Before I became a bubby, I had a bubby. My bubby was very old, had white hair, and loved me very much. She lived nearby and oversaw my mother's childrearing practices with some disdain. She respected and deeply appreciated my mother, who as the oldest daughter of immigrant parents became an attorney and looked after the welfare of the entire family. But she thought she was out of her league when it came to nurturing and raising my brother and me.
My Bubby wouldn't eat at our house because we didn't keep kosher, but on Fridays she brought us a chicken dinner, with vegetables and soup and noodles, to make sure we had good food to eat. It's true my mother couldn't cook and the assorted housekeepers she hired to look after us knew nothing about Jewish style meals. So Bubby made it her business to ensure that at least on Fridays we were well looked after. She herself didn't drive, so she got my Zayda to drive her to our house and help her unload all the pans and dishes and pass to us (whispering don't tell your mother) white paper bags of m&ms from the five and ten store.
My Bubby was the life partner of my Zayda, and they managed several small businesses together. She was a seamstress and came to this country by herself at age 16. For my entire life, she would lift the hem of any skirt or dress I bought, examine it, and ask me how much I paid for it. I would halve the price and she would still exclaim: "too much!" She didn't care at all about style or even fabric. It was the sewing that she eyed. And nothing was sewn well enough to meet her high standard.
My Bubby was old world, spoke English perfectly well, but was never fully Americanized. She was stern and very business-like in her dealings, even with her grandchildren. I knew she loved me, but she didn't express her love in obvious ways. She didn't hug and kiss me all the time. She expected me to do well in all my endeavors, to be smart and stay close to my family. She was ambitious for me (especially given that I was a girl) but also cautious. She died in the Jewish home for the aged she had helped to found at 89 shortly after my first child was born. When I brought him to her, she was upset that, even in July, I took him out without a hat and booties. By my next visit, she had visited the gift shop and bought him a set. Then she was gone.
That was my Bubby.
