Last of the Aisquith Street Herondorfs

One major branch of my family loses a key limb yet many more now are now connected, growing. On Saturday, I made the journey down to that trouble some country that a one time was united, to drop into home town Baltimore to be a my Aunt Dorothy’s funeral.

She was the last living of my mom’s siblings, the last Herondorf, fading away peacefully last week at 93. The last of those five kids growing up in the late 1920s-1930s as a family living on one floor above the shoe repair shop of my grandfather Harry, one of those characteristic Baltimore brick row houses at 710 Aisquith Street.

This journey was more solemn than sad and also more joyous to share and recant stories of Aunt Dorothy, who as I learned to others was Dot, Dotty, Dotsie, Mom, Grammie, and to herself, Dorth.

But also for the cousins, to be with family I had not seen in maybe 50 years as well as their family, and branches of the tree I was meeting for the first time. The cousins are rooted in memory of us as kids, low and behold we are now old, wrinkled, yikes, we have become our parents. The hugs were deep and the stories keep all alive, in the spirit of dodging the third death, when our stories are no longer told.

Through our family connector, my sister Judy, who relayed to me from my cousin Hank’s wife Anne (now all names that connect to faces and hugs), that Aunt Dorothy, who had been in a car home for? 10+ years, was in hospice with maybe 2 weeks left. This idea had planted, so a week before I left, when I heard from my cousin Jane that her mom had passed away, I was off booking airline tickets to Baltimore.

Jane was my connector, many years ago when I was in my job at the Maricopa Community Colleges, I flew off to Seattle for some conference I now forget. I knew through my Mom that on of my cousins lived there, she shared Jane’s contact. I called and introduced myself (i had ben decades), we made plans, and when we met! Oh it was so sympatico. Jane and I have stayed in touch, and twice when Cori and I were in Vancouver, we stayed and visited with Jane and her Steve. Jane was a bit of my “how to move to Canada” guide, as she had emigraed from the states to live in B.C.

And it was Jane who read the Dorothy stories so beautifully at the chapel Saturday, stories that filled in even more understandings of my Aunt, her forceful nature to be at the center of her family, stories that had me laughing and crying. I am sharing the text because I am remembering just bits.

This was the “famous” classic 1970s family photo that my cousins referenced. It is full of story aura.

Since my travel was late arrival Saturday night and early flight out Monday, I booked an airport hotel, and on Sunday got picked up by my Uber driver. Elliot remarked on seeing the Reisterstown Road address for the funeral home that he grew up in the area. That got us so going on stories (rival high schools, sports teams, malls) that I noticed we were heading off track west towards Washington D.C! We laughed as he routed us back trough downtown Baltimore on streets I may not have known Elliot pointed out the Montgomery Ward building (built 1925). I noticed the power plant I remember was built to generate electricity from burning trash (I only learn now via Wikipedia it is called the Wheelabrator). I am pretty sure I took a black and white photo I did as an early assigment to document a place for my 1986 photography course at the university of Delaware– yup I found a scan I did of this spot!

See how far I have wandered here from the story? Elliot asked if things looked the same to me as we continued on the Beltway around the upper left corner of Baltimore. “The Beltway never changes!” I said pointing out my highschool, Milford Mill — though Elliot had to correct me, I was pointing on the wrong side. I shared the story of how me and some high school pals (Doug? Larry? Kevin?) on a dare ran across the highway there at night.

This is all part of the story how I arrived alone at Sol Levinson, the place that has the monopoly on Jewish funerals in Baltimore. The last time I was inside was for my Mom in 2011. Following the directions to the chapel, turning the corner I heard those distinctive voices, a bit of laughter. There was a line of her family members, where I joyfully reconnected with and hugged cousins Hank, Jane (who reference me and my blog posts as the “curator of family stories”), Frannie, and Margie, plus meeting spouses for the first time, and then Hank and Anne’s kids (well they are adults) Katie, Andrew, and Lexy. What is the proper relationship term for the children of your first cousins? Like the other side of my family, where meet the grandchildren of my father’ cousin, just use the broadest sens o”cousin” works for me.

Wha do you say to family members you have never met? Of course hello, hug, you quickly start asking questions… and Alan is holding up the line! I proceed into the chapel, where there are already quite a few grey hair people, none of whom I recognize. I find a seat in a row in the mddle, slide down to leave room for others to enter. A few moments to contemplate.

A trim gentleman with not much hair on top, more on his chain, makes eye contact, and extending a hand, says, “Hello Alan.” I have to ask, and oh my gosh it is my cousin Barry, son of my mom’s older sister Ruth. We catch up quickly, his wife and kids who live north of Baltimore, me sharing about living in Saskatchewan and sharing photos of my wife Cori.

We go to the stories, and I talk of remembering the Shofer cousins having a dachshund with a forgotten name (“Frankie”?). And then Barry recants an Aunt Dorothy story, how sh decided the old family dog (not the one I remember) was too sick to go on, without anyone drove directly to the vet, who agreed to put the dog down. As Barry tells it, she never mentioned it to the family, until weeks later, some one asked, “Hey, where’s the dog?”

As legendary family stories go, despite being retold, we often have our own versions. Later, new cousin Katie sent a video from a celebration of Dorothy’s birthday a few years back (as Aunt Ruth was there), and they all tell the same story, slightly different, but same plot. Aunt Dorothy decided the dog’s days were not many left, made the executive decision and reported to the family she was taking the dog for a trip to “The Giant” (locals reference to family chain of food stores) for groceries. There was raucous lefter all around, and I can see Aunt Dorothy full of that center of the family joy, looking so much like my Mom did at that age.

Stories of family stories, I am all in. And that no story is exactly the same or “correct” makes it more special.

Fast forward, after the ceremony (I got to sit with my nieces, both my sisters were unable to attend as they were on a boat somewhere in warm waters!), there is the procession to the cemetery (I may be the only person who took a photo of the flock of Canadian geese hanging out there) and a short graveyard service. My memory of the mourners kaddish is thin (thanks again Wikpiedia- I can state the language is from Aramaic), goes fuzzy after “Yitgaddal veyitqaddash” whence I just mumble.

Then we went back to a restaurant almost across from the funeral home for the “shiva”. I recall these as a kid (my first was my Uncle Milton, Aunt Ruth’s husband) that went on for days at the family home, people wold stop by to pay respects, bring food for the family. Having it for a few hours was perfect, plus it was catered (oh my gosh I ate a tray of crab cakes, so it was not all kosher). And just stand/sit around and share stories in small groups. Hanks wife Anne had arranged a wonderful set of photos of including a favorite of the three Herondorf sisters, Ruth, Dorothy and Alyce (my mom).

The last time (yikes) I visited Aunt Dorothy was in September 2012, likely some kind of conference travel to… somewhere on that I-95 corridor. My sister Judy organized a visit to her home in Pikesville, the place I remember going to as a kid. For some reason I recall we played a board game, Mousetrap, one I desired but never got. We drove across town to the cemetery near Clifton Park where my mom had been placed a year earlier, adjacent to my Dad, and my brother David. Picking up on the importance I held for my Mom’s stories I had recorded audio on my last visit with her (an hours worth), I bugged Aunt Dorothy to tell me some stories about Mom and growing up in the Herondorf family. She refused to say anything “embarrassing” about my mom!

There is our own family story about the abstract painting Dorothy did for us (her love of art was told many times), the orange thing with something in the middle? I find photos of in her house it was sometimes hung vertical, sometimes horizontal (bonus cute kid Alan alert). At her home, full of art, both hers and others, I asked her to explain her painting style (said in such Dorothy style).

My cousin Hank was able to throw some more detail to my quest to learn more about Doris Cohen, my uncle Harvey’s wife (mom’s brother) as there was some kind of fall out between my Mom and her sisters, that had something influence why I saw so much less of my cousins in my teens.

And then all of her family had stories of Aunt Dorothy’s … um… non-interest in cooking, but also they all raved about her split pea soup. I can resonate with that -in fact as I write I smell my batch of split pea soup, made for this cold winter days, wafting from the crock pot. And it stems from the other side of my family– my dad’s mom, aka “granny” made legendary split pea soup. I have (of course) a blog post and an audio clip of her describing the soup, recorded in 1994.

Soup and Memory

It was most joyous to get to know better Hank’s kids, again, me the “cousin from Canada” meeting them for the first time. As it turns out his son is very interested in knowing more about my Uncle Harvey as he is named after him and that Hank’s daughter is also interested n researching family history. We have much to share, but we are now connected.

After this heart-filling-and-gushing-over day, it was up at 3:30am to catch my flight home. I leave with these stories that are ever more important, as the people who were there are one fewer.

Yet there is another take away from this journey especially against going into the “United” States (up, scare quotes) in the backdrop of the President Whose Name I Will Not Say, seeing live news feeds on TV news. It goes back to something about my Mom’s way. As a kid, I regret to say I sometimes always cringed inside at the “embarrassing” way mom would smile and make small conversation with every grocery checker, restaurant server, bank clerk, growing on into her Florida years as “the cookie lady” in which her humanity was so cherished, and came to of all things, getting tickets and backstage pass to meet Trisha Yearwood.

Oh later in life, I learned so much from mom’s way of treating and being with people. It came to light long ago when I lived in Phoenix and was in line to drop off some dry cleaning. I observed a woman in front, dressed in business serious, she was loudly telling people what to do on her phone. The woman never stopped, threw her bag down on the counter in front of a young brown skinned clerk, picked up her slip, and never stopped her call. It was my start to make human contact with people on the other side of the counter, here merely by looking her in the eye, smiling with my eye brows raised, and thanking her.

It came back to me on this trip, as I think often of a riddle, that is as true here in snowy Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan about. “What is fluffy, rich, white and privileged on one side and brown, sweaty, and underpaid on the other?” It’s almost every service industry, especially airports. Notice who is doing the hard work out there on the frozen (or roasting) tarmac loading bags, fueling, directing planes in.

This just reinforced my “mom’s way” in not being occupied on my screen while someone was helping me, smiling, making a small joke to the person checking me in or getting me a coffee or a seat at a table. And saying thank you. It’s just about treating other person as a human, it’s that simple is what I learned from Mom, not through any lecture from her, just seeing it in action. The bonus is, that you give them some acknowledgement as a person, you exist, and it actually does something inside of you.

Again, my plan to spend a breakfast break writing a short post of my trip, ends up taking all morning. It’s again timely that today, February 5, is my parent’s 75th wedding anniversary and only 3 days later is Mom’s birthday.

All the stories should be told and retold. Keep those loved ones alive. I am so grateful I had this one afternoon that filled my heart so much.

I cherish what my cousins sent me later, it is a short video where my cousin Hank, is holding a mobile phone playing back that audio of me asking Aunt Dorothy stories back in 2012. She is laying there in her bed, listening, smiling, laughing. I will carry this mind photo a long time.

Oh, and never got to the one I heard several time about Dorothy’s elaborate thanksgiving table centerpieces, the legendary one that featured a dead praying mantis. And I also heard that the centerpiece act continues in her kids, each year re-telling and re-kindling the loving memories of Dorothy Shofer.

As I heard she would say in summation, “All’s well!”

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Featured Image: Collage of family photos BA (Before Alan) from the gathering of my mother’s family ar Aunt Dorothy’s home (note her painting in the background) for the wedding of my Uncle Harvey to Doris Cohen in early 1960s. On the left, the adults, my grandparents Ida and Harry, plus all their Herondorf offspring + spouses, plus an “Uncle Max”? I got this from my cousin Susan that belonged to her Mom, Ruth, who wisely had labelled all the people! On the right are all the kids, my sisters, and cousins (this was a photo I found a my sister’s house).