Meet my grandmother, Bella, who arrived in the United States in 1920 with her family, and my grandfather Sam, who came with his in 1921. Both fled the horrors and chaos that followed the end of World War I, one from Poland, the other from Russia. Escaping persecution and upheaval, each of them made their way to a new life in America. They arrived separately, both entering through Ellis Island in New York, before eventually settling in the same city of Philadelphia, or as the locals call it, “Philly.” It was there that they joined their extended families, who had already begun to lay down roots in this unfamiliar city.
As fate would have it— or more precisely, my great-aunt Miriam, stepped in introducing her brother Sam to Bella. They fell in love, marrying in 1929. Like so many immigrants of their time, they built a life from scratch with little more than determination and dreams. They planted roots in Philadelphia never leaving, creating a home, a family, as well as a legacy that still exists today.
My grandfather, affectionately known as “Sam the Butcher” no, not the one from The Brady Bunch, was one of the good guys. The only thing he ever put on ice was kosher meat, straight from his popular butcher shop in the Logan section of Philly. No bologna, no bacon, and definitely no bodies. He served nothing but the best rib roast, and chicken, plus a reputation that made him a legend in the neighborhood. Eventually, he became President of the Kosher Butchers Association of Philadelphia, because of course, that was a thing back then. He was well known, loved, moreover highly respected not merely for the quality of his brisket, but for his enormous heart.
Sam helped anyone who needed it, people down on their luck, new immigrants, even total strangers. For many years, he allowed several of the men who had nowhere to live to stay in their basement. My grandmother Bella was not thrilled. Let’s say she wasn’t baking rugelach for houseguests she didn’t know. Sam didn’t care, he only needed to know if you were willing to work hard, he would find you a job at the slaughterhouse or at one of the local merchants, no matter who you were.
He was adored by his community, his synagogue, but most of all, his family. I absolutely idolized my grandfather. His values, generosity, tireless work ethic, unshakeable sense of gratitude, and devotion to community were traits inherited by his daughters; my mother Doris (born in 1932) and her younger sister Phyllis (born in 1935) who were very close to each other their entire lives, though you would never know it by the way they bickered. You could hear them going at it from halfway down the block, but no one doubted their love for each other. Together, they carried the family torch with passion and purpose, including enough judgmental flair to keep the rest of us in check.
That legacy didn’t end with my grandparents, as giving back wasn’t something they did to feel good. It was embedded in their DNA— living on through their daughters, their grandchildren, great-grandchildren, including the next generation of great-great-grandchildren. It was simply who we continued to be, along with sarcasm, an impressive catalog of health complaints (most of which turn out to be nothing), along with the complete inability to leave a party without eating everything in sight. We may be generous with our hearts, we’re never too full for dessert.
My grandparents were all about family unity. Most Sundays, as well as every holiday, they put out a big spread for the entire family where no one ever left hungry. Sitting at the table were my parents, me (Nancy), my brother Jack, who was three and a half years younger, and three and a half years later, baby Sharon. My Aunt Phyllis and her husband David were there, along with their growing crew, first Mark, Karen, then Steven, and eventually Joel. Since our mothers were so close, we never felt like extended family, we genuinely loved being together.
My grandfather was pretty religious, so on the big holidays, we’d all have to sit at the long table staring at the wood paneled wall, for what felt like hours, as he recited prayers. My cousins, siblings and I would start giggling, kicking each other under the table, counting the minutes until we could finally eat. The room was filled with the inviting aromas of garlic, onions, and warm spices wafting through the air, making the wait feel even longer. But when the food finally came out, it was worth every second. My grandmother, mother and aunt were all phenomenal cooks, except when they served boiled tongue or chicken feet— traditional Eastern European dishes that, frankly, were plain disgusting, but it was all part of the family experience. You had to hold your nose hoping someone would pass the family favorite— rice and chicken covered with chicken fat.
Being the first grandchild of Sam and Bella— boy, did they spoil me like I was royalty. In their eyes, I was perfect, which is hilarious considering what a hot mess I actually was. I loved going to their house in Philadelphia to ‘help’ in my grandfather’s butcher shop. By the age of five, there I was barely able to reach the counter placing lamb chops in the display tray, trying to please my grandfather, arranging meat like I owned the place. Honestly, if child labor laws were applied in butcher shops in those days, they would’ve been shut down.
My grandmother Bella happened to be a highly successful milliner “copyist” (copying high-end women’s hat designs in the early 1900’s) who somehow managed to look thirty years older than she was, dressing like a character straight out of the movie, Borat. She may have been a talented designer, but every time I stayed over, she’d take me shopping, loading me up with clothes that made me look like a miniature old lady. I had quite the wardrobe, if you were shopping for embarrassing expensive Eastern European-looking outfits, nobody else wanted, that was me.
Nancy