long they dated before they got married, or many of the fun stories they might have shared from that period. I do know that after several years of marriage they had their first daughter, Diane, and then four years later, they had my mother, Jane. I also know that they bought they first and only house for $7,000, which still remains in the family today.
Back to my grandmother... I have been thinking about her so much over the past week, having a good chuckle here and there at what I will call her "Stella-isms." When I saw her last summer at a family reunion, she didn't recognize me at first. She stared at me with a squint and a grimace, and then broke into a mischievous grin. When I asked her what she was smiling at, she replied: "You look good – now that you got fat!" Feeling a little pinched by the comment, and taken-aback, I couldn't help but laugh. And I still laugh now, thinking of it. This was just her way...
And she truly meant it, every word. She *did* think I looked better with more weight on my frame. She had spent her life as a professional baker, so I think she subconsciously didn't trust people who were that thin, or who didn't partake in her heavenly, sugary concoctions. I, of course, have a pretty intense sweet tooth, and have inherited what I refer to as my grandmother's "Polish center of gravity." (aka: my "bubble butt," or "my ass that won't quit!")
But she was infamous for these kinds of Stella-witticisms. She also once told my sister-in-law that she looked good, now that she wasn't so "pinched and drawn." Um, thank you?!? (Why I outta...) Or like in the mid 1990s when I asked her which Presidential candidate she'd be voting for, since we never spoke of politics at her house, and I began to wonder on which side she would fall, she simply replied: "They're ALL schmoes!!!" Well, okay then! I'm still no closer to unraveling the mystery of her political leanings.
Even though she had this biting, snarky charm for quick witted one liners, this woman loved to laugh. She had a tough exterior, but once you got through it, she would roll with the punches, right along with you. So much of my childhood was spent around her enormous dinner table with my extended family sharing jokes and anecdotes that would get us all roaring. We were a family that loved to laugh, my grandmother included. Ironically, her tastes were perhaps a little more prudish than the rest of ours at the dinner table, as she was a teetotaler, who would only have a sip of Manichewitz wine at Easter, (how's that for some cultural identity confusion?!?). And although she didn't offer up her own boisterous hilarity like the rest of us in the pack, she certainly laughed right there along with us. Or at least "at" us!
She had her own brand of humor, which resided more on the one on one basis of communicating. Like when I was a young child and eagerly asked her what we were having for dinner that night, she responded in Polish: "Goobna na potico." (Pardon my spelling, and pardon my French, as I believe it loosely translates into: "shit on a shingle.") She wasn't angry at me, and didn't even intend for her statement to be mean – it was just her brand of humor and wit. Her snappy come backs, and pursed lip, squinty eyed glints from the across the room; these were her charms. And I mean it!
Even though she could be a bit brash at times, it was clear that she loved us, and only wanted the best for us. I honestly think that much of it was simply a cultural road block. My brother, cousin and I, as third generation Americans, might not have been privy to her Eastern European sensibilities and sentiments. Somehow, her seemingly staccato quips revealed her tender, adoring sentimentality. Like the boys of yesteryear who only dunked the pigtails of the girls they had crushes on into those inkwell, my grandmother would only metaphorically pinch those of whom had already been let in to her heart-full inner-circle.
My favorite memories of her where from my earliest parts of childhood. We would visit our grandparents nearly every weekend, as my dad's career relocated my parents from the Boston area, to the Connecticut suburbs before I was born. My grandmother would eagerly welcome us with every visit. Since she had been a professional baker before she retired, we often spent weekends rolling out some age old recipe, or cutting out my favorite shaped cookies. She was infinitely patient with me, as it was often just the two of us in her kitchen, crouching over her salmon colored counter tops, with me inevitably dusted in flour from head to toe. She would quietly spell out every step of the process, and grant me enough latitude to perform my assigned duties with skillful precision, making her smile with each step completed.
Or while we had "down time" after baking, I'd beg her to teach me words in Polish, or we would play a few rounds of this unique card game she taught me as a child, seemingly related to a version of two people solitaire ("Steal the Old Woman's Bundle," or something like that?). She'd always be so patient with me, and we'd have so much fun, just the two of us. But my favorite thing of all time as a kid was trying to trick her into thinking that I had been awake for hours...
While staying at her house as a child, anytime I'd wake up and come downstairs to find her sitting at her kitchen table, she'd always say: "Good morning, Sunshine!" Something about it would kind of drive me crazy, I don't know why... It was just so funny. So, I concocted these schemes, where I'd sneak downstairs, and slip into the kitchen, pretending like I had simply been there the whole time, as if she just failed to notice me for three and a half hours. Without skipping a beat, she'd always catch me, have me figured out, and would still pipe up with: "Good morning, Sunshine!" She was on to me...
When I step back and think of her objectively, she was kind of amazing! She could whittle a sheet cake down to looking like an open bible for a baby's christening, or would frost the most heavenly multi-tiered wedding cakes that would make every woman in the room want to get married just for the sweets. Her niece Laura wrote a children's book about my grandmother and her two sisters – how fun that she was not only a character in real life, but now she will live on into eternity as a character in this book as well!
But there are other things, more subtle things that come to mind, that perhaps not everyone would know about her. Like: She had incredible taste in wallpaper. Her house had this gorgeous powdery silver wallpaper, with ivory toned patterns in nearly every room. Not only did she have great taste, but she also used to apply all of the wallpaper herself – an impressive feat, considering that it still was intact, nearly 70 years later. And that's what I remember about my grandmother – her impeccably clean house, despite her later years, when her mobility became more of an issue. Everything always had its place, and if you put your cup down for more than five minutes, she'd do a "sweep through" and it ended up being washed and back in the cabinet before you even had time to want a refill.
And the day bed our family bought for her was always precisely made and decorated with every stuffed animal we ever got her during our lifetimes. What a trooper – I mean, who really needed the commemorative Kermit the Frog, Missy Piggy in her Christmas stole, sad puppy dog with a puffy heart in his mouth, white teddy bear holding a bouquet of flowers, and the tiny kitten curled up, which was possibly made out of real fur? But she proudly displayed them as not only our tokens of love for her, but her love for us as well, as she moved them on and off her bed daily with each bedtime routine. A woman who was, for all intents and purposes, a minimalist – kept every gift we ever gave her, ridiculous or not. She appreciated every single thing. Sure, there were some holidays where she cried and said that we shouldn't have, but she never once asked to return or exchange whatever we got her – she was grateful that we thought of her at all.
But there was something almost queen-like about her. Because of her years of baking, she completely wore out the cartilage in her knees, and as she aged, she often sat with her feet up to help with circulation. Whenever we'd come in to see her, we'd all gather around her, and lean over to kiss her on the cheek, as her hair was always done perfectly, her nails polished and shaped, and a nice throw draped over her legs to keep her warm. And most recently, she had been in a nursing home, and was wheeled everywhere in a wheel chair, with a procession of family and staff following right behind. Very queen-like, indeed.
I'm happy that she had such a close knit family, who– through everything, loved to laugh. I'm thrilled that she got to see my cousin get married, that we were all together for a family reunion last summer, and this past Christmas. I *love* that she got to witness a Polish Pope – a score for the mother land...
Whether you knew her as the fabulous baker, the sassy sayer of quick witted one liners, the paper-er of walls, the one who spoke Polish with her sisters as their secret language (we all suspected they used to talk about us unknowingly); whether she was your mother, your sister, your aunt, your grandmother, your neighbor, or just the funny little grinning granny at the table next to you at the wedding – she definitely had a presence. She was one tough old bird, and one that I was proud to know, and call my grandmother.
I hope for her sake that heaven does exist, and that it reunites her with my grandfather, her parents, her sister, and Pope John Paul II. Rock that party, Gram! Love you ~
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