Our maternal grandmother’s heritage was Romanian. Her name was Elizabeth, but she went by what a grandmother in Romania would, bunică, which we pronounced boonie. She was not a tall woman, which she frequently lamented, standing some five-feet four-inches, though she stood above her mother who grew to a scant four-foot ten-inches. Not surprisingly, her mother was referred to as little bunică. Our bunică was married at the tender age of fourteen to a man ten years her senior, an arrangement we wouldn’t accept today, but in the year of nineteen twenty-four attitudes were different. From that day forward she worked as adult would; cooking, cleaning, shopping, rearing children, and washing and hanging the laundry. I remember a story she told of neighborhood women who would judge harshly if linens weren’t on line by early morning. When winter waned and Easter bushes blossomed, she and mom would clean house from top to bottom; walls, windows, draperies, refrigerator, lighting…you name it and odds are they cleaned it. Though my family was a hard working clan, bunică was in a league of her own. She lived with us through much of our formative years, as both our parents worked; father as attorney, and mother as English teacher. Bunică was our childcare worker, our house keeper, our chef. Dad paid her for her efforts, but I don’t believe monetary recompense could ever sufficiently reward all she did, because she was also our guardian angel.

She would see body and spirit through injury physical, sickness deathly, or heart wounded. Our grandmother woke us for school and ensured nourishment was warm and filling before we crossed threshold destined for bus. When returning from day’s instruction on sums and sentence we would enter a home fragrant with dishes such as green bean stew, stuffed peppers, city chicken, and lettuce soup. On hot summer nights she would see we were bathed and outfitted in clean pajamas before we lay head on pillow, despite our noisy insistence bathing was unnecessary.

When end of school year finally arrived, she would escort sister, brother, and me to a five-and-ten and allow us each to choose a toy. She didn’t have much in way of financial resources, but wanted us to have something special to celebrate scholastic achievement and summer’s beginning. I clearly remember those days of walking isle trying to decide which Tonka truck, or race car, or game would be most satisfactory. Bunică was extraordinarily patient as it took my siblings and me quite some time to converge on our selections—particularly me.

At Christmas aromas of baking pies and pastries filled air and if we behaved, she folded what she called sugar pies with leftover scraps…butter, cinnamon, and sugar encased in dough, fresh and hot from oven. For New Year’s Eve a pigs-in-the-blanket production commenced. I watched her, test sauerkraut for flavor, triple grind meat, steam cabbage leaves, stuff and wrap, and tenderly layer all in a massive pot. This blend simmered for hours, carefully tended to ensure broth stayed at level necessary to boil every ingredient to perfection. We would feast for days.

On our first vacation dad packed us (mom, bunică, brother, sister, and me) in his black Grand Prix and we headed to Jersey shore. On the roads of the day, this was a ten hour trek with windows down. Bunică somehow kept us kids from killing each other or dad from pulling to roadside to toss us. She rarely lost temper and when we showed signs of straying, gave advice not from perch on soapbox, but quietly calling upon what she had learned through difficulty she didn’t want us to repeat. I said she rarely lost temper, the exception being with her husband. When their marriage was in its youth, man ruled house, as did he, at least in judging by tales told round kitchen table. When I knew grandfather, who we called pop, he had lost most of his bite and treated me with kindness. But I reckon, from all those years of unfairly dominating the scene, bunică had had enough. They would have legendary screaming matches over letters assembled on Scrabble board. Whether truly a word, was determined by Mr. Webster, and if he hadn’t included it in his volume it was ruled out no matter how loud the voices.

In later years she was cheated by dementia, that most insidious thief, and it was difficult to pull her back from those shadowy recesses.

I sometimes think about the arc of her life and it amazes me. She was born into a world in which her relatives utilized draft horses to plow fields. When she left this world and stepped into the next, planes were crossing the ocean in hours and data in fractions of seconds.

As a young boy, I didn’t understand that pigs-in-the-blanket or sugar pies or toys at the five-and-dime were fleeting magic. Those special times, those special things, those family gatherings would always be—that’s how this boy once reasoned. I’ve heard it said that present days are “the good old days”. The longer I kick the stone down the street the more I agree.