Miriam Sand Siffert died peacefully at home on Sept. 7. She is survived by Robert, her husband of 67 years, her children John and Joan, and her grandchildren, Molly, David, and Matthew.

She and her husband Robert, former chief of orthopedics at Mount Sinai Medical Center, spent over 50 summers on the Vineyard. In the 1950s they rented a bungalow at the Menemsha Inn with their children, Joan and John. In the 1960s and ’70s, they rented the Paul and Brenda Moore house on South Road and Meeting House Road in Chilmark. When that was sold, they rented the Fowler House at Prospect Hill in Chilmark. Their summers were spent surrounded by close friends and family.

Miriam Sand Siffert was born in Brooklyn on June 28, 1918. She attended James Madison High School — where she met her future husband, Robert Siffert — and Brooklyn College. She went on to serve as the chairman of the board of the Hillcrest Center for Children and the Wilt­wyck School for Dependent and Neglected Children, both located in Bedford, N.Y. She devoted much time to the Citizens’ Committee for Children, serving on the board as vice president, treasurer, and honorary member. She won the first Eleanor Roosevelt award for her efforts in the establishment of the Leadership Institute at CCC.

Another one of her great efforts was her role as grandmother. One of her finest achievements in this position was teaching her grandson Matthew how to greet and say goodbye to a girl: you grab her hand, and, just when she thinks you’re going to kiss it, you smooch your own. This charming tactic quickly became a staple in Matthew’s girl-pleasing repertoire, not to mention a regular salutation and farewell between Nana and him.

The following is a remembrance written by Matthew Siffert.

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I remember a recent evening with my grandmother this past winter. I had met up with her at her Upper East Side apartment in New York city en route to a jazz club downtown.

I entered during a conversation between my grandfather and grandmother — my family has officially and affectionately dubbed them Popop and Nana respectively — about plants in the living room. “Should we throw these roses out?” Nana gazed at an unhappy bouquet in the corner. To Popop, the issue’s symbolic delicacy required more than a yes or no response. “Well, do they bring you joy? If not, then you should throw them out. That’s my philosophy on everything in life, really.” Before the moment could get too serious, my grandmother shot back. “I’ll never throw you out, even if you stop bringing me joy.” It was hilarious, but there was sincerity in her voice. “Now let’s get going.”

Perhaps this was Nana in one moment; sharp, loving, on her way to the hippest spot in town.

Nana was a friend, fan and nurturer rolled into one. She was by my side when I had my bar mitzvah in Jerusalem. We celebrated her 60th anniversary in London. On her 80th birthday, we bet on horses at the Kentucky Derby. She kissed me good night when I slept over at her house in Chilmark. She fed me more than my skinny body could handle at her Thanksgiving dinners in Bedford.

Several years ago Miriam was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and at the end of August a severe stroke paralyzed her left side. I flew back from college over Labor Day weekend to visit, knowing it would be the last time I saw her. I came back into the same Upper East Side apartment, with fresh flowers on the dining room table and bright summer light shining through the windows.

She lay there in the back room, vigorously fighting pain and fatigue. Instantly she remembered me: “Aren’t you lucky to have such a young and vibrant grandmother?” There was that same hilarity and sincerity in her voice. Then she coughed, heaved, and took a deep breath. “This ain’t easy, you know.”

At 3:45 that afternoon, Nana kicked us out of her apartment. I held her hand — really kissing it this time — and made my way out. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had company coming at 4 p.m.

Donations in Miriam Siffert’s memory may be made to the Citizens Committee for Children, 105 East 22d street, NYC 10010.