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I’m named after my zaida, Ben Waldman, who died in 1986, so every couple of months, I get an email or phone call from someone who knew him somehow. I get a message two weeks ago from someone who says my name rung a bell. He was a social worker, so he knew thousands of people.
But this time, the writer told me one of her grandmother’s sisters lived in Winnipeg like a hundred years ago and her last name was Waldman. Could we be related? “We might be.”
Today, I get an email from her with a scanned letter my grandfather wrote (or possibly dictated as his health failed) in October 1985.
I never met him, and it& #39;s crazy, but I hear his voice when I read it somehow. He uses expressions my dad uses, and the same sentence structures, and whoever wrote the letter has nearly the same cursive writing as I do.
He describes my baba, a "bundle of self-generating energy, to the degree where she was able to satisfy magnificently the duties of wife, mother and social worker." My aunt, an Olympic level swimmer with a brain to match. My uncle, whose "heart is as big as all outdoors."
And then he describes my dad, who had just graduated with a BFA from York and was the premier dancer with the Ontario Ballet Theatre. He writes, "This summer, (he was) introduced to a young lady, and we are all very hopeful something good will come of this."
The lady, of course, was my mom. As I& #39;m reading this, in July 2020, I am in awe. I& #39;m seeing my grandfather& #39;s handwriting at the end of his life, describing a moment in time when my parents& #39; future was only beginning. I never met him, but I& #39;ve always felt like I knew him.
He was an accomplished social worker, a community leader, a renowned stage actor and director, a former kosher butcher, and with this letter as evidence, a tremendous storyteller.
