My dad’s mom, or Babci as we called her in Polish, lived in Fall River, MA, when I was growing up. She never lived in a big or fancy house; it was often just a 3-4 room apartment in the Polish/Portuguese section of the city. We only saw her a few times a year, and since I only spoke a few words of Polish, our conversations were limited. But I have some wonderful memories of the times I spent with her.

​

     She taught me how to crochet granny squares and then how to carefully combine them together to make a blanket for my baby dolls. I was probably around seven or eight, and she was extremely patient with my clumsy attempts. She had a huge (or to me it seemed huge) grandfather clock that was in the living room of each apartment she and her daughter lived in. I usually slept on the couch when we went to visit, and I would be jolted awake from a sound sleep every hour on the hour when it bonged out the time.

​

     I remember at least two of the places she lived, but the one that sticks out the most I believe was on Manchester Street. The city of Fall River was rather hilly, and the side yard was sloped down to the street. I would start by the house and run down the grassy lawn, over and over again. Simple entertainment back in the day. But what stands out the most was how Babci would get such a kick out of me doing it. She called it “Tareena’s mountain.” (Google translator does not come up with that translation for Theresa or Terry, but it is what I remember her calling me.)

​

     And her bread! If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the fresh baked loaf of goodness. It was egg-colored, like the Jewish Challah bread I sometimes see at Trader Joe’s. It would take her almost all day to make it, rolling it out and kneading it with her strong hands, the hands that detailed the years of hard work she had endured working in textile factories since coming to America as a teenager. She would mix the dough in a large bowl and then place it on the open radiator to rise. I would stand on a stool and watch as she worked, and between the kneading and rising, we would play card games like War and Old Maid.

​

     When the bread was baking, the delicious smell permeated the small apartment, and I could hardly wait until it was cool enough to eat. When it was ready, she always cut a large slab, which she slathered with real butter; no margarine for her! Sometimes, she added thick slices of fresh baked ham, that was left over from Easter dinner. The four-hour ride to our home in NY was made more bearable with those made-from-the-heart sandwiches.