Greeting Cards

by Eleanor Lippman

My grandfather, “Pop” we grandchildren called him, liked sending greeting cards for important occasions. This was a very American tradition, something that didn’t exist during the late eighteen nineties in Ukraine as he was growing up as a child in a very poor family, utter poverty, a family that often went hungry in lean times.

It is important to realize that Pop said he could not read or write in English. He did have a rudimentary education and could read and write basic things, probably either Hebrew or Russian. I remember as a child how he kept the accounts of his customers: written with the stub of a pencil on the back of a brown paper bag. His records looked like chicken scratch to me, but that is the way he kept his business accounts.

Also as a young child, I knew that after my grandfather left the room, my parents would laugh uproariously at the cards he gave them. It wasn’t until I was old enough to read that I understood why.

When a birthday or anniversary was imminent, Pop would walk from D and Cambria Streets in the Frankford area of Philadelphia, to the nearby Woolworth’s 5 and Dime store on Frankford Avenue to choose a card. It was a ritual purchase for each child, each son or daughter in-law, each grandchild.

One of the earliest birthday cards I remember receiving from Pop had an explosion of flowers, an enormous bouquet that filled the front of the card. Above the flowers in neat silver cursive lettering across the top it read, “Happy anniversary”. Inside was an elaborate and long poem dedicated to everlasting love and devotion. At the bottom, in large black letters was his signature: a huge flourished capital letter “A” followed by his last name. He had learned to write his name soon after arriving in Canada. He needed to do so in order to sign checks and other important legal papers.

As an aside, I need to say that during a trip to New Orleans, Louisiana, I spent some time in the genealogy section of their public library looking for any information about my grandparents and my mother’s time living in Algiers (which was almost part of New Orleans) between 1913 and 1918. I was aware that my grandfather had applied to become a citizen, so his naturalization paper records would have been on microfilm in New Orleans. Searching records stored on film was no easy task in those early days. The equipment was large and bulky and the reels of film contain hundreds if not thousands of records. No Boolean search was possible; it was a matter of loading each reel and cranking through record after record in a darkened room. After hours of doing this, it was easy to give up. Recording these records was often sloppy and I could imagine workers tediously capturing image after image and becoming weary and careless. So record after record came and went on the screen as I searched for his name. Soon, I was becoming hypnotized and started to nod off, but still prevailed. Still rolling the images forward. This was my only opportunity, this one precious afternoon because the next day I was scheduled to return to southern California. Page after page flowed past my weary eyes. Then, suddenly, the huge flourished “A” appeared! It was Abe’s signature, unchanged from when I saw it on my birthday card thirty years later.

As I think of this now, I wonder. My grandfather was no dummy. It is hard to believe that after so many years, he could not figure out from the labels on the cans and packages in his grocery store how to read in English. I suspect that, in fact, he was actually able to read English but never admitted it to anyone. If that is true, the greeting cards he purchased were always one huge joke on everyone. The picture on the front of the card always seemed to be appropriate, but the message inside was always so wrong. Besides anniversaries, there were condolence cards, congratulations on your confirmation, get well, and others. I bet he got a big laugh out of every inappropriate card he ever sent.

Here’s to you Pops! You got the last laugh.