My cousin Annette and I took our grandparents to see Fiddler on the Roof performed at Detroit’s beautiful Fisher Theater. The Google machine tells me this happened prior to the show’s Broadway debut, so it was either in 1963 or early 1964. We were lucky to see Zero Mostel in the role of Tevya. In retrospect, I wonder how much of the show my grandparents understood and wish we had been able to take them to the Yiddish version. Even though they were familiar with its source material, the Yiddish stories of Sholem-Aleichem, their command of English wasn’t great.

Despite the language barrier, our grandmother Alice was delighted with the performance, even if she didn’t understand all of it. She came from a family of klezmer musicians and her family name Klavir most likely came from the German word for piano, klavier. Music, singing, and dancing were in her soul, right up to the end of her life at age 93. I vividly remember her smiling and tapping her feet to the music throughout the show.

Our grandfather Philip, on the other hand, was a sweet, kind, and quiet man who had been dealt a tough hand in childhood. His mother died when he was young, and his father remarried soon after. Because the family was poor, at age ten he was sent away on his own to Riga to be apprenticed to a tailor. Eventually, he and his older brother and younger sisters came to America. He didn’t really know his half-siblings, some of whom likely were killed in the Holocaust. There was no singing, dancing, and celebrating in his life — only hard work. Thus, he sat stoically through the show and proclaimed when it ended, “It vasn’t like dat.”

I have seen several productions of Fiddler since that one, including our son’s fifth grade play in which he played Motel the Tailor and sang “Wonder of Wonders” to a cute little girl without making eye contact. I have always loved the show, even though I know it glamorizes the life in the shtetl my grandparents knew. But when I think of that original production with the amazing Zero Mostel, it is with a tinge of nostalgia and sadness, remembering how I shared this experience with my grandparents and cousin. With my grandparents’ passing, much of the tradition that Tevya sang about during the musical is lost, as faded from history as the pictures below.

As my grandfather would have said, it was more like this:

 

 

 

 

 

When Dave returned to the phone and told me the call had been from a “John Steptoe,” I thought my roommates were playing a practical joke.
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I’ll never have plastic surgery. I always say it’s because I’m determined to age gracefully, naturally, but mostly it’s because I can’t afford it, and I’m afraid of pain and/or a bad result. But each morning I Photoshop my mouth, turn it up at the corners for a sweet smile instead of the gash I have instead, and when exactly did that happen. And while I’m at it, a little healing brush (removes spots and blemishes) between my eyes so I don’t look like I’m frowning even when I’m not. I skip the smudge tool (softens or smudges colors) for daytime, though it’s great for evenings out. And believe it or not, I leave the wrinkles alone…I’m not a fan of faces with obvious work, especially when compared to the accompanying hands. Please. Jowls is another story for another time…because it’s complicated.

A mugful of heavily leaded coffee later, I’m ready for the day, open the front door and oh my god where are my sunglasses and even those aren’t nearly enough. Back to the computer, open Photoshop, quickly now, Image>Adjustments>Brightness/Contrast…ahhh, that’s better, that should do it. If not I can tweak the day later on my phone.

Jump into the car, onto the freeway, merge, and of course it’s one asshole after another bearing down on me. Easy enough to erase them, don’t even need an app for that…zap, zap, you’re out of here motherfucker. Smooth sailing now, I’ve pretty much got the road to myself, just like the good old days when you knew how long it would take to get to where you were going.

By the way, are you familiar with the history brush, and with layers? A lot of people don’t realize you can actually go back at any time to any stage and edit or even delete anything you’re not happy with, all without harming your original image!

What did we do before digital imaging? It’s hard to remember. Like not having our phone with us…how did we even leave the house? What if what if what if…anything could have happened and we would have been up shit’s creek. But here we are.