Grandma and Grandpa Windisch lived at 2110 Penrose Street, St. Louis, Mo. On the street side of the property sat a two story, two family railroad flat apartment building. In the back, on the alley-way was their bungalow. The downstairs apartment was rented (I remember nothing about the people who lived there), and my parents, my brothers and I lived upstairs in the second apartment.

Grandpa loved roses and grew them all over the yard between the two-family house and their bungalow. I remember the bungalow as well as our apartment. The bungalow had three rooms, a bedroom, kitchen and a living/dining room (and, of course, a bathroom). The apartment we lived in was, as I said, a railroad flat . You came up the stairs and to your immediate right was the bathroom, you walked a few feet and entered a very large kitchen, if you turned around facing the street side of the house the bedroom was right there and beyond the bedroom was the living room. Whichever of the rooms you stood in the center of you could see clear to the other end of the apartment.

I was five years old when my Grandfather died. Unfortunately my actual memories of him, are few. I remember him as being a gentle man and very soft spoken, tall and reed thin with a mustache that tickled me. I remember an accent which was thick with his heritage; broken English, threaded with German. One of my most vivid memories of him are of one warm afternoon, towards the end of summer when I was about four. My parents and I had just come home from the circus, I was holding a balloon and sitting on a bench near the front door of the bungalow telling him all the wonderful and amazing things I saw. I remember watching the balloon float away into the sky, but don't remember letting go of it or it being a sad moment. I just remember sitting there with him, feeling warm and wonderful and intensely happy. I remember riding my tricycle up and down the path between our house and Grandma and Grandpa's house and Grandpa working on his roses in the garden. One of the most poignant memories I have is the night he died. Mom, Dad, Grandma Knopf and my brother's and I were eating dinner in our apartment when Gramma started yelling for my Mom in the yard below. Dad ran down the stairs to see what was wrong and then he and Mom went back to Gramma's house, leaving us with Grandma Knopf. It was common practice back then to have the wake in the person's home--that's the part I remember vividly. A room full of people, whose faces I don't remember, me being crouched on the floor just outside the bedroom and crying and being very much afraid, and my father picking me up and taking me across the yard and up the stairs to our apartment. Shortly after he died the property was sold and we all moved to Long Island, New York. Years later I would remember a little more from that night, my Gramma crying, my Mom crying and my Dad trying to comfort everyone. And more years later when I was older I would learn that it was a massive heart attack. He'd gotten up from the dinner table and told my Gramma he was going, she thought out into the garden, he fell to the floor--it was instantaneous.

Grandma Windisch we just called Gramma. Gramma was a short stocky woman with dark, slightly graying hair that was always permed and wire rimmed glasses hiding her wonderful brown eyes. She spoke broken English--but growing up I never noticed a difference (until a school friend asked me one day, "What did Gramma say?") She was a phenomenal cook, a expert seamstress, and had the greenest thumb I've ever known. She was always there with wonderful words of encouragement, strict discipline when we needed it (even if we didn't feel at the time we did), and great big hugs, lots of kisses, and the most delicious treats ever. Gramma never wore makeup or perfume, she never drank milk (except in coffee) and never ate butter. She enjoyed a glass of wine with lemon soda every now and again, and every Christmas there was always a bottle of red wine under the tree. Gramma was not a fancy person, her needs were simple, she dressed simply and comfortably (never wearing a hat, always a scarf--tied tightly) and her material needs were few. She treasured things people made with their own hands and was instrumental in saving the wonderful things she and my Mom crocheted and sewed. She relished tales from the old country; her history and of the times she grew up in and enjoyed telling her stories to us when we were children. Because of her loving care I've got a wonderful collection of beautifully hand-worked crochet pieces, some beautiful things my Dad made while recovering from back surgery while in the Navy and a history of my Mom's family. I cherish them as much as she did and along with our family history and my children I know I possess a richness of life which has nothing to do with money.

When we moved from St. Louis to Long Island Gramma lived with us in a post-World War II cape cod tract-house my parents and she bought in the community of East Meadow. Gramma had a vegetable garden that ran the whole width of the back yard (about 60 feet) and was about 20 feet deep. She grew all kinds of vegetables and strawberries. She and my Dad planted fruit trees in the yard--apples, pears, peaches and even sour-cherries. There always seemed to be a never ending supply of home-canned tomatoes, pears, peaches, applesauce and strawberry jam.

Both my Mom and Dad worked and it was Gramma who was there for us kids when we came home from school. She took care of the house, took care of us kids, cooked the dinners, and sewed wonderful clothing for both my brother's and myself--but mostly for me. I remember old lace curtains which were washed by hand in the bathtub. They were rung out by hand and then my Gramma would put them on these frames with little pins all around the edges. The frames were set up in the back yard and the curtains would air dry. During those days all the clothes air dried--not many people owned a dryer.  We just had a ringer washing machine down in the basement and Gramma would haul the baskets of laundry up the stairs and outside to hang them up.

I learned to sew from lying across my Gramma's bed and watching her fingers fly as she threaded fabric through the presser foot of her old Singer machine. As I got older she taught me how to work the machine and guided me through making my first sewing project--a 7-gore skirt in minty green cotton.

I especially loved cooking and baking with Gramma. It amazed me that she never really measured any of the ingredients or rarely looked at a recipe. She knew on instinct how much was needed, and every time her wonderful confections came out exactly the same--and deliciously sinful. I would sit across the table from Gramma as she would put her 'noodle-board' on the table and begin constructing her creations. She had a small brown book with yellowed pages in which she kept some recipes, all written in her hand, in pencil and in German; but mostly they were in her head. What I learned to cook and bake were simple fulfilling meals and delicious treats, not just for special occasions but for everyday. You'll find many of the wonderful dishes and treats Gramma taught me in the recipe section of this site.

When I was in my 20's, I suddenly realized I needed to get these recipes down in a way I could understand them, especially since my skill of the German language was not very good. I got my Mom's measuring cups and spoons and measured each and every one of the 'handfuls' and 'pinches' of ingredients she was using. We continued doing this every time I was home and she was baking--her measuring the necessary ingredients into old fashioned white coffee cups, serving spoons or the palms of her hands--me re-measuring them with standard measuring spoons and cups; until most of the recipes were recorded. It was the way I learned to bake--me watching her for years, then helping her and then meticulously recording the recipes and she and I working them together.

In November of 1966, when Gramma was 79 years old and I was just turning 21 I flew with her to Florida to visit her son (my Uncle) and his family. It was the first time either of us had ever flown. I can't tell you who was more excited. We had a wonderful trip and a fantastic time in Florida.

When I brought my oldest son home from the hospital in 1976, I walked in the door to my Mom's house and Gramma was sitting in her rocking chair in the living room. I walked over to her and with a smile on my face laid my son in her arms. She hadn't been feeling well for quite a long time and looked quite frail. Gramma smiled a smile I'd never seen on her face before. In German she said "May he grow strong in my arms". That day she held her first Great-Grandson in her arms, and her joy lit up the room.

How very lucky I was to have grown up in a home where old world traditions were honored and instilled in the children. How very lucky I was to have grown up in a home where three generations shared their lives and love. How very lucky I was to have experienced the linking of those generation's history and been able today to pass those stories and traditions on to my own children.