Grandfather memories

I was seven when my grandfather--my mother's father--died. That's the same age that Frederic was when my dad died, almost two years ago. I have some memories of my grandfather, but I am not sure if they are real, or if I have them because I have seen pictures or 8mm video (converted to VHS, converted to DVD).

It's nice to have grandparent memories. I'm afraid that Frederic and Lily will not have them regarding my father. There's not much I can do about that, I know, but I wish they had more time with him like I had with three of my grandparents. They both have three grandparents still living, as well. Thankfully.

The things I remember about my Zadie revolve around scratchy kisses on my forehead, the creaking staircase that brought us up to their apartment on Arthur Avenue, his strength, and playing a game of basketball. But it was his singing that sticks in my memory most.

My grandfather was born somewhere in Poland. My family--both sides--are poor historians. I don't have all of the specifics down right. And as each older generation passes, the ability to have exact information wanes. He was a religious Jew, who kept Kosher, was active in his synagogue, and liked to sing. He had a deep voice, with rich tones and vibrations. Every time he sang prayers during the high holidays, I thought about the Opera singers I heard on the radio and saw on the TV. All we really wanted to do was eat the food that tempted us, but my grandfather insisted on performing the rituals properly. I was too young to appreciate the gift he offered his family.

Now all I really want is to hear him sing again. I'd wait as long as I needed to hear the whole routine.