The Classic Woman

My sister Sylvia was married when she was seventeen. She and her husband, Jack Davis, familiarly known as Husky, and their daughter, my niece, also named Gloria (Baby Gloria) lived upstairs from Jack's mother and father on Allendale Street in the North End of Springfield. I was a sister-in-law when I was a baby and an aunt when I was three years old.

There were three grown daughters at the Davis home on the first floor of the house where my sister and her husband and my little niece lived.

Ruthie had been a child prodigy on the piano who would not, or could not, leave the house. A locally renowned piano teacher, Mr. Kalman, from the goodness of his heart and because of Ruthie's musical genius, still came to the house to give her free private piano lessons.

Nothing had come of her musical genius because she could never leave the house. At the time, it was just kind of accepted that Ruthie was too shy to go anywhere. Today that shyness has a name and would be analyzed. At that time, nothing much was made of it. It was just accepted the same way her musical talent was.

Ann had a beautiful singing voice. And Rose was just beautiful and loving as I remember. There were also a couple of grown sons who were married and just came on Sunday's with their families like the rest of us.

I am calling Jack's mother the classic woman. That may not be the right term, and I am giving you my viewpoint as it was as a child and as I remember it now.

Jack's mother, Mrs. Davis, was a tiny thing. Her whole life was cooking and cleaning and serving with no thought about it. On Sundays, she had what would be called in English and Russian literature -- a salon.

Anyone could come over on Sunday and eat delicious food. This little old woman -- maybe she was not so old -- maybe to my six-year old eyes, everyone who wasn't a child was old.

On any or every Sunday, we could go over and often did. No invitation was needed. No prior notice was given. We would just go over and be sated with music and food like no one makes today. And you could stay for supper as well. The hospitality was so great it's possible you could have just moved in there.

The whole Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Davis would be in the kitchen with her cast iron frying pans, cooking potato kugels and lochshen kugels on top of the stove. (My mother baked them in the oven.) There were wonderful blintzes and honey cakes and all manners of cookies and cakes that Mrs. Davis made from start to finish with sweet butter and almonds. Mrs. Davis served tea as well. I don't remember coffee.

I am calling Jack's mother the classic woman. That may not be the right term, and I am giving you my viewpoint as it was as a child. She was definitely the heart of the home.

She was a tiny thing, and her whole life was cooking and cleaning and serving with no thought about it.

The only times I can remember her being in the living-room with the rest of us on Sundays was when she was bringing in more food. The rest of the time she was cooking in the kitchen and washing dishes, too, I suppose. I don't remember her ever sitting down with us. And that's just how it was. She was a part of the house like the sofa and chairs, only her legs could move, and she went back and forth.

The North End was very different from where I lived in Longmeadow, Massachusetts. The North End was all two and three-family houses and apartments and stores on each corner. Longmeadow was all one-family homes in a reserved country atmosphere. The North End of Springfield and Longmeadow could have been two different countries of the world. They certainly were two different cultures.

Long ago the North End of Springfield was torn down, partly to make way for new highways, and partly to do away with a shabby part of the city. The two-family house where so many Sundays were spent is gone and the whole Davis family is gone. My niece and I are the only ones left who remember the Sunday salon and the good food and music there. I can hear the piano now.