Forgive me, grandma, I just can’t spit near Robin.

If anyone said anything good about their children, my grandmother Minnie, who was a Russian immigrant and a devout Orthodox Jew, would spit three times over her shoulder.

God help anybody who was standing in the way.

She did this, she said, to chase the evil spirits away, they would, she said, often try to harm blessed and gifted children, those who were, in her words, kissed by angels.

The spitting frightened them, chased them away.

One of my nieces won an academic award in the high school and when the news was announced at the weekly Friday dinner at my grandmother’s house, so many old women were spitting over their shoulders that the kids fled into the dining room.

I have shed most of those superstitions, but the old Jews I know all believed in angels and cherubs and evil spirits.

Like many oppressed people, the Jews needed to believe in supernatural spirits who watched over them, every of them felt lucky to be alive.

If you were lucky and successful, that meant you were kissed by angels.

If you were not, the cherubs would come and sting your cheeks, and the evil spirits would have their way. Jewish mysticism from the Old Country was one of my favorite things about Judaism then, although I didn’t stay with the faith.

Their stories were full of dybuks and demons and angels and cherubs.

The old Jews spoke of Dybuks in hushed tones, Nobel Laureate Isaac Bashevis Singer wrote of them in his wonderful books. The Dybuk comes from the Yiddish verb dabaq meaning to “adhere” or “cling.” They were convinced these spirits could save them from persecution, yet I often thought that the Old People didn’t seem to grasp that they almost never did.

A Dybuk is a malicious possessing spirited believed to be the dislocated soul of a dead person. It will leave the host body once it has accomplished its goal, whatever that might be.

They were not welcome in any Jewish household.

You did not wish to mess with them. My grandmother swore there was one living in Old Man Silverman’s body when he died.  She said she could hear him cackling at the wake.

I don’t see my granddaughter Robin much, Emma is good enough to send me a steady stream of pictures. My photo-taking used to annoy Emma, she was afraid that I would  point my camera at the wrong person in Brooklyn and embarrass her or get slugged. I think she was often afraid I would start trouble and embarrass her.

Now, she has a kid who is just like me who says, and loves to start trouble. Isn’t life grand?

I got testy and pointed out that I was a reporter for a long time, and bothering strangers was my stock in trade.

She dropped it.

I see now that Emma has become a wonderful and self-taught photographer with that special ability to compose a scene and capture the spirit of people she loves, especially Robin.

Looking at this picture, I realized that Robin has been kissed by the angels.

Unlike my grandmother, I don’t believe that abandoning spitting will necessarily draw the evil eye, quite the contrary I happen to know that the angels protect the humans that they kiss, I have an angel and we chat from time to time.

Robin has a radiance about her that is special.

She has a beautiful face, and powerful eyes that seem to be able to cut through steel. She gives the appearance of missing nothing, and has the sense of entitlement that children who are loved and well cared for often have. She sings songs, reads books, plays the guitar.

When she looks at me, I have the feeling she sees right inside of me, her brain almost whirring as she takes in all in. I believe she has my measure.

In the fall, she is going to the-pre school program at one of the best schools in New York City, the Brooklyn Friends School. As a member of a Quaker Meeting, I am pleased to see her going to a Quaker School, although this prestigious school will cost  as much as college does for many people.

Brooklyn is not like other places in America, the children of the new Brooklyn are part of a distinct culture.

Robin is on a track, I think, she has been given almost every gift a child can receive. She is bright, funny, confident and creative. She is much loved by wonderful parents.

Life can always intervene, but I think she is one of those people who can do whatever she wants in life. Like my newly-planted Sycamore Tree, I will not get to see where she lands.

I don’t mean this morbidly, we will all end. But it is only in recent years that I have become aware of the fact that most everyone around me is likely to outlive me. That can inspire some thought. In my acting class, I was the oldest person, a common position for me in many groups.

It is a relief for me to see that Robin was kissed by the angels. I’m sorry my grandmother didn’t get to see this exotic descendant of peasant stock from Kiev.

But Robin has her her spirit, my grandmother looked right through me in the same way.

If she knew Robin, there would be spitting all over the place, I don’t think Robin would like it. It is awe-inspiring for me to think of the blood of Minnie shaping this blessed child. Robin’s family has different superstitions.

My grandmother was the one who told me the angels cared for the children they kissed, even if she had to spit on the spirits to keep them away. Sorry, grandma, I just can’t do it..