Debby Does…

My maternal grandmother, Sarah Elizabeth Castle Israel—Sally, was quite a character.  A beautiful, smart, funny, creative, hardworking, pragmatic, and loving woman, she battled her weight and depression throughout her life. Even though I surely didn’t understand it as a child, I always knew that my granny was sometimes unpredictable but always fascinating to me. 

Sally started her career as an RN at a women’s psychiatric hospital in Philadelphia, while her husband, my grandfather, Raymond Israel, completed his residency in Lancaster.  Their letters during that time were frequent and steamy.  It was a love affair that never faded, including their passionate attraction for each other.  I’m not exactly sure how they met, but I cannot imagine that there were not some difficult and awkward social situations.  Sally was a fair skinned Irish lass and Ray was a dark skinned Lebanese immigrant.  They were perpetually explaining that they were Presbyterian, not Muslim, everywhere they lived from Philadelphia to York and finally in Ocean City.  His family didn’t accept her immediately and they attracted glances wherever they went.  In my eyes, they were exotic and complemented each other perfectly, in both temperament and appearance.  Plus, they gave me the genetics to both tan and freckle!

Sally took to being a doctor’s wife with great élan and skill, hosting incredible parties and chairing charitable endeavors.  She was glamorous and stylish, the perpetual Kool cigarette in her hand.  They went to balls and took cruises with their social friends, but their special spot was an unassuming cottage on Ocean City’s southend, filled with mismatched furniture and home goods.  Sally, and their daughter, Judy—my mom, spent summers on the Ocean City shore, with Judy’s dearest friend Bertha and, sometimes what my grandparents referred to as, a “summer sister” for Judy.  Their English Springer Spaniel, Penny Candy Cress, was never far behind and, as they say in Ragtime, “all the family’s days would be warm and fair.”  Ray came down on weekends for fishing and family.  The little cottage featured a decorative wheelbarrow out front with the initials OMT on it, indicating that my grandfather had paid for the house with osteopathic manipulative treatments.  As the recipient of many of those treatments during my young life, I would pay dearly for that luxury now.  

Amidst all of this love and lovely, Sally developed a habit that she passed on to Judy.  

A need for masking tape.   

Sally put her name on a piece of masking tape attached to a dish or serving utensil for every rummage sale, potluck, and church social.  Usually, they were baked on, her distinctive printed SALLY, still coming through the years of oven time.  Every time I come upon one, I smile.  There’s an offset spatula that I’m particularly attached to, even though the tape is starting to curl and won’t be there forever. I love to rub my thumb over it and know that hers was there once too. 

As a good Lebanese family, we had a full collection of skewers for our shish kebabs hanging in the garage, next to our fishing poles.  Both Sally’s skewer and pole had her name emblazoned on them with a crispy piece of browning masking tape.  No one else’s, just Sally’s.  Perhaps growing up in a house as the only girl with four brothers led to a need to lay claim on her things or else she just liked the idea of seeing her name there and appreciating all the things she had in her life.  

Either way, she passed it on to Judy.  Judy’s reliance on masking tape was a bit more maddening.  Every leftover nub of cheese, butter, or takeout leftovers in the fridge was sealed tightly with the stuff.  When baking, she covered her counter with freezer paper, affixed with masking tape.  The brown paper bags, cut out for Christmas cookies to cool, were connected with a good amount of that  tape.  All of which took great efforts to peel away from whatever surface needed sticking. We teased her unmercifully for it and, as we packed up the Ocean City house of 51 years, we found it in more and more spots, as though that tape was holding together what her dementia ridden mind no longer could.  

I find it very hard to get rid of anything I find with a baked on “SALLY” taped to it.  I’m currently struggling to let go of a box of steak knives with my mom’s signature masking tape and label proclaiming “six nice steak knives” on it.  Interestingly, we had a box of “nicer” steak knives, but they received no acclaim or label. 

I guess I’m a little stuck on masking tape myself.  Must be in my DNA.  I hope those little labels last forever.  I’m a little “attached” to them.  

See what I did there?