May 9th would be my grandmom’s 90th birthday.
Helen Hodies, was actually born as Sophie Levy, in 1931 in the Lower East Side of New York City to Jewish-Greek immigrants that fled from religious persecution. She was one of six kids, number four to be exact, and actually spent part of her childhood in foster care because her parents couldn’t afford to take care of the entire family. She lived in a one bedroom tenement house on Orchard Street, a building I have been lucky enough to see, but can’t imagine living in with seven other people.
When she was eighteen she changed her name to Helen, and pursued many jobs with her sister, my great Aunt Rose Ann, by her side. They worked at restaurants, clothing stores, and many other places. They spent their time working and hanging out with friends, going to the beach, and dating boys. Both sisters had matching necklaces from their mother so people would know they were Jewish. A gold pendant of two lions against a torah with a star of David.
My grandmom was set up with my granddad, Irv Hodies, by a mutual friend, and they fell in love fast. They were married in March of 1957, and moved to Queens. They had two boys. The first, my Uncle Eric, born in 1961, and the second, my father Marc, born in 1963.
Dad remembers his mom’s voice, light but with a New York accent. She rarely cursed, and liked to cook him matzah brie. She worked in a hospital, calling people to make sure they paid off their bills. Grandmom was so nice but assertive that every person she called ended up paying their bill. She was even presented an award from the hospital for doing such diligent work.
Grandmom never wrapped presents, and when she went out for dinner, she liked to order stews and soups. If my uncle and father went out for the evening, she would stay up until they came home. She always had gifts for my mother once she and my father started dating, and I’m lucky enough to have had those kept and passed down to me.
Before she got sick, she was interested in art. She painted and did embroidery. She made crafts, framed pictures, and wrote letters to her other sister, Stella, which I have had the privilege to glance over and see for myself.
Theres not a lot of details of when she was sick, no one really likes to talk about it, but I do know that it was sudden and happened sort of fast. Truthfully, I don’t think my father got to say goodbye, and I think that’s always been hurting his heart.
She passed February 29th, 1996. Five months before my father married my mother. My older brother was named for her.
I never got to meet her, and I’m not sure she even ever thought that she would have a granddaughter she would never know. But even though she’s gone, I think she knows me now, and I feel incredibly close to her.
It started with my face, well, her face really. I like to joke that I stole it, because the resemblance between us is actually uncanny. We have the same ice blue eyes, same dark, thick eyebrows, and same smile. Though I’m shorter than her by a few inches, our bodies are built the same. But it’s the mannerisms that get to my father the most.
When my throat gets itchy, I scratch it by making this noise. It’s weird, but I’ve always done it. Except I guess I hadn’t in front of my dad, because when I did for the first time, he dropped what he was doing and whipped his head up and asked me what I was doing. He had never heard anyone else in his entire life besides his mother do that. But I did.
It didn’t end there. We walk the same, sometimes I think we talk the same, though I’ve never heard her voice. I think theres a recording of it somewhere, so I’m excited to hear it one day.
We have a similar clothing style. I didn’t know this but she was an avid writer and won a writing contest in high school. We both crave anything sweet, and like to drink caffeine like its our job. We were both blonde babies whose hair turned light brown and wavy as we became adults. Our cursive handwriting is basically the same. The list goes on, but those are some of my favorites.
Another favorite is that every time I visit Aunt Rose Ann she holds my hand and tells me how much I look like her sister, and that she loves that I wear her old necklace. The gold pendant that I didn’t even know was her’s when I found it in my mother’s jewelry box but was drawn to it and wore it anyway. The necklace that I now never take off and hold onto when I need to calm down or faith in humanity or just to feel close to my grandmother, who I am apparently a clone of.
I dream about her every once in a while. Sometimes we talk, sometimes she just sits there and watches me. One time I swear she visited me when I was sleeping in the middle of the night and when she kissed me I shot up and saw her walking out my door. She walked sassy, and was in the dress that we keep a picture of her wearing in the kitchen.
I have a ton of pictures of her, some in my room. I have her old yearbook and her wedding album. I wish she wouldn’t have rented her wedding dress, because I know it would fit me like a glove. So now my life mission is to find one thats similar and embodies her, so I can feel her with me when I walk down the aisle one day. Her and grandad were married for almost thirty nine years before she passed, and their marriage was so full of love.
She is so full of love, and I can feel it shining down on me everyday. She is my guardian angel, and sometimes I cry for her and wonder how it’s possible to miss someone I’ve never met. I wish I could talk to her about my life, about our family, and about how much I love her, and being just like her.
Grandad is turning ninety two at the end of July, and it hurts to watch him grow so old, but I find comfort in knowing that he’s going to reunited with her one day.
Happy 90th birthday to my fellow taurus, my guardian angel, and my twin. My grandmom.
I love you.
-May 9, 2021