Melodies and Memories

by Max Bamberger

“My Omi taught me, if it matters, put it in a song. And that's something I'll never let go of.”

Every morning, whenever my grandma Omi was in town visiting us, she walked me the three blocks from my house to my preschool. As we walked together, we sang. We sang songs from musicals, songs from prayers, songs she had taught me, and songs I had taught her. She never got the words or the notes exactly right, but she sang with such joy and dedication that it felt like the autumn branches hanging above us were joining us in song, and their fallen golden leaves swayed to our rhythm as they tumbled down. My Omi was the only one of my four grandparents who couldn't play an instrument, but whenever I think of music and its power to connect and stay within us, I think of her.

Every song we'd sing together came with an old memory. She told me how she had learned all the show tunes from Guys and Dolls at her summer camp in the Catskills when she was young, and how she and my Opa used to sing songs from Gilbert and Sullivan plays to scare away the bears whenever they went hiking.

As a state judge, My Omi dealt with many individuals who had no community to support them. She sang loudly and proudly at her own synagogue every Friday night, maybe to constantly lift and support her own community. Whenever we visited our Omi and Opa in New York City, I used to lie across their kitchen floor, and play and replay ditties by Mozart and Beethoven on a little musical electronic toy they had. And during family dinners, opera music belted out of the radio, providing a background for all of our conversations.

With my Omi’s quiet but eager encouragement, I began to develop some musical memories of my own. As the years went on, my Omi struggled with Lewy body dementia, and she stopped recognizing my siblings and me. Often she expressed that she was seeing things that had nothing to do with reality. However, until her last weeks, she was able to tune into the live broadcast of Friday night services every week to sing along.

When we visited for the last time, she couldn't say our names, but she could still sing the Shabbat prayers with us before and after dinner. When all else had slipped through her grasp, Omi held on tight to those melodies.

In my sixteen years, I have sung in ten musicals and in three choruses. This summer I worked with Koolulam, an organization that brings thousands of strangers from all backgrounds to sing together. My Omi taught me, if it matters, put it in a song. And that's something I'll never let go of.