My grandfather was a man who lived by a fixed routine.

When I looked at him as a child I gave him all the respect a child should give a grandparent. Slowly from gleaned conversations at the supper table and family arguments, I discovered the real Isaac Greenberg.

He was a roofer. He did physical labor all day. At night, the filthy hands and dirty clothes were discarded. The grimy cap and shoes were placed in a corner and the transformation began.

He stepped into the bathroom and the hot water began to flow. The shower he took must have lasted about an hour and a half. The steam seeped through and under the bathroom door and curled up onto the ceiling.

The soaps of that day stick out in my mind even though they are no longer found in the American marketplace. They were a cake of Lifebuoy and a can of Dif Cleanser. I also think I remember Jergens Hand Lotion to soften the calloused working man's hands.

When he emerged with his hair in place in ultra clean white underclothing, it defied recognition. The reeking tramp had become a perfumed dandy.

He stepped into starched shirts and pants and the transformation continued. He had not spoken to anyone while he was on this sacred mission.

As he entered the kitchen, my grandmother, who had been preparing supper all day, nodded silently to him. She knew not to disturb the tranquility and aura that he had created. "First feed him then talk" was the motto of the house. A brilliant concept, even today.

He ate carefully, almost scientifically and when at last, the compote (prunes, apples, pears) was served, he took his "tea mit lemon." He pushed back from the table and spoke. Everyone listened.

Next, he entered the living room and sat and read the Daily Forward, a Yiddish paper. I would always try to read the pictures as they had English titles and my Yiddish was in need of learning. No one disturbed my grandfather. This was his time of decompression after his daily climb on the roofs and fire escapes of New York City.

At about 8:30 p.m. he would make some salutations of goodbye and leave for unknown destinations. I learned that Isaac was a card player. I had seen him play knock-rummy with my Great Uncle Willy on occasion. The screaming, teasing and yelling in those games made me laugh as the adults behaved worse than my grade school friends.

He usually returned after midnight and sometimes even two or three in the morning, when I was fast asleep.

Where did Isaac go? What did he do?

I never knew until about 40 years later. In my dental office, I was informed by one of my patients from the old neighborhood.

The lady told me about my grandfather and her mother. Her mother was a gambler and she ran a card game in her apartment, one-half block away, on Bryant Avenue in the Bronx.

Isaac, she reflected, was a gambler. No surprise there! She next told me he had on occasion loaned people money. My Zaida, I found out, was the embodiment of Rhett Butler, Don Juan and Shakespeare's Shylock. Wow!

I do not fully believe all these tales of Isaac's secret life, told to me 40 years later.

I prefer my own personal memories of my grandfather (Zaida) Isaac.