Deedee's Stories I remember going to visit the house as it was being built—I was 6 when we moved. The day we moved was rainy, and it must have been a Saturday, because I think I went to Sunday school the next day with our next door neighbor—must have been a strange thing for my parents, as it was at a Conservative synagogue. Don't recall being thrilled with Sunday school—even after my parents were founding members of the Reform Jewish Congregation of Merrick (for a few years we had Sabbath school on Saturdays—I really hated that—never did my homework and never learned any Hebrew. I quit just after my brother's Bar Mitzvah—I was in the 4th grade. I remember our rabbi, Benno Wallach, coming to our house and talking in the living room with him; he tried to persuade me to come back, and tried to get my parents to "encourage" me. No dice. When we first moved in the backyard had not been graded properly and we had a big rain. Our next door neighbor had an inflatable rubber raft, and he rowed it in our yard. I remember when our den was added—it was very special to have such a unique room—big deal made about the "parquet" ceiling, wood floor (carpet was the norm), the hidden lighting and the Andersen windows—"cadillac of windows." I recall coming home from school and watching the carpenter Fred Entler doing his work, and how he had left a brokerage career to do what he loved (even back then!). One night, when my brother was babysitting we were fooling around and he locked the door of the upstairs bathroom; not knowing this, I shut the door, locking it, with no way to get it open. At that time my mother was either on crutches or used a cane, which she did for several years after hip surgery. I cried my self to sleep worrying that she would come home, go upstairs and have to go down again to use the bathroom. My father just used a screwdriver and took off the lock—but I didn't know that till the next morning. In 1954 I went to Camp Marlin (my second year) for the summer. On the last night of camp—just before the banquet, I started to feel pain in my stomach. Everyone dismissed it as excitement and nerves. But, by the time we were going to bed I was in real pain, and spent the night in the infirmary. When my parents came to get me, we went right to the hospital in Freeport where I had an emergency appendectomy. The House connection: my parents had spent the summer re-doing my room as a huge surprise, and they were afraid I might never see it. After a week in the hospital, I went home to the perfect girl's room: my father had papered the ceiling with a wonderful flower print, my beds had white chintz covers and dust ruffles that matched the paper. They had put in a vanity table that had a skirt that also matched—and curtains that completed the look. I loved that room. The next May I became very ill again—and it took almost two weeks to diagnose it—I had developed adhesions from the appendectomy—I remember one night that my mother slept with me in my bed because I hurt so much—the only time I remember that. Our doctor, Merny Laster came to our house at 10 o'clock on a Friday night—and sent me right to the hospital—where I had surgery at 2 in the morning—I remember being a very sick little girl—and that Mother's day came while I was in the hospital—and I had to tell my mother to look in my top drawer for her gift—I had bought a pair of white leather gloves for her—yes, we wore things like that back then! I remember my mother's Aunt Anna coming to visit during Hanukkah and grating, and grating, and grating potatoes at the kitchen counter for our latkas—none were ever better. And I remember my grandparents, Mama and Papa coming to our house every other Monday—their day off from the restaurant. Because it was meat kosher we always had a dairy meal to give them a break from their usual fare. Mama was an amazing cook and usually brought something special . Potatonik was wonderful—garlic-y and oily and heavy—nothing anyone would even think of eating today—and the recipe died with her (my brother liked it even more than I did). I remember sitting at the table in the dining room and how Papa would reach over to pat Mama's hand, and kiss her on the cheek. Mama died during my freshman year in college—and because it was during my finals my parents decided not to tell me till I came home for Christmas—a very bad mistake. But when I did come home Papa was staying at our house. By then he was in very bad shape—aphasic and confused. But on my first night home he took my hand and took me outside and we stood on the front steps. His hand was very warm—I remember that. It was a clear cold night and the stars were quite bright. He pointed up and said, "My Esther is up there." We both cried. I remember the last Thanksgiving my father was alive—we always had Passover at Harold and Ethel's, and Thanksgiving at my parents house. I was living in Chicago, but came home for the holiday. My father was quite ill and dying of a brain tumor. I remember the kosher butcher, who always made the turkey, bringing it to the house—and knowing a sea change had occurred when my father couldn't carve the turkey. It was one of the most poignant things about the disease—that he just accepted the loss of his ability with great grace. My most recent memory: I visited my mother to help organize some things for her move—and after dinner the second night of my visit she tripped and fell over a chair. It was terribly frightening for both of us, and we both know how lucky it was that I was there. I don't know how she would have gotten help—and it made so clear that the time had come to leave the house to be in a more protected environment. I have many memories of Aunt Ethel, before and after Uncle Harold died, sitting on the couch in the den knitting after dinner—usually she was dressed in a suit or skirt, her hair was always "done" and she would click her tongue when we made bad jokes or teased her. When Andrew was around a year old we stayed at my mother's for a visit—he had a crib that was kept in Steve's old room. The wall paper was grass cloth—very expensive and a "big deal." Andrew was quiet for a long time after a nap, and when I went to get him, he had picked off all the paper he could reach, and the wall was a mess. My mother should have been livid—but she just took it in—and went on with life. She's always known what is really important. We shouldn't forget the table in the den—and all the hot games of Shanghai played there—in fact, Alison calls it the Shangai table, and she and Jonathan are coming to take the table before my mother moves—it is surely full of memories for all of us. My children always knew we were at "Gammy's" house because of her signature perfume—she wore Tigress by Faberge for many years—till they stopped making it, and it's aroma filled the house.