The Sunday Memory Drawer - Tante Emma

Here's Grandma and company seated at a family summer barbecue. I have other photos from the same event and we're all in shorts, t-shirts, etc.. Yet, these two are wearing their winter coats. Just in case the nighttime air chills and the temperature dips below 80.

The other lady in the photo is Tante (German for "aunt") Emma and my grandmother's sister-in-law. She was always around, especially when both were widows and craving somebody to talk German to. I'd listen in to their conversations and, despite the fact that I didn't understand a single word, I'd be laughing at the exchange.

Tante Emma and Grandma had a pretty set routine. On Sunday afternoon, after Grandma's dinner dishes had been cleared, the front door bell would ring. Our dog would bark. We would look at the clock. It was erxactly 1PM. This could only mean one thing.

Tante Emma had come to call. Back in the day this is what people did. They went to visit each other on Sunday afternoons. And the opening dialogue between the two would always be the same. Like Abbott and Costello's "Who's On First?" routine, the lines were repeated.

"How are you feeling?"

"With my fingers."

Or...

"What's new with you?"

"New York and New Jersey."

Or...

"You still kicking?"

"Yeah, bend over. I'll show you."

There were weeks where Tante Emma got the punchline and other weeks where Grandma got to button the joke. But, the lines never varied.

Tante Emma would come to us on the bus from her basement apartment on Burke Avenue in the Bronx. She and Grandma would yak it up in German for a couple of hours and then eat a supper of sandwiches and pickles. Then, my dad would drive Tante Emma home. I frequently came along for the ride and was forced to endure a rather loud conversation with her.

Yep, Tante Emma was hard of hearing.

"WHAT GRADE ARE YOU IN NOW, SWEETHEART?"

Fourth, I'd scream back. My father didn't flinch. It was okay to yell whenever Tante Emma was in the car.

Tante Emma never missed my birthday or Christmas. I'd get the card in the mail. There was always five dollars in the envelope. Never a dollar more. Never a cent less. And never adjusted for cost of living increases.

Of course, the regular gifts had a downside. My mother was very keen on courtesy.

"Call Tante Emma and thank her."

Groan. I knew the drill all too well.

"Thank you for the card and the money, Tante Emma."

"WHO IS THIS?????"

I would repeat the sentiment in a louder voice. My mother didn't flinch. It was okay to yell whenever you were on the telephone with Tante Emma.

"YOU'RE VERY WELCOME, SWEETHEART. BUY YOURSELF SOMETHING NICE."

Then there were the Sunday afternoons when Grandma would go to visit Tante Emma. And, for some inexplicable reason, I would go along. After five minutes, I'd need a break from all the gossiping in German. Tante Emma would bring me into her living room and get the TV warmed up.

"OKAY, YOU'RE ALL SET, SWEETHEART. YOU CAN WATCH MEET THE PRESS."

To this day, I have no idea why Tante Emma thought that I, at the age of ten, had any interest in watching political talk shows. But, I'd sit there and do so, because my mother had always told me never to change the TV channel in somebody else's house. One of those weird rules from my childhood. So, I'd sit there dumbfounded, listening to Senator Everett Dirksen talk about the Vietnam War.

Ultimately, Tante Emma skipped a few gears, as my father would say. She wound up in "one of those places." But, I think she buried most of the people from her generation and, despite not hearing a single word, lasted a long, long time.

And, in my own mind, I envision this dialogue of us telling her that my grandmother had passed on.

"Tante Emma, sorry to tell you that Tante Adele died."

"OH, REALLY? WHAT COLOR?"

Dinner last night: