For our family.
For Mom.



It’s hard to believe a year has passed
without Ellie
The Jewish tradition calls for
unveiling a gravestone, but we don’t have one.

For the last year, Mom’s ashes sat quietly
in a little cardboard box, under a brass Buddha
in the Tribeca loft of
my oldest friends, Bill and Peter

We thought she’d like it better there than in Amsterdam.
After all, she was a New Yorker in her heart.

She wanted to live only there and her marital excursions – to New Jersey and California -
were not happy times for her.

The City was the place she understood
Its noise, energy and chaos
spoke to her deeply. She understood its logic.

So when the time came to scatter the ashes
it made sense to do it Manhattan.
But where?

My first thought: In front of TKTS
Got the response
– You’re throwing your mother in the gutter?

But Cousin Barbara made the wise suggestion
To scatter bits of ash around town

at places that were meaningful to Mom
an idea which also had the advantage of
reducing the bulk of the ash

and thus, to my relativist mind,
reducing the illegality of unlicensed disposal.

We made it a two-day affair or,
as Joani said, we did it the European way – slowly.
A real family reunion – Michael flew in from California,
Rebecca and Stephen drove down with Joan from Massachusetts.

We had luxurious suites on the Upper East Side, by the UN.
Joan brought photos
– a wonderful album she created
with photos stretching from Granny Millstein in 1900, through my bar mitzvah in 1964,
to babies Rebecca and Michael, in the 80s.
There was also a touching photo of my beloved Jay, may he rest in peace
– all of us whom Mom loved.

We admired the photos of Mom’s wedding with Norman, in 1951, an elegant affair, with tables full of immigrant relations, all of whom are now departed.

It rained.
The heavens poured their sorrows onto us
from a stationary front that lingered over the tri-state area, creating “flood warnings”.

It was perfect, because it reminded us that Mom would say
“carry an umbrella” and go forward! So we did.

On day 1, Saturday, a core group of Joan, Barbara, Rik and myself,
them that loved her,
began the process, with umbrellas, of scattering the ashes, in the places that mattered.

First, #1 Fifth Avenue, Mom’s wedding scene, formerly an elegant hotel,
now a condominium.
We wandered the original wood-paneled lobby, and scattered ashes tentatively
in the red and yellow flower beds on the sidewalk.

We scooped the ashes from a blue Tiffany’s bag
that was protected from the rain by a white plastic Macy’s bag
– so New York, so Mom
using a silver plate serving spoon from Mom’s collection.

Then to Washington Square, to the flower beds
to the east of the arch, to commemorate
Mom’s decades as a doyenne of Greenwich Village.

Then to the site of the former Fifth Avenue Center, where Mom became a therapist.

Then to 44 West 12th Street, where Mom lived
for 16 years, from 1966 until her departure for California in 1982.

I wanted to knock on the door, and take a look,
but Joan wisely advised against it.
It’s better to have our memories than to see how the new residents have changed the place.

At each site we praised Mom’s life, and told the sweet intimate stories that are our memories.

Then a taxi up Sixth Avenue, to Macy’s.
First we scattered a bit in the lovely flowered garden that is now Herald Square.
Then we took the special step of
entering Macy’s in a tribute to Mom’s adventure
in the handbag department with her beloved sister, Renée, may she rest in peace.

Family lore has it that Mom and Renée - young women in 1943,
were en route to see Grandma in Miami Beach, using train tickets
obtained at great effort by Uncle Dan Millstein, himself a macher
in the garment center who had connections at Penn Station.

They stopped at Macy’s on their way to the train.

Though they already had packed a “steamer trunk” full of clothes for the two week trip, they felt they needed an extra handbag, and

at Macy’s they found a divine creation, which they then bought in four different colors.

This adventure caused them to miss their train, and
they were forced to trudge, hats in hand, back to Uncle Dan
to beg him to get tickets for TOMORROW’s train to Miami.

Well, he did. And on THAT train, Renée met her future husband,
the late Paul Levin
- a handsome soldier who was also en route to Miami to see his mother.

Renée and Paul were married in great ceremony six weeks later at the Rooney Plaza hotel in Miami Beach.

So, one could say, the handbag department at Macy’s gave us Barbara,
Renée and Paul’s daughter!

In gratitude for that, we stood close to a glass shelf next to a patterned, Florida-sort of handbag, scattered the tiniest pinch of memory
and took a photo of Barbara. Thank you, Macy’s!!

Then to TKTS on Duffy Square, which was Mom’s favorite place.

When I came to town, she’d always say “Let’s meet in front of TKTS.”
Theater was Mom’s delight. It invented reality, just as she would like to.

At the theatre, she was critical but had catholic tastes
– in her prime, she saw almost EVERYTHING.

And the only thing better than theater tickets were half-price theater tickets.

I was always mildly embarrassed, because she knew the guy who guarded the line at TKTS (she gave “free therapy”)

so she never had to wait on line to pay.

While hundreds of tourists waited their turn, my mother
would walk straight to the window (my $100 in hand) and
get choice seats for the show we had chosen.

Then a dash to the theater – we were never later, but never early either – for a couple of hours of happiness.

But TKTS isn’t there any more! They’ve moved it
so they can build something else in the spot! What to do? Cops were everywhere, and Barbara warned
they would think we were terrorists sprinkling anthrax in Times Square.

So we decided the spot is still important,
even though TKTS has moved,

and we huddled in a closed circle, hidden by our open umbrellas, and quickly sprinkled just t
the smallest pinch of ashes on the beloved pavement of Times Square,

saying words in memory of Mom’s love of the theater and our happy times there.

Back at the Beekman Tower Suites, we met Rebecca and Michael and Stephen

And drank chilled white wine and ate nuts

Then went to dinner at Montparnasse on 52nd Street
As guests of Barbara and Jim
the air conditioning blew
And we all tasted the tatin au chevre

I had coq au vin
And Mike asked if we ate hamburgers in Holland.

Day 2, Sunday
Brought challenging news from the Boat House Restaurant
That our very large party, now numbering 22
Would have to choose a pricey fixed price menu
at triple the cost we anticipated.

Ellie would not approve. She hated spending money on restaurants.
A hurried call to Barbara for her restaurant strategy, got us an alternate reservation at Ocean Grill

The restaurant on the West Side where we lunched
after Mom’s funeral, a year before.

At 11:30, we met our guests, our fellow memorializers,
at the outside bar at the Boat House
21 strong, Barbara and Jim, Alisha Dimond, Eleanor and Chaim and Ilan, Michael Barrett and his sister, Doris Melikor, Rena Shadmi, Fran Rosensweig came from New Jersey, Paulette Hutterer, Bill and Peter, Ellis Green, and briefly Charles Evans.

We deliberated as the rain got worse. Should we wait for it to pass?
And finally decided just to go ahead, and climbed the hill to the Rambles

We spread the rest of Mom’s ashes around a big, old, gnarled tree in a large grassy area
I said that the heavens were raining their tears
and that when we were children Mom used to say, when exasperated, “what would you do if I weren’t here?”
Now we have to figure out the answer to that question, every day.

Almost everyone else told a story of their particular memories of Mom.

Then those who wished to each spooned out the last of the ashes
On the meadow

And Joani and I finished them off, walking slowly around the tree.

Joan cried.

The rain grew stronger
And we set off for the restaurant, on the West Side, through the Park
which proved farther away, and harder to find, than we anticipated.


We climbed hills and crossed lakes
like Lewis and Clarke, explorers in Manhattan.
I worried about the older ladies,
But they carried on like troopers
and we appreciated the restaurant all the more when we finally arrived.

For Paulette, it was her father’s 10th Jahrzeit, so she preferred not to join us
but rather to have her private memories.

At lunch everyone perked up. We drank a toast to Ellie
A blond waitress, with a teary face, told me the restaurant staff regretted our loss
and had considered sending us champagne
But didn’t know if that would be appropriate.

Our memorial was a great success
We evoked Mom as though she were alive today.
We scattered her ashes meaningfully and memorably, in the presence of
a hard-core crowd of people who loved and appreciated Eleanor Ades Bragar

Several of whom asked me if we could possibly
Meet again next year.
I would like that.

Robert Bragar
June 28,