She floats in and out of the vagaries of my childhood memory, omnipresent but insubstantial, a towering phantom. But she was always there. She lived in our house from the time I was born until we moved from Drexel Hill to Florissant, Missouri when I was seventeen. For all intents and purposes, she seemed to despise and deride my mother and to fear and seethe against my father. Her raison d’etre was focused on undermining the influence they tried to wield upon their children, and I never detected a moral compass attached to her efforts. If they pulled one way, she pulled the other. Come to think, mom and dad very seldom seemed to be pulling in a common direction, so cumulatively we were being drawn and quartered, minus one.
She adored her son Hafis–in her eyes he could do no wrong. This was the man who flatly rejected any overtures my mom made to have Dowanee come visit or live with him for any length of time.
I know my parents considered her the burden they had to bear, but how could we have survived without her? As I remember, she did everything. The cooking, the dishes, the cleaning, the laundry–I can still envision a washboard and a large bucket, swear to God. I’ll bet I never woke up before her in our entire life together.
Her specialty was childcare, a unique brand. Most parents either vehemently deny or desperately try to hide that they have favorites. Dowanee felt no such compunction. The firstborn, my sister Miriam, was the light of her life. Paging through our earliest family photo albums, it is almost impossible to find a picture where Miriam is not being held by Dowanee. We others laugh about it, because it is hard to fine one of us where we are! My sister Nailla describes her relationship with Dowanee as one of aboriginal hatred. My father called Nailla his “Black Walnut” because she had a darker skin than the rest of us, and he said she looked the most like the young Ascia. Apparently, that did not score points with Dowanee.
Dowanee’s native tongue was something called Russian Tartar, though I was recently told we are Tatars, not Tartars. Fish and chips. Only Miriam became fluent in Tartar. I can remember them chattering nonstop to one another, completely incomprehensible to me, though I think my mother understood most of it. A few phrases remain with me: Gehennam deh, which I’m pretty sure means Go to hell. I recall she had a pet name for me: Shaitan. (I think that one is self-explanatory.) Ullee ullee itzam boolah was the beginning of a lullaby–I’d love to know what that means. Since her name was Hadicia Salich, I’m suspect that Dowanee means grandma.
Oh how the woman could cook! The Russians are geniuses with flour and meat. Peromesh and peroshkee involved variations of wrapping hamburger in dough and frying it. Lamb meat pies were my all-time favorite, and I selected them as the main course of my birthday dinner for about ten years in a row. Pielmanie was a soup involving hamburger wrapped in dough and cooked in chicken broth. A few years before my mother died, we spent a New Year’s Eve together making and eating pielmanie. Nothing triggers nostalgia like food. I cannot stomach the taste of beets, but put a good bowl of borscht in front of me and I am ravenous. Dowanee’s breakfasts were as satisfying as her dinners. Apple pancakes, egg/cottage cheese blintzes, the perfect soft-boiled egg–memorable delights that leave me wondering why I don’t scour the countryside for them today. My daughter took us to a Russian restaurant in Toronto a few years ago, and it was some of the best restaurant food I’ve had.
Though most of Dowanee’s munificence was directed toward Miriam, the rest of us would occasionally find her favor. There was a Woolworth’s 5 & 10 cent store within walking distance of our house. If you were the one to accompany her, you’d come away with some kind of reward, so we would vie for that privilege. Once when I was her escort, I selected a bag of marbles as my gift. We were stopped at the door as we were exiting, and my bag of marbles was pulled from Dowanee’s rather large purse. We were taken to a room in the back of the store, and when my mom finally showed up, she was told that Dowanee was no longer allowed to shop at Woolworth’s unless my mom accompanied her. Dowanee was a klepto!
When we moved from Drexel Hill to Florissant, Missouri before my senior year of high school, Dowanee was exiled to the West Coast. She did not move in with Uncle Hafe but got her own apartment in Burlingame, a good hour away from him. I don’t know what the financial arrangement was, but it wouldn’t surprise me to learn my parents picked up the entire tab.
I couldn’t say where I fell in the hierarchy of Dowanee’s affections. Certainly not one of her favorites, but I can recall no grudge or antipathy emanating from her. I suppose we remained hazily aware of each other’s existence. In the spring of 1969, I dropped out of the University of Missouri and hitchhiked to San Francisco to check out the hippies. After a painfully uncomfortable four or five nights at my uncle’s house, I decided that the West Coast wasn’t for me, and I hitchhiked down to Burlingame on my way back to Missouri. I spent a weekend with Dowanee. Stunned by how overjoyed she was to see me, I was also struck by how dark she kept her apartment, how lonely she was, and how well she treated me. When I said goodbye and slung my duffel bag over my shoulder in her doorway, she cried. I cried too. I never saw her again.
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