Breadcrumbs and memories

I love crunch.  I love crunchy apples and crisp potato chips and walnuts in my salad.   Crusty warm Italian bread is something to be savored and to be bought before every trip back home to Pennsylvania; several loaves.  It goes to the beach with us or to the Catskills or to any party there is.  People request it from those coming our way.  I savor it whenever I have it and try not to waste it. I know it is just bread but, boy, is it good!

I can remember my grandparents always having fresh bread at their home and the bakery up the street where they bought it or sent someone to get more of it. It was part of every meal, in the bread basket, passed around the table over and over again.  They never ever wasted any of it. The soon to be stale leftover remnants of the loaf had a purpose.   My grandfather would make the finest, lightest breadcrumbs ever using an old box grater.  He was diligent and neat, sitting at that old kitchen table he would work away at the heels of old bread and grate it to use in the meals to come.  Every week he made more.  When he finally retired it was always part of his routine. I smile when I think of him, a big former longshoreman, carefully and precisely working at that table. They were the best breadcrumbs around!

Thanksgiving day is always when we celebrated his birthday.  It was actually a day or two before or after but Thanksgiving day was his day. After dinner (which went on for hours and had many courses both Italian and American) we sang to him as the cake was presented.  His cake was a large white cake covered with amazing amounts of fresh whipped cream and it always had the biggest, sweetest strawberries decorating it and in between the layers. I would love to share one of those cakes with him again and talk to him about his life.  I know so little about him from his own words.  I am sorry for that.

Many other things remind me of him. Iced water, for instance, was his drink of choice and a big carafe was always on the table. I have a large blue mug, better suited for soup than for coffee, and it always reminds me of his coffee cup.  No one ever used it but him.  We would never think of it.  Wool plaid shirts also bring back memories.They were often red and scratchy and huge, he had many and they kept him warm while he worked outside on the docks. In his older years I remember his cane.  It was more than a walking aide, it was also a weapon and a way to tease great grandchildren.  He was a silent jokester!

Orthopedic shoes, too, remind me of my Grandfather.  I can see him arriving at our home in his white shirt and tie and with those big special shoes.  Never anything else on his feet, not a loafer or a sneaker, ever.  Special shoes.  He grew up in the era where you wore a shirt and tie everywhere, church, of course, but also every outing.   We have a picture of him in the 40s sitting on the sand at the beach with his family, in his white shirt and tie and those shoes.

I dont make my own breadcrumbs, although I should, and I cant remember his voice anymore, but I will always remember him. He treated me well, took me out for special outings when I was very young and one time saved my life. Tough on the outside but very tenderhearted.  

Happy 109th, Grandpa, and thanks for so much.