Jottings From Fifth & G: Hooray for grandmothers

It was the lingering memory of a liverwurst sandwich on a hamburger bun, so rich with butter that its inside was yellow. The bun was from the German bakery down Meramac Street, a few doors from grandmother Anna McEntee’s flat in St. Louis. At lunchtime my 4-year-old self knelt on a chair in her living room, ate lunch and watched with envy the children playing in the school yard of St. Anthony of Padua’s church across the street.

Over the years grandma sent me baby clothes for my two dolls, fashioned and sewn by her. The large Easter lamb cake she baked in her cast iron mold often suffered from the train’s bumps and jiggles to Cleveland or Detroit … but it was delicious. One year at Christmas a complete creche set arrived and I sadly gave it up three years ago when my latest move occurred.

In May 1948 our first grade class congregated in the classroom, the hall drinking fountains wrapped and secured in cardboard so we wouldn’t consume even a drop of water. The church forbade eating and drinking from midnight if we were to receive Communion which, of course, our innocent 6-year-old souls were that day. The spring morning was sunny and warm with foliage bursting with tiny buds. I was happy and pure in my white dotted Swiss dress, and happier even more with grandma McEntee there to witness it.

In 1950 she collapsed, a sudden heart attack the night before Thanksgiving, just doorways from her home. From Detroit where my family resided, I remember driving down to St. Louis on a cold, black, rainy night with my father at the wheel, brushing away constant tears. And I remember her open casket at the packed funeral home, a most unsettling memory.

But it was Friday, Nov. 22, 1963, the 13th anniversary of her passing, that is etched in my mind when I think of Anna. Still in my Catholic frame of mind, I woke up early to attend Mass for my paternal grandmother. It was sunshine bright and mild, an aberration that late fall day on Long Island. I felt peaceful and content walking a short half-block to church. Less than six hours later, the intercom in history class cackled with the announcement that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. The world changed and so did I.