Arthur & Bernie

Looking up. August 2012, Manhattan.

Last weekend was my Dibi’s unveiling. In the Jewish tradition, you wait a year to dedicate the gravestone of a loved one. It was a short, simple ceremony at the cemetery, with our family and a few close friends. We placed little stones, another Jewish tradition, on the graves we knew — Dibi’s mom and dad, her aunts and uncles, her in-laws, Pop Pop’s mom and dad. I cried. Of course I did. But it was a homecoming, a reunion, a party. It was just the way my grandmother would have wanted it.

I came across a journal entry my mom wrote a few months ago, during a visit to Pennsylvania. She went to the cemetery with Pop Pop and my aunt.

I felt the urge to lie down beside the grave, but I didn’t. I placed my hand flat on the ground and kind of stroked the grass, pretending I was stroking the skin on her arm, like I did as she was dying nine months ago. I remember the many times we would bring her home for lunch and a visit in the afternoon. She would lie down in Dad’s bed and take a nap. I would lie beside her and cuddle. I so want to do that again. I realize I will never have that luxury again. What a lovely, sweet person my mother was. I have so much to tell her, but mostly that I love her.

I think she heard you, Mom. And I think she heard us all together.

Just so. 1985, Italy.

I told Dibi we didn’t need spoons, but she insisted.

It was summer, I think, and she and Pop Pop were in town from Pennsylvania, visiting us. I was 7 or 8 or 9 — the details are fuzzy — but I remember it was my job to set the table for dinner. Whatever we were having that night required forks and knives, so I placed them around the table.

“Here,” Dibi said, handing me spoons.

“Oh that’s okay, Dibi. We don’t need them tonight,” I said.

“Sure you do. Add them to the table.”

“But why?”

“Because. You’re setting it, and they should be there,” she said, giving me the no-ifs-ands-or-buts look.

She was like that, my Dibi — presentation mattered, whether it was an occasion or not. Milk for breakfast was to be poured into a pitcher; parmesan cheese for spaghetti to be placed in a dish; olives to be spooned into a bowl. She was particular, and proud of it.

At the time of the spoon incident, I remember feeling sheepish for not doing it right, for needing to be corrected. But now, it makes me giggle a little and smile, thinking about Dibi and the standards she set for the every day. Why save the fancy stuff for company? Why not make each meal, each moment, just that bit more special?

I get it now, Dibi. Thanks for the tip.

More breadcrumbs. And sweet. June 2012, Manhattan.

My Ruthie, my Dibi, used to love it when I’d bring rugelach home to Pennsylvania. Which is why I was tickled to discover Ruthy’s Bakery the other day on a walk through Chelsea Market. The shop sells every different kind — raisin, raspberry, apricot, apple, chocolate, chocolate raspberry — so, always my grandmother’s granddaughter, I had to order an assortment. And taste them immediately.

Holy ru-moly. Yummm!

Pop Pop is a big rugelach fan, too. If I’m on it and budget time for the schlep, I’ll bring him a box from Ruthy’s next time I visit. He calls rugelach “arugula,” one of my favorite PO9-isms of all time, up there with “People’s magazine” and “the three As” (instead of AAA). So yes, that’s another reason I was so tickled to find Ruthy and her bakery. Or, maybe, they found me.

Breadcrumbs. November 2011, Brooklyn.

Dibi made this mirror. It hung in the Ladies Custom Corner in our family store, the section she started. Before her, the shop was just for men. Dibi dolled it up and it was never the same. Soon the Ladies Custom Corner outgrew its corner, and moved downstairs on the main floor.

This mirror now hangs in my apartment, where I can admire it (and her) every day. I think Dibi would approve.

Inspiration, on tippy toes.

Today is my Dibi’s 94th birthday. I tried to call her just now — one of the aides at the nursing home held a phone to her ear — but I’m not sure she heard me on the other line.

Dibi, I love you. I wish I could be there and we could dance together to celebrate. This picture is so wonderfully you. I figured there couldn’t possibly be a better day to post it, right? It’s hanging in my mom’s old room, you know, which is where I slept all August. I looked at it every single day. Didn’t a nephew or a son of a family friend take it to college with him, and use it as his pinup girl? I think that’s the story.

Dibi, I am so thankful for your life and your spirit, your poise and your tiptoes. Happy birthday.

Stop to smell the daffodils. Manhattan, April 2011.

Some of my favorite photographs of Dibi are ones when she’s working in her garden, knees on the ground, hands in the dirt, smile on her face. As I walk through the city this spring, pops of color remind me of her.