Great-grandmother dishes up tasty family memoirs

Like most 90-year-old women who have self-published their memoirs, walk several miles every day and are actively involved in their community's social life, Mary Spack has let certain obligations slide.

"I feel terrible saying this," Spack said in an interview last week, "and I really don't want this to get around..."

Then Spack stopped and measured her words, gauging whether or not to trust her listener with an intimate confession.

"For the first time ever," the Walnut Creek resident continued, "my bowling average has fallen below 110."

If Spack's been tossing a few gutter balls lately, she can be excused. Recounting nine decades worth of personal history can throw one's equilibrium off.

"My children and grandchildren wanted this book so badly," said the author of "Family Sketches," a 110-page bound memoir.

"This is the legacy I'm going to leave them. It's better than money or anything else," added the mother of three, grandmother of seven and great-grandmother of six.

Spack finally relented on writing the book after years of prodding by her family. Once she committed to the project, however, nothing could deter her.

Except for the occasional computer crash.

"I have a nice Christian neighbor that helped me out whenever my computer went haywire," Spack said. In fact, many of her neighbors in the Rossmoor retirement community, when they heard of her undertaking, were supportive.

"Many of my friends in Rossmoor, regardless of their ancestry, really wanted to read the book. I think they felt regret at never preserving any of their family legacies."

Spack's parents came from Russia, and she still possesses the certificate that allowed her father to open his tailor shop. The document gives a physical description of her father, and finishes with the phrase "is a Jew."

Her father worked in South Africa for four years -- to escape serving in the czar's army -- and then relocated his family to Kansas City, Mo. Spack lived in a predominately Irish and Mexican neighborhood, and she was occasionally taunted with jeers of "sheeny" and "Christ-killer."

But that was the exception, rather than the rule, Spack said. In fact, she remembers countless times visiting her next-door neighbors, and being inundated with the smell of bacon.

"The crucifix didn't really bother me, although I thought it was a little gory," Spack laughed. "But the smell of pork clung to the wallpaper and curtains like glue.

"Of course, they wouldn't like the smell of gefilte fish baking in my mother's house either," Spack added.

Although Jewish neighbors were few and far between, Spack was nonetheless very aware of growing up as a Jew. She recalls keeping kosher, observing the Sabbath and lighting the candles.

Ironically, due to her Jewish upbringing, Spack was missing some important autobiographical information. Such as her age.

"I didn't really know how old I was until I was 10," she said "See, I was born on Passover, and my family observed the lunar calendar. Since it differed from the secular calendar, and since it fell on a different day every year, no one really knew the exact date of my birthday."

That changed when Spack took a nickel and rode a streetcar down to the Kansas City Bureau of Vital Statistics. The clerk asked the child what the nature of her visit was.

"I want to know how old I am," Spack responded. The birth records were retrieved, listing her official birth as April 6, 1909.

Two of the most salient events in Spack's life -- besides 55 years of marriage to her husband, Henry (who died in 1986) -- were her admission to Teachers College in Kansas City and the creation of the state of Israel.

Spack's lifelong ambition to be a teacher was hindered by a variety of factors: the mores of the times, sexism and her father's will.

"It's hard to believe today, but back when I was a young woman, if you wanted to be a teacher, you had to be a spinster all your life," Spack said. "The thinking was that if you got pregnant, it was bad for appearances."

With that in mind, Spack's father remained steadfastly opposed to his daughter becoming a teacher. But she enrolled anyway.

"Until I enrolled at Teachers College, I felt like a nobody," Spack said. "That was the beginning of my personality, I think. Before then, I was just a blob. I was totally under my father's thumb."

When asked if her admission to Teachers College stirred nascent feelings of feminism, Spack concurred.

"Jewish women have been so neglected throughout history," she said. "They're separated in a lot of shuls, can't daven with the men and were just supposed to bear children. I really wasn't trying to be rebellious, but I wanted to be a teacher, and nothing was going to stop me."

In fact, having children did put the kabosh on her teaching career. But she still maintained a high profile in community groups and also taught Sunday school.

One year, Spack helped her eighth-grade class gather funds to present a Jewish National Fund tree certificate to a very distinguished guest, former President Harry Truman.

"Nobody appreciated Harry Truman when he left office, which was a damn shame, because he's the one that gave us a Jewish state," Spack said. "Truman was always a straight-shooter, and he always did what he felt was right, even if it flew in the face of public opinion."

In 1953, after his presidential tenure, Truman returned to his hometown of Independence, Mo. Spack approached Eddie Jacobson, a member of her temple and Truman's former business partner, asking if Jacobson could deliver the certificate. Jacobson did.

Truman accepted it -- with one condition: that he address the congregation in person.

"It was one of the proudest moments of my life," Stack said. "He was a truly great man who should be revered by the Jewish people for the actions he took on their behalf."

Spack's memoirs conclude with a final dayenu, for all the blessings the author feels she's been granted. As for possible book-signings, cocktail parties or appearances on "Oprah," Spack dismisses them with a laugh.

"The book wasn't meant to be sold," Spack said. "It's a gift for future generations of my family.

"After all, you can't know where you're going, if you don't know where you've been."