S.S. United States

This is a sad story, in more ways than one. In the late 1970's the S.S. United States was towed up the Elizabeth River in Norfolk. It was moored near Craney Island at the Grain Pier. At that time they had planned on making it into a hotel and placing it where Norfolk's Harbor Place is now.

It was a good idea but the money didn't work out. Then it went to Florida; again it was sad to watch it being towed after such a storied career, making her 1952 record Atlantic crossing in 3 days and 10 hrs. at 35 knots. (1.149 statute miles)

Living by the Narrows in Brooklyn I remember seeing her enter and leave New York as a kid. It was a majestic sight. I used to take the subway to mid town Manhattan and tour the liners when they were in port. No charge, you just went up the gangway and they let you roam around. I was about 12 years old at the time.

Her last trip with passengers to New York was when she docked there on September 7th, 1969. Funny this post should appear on September 8th, 2024. 55 years later; an orphan who never got adopted for, or adapted to, another way of life.

The plan now is to sink her as the world's largest artifical reef off Florida, and is probably the most noble of options at this point.

But the final sad, though relatively minor blow is that the article refers to her "purposefully" being sunk. Purposefully means, "In a way that shows determination or resolve." I suppose the author of the article, most likely using spell check, meant to say "purposely" which means "in a deliberate manner". A small difference, granted. But still, one last reminder of how much the world has changed since 1952. We don't even spell right anymore.

The photo above is of her now, in Florida, her once beautiful paint faded and peeling. The next photo is of her at the grain pier up the Elizabeth River in 1983. I want to thank Joe Sea Man for sending it to me today. And the last photo, which seems to be dated from 1954, is of her heading into the channel off Sandy Hook. That photo was taken from a fishing boat out of Sheepshead Bay. I got that photo from the Sheepshead Bay Memories site here on Facebook a few years ago. Sadly, I do not remember who posted it. 

"Mister 880" with Burt Lancaster, Dorthy McGuire and Edmund Gwenn (1950)

This is a true story. One of the most unusual counterfeiting cases ever recorded, it originated in Manhattan but played out in Brooklyn, from Boro Park to Flatbush to Coney Island. Even Kings Highway was targeted. It took place over 10 years, between 1938 and 1948 and was the toughest case ever undertaken by the Secret Service.

It is the story of Emerich Juettner, also known as "Skipper", an ex Navy Machinists Mate from World War One who made his living as a junk dealer and only printed the counterfeit $1 bills in order to make ends meet. They were of extremely poor quality, which made the case even more baffling. Even the word Washington was mis-spelled!

The case came to a head in January 1948, after a fire forced him to leave his apartment in Manhattan. The firemen left his belongings in an alley where some kids found them. In the film the kids use them to trade and play cards, but in reality they turned them over to the Police, who had been alerted by the Secret Service of their existence.

Agent Steve Buchanan and his boss had discussed their longest running case, called Case 880, for 10 years, never turning up a credible lead. Out of respect for their quarry they nicknamed him "Mister 880." The counterfeit notes passed by him were even called "880s".

When a woman, Ann Winslow, a  translator at the newly formed United Nations, was found passing 2 of the counterfeit notes, the Secret Service cultivated her as a possible conspirator. She became interested in Agent Buchanan romantically, as he did with her.

Soon, it became apparrent that the bills had merely come into her possession accidentally. But how? That was the key to solving the case.

Eventually it was determined that she lived in the same rooming house as the old man, who was still not a suspect. But, when she bought 2 small spinning wheels from him for $3 each, she had paid with two $5 bills, receiving 4 of the bogus bills in change. This was his only mistake in 10 years.

He had only undertaken the enterprise as a way of survival. Had he placed himself in the care of the government and lived at the Old Sailor's Home it would have cost the United States $85.70 a month to care for him. Needing less than $50 a month to live on, he began doing the whole thing as a way to save the government money.

Agent Buchanan was a relentless man who believed in the maxium penalty for any counterfeiter, even "Skipper", but as the case unfolded he began to have a begrudging respect for the old man.

Eventually, Juettner was arrested, and sentenced to nine months in jail. But when the judge is informed that a sentence of less than a year makes Skipper ineligible for parole he changes the sentence to 9 months and a $1 fine, making him eligible for parole in only 4 months. Agent Buchanan paid the $1 fine for him.

When 20th Century Fox bought the movie rights to his story, "Skiper" earned 8more money than he had ever made as a counterfeiter.

Edmund Gwenn, who played 'Skipper", won a Golden Globe Award and was nominated for an Academy Award for his performance. Agent Buchanan was played by Burt Lancaster and Ann Wilson was portrayed by Doroth McGuire.

The exterior scenes were all filmed on locaion in Manhattan and Brooklyn, while all the interior scenes were shot on soundstages in Hollywood.

This is a most endearing and entertaining film. It can be viewed here:

https://youtu.be/Ko17byRnCWo

It's Only Me - Chapter 1 - Roots

I was born and raised in Brooklyn, which believe it or not, is on the ocean- swim far enough and you'll hit Spain direct from Sheepshead Bay. Brooklyn is the largest borough in the City of New York, and with 2 and a half million people, would be, if it were a city unto itself, about the 6th largest in the country. It is filled with people from everywhere and is crowded and tumultuous and smells of 30 different ethnic foods (and people) all at once. You can buy the latest in knockoff Chinese goods, the best of the new Paris and Rome Fashions, fireworks by the crate just in from China , drugs, women, watches , everything but time.

I grew up in a Jewish, Italian, Irish area known as Sheepshead Bay/Gravesend. We lived in a 7 story apartment building with 70 other families. We had Jews, Italians, Germans, Irish and even Cuban exiles from Castro’s 1961 purge.

We observed one other’s holidays with respect; yet tormented one another over religious differences. We fought, laughed and lived in a crowded hodgepodge of humanity, where nothing was sacred or exempt from the strongest drug known to man-laughter. We laughed at everything-Jesus on the cross, Jews in the oven, it didn't matter. We were literally raised on comedy and laughter.

If I cut school we would take 15 cents, ride the subway and go into Manhattan. We'd walk around in the Village and look at the Hipsters and what was left of the Beatniks and even see a couple of early hippies (1965-6) We'd ride the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, which was never crowded back then at all. For 35 cents we would play on that island all day! The ocean breeze coming up the channel, or the cool North wind blowing down the Hudson River felt good to us. We were free.

Sometimes we'd take the bus and go the other way and be on the beach all day, laughing in the sand, looking out beyond the horizon and wondering where we were all heading. Eternal questions plagued us- Is the fog we see at night on the beach even close to the nothingness or great void that existed before creation took place? Couldn't be, nothing is nothing, fog is something. These are the things we talked about.

My family was a conglomerate of nationalities. We were Irish, Welsh, Russian and Polish. When they talked about the “melting pot” in school, I thought they meant my family!

My father’s side was composed of the Burkes and the Williams’. The Burkes were the first to arrive. Stephen and Ellen arrived with their 3 children. They were Thomas, James and Elizabeth. They were amongst the first wave of Irish to emigrate in great numbers around the time of the potato famine (1857). They first appear in the Census of 1860 and all subsequent ones through 1930.They were learning to read and write according to the 1860 Census and their chief health complaints were a sore foot for him and Rheumatism for her. He worked as a Wheelwright/Blacksmith.

The youngest daughter of their son Thomas, Mary Burke, married William Shone Williams shortly after World War I ended. She used to tell me about meeting my Grandfather William S as he walked by in his soldier suit in Park Slope Brooklyn. He turned back and asked if she could “go walking”. They married and had 6 children; Mae, Roy, my father William, Richard, Gloria and Gladys.

The Williams family were relative newcomers in 1900 and 1904 when they arrived, Isaac first, as a bricklayer and later Catherine and the children. They came from Wales by way of Liverpool and settled in the Park Slope Section of Brooklyn, New York. They brought with them their son William Shone and daughters Katherine and Marion. They were literate. Isaac had served as a Church Guard in Wales. He worked as a laborer and brick mason and is supposed to have worked on the Empire State Building just before his death in 1931.

His son, William Shone Williams was a decorated World War I Veteran, having enlisted at 16 years old. He served in France during the 2nd Battle for Verdun in 1918. He became a NYC Police Officer in 1921 and passed away on the job in 1946, leaving Mary Burke a widow at 45 years old with 6 children to raise. Known as a strict disciplinarian and a hard drinker, he was both feared and loved- a true enigma of a man. He was the epitome of the price paid by many World War veterans for the "War to end all wars."

My father, the 3rd eldest of the 6 children, went to Maritime High School in NYC aboard the SS John Brown, a converted Liberty Ship, graduating in 1947. He then joined the US Navy as a submariner , sailing aboard the USS Torsk out of Groton, Conn from 1948-50 as a reservist. Later he would be drafted into the Army for the Korean War.

Around this time, in 1947, he met my mother, Ruth Marcus while he was an usher at the Kingsway movie theater in Brooklyn.

The Marcus family was in the so called last wave of Russian Jewish Immigrants. William and Elizabeth arrived in 1911 with their children, Pincus, Sophie and Minnie. None of the family spoke English- they got in based on their skills- he was a tailor and she a Cutter. Pincus would go on to make and lose a fortune several times in the Garment Industry as a manufacturer of lingerie. He married Dorothy Henkin.

They had two children, Walter and Ruth, who was my mother. Dorothy left Max in 1929, the year of the depression and got paid with government bonds after catching him with another woman. Consequently my mother was well off during the depression. She took horseback riding lessons, piano, skating, art etc.

The Henkin family is somewhat of a mystery. We have no paper work showing who they were and where they came from. No one seems to know how or where and when they slipped into America. Nevertheless, here they were.

It seems likely that they came out of Russia and through Poland and then on to Italy. From there they would most likely have proceeded to Canada and then down to Philadelphia and finally to Vineland, New Jersey. This was a farming community of Russian immigrants and Uncle “I” claimed it was his birthplace. Some sources indicate Philadelphia as the correct place, but once again, there is no documentation to support this.

They were typical of the Russian immigrants of the time; rural and poor, but literate and Jewish. They left Russia largely due to persecution and economic hardship.

Max “Pops” Henkin (we think that’s the last name- again, no proof) had a livery stable in the “old country”. Very vague-somewhere near Kiev in the Ukraine region - Some small shetl that, no doubt has long been gone. But it would’ve been nice to know the name. “Pops”; everyone called him that; met and married Rebecca and it was there that he operated his livery stable. Rebecca’s maiden name is unknown.

Rumor has always had it that Max was involved in the sale of a horse that belonged to the Czars’ Army- Cossacks. This was to have a profound effect on the future of the Henkin’s family.

One day a man came in with a wonderful looking horse, well bred, fed and easily led- a mighty steed 14 hands high with a haughty manor. “Pops” could not afford him and he turned away. But the man made him an offer he could not refuse and so he became the owner of this prize animal. Accordingly, and expecting a great profit, he put the horse up for sale, advertising everywhere within a day’s journey of his shetl outside Kiev.

All hell broke loose soon after when he was charged with being in possession of a horse belonging to the Czar. He was released pending a trial in which he would have surely been convicted.

This influenced his decision to go to America where he would continue working with horses, first at a livery stable as a hand, later as a foreman and finally by 1920 he was in business for himself.

“Pops” had 3 children in America with Rebecca. They were Nathan, Isaac and Dora. Isaac was my Grand Uncle through my mom. He and “Pops” had lived with my grandmother Dorothy and her children throughout the World War II years. “Pops” died in 1948 and my parents married in 1950. They lived with Grandma Dorothy and her maid Mary until 1952 when they got their own apartment in the same building at 3619 Bedford Avenue. At that point Isaac moved into a hotel in Manhattan- where he would reside for the next 23 years, until he passed on in 1975. He was a Grandfather to me and no words can express the love I had and still have for this man.

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk.

He was born, alternately, depending upon whom you asked, in Vineland NJ; Philadelphia or New York City. Though his birthdate is listed as Aug 15th- the year varies- 1893, 95 or 98- take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as a deportee or a soldier.

He apparently worked for the American Railway Express Co and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth.

When I was younger, he would take me and later, when I was older, I would meet him at the furriers where he worked on 7th Ave in the mid-fifties. This was the Garment District.
The skins, the cutters, the tailors and sewing operators treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncles life.

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights, always regaling me with the stories of whom he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city.

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and talk a walk with me. By talk a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards he would give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when magic time was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Rd entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan They said he had nowhere to go, but I know better- he came to see me.

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, Yankee Stadium, to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden, to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Show. He was Jewish to the core but the blue lit Nativity scene- complete with real Camels on stage- made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Ave and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max.

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people already in their seats would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition , as well as to say hello. He was a gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went.

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those 2 dollars for my brother and I.

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game for a peek at the score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, the bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand and lonely on the other.

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to the room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me - his time.

To Be Continued......

The Police Gazette

When I was in elementary school I was not much on paying attention in class. I had all sorts of distractions at my disposal. The window by my desk offered a full view of Wm. Kelly Park in Brooklyn, and though it was empty during the school day, the subway tracks ran alongside of the park, with trains passing every few minutes. I used to watch those trains and daydream about the people on them, and where they were headed.

But, by far, my favorite distraction were the many books and magazines I smuggled into the classroom. My two favored literary choices in 5th grade were the latest Mickey Spillane novels my Dad used to read, as well as the Police Gazette.

While the former had all the suspense of a good murder mystery, along with a voluptuous secretary named Velda, the Police Gazette had all the lurid details of whatever horrifying crimes were making the current rounds. In addition to this attraction were the many "true" crime stories from New York City's past. I always preferred the ones from the turn of the Century. Being removed from the events by several decades made them seem less horrid, and more like entertainment.

So, I would fold the Gazette up, as best as I could within my loose-leaf book, and be transported to places far from the boredom of the classroom. It was a good system, at least for a while.

I had already been admonished by my teachers, and parents, about Mickey Spillane being inappropriate for a 5th grader, but the Gazette, well that was news, or at least current events in my opinion, and so it was fair game to read that in lieu of paying attention during "Social Studies". To me they were about the same. But not everyone agreed with my 11 year old thoughts on the matter.

The whole thing came to a head one day after recess. I had carefully folded my Gazette into my book and placed it in my desk, a two person affair with a space beneath the writing surface for storing books and pencils. Then I went to recess, with little idea of the betrayal which awaited my return.

As I re-entered the classroom that morning, something didn't feel quite right. Mrs. Denslow was looking at me with that sly, slightly amused look she always had when dealing with recalcitrant little boys such as I. But wait! As I passed by her I spied a copy of the Police Gazette on her desk! Could it be true? Mrs. Denslow, she of the halo braided hairdo, read the Gazette just as I did? I had always thought of the Gazette as a "man's" magazine, indeed I had first taken up reading it in the barbershop, where it lay alongside of Playboy and Esquire.

I gave Mrs. Denslow a knowing look, as if we shared some great secret between us. Summoning me to her desk she asked if I knew what the Gazette was. I happily replied that I did indeed, and I had the very same issue in my desk. I also added that I was very happy that we shared the same taste in reading material. That's when it hit me! Someone, most likely my desk mate, a refined young lady, had turned me in while I was at recess.

Mrs. Denslow explained to me that I was in class to learn, not in a tonsorial parlor, and as such, the Gazette was not really proper for me to be reading. She would have to call my father about this. We had already been through the Mickey Spillane episode, and I guess that she thought the issue of appropriate reading material had been duly addressed. My father was summoned to school for a meeting with Mrs. Denslow .

The next morning, about a half an hour before school began, my father and I met with Mrs. Denslow in my deserted 5th grade classroom. There is nothing more threatening to an 11 year old than being in the classroom alone with your father and your teacher. No good can possibly come of it.

Mrs. Denslow got right down to the issue, informing my Dad of my transgression, and reminding him of our previous encounter concerning Mickey Spillane. She was of the opinion that I should not be reading either those books, or the Gazette. My father agreed that these were not appropriate for class, but drew the line at her "suggestion" that I not read the Gazette in the barbershop. In his considered view, "What went on in the barbershop" was sacrosanct, and that included the Gazette.

I'm thinking about this episode now because I am just finishing the last Chapter of a book which recalls every lurid article I ever read in the Police Gazette. Like those stories, this one takes place in New York City, at about the turn of the century. Now, Mrs. Denslow was my favorite teacher in elementary school, and she may have been right about the choices I made concerning reading Mickey Spillane at such a young age. But, after all these years, I still have to disagree on the Gazette. Through its pages I developed a love of New York City and its criminal history. And that fascination has remained with me to this very day.

A Christmas Tree Grows In Brooklyn - from Betty Smith

This is a repost from last year and the year before. I present it again simply because I love it that much. I hope that if you have never read this, you will now. Your life will be enriched. And, even if you have read it before, you will find that it will refresh your spirits. I include my last year’s introduction and hope to add a bit to it each year.

If you can read this portion of a chapter from Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” without choking up, then you are probably not living. One of the most poignant portions of a book filled with such moments, this is a tale that should be read each Christmas. To me it is the equivalent of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens; only shorter; as most things are.

In this brief glimpse into the lives of the Nolan family on Christmas Eve are all of the same lessons contained in Dicken’s classic holiday tale. The realities which we live are largely of our own making. And, just as Jacob Marley forged each link of his own damnation in “A Christmas Carol”, we are all capable of undoing those links as well. As you read this, remember that about the tree-seller.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming;

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

Old Textbooks - Foundations to Build Upon

When I was in Junior High School (W. Arthur Cunningham JHS 234 in Brooklyn, NY) there was a bookshelf in the back of my homeroom class. It was filled with older, obsolete textbooks. I used to browse through them with great interest, as they were from the years that my parents had attended school. I also have always loved old books, and so, accordingly I was very interested in what these books contained. There were all kinds of subjects represented on that shelf; science, literature, history and math all come to mind. But the book that held my interest the most was this little gem "Energy and Power" by Morris Meister. The copyright date is 1930, with a second printing in 1935. Inside the front cover there is one of those book stickers that we used to place inside the front cover to identify the owner of the book. This made the book even more desirable to me.

I was a good student in Social Studies, History and English. Anything which allowed my mind to wander was a welcome respite to the tedium of the classroom. Science and Math were my two worst subjects, which is kind of funny when you consider that I went on to become a Navigator aboard ships at sea, a position steeped heavily in my two worst subjects. Even more surprising, at least to me, was that I was good at it! And this little book had a little something to do with it.

While not paying attention in class one day, well, one day might be short changing myself, I came across this book and realized that it was old enough to contain all the basic information that I lacked in my understanding of all things mechanical. So, I took it home to read. And I never took it back. I've never felt badly about it, mainly because those books were destined for the trash and had been out of use for several years. I had to blow the dust off the book before I read it.

The book covers all manner of scientific subjects, among them are; Sources and Transmission of Light, Reflection and Refraction of Light, Cameras and Photography, Projection Lanterns and Motion Pictures, Color, Gravity, Friction, Inertia, Engines and Automobiles. These were all subjects for which I held very little, if any, interest. This was mainly because all of the basic information on these subjects was missing from the newer textbooks. They assumed that we knew these things. They were, in my case, wrong. And so this book became my friend.

From this little book, about 241 pages, I have learned all of the basic principles of science and the little bit of automobile mechanics that I know. I have even used this book to help me figure out how to explain stuff to my kids while they were growing up and in school.

When is a book too old? I don't think they ever really age. The information contained in almost every book is timeless in some respect. And this book is even more important now, when everything is so complicated that you can sometimes feel overwhelmed and under informed. That's when I turn to my small, but potent, collection of outdated textbooks. I even have two books from my Mom and her time at James Madison High School. One is H.G. Wells', "The Outline of History”, copyright 1931, and the other is Bassetts' "Short History of the United States", copyright 1921. Both books have been invaluable to me when trying to unravel the history of the Middle East, or even something as contemporary as the roots of the Vietnam War.

All books are sacred; they all contain something that was worth writing down. But as our knowledge continues to grow, it often becomes necessary to omit, or condense, the things we already take for granted, in order to include the latest information. When that happens, some of the basics, and the understandings that go with them, are often glossed over. It is then that I turn to my older books to solidify the foundation of the subject I am reading about.

"South of East Jesus" by G. Bernstein (2014)

The cover of Glenn Bernstein’s newest novel, “South of East Jesus”, speaks volumes about the dual nature of human beings. The silhouette depicts a man and a woman; one in portrayed in light; and the other in darkness. You can see through them both. Even the title contains a message of sorts; as if we are all a bit shy of the mark when it comes to perfection.

I don’t know whether my assessment has any validity to it, or if I have conjured up this explanation as a result of Mr. Bernstein’s tale, which explores these very questions. He does so through the character of Renny, a woman who finds herself alone and pregnant after the suicide of her husband Parker.

When an emergency terminates the pregnancy of one of her twins, Renny finds herself in the care of Dr. Thomas Ryan, a widower, and a man with a reputation to uphold. Renny, on the other hand, has nothing to lose and everything to gain as she finds herself drawn to this kind, empathetic professional.

But lines get blurred when simple acts of kindness become more than simple, and Renny stokes the fires of passion with her every move. Soon, they both face the biggest single dilemma of their separate lives. What happens as a result of having crossed those lines becomes something which consumes them both.

Steamy dialogue and fast paced writing make this a compelling read for fans of romance novels. I could hardly keep the book out of my wife’s hands long enough to read it myself, without searching for it each time I went to pick it up. This is Mr. Bernstein’s 2^nd book, and I would suspect that it will not be his last.

__________________________________________

Mickey Rooney - RIP

Word just came in that Mickey Rooney; iconic force of entertainment; has passed away at age 93. An accomplished professional in all aspects of show business, his passing represents yet another loss to the golden days of vaudeville, radio, movies and television. 

We shall not see the likes of him again; which makes you tube all the more worthwhile. For a good example of his powerful dramatic acting skills hit the following link;

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-comedian-with-mel-torme-and-mickey.html

"Bummy" Davis - Brooklyn Legend

I first heard of this Brooklyn born Jewish boxer recently from fellow blogger Glen Slater on his blogsite Foot in the Bucket. Apparently there is a book about “Bummy” Davis; who happens to be related to Mr. Slater; titled “Bummy Davis vs. Murder, Inc.” by Ron Ross. It’s a novel based on the true life experiences of the boxer, who was killed in a barroom fight at age 25. Since the real story is always what intrigues me the most, I decided to go to Wikipedia and see what I could learn about him.

Born Al Davis, in Brownsville in 1920, “Bummy” was raised by his mother and father, who owned a candy store in the neighborhood, which was then one of the toughest sections of Brooklyn. According Wikipedia he was employed by his father as a lookout, hiding the fact that his father sold bootleg whiskey during the days of prohibition. This was “Bummy’s” introduction to the world which lay beyond his own doorstep, and ultimately into contact with the life which would someday claim his own at the age of 25.

Brownsville was known as the home turf of Murder, Inc., and Al’s two older brothers worked as collectors for them. Al, himself, was not part of that lifestyle, and is credited with having once stood up to Abe Reles, the man who would someday become famous for either falling; or being thrown from; the window of the Half Moon Hotel in Coney Island, where he was sequestered as a witness against Murder, Inc. It is widely believed that he was thrown from the hotel’s 4^th floor by the police assigned to protect him.

He was raised in a typical Jewish home of the time, with his mother referring to him as "Vroomeleh," which is a play on his middle name;  Avrum;  or Abraham. He was often called “Vroomy” for short among his family and friends. The nickname “Bummy” was suggested by his manager when Al was a teenager. It too, is an Americanization of “Vroomy”. For obvious reasons, young Al was not altogether happy with his new moniker, but for the sake of drawing larger crowds to his fights, he accepted it.

“Bummy’s” big break came in 1939 when he defeated former lightweight champion Tony Canzoneri in 3 rounds. He was finally on his way to the big time. By the close of 1939 he would go on to defeat Tippy Larkin, dispatching him with a mighty left hook in the fifth round. That left hook was his trademark, and enabled him to amass the impressive record of 66 wins and 47 knockouts, with only 10 losses and 4 draws. He is still considered one of the greatest punchers of all time for his weight and class.

His career was marred by his utter distaste for the corruption that went along with the sport of boxing, as well as his own quick temper. His penchant for anger caused him to lose a bout with Lightweight Champion Lou Ambers in 1940. Also that year, he fought Fritzie Zivic, who knocked “Bummy” down in the first round, and continued to harass him in the 2^nd round, gouging his eye with a thumb. “Bummy” went slightly ballistic in response, peppering his opponent with no fewer than 10 “foul” blows, causing him to be disqualified in New York for life.

By July of 1941, “Bummy” had been re-instated by the Boxing Commission and fought a rematch with Zivic, who scored a TKO against him in the 10^th round. For the next 4 years “Bummy” continued to fight in the ring, with his last major victory being won in February of 1944 when he defeated Hall of Famer Bob Montgomery, whom he knocked out in the 1^st round. After that it was kind of downhill for him, and he lost to former Champ Beau Jack in March, and went on to be defeated by another former title holder, Henry Armstrong, in June of that same year. His short, but storied, career seemed to be coming to a close when he lost to future Champ Rocky Graziano in May 1945, when Graziano scored a TKO in the 4^th round.

In November of that same year, "Bummy" was enjoying an evening in Dudy's, a local bar which he had bought a few years earlier and just sold. Four armed men entered the bar, intent on robbing it. "Bummy" attacked them, knocking one out and taking 3 bullets for his trouble. While bleeding from his wounds he chased the other 3 men, who shot him a fourth, and fatal, time.  This episode landed him on the front page of the New York Times. The date was November 22nd, 1945, and "Bummy" Davis was only 25 years old.

For a great article about "Bummy" Davis, here is a link; provided by Mr. Slater; to a Sports Illustrated article about Mr. Davis. The article is dated October 22, 1962, which is 50 years ago last Monday.

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1074236/1/index.htm

And for more from Glen Slater at Foot in the Bucket, here is his link;

http://footinthebucket.wordpress.com/      

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad

Today is the 62^nd Wedding Anniversary of my parents, Ruth and Bill Williams. The ceremony took place somewhere else, but the reception was held in Apartment 3-C of 3619 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn, a red brick building on the northeast corner at Kings Highway. This was my Grandmother Marcus’ apartment. She and my Great-Grandfather, along with my Mother and my Uncle Walter had lived there since about 1932, shortly after her divorce from my Grandfather.

You could say that my Mom’s home was already a multi-cultural experience; and now my Irish Catholic Father was going to be added to this mix. But first, there was the Honeymoon, which was supposed to be in Pennsylvania in a rural setting with a cabin in the woods. They took a bus to get there, as neither one drove at the time, and even if they did, they had no car to drive.

When they arrived at their destination; I think it was New Hope; they were told that they had no reservations and there was no record of a deposit in their names. After an argument with the management; which almost got physical; they were “asked”, by the local constabulary, to get back on the next bus and go home. And that is how they came to spend their honeymoon at the St. Moritz Hotel in Manhattan; overlooking Central Park. This is something I’m sure they could not afford at the time. Coupled with the loss of their deposit in Pennsylvania, they were off to an inauspicious start financially.

Married for 34 years, until my mother’s untimely, but long expected, death from illness in 1984, they were a typical couple for their time. He worked, she didn’t. He drove, she tried. He was strong, but she was the real strength behind the throne. They played card games with their friends and had sleepovers at one another’s houses; kids included. You can say what you like about that lifestyle, but they were together until they were parted by her passing.

Along the way they fought, and there were even some times when she packed her bag and went downstairs to the lobby, waiting for him to come and beg her to come home. He always did, and so did she.

My relationship with my parents was always a complicated affair, but they showed me the value of true love. Be flexible, and love never dies. Happy Anniversary to you both, Mom and Dad.