July 22 is an important day.  On that date in 1904, a baby was born in Jamaica. Her name was Carmelita.  Leta for short.  For various reasons, poverty, and support of two young children among them, she came to the States and became a baby nurse for newborns of affluent families.  Her stints lasted two or so weeks.  She liked to tell us that she took care of the children of Tommy Dorsey (of the Big Band era).

By the time she came into my family’s lives, her two daughters were grown, with careers, married, with kids of their own. (Over the years, we met her immediate family (including husband, daughters and siblings, Mary and Poppy) and sometimes I played with one of her grandchildren.)

My mother was pregnant with my sister (the eldest of the three of us) and her obstetrician recommended Leta.  My mother call Leta and asked to meet her for an interview.  According to my mother, Leta said she didn’t give interviews but she would come at the appointed day.  (In those days, deliveries were induced.  My mother had them planned for Fridays, since, as an executive in a cosmetics company, she needed to have us on a schedule.)

It was a snowy day and Leta met Dad, Mom and my sister at home.  That was that.  Leta extended the two week stay to a month.  Then my mother told my father in no uncertain terms that he was to make an offer that Leta couldn’t refuse so that she would stay on indefinitely.  And, that he was not to fail in this mission.  (You would have to have known my mother to realize that my dad’s very life and happiness depended upon his success.)  Much to Mom’s (and more to Dad’s) relief, Leta stayed.  In short order came my brother.  I came three years later and Leta called me Miss Prim (short for Princess).

Leta ruled the house.  She would open the refrigerator on Monday and announce it was so empty, you could sleep in it.  Then she just started buying provisions.  On Fridays, she would tell my parents that she expected us in the same condition as she left us — bathed, fed, happy, etc.  We knew that Leta expected a call from us on Saturdays during which we would give a status of my parents’ parenting and spill the beans on everything.  She stayed with us for 20 years.

Leta was the daytime mother of my youth.  She spoiled me.  She was larger than life.  She was everything to me.  When I grew up, I started to see her limitations (as is the case with all heroes when children grows up).  I ran away from dealing with it and her.  There were many years in which we were not in contact but she came to all family events, all graduations, etc.  My parents went to all her family events.

When I read Shel Silverstein’s book, “The Giving Tree,” Leta was the ever-giving tree and I was the self absorbed, taking child.  I have that book as a reminder of how Leta was a gift in my life and little I appreciated her in my adult years until the end.

One day she called me and said she forgave me for not calling and that we should “let bygones be bygones”.  We said “I love you” to each other and we hung up.  The next week, my dad called to say that Leta was in the ICU in a hospital in the Bronx and that she was in bad shape.  My sister and I went to visit her and the nurse looked at us and said, “Who are you?” And two 30-something white girls said simultaneously, “Family.”  My sister is a doctor so the staff accommodated her requests for things like a waffle mattress to make Leta more comfortable.  Leta’s eyes were wide with a big smile on her face when she saw us.  When my brother walked into her room a few days later (he lives far away), her vital signs started going haywire because she was so happy.  My sister said, “Lee, if you don’t calm down, we’ll have to leave.”  She gathered us up in her enormous arms and hugged us tight.  We were hunched over the bed and didn’t let go until our backs felt like they were going to break.  My sister and I visited every other day until she died.  She couldn’t talk but she knew we were there and she was happy to see us.

We went to the funeral and my mother was asked to give a eulogy.  I introduced myself to people in her family about whom I heard but never met.  No recognition.  Then, Unice walked in and said, “Miss Prim!!” and then I saw recognition in many faces.  I realized that the part of Leta’s family I never met never knew my real name.  They just knew me as Leta’s princess.

Leta’s memory is a blessing in my life for some many reasons and on so many levels.