Thoughts to treasure

Erma Bombeck's words become valued keepsake for family in wake of loss

ILENE MUNETZ PACHMAN
Special to Jewish News

When the popular and prolific newspaper columnist/author died last year, after a kidney transplant, I grieved for obvious reasons - and for a deeply personal reason, as well. Sixteen months before, within days of my mother-in-law's death from cancer, I discovered a lasting connection between these courageous ladies - the witty "spokesparent" from suburban Phoenix, who faced even her illness good-humoredly, and the energetic grandmother whom my younger son used to call the "peach of Delray Beach."

I had trouble falling asleep each of the nights we spent in my dying mother-in-law's Florida apartment (the winter of 1994). That first night, as I listened to my exhausted husband Mark snoring beside me, I was disturbed much more by the stillness of the apartment. It was too quiet, like the hospice room - where my youthful and fiercely independent 70-year-old mother-in-law would take her last breath.

We had slept in this apartment, often with our children, during many happy visits from Pennsylvania. To sleep here now (without Grandma Jean) was painful. Feeling strangely "out of place" and overcome with sadness, I crawled out of bed and wandered into the living room. Staring at the shelves of books - which served as an encasement of memories, as well as of literature - I recognized the blue-covered supplementary reading from each of my sons' bar mitzvahs (sharing space with my older son's college commencement program and a stick figure drawing he made in elementary school, crayoned with the title: MY BEST FRIEND IS GRANDMA JEAN).

My eyes welled, as they moved to a brass dove - now a mid-shelf "bookend" - which I could still picture in its original home, on the desk of Grandma Jean's mother, Great-grandma Yetta. I remembered my mother-in-law's poignant words, from just a few weeks before (when, incredibly, she had managed to tie up the few loose ends of her business affairs - in order to make things easier for us "later"): "I just assumed I would inherit my mother's longevity," she said, "so that in a few years, I would be a great-grandmother, too."

Trying not to dwell (yet) on such sorrow, I focused on the books before me, reflecting the passions of my mother-in-law and late father-in-law, Maurice, a retired concert bassoonist. Scanning the titles of books - on art, music, plants, and history; "Don Quixote" and other classics; contemporary novels; "The Joys of Yiddish" (a gift from my husband and me); and prayer books that belonged to my sons' great-grandfather - I found myself reaching for a book by Erma Bombeck. As I stroked the cover of "Motherhood/The Second Oldest Profession," (another gift from us, from years before), I noticed a piece of paper barely sticking out.

Timely discovery
At first it seemed accidental, and not particularly important, that I had found a 1986 "At Wit's End" column tucked away inside the book, like a corsage. However, after reading the satirical Bombeck piece, "Kids Say No Thanks To The Memories," I was moved by its serious -even solemn - overtones. Moreover, I was struck by the timing of this "discovery," which surely seemed beshert, meant to be.

Surrounded by Grandma Jean's favorite collectibles (some of the most precious of which had little dollar value), I read about Erma Bombeck's premature and challenging efforts (while she was still healthy) to "find homes" for her "treasures," including a hand-hooked rug for her son's nursery -which it took 12 years for her to complete, and a flawless glass lid from a missing cast-iron skillet, given to her by her grandmother.

Thinking about the relevance of the column, and wondering how our family would ever be able to find good homes for all of Grandma Jean's "treasures" - a vast array of family memorabilia - I sat down at the kitchen table to scrutinize the personal trappings of that once busiest of rooms. Remembering back to the time that preceded my mother-in-law's valiant two-year battle with ovarian cancer, I picked up the kitchen trivet. Bearing the statement "Ewe look mahvelous!" the sheep-decorated tile repeated the words with which my younger son used to greet his radiant and healthy Grandma Jean.

Simple pleasures enjoyed
Still awake, and a cup-of-Sanka later, I realized how meaningful the "prophetic" newspaper column had been to my mother-in-law. In fact, during our previous visit, she pointed out some of her cherished possessions. Among such keepsakes was a gold pin in the design of a musical staff, adorned with a shining G clef sign and notes in the form of pearls. Gently putting the pin in my hand, Grandma Jean said, "Remember when the boys gave this to me? It gave me years of pleasure. I want you to enjoy it." Grandma Jean always appreciated even the little pleasures of life.

It was sad and touching to remember how my mother-in-law had taken care of my father-in-law during his own struggle with cancer. Tangible memories of their 43-year-old marriage - albums and portraits, travel souvenirs, and tokens of their love - filled the apartment not only with a physical presence, but also with an echo of the Bombeck message: "Please recognize our value; please hold onto us!"

Meanwhile, another of the personal items my mother-in-law already insisted we take home was a delicate vase made in Israel. A proud Jew, though non-affiliated and non-observant, she had given great thought to the placement of such a special work of art.

"It's from Israel," she reminded us, knowing her son and I had deep feelings about Judaism and that we - and our sons - had been to the Promised Land.

Today when I look around my home, I don't know how my husband and I were able to bring so much of my in-laws' apartment back with us (though, regretfully, we and our family had to discard a good bit, too). I do know that every time I look at Great-grandma Yetta's brass bird (which sits on our family room end table), it represents, for me, Grandma Jean's tenacity; it reminds me how, for so long, my mother-in-law - like the tired dove of the Midrash - managed to "fly" with "one wing."

I still believe it was beshert for me to find the old "At Wit's End" column. In the meantime, that newspaper clipping (one of the more serious examples of reader "identification," the hallmark of Erma Bombeck's appeal) has become one of my own "treasures." I just have to figure out where to store it - but I'm in no rush for another "discovery."

Ilene Munetz Pachman writes from Richboro, Pa.