Happy Birhday Mom!

My Mom,Ruth Marcus Williams, was born 96 years ago today on July 2nd,1929 and passed away 41 years ago this Sunday July 5th, 1984 at age 55. I am now older than was at the time she passed. We had our differences, to be sure, but beneath it all we really loved one another very much. Perhaps it was our similarities which made things so difficult at times. She could be stubborn, like me; obtuse, like me; and at times, unreasonable; like me.

That said, she was the woman who carried me, delivered me, bathed me and all the rest that goes with being “Mom.”

She was the product of a broken marriage- she was born after her parents seperation in 1929, although the divorce did not become final until 1934. There was money to fight over and my Grandmother was a shrewd woman.

My Grandfather, Pincus Max Marcus, was a self made millionaire 3 times- and lost it all each time to the horses and the ladies. This was the reason for the divorce. She caught him, flagrant delecto, in the late spring of 1929- 4 weeks before the birth of my Mom on July 2nd and 3 months short of Black Tuesday when the market crashed, triggering the Great Depression.

Grandma Dorothy, as I said, was a shrewd woman and she exacted quite a price from Pincus for his indiscretion. Here she was, 8 months pregnant and initiating a divorce at a time when Divorce was a whispered word that carried many unwanted conotations. But she was determined to make the break.

While waiting for the divorce proceedings to begin she extracted a settlement from him in the form of $250,000 in Treasury Bonds. Quite a sum in pre Depression 1929 - and a fortune 3 months later when Pincus begged her to lend him some of it back to shore up his losses. She did- at interest.

So my Mom grew up without a father and with a Mother who was often absent, touring the world,socializing and traveling. My Mom had all the privileges of a spoiled child in a 1930’s movie. She learned piano, took voice lessons, horseback riding instruction, went to summer camp every year and never really wanted for anything- except a father.

She was considered a pretty woman, although as her son I would not be the best judge of that, she was just Mom to me. But when she would play the piano and sing inside our Brooklyn apartment, the neighbors would gather outside the door and listen to her, exchanging comments like “Oy, what a voice- she should be on the stage!” And she would have, if she hadn’t met my Dad. She was slated to tour with a road company of "Oklahoma" in 1949 and my Dad was about to join the Mechant Marines (which I would do later) when they came to an impasse. If she toured he would sail and that would be the end of that. Fortunately for me, they both gave in.

So now it is 96 years since my Mom was born on July 2nd and 41 years since she passed on July 5th. Lots of time to think back on things since then. We spoke only a few days before she passed- she had been ill my entire life. This is what she told me in that last conversation by phone from a pier in Norfolk, Virgina- “You know Robert, you can never go on with your life until mine ends- you’ve been a prisoner of my illness for so long.” I replied that I knew that and perhaps it was the reason I went to sea for almost a decade- to get away from the marathon of her dying. We closed out all business and in 41 years I have never had a bad dream about her.

I Know I'll Never See You Anymore

                               

I can still see you there,
you're 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.

And though I think I hear your voice,
so clearly in my mind,
I know I'll never hear it anymore.

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

And just when you think
that you've got nothing left,
She's taken everything you once called "mine".

 Written in 2009 or earlier.
Before I got the slides back.

It's Not How, It's Who

The friends who used to play with me
Sometimes write and ask of me,
"Robert, my old friend, how are you?"

I always have the same reply,
And with a twinkle in my eye,
I smile and say, "Not how, my friend, but who."

For I lie abed in many forms,
Some well known, but all well worn.
Characters from books; both old and new.

And, like the lad in "Counterpane",
armies lain before me, in a game;
I always win when there are less than two.

I draw upon books I may have read;
and then tell stories in my head.
I make myself the hero; wouldn't you?

When the game is up I'm out of bed.
But the stories remain inside my head,
and next day I'll live them all again, re-newed.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Today is my Mom's 91st birthday. I remember her voice very well, singing and playing the piano, which still stands in my living room/dining area. It was purchased in 1964 and has been with me since she passed in 1984 at the age of 55. I am now 10 years older than she was at the time. So, it's not easy to think of her as old.

She was ill for much of my childhood, often spending 6 months of the year, or more, hospitalized for all forms of digestive issues and cancers. Growing up was like an emotional yo-yo, which of course I didn't understand at the time.

She and my Dad met in February 1947, when he was just 17 and working at the Kingsway theater as an usher.

She had just graduated James Madison, the same school I would attend years later. She was taking voice lessons and auditioning for the chorus of Broadway shows, planning on a career in the theater.

My Dad, a year and a half younger, was still in Maritime High School aboard the SS John Brown, a Liberty Ship used by the Maritime Union to train Merchant Mariners. He was living in Manhattan at the time. My Grandmother had been forced to move from the house on 32nd off Kings Hwy after my Grandfather died. But, for whatever reason, he was still working in Brooklyn on Kings Hwy.  (The Brown currently resides in Baltimore, just near the submarine Torsk,  aboard which he also served in the Naval Reserve out of New London, Connectticutt.)

The whole courtship thing came to a head when my Mom was about to take a job in the chorus of "Oklahoma" in a road company, which would keep her away for months at a time.  Similarly, Dad was about to sign on as an Ordinary Seaman and ship out to ports unknown for months at a time. So they had a lot in common.... they were both leaving to begin their own lives.

But their hearts held sway, and love, not one to be ignored, won out. They were married in September of 1950 and together until her death 33 and a half years later in 1984.

Her last few years were spent in bed writing stories about her illness and also her childhood. Since I'd lived through the illnesses my favorite stories were her childhood ones. I hadn't been there at the time they occurred, so her stories were a window into another time, in the same neighborhood, with some of the same characters I was growing up with.  One of my favorites was the one about the "I cash clothes man", a few of whom still roamed the streets when I was about 4 or 5 years old.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you and the phone calls we shared, with me calling from foreign ports whenever I could. And you, always there on the other end.

Note: Photo cropped from my Mom's girlhood album. She is 13 years old and seated    on the roof of 3619 Bedford Avenue.

"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 

Happy Birthday Mom (Ruth Marcus Williams) 1929-1984

Today my Mom would have been 86 years old. If she were still alive I might not be telling you that, as she was a bit vain about her age. She was over a year older than my Dad and I think she always wished it were the other way around. Go figure.

This photo is from her childhood album and was taken on the roof at 3619 Bedford Avenue. That’s the big red building on the NE corner of Bedford and Kings Highway. She was 14 years old. After she married my Dad in 1950 they lived there in apartment 3-C with my Grandmother Marcus and her brother Uncle Irving and their Russian born father "Max." A woman named Mary, and eventually her husband Mack, also lived there. Mary was the Irish woman who raised my Mom during the 1930's and became a lifelong friend of my Grandmother's.When Mary and Mack moved to California in the late 1950’s, she went with them. My Uncle always said that they took the Dodgers with them.

This picture always fascinates me because it shows how much more mature people seemed to be "back then". Of course the country had just been through the Great Depression, and this photo was taken in the middle of the Second World War which followed it. That might account for part of it. As a matter of fact, that’s my Uncle Walter’s army cap she’s holding. He was home on leave at the time after basic training.

Happy Birthday Mom!

You would have been confused by much of what is happening these days, but also thrilled with some of the other things. Like blogs. You would have had one; and a Facebook page. Those long distance phone calls from faraway places would never have been necessary. But I wouldn’t have missed them for the world. They are how we bridged our divide. Those calls are why when I miss you I am able to smile. They are why I’m smiling now...

Love always,

Robert

Easter Sunday - 1965

Easter Sunday was a big deal when I was a kid. They still actually had an Easter Parade down 5^th Avenue in Manhattan. It wasn’t the type of Parade I expected. It was just like the scene in the Judy Garland film “Easter Parade”; lots of people strolling in their Easter finery and the women showing off the latest in the world of hats. The only real difference is that no one actually sang the song like they did in the movie.

It’s too bad they don’t do the Eater Parade thing anymore. With today’s technology it would be so easy to organize a “flash mob”, having them assemble; with hats, and singing; for a reproduction of the closing scene from the film. Now, wouldn’t that be something?

I was going to use the film of the parade scene from the film "The Easter Parade" here- but this is so much cooler;

I was surprised to find that there still is a sort of Easter Parade in New York each year. And it's still on 5th Avenue; though it is more like a street festival than the promenade it used to be;And here is the Easter Parade as it looked in 2013;

Thanksgiving - 1965

I always thought this photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day 1963. Recently I realized that it was taken in 1965. or maybe 1965. The proof is in the outline of the love seat in the background, which was my Great Aunt Katherine’s, who had passed away earlier that year. I know it was after her passing, as she was very strict about relatives removing her furniture and would never have allowed us to “borrow” it. 

The photo is a real "keeper"; which I have obviously done. Uncle I is looking a bit fatigued; probably wondering why he can’t afford to spend the winter in Florida like Benny the Good Humor Man. Mom is just happy to be out of the hospital in time for the holiday and you can see how glad I am. My buck teeth are smiling like Bugs Bunny. Even my brother is actually looking happy; which was unusual; so it’s a great photo. My father took the picture.

Thanksgiving is about giving Thanks; but it's also about making memories. So, wherever you are today - make some.

The turkey’s done;

The cider’s poured.

We thank you for this feast

Our Lord.

Hey, that’s not a half bad prayer. I may use it at dinner tonight. Have a great Thanksgiving wherever you are. 

Happy Birthday Mom!

Today would be my Mom’s 85^th birthday. She passed on fairly early; as a matter of fact I am now older than she was when she left us at the age of 55, just days after her birthday. She had been ill for so long it was almost a gift for her to finally be free from the pain which had become almost second nature. Her illness colors much of my childhood memories, but not my memories of who she was. If that doesn’t make sense I can’t explain it, so you’ll simply have to take me on faith.

You see, 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 only knew her for about the first 5 years before she became ill. But I do have very warm recollections of those times; 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 at 3619 Bedford Avenue at Kings Highway; 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 striped 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 sitting at the piano; on the beach; or just sitting on the sofa reading a book. 

The photograph at the top was the inspiration for the lyrics and it is also the first family outing I remember, on Veteran’s Day, November 11, 1957. I had just turned 3 years old. In it I am discovering the mysteries associated with the clam shell.

I Can Never See You

I can still see you there,

standing by the door.

Wearing your red kechief 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.

And though I think I hear your voice,

So clearly in my mind,

I know I'll never hear it anymore.

Times a worthless master,

it will steal your heart away.

It robs you just a little at a time.

And suddenly you realize that

you've got nothing left,

she's taken all the things you once called "mine."

Kings Highway at East 16th Street - Two Views (1929)

This corner may be one of the most photographed in Brooklyn, new York. This picture is of Kings Highway at East 16th Street looking eastward about 1929. The Avalon, a Century owned Movie Theater is visible on the right side of the street.  

Most likely it was taken from the BMT station at Kings Highway which was located right at Dubrow's, the cafeteria, and across the street diagonally  from the bank, which open in 1929 or '30. There was also a tiny little jewelry shop located under the station right where Armando's would someday be. The owner was a crippled veteran from the 2nd World War. At the time of this photo he would have been just a kid.

My mother was born the year that this photo was taken. The Depression didn't really hurt the middle class section of Kings Highway as much as if affected other areas. Mostly the inhabitants were clerical and somewhat educated, unlike the poorer areas which were disproportionately affected by factory layoffs, etc.

My mother's memories of the neighborhood were vivid and I was an avid listener. Kings Highway still has that feel to me; like it is a special place; not subject to the changes of time as much as other areas. of course I'm biased, and I have only been back there once in the past 14 years. It's easy to hold onto a dream.

But, I swear, the feeling I had walking down that stretch of Kings Highway from Ocean Avenue to Coney Island Avenue, was the biggest jolt of energy I have had in years. It was electric in nature and a balm for my soul. These photographs are a way of capturing my Mom's memories; as well as preserving my own.

The one at the top came from Facebook. It's an old postcard. The one below I really do not remember where I got it- but it's a photo of the same area looking East toward the Avalon and then enlarged on the right. Kind of fun to see if you can orient the two. No point to this post, just enjoy the old photos.

Old Slides #2 - Learning How to Fly (1957)

Most photos have a “back story” to them; where and when the photo was taken being the least important of the details. What happened just before the shutter clicked can be very revealing in some cases. And that’s what makes the photograph above, which is one of a series taken on Veteran’s day 1957, so unusual. There is none.

As I sift through the old family photos I can find very few where there is not something else that has just occurred which mars the memory a bit. Behind most of the smiling faces there was either a very recent scolding, argument or some other stupid and unnecessary problem. No one is really to blame for that; it’s just the dynamics of an ordinary family living and growing; together or apart.

But, let’s get back to this photograph which was taken over 57 years ago. This one is of me and my Dad. I’m the little guy holding the string. He’s the big guy showing me how to fly the kite. It was one of those big paper kites; bright red and with a tail made of rags. We were at Riis Park; for some reason we were always at Riis Park; winter or summer. I’m not complaining; I loved the place!

Riis Park was named after Jacob Riis, the famous campaigner for decent housing and social reform. His photographs of the Lower East Side at the turn of the 20^th Century are iconic. He championed airways in the tenements and windows in every room. It was only fitting that a bright, sunny, public beach be named for him.

Once again; back to this photograph. In the years after this was taken; remember I said that every picture has a “back story”? Well, this one really has more of a “front story”, as it was taken less than 2 years before my mother began a long illness, which permeated my entire childhood. I didn't really mind, I just always hoped that she would get better; but she never did.

So, this photo is one of the rare ones in which my Dad is smiling and really means it. Life was good. He had just been through the only job “layoff” he would ever know, and also had pneumonia, one of the only times I had ever seen him ill. The other time was when he gave up smoking in 1962 or ’63 after the Surgeon General’s first warning about cigarettes causing cancer. He didn't even wait until the warning was on the pack. He just stopped. And was very ill; throwing up and bedridden for several days. It was cold turkey, just like heroin withdrawal. He may have lapsed once or twice in the first few years after, but never went back to smoking full time again. Instead he discovered M&M’s.

We would go grocery shopping on Thursday nights when my mother wasn't in the hospital; and my Dad would buy a box of Peanut Chews, or a 1 pound bag of M&M's, which we would eat before getting home.When my Mom was in the hospital, either my brother or I would pick up what was necessary ourselves. We used a pull along type folding “shopping cart” to wheel the groceries home. My brother was not fond of this chore; I think he found it embarrassing for some reason; so I was usually the one “bringing home the bacon.”

So, this is a picture of my father before all the bad times began. It’s also part of a set of 14 photographs taken that day. My Dad’s teaching me how to fly a kite, a skill which I have passed on to my daughter and 2 of my granddaughters. And whenever I look at this photo I remember what it was like to have my parents and my brother, before all the bad times began.

"My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson

The book of poetry which my Mom gave me for my 8^th birthday still inspires me over 50 years later. No matter where I have lived, this book has always been with me. Some of my favorite poems from my childhood rest between its covers, and from time to time I post one here. Today is one of those times.

I’ve been having a rough time of it lately for various reasons, and it amazes me at the comfort I can still derive form this old and battered book of children’s poetry. Perhaps I am just immature, or maybe the book is so much a part of who I am, that it is always able to make me smile.

So, without further delay, or comment on my part, here is “My Shadow”; both literally, and figuratively .

“My Shadow” by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me; he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

"Everyone's Dying" by Robert Williams (1969)

This poem was written on April 15th, 1969 when I was 14 and a half years old. It got me called into the school counselor's office because it was not the first time I had written about death at such a young age. The first time I was called out for my choice of subject matter was in 1965, when I was 11 years old in 5th grade. I picked it at random from a pile of things which I keep in a drawer while looking for something to post for the 15th. Since it was such a coincidence, I thought I'd run it, if only for that purpose alone.

I had written a poem called "Jenkin's Grave" as a writing assignment in Mrs. Denslow's class in 5th grade, and she actually phoned my parents to discuss whether or not there was a problem at home. There was; as my mother was ill from the time I was about 6, until she passed away when I was 30.

So, death was always lurking about somewhere close by in my thoughts. Naturally, these thoughts found their way into my writing and have probably colored my feelings, and thoughts, for my entire life. And now, as I am getting older; past the age of my mother's death; I find myself looking at these poems more closely, as if to detect some meaning within them; a clue perhaps; of how I came to be who I am. 

Well, for better, or worse, here is that poem from 1969. It still resonates with me, and I still wonder about the eternity that faces us all; though I'd rather hang out for a few more years before I find out that answer!

An old man lay’s dying,

He’s passing away.

What does he think of

On his bed as he lay?

“I think of young ladies

Who were once young and free;

And of old folk, once young folk;

now passing with me.”

An old woman’s crying,

She’s passing away.

What does she think of 

in her final days?

“I think of the young men

I had way back when;

And of old folk, once young folk;

I won’t see again.”

A young boy is playing,

He screams and he shouts;

What does he think of

When at night, lights are out?

“I think of my father,

and how it must be.

To be older and wiser,

with a kid just like me.”

A tycoon is working

And working some more.

What does he think of,

As he does all those chores?

“I think of dead folk

And how glad they must be,

To get away from it all

And be so damn free!

I see people laughing

And larking about.

They’re right to be happy,

For time soon runs out!”

April 15^th, 1969  Cunningham Junior High School 9^th Grade

Happy Birthday Mom!

This is one of my favorite pictures of my Mom and me. It was taken in July of 1957 on the beach at Jacob Riis Park. Riis Park was located just across the Marine Parkway Bridge at the end of Flatbush Avenue. That was where my parents used to take us on weekends in the summer. It was, and still is, a beautiful, wide beach, with a good amount of surf to challenge the average swimmer. Lying next to us, on the right, are Lee; who is laying down; and her husband Donnie, two friends of my parents who used to accompany us on outings. Their daughter,; I think her name is Janet; is the little girl in between them.

My parents were sticklers about bringing any sand home from the beach. To that end we were required to remove our bathing suits prior to heading back to the car. My Mom would hold up a towel as I changed from my swimsuit to short pants. Apparently my father could not resist taking this picture, which seems to have annoyed my mother.

The years pass quickly; people come and go in our lives; but none remain more firmly fixed in our minds than our mothers. They were alternately loving, annoying, understanding, and intrusive. That was their job. Along the way they gave us memories which have lasted  a lifetime. Although my mother’s later years were marred by illness, she still managed to leave enough of her tenderness behind to last me forever. This photo is one of those moments, captured in time.

Happy 83^rd Mom!

Aunt Gloria - Everyone Should Have One

This is my Aunt Gloria, actually, my favorite Aunt Gloria. Everybody should have one. They play a special role in your life, sometimes without even knowing it! This picture was taken, and this is a guess, on the steps to the brownstone in Manhattan, on the Upper West Side, where the family moved from Brooklyn after my Grandfather passed away. Gloria was only about 4, or 5 at the time, so she must be about 8 years old in this photo. I could be wrong though, and this may have been taken at Aunt Katy's in Park Slope, Brooklyn. She'll let me know. She looks a bit like Judy Garland here, with her nose kind of scrunched up, looking at the camera. Even at that young age you could see the joy inside of her. That inner joy was what made her special to me when I was growing up.

One of my favorite memories of Aunt Gloria involves her sneaking my brother and I into the hospital to see our Mom when she was sick. Back in those days children were not allowed to visit their parents in the hospital. My mother didn't like this rule, and so Aunt Gloria decided to do something about it.

Sneaking into the hospital stairway was easy enough, the hard part always came when we had to exit the stairwell, and then make our way down the hall to my Mom's room. Gloria would usually have my Aunt Gladys with her, so Gladys would go to the nurse's station and distract the head nurse, waving us on behind her back when the time was right. We would then go single file, with Gloria blocking the rear so we wouldn't be seen by the nurse, down the hallway to my Mom's room. They weren't private rooms, so the visits never lasted that long before we were "discovered", and then ejected, by the hospital staff. But those few minutes meant the world to my Mom, and Aunt Gloria knew it.

While re-reading "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" recently, for about the hundrenth time, I was struck by the similarity between those real life visits to my Mom, and the part of the book where Johnny enrolls Francie in a school out of their neighborhood. They both know that it's wrong - but it's done to right a greater wrong. And, in some cases, the ends do justify the means.

Anyway, this is just a very public rambling about my favorite Aunt Gloria. Today is her birthday. She's younger than me, in heart, and spirit. She and her husband, my Uncle Bob, aka the "Fork and Spoon", reside in Florida and sometimes in New York. They can also be found at all points in between. Happy Birthday, Gloria, from your favorite nephew!

Happy Birthday Mom!

Just when you think you have seen all of the photos in your collection, another, unremembered one pops up. This is my Mom in 1969, at age 40.

The date on the photo says October, but the picture was taken in July of that year for her birthday. I know that this picture was taken in the summer due to the fact that my Mom would never wear white after Labor Day. It just wasn't done! At least not in New York. Memorial Day to Labor Day was the accepted time to wear white, for men and women alike. Back then, and this will come as a surprise to many younger people, you had to wait to finish taking the whole roll of film before you got to see the pictures. And it was always a surprise to see the photos you had taken months before.

My Mom was a very sweet person, and in spite of some rough years we had when I was a teenager, I always enjoyed her ability to take me back to her childhood with stories about the Depression and World War Two. She gave me so much in the way of love for literature, movies and poetry. She would be pleased with my blog, and that thought pleases me in return. That she would have had a blog of her own is without question, as she wrote short stories towards the end of her too short life. It amazes me to realize that I am now older than she was when she passed away, just a few days after her 55th birthday in 1984. Her death was in many ways the beginning of my life, which had been overshadowed by her illnesses for 25 years, starting when I was about 5 years old. We discusssed this very thing only a few weeks before she passed away.

I understand her so much more today than even 2 years ago. Saddled now with my own infirmities, I appreciate her wit, and charm, more than I ever have before. She was in great pain for so long, but if there was somewhere to go, or someone to meet, she swallowed that pain, put on her makeup and necklaces, broke out her smile, and went.

When I was 8 years old she gave me a book of poetry, which I still have, and have even reviewed here before. It still gives me pleasure to leaf through those 85 childhood poems. So, Happy Birthday Mom. Here's one of the poems you gave me so long ago;

"The Little Turtle" by Vachel Lindsay

There was a little turtle.
He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle.
He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito.
He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow.
And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito.
He caught the flea.
He even caught the minnow.
But he didn't catch me!

"The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson

Whenever I have a nasty cold, or flu, like now, and I am forced to take to bed, I think of this poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is no coincidence that he is also one of my favorite childhood authors, having given me such memorable playmates as Long John Silver in "Treasure Island", and David Balfour in "Kidnapped." So, as I've said, it is not unusual for me to pick up that old poetry book my Mom gave me in 1962, "The Golden Book of Poetry", and flip to page 59 to read "The Land of Counterpane." It doesn't have any medicinal value at all, it's more like "Chicken Soup for The Soul."

The gift of a book to a child can be a wonderful thing. Think of it - this book, which was given to me so many years ago, has provided me with solace and comfort so often, that it would be impossible to put a price upon it.

"The Land of Counterpane"

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Yom Kippur - 5771

My Uncle Irving used to spend the evening of Yom Kippur at our house. He lived in a hotel in Manhattan and our apartment in Brooklyn was the only place where he really felt comfortable lighting a Yahrzeit (Memorial Candle). He would wear a Yarmulke for this occasion each year, which always underscored the solemnity of the day.

Like most Jews in New York at the time, Uncle I was largely secular. He was not a regular attendee of shul on Fridays, those evenings were spent with me. But Yom Kippur was a big deal. The only thing he did do that violated the sacredness of of that holiday was in his making the return trip to Manhattan after sundown, so that he would be present for morning services. For this purpose he would travel by subway.

The streets were always deserted on the High Holy Days, like Rosh Hashanah, but the effect was even more magnified on Yom Kippur. Even Christians stayed home! There was no place that was open for them to go.

It was to be years until I began lighting my own Yahrzeit, for my Mom, and even longer before I ventured into the prayer portion. I won't be found in Synagogue, electing to have my own time, here at home, alone with my thoughts. And, being so thin, I don't fast. But I do light the candle, just as Uncle I did, and I say the prayer in memory of my Mom, just as he did for his Mom and Dad.

The only difference is that now I say the Prayer for my Mom and my Uncle Irving and his Mom and Dad. I think it makes them feel good. And someday, my daughter will add my name to that list. It's kind of like a chain that keeps on growing. And that, makes me feel good, too.

A Very Special Book

This is a very special book. It was given to me by my Mother for my 8th birthday in 1962. She bought it at the Farmers Market on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. In 47 years it has never been far from me.

The book is comprised of 85 Children's poems. "The Walrus and the Carpenter", "Who Has Seen the Wind", "The Animal Store", "The Land of Counterpane", "The Owl and the Pussycat", "Wynken, Blynken and Nod", they are all here.

And inside the front cover there is a little inscription from my Mom that says simply "To Robert." It appears that she never finished writing whatever it was she had planned to write. She was ill a good deal of the time and actually was in the hospital the morning of my birthday. I remember waking up that morning and going to the kitchen for breakfast. My Dad had left early to see her but there was a card and some presents for me on the table. I don't remember what else I got that day- but the book, with it's unfinished inscription from my Mom, was the one which I cherished the most.

I still return to its' pages now and again to read the innocent rhymes and be carried away by their cadence. And sometimes when I hold the book I am 8 years old again- lost in the magic of the poems.