Welcoming Opposites

Love comes to me in the memory of apartment 14A. When I was in elementary school, my two sisters and I regularly took the public bus to our grandparents’ house on the north side. We took the Jeffrey Express, which picked us up a block from our house and dropped us in front of the Art Institute downtown. From there, we transferred to the 151 and travelled the rest of the way to our Nana and Papa’s apartment. We got off at Goethe Street. Nana taught us that Goethe was a poet from the 18th century and the correct way to pronounce his name was “goe-tuh.”

When we got off the bus, we crossed the street and pushed through the revolving glass doors into the high-ceilinged, black marble lobby. All the doormen knew us. Charlie or Jack or Arnold stood behind a Calacatta marble podium with tiny black and white television screens on the wall behind him. On the screens were static-y images of the other building entrances; every once in a while a person would walk across the screen for an instant.

The doorman on duty was always friendly, greeting us with a big welcome. “Hello girls” he’d bellow, as he picked up the desk telephone and dialed up to Nana and Papa’s apartment. “Mrs. DeMaisberg,” he’d say, “the girls are here.” We could faintly hear Nana’s voice from the phone as the doorman lifted his chin and nodded us towards the south entrance while buzzing us in. 

One of us would push the up arrow on the elevator and we’d lean our ears into the two sets of doors, trying to guess which one would come first. Once inside the elevator, we shoved and shouldered our way to the lighted panel with the forty-one buttons. We each wanted to be the one to push 14A, the button that would take us to Nana and Papa’s apartment. 

Nana and Papa had lived in that apartment since before I was born. We grew up going there and knew the building intimately. We’d gotten into trouble several times for pushing all the buttons at the same time and tying up the elevator. But from this naughty behavior, my sisters and I had seen most of the tiny individual lobbies in the south tower of the building. 

All the lobbies were different — some very simple and clean, others wildly ornate, filled with art or flowers or photos. Some had colorful painted walls and doors, others were wallpapered or tiled. I remember having favorite lobbies. My sisters and I would talk about which ones we liked; what our lobby would look like if we lived in a building like this. 

The elevator to Nana and Papa’s apartment opened up to a tiny rectangular space with three doors — a front door, a side door into the kitchen, and a third door leading to the stairs and the garbage chute. Their doors were all matte black, and the walls had textured wallpaper that looked like straw. There was a short black cabinet with an empty stone bowl and a handful of masks from other countries decorating the wall across from the elevators. The front door had a big gold knocker beneath the tiny peephole.

The elevator made a slow hiccup before it landed and dinged at the fourteenth floor. As the elevator doors parted, the image of Nana and Papa’s big black door opening came into view. My sisters and I would get off the elevator at the same time that Nana stepped into the threshold of her front door, already hugging the air in preparation to welcome us into her arms and her home. She was as excited to see us as we were to see her. 

One by one, she’d take each of us into her arms for a squeeze. She’d smell our hair, kiss our foreheads and send us off behind her where we’d race into the kitchen. Nana wasn’t a cook, but she always had a jar of honey roasted Planters Peanuts and a container of carrot slices soaking in a square tupperware of ice cold water on the top shelf of her refrigerator. Nana also stocked diet A & W root beer, which she taught us to pour into a glass with a little ice and skim milk to make a “root beer float.”

As we rummaged through Nana’s fridge, she made her way back to her armchair in the big, open living room overlooking Lake Michigan. There was a long, low couch next to her armchair and three swiveling club chairs on the other side of the large coffee table. My sisters and I planted ourselves on the couch or the chairs as Nana, almost always smoking a True cigarette, asked us questions about school or swim team or brownies. 

Eventually, my sisters and I would make our way into the guest bedroom where we’d change into our bathing suits and robes (they lived in Nana and Papa’s guestroom closet). We’d wait at the front door for Nana to put out her cigarette and put on her shoes and then we’d all take the elevator up to the top floor of the building where the pool was. 

The 41st floor of the building housed the indoor pool and hot tub, a tiny gym, and men’s and women’s dressing rooms, each with a sauna. My sisters and I, having grown up in a rickety old Victorian house, thought these modern amenities, like the elevators, were truly miraculous. There were four large circle windows on the north wall of the poolroom and it was rich with the scent of chlorine. There was almost never anyone there. 

Nana would take a spot in one of the lounge chairs and smile and clap as my sisters and I romped, jumping back and forth from the pool to the hot tub and back again until our eyes burned. When we were done, Nana would hold out our robes for us and, shivering, barefoot and wet, we’d make our way back down to 14A.

Apartment 14A is home to hundreds of tiny memories — pressing the elevator button, “root beer floats,” the 41st floor pool, and Nana’s hugs. As I’ve grown older, I’ve wondered why these memories with Nana are so clear while so many others from my childhood have faded like photos in the sun. 

I have many more memories of Nana — the week I took care of her before she died, afternoons trying on her silk scarves and chunky jewelry, shopping for school clothes at I. Magnin and Bonwit Teller, going to Moon Palace in Chinatown for dinner…. 

What I remember most is that Nana was always so happy to see me and I was always so excited to see her! That sheer delight of being happy to see each other is one of the purest experiences of love I’ve ever known. I imagine that’s why so many of those memories stick while countless others have slowly disappeared. 

People say there’s nothing like a grandmother’s love and, in my experience, that’s true. My relationship with my grandmother gave me a sense of being loved that’s lived on in my memory for over fifty years. I didn’t appreciate the specialness of that relationship then, but I do now. I’m almost as old now as my Nana was when I was a girl and I fantasize about one day becoming a grandmother myself. If I get that chance, I hope I will give my grandchildren that special love that Nana gave me.