"The Last Angry Man" - Paul Muni (1959)

 "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away". This phrase from Thoreau accurately describes Physician Dr. Samuel Abelman of Brooklyn in the film "The Last Angry Man." It is, in fact, the central theme of this extraordinary film.

Dr. Abelman is the polar opposite of his friend and colleague Dr. Vogel, who writes on Dr. Abelman's Death Certificate under "Cause of Death: Coronary Occlusion/ Fighting Other People's Battles." A truly remarkable film and Paul Muni's last.

Happy Birthday Uncle Irving

Today my Uncle Irving would be 127 years old; if he were physically here. Perhaps because I was denied the opportunity to pay my respects when he passed away 47 years ago, he is still very much alive to me. Anyone who knows me well knows of Uncle “I” and the high regard in which I hold him. He is eternal.

One of the strangest things which happened; and pre-ceded his final illness by several years was the time he didn’t die. I was about 17 and was at a house when I got a call from my Mom. This in itself was an indicator that something bad had happened.

She had gotten a phone call from one of Uncle I’s circle of old friends; old as in age; who had not seen him at breakfast that morning in the restaurant where they all ate; the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue where Max Asnas reigned supreme as the owner and was somewhat of a celebrity himself. The walls there were covered with autographed photos of everyone of any consequence who had ever eaten there. Legendary comedian Jack E. Leonard once bought me a 12 cent bottle of ginger ale when I was sick on the sidewalk outside. (Note: My upset stomach had nothing to do with the food.)

Anyway, this friend had set about calling everyone who knew my Uncle and told them that he was dead; simply on the basis of having not seen him that morning; setting off a chain of events which ended a friendship that was twice as old as I was at the time. Uncle “I” went on to live several more years until his death in 1978. He was about 80 years old when he passed away. I have never visited his grave. And, consequently, he is still very much with me.

I had no Grandfathers, but Uncle “I” filled those 4 shoes and still had several feet left over as far as I’m concerned. He was small in stature but his heart was as expansive as the universe, and he had a mind as deep as space. And as far as his personality was concerned, if you have ever seen William Demarest on screen or TV, then you have known my Uncle. He was that kind of guy, but with a Yiddish accent. He worked in the Garment District as a Furrier, from 1921 until about 1976 when he became ill. 

We called him Uncle "I" because it was easier than saying Irving when we were so small. But as we got older we took a secret delight in calling him Uncle "I" simply because it sounded like we were saying Uncle "Lie", in reference to some of the tall tales he told.

Irving lived alone in the "city", which meant Manhattan. He also lived in a hotel! This was so strange to me that it was almost shocking. He had lived with my Grandmother Dorothy (his sister) and their father, Max, along with my parents, until they got a place of their own. When Dorothy moved to California after Max passed away, Irving was left with no place to go. So, in 1957 he got a room in a hotel and lived that way for the next 21 years, until he passed away. It wasn't until years later, when I was bouncing around the world and staying in a lot of hotels myself, and wishing that I were somewhere else, did I come to realize the singular loneliness of Uncle I's existence. He was kind of like a prisoner in a prison with no bars. He could roam at will, all over the city, but where did he will to roam? Our apartment in Brooklyn to see me.

Uncle "I" colored every aspect of my life as a kid. I couldn't wait for him to come over every Friday night, and we'd go to Rockaway every Sunday. I would pepper him with questions about the old days, and he would regale me with stories, some of which were true, about his youth on the Lower East Side, his exceptional athletic achievements and his wit and cunning in the Garment Industry. And later; politics. He was a Socialist.

Every visit would end the same way. We would walk together on Avenue R to East 16th Street and then to the Quentin Rd. entrance of the Kings Highway Station, where he would catch the BMT back to Manhattan and his little hotel room. Then he would belong to the rest of the world until next week's visit.

Happy Birthday Uncle "I" from your "Little Sputnik." You gave so much, and asked nothing in return. ❤

Two Books (2025)

Being housebound these past 6 years has presented some problems I never expected to encounter. One of the most challenging has been how to keep myself supplied with fresh reading material. Sue has, as with most things, made it very easy for me. She simply brings home 6 books at a time for me to choose from, in addition to reserving which I specifically request on line from the 3 different County Libraries near where we live. (Cabarrus, Iredell and Mecklenburg) Those books come from Municipal and County Libraries as far away as Louisiana! 

In addition to that she buys me books from the Discontinued pile. Some branches simply give them away. All in all I read about 2/3 of them. And many of those are out of print. Some real gems, as with Desi Arnaz's autobiography titled "A Book." His friends were always asking him when he was going to write a book, and so he did. 😀 That one sells for about $80 on line in poor condition, and much, much more in new condition. 

Anyway, here are 2 new books (2025) which I never would have picked, and didn't intend on reading, but turned out to be real gems. 

The first, "Concrete Dreamland" by Patrick Dougher, is a wild ride by an independent artist who actually went to my high school, James Madison in Brooklyn, in the early 1980's. It deals with his struggle to find his place in life amid much hardship. But, he prevails. And that's not a spoiler because the story isn't in the end, it's in how he got there. 

The next book, by Barry Diller, is about the author's life as the son of very wealthy and detached parents. If you read the screen credits on many of the films you see you will know his name. He pioneered, actually invented, the TV miniseries in the late 1970's. And he also brought the TV series "Star Trek" to the big screen. His struggles were with himself, trying to find out which "hat" fit him. He eventually became the President of Paramount Pictures. And once again that is not a spoiler because, just as with the first book, the story is in how he got there. 

And, today, in addition to 6 new books, Sue brought home 2 shopping bags filled with memoirs from the discard pile, which will keep me occupied for a few months!

Seeing Santa Claus - 1957

I first posted this photo last year. It was taken at A&S on Fulton Avenue in Brooklyn. I was just 2 months past my 3rd birthday, yet I remember this vividly. And not from the photo, which I had not seen for almost 60 years when I was 9. And that was over exposed and very fuzzy. I still have the Brownie camera with which it was taken. Dad never let Mom take the 35mm out by herself. She would definitely have lost it somewhere. It was only 2 years ago when I found the photo and used the simple app on my tablet to make it more viewable. Prior to that I wasn't quite sure what I was looking at! 

I remember that whole year very well for 3 reasons. The first reason was that this was the year my Dad had pneumonia, and he was never ill. Ever. Also, with the luck of the Irish, he was ill during President Eisenhower's 2nd recession, both of which seemed to coincide with his 2 heart attacks. That was in the summer when I was just a few months short of turning 3. 

The 2nd reason was because this was the year when Mom "lost" the car in the parking lot at Riis Park. She had no clue as to where she'd left it, and that was a huge parking lot. Still is. And this necessitated a long ride in a tow truck by the Police to find it, riding up and down the rows of cars before Mom spotted the 1955 turqoise and black Plymouth 4 door behemoth. 

And then, when we got back home to 3619 Bedford Ave, on the corner of Kings Highway, she hit a fire hydrant! She never drove again, though she kept her license current so she could cash checks. It was not a good day for Mom, but to a kid just shy of 3 years old, this day was a real adventure!

The 3rd reason I remember the year so well is because it was also the year I learned to fly a kite! That was on Armistice Day, November 11th, which back then was a Federal Holiday. I still remember the Disabled Vets of the First World War selling the green and red Poppie pins for 2 cents at the entrance to the elevated Subway station on Kings Highway. They got around by using their gloved hands to propel themselves on "dollies" which served as their missing legs. 

My own Grandfather was already dead, a belated victim of that same war. He passed away with the steel plate in his head where the artillery had taken away part of his skull. He was a New York City Policeman who used alcohol to ease the daily pain for 25 years, which brought on the heart attack which took his life at age 43. 

So, this memory is crystal clear. It was a weekday, and we took the Subway to Fulton Avenue, which involved changing trains, probably at the Prospect Park station. 

By the time December rolled around I was pretty much aware of everything that was going on. And so remembering Santa is a cinch. I asked for a fire truck and a tank, which actually shot plastic cannonballs. I used it to shatter just about every Christmas ornament on our Christmas tree. I also got a Cowboy belt with 2 cap pistols and a Cowboy hat. Peace on Earth! 🤣 

There were other gifts, such as clothing, but that didn't really register with a 3 year old. As a matter of fact I remember feeling "cheated", as those things were necessities, so I would have gotten them anyway. And that is the story behind my memory of this photo. Still not sure who took the photo though, because that is my Mom on the extreme right.

A Shared Bridge

This was "my" bridge for decades, 

a place where I would roam,

when things got too confusing, 

and I needed someplace to go. 

 Once a ship was tied up there, 

 (for many years it seems.) 

I used to sneak on her of night times 

and I'd sail her in all of my dreams. 

 This was the bridge that I rode across 

 on my bicycle built for one. 

On my way to the beach, or just fishing, 

this was my bridge alone! 

 Years had passed and I'd moved away

 yet still, this was the bridge that I'd see. 

Yes, this was the bridge that I'd lost until 

you came and gave it back to me!

 For Victoria Kanrek - long overdue. With affection and thanks! 

Photo by Victoria Kanrek

The Swan Lives

The swan swims, all alone,
in the pond he once called home.
His love has gone, he feared she might
be leaving all along.

Here, where they once swam, side by side
the pond now seems an ocean. Wide.
In a vacant gulf, filled with cries,
a sadness here presides.

And on he sadly paddles,
but his days alone feel wrong.
For as he swims he wonders how
long it takes to sing a swan's song.

Photo by Wendy Josephs

October 16, 2020
Stonecroft

 

It's Only Me- Chapter 4- Juinor High

In 1967 I started Juinor High, or Middle School, at W. Arthur Cunningham Juinor High. It was about this time that I discovered, or at least I thought I had discovered, girls. They were hard to figure out- with lots of mixed singals to wade through.

I was 12 going on 13 when I met a girl in school that I really liked and we would walk home together every day after school, passing my own house and going the extra blocks to sit outside her building and talk for awhile. This was strictly a platonic affair- I was terrified at the prospect of rejection- but those walks and talks have stayed with me forever and are amongst the most pleasant memories of my early teens.

Her name was Iona and we were friends. We went horseback riding down at the end of Avenue U and to the Frick Collection in Manhattan. We even saw Monty Python live at City Center. We both liked films and saw "The Garden of the Finzi Continas" together-one of my first Foreign films. We remained close friends through most of high school and then went out into the world in opposite directions. And wouldn't you know it- 30 years later our friendship was reignited thanks to e-mails and Classmates.com. As a matter of fact- she was the one who finally got me to put this all down on paper.

This part of my life was great. Juinor High was my first experience with changing classrooms for each subject. Each period between classes was an exercise in doing something wrong. At one point I made it my personal goal to remove all the light bulbs from all the stairwells. And when I say all- I mean ALL. So what do you do with about 200 lightbulbs? Lightbulb fights after school, of course.

Classes were organized along the lines of academic abilities. We had 7-1, the smartest; 7-2, smart but troublesome; 7-3, average and so on. I was always in the second category, smart but not quite right. So by the end of 7th grade, in a move that defies explanation, someone thought it would be a great idea to take the worst halves of the 2 smartest classes and put them together. We were called 8-2 and our homeroom was in the rear of the girls gym. The boys would race up that back stairwell to the gym just hoping for a peek at the girls slipping back into their clothes. We didn't see much- Mrs. Naholm and her assistant were ever on guard.

It was also about this time that I became friends with Jeffrey Goldenkranz and John DiStefano. We would remain close friends for quite some time until we drifted apart for about 20 years or so. I am happy to report that we are all in contact with one another again and we still relive some of our finer moments with the glee that only age and distance can supply.

Some of the activities we engaged in ranged from pitching quarters at lunchtime in the schoolyard to climbing the subway trestle on Avenue S where we would place coins on the track to flatten them. Somewhere in that activity was the hope that a large coin would somehow derail the train. Of course we never thought of hurting anyone- just wanted to see the train come off the tracks.

One memorable occassion involved me selling the Centerfolds from my Dad's Playboys in the school yard. While there was no explicit restriction for this activity- I knew it was wrong- after all, they were my Dad's. But I had an auction going- "How much am I bid for Miss September?" "I'll take that!" was the reply from Mr. Tohn- Boys Dean. I thought he was joking- or in need of a centerfold- but he hauled me away and called my Dad. I think I was punished for ruining his Playboys rather than my auctioneering.

Music had always been a big part of our lives- AM radio ruled back then- the playlists were varied and you would listen to Motown sounds and Beatle records alongside of Classical Gas and Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra records. I miss that diversity in todays' radio world. And this music had an effect on us- or rather brought out what was already inside of us. So we began to experiment with our ways of thinking and acting. We had opinions on everything. We started dressing differently and some of the boys were growing their hair long.

1968 was a pivotal year for the whole world. I was going on 14 and in that year we had the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, the assasinations of Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy,and riots in France that virtually shut the country down. The times were indeed changing and we were pulled along in its' wake.

Politics and the War in Vietnam began to take up alot of our time and wreak havoc in our families. It had only been 5 years since President Kennedy had been killed in Dallas. And ony 4 years since the Beatles launched the "British Invasion." Up until then the world was black and white. They added the color. And now with the events of 1968 we were about to go stereo.

It's Only Me- Chapter 12- The Lost Year

Work wise things were going well for me in 1975 through 1976. But personally this was a very lonely and depressing time. I was 21 years old and it was beginning to look like I would be working in a grocery store 6 blocks from where I had been born for the rest of my life.

I was drinking less and taking Tuinols and Qualudes in increasing quantities. I was smoking during the day and I was always at work- and doing my job well, but the nights were a different story altogether.

I spent most of my evenings walking alone, smoking the pocketful of joints that I always carried. I would take a Qualude or a Tuinol to even things out. Walking and singing in the streets became my nightly ritual. There was something comforting in the darkness that hid the pain I was feeling. I was lonely, wondering why my parents had given up on me.

My relationships at this time were either women from the grocery store who craved the attention they were not getting from their spouses- or else just someone that I would run into and get high with. The only love I got at the time was in the treatment I received at the store and the tolerance shown me concerning my drug use.

After 2132 was sold I began a migration from apartment to apartment. On the eve of my 21st birthday I was faced with eviction from an apartment on Ocean Avenue I had been sharing with Michael Held. This was the only argument I ever had with Michael. The apartment was in my name and I got half the rent from Michael each month. When the eviction notice came he stopped paying. I had not been using his share of the money for rent- buying pot and pills instead, so he felt that the last month should be free for him. I countered that since I was going to be evicted under my name alone and he was going across the street to his Mom’s house, he should pay me. Of course I was wrong. But words flew and Michael, in a move very uncharacteristic of him- took a pan of boiling water from the stove and threw it on my bare stomach! To my credit I did not shoot him. And he was so surprised at what he had done that we both ended up laughing hysterically. We then went to the roof with our big wooden TV and threw it down into the middle of Ocean Avenue. Call it male bonding….

The next night found me wandering the streets until after midnight. I went to a friends house and threw stones at his window. Creeping around the alley to the front door I went in quietly and spent the night there. In the morning my friends’ parents asked a few questions, fed me breakfast and I was on my way to work.

I really needed a place to stay and that day I had no idea what I was going to do. Harry and Al both offered the hospitality of their homes but I declined- out of shame I think.

But that very afternoon Donna came walking into Met Foods, leaving Duke tied up at the meter in front. She listened and then offered me the living room of her apartment on Avenue O and 19th Street. I quickly accepted and moved in that evening.

Donna was 31, I was 19. She was a hairdresser. I wanted to be roommates, and at first that is the way it went. But things began to change and I was not comfortable in the way things were turning out. One day I came home from work and Donna’s ex was there. I remember coming to on the couch with a knot on my head from being knocked out. Time to move.

I had become friends with Mia Mamoor, who worked at the Rainbow dress shop on Kings Highway and East 16th Street. He had been introduced to me through Osman and Cumin Raji, two brothers from Malaysia who were janitors in my parents’ apartment building. I used to go to their room on the ground floor and smoke the best opiated hash on the planet.

Mia had an apartment on Ocean Avenue and Avenue L and that is where I moved next. We would meet after work and go back to his place where he would cook swordfish and curry. It stunk up the whole building and the neighbors were complaining about it. One night we made so much fish that we invited the neighbors in to eat. Only a few accepted- but when they saw and tasted the food they never complained again.

Mia was dating a Chinese American girl named Karen. Her parents owned some restaurants in New York as well as Virginia. Her Dad spoke a little English and I think he told me the stories about Mao and the final days of the Revolution in the late 40’s. Although they did not really care for Mia they never interfered with her seeing Mia and they eventually married.

A funny story about Mia, Osman, and Cumin concerns John DiStefano. One night we all got together and went to Chinatown for dinner. With Osman and Cumin doing the ordering we were in for some rare treats. John was a bit more drunk than the rest of us. The food began arriving at the table and we all began to eat. Then the fish came out on a platter – whole- and with the eyes still in. Osman- ever the gracious host- took his chopsticks and expertly plunked the eye out of the fish, offering it to John. This was actually a sign of honor and respect. John puked and Osman, unfazed, plopped the eye in his mouth, savoring this delicacy.

Another funny thing about this period of my life is that although we were always talking politics, religion, God etc. it never once came up that I and many of our mutual friends were Jewish. You see they were Islamic. Mia actually did the foot washing etc at night. But it was never a point of discussion. We were all friends and that was the most important thing. It really wasn’t until years later that I thought of it!

After Mia’s place I had a rented room in a nearby apartment for a couple of months. Then I moved into Sheldon Wassermans mom’s home on East 22nd Street- across from PS 197 where I had gone to Kindergarten. She was elderly and alone so Sheldon thought it would work out for us both. It did- kind of, sort of.

Sheldon was married to the cutest little Italian woman, her name was Rochelle, everyone called her Shelley. So they were Shelley and Sheldon. We had a little arrangement between us- I gave then pot- they gave me pills. They were in their early 30’s and I was 21. Things got bad for Sheldon with the pills and so Shelley sent him over to live with his mom for a bit. There was plenty of room so it was not bad. And soon we were joined by his nephew Stevie and started to call the place “The Clinic.” Sheldon’s mom was not so amused but soldiered on anyway- playing host to this band of mis-fits. Secretly I think she was glad for the company.

My evenings were now spent on the corner of Avenue O and East 12th Street. There was an open air drug scene outside of St Brendan’s Church and most of the dealers were the kid brothers of various friends. Sometimes I would fall asleep on the corner, only to be awakened at about 1 in the morning by Judy Lannigan or Denise Woods and they would point me towards home. But at 9:05 AM I was back at Met Foods with my Italian bread and milk, ready for another day.

One night, as I was standing in the schoolyard of PS 197 watching Phillip Held play softball, I noticed some objects in the sky- very bright and larger than stars. I immediately identified them as Venus and Mars. Later in the year I pointed out Jupiter. Now no one had ever shown me these before- and I don’t know how I knew what they were- but they were.

I could see that a change was in order- I had traveled from Bedford Avenue and Kings Highway, where I was born in 1954 to East 22nd Street and Kings Highway- a distance of 3 streets in 21 years! And I was working on East 19th Street and Kings Highway. My whole life was becoming defined by these 6 city blocks! I could see that it was time to move on- and so I began to make plans.

I would join the Navy. And Harry and Al would have to change that old sign in the window- the one that had read “Part Time Bag Boy Wanted” would now read “2 Full Time Men Needed.”

Benny

This photo was supplied by Mike Guarriello on Facebook. I have been looking for a photo of Benny for years! Thanks, Mike! Here's the story.

Ice cream trucks are part of life growing up everywhere; even in Brooklyn. But we didn't have an ice cream truck on Kings Highway; there was too much traffic. But we did have Benny; and his pushcart. 

Usually; in subdivisions such as the one I live in now; there is an ice cream truck that makes the round on weekends, and during the evenings after dinner. You know the type of truck I’m talking about; obnoxious musical chimes heralding the arrival of an old beat up truck which bears absolutely no resemblance to the ice cream trucks of my youth. Those were sturdy, insulated, thick walled vehicles with freezer doors on the sides. And within those doors were delights which I haven’t seen in years.  I'm thinking about the Toasted Almond Crunch bar. And the bench mark of all ice cream trucks was Good Humor. If it wasn't Good Humor, we threw clods of earth at the truck, signaling to the driver that this was marked territory.

That truck was magical to me when I was 3 and 4; but by the time I was 7 years old, I was allowed to walk all the way up to Kings Highway by myself, and that’s when I first met Benny, as well as saw my first ice cream pushcart.  It was hard to get it rolling, but once it was in motion it was equally hard to stop! It wasn't refrigerated like the big trucks. It was cooled with “dry” ice, which was a whole other level of fascination, and mischief, for a 7 year old. But let me tell you a bit about Benny.

Benny was the ice cream man in my neighborhood. His route extended from the corner of Kings Highway and East 14^th Street, to Ocean Avenue and then down to Avenue T, where he rented a small garage in back of a single family home. Actually, he just rented a part of the garage; a small corner large enough to store the magical “dry” ice; and a freezer which was replenished as necessary by a big truck. When I was 8 years old I became Benny’s “helper”.

Benny was Jewish, from the Lower East Side; and as such, he really had a lot in common with my Uncle Irving, who had also been raised there. They were about the same age. But that’s where the similarities ended. While Benny used to “hook” school, Uncle Irving actually finished high school. So, while Benny went on to become the neighborhood “Good Humor Man”, my Uncle Irving went on to a career in the Garment District as a furrier. Both men fascinated me, if only for their different lifestyles. Both were bachelors, but economically they were worlds apart. Benny lived in a rented room somewhere, while Uncle Irving lived in the larger hotels in Manhattan.

But, anyway, the story I am trying to tell is about Benny. It was, after all, his pushcart that I’m writing about, and the closest it ever came to fur was the time I hung some raccoon tales from the handlebars. The tails came from Uncle Irving, who used to keep us well supplied with them each year. Wait; he is part of this story.

Benny had two habits in which he liked to indulge. Both interfered with his selling enough ice cream to afford spending his winters in Miami; which is where he always went for the cold season. He liked to bet at the Off Track Betting parlor on East 16^th Street, just up from Dubrow’s cafeteria. He also liked to have his hair cut once a week. That’s how I got the job.

I had been buying ice cream from Benny for about 2 years when he first asked me to “cover” for him while he went for a haircut. Being left; as an 8 year old boy; with an unlimited supply of ice cream, plus a pocketful of coins and bills was one of the thrills of my summer days. Benny’s haircuts were legendary for the length of time they took. He could be gone for hours; or merely minutes; depending on how the ponies were running, or ruining, his day. He combined the two errands into one, to “save time”, he used to say. That was fine with me. I would hold forth on Kings Highway and East 14^th Street, across the street from Miles Shoes, and only 2 doors down from Byhoff’s Sporting Goods, which also sold records.  They had a speaker outside, so, I even had music while I worked.

The winters in Miami were a source of irritation to my Uncle Irving, who worked ALL year, but could not afford to take the winters off. They were both Jews from the Lower East Side, and my Uncle had gone to the trouble of getting an education and carving out a career for himself, while Benny hung around pool rooms and gambled on horses. The fact that Benny could afford to winter in Miami really rankled him. And that’s why I never told my Uncle the whole story.

You see, while Benny actually did spend his winters in Miami, he was working. Somewhere today, down in Miami, there is someone my age with the same memories as I have of working for the Good Humor Man; because that’s what he did when he went there, he sold ice cream; just like he did during the summer in Brooklyn. I hope, after all these years, that this will make my Uncle feel better about the whole thing.

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.

"Jenkin's Grave" - and Mrs. Denslow

The poem above was written in 1965. I still remember writing it- though not as clumsily as it reads 46 years later. My teacher in 5th grade was Mrs. Christine H. Denslow, a saintly woman if there ever was one. She wore her grey hair in a braid coiled on the top of her head, and took an interest in everyone of her students.

When my Mom was ill, and I was having problems in class, Mrs. Denslow took the extra time to visit my home, talk with my parents, and generally made me feel that my future actually mattered to her.

At times, her husband, who was a naturalist of some kind, would bring reptiles and snakes to class. Mrs. Denslow made sure that we all touched and felt them, dispelling the myths that all reptiles are slimy and dirty. The life's lesson was clear to me then, as it still is today. You don't fear the things which you know nothing about. You take the time to learn about them, removing the fear of the unknown.

There weren't many teachers like her then, and I suppose the same is true now. So, 46 years later I have reworked this poem into a short, and botanically correct version of the original. I wish Mrs. Denslow were still around. I'd send her a copy.

Jenkin's Grave - 2011

Jenkin's grave is a cursed one, indeed.
For only one single flower has grown from the seeds,
scattered there by mourners
who all came out to grieve.
Jenkin's grave is a cursed one, indeed!

He wasn't just a sad man,
but a bad man, I believe.
And it was so surprising
to see anybody grieve.

Jenkin's grave is a cursed one, indeed.
For only one single flower has grown from the seeds,
scattered there by mourners
who all came out to grieve.
Jenkin's grave is a cursed one, indeed!

Now, I’m not superstitious,
But I think that you’ll agree.
Jenkin’s grave is a cursed one, indeed!

1310 Avenue R. - My First Rooftop

I would be remiss if I were to let this month pass without mentioning 1310 Avenue R. in Brooklyn. I lived there from 1961 until 1972 when I left home for the last time. There are so many memories tangled up with that building, and all 70 families that lived there, that I wouldn't even know where to begin.

There were John and Katy Bucholtz, he was an ex-Nazi who served as the superintendent of the building; then across the hall from us were the Gold’s, two elderly German Jews who had escaped Nazi Germany and were the kindest of neighbors. They were friends with John and Katy, all vestiges of the war behind them. There were also the Ross family, who were Orthodox Jews; and the Roth’s, Mr. Roth was a detective Sergeant; and there was also the Cuban family who arrived in the fall of 1962 from Miami, where they had fled to from Castro. The father was a banker, which may have something to do with the family’s success in getting out. They had 2 kids, John and Robert. Later they moved to the 6^th floor. These are just 4 of the 11 families who lived on our floor.

The rest of the building was composed of mainly Jewish families; some large, some small. There was also a single "efficiency" apartment on each floor. Mr. Ginsburg, a curmudgeonly older man, occupied the apartment next door to my family. He was a typewriter repairman with ear problems. He was also a pain in the ass, calling the police with a noise complaint at every possible excuse. I swear he once called the cops because he heard no noise coming from our apartment and thought it was "odd".

The building also boasted 2 apartments on the ground floor which had their own private entrances. These were located at the 2 front corners of the building. I never knew the family who occupied the East 13th Street side, but the East 14th Street "garden apartment"; as they were called; was occupied by a dentist named Marvin Cohen.

The building also had a doorman and a janitor; though the various doormen only lasted for the first 7 years. There was a string of them, my favorite being the last one, Larry. He was about 100 if he was a day, and the residents were always worried about him. He would sit on the lobby sofa and struggle to get up and open the door. Most of the time, the residents would motion through the glass for Larry to sit down, as no one wanted to be responsible for his sudden, though overdue, demise.

Each year around the holidays the lobby would be decorated with a Christmas tree and lights. There was also a Happy Chanukah banner displayed across the wall to wall mirror which faced the doors from the street. The garden area outside was also decorated with colored lights and there were candles in the window of the rock garden inside the lobby. I used to water those plants for 25 cents a day. I also used to round up the newspapers from the garbage room on each floor. You were not supposed to put them down the incinerator chute because they made black smoke and the building’s owner could be fined. The papers I gathered were set aside and sold by the janitor to the "paper pulp" guy and I would get a "share" of the money.

There was an underground parking garage with a "secure" locking system. If you waited long enough each night you could hear the cars screeching up the ramp and out into the street when they were being stolen. Nothing is more attractive to a car thief than a safe well lit environment in which to work. This was especially true on rainy or cold nights.

But, the crowning glory to this building; at least to the 7 year old who lived there; was the roof. From the very first days we lived there i was drawn to it. It began innocently enough, with my taking the stairs to the top. I just wanted to see where they went. Up and up I climbed; my 7 year old legs pumping hard and fast as I rounded the turn between each floor; nearer to the top with each step.

When I got there I was rewarded with the greatest gift of all; a sign which said "Do Not Enter." Now, I don't know who the genius was that came up with the idea of a sign to keep a 7 year old off of the roof, but I wasn't buying it. Not for one moment. There was a whole world to be discovered beyond that door, and no sign was going to keep me out. Besides, I reasoned that if caught up there, I could always say I couldn't read.

At any rate the roof became my secret place to go. I would head up there with my 6 transistor radio, trying to get stations from as far away as possible. It turned out that I had better luck at night downstairs in my bed. During the day the sun's rays heated up the ionosphere and made it harder to pick up those stations. But on a cold clear night I could get Canada, and even West Virginia. I had a whole collection of postcards from those stations acknowledging the letters I used to send to each one, letting them know how far their signal had traveled.

Summertime was a time of daily visits to the "roof". I used to go up there just for the view. You could see Manhattan to the north, including the Twin Towers. To the south and slightly west was Coney Island, including the Parachute Jump. Directly south it was hard to see much because there were so many other buildings in the line of sight. But this became my haven for many years, a place I could go to when I had no place to go.

As I got older the roof became even more important to me. It was a place to go with friends, outside of the sphere of my parents influence. Hell, they never went up there! And even later, after my Mom had passed away and I was grown, I still went up there. I even grew some pot plants on top of the elevator shaft, one story closer to the sun, and the superintendent’s wife; in all her innocence; watered them for me.

I suppose you are wondering why I am writing about this building, and the roof. Well, I file my daily blogs by year, month and date. So, all this month; every day this month; I have filed my blogs under 13-10-and the day of the month. For example, today will be filed under 13-10-30. And, each day this month I have thought about writing of the roof at 1310 Avenue R. Today, with only one day left to go before it becomes another unrealized thought, I have.

"The Great Give Away" by Ruth Marcus Williams

The following story was written by my mother and published in The Jewish Daily Forward on January 18th, 1981. I have posted this here before, on January 18, 2012.  I have always suspected that, if my Mom were alive today, she would have a blog of her own. 

I rarely look through the batch of papers I happened upon that night, and so I can't help but wonder about the timely coincidence of finding it on the eve of the date on which it was first published. The Old Clothes Men are long gone now. We still had them in the 1950's when I was growing up, and that's a part of my own story. But this one is my Mom's;

When I was growing up in Brooklyn in the forties, old clothes men were a common sight, standing under windows and in alleys, shouting “I cash clothes,” in a wailing voice I can still hear. To my Grandfather, haggling with the old clothes man was a sport he mastered and indulged in with a passion resembling an opera.

I was 12 years old when my Grandfather, the old clothes man and I became emeshed in a drama I refer to as “The Great Give Away”, and like many dramas, this one began on a note of hysteria. Mine.

One day I entered my mother’s room and asked her in desperation where my coat was.
“It’s in the closet, where it belongs,” my mother said.

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “Why is it that things are always disappearing around here? Especially mine?”

“Stop being a Sarah Bernhardt. Nothing’s disappearing around here except the things you misplace. If you look hard enough you’ll find it.”

“I’ve already looked hard,” I whined, “but it’s not here.”

I adored the coat in question because it reversed from a wool herringbone tweed on one side to a beige poplin raincoat on the other. I never expected to own another one as beautiful, or as unusual.

“You’re so careless that you probably left it at a friend’s house,” my mother said. “If not, then it’s here. Just keep looking for it. I’m sure you’ll find it by the time I get back.”

I was annoyed with my mother for thinking me careless. Nonetheless, I took her advice, and as soon as she left I resumed my quest. While doing so, my grandfather arrived with an old man. The two of them, conducting a heated conversation half in Yiddish and half in English, barely glanced at me.

Some minutes later (after I had once again searched the closets in vain), it dawned on me that the one closet I hadn’t searched was my brother’s. And so, with high hopes, I entered his room. There, my grandfather was showing the old man my brother’s windbreaker.
“So, how do you like this?” my Grandfather asked the old man.
“It’s dreck,” the old man said, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Dreck!” my grandfather said in a fury. “The jacket’s almost brand new!”

“Humph, your eyes are getting worse every time I see you. The jacket’s old.”

“Phooey,” my Grandfather spat out. “It’s your eyes that can’t see. A garment like this is worth at least four dollars.”

“Look at the seams,” the old man said, tugging at them, “they’re splitting. The jacket’s not worth more than a dollar fifty.”

“You don’t know shmatas, you don’t know a treasure when you see one,” my Grandfather said indignantly.

The old man ignored him. “I shouldn’t give you more than a dollar fifty. I just noticed that the elbows are worn. But, I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll give you a dollar seventy -five.”

“I’ll throw it in the gutter first,” replied my Grandfather.

“Two dollars,” the old man said.

“Two fifty,” my Grandfather continued.

“Two twenty-five. Not one penny more,” the old man said.

“I’ll take it,” my Grandfather said. “But you’re a thief!”

As the old started giving my Grandfather the money I said, "Grandpa, you can't sell Walter's jacket! He Needs it!"

“No he doesn’t. It’s old,” was his reply.

“Grandpa, you know that’s not true.” Then, realizing something else, I said, “You sold my coat, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know anything about your coat. And why aren’t you outside playing? A beautiful day like today you shouldn’t be in the house.”

Tuning him out, I said, “Mister, did you buy a girls coat from my grandfather?” The old man became agitated and replied in a torrent of Yiddish I scarcely understood. In counterpoint to his outburst, my Grandfather kept telling me that he hadn’t sold my coat.

Meanwhile, in the midst of the commotion, the old man opened a sack that had been strapped to his back and began adding the jacket to it.

“Mister, would you please give me back the jacket?” I said.

“Thief,” my grandfather shouted, “you didn’t give me my money!”

“Grandpa, I told you, you can’t sell the jacket.” Then, turning to the old man I said, “Mister, the jacket’s not for sale. I want it back.”

“Here,” he said, tossing it to me. “And as for you,” he said to my Grandfather,“ I don’t want any more business from you!”

"Don’t worry,” my grandfather said. “I don’t give my business to thieves!”

A few weeks later, contradicting themselves, they were once again dickering. But I never found my coat. Until this day, whenever I see pictures of myself wearing it, I sigh with longing. And although my grandfather always denied selling it, I know better.

For another story about my mother, based on the story she told me but never wrote down, see the following;

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2011/12/lucky.html 

A Mother's Nose / A Mother Knows

My Mom was really very sly. Oh, she had the sweet Mother thing down pat, but she was shrewd. I like to tell this story about her and me;

I used to visit my Mom in the hospital. Whenever I was in town I would go to see her. I have always been a smoker of the left handed persuasion and this was an issue between us. So before I would visit her I would eat something, or have a mint or swish mouthwash. Then I would walk into her room and bend over to kiss her. The result was always the same. She would ask me why I was still smoking. I would ask her what makes you think I still smoke. She would always answer the same way- “A Mother always knows.”

About a month before she passed away I went to see her at home. It was very clear that she was going fast and this might be the last time I would see her. I went through the usual routine of mints and gum etc. Then I walked up to her bed, bent down and kissed her. I got the same result as always, “When are you going to quit smoking?”

Looking at her laying there dying I had to know the answer to a question that had bothered me for several years, How did she know? So I asked her, “Mom, how do you know I’ve been smoking? Every time I see you I try to cover it up- but you know! And I’ve got to have an answer- how do you know?”

She looked at me with amusement in her dying eyes as she answered, “It’s in your beard.”

The Great Blackout-1965

I was 11 years old and my Mom was getting dinner ready at about 5:25 when the radio station (WABC- 770 AM) went dead for a minute and then came back on. There was a "blackout" of all electrical power on the entire Eastern Seaboard!

Coming only 2 years after JFK's assassination and amid the height of the Cold War no one knew what was really happening. The trains stopped running, traffic signals ceased and traffic became one big gridlock.

We waited and waited for our lights to go out too, but nothing happened! There was an underground transformer beneath Avenue R between East 13th and 14th Streets. This was what kept us in lights. I don't really understand how it worked but it did.

My Dad got home about 7:30 or 8 PM. I'm not sure if he drove or walked. But after he had eaten we took a stroll through the neighborhood. There were policeman directing traffic with flashlights and Auxilary Policeman assisiting where needed. There was no crime, no looting, no panic.

It was the first time I had ever seen the surrounding neighborhood plunged into darkness and it reminded me of all the stories my Mom told about the Blackouts and Air Raid Drills during World War Two.

The neighbors in our apartment building had their doors all opened to the hallway and everyone was wandering from apartment to apartment. There was concern, but no fear. Mr. and Mrs. Gold, who had fled Nazi Germany, went around the building with John, the German Superintendant and his wife Katie, seeing to it that all the elderly were okay. This was a beautiful thing as John had been a German soldier during the war. And now he and his wife were looking after a building full of Jews.

The whole event was indicative of the times. We had not yet been split asunder by the events of Vietnam, which had just started heating up with the draft. We were a couple of years away from the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. Civility still reigned to some extent.

I often look back to that night. The fear, the suspicions, the uncertainty never hit me. I was safe with my family and my stomach was full. Hell, we even had lights!

"Bummy Davis vs. Murder, Inc." by Ron Ross (2003)

If any book is a gift in and of itself, and a good book a treasure; then it follows that a good book given as a gift is an even greater treasure. And, so it is with this book; which I received as a Chanukah gift from Glen Slater, a friend who lives in my old neighborhood off Kings Highway in Brooklyn. He also happens to be related to Albert “Bummy” Davis, the subject of this colorful biography.

Albert Davidoff was born in Brownsville in 1920. He arrived at the dawn of Prohibition, and he would live and die at odds with the world of that misguided public policy which spawned the era of Organized Crime, which still stands as a testament to the wisdom of social engineering by the government.

But this story is more than just about politics and gangsters. It is the story of a soulful man living in a world devoid of a soul of its own, and how he came to deal with the hand that life had dealt him. In his case that hand took the form of a devastating left hook.

Author Ron Ross brings life to the character of the man who bore the name “Bummy”. Born as Albert Davidoff to a Jewish family in the East New York section of Brooklyn known as Brownsville, he was a typical kid for the times in which he lived. Surrounded by colorful characters and friends he grows up in a world where making a living was of paramount importance. His father worked at running his candy store, selling newspapers and sodas for 12 hours a day. Each member of the family had their own tasks to perform which brought in the money to feed them all.

Al was a bit different than his brothers; especially Willie, who hung out with the faster crowd and sported pin stripe suits. He also had a reputation for strong arming the local pushcart peddlers and store owners for protection money. In a time and place inhabited by the likes of Lucky Luciano and Abe Reles, this was actually considered a living.

As Al grows up he realizes that he has a talent for fighting and begins to fight in the amateur bouts at the AAU. But he soon comes to realize that in Brownsville everything is up for grabs. Even some of the fights are “fixed” so that the “smart” bettors; the ones who are connected; will always win the big money. Fighters could be marginalized so that they would never fulfill their full potential, while making big money for the “handlers.”

“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 2nd round, gouging his eye with a thumb. 

Al 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. (This suspension was later lifted.)

Along with a terrific account of Al Davis’ life and the fight game, Mr. Ross has also given us a history of “Murder, Inc.”-  the place where the mob went when they needed to have someone “rubbed out.” Abe Reles and the Half Moon Hotel were like local legends to me growing up just about 1 mile or so from Coney Island. The savagery with which they went about their work dwarfs even some of today’s more lurid crimes.

This book reads like a film noir classic; and also boasts a complete record of Al Davidoff’s fights as well as a pretty cool Yiddish glossary to help those who may not be from Brooklyn navigate the dialougue more easily.

In the end Al “Bummy” Davis goes down most unexpectedly. While I was expecting the hail of bullets which ended his life, I expected them to come from a different source. If it’s of any consolation, I think Al Davis was equally surprised.

"Carolina Israelite" by Kimberly Marlowe Hartnett (2015)

I was first introduced to the writings of Harry Golden by Leonard Herman when I was 15 years old. He was the father of one of my friends when I was growing up in Brooklyn. Come to think of it, he also was the first person to expose me to Isaac Singer’s wonderful short stories. Years later; something like 40; I went to live in Charlotte, N.C. where Mr. Golden is somewhat of a legend; if only for the fact that he lived through the Civil Rights Movement here while writing about it like a liberal Jew from New York.

His home/office on Elizabeth Avenue was even burnt down in reaction to something he printed in his self-published newspaper the “Carolina Israelite” which is the tile of this book. The authors’ mother actually worked for Mr. Golden for a brief period in the 1940’s and uses the title in the way Mr. Golden meant it. It wasn’t the title of the paper as much as it was a description of Mr. Golden himself; he was the Carolina Israelite; roaming the wilderness of North Carolina espousing his views on racial and social equality, much as the Israelites roamed the desert for 40 years in search of a home.

The author does a wonderful job of chronicling the life of this enigmatic man; including his years in New York where he rose from the Lower East side selling newspapers on the corners, to engaging in some very astute stock market swindles which landed him in jail for a time. It was after his stint in prison that he began to roam, looking for a new start somewhere. For some reason he chose Charlotte, North Carolina as the place to transform himself.

As a spokesman for African-Americans he penned the controversial, and hysterically funny piece of satire called “The Vertical Negro Plan”, in which he solves the whole lunch counter seating problem which was then engulfing North Carolina by simply recommending that all seats be removed from restaurants and schools, as the only time black and white people seemed to have problems concerned seating arrangements; even on buses. Make ‘em all stand.

His friendships’ with some of the most influential men of his time are well chronicled, and the author does a great job of reviewing those relationships and even how some of them came about. His habit was to add a famous person’s name to his subscription list and then mention that they were subscribers, thus enhancing his own stature. Shades of his Wall Street days come to mind here. Surprisingly, most of those he befriended in this way actually did become friends with him. The Kennedy’s, both Bob and Jack; Carl Sandburg, who also lived in North Carolina; Adlai Stevenson; even Billy Graham all were proud to count him among their friends.

As far as Jewish-American relations go, Mr. Golden was not idle in that theater of operation. His most stunning piece of work; at least in my eyes; is his essay “Teaching Shylock”, in which he shows the reader how the “Merchant of Venice” and its portrayal of Shylock were not anti-Semitic at all. In fact Shakespeare has lampooned the Christian aristocracy in such a subtle way that people have been reading that play all wrong for 500 years. This is some accomplishment and I urge you strongly to read that piece. I will include a link to it at the end of this review.

In short, this is a wonderful book, long overdue, about one of the most underrated and unappreciated writers in American literature. It is only in the past 20 years that he has begun to be recognized as such. Lenny Herman was way ahead of the curve when he introduced me to the works of this wonderful man of letters.

Here is a link to the “Teaching Shylock” piece, which I really hope you will take the time to read.  If you are a Shakespearean scholar, or just a humble Jew like me, this piece will simply blow you away.

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2014/05/teaching-shylock-by-harry-golden-1961.html

And for a review of “For 2 Cents Plain” use this link;

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/05/for-2-cents-plain-by-harry-golden.html

Father Corridan - The Real Waterfront Priest

The photo above is of John "Pete" Corridan, the "Waterfront Priest,” testifying before a Senate Commerce Committee investigating waterfront crime in the late 1940’s.

If you have ever seen the film “On the Waterfront” with Karl Malden as the crusading Priest Father Barry, then you need to know that he was not a totally fictitious character. As a matter of fact, that soliloquy which he gives in the hold of the ship where Dugan is killed by the falling cargo was actually spoken by a Father Corridan who was the real life inspiration for the film version of the Priest.

Here is the portion of one of Father Corridan’s addresses to the men which inspired Bud Schulberg’s version;

“I suppose some people would smirk at the thought of Christ in the shape-up. It is about as absurd as the fact that He carried carpenter’s tools in His hands and earned His bread by the sweat of His brow. As absurd as the fact that Christ redeemed all men irrespective of their race, color, or station in life. It can be absurd only to those of whom Christ has said, ‘Having eyes, they see not; and having ears, they hear not.’ Because they don’t want to see or hear. Christ also said, ‘If you do it to the least of mine, you do it to me.’ So Christ is in the shape-up.”

Father Corridan gave the speech at a meeting in the Union trade school across the river in New Jersey, not in the hold of a cargo ship. But his words were almost identical. "The speech was written more by Father Corridan than me," writer Bud Schulberg said. "Eighty percent of it was his words."

Schulberg was soon treated to a tour of the waterfront by one of Corridan's longshoremen, a man named Arthur "Brownie" Brown. Schulberg became an admirer of the Priest and described him as “the greatest individual I have ever known.”

For more about Father Corridan use this link;

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_M._Corridan

And here is Karl Malden delivering Bud Schulberg's version of Father Corridan's speech in the film "On the Waterfront";

USCG Cutter Cartigan - "The Big Storm" by George Copna

Everybody who has sailed aboard ship for any length of time will have a story to tell about a storm. Some are better than others. But basically, they are all good. They provide an insight, for those who will never experience it, of the wonder, along with the sheer terror, that comes of facing waves larger than the vessel in which you are riding. They serve as reminders that we are all just visiting, and all at the mercy of something, at sometime in our lives. Here is George Copna's latest story of the USCG Cutter Cartigan, during which she encounters some very nasty weather. This story takes place around 1961.

THE BIG STORM by George Copna

Once, while on CAMPAT, we were on the tail end of the patrol looking forward to relief. The weather was warm, the seas calm and we were stopped, just drifting at a certain latitude awaiting relief from the CGC SEBAGO out of Pensacola, FL. I was the RM on duty and I heard them, via CW (Morse code) getting underway enroute to relieve us. I copied their radio traffic which included a weather report to 8th CG District New Orleans, LA. The SEBAGO was reporting winds in excess of 60 mph and seas running 25-30 feet. I thought how lucky we were to be in calm seas as opposed to what they were experiencing.

Let me pause here and say that the SEBAGO was literally twice our size at 255 feet as compared to our 125 feet in length. After being relieved of my watch, I went below and hit the rack. I awoke the next morning to some violent ship movements. All the hatches to the exterior decks were 'dogged down' and nobody was permitted outside on deck. The only way to get to the radio shack was through a hatch in the radio shack deck. I climbed up the ladder to relieve the RM on watch and found that we were in the midst of the weather that the SEBAGO had reported. The duty RM advised me that we had absolutely no communications with anybody. The wind and waves had torn away our whip and wire antennae. The only sounds coming from my earphones was loud static.

So, I spent the next four hours standing in the radio shack door watching the helmsman trying to maintain some semblance of a course while plowing into the seas head on. I watched in awe and some fright as we rode up one wave 25-30' and crash down into the trough with a crash. The next wave would cover us up, sometimes to the flying bridge. It was certainly a wild and somewhat frightening ride, and it was the first time I didn't get seasick in rough weather. I guess I was just too scared to think about it.

At one point, a large wave struck the face of the bridge directly and broke out several windows, showering the bridge watch with water and glass shards. This was truly getting to be a worrisome ride! After getting relieved from my watch, I went to the mess deck for some chow - I actually felt good enough to eat. When I got below to the mess deck, I found the cook fore-lonely seated with the evening meal of oyster stew and biscuits sloshing around his feet. So much for chow, so I just went back to my rack.

I was wakened for my next watch (0001-0400) and found we sere still in the maelstrom so all bridge watch standers were still being routed through the radio shack. I hadn't been signed on long before the sliding door that leads to the bridge flew open. A non-rated seaman watchstander stood there and entered the radio shack, endeavoring to close the door behind him. He looked like he had a mouthful of regurgitated stomach contents (a.k.a. vomitus). His abdomen was spasming and his cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk. I told him I'd shut the door, just get down below, out of the radio shack. He lifted up the electrical matt covering the hatch that led down below - right into officer's country. He finally got the hatch open and literally slid down the ladder, hitting the deck HARD! This sudden stop caused him to lose control of his ability to maintain control of the contents in his mouth and he sprayed the area with its contents. He then had to clean up the stinking mess.

We rode like this for close to another day before the storm subsided and the seas began to calm themselves. If my memory serves me correctly, we had ended up in the 7th CG District waters (we were assigned to the 8th CG District).

We limped home, beat up, torn up, canvas all gone from fore & aft, port & starboard, low on fresh water and food and very tired. We finally made it into our home port two days longer than we were supposed to be out. St. Andrew's Marina never looked so good!!

"The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry

O. Henry, along with the likes of Mark Twain, marked a new type of journalist; ones who became serious writers; a tradition which has continued to the present day. With such luminaries from Mark Twain on through to Jimmy Breslin and Norman Mailer, journalists have become, increasingly, some of the leading writers of their times. O.Henry was no exception. With his incredible feel for irony, and knowledge of human behavior, he wrote of the daily struggles which faced the generation of his time. Jim and Della are emblematic of that struggle, and the love for one another which enabled them to make it through the rough times. The irony in the story is apparent, as well as their love for one another. The illustration I have posted here is the "Adoration of the Magi" by the Italian Artist, Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510). This is a perfect Christmas story, which I have enjoyed for many years, thanks once again, to a grammar school teacher who really had a heart, and made a difference. Mrs. Denslow, this one's for you.

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.