Ever since I was a kid, I called my grandmother Babu. Its a bastardization of the Russian word for grandmother, but my mom called her grandmother Babu, so it was something we just did.

In a country where assimilation is a virtue, things like calling my grandmother Babu, were difficult and embarrassing. Not having a “Grandmother Sue” or whatever the other nice mainstream (which in my brain has always been white Christians) boys and girls had always made me feel like I was somehow not part of the true “inner circle.”

But, thats not what this post is about.

My grandmother is now around 85. (Im not sure she was ever very truthful about her age). She was born in Shanghai, China, where her father was a leader in the local Jewish segment of the city, and published a newspaper. Her mother ran a store, and over the course of my grandmother’s life, she learned 9 languages, worked as a simultaneous translator (the voice you hear when some foreign dignitary speaks), was an accidental spy, wrote several books (both children and adult), and travelled extensively.

I know all this, because Babu never shuts up.

Story telling is well integrated in the Jewish history and way of life. Storytellers, like Isaac Bashevis Singer, are celebrated.

Whenever the Jews were threatened with disaster, the Baal Shem Tov would go to a certain place in the forest, light a fire, and say a special prayer. Always a miracle would occur, and the disaster would be averted.

In the later times when disaster threatened, the Maggid of Mezritch, his disciple, would go to the same place in the forest and say, “Master of the Universe, I do not know how to light the fire, but I can say the prayer.” And again the disaster would be averted.

Still later, his disciple, Moshe Leib of Sasov, would go to the same place in the forest and say, “Lord of the World, I do not know how to light the fire or say the prayer, but I know the place and that must suffice.” And it always did.

When Israel of Rizhyn needed intervention from heaven, he would say to G-d, “I no longer know the place, nor how to light the fire, nor to say the prayer, but I can tell the story and that must suffice.” . . . And it did.

From the Jewish Storytelling Coalition

Within our family, Babu is probably our most celebrated storyteller.

Well, maybe our most frequent storyteller. Because, with an amazing ability to relate any conversation to one of her favorite stories, we have all heard her stories. Often.

“Babu, I just blinked.”

“Blinked, Micahansidhski (or something like that. She never has said my name without attaching a million consonants and vowels to the end of it)? Have I ever told you of the time in Korea…”

It became a game to see how far you could take the conversation away from anything remotely connected to any story Babu ever told, and watch her bring to back.

“Babu, did you know that one plus one is two?”

“That is very nice, Micahsdlskfjsdfhawdhsdakski, did I ever tell you about the time where I had to add for the Emperor of China?”

And for the rest of my family, it became even more exciting to watch me destroy her cadence, and attempt to get her to flustered.

“Babu, the Emperor of China, do you say? Have you ever seen the movie The Last Emperor of China was it that one? I think I met that guy once, and did  I tell you I was interviewed on CNN?” (She hates not being the most famous person in a room).

My sisters, mom, aunt, uncle and cousins, often joke about my grandmother and her stories. “Do you think Deda (what we call my grandfather) ever speaks?” With my grandmother using all the words in the room, it was a pleasure to see my grandfather, free of my grandmother tell his own stories of escaping Romania during the second World War, of getting captured on Cyprus on his way to Israel, of meeting my grandmother in a Kibbutz (Kibbutz Dafna, which my mother is not only named after, but also where she met my biological father).

Of course, when I was just too flustered, I would simply say “Babu, will you please shut up” and leave the room.

Yesterday morning, while waiting for some friends in the Saint Julian lobby, I called my grandparents. It has been awhile, as we get busy, it gets harder to keep in touch.

My grandfather answered the phone, and the exhaustion was clear in his voice. “How are you,” I asked. “I am ok, but Babu is not ok.” he replied.

My mom told me that my grandmother, now almost completely non-ambulatory, has become a bit confused. “A bit mixed up,” I think were the exact words.

After a short conversation with my grandfather, who usually pleaded with me to come visit, but strangely this time didnt, he handed the phone to my grandmother.

Normally, I say hello, then my grandmother speaks for about 20 minutes, I say goodbye, and everyone is happy.

This time, I could barely get out the first word before she launched into a story.

“Do you have that picture, Micahdslkdfhdslfkhfesljhdiski?”

“Which, Babu?”

“The one of me near a piano that happened right after I almost got raped.”

I paused for a second. I hadnt heard this story. I assumed it was an embellishment, after all, I could almost guarantee that embellishment was my grandmothers middle name.

“I dont know that picture.”

And for the next twenty minutes my grandmother told me stories, yet these stories were not linear, they had no beginning or end. They were like a Suicide Slurpee, most of the time you could recognize parts of stories once heard, but more often the intermixed and overlaying of story lines and elements caused complete confusion.

As the conversation came to an end, confused about what was real and what was fake, I promised to email all the photos I had that included my babu and me.

“When are you coming to visit next?” She quietly asked.

“The end of the month, Babu.”

“Will you come to the house and listen to my stories?”

“I will make a point of it.”

“Can you come for a couple of days? I have a lot of stories to tell.”

“Dont push your luck, Babu.”

My grandmother is old. She is closer to the end of her life than the beginning. Our family knows this, and I think, especially my mom, is coming to terms with it.

I think about what my lasting memory of my grandmother will be a bit more often now. I run through the hundreds of stories, and millions of interactions we have had over my life, and I always seem to settle on one.

When I was small, maybe 5-6 years old, my grandmother would tell me stories while I took a bath. Stories about a small speck of dirt taken away in a soap bubble. A small speck of dirt, that turned into a hero battling villains both big and small. I remember watching her spin her tale, and wondering if I would ever be as adept as her at creating stories that were both interesting and engaging. I remember her excitement as the story unfolded, and the happiness I felt knowing it would never end.

And I smile.

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