(Grandma and Edie, 1972)
My paternal grandmother, Esther Schotting, passed away on this date in
1979. She and my grandfather were my de facto parents. They and the late Earle
Wittpenn were my role models and mentors.
Grandma had the most influence over me, and she took her responsibility
seriously. She made certain to watch for me as I walked home from
elementary school in the afternoon, or crossed Eighth Avenue to go to
Isaly's or McCrory's for her. She was always at a window, always looking
for me. When I lost track of time while reading at the library, she'd
call to confirm I was there and ask the librarian to tell me to head
home when I finished whatever I was reading.
In her later years, when I would change buses on my way to my night
shift job in Pittsburgh, she would be there in the window of the
apartment on Ann Street. I probably looked like an idiot, waving in the
dark at a 45° angle into the night sky. But I knew she was there and
even though I was all grown up, in my mid-20s with two kids of my own,
her presence gave me comfort.
My grandmother claimed to be an "old-time Baptist", although the only
time I ever saw her attend church was for my wedding. She kept her faith
in her own unique way, and she did it, no pun intended, religiously. She
had several Mahalia
Jackson and Tennessee
Ernie Ford albums she liked to play, and she watched all the
televised Billy
Graham campaigns (as long as they didn't conflict with Joe
Pyne or Studio
Wrestling).
She had a big, heavy, brown leather-bound Bible
prominently positioned in the living room, but it served primarily as a
storage location for important papers, not as a source of spiritual
inspiration. She had porcelain
statues of Jesus scattered in various locations who, unbeknownst to
her, also served as stern military commanders who would give details of
upcoming missions to my G.I. Joes and who whacked the troops with their
shepherd crooks when they failed to deliver.
She also had a Jesus statue in a wooden boxlike thing that, frankly,
reminded me of a cuckoo clock (but, of course, I never told her that).
The only picture allowed on the shelves with any of the assorted Jesuses
was a white plastic framed picture of the then recently departed
President Kennedy, but many of my friends' houses in Homestead in the
early 60s had those as well, as all faithful FDR Democrats would.
It may seem that I'm disparaging my grandmother's religious beliefs: far
from it. What she lacked in attendance was more than offset by her
actions. While she didn't go to church, she made certain I went to
Sunday School. I alternated between attending Lutheran and Presbyterian
churches and summer camps, which provided indelible memories. (♪ On the
hills of Lutherlyn, we'll slip in the dip and roll the ball along... ♪)
If you were a friend and down on your luck, Grandma would let you and
your kid crash on the couch for a couple days and even give you two or
three bucks if she had hit the numbers for a penny that day.
We had a full table every Thanksgiving and Christmas, and half the
people there were older acquaintances from the neighborhood who lived
alone and either had no family or weren't welcome.
When I told her we couldn't go to a local diner because my school friend
was black and the owner told us to leave, she put on her good black
orthopedic shoes, hobbled down the steps of our third floor apartment
and ripped into the proprietor with a righteous fury rivaling the
intense monologues Jack Webb would give on her favorite police show, Dragnet.
When she passed, I asked the local Baptist minister I knew from my time
at the Homestead Messenger if he would conduct her service. He
graciously agreed and appeared wearing his trademark attire, a loud
patterned sports jacket that Bill
Currie would have envied.
He talked to me and several attendees I didn't know, folks Grandma had
helped in the distant past who recalled her kindness and willingness to
help and came to offer their respects. I guess it's an acquired skill
the clergy develop over the years, but his service was surprisingly
accurate and sincere- informed, no doubt, by the acquaintances to whom
he had spoken.
I held up pretty well until he ended his eulogy to a woman he never met
with a poem by Margaret
Widdemer that precisely described her:
She always leaned to watch for us,
Anxious if we were late,
In
winter by the window,
In summer by the gate.
And though we mocked her tenderly,
Who had such foolish care,
The
long way home would seem more safe
Because she waited there.
Her thoughts were all so full of us,
She never could forget!
And
so I think that where she is
She must be watching yet.
Waiting till we come home to her,
Anxious if we are late,
Watching
from Heaven’s window,
Leaning on Heaven’s gate.
Categories:
KGB Family,
Margaret Widdemer
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