Peacekeeper - 1969

The small waste can bounced off of my brother’s head and he slammed into the picture frame, shattering the glass and cutting his wrist as he fell to the ground. The old man stood over him, yelling, “That’s your mother- she’s MY girlfriend and that’s who I care about!”

He was about to strike another blow, he was like that, given to seemingly out of control rages, though I had often suspected he was, at all times, by virtue of his outbursts, in perfect control. My slender, but firm, hand reached out to stay his arm as he arched it backwards. “That’s enough!” I yelled. “He’s bleeding!”

The old man stood back and surveyed the damage he had done. His eyes took in the form of his crumpled older boy on the floor, weeping; and the broken frame and glass which sprinkled the black and white tiles of the foyer, the blood on the wall, and he stared in disbelief.

I began to clean up the mess as the two former combatants, who had only moments before been so bold and loud toward one another, slunk away, as if by doing so they could undo what had just happened.

The glass was cleaned up, and the frame removed to some long forgotten corner of a closet. The old man finished cleaning and dressing my brother's wound, and then we all went to the hospital to see Mom.

It was Valentine’s Day 1969. My brother was 16 that day and wanted to see his girlfriend, whom he would later marry. My father wanted to have a little birthday/Valentine’s Day party in the day room at the hospital for my Mom. I just wanted to see her. And she just wanted to see us.

Why am I writing this story now, after so many years? What point am I trying to make? Only that the simplest of emotions, and the best of intentions, can sometimes both backfire and blow up in your face. There is no explanation for our emotions, sometimes there is only damage control.

Note: The photograph was taken in July of 1969 on a trip to Florida. The flag, at St. Augustine, is flying at half staff. I have always remembered this as being in honor of Senator Everett Dirksen, who had just passed away. Evidently my memory fails me, as Senator Dirksen did not pass away until September.

Delaware - Among My Souvenirs (1985)

This is a story about the State of Delaware. It is also a story about my early driving habits. At the same time it a story about courting my wife long distance. And, it is also the story of my time working with my father, which was the result of a promise made to my dying mother. In short; this is a multi-faceted tale.

In late 1984 I left my job as a Merchant Mariner employed by Military Sealift Command; a civilian component of the United States Navy. I served honorably in the Navy and then worked for the Command as a civilian contractor. I left the job; according to my letter of resignation; “….in order to effect a more positive lifestyle.” I thought that sounded pretty cool. I still do.

My mother had just recently passed away and I had foolishly made a promise to her that I would come home and work for my father for a year; a promise I would come to regret.

At the time I possessed several different licenses in several different states. I used them like credit cards; jamming one up with points before switching to another one while the points fell off the first one. It was a system which suited me well. Sailors take some time to adjust to traveling on wheels, and so are entitled to some sort of accommodation as they find their land legs.

The ticket at the bottom is not related to the money order at the top. It’s essential that you understand that. The money order was for the ticket I got on the way home from Baltimore to New York on the 13^th. The second ticket was for going back to Baltimore the next night, which was Valentine’s Day! Well, actually the ticket wasn't merely for going back; I wasn't blacklisted or anything. I was just driving too fast, again.

The date(s) shown above indicate I was in Delaware on both the 13^th of February; which is when I was pulled over at about 3 AM doing about 90. I have always remembered that I was taken into custody because I had an outstanding ticket which I had never paid, not expecting to be pulled over again in Delaware. It was kind of like my own lottery. The hardest part was remembering which license I had used. I had a great many tickets during this period; about $10,000 in all. And, I still have all the receipts to prove it.

I arrived at the Justice of the Peace station following the State Trooper in my own car. Apparently I was not dangerous enough to require restraint. The location was a place called Willington. It would be my home for the next several hours.

At about 6 AM I phoned Sue to get some sympathy for having gotten locked up. After all, I was doing this for her. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but at the time I was looking for sympathy. I knew better than to ask her to send me money, as she didn't have any. That left me with only one recourse. I would have to call my father.

At the time I was working for him and he expected me to be ready in the mornings. I had promised my mother that I would give the arrangement a shot when I left the ships after 8 years at sea. This was her last request of me and I felt somewhat committed to it. So, in September of 1984 I left my job with Military Sealift Command and went to work for him.

My dad and I used to meet at his apartment in 1310 Avenue R. He lived in 2-H and I lived in 5-G. I was never late. But this morning I knew that I would be severely behind time, so to speak, and I owed him a call. Also, if I were to show up that day, I needed cash. Fast.

At the time there was a commercial on television which showed various people calling home for cash in different emergencies. One of them was of a teen aged son calling home from a phone booth on the side of the road in the middle of the night. There were police cruisers in the background, indicating some sort of trouble with the law. The son says something like, “Hey Dad, I need cash; FAST!” So I said something along those lines, got cussed out in the bargain, and then proceeded to wait on the money order. That’s his handwriting and signature on the money order application/receipt.

Now, the money order should have been available in something like 30 seconds and I should have been on the road again, but that’s not what happened. For whatever reason; and I have no memory of why; the magistrate would not send anyone to town to get the money order. He wouldn't even phone to see if it had arrived. I was deeply troubled by this as my father would be sure to make the day miserable for me on account of any further delay.

After about 3 hours or so I decided to leave. My keys were still in the car, and I was still unshackled, so what the heck. I simply got up and left. I got home in time to do a decent afternoon’s work and then I headed straight back to Baltimore. After all, it was now Valentine’s Day Eve and I'm a romantic at heart.

Had a great evening with Sue and the boys in Baltimore on the 13^th before heading back to Brooklyn early on the morning of the 14^th. Got as far as Delaware; blowing through at a discreet 75; when I got stopped again! Same town, same cop.

Now, this is the part where I realized that while I may have left on my own the morning before, they still had my license. I explained this to the officer and he was surprisingly nice about it, stating that since he knew who I was, my lack of a license was not that big of a deal. We exchanged pleasantries and he gave me a ticket, for which I thanked him, then I drove away.

When I got home it was already about 9 AM. I called the Justice of the Peace; who laughed at me when I asked him to send me my license. He was serious about it, too. No way was he sending me my license. I was however free to come in and get it. So, I paid the new fine with a check by mail and switched to a different license while I got a duplicate one from whatever state I was using at the time.

Well, I think I have covered everything I mentioned at the beginning of this account. My mother dying; my promise to work for my Dad; my driving habits; a long distance romance with Sue; and a few other things as well. Amazing what memories comes back to you while going through old papers. That must be why I saved them.

Happy Birthday Mom!

This is my favorite picture of my mom, Ruth Marcus Williams, taken in the summer of 1934 when she was 5 years old. She is sitting in the back of 2020 East 29th Street in Brooklyn. Her parents had just divorced formally, after a 5 year separation. So she effectively grew up in a one parent household. She was always ahead of her time.

She was a talented woman, played piano and sang. Mostly Broadway show stuff. She was trained in voice and had planned on a career in the theater when she met my Dad, who was about to graduate Maritime High School and go to sea. Good thing they didn't, or else I wouldn't be writing this.

My Mom was sick, from the time I was 5 years old, until she died of the complications from pancreatic cancer 25 years later. I never really knew her before she was ill. I do have some warm recollections of her before she got sick, but they are clouded in the haze of early childhood. I remember being young enough to have a "sink" bath, that is, being washed in the kitchen sink rather than the tub, so I must have been about 3 or 4 years old. I can remember her calling out to my brother and I from the 4th floor window of our apartment on Bedford Avenue and Kings Highway, and even throwing down change wrapped in a paper towel for ice cream. I don't think anything can dislodge those memories from my mind.

I can also still recall her stripped dress and her dresser drawer full of kerchiefs. I know that I have printed this here before, but indulge me as I remember her with these lyrics, written several years ago while thinking about her at the piano; the beach; and just sitting on the sofa reading a book and being my Mom.

I can still see you there,

standing by the door.

Wearing your red kerchief and your coat.

And though I think I see your face

so clearly in my mind,

I know I'll never see you anymore.

I can still hear your voice

it's ringing in my head.

I can hear the words to every song.

Time's the perfect bandit,
it will steal your heart away.
It's robbed me just a little at a time.

And though I think I hear your voice,

So clearly in my mind,

I know I'll never hear it anymore.

Happy Birthday Mom. I still think of you as you were before all the illness. I know that's how you wanted it to be.

Peacekeeper

The small waste can bounced off of my brother’s head and he slammed into the picture frame, shattering the glass and cutting his wrist as he fell to the ground. The old man stood over him, yelling, “That’s your mother- she’s MY girlfriend and that’s who I care about!” He was about to strike another blow, he was like that, given to seemingly out of control rages, though I had often suspected he was, at all times, by virtue of his outbursts, in perfect control. My slender, but firm, hand reached out to stay his arm as he arched it backwards. “That’s enough!” I yelled. “He’s bleeding!”

The old man stood back and surveyed the damage he had done. His eyes took in the form of his crumpled older boy on the floor, weeping; and the broken frame and glass which sprinkled the black and white tiles of the foyer, the blood on the wall, and he stared in disbelief.

I began to clean up the mess as the two former combatants, who had only moments before been so bold and loud toward one another, slunk away, as if by doing so they could undo what had just happened.

The glass was cleaned up, and the frame removed to some long forgotten corner of a closet. The old man finished cleaning and dressing my brother's wound, and then we all went to the hospital to see Mom.

It was Valentine’s Day 1969. My brother was 16 that day and wanted to see his girlfriend, whom he would later marry. My father wanted to have a little birthday/Valentine’s Day party in the day room at the hospital for my Mom. I just wanted to see her. And she just wanted to see us.

Why am I writing this story now, after so many years? What point am I trying to make? Only that the simplest of emotions, and the best of intentions, can sometimes both backfire and blow up in your face. There is no explanation for our emotions, sometimes there is only damage control.

Note: The photograph was taken in July of 1969 on a trip to Florida. The flag, at St. Augustine, is flying at half staff. I have always remembered this as being in honor of Senator Everett Dirksen, who had just passed away. Evidently my memory fails me, as Senator Dirksen did not pass away until September.

A Palm Sunday Memory - 1959

This is one of my favorite pictures of Jesus, riding into Jerusalem on what became known as "Palm Sunday", which happens to be today for the world's Christians, who number in the billions. Although I am a Jew by birth, my father was a practicing Catholic until I was about 6, attending Church each Sunday morning. And, occassionally, I used to go with him.

I especially looked forward to Palm Sunday, for several reasons. The first was purely mercenary, it was one week until Easter, and the candy which the Easter Bunny would bring. The second, and more immediate delight was in the long palm fronds which were handed out to the congregants, in order that they symbolically welcome back their Saviour. These Palm fronds, to me, represented not only Jerusalem, the Crusades, Kings and Gods; these Palm fronds were no mere leaves! Rather they were the embodiment of the whole world, and what lay beyond the borders of my little life beyond Kings Highway and Bedford Avenue.

The last time I went to church with my Dad on Palm Sunday was in 1959. I still remember coming home from church with him, and the long palm fronds, teasing my brother with them. The fronds seemed so much longer to me then. The ones I see now a days can hardly compare to the expectations of that six year old boy I used to be. But just the memory of them awes me.