I know very little about my Dad’s parents, but they must have been wonderful, considering how loving and genuine my Dad turned out to be. Dad’s father died when he was only twelve, and the few stories he told me, I can barely remember. Both my grandmothers immigrated to this country when they were very young. At age eleven, Dad’s mother came from Romania in 1905, and Mom’s mother came from Germany in 1912 at age fifteen.Like thousands of European Jews, they were escaping the anti-Semitism infecting Europe. I can’t imagine being a child leaving my family to live in another country with a different culture and a language I couldn’t speak.

My mother’s parents, Wilhelmina and Louis Bromberg, who I called Nana and Papa, lived less than two blocks from our house.When my brothers and I were young, we would ride our bikes down the alley to visit. Our family dining table every Sunday night and sat in matching chairs, heavily padded and covered in pink damask. The food was nevergreat - usually boiled chicken and mashed potatoes, and I onlypretended to eat the vegetables - either boiled Brussels sprouts, peas, or lima beans.

Papa owned a plumbing supply company on the east side ofColumbus. His basement “Rathskeller” on Cassady Avenue was his private domain, where he hosted card games and entertained friends and family. Papa idolized Nana and adored her thickGerman accent. He would refer to her as “The Duchess,” but I never understood why they bickered over the smallest things. I remember my stomach churning when they watched TheLawrence Welk Show but I couldn’t wait for them to turn on The Ed Sullivan Show after Sunday night dinners.

On regular occasions, my twin brother, Steve, and I would dress up for shopping sprees with Nana when we were about ten or eleven. She would wear a favorite dress, matching heels, and a beautiful hat. Our first stop was Montaldos for clothes and then the Maramor for the best chocolates in town. Her primary purpose for these outings was to show us off to every sales clerk, friend, and customer in sight; after all, we were twins.

I can visualize every inch of their house - the large plants on the porch, the pink Royal Dalton figurines perfectly placed on the living room shelf, and my grandmother’s bedroom with a largejar of Ponds cold cream sitting on the vanity. Nana loved her hatsand proudly displayed them on a closet shelf, showing them toanyone who entered the room. Her favorites were those by the famous hat designer Lilly Daché. Years after my grandmother passed away, Rocky and I were in Delray Beach visiting hisparents when they introduced us to their neighbors, Lilly Dachéand her husband, Jean Despres. I was star-struck, and like most of her fans, couldn’t wait to tell Lilly about my Grandmother’s favorite hats.

Like many teenagers, I loved my grandparents but was social, self-absorbed, and always running out the door to be with friends. If I had asked them the right questions, I would know so much more about their lives. Why didn’t I ask my grandmother what it was like leaving her family in Germany or how difficult it must have been to assimilate into a different culture? Was it hard to make new friends? Did she ever want to leave and go back home? I know little about their Jewish heritage, but I’ll never forget seeing numbers tattooed on the forearm of their best friend who survived Auschwitz.

I wish I knew how my grandparents met and what it was like living during the depression and two world wars. It never occurred to me to ask about their interests and hobbies or tell me more about their siblings and parents. Were their parents supportive, loving, strict? How did they earn a living? And I would love to know what it was like raising seven children without any outside help.

What I do know for sure is whenever my brothers and I walked through their doorway on Cassady Avenue in Bexley, we became the very center of their world.