Sam Remembered

Sam, Oh dear dear Sam, what a flood of emotion I feel looking at our picture. It was taken in 1912 when I was almost four years old.

Do you remember me riding on Major, my Shetland pony, all gussied up in my red sweater, hat, and gloves? The cows were in the pasture. It’s a bleak winter day. We are so close, so that makes the world right.

“Yes, mein Kind, I do recall. I was so proud of the way you took to riding. Nobody in the family had your easy-seat and strong knees. I let Major run with you on him unsaddled, bareback. Dangerous, but I believed in you. Would I permit a hair on your head to be hurt?”

You were one of my family even before I was born. Your sister Rosie thought you’d be happy on our farm. I’m so glad you came. You talked very little but you did so much for Maurice and me. You fed us, bathed us, and tucked us in bed after telling a story. You had the patience of Job. You’d get us water, a blanket, close or open the window, pull the shade up or down. I realize we tormented you, though you never lost your temper. I suppose you knew we never wanted you to leave.

When I was sick with a cold, do you remember what games we played?

“Yes, we played Gummy Ball and Jacks on a board. Sometimes it was Tic Tac Toe. I told you Bible stories. I even drew silly animals for you. You always enjoyed everything.”

I loved most to be with you. You never tired of my requests or demands. You acted as though I was the most important person in your life. How warm and wonderful to think about that.

Sam, did Papa pay you enough money? Could you leave us if you liked another place better?

“Papa paid me well. I never wanted to leave. I probably never had the courage to think of leaving. Don’t blame Papa for anything. He took away any money I had loose when he saw me show signs of my habit. It happened often enough in the years for him to sense my change.”

Is it possible for you to talk about that part of you? It is so vivid in my mind. Sam, darling, at those times it seemed to me you acted like an animal. You never ate, you never slept, you were hunting for something, or maybe felt hunted by it. You leaned a two-story ladder against the house to get in and steal, because at that time, we kept the doors locked.  You stole blankets and pictures and silver in the house to buy the liquor you needed. When you got over the binge, you brought everything back.

Oh, you were so sick. I wanted to hold you in my arms. I felt panic and pain when I saw you lying unconscious in the yard, with your stomach swollen and your eyes rolled back. It will be a nightmare all my life. Of course, I thought you were dead each time. I rejoiced when you revived and always got on my knees to Thank God. Today I say I’m allergic to liquor. Can you tell me WHY?

“Mein Kind, you know my native tongue. I cannot express myself in English. And if I could, I wouldn’t. This is my sickness. I had it before I came to live on your farm. I was an ordained Rabbi in Germany and lost my pulpit in disgrace because of my bad habits. WHY? I don’t know. At that time, doctors didn’t know the cure. Maybe I was unloved. Maybe I wanted children of my own. Maybe I wanted respect I couldn’t handle in the Rabbinate. I don’t know. I say, again and again, I don’t know. I know I have the love of your whole family, I hope in our lives together you have received as much as you gave.”

Sam, you never need apologize. You gave me more than I could ever conceive having given you. When pasteurization became law, Papa sold the farm and you joined Rosie and Hansha in Chicago, I really have never been the same. A piece of me left with you.

Do you remember when I visited you in Chicago on my way to see Aunt Millie in Lake Tahoe? I was pregnant with Winki. You and Rosie met me at the station and brought me to your lovely house. You looked old but beautiful.

You said, “I will run a bath for you so you will feel cool when you have to get on the train again.” I agreed. What I didn’t realize was that you would sit in the bathroom while I bathed.

I said, “Sam, I’m grown up now, not your baby anymore. You may not stay here.”

In no uncertain terms, I was told, “You were and are NOW, my responsibility. I will sit here to see no harm comes to you in Mein Haus.”