1. Another Family

My grandfather liked to hang around Moishe Cheshinsky’s bookstore on Lawrence Avenue. We were usually the only ones in the stacks. The back room was dusty. Most of the books were written in languages I couldn’t understand. I wondered, “Why do you like it here so much?” My grandfather gestured toward the shelves, “This is my other family.”

2. The Masses

My grandfather believed we were People of the Book. His friend Meyer believed in the Book of the People. Meyer was a mensch who wanted to improve the world, Grandpa explained, but he was going about it all wrong. That’s because he was still a Communist. He had missed the news bulletin about Stalin. Meyer said, “The masses are no asses.” My grandfather shook his head. “Are you certain about that?”

3. Genesis 1 and 2

The old men seemed ancient to me—they were in their early sixties—and should have had beards. They didn’t like the organized part of religion, but they loved the Hebrew Bible. My grandpa’s cronies debated everything. They had no interest in sports—this was their favorite pastime. One day they argued about the origin of the world. Everyone had a theory about why Yahweh created mankind twice. There was a newcomer in the corner. “So what?” he said finally. “The second time was no better than the first.”

4. Ashkenazim

The old men spoke with accents. They had fled pogroms, or ten years of military service, or bad marriages. They checked Other on government forms because they did not consider themselves White. That was for gentiles. “Use your keppie,” my grandfather said, which meant my noggin. “We’re not white. We’re Jewish.”

5. Oy

My grandfather resorted to Yiddish when he was frustrated. He said oy Gutt (oh my God) or oy gevalt (good grief). But I got confused and mixed up God and grief.

When winter winds are piercing chill,
  And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
  That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away
  Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
  And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
  The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
  The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
  Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
  And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
  When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
  And the song ceased not with the day! 

But still wild music is abroad,
  Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
  Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
 
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
  Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
  I listen, and it cheers me long.