There was a small chalkboard next to the phone in the kitchen of my grandparents' home, used for writing down phone numbers and other important information. Around age 4, I wrote, "Mia Loves Bubie" and it was never erased, only my brother attempted to compete with his, "Eli Loves Grandfather." Valiant effort but slightly unoriginal. Bubie and Grandfather lived in that house for the majority of my life and my words were never erased.

We often fell asleep in the car on our way over to Bubie's, but as soon as the car hit the gravel, eyes popped open and you knew you were there. Thanksgivings included lots of food, lots of people, after-dinner team Trivial Pursuit (maybe this is where Judah got the Jeopardy game idea? Could fact-based game playing be genetic?) and coffee and tea served in those white cups that dropped into the green and orange handled bases.

Diysah (cream of wheat) was standard breakfast for grandchildren who slept over in the upstairs bedrooms. We played in the attic (where we probably weren't supposed to) which smelled of wood and records and old trunks, or cards in the tv room (when nothing good was on), or occasionally out in the backyard, catching the scent of freshly sanded wood in the air. We read books or I played with dolls in the living room (or sometimes in the first bedroom upstairs on the left). I vaguely recall there being a random high chair stored in there, which didn't do much, but there were windows on either side of the house, allowing for a good view of the driveway, to make sure no one was there to pick up yet. This was of course, before many screens existed to play on. We kept ourselves busy while Bubie was cooking.

Mornings were for the sound and scent of Postum being stirred, lunchtime often included borscht (though we turned our noses at that). Next to the fridge, there was a freezer full of homemade foods, all carefully labeled in Bubie's handwriting - apple cake, Bubie cookies, soups. I was frequently asked if I'd made a BM yet? And encouraged to give it a go in the little tiled bathroom off of the kitchen. Or I'd sit next to the door on the stool that had steps that pulled out like a step ladder. That is where I tried black licorice for the first and last time, gagging in the upstairs bathroom.

Day trips to state parks at the beach included unsalted pretzels, sandwiches on rye bread, and those lightweight foldable chairs, that always looked so uncomfortable to me. We were trusted to put on our seatbelts and sunscreen (even if we were only 1 for 2), we were always fed and cared for.

Bubie's warm hugs, happy eyes and joyous, proud smiles, always greeted us, in Langhorne, in Philadelphia, or at Abramson. She loved my children fiercely, and they knew, having celebrated so many occasions - or just ordinary moments - together. All through my childhood, she was always there - hosting or visiting. She had organizational systems for keeping track of birthdays and anniversaries. And all through my adulthood, she was always there, caring for others, inviting others to partake in her plenty, and of course, enjoying her grandchildren and great grandchildren.

My labor with Judah was so long and drawn out that Bubie (who had much more experience giving birth) demanded to come and see with her own eyes that Judah and I were okay. I clearly recall, through the delirium of post-natal haze, seeing her face at the door of my recovery room, just happy to catch a glimpse and know that all was well.