Mrs. Gabelko’s Favorite (and Only) Daughter Shifts House
Mar 16, 2024 by Katrina Gabelko
SHORTLY AFTER NEW YEAR 1973, Grandma Gabelko was home from her hospital stay following a heart attack. She and Grandpa Gabelko settled back into their busy daily routine. At that time, the six Gabelkos occupied the top floor of a four-plex in south Berkeley. Grandma and Grandpa lived at 2416 Russell St., while the rest of us occupied 2414.
It was an ideal arrangement. Neither Grandma nor Grandpa drove, so having the other Mr. and Mrs. Gabelko (my mom and dad) right next door worked out fine. Grandma in particular was held in high regard on our block; she looked after, not just us kids, but the neighborhood kids as well. With Grandpa as her assistant, Grandma ran an extremely detailed program of walking kids to and from school, feeding all of us, and supervising us at play. At the end of our block was an office high rise with a huge, elegantly landscaped parking lot, perfect for all sorts of after-hours bicycling, playing ball, and countless other games, often invented by the players and Grandma herself.
And then, there were the boxes. Grandma had begun to collect cardboard boxes for moving. As a full-fledged nine year old, I was entirely amenable to adventure. I had no idea what moving meant. I had lived at 2414 since I was born. Grandma and Grandpa had retired and left Seattle when I was about two years old, so they pretty much had been right next door to us for my recorded memory. So… what exactly was “moving”? Packing, putting things in boxes, having a garage sale. These were knowable, enjoyable things. However, as I learned, these activities were actually “pre-moving.” As for the actual move, the British expression, “shifting house” became extremely apt.
There was quite a bit of back-and-forth among Mr. Gabelko, Grandma, and Grandpa, in their native Ukrainian, the universal code for Grownup Conversation, aka NOT Kid Business. My brother and I typically took these interactions in stride, mainly by dismissing them from our awareness. I was somewhat puzzled, however, when Grandma’s end of the conversation became punctuated with hand-wringing, and my dad voiced frustration to my mom, in English, but ostensibly out of earshot of us kids.
I don’t recall if we kids figured it out for ourselves, or, more likely, Mr. and Mrs. Gabelko sat us down for a talk. As I learned to say in the Army, BLUF (Bottom Line, Up Front): We of 2414 were moving to Australia, where my parents would teach for two years. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t want to come with us; they wanted to return to the then-Soviet Union. Considering the backdrop of inflation, violence, and Watergate in the U.S. at the time, I can only imagine how un-favorable the rest of the world situation was.
It has been said that it’ll all be better in the end—if it’s not all better, then it’s not the end. Grandma and Grandpa, in an air of resignation liberally sprinkled with relief, settled, not on the outskirts of Kiev, but in an extremely airy, spacious second-floor apartment in the center of town. Somehow, I weathered the experience without ever realizing that Russell Street would be the last time that Grandma and Grandpa would ever live right next to us. Somewhere in the course of middle childhood egotism, I was entirely engrossed in my own priorities. My mom told us that we would be moving to the state of Victoria. At the time, I had a classmate named Victoria. She had a yellow folder with her name written in cursive on the front. I pictured the state of Victoria as having a never-ending supply of yellow folders.
Then, there was the adventure of The Equator and the Boots. We kids had recently acquired new, highly-polished, lined winter boots. I loved them and wore them as much as possible. Fortunately, our arrival in May would coincide with cold weather for the Aussies. To wit: more time to wear those glorious, shiny boots. I learned the true meaning of delayed gratification when I mistakenly decided that we were leaving in March, not May. In the meanwhile, I made detailed plans with my brother for us to pick up some money babysitting younger children on our flight.
BLUF: We didn’t babysit. We did wear boots. There were no yellow folders as far as I could tell. Grandma stayed in close touch via airmail (remember, no email in the 1970s). I loved writing to her and getting letters from her. As for the separation of the Gabelko sextet, I must say, Grandma nonetheless continued her matriarchal duties with equanimity. About a year into our Australia stay, we received a letter from Grandma assuring us that Grandpa, despite a recent hospital stay, was doing fine. Apparently, Grandpa had suffered a small stroke. Grandma had let him rest up for a bit before they went to the hospital. It was fortuitous that the city hospital was only about two blocks from their apartment. Grandma walked there with him as soon as he felt ready.
No reperfusion strategy would have gotten Grandpa’s blood flow moving as well as a brisk post-stroke walk with Grandma.
It was an ideal arrangement. Neither Grandma nor Grandpa drove, so having the other Mr. and Mrs. Gabelko (my mom and dad) right next door worked out fine. Grandma in particular was held in high regard on our block; she looked after, not just us kids, but the neighborhood kids as well. With Grandpa as her assistant, Grandma ran an extremely detailed program of walking kids to and from school, feeding all of us, and supervising us at play. At the end of our block was an office high rise with a huge, elegantly landscaped parking lot, perfect for all sorts of after-hours bicycling, playing ball, and countless other games, often invented by the players and Grandma herself.And then, there were the boxes. Grandma had begun to collect cardboard boxes for moving. As a full-fledged nine year old, I was entirely amenable to adventure. I had no idea what moving meant. I had lived at 2414 since I was born. Grandma and Grandpa had retired and left Seattle when I was about two years old, so they pretty much had been right next door to us for my recorded memory. So… what exactly was “moving”? Packing, putting things in boxes, having a garage sale. These were knowable, enjoyable things. However, as I learned, these activities were actually “pre-moving.” As for the actual move, the British expression, “shifting house” became extremely apt.
There was quite a bit of back-and-forth among Mr. Gabelko, Grandma, and Grandpa, in their native Ukrainian, the universal code for Grownup Conversation, aka NOT Kid Business. My brother and I typically took these interactions in stride, mainly by dismissing them from our awareness. I was somewhat puzzled, however, when Grandma’s end of the conversation became punctuated with hand-wringing, and my dad voiced frustration to my mom, in English, but ostensibly out of earshot of us kids.
I don’t recall if we kids figured it out for ourselves, or, more likely, Mr. and Mrs. Gabelko sat us down for a talk. As I learned to say in the Army, BLUF (Bottom Line, Up Front): We of 2414 were moving to Australia, where my parents would teach for two years. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t want to come with us; they wanted to return to the then-Soviet Union. Considering the backdrop of inflation, violence, and Watergate in the U.S. at the time, I can only imagine how un-favorable the rest of the world situation was.
It has been said that it’ll all be better in the end—if it’s not all better, then it’s not the end. Grandma and Grandpa, in an air of resignation liberally sprinkled with relief, settled, not on the outskirts of Kiev, but in an extremely airy, spacious second-floor apartment in the center of town. Somehow, I weathered the experience without ever realizing that Russell Street would be the last time that Grandma and Grandpa would ever live right next to us. Somewhere in the course of middle childhood egotism, I was entirely engrossed in my own priorities. My mom told us that we would be moving to the state of Victoria. At the time, I had a classmate named Victoria. She had a yellow folder with her name written in cursive on the front. I pictured the state of Victoria as having a never-ending supply of yellow folders.
Then, there was the adventure of The Equator and the Boots. We kids had recently acquired new, highly-polished, lined winter boots. I loved them and wore them as much as possible. Fortunately, our arrival in May would coincide with cold weather for the Aussies. To wit: more time to wear those glorious, shiny boots. I learned the true meaning of delayed gratification when I mistakenly decided that we were leaving in March, not May. In the meanwhile, I made detailed plans with my brother for us to pick up some money babysitting younger children on our flight.
BLUF: We didn’t babysit. We did wear boots. There were no yellow folders as far as I could tell. Grandma stayed in close touch via airmail (remember, no email in the 1970s). I loved writing to her and getting letters from her. As for the separation of the Gabelko sextet, I must say, Grandma nonetheless continued her matriarchal duties with equanimity. About a year into our Australia stay, we received a letter from Grandma assuring us that Grandpa, despite a recent hospital stay, was doing fine. Apparently, Grandpa had suffered a small stroke. Grandma had let him rest up for a bit before they went to the hospital. It was fortuitous that the city hospital was only about two blocks from their apartment. Grandma walked there with him as soon as he felt ready.
No reperfusion strategy would have gotten Grandpa’s blood flow moving as well as a brisk post-stroke walk with Grandma.
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