When I was a little girl, we lived in a three-generational home.
Since my mom and dad worked together in a medical profession, my dad’s parents lived with us, and became caregivers to my sister and me. We were very fortunate to have the opportunity to learn about their backgrounds as first-generation Americans and how they loved their adopted country. Although both spoke many languages, the first thing they did upon arrival was enroll in night school to become proficient in English and qualify for American citizenship.
My grandfather Michael was tall, broad shouldered, blond and had piercing blue eyes. He was kind and loving, but commanded obedience and respect from his grandchildren, because he felt age should be honored by the young. Professionally, he was a designer of fine jewelry, but his great love and avocation was music, especially opera.
The Metropolitan Opera Company would broadcast their productions on radio every weekend. I don’t remember now if it was Saturday or Sunday, but we all knew while grandpa listened to the opera we were not allowed to disturb him. He would closet himself in his room, close the door, and be surrounded by operatic voices for three solid hours without interruption... until the day he disappeared.
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