The Missing Moon

 

I haven't seen the moon in months,
I mourn its friendly light
I miss the beams and smiling rays
Of its loving sight.

The craters of its face were like
A friend I need to see
Could it be so, I would bring
Those craters back to me.

Its cold light warmed my heart and soul
And helped soothe me to sleep
The stars all paled to the warmth
Its smile always brought to me.

I cannot go outside to glimpse
The phase that it is in.
And to not know again its face 
Is likened to a sin.

To think that I once complained
Its light kept me from sleep
Makes me sad, now I'd be glad
That count again to keep.

The moon that sets the cycles
Of both space and time
I'd  welcome back, it makes me sad
To miss what once was mine.

Oh Moon how I have wronged thee
On nights when you were full
And even in your quarter states
The tides that you would pull.

I write these words at 3 AM
On a night I cannot sleep
For missing you is something that
I shamelessly do weep.


3 AM September 15th, 2021
Photo by Barry Bloom

 

The Oppressed and the Oppressors

I learned more as a child growing up in this building at 1310 Avenue R in Brooklyn than anywhere else since. As in this tale of the Oppressed and the Oppressors.

I lived in apartment 2H across from Mr.and Mrs. Gold; two Orthodox Jews who left Germany just in the nick of time. The rest of their respective families were not so lucky. They did not survive.

Down the hall from us both lived the building's Superintendent and his wife; Mr. And Mrs. John Bucholtz. What makes this even more remarkable is that he was an ex Nazi soldier who was captured and imprisoned in North Carolina. At the end of the war he was allowed to stay, and bought his wife over. He became Superintendent of 1310 Avenue R. in 1961 when the building was just completed.

Every year at Rosh Hashanah the building, with it's 7 floors and 72 apartments, was filled with the smells of all the holiday cooking, which was all Kosher, as most of the building, with few exceptions, was Jewish.

Mrs. Bucholtz was an excellent cook herself, but not being Jewish was not involved in the preparations for any of the holidays. This story concerns the preparations for Rosh Hashanah when I was about 11 years old.

Mr. Gold was a wise man. He frequently took me on walks to the western side of Coney Island Avenue, which, even then, was heavily Orthodox. He did this for a reason. He would bring things, mostly envelopes containing cash, and point to a particular brick home and instruct me to ring the bell, hand the envelopes to whoever answered, and never divulge his name.

He explained to me that this was a Mitzvah, something his religion required him to perform. Charity without vanity if you will. At 11 years old this made no sense, but I enjoyed the walks, the talks, and of course the $1 he always gave me for my help. I now know better and should never have taken the money, but $1 back then went a long way at the candy store, where it was invariably squandered.

These Mitzvah's continued until I turned 13. After my Bar Mitzvah the walks, talks and deliveries continued, but without recompense. As an adult it was now expected of me to help perform these deeds, which were not very difficult. Besides, if you knew Mr. Gold, it was a pleasure just to be with him, walking and talking.

Now, back to Rosh Hashanah 1965 when I was about 11. The mercurial nature of the Hebrew calendar and the shifting dates of the holidays, make it impossible for me to tell you if it was before or after my birthday, which is also in the fall.

Mrs. Bucholtz was driven that year, more than ever, to help Mrs.Gold with the holiday preparations for the Rosh Hashanah feast. But Mrs. Gold was rigidly Kosher, and Mrs. Bucholtz was not. And so the wisdom of Mr. Gold entered the picture.

Taking Mrs. Gold aside he explained to her the torment that Mrs. Bucholtz endured from the exclusion she surely felt at each holiday of the year. He also explained that it was his duty, as a Jew, to relieve her suffering. What could Mrs. Gold do except to go along with her husband's plan?

He went down the hall and explained to Mrs. Bucholtz that, while she could not provide anything to help, she could use her hands as an instrument in helping Mrs. Gold in the kitchen. And so the miracle was performed. Cooked up might be a better way of saying it; pun intended.

And then it came to pass that Mrs. Bucholtz proudly entered the Gold's apartment, and Mrs. Gold's kitchen, an invisible barrier which even Mr. Gold respected, and he performed what I now know to be a "miracle" Mitzvah.

Lovingly taking Mrs. Bucholtz by the hands, the twinkle in his eyes in direct contrast to the aphrehension in Mrs. Gold's eyes, he lead her to the sink and washed her hands with that red and blue Kosher soap, which was used for the meat or dairy dishes, and recited a blessing in Hebrew. He explained to both women that Mrs. Bucholtz' hands were now as Kosher as Mrs. Gold's kitchen, thus allowing her to assist in the preparation of the holiday meal.

And so it came to pass, that on the first night of Rosh Hashanah 1965, the Oppressed and the Oppressor, became one. And to a boy of 11 the miracle of forgiveness was imparted.

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.

For Grandpa

An unseen photograph,

a trip back through time.

You wonder who that fellow was?

He was one of mine.

The stories that he could have told.

Of what he'd been and done,

all have now been lost forever.

Never told; just gone.

There's a sadness in his eyes

that cannot be explained.

It's as if he's seen too much

of life, of death, of pain.

And though I've never met the man,

I see some of him in me.

But that thought is just subjective;

we see what we want to see.....

May 10, 2020

Photo of Grandpa Wm. S. Williams

1919 Seamans Certification photo.

Courtesy of Cousin Patsy Williams.

"Rosebushes Under the Trees" - Gustav Klimdt (1905)

Nora Stiasny was a Norwegian woman living in Austria in 1938 when she was forced to sell this Gustav Klimdt painting "Rose Bushes Under the Trees" (1905) for a pittance of its worth in order to survive the high inflation. Within 2 years she was in a concentration camp where she later died.

The painting wound up in the vast collection of art looted by the Nazis'. In 1980 the State of France bought the painting from it's legal owner and it has been at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris for the enjoyment of all. They had no idea of the paintings history, according to the release.

Yesterday the Musee announced that the painting will be returned to the family of the rightful owner, the heirs of Nora Stiasny.  I'm hoping the family will allow the Musee D'orsay to continue to house and display this treasure for them. And perhaps add a history of the paintings adventure along with a thanks to the family for allowing it to remain....

This painting should not be confused with that of Adele Bloch-bauer, "The Lady in Gold", another Klimdt canvas to be stolen during the early days of the war. Helen Mirren starred in the film about that painting.

The USS Princeton

I have this knack for reading a book about something and having a pivotal event taking place on the same date as I am reading. Take today as an example. I'm reading about President Tyler's administration when February 28th pops up. It is really one single event, but when you scratch the surface you uncover some history, the Annexation of Texas, and a love story.

On February 28, 1844 the USS Princeton was on the Potomac River for a pleasure cruise and demonstration of a new type of gun, capable of hurling a twelve inch 225 pound shell 5 miles with a charge of 50 pounds. What follows is a recap of the events.

The ship was the USS Princeton, Capt. Stockton commanding. The ship was designed with 12 small cannon and a new weapon, made in England, named the "Oregon". Captain Stockton wanted another gun just like it and commissioned the construction of a replica, named the "Peacemaker" in NYC using older techniques of forging. This led to the guns explosion after about 3 rounds.

 

The explosion took place just abeam of Mount Vernon and was meant as a salute to George Washington. That blast killed Secretary of State Abel P. Upshur, Secretary of the Navy Thomas Walker Gilmer, and four other high-ranking federal officials. The disaster on board the Princeton killed more top U.S. government officials in a single day than any other tragedy in American history.

President John Tyler, who was aboard but below decks, was not injured. Had he not gone below deck to hear a  musical entertainment, he too would have been killed. Since he had no VP at the time, this would have resulted in the Senate choosing a President under the existing Article in place at the time.

To succeed Gilmer as Secretary of the Navy, Tyler appointed John Y. Mason, another Virginian. Secretary of State Upshur was about to win Senate approval of a treaty annexing Texas when he died. Under his replacement, John C. Calhoun, annexation was deliberately delayed, so as became an issue in the presidential election of 1844. So much for the history. On to the love story....

Julia Gardiner, who was below deck on the Princeton when her father David died in the Peacemaker explosion, became First Lady of the United States four months later. She had turned President Tyler's marriage proposal down over a year earlier in 1842, though sometime in 1843 they agreed that they would marry, but set no date.

The President had lost his first wife in September 1842, and at the time of the explosion he was almost 54. Julia was barely 24. She later wrote that her father's death changed her feelings for the President. "After I lost my father I felt differently toward the President. He seemed to fill the place and to be more agreeable in every way than any younger man ever was or could be."

Because he had been widowed less than two years and her father had died so recently, they married in the presence of just a few family members in New York City on June 26, 1844. A public announcement followed. They had seven children together before President Tyler died in 1862, and Julia, despite her relative youth and beauty, never remarried. It was not for want of hopeful suitors.

In 1888,  Nellie Bly quoted Julia Gardner Tyler as saying that at the moment of the Peacemaker explosion, "I fainted and did not revive until someone was carrying me off the boat, and I struggled so that I almost knocked us both off the gangplank". She said she only later learned that President Tyler was that man.

PS Julia Gardner Tyler was the 2nd youngest First Lady. The youngest was Frances Clevland who was just 21 when she married Grover Clevland in the Blue Room of the White House in 1886.

There is another unusual l love story there, as Frances was his friends daughter, and when her father died Clevland became her unofficial guardian. She was about 8 years old. In effect, 13 years later, he was marrying his de facto daughter.......

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.