Much has been said and written about the Sandwich Generation,
those women who have been called upon to take care of elderly
parents at the same time they are busy bringing up their own
children. They are compared to the filling of a sandwich, and
it is a simile that we can all appreciate.
Within the next decade, there will be a major demographic
change. The first wave of baby boomers will become senior
citizens. That means that they will move up in life. Instead
of being the filling of the sandwich, they will become the
top layer.
I learned a lot about the Sandwich Generation from my mother,
who took care of my grandmother until my mother was herself a
grandmother in her late seventies. But I learned even more
from my grandmother, who was what I consider the perfect "top
of the sandwich."
My grandmother was born in Kiev. Although her grandmother
(her father's mother) had been a wealthy businesswoman and
the family therefore had some measure of social status, my
great-grandparents themselves were quite poor. When my
grandmother was about sixteen years old, she had to make a
serious choice. Winter was approaching and her parents did
not have enough money to buy more than one pair of shoes.
For some reason, one of my grandmother's siblings had more of
a pressing need for new shoes that year. I am not sure if it
was a bar mitzvah, chosson, kallah, or what. I just
know the shoes were not going to go to my grandmother.
My grandmother's oldest sister was married and had young
children, ages 1 and 2. Her husband had gone to the States
and found a good job. He was able to send steerage tickets
for his family to join him there. It would have been very
difficult for my great-aunt to travel alone for two weeks
with two little ones, so her husband had sent an extra ticket
for someone to accompany her on the voyage and help her.
My grandmother was offered the extra ticket. She had a
dilemma. Should she stay where she was, without proper shoes,
and be virtually housebound during the long Ukrainian winter,
or should she accompany her sister to America? She chose to
go with her sister.
She arrived in New York knowing no one except her sister and
her sister's small family. She moved in with them and they
found her a sewing job. When a shidduch was proposed
for my grandmother, her brother-in-law was delighted. He had
felt responsible for my grandmother and here was a way for
him to get her out of his cramped lower East Side apartment
and into a place of her own.
So what if the suggested chosson was at least a dozen
years older than my grandmother, came from a totally
different background and, unfortunately, wasn't in the best
of health? Actually, he was quite sick. He had a serious lung
condition that made it difficult to breathe.
My grandmother wasn't crazy about the arrangement but all
this took place somewhere in the first decade of the 20th
century and no one really asked her opinion. Once it was a
"done deal," my grandmother never complained. She was a firm
believer that if life hands you a lemon, make lemonade.
My mother was the only child my grandparents had. My
grandfather's health continued to deteriorate. He tried
moving to a warmer climate and followed all of the other
medical advice that was available at the time. But nothing
helped. Finally, when my mother was in her late teens and my
grandmother was not yet 40, my grandfather passed away.
When my parents married, they invited my widowed grandmother
to move in with them. She accepted. Usually, it is difficult
for such an arrangement to work for an extended period of
time without friction arising.
However, my grandmother continued to live with my parents
until my father passed away many years later. My grandmother
spent her old age sharing an apartment with my mother. In all
of that time, I do not remember one single fight or even a
disagreement.
We all loved my grandmother and were very close to her. She
was a devoted mother, mother-in-law and the best grandmother
in the world. My grandmother was a great cook. She knew how
to make all of the Eastern European Jewish specialties:
stuffed cabbage, kreplach, schav (from real sorrel
grass, not spinach), p'tcha (jellied calves' feet),
and of course the more common foods: gefilte fish,
kneidelach, latkes fried in schmaltz, and
delicious potato kugel, which as a Galitzianer she pronounced
"kiggel." You name it; my grandmother knew how to make it.
My mother and my grandmother had an unspoken agreement that
my American-born mother would be responsible for most
breakfasts and lunches, would roast the chicken or brisket
for the Friday night meal, and also prepare a few suppers a
week, mainly such popular American foods as spaghetti and
meatballs, broiled lamb chops and pot roast with
vegetables.
If it was more complicated than that, my mother would step
aside and give the kitchen to my grandmother. My grandmother
knew all of my Polish-born father's favorite dishes and she
would prepare my father's main meal of the day. There was no
overlapping and therefore no competition. My mother did a
great job on her meals and my grandmother on hers.
My grandmother read a lot. She also did all of the mending in
our house. Therefore, when my father was home, it seemed
quite natural for my grandmother to excuse herself and go
into the kitchen to bake a batch of cookies, sit down at her
sewing machine, or graciously disappear to her room to read.
Although she was a very wise woman, she did not get involved
in family discussions and did not offer advice unless
asked.
She was able to pace herself. She did a lot, but made it look
effortless, as though she was just helping a little here and
there.
One of the things I remember most about my grandmother was
her positive attitude. She made a nice circle of friends
among the other ladies in her shul and stayed in
constant contact with those of her siblings that came to
America and with my grandfather's sisters and their families.
She was truly happy about everyone's simchas.
Once when I was about to give birth, my mother was in the
process of recuperating from surgery and was unable to be of
help. My grandmother volunteered to pitch in at home. While
I was in the delivery room, the nurse asked me if I had other
children and what ages.
When I answered that I had three sons and gave their ages,
she said, "They must be a handful. Who is taking care of
them?" "My grandmother," I replied. "Your grandmother!" she
exclaimed, "How old is your grandmother?" "Oh, she's at least
84 but she's very young," I explained.
My grandmother always felt close to the son who was born
then. We were delighted that she was able to fly from the
East Coast to California for his bar mitzvah. By that time,
my grandmother was in her late nineties, walking with a
walker, and had slowed down a lot, but she was happy to see
the family. She especially enjoyed bonding with my youngest,
who was then a baby. It fascinated her that she was
intimately connected to this little person who was nearly a
hundred years younger than she was.
I think that is a major aspect of the family "sandwich"
concept. You can make something that looks like a sandwich by
taking some dry item and placing it between two plain slices
of bread. However it isn't really a sandwich. As soon as you
pick it up, the filling falls out and the bread comes
apart.
You need something sticky like peanut butter, margarine or
mayonnaise to hold the whole thing together. The "glue" can
be part of the filling or it can be attached to the bread. To
make a family sandwich stick together, you also have to have
some kind of glue. People like my grandmother—-and my
mother- —can exude enough love to successfully hold
together all of the diverse elements of a family's
multigenerational sandwich.
