Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Friday, June 26, 2020
Friday, July 31, 2015
The Velveteen Bear
She says that the bear doesn't hold much memory for her. It was never given a name. She was about to give up ownership, maybe take a few photos in situ, and leave it behind at the park. "Maybe someone will take it but probably, considering its condition," she said, "the park maintenance people will just toss it."
For some reason, I could not let this happen, so overwhelmed with tears I offered the bear a new home. Perhaps it is because she is such a good friend and I value this ratty bear that has been with her since her childhood, as a stand in for how much I value her. Or perhaps it is because I am generally sad that she is moving and I will miss our frequent, spontaneous get togethers.
Or perhaps I know something she does not know, especially right now as she is moving and packing and getting rid of things she doesn't want to take to the new place but I know for sure that she really values and loves this bear, whom I have named Bear.
It is so velveteenized that it would put the Rabbit to shame, even with its world renowned story. Bear has so few patches of soft fur left, when compared to its available rough meshy base, that it does take an extra something to want to hug it.
Another hint at the love that this bear holds are the numerous areas that have been over time, by a young girl and or her mother, Frankenstein stitched back together to keep it in one piece.
Further evidence of "Love of Bear," is that when she carried it into Chipotle to take a few photos over lunch, she carried it by its ear. While she ordered she hugged it. Now if that isn't love, what is? Afterwards, Bear drove home.
After lunch we went to visit Gregory at Lieberman. He took to Bear very easily. We are sure that Peaceful the Bear, Gregory's personal bear, did not take offense but rather was supportive and caring of Bear. Bears tend to be that way towards fellow bears. No questions asked and no value judgement made, appearances not important.
Maybe Bear will spend some time with me at the condo and also spend time with Gregory at Lieberman. Nice idea, huh? Then when my friend is in town, which will be fairly often since her husband teaches at Northwestern and they have a new apartment here for him, Bear can visit with his original owner when she comes to visit Gregory. She is probably one a few most loyal friends that Gregory has and now we will have Bear.
This Bear must be at least 50 years old. Most likely you have rough patches and mends too from being as old as you are, Dear Reader, and I still love you! That is why I'll bet she still loves Bear very much!
For some reason, I could not let this happen, so overwhelmed with tears I offered the bear a new home. Perhaps it is because she is such a good friend and I value this ratty bear that has been with her since her childhood, as a stand in for how much I value her. Or perhaps it is because I am generally sad that she is moving and I will miss our frequent, spontaneous get togethers.
Or perhaps I know something she does not know, especially right now as she is moving and packing and getting rid of things she doesn't want to take to the new place but I know for sure that she really values and loves this bear, whom I have named Bear.
It is so velveteenized that it would put the Rabbit to shame, even with its world renowned story. Bear has so few patches of soft fur left, when compared to its available rough meshy base, that it does take an extra something to want to hug it.
Another hint at the love that this bear holds are the numerous areas that have been over time, by a young girl and or her mother, Frankenstein stitched back together to keep it in one piece.
Further evidence of "Love of Bear," is that when she carried it into Chipotle to take a few photos over lunch, she carried it by its ear. While she ordered she hugged it. Now if that isn't love, what is? Afterwards, Bear drove home.
After lunch we went to visit Gregory at Lieberman. He took to Bear very easily. We are sure that Peaceful the Bear, Gregory's personal bear, did not take offense but rather was supportive and caring of Bear. Bears tend to be that way towards fellow bears. No questions asked and no value judgement made, appearances not important.
Maybe Bear will spend some time with me at the condo and also spend time with Gregory at Lieberman. Nice idea, huh? Then when my friend is in town, which will be fairly often since her husband teaches at Northwestern and they have a new apartment here for him, Bear can visit with his original owner when she comes to visit Gregory. She is probably one a few most loyal friends that Gregory has and now we will have Bear.
This Bear must be at least 50 years old. Most likely you have rough patches and mends too from being as old as you are, Dear Reader, and I still love you! That is why I'll bet she still loves Bear very much!
Sunday, August 17, 2014
More Childhood Memories
Driving down Lincoln Avenue in Chicago at Catalpa Avenue, I looked up to re-live in a complete instant picture, part of my childhood past, which I am now trying to put into words for you.
At that corner of Lincoln and Catalpa, sits a three story building, shops on the first floor, apartments on the second and third.
My Auntie Esther, in her forties and divorced, lived in one of those second floor apartments with her teenaged children Sheila and Normie and her mother, my grandmother, Sarah.
Max, Sarah's husband had been long dead and Sarah fragile and barely mobil since her accident in the car. Grandma was getting out of the back seat when Auntie Anne pulled away from the curb without looking to make sure Grandma was fully out of the car.
My father never forgave Anne's what he called "Her Carelessness," causing Grandma's broken hip and following life decline. He was always retelling the story every time we visited either Anne, Esther, or Grandma; although Anne lived in California with her husband, my father's brother, Ben, so we didn't hear that version too often.
I remember visiting Esther and Grandma in their typical Chicago apartment: starting in the living room overlooking the street, with a bedroom off to the side; past the front hall entrance, large enough to greet your guests and hang their coats in a closet, and also a place for the telephone table; with a hall continuing past a bathroom and separate bedroom on the left, and into the dining room, width of the apartment, which opened to the kitchen, with an additional bedroom tucked in at the back right before you got to the back porch. Can you picture that? I still can.
Sheila and I would sit at the kitchen table and practice our Spanish, which we were both studying in school. My sister and Sheila would go off to Sheila's bedroom to do whatever while my cousin Normie and I would look at his comic books and other treasures that he kept under cover in his bedroom.
Esther had a bedroom, and Grandma, at her own insistence slept on the sofa in the living room, which with her "stuff" scattered around was really her bedroom. I remember that she loved to sit by the windows for hours on end and watch the cars and people traveling and walking down the busy Lincoln Avenue.
She spoke in what they called "Broken English," which meant she really spoke Yiddish with a few English words thrown in, just enough for us kids to understand as the adults all spoke Yiddish when they were with her.
Often they would tell a joke or off-color story in Yiddish thinking the children wouldn't understand, the important word being "thinking," because we did and had to stifle our giggles so as not to give ourselves away.
Grandma always smelled just a little bit like fish if only because she loved to have fish at least for breakfast and lunch and sometimes for dinner. She ate it with her fingers to make sure all the bones were found. From Grandma I learned to love having onion with my canned salmon and spreading bone marrow from the home made soup bones on rye bread.
Esther smoked up a storm as did both of my parents, if I remember correctly. They talked a lot and discussed things. I don't really have many memories of what the adults did as my cousins and I involved ourselves in our own activities.
I do remember loving my Auntie Esther (all of my Aunts were called Auntie.) She was a Jewish, strong, crude kind of Auntie Mame to me (if you know that movie. Mame, however, was as oppositely rich and sophisticated as Esther was poor and common.)
Skip to my remembering living on Anslie Avenue at 9 years old, and not going to my Grandma's funeral as my parents felt I was too young to experience such things. Skip to me being just a few months away from being 70 years old.
That is some 61 years later and my driving down Lincoln Avenue in Chicago, looking up as I passed Catalpa Avenue to re-live part of my childhood past. Does seeing it take place in my mind mean it is still going on, there on the second floor?
At that corner of Lincoln and Catalpa, sits a three story building, shops on the first floor, apartments on the second and third.
My Auntie Esther, in her forties and divorced, lived in one of those second floor apartments with her teenaged children Sheila and Normie and her mother, my grandmother, Sarah.
Max, Sarah's husband had been long dead and Sarah fragile and barely mobil since her accident in the car. Grandma was getting out of the back seat when Auntie Anne pulled away from the curb without looking to make sure Grandma was fully out of the car.
My father never forgave Anne's what he called "Her Carelessness," causing Grandma's broken hip and following life decline. He was always retelling the story every time we visited either Anne, Esther, or Grandma; although Anne lived in California with her husband, my father's brother, Ben, so we didn't hear that version too often.
I remember visiting Esther and Grandma in their typical Chicago apartment: starting in the living room overlooking the street, with a bedroom off to the side; past the front hall entrance, large enough to greet your guests and hang their coats in a closet, and also a place for the telephone table; with a hall continuing past a bathroom and separate bedroom on the left, and into the dining room, width of the apartment, which opened to the kitchen, with an additional bedroom tucked in at the back right before you got to the back porch. Can you picture that? I still can.
Sheila and I would sit at the kitchen table and practice our Spanish, which we were both studying in school. My sister and Sheila would go off to Sheila's bedroom to do whatever while my cousin Normie and I would look at his comic books and other treasures that he kept under cover in his bedroom.
Esther had a bedroom, and Grandma, at her own insistence slept on the sofa in the living room, which with her "stuff" scattered around was really her bedroom. I remember that she loved to sit by the windows for hours on end and watch the cars and people traveling and walking down the busy Lincoln Avenue.
She spoke in what they called "Broken English," which meant she really spoke Yiddish with a few English words thrown in, just enough for us kids to understand as the adults all spoke Yiddish when they were with her.
Often they would tell a joke or off-color story in Yiddish thinking the children wouldn't understand, the important word being "thinking," because we did and had to stifle our giggles so as not to give ourselves away.
Grandma always smelled just a little bit like fish if only because she loved to have fish at least for breakfast and lunch and sometimes for dinner. She ate it with her fingers to make sure all the bones were found. From Grandma I learned to love having onion with my canned salmon and spreading bone marrow from the home made soup bones on rye bread.
Esther smoked up a storm as did both of my parents, if I remember correctly. They talked a lot and discussed things. I don't really have many memories of what the adults did as my cousins and I involved ourselves in our own activities.
I do remember loving my Auntie Esther (all of my Aunts were called Auntie.) She was a Jewish, strong, crude kind of Auntie Mame to me (if you know that movie. Mame, however, was as oppositely rich and sophisticated as Esther was poor and common.)
Skip to my remembering living on Anslie Avenue at 9 years old, and not going to my Grandma's funeral as my parents felt I was too young to experience such things. Skip to me being just a few months away from being 70 years old.
That is some 61 years later and my driving down Lincoln Avenue in Chicago, looking up as I passed Catalpa Avenue to re-live part of my childhood past. Does seeing it take place in my mind mean it is still going on, there on the second floor?
Monday, December 2, 2013
The Christmas Beard
THIS post is a repeat from December 2010:
One day several summers ago I was having my breakfast at the neighborhood greasy spoon. In the booth in front of mine there was a young family; father, mother, and their five or six year old son. After staring at me over the booth divider while standing on the seat, the boy sat down and whispered to his parents, in the uncontrolled loud way little kids usually do, "That man in the next booth looks like Santa. But it isn't him because his beard isn't long enough."
When I finished my breakfast, on my way out to pay the check, I paused at their booth. I smiled at the mom and dad and then I directed my comments to the little boy in my deepest, Santa Clause voice, "Thank you for recognizing me. I know my beard is a little short right now but by the time Christmas comes around, it will be quite long enough. Ho ho ho!"
THIS photo is current from 2013:
One day several summers ago I was having my breakfast at the neighborhood greasy spoon. In the booth in front of mine there was a young family; father, mother, and their five or six year old son. After staring at me over the booth divider while standing on the seat, the boy sat down and whispered to his parents, in the uncontrolled loud way little kids usually do, "That man in the next booth looks like Santa. But it isn't him because his beard isn't long enough."
When I finished my breakfast, on my way out to pay the check, I paused at their booth. I smiled at the mom and dad and then I directed my comments to the little boy in my deepest, Santa Clause voice, "Thank you for recognizing me. I know my beard is a little short right now but by the time Christmas comes around, it will be quite long enough. Ho ho ho!"
THIS photo is current from 2013:
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Ah to be a kid again...
to be eating a cherry flavored snow cone at Riverview Park.
to be pulled in a Red Flyer wagon.
to have French Toast for Sunday breakfast made by my father.
to be pulled in a Red Flyer wagon.
to have French Toast for Sunday breakfast made by my father.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Auntie Mame: Another Childhood Memory
In addition to South Pacific, I might mention another movie that had a similar effect on my growing up unknowingly gay youth.
The movie is Auntie Mame. Ask any Gay man (and many others for that matter) and they will name Auntie Mame as a pivotal point in their young life. Every one wants an aunt like Mame who will show them the way of the life, shower them with presents, share exotic experiences, and give them unconditional love.
A fun memory of seeing this movie is that I saw it with my cousin Leslie and ended up sneaking back to see it three more times. I had to sneak because if my parents found out that I was "wasting" my money on seeing a movie more than once, I would have been grounded!
A Childhood Experience Relived
Perhaps to celebrate my 13th birthday, or perhaps my Bar-Mitzvpah, my mom and dad took my sister and me downtown to see South Pacific. In those days one got dressed up to go downtown. The movie was at a large, fancy movie theater of which there were many downtown; like the Chicago Theater, the Oriental, the Woods.
Now a days, movies open without fan fair but in those days the large movie companies premiered their releases in the downtown theaters, they were big events, and seats were reserved.
The movie left its lasting impression on my young mind for many reasons. I certainly was homosexual at 13 but not practicing. At that age also, I certainly did not understand what being "Gay" meant or what I was really feeling. Seeing all those naked men singing and dancing on the beaches of the South Pacific must have aroused me not only sexually but also intellectually and emotionally.
At that age I did not have ideas, or opinions, or beliefs, at least ones of which I was aware. I knew what my parents and teachers had taught me to think and believe and while I probably felt conflicted in those beliefs, the conflict was not yet approachable.
I had not yet seen or experienced the adventures of the world, had never been on my own, and while I was already dealing with issues of "independence," I had very little.
The romance of the South Pacific island affected me: lush jungle plants, beautiful water, sunsets, sandy beaches, island life.
The good looking sailors who apparently were enjoying themselves, sang and danced with each other in the same way that boys and girls danced at the parties I attended at school.
Even though the movie takes place on the island because of war, very little of the carnage of war was shown; only more good looking, half naked men enjoying themselves in the hospital wards.
When Lieutenant Cable arrived on the Island, I instantly fell in love with him. When he fell in love with Liat, the Polynesian girl, it was as if he had fallen in love with me. When he died, I was bereft and grieved for a time after the movie.
I had fallen in love with love. Until that movie I did not really understand what love was about. One did not see much "love" in ones parents at that age if only because during the 1950's adults did not overtly demonstrate or discuss the concept of love.
I assume that my parents loved each other but at the age of thirteen I did not see much evidence of their love, only bickering and fighting and conflict in their relationship.
In addition to Cable and Liat's love affair, that of Emile, the French Man and his relationship with Nellie, the American nurse, was more proof that love existed, even though not easily attained.
So in addition to the lovely afternoon, downtown at the rare occasion of seeing a movie with my family, I was initiated into the world of fantasy, pleasure, independence, sex, and love. My unrecognized homosexuality was titillated and most likely provided much masterbatory material. In all, a productive afternoon and one that remains vividly etched in my memory.
• • •
South Pacific is a 1958 American romantic musical film adaptation of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific, and based on James A. Michener's Tales of the South Pacific. The film, directed byJoshua Logan, starred Rossano Brazzi, Mitzi Gaynor, John Kerr and Ray Walston in the leading roles with Juanita Hall as Bloody Mary, the part that she had played in the original stage production.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
A Childhood Memory: Pencils
Even though I do most of my writing on the computer, including notes to myself and grocery lists as well as my essays, the number 2 pencil is still an important part of my life and memories.
Sitting next to me now as I write this is a white ceramic mug, emblazoned with the words “PENCILS 5¢” and filled with Dixon unfinished wood wrapped lead pencils. Each pencil is sharpened and attractively fanned out in the mug. I rarely use them, but none the less they are important to me!
The smell of a box of one dozen fresh, new pencils was part of the September’s going back to school protocol. It made, with the smell of a new box of 48 Crayolas and the taste from a jar of white library paste, the ending of summer and the beginning of the school year almost bearable.
A sharp, plastic, usually red pencil sharpener would create long, thin, winding shavings of pencil that if done carefully could hang almost to the trash basket as your pencil renewed its black, shinny point.
The more industrial pencil sharpener, attached to the wall of my classroom, gripped the pencil unmercifully with its alligator like mechanism and slowly fed the pencil into itself while you wound the handle. If you were not careful, the machine could eat your entire pencil without producing the sharpened point you were after.
If you were lucky, the teacher would select you to be the Pencil Sharpener Monitor of the month with the task of emptying the pencil shavings container daily. For some reason, the shavings in this invention were more a collection of crumbs than the windings of your personal pencil sharpener. I never did understand that.
With the invention of the “automatic pencil” with its replaceable leads and erasers which were housed in an attractively colored, expensive plastic cylinder to be twisted anew and used over and over again; the role of the pencil diminished.
With the invention of the “throw away” cheap plastic pencil, with its one “use it or loose it” eraser and the automatically self feeding lead; the wooden pencil again lost its place of honor.
I hung on however, and while I admit that I had to have several of these new inventions in my pencil case, I secretly continued to enjoy the old fashioned wooden pencil.
I used to enjoy chewing my erasers, so was grateful when they invented the eraser cap - a tent or pyramid shaped eraser replacement that would be slipped over the end of the pencil. They came in many colors and my pencil case usually contained one of each color. That made me happy.
My Grandma Lillian, who seemed old beyond her years to a very young me, was what in those days they called Manic/Depressive. It was an emotional condition meaning that sometimes she was overly sad, withdrawn, and depressed and at other times exuberantly happy, outgoing, and manic to the point of sometimes doing damage to herself and to her surroundings.
When she was in her depressive stage she lived at home with us and did fairly well as experienced at least by those around her. When she was in her manic state she would live in a Mental Institution and while she was difficult to deal with and a danger to herself, she probably enjoyed herself the most when she was in that state.
During the beginning of these manic stages she would smoke “like a chimney,” eat black pitted olives by the can, and write letters to government officials complaining about whatever was on her mind and bothering her. She would send me, as a little boy, to buy her cigarettes, olives, and pencils.
I would go to the neighborhood “mom and pop” convenience store (much like today’s 7-11 but owned by individuals not corporations.) The shop in our neighborhood, just under the “L” viaduct, was called ‘Goldstein’s’ because it was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein.
Mrs. Goldstein was always happy to see me and called me “Dark Eyes” because of my piercing brown eyes that sported long, long black lashes. I would hand her the note from Grandma that gave me permission to buy cigarettes and while she got them, I would get a can of olives off the shelf and two or three pencils from the box on the check out counter. Mrs. Goldstein would always give me a piece of candy.
Pencils have been part of my life for quite a while now and in the telling of this story I realize that I am now as old as Grandma Lillian was then. Despite the changes in type and functioning of pencils, to this day the old fashioned wooden ones still exist and will probably continue to exist long after I have ceased to do so.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Childhood Memories
Recently, Gregory and I went to see "The Pajama Game" at the Northwestern Theatre and Interpretation Center. The musical is set in 1954 in Cedar Rapids, Iowa at a pajama factory. The story includes love, labor unions, strikes, and more.
When I was very young, seven or eight, my sister Libbe purchased the album of the musical. We listened to it all the time. I do not remember if I ever saw the musical on stage before the other night but I know all the songs.
My sister and I used to play the various roles in the story and lip sync the songs. After a lot of practice we used to "put on" the show for our parents. I do not remember if we performed for other relatives.
But we had a lot of fun and I do remember feeling like I was "on Broadway" when we were performing.
We would sing "Seven and one half cents" as part of the factory workers strike to demand higher hourly rates. For "I'll Never Be Jealous Again" Libbe played Mabel and I played Hinesi. We would feel sexy (as sexy as an eight year old and his twelve year old sister could feel) singing "Steam Heat" and "Fernando's Hideaway."
Strange how some memories hold on so strongly for a lifetime. It seems like yesterday but my "staring" in the role of Hinesi was actually 60 years ago.
When I was very young, seven or eight, my sister Libbe purchased the album of the musical. We listened to it all the time. I do not remember if I ever saw the musical on stage before the other night but I know all the songs.
My sister and I used to play the various roles in the story and lip sync the songs. After a lot of practice we used to "put on" the show for our parents. I do not remember if we performed for other relatives.
But we had a lot of fun and I do remember feeling like I was "on Broadway" when we were performing.
We would sing "Seven and one half cents" as part of the factory workers strike to demand higher hourly rates. For "I'll Never Be Jealous Again" Libbe played Mabel and I played Hinesi. We would feel sexy (as sexy as an eight year old and his twelve year old sister could feel) singing "Steam Heat" and "Fernando's Hideaway."
Strange how some memories hold on so strongly for a lifetime. It seems like yesterday but my "staring" in the role of Hinesi was actually 60 years ago.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Running Away From Home Memories
When I lived on Kedzie Avenue, from the age of 9 until I went away to college, the joke used to be "I'm running away from home." Our house was on the Chicago side of the street and the other side of the was in Lincolnwood. So by crossing the street, one was leaving the city.
On the Lincolnwood side of the street was a forested strip of land, or maybe more of a wasteland, which was part of the Chicago Reclamation District (CRD.) It ran parallel to the North Branch of the Chicago River which was on the west side of the strip and maybe 100 yards away from the street. At the time was called "The Canal."
During the summer the canal smelled kind of rank. We always assumed that it was a sewage canal. In reality it was just that the slow moving water became putrid during the dry summer and thus the foul smell. Now-a-days it is called "The Channel" because that sounds better then "The Canal" and since the Chicago River has been cleaned up, the canal no longer smells.
Venice is made up of canals (which also happen to smell bad during the high summer months) so I am not sure why the fuss and name change.
The forested part which ran the length of our block, was a place to play with neighborhood friends. It was magical and like being in the Indian wilderness. We played hide and seek, found tennis balls by the dozens (for some reason not quite clear to me,) and dared not to go too close to the canal under penalty of punishment by our parents.
Deep into the area, not visible from the street because of the forest (forest to a child, overgrowth to an adult) there was a cabin/shack/office (call it what you will) on wheels. It looked much like the picture below which triggered this memory. It was in horrible condition, rusty, and dirty.
The lock on the door had been broken and we used to sneak, with great glee, inside to investigate. I believe now, in looking back, that it must have belonged to the CRD because it has old receipts, forms, broken pencils, binders with information, etc all worn, dirty, and falling apart with age.
Along the side with the window, boarded up, was a wooden desk, rough and splintered where most of the supplies were kept. There was a metal stool with a high back. It was so dirty that we didn't dare sit on it or touch anything.
There was always the air of "getting caught" which made our visits more exiting. Every now and then there was evidence of others having visited the "office" and we liked to assume that it was the "authorities!" Most likely the visits were from other kids like us.
To this day I can take the memory no further. I wish I could visit the place again with adult eyes, find out more about the who-when-why of the place, and photo document the experience. Meanwhile, this picture will have to suffice:
On the Lincolnwood side of the street was a forested strip of land, or maybe more of a wasteland, which was part of the Chicago Reclamation District (CRD.) It ran parallel to the North Branch of the Chicago River which was on the west side of the strip and maybe 100 yards away from the street. At the time was called "The Canal."
During the summer the canal smelled kind of rank. We always assumed that it was a sewage canal. In reality it was just that the slow moving water became putrid during the dry summer and thus the foul smell. Now-a-days it is called "The Channel" because that sounds better then "The Canal" and since the Chicago River has been cleaned up, the canal no longer smells.
Venice is made up of canals (which also happen to smell bad during the high summer months) so I am not sure why the fuss and name change.
The forested part which ran the length of our block, was a place to play with neighborhood friends. It was magical and like being in the Indian wilderness. We played hide and seek, found tennis balls by the dozens (for some reason not quite clear to me,) and dared not to go too close to the canal under penalty of punishment by our parents.
Deep into the area, not visible from the street because of the forest (forest to a child, overgrowth to an adult) there was a cabin/shack/office (call it what you will) on wheels. It looked much like the picture below which triggered this memory. It was in horrible condition, rusty, and dirty.
The lock on the door had been broken and we used to sneak, with great glee, inside to investigate. I believe now, in looking back, that it must have belonged to the CRD because it has old receipts, forms, broken pencils, binders with information, etc all worn, dirty, and falling apart with age.
Along the side with the window, boarded up, was a wooden desk, rough and splintered where most of the supplies were kept. There was a metal stool with a high back. It was so dirty that we didn't dare sit on it or touch anything.
There was always the air of "getting caught" which made our visits more exiting. Every now and then there was evidence of others having visited the "office" and we liked to assume that it was the "authorities!" Most likely the visits were from other kids like us.
To this day I can take the memory no further. I wish I could visit the place again with adult eyes, find out more about the who-when-why of the place, and photo document the experience. Meanwhile, this picture will have to suffice:
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Just a Memory: Ronny Razowsky
I went to Daniel Boone Elementary School in Chicago. Often at lunch time, I would go home with my best friend Ronnie Razowsky. His mother taught me to have mustard on a brisket sandwich. On the way home one day, I stole a piece of chalk from class and as we walked along I wrote one letter on each of four garage door panels along the way:
F U C K.
At lunch that day, Ronnie asked his mother what FUCK spells? Neither of us knew. Don't remember what his mother said.
F U C K.
At lunch that day, Ronnie asked his mother what FUCK spells? Neither of us knew. Don't remember what his mother said.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Childhood Memories
I wrote this series of "memories" of my childhood on April 12, 1984 when I was 39 years old. I have reproduced it here with a little bit of editing.
When I was young we lived in a four room apartment. The halls were dark and musty and I played on the stairs with my yellow dump truck. One day I left it there and never saw it again.
My Aunt Annette and Uncle Sherwin lived in the next entrance. After dinner with my family I would go over to visit them and have my second dinner. Unless my Aunt mentioned it, I don't think my mom and dad ever knew that I was having two dinners.
Grandpa H would rest in the darkened bedroom while shadows played with the blinds.
Grandma L would send me to the store to buy olives and pencils.
Grandma H always smelled like fish and liked to eat boiled bone marrow on rye bread.
Sometimes Grandma and Grandpa H would walk to our apartment from theirs (10 miles) and wait on the back porch until we got home.
We would take Grandma and Grandpa H for a ride in the car to a drive-in that sold accordion french fries and had a larger than life size hot dog dressed like Tarzan on the roof. My father had installed the drive up order boxes for the drive-in so they treated him like a celebrity. The place was called, "Super Dog."
Once and a while I would take ten cents from my mother's purse without telling her. In addition to my allowance, I used it to buy penny candy.
Mr. Hartell and his wife lived next door. She gave me yellow raisins. One Thanksgiving my mom brought her turkey dinner in bed because she wasn't feeling well. She died shortly after that and I missed visiting with her.
Mr. Hartell died not long after. We hadn't seen him for a week and a bad smell was coming from his apartment. My dad called the fire department. The strong box filled with money that Mr. Hartell had shown my father was gone after the firemen took the body away.
When we would visit my Grandma and Grandpa H, I would help my grandma pick onions from their victory garden which was in the empty lot next to their shoe repair shop. They lived behind the shop.
Through the curtain that separated the shop from my Grandparent H's living space, there was a humped style wooden clock sitting on a table just to the right. When the clock was running, a little window just below the "12" changed from white to red to white etc.
In Grandparent H's living space, Grandpa would set up saw horsed and boards to make a table for the family to celebrate Passover. There would be benches for sitting. Grandma H covered the table in a lace cloth she made and we were warned not to mess it up. Since the holiday services usually took two hours, Grandma would slip each child an egg so we wouldn't be hungry. The children usually got the giggles during the service and Grandpa H always got angry with us.
Grandma L would watch television and repeat that the characters said.
My parents would tai to Grandpa and Grandma H in Yiddish when they didn't want me and my sister to understand. We usually did and had to keep from giggling.
My mom used to make Christmas Press Cookies using the ironing board because there was very little counter space in the kitchen. In the middle of the kitchen a cord hug down from the light. At the end of the cord was the on-off switch and a plug. This is also where mom would plug in the iron. In those days most ceiling lights didn't have wall switches.
Once I locked myself in the bathroom. When my father finally got me out, my parents were so happy to see me that they yelled at me.
Mr. Goldstein owned the little "mom and pop" grocer store at the end of the block. She always called me "dark eyes" and gave me licorice.
My mother would set large pots full of water on the back porch and my sister and I would play "beach." The bricks on the porch wall were so old that they would crumble when you scraped your finger nail across them. We would pretend the brick dust was sand at the beach.
My parents slept on a sofa bed in the living room and my sister and I slept in the one bedroom. I slept in my crib until I was six because the family couldn't afford to by me a bed. I sucked my thumb until I was nine.
In those days, I don't know if it was because we didn't have a lot of money or if it was just that way, but my family had only one fan. It was a floor fan and sat in the middle of the living room while we watched T.V. We would take turns sitting on it to be the most cool. At bedtime, my parents kept the fan for themselves and the kids had to deal with the heat.
Before bedtime my sister and I would check under the bed for Boogie Men and make sure the closet was closed for the same reason.
Once my father brought home a short Christmas Tree from work. We put it in a pail, propped it up with coconuts from Florida, and decorated it with art projects my sister and I had made in school and which my mother had saved.
When I was sick, I would play with my cars on the window sill and watch people on the street below. When I was older my mom and dad still slept on the sofa bed, my sister got the bedroom and I had a "cot" under the window in the dining room.
I remember a dish I painted in school as a Mother's Day gift. It was a pretty flower in pink and blue and my mother kept it on display in the dish cabinet in the dinning room.
Sometimes when my mom and dad were out, I would stand on a chair and explore the things kept in the dish cabinet. I thing some of them were supposed to be kept secret. I never told.
My friend Ronnie and I would sit on the stairs in the hall of his building and he would let me look at the things in his cigar box which included bits and pieces of shiny broken jewelry that his mother gave to him.
I remember waiting with my uncle for my aunt to come home with the new baby. I watched out the window until I say them coming up the walk with my mom and dad. They let me hold the baby.
Once a little boy was hit by a street car near the street where we lived. I couldn't understand why his shoes got knocked off but my father said so. I was afraid to ask for any more information.
When Grandma H died, I stayed home and cried instead of going to the funeral. My mom didn't think it would be good for me to go.
Great Grandma L lived in an apartment hotel. When we went to visit the halls smelled like moth balls. She would give us milk and home made poppy seed cookies. The nice round cookies she would give to her lady friends when they played cards. She saved the bits and broken pieces and middles and ends for us. We were always afraid of her so we carefully behaved.
Once my dad brought home a dog he found a work. We called the dog Lucky.
Sometime after Lucky had died, my dad found another dog at work. It was a collie and we called it Red because of the color of his coat.
I always had turtles and fish for pets. When the fish died we flushed them down the toilet. When the turtles died, my father gave me one of his watch cases to use as a coffin and we buried the turtle in the patch of dirt on the first floor under our porch. I made a little cross from popsicle sticks. One year they paved the patch of dirt with black top so the turtle bones are probably still there.
When I was young we lived in a four room apartment. The halls were dark and musty and I played on the stairs with my yellow dump truck. One day I left it there and never saw it again.
My Aunt Annette and Uncle Sherwin lived in the next entrance. After dinner with my family I would go over to visit them and have my second dinner. Unless my Aunt mentioned it, I don't think my mom and dad ever knew that I was having two dinners.
Grandpa H would rest in the darkened bedroom while shadows played with the blinds.
Grandma L would send me to the store to buy olives and pencils.
Grandma H always smelled like fish and liked to eat boiled bone marrow on rye bread.
Sometimes Grandma and Grandpa H would walk to our apartment from theirs (10 miles) and wait on the back porch until we got home.
We would take Grandma and Grandpa H for a ride in the car to a drive-in that sold accordion french fries and had a larger than life size hot dog dressed like Tarzan on the roof. My father had installed the drive up order boxes for the drive-in so they treated him like a celebrity. The place was called, "Super Dog."
Once and a while I would take ten cents from my mother's purse without telling her. In addition to my allowance, I used it to buy penny candy.
Mr. Hartell and his wife lived next door. She gave me yellow raisins. One Thanksgiving my mom brought her turkey dinner in bed because she wasn't feeling well. She died shortly after that and I missed visiting with her.
Mr. Hartell died not long after. We hadn't seen him for a week and a bad smell was coming from his apartment. My dad called the fire department. The strong box filled with money that Mr. Hartell had shown my father was gone after the firemen took the body away.
When we would visit my Grandma and Grandpa H, I would help my grandma pick onions from their victory garden which was in the empty lot next to their shoe repair shop. They lived behind the shop.
Through the curtain that separated the shop from my Grandparent H's living space, there was a humped style wooden clock sitting on a table just to the right. When the clock was running, a little window just below the "12" changed from white to red to white etc.
In Grandparent H's living space, Grandpa would set up saw horsed and boards to make a table for the family to celebrate Passover. There would be benches for sitting. Grandma H covered the table in a lace cloth she made and we were warned not to mess it up. Since the holiday services usually took two hours, Grandma would slip each child an egg so we wouldn't be hungry. The children usually got the giggles during the service and Grandpa H always got angry with us.
Grandma L would watch television and repeat that the characters said.
My parents would tai to Grandpa and Grandma H in Yiddish when they didn't want me and my sister to understand. We usually did and had to keep from giggling.
My mom used to make Christmas Press Cookies using the ironing board because there was very little counter space in the kitchen. In the middle of the kitchen a cord hug down from the light. At the end of the cord was the on-off switch and a plug. This is also where mom would plug in the iron. In those days most ceiling lights didn't have wall switches.
Once I locked myself in the bathroom. When my father finally got me out, my parents were so happy to see me that they yelled at me.
Mr. Goldstein owned the little "mom and pop" grocer store at the end of the block. She always called me "dark eyes" and gave me licorice.
My mother would set large pots full of water on the back porch and my sister and I would play "beach." The bricks on the porch wall were so old that they would crumble when you scraped your finger nail across them. We would pretend the brick dust was sand at the beach.
My parents slept on a sofa bed in the living room and my sister and I slept in the one bedroom. I slept in my crib until I was six because the family couldn't afford to by me a bed. I sucked my thumb until I was nine.
In those days, I don't know if it was because we didn't have a lot of money or if it was just that way, but my family had only one fan. It was a floor fan and sat in the middle of the living room while we watched T.V. We would take turns sitting on it to be the most cool. At bedtime, my parents kept the fan for themselves and the kids had to deal with the heat.
Before bedtime my sister and I would check under the bed for Boogie Men and make sure the closet was closed for the same reason.
Once my father brought home a short Christmas Tree from work. We put it in a pail, propped it up with coconuts from Florida, and decorated it with art projects my sister and I had made in school and which my mother had saved.
When I was sick, I would play with my cars on the window sill and watch people on the street below. When I was older my mom and dad still slept on the sofa bed, my sister got the bedroom and I had a "cot" under the window in the dining room.
I remember a dish I painted in school as a Mother's Day gift. It was a pretty flower in pink and blue and my mother kept it on display in the dish cabinet in the dinning room.
Sometimes when my mom and dad were out, I would stand on a chair and explore the things kept in the dish cabinet. I thing some of them were supposed to be kept secret. I never told.
My friend Ronnie and I would sit on the stairs in the hall of his building and he would let me look at the things in his cigar box which included bits and pieces of shiny broken jewelry that his mother gave to him.
I remember waiting with my uncle for my aunt to come home with the new baby. I watched out the window until I say them coming up the walk with my mom and dad. They let me hold the baby.
Once a little boy was hit by a street car near the street where we lived. I couldn't understand why his shoes got knocked off but my father said so. I was afraid to ask for any more information.
When Grandma H died, I stayed home and cried instead of going to the funeral. My mom didn't think it would be good for me to go.
Great Grandma L lived in an apartment hotel. When we went to visit the halls smelled like moth balls. She would give us milk and home made poppy seed cookies. The nice round cookies she would give to her lady friends when they played cards. She saved the bits and broken pieces and middles and ends for us. We were always afraid of her so we carefully behaved.
Once my dad brought home a dog he found a work. We called the dog Lucky.
Sometime after Lucky had died, my dad found another dog at work. It was a collie and we called it Red because of the color of his coat.
I always had turtles and fish for pets. When the fish died we flushed them down the toilet. When the turtles died, my father gave me one of his watch cases to use as a coffin and we buried the turtle in the patch of dirt on the first floor under our porch. I made a little cross from popsicle sticks. One year they paved the patch of dirt with black top so the turtle bones are probably still there.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Childhood Dying
All of my childhoods have died or are slowly dying.
On my mother's side is Grandma Lillian who used to send me to the store for cigarettes, black olives, and pencils and lived with her manic-depressive diagnosis and blindness. Lillian's father, Great Grandpa Lewis sat at Aunt Bea's dinning room table reading the Jewish newspaper. I cannot remember what he looked like, only his back. Great Aunt Bea, overweight and commanding in her housedress. Great Uncle Al who was the family patriarch, very wealthy, and took good care of his brothers and sisters in their old age. Uncle Morris who was a "bachelor." Great Grandmother Lee, who baked us poppy seed cookies and to whom my mother still felt a duty, even though the Lee family disowned my grandma and left her penniless as she raised my mom and her step-sister Annette and step-brother Harold. Uncle Sherwin who was always very handsome and a good buddy. Auntie Annette who taught me the power of positive thinking and helped mold me into the person I am today. Aunt Kate and Uncle Harold, Aunt Anne and Uncle Sol, Aunt Milly and Uncle Irving, all really cousins but old enough to be respectfully called Aunt and Uncle. Kate was funny and mentally ill, Harold was a comic and sold ties, Anne always pretty and a little jealous, Sol sold giftware's and had an affair, Milly the best baker of desserts I have ever known and Irving was always my mother's "favorite."
On my father's side, Grandpa Max used to nap in the blind slat darkened bedroom. Grandma Sarah used to love bone marrow on rye bread and always smelled like herring. Aunt Lil was always sophisticated, well dressed, and scary. She was the first to die at an early age of lung cancer. Uncle Leonard was worldly and important. Uncle Ben with his fears sat by his short wave radio. Auntie Anne painted pictures with her hands as a way to describe what she was saying. Aunt Esther, always bohemian, lost her vocal cords to cancer and poked your chest as she belched her words to keep your attention. One time when she called on the telephone and used her voice machine to leave a message on my answering machine. Two machines having a conversation. I never knew my father's sister Frieda who died on my father's birthday at the age of twenty from Leukemia.
So who is left? Aunt Elaine who is Leonard's second wife, blowzy and outspoken but authentic and lovable and still going strong. Ida Kanov, holding on despite many falls and hospital stays, close enough of a family friend to be included in my list, a tiny woman, always loving and understanding. Uncle Harold, always a comedian and the black sheep of the family who has "served time" and fancies himself more wanted by the Maffia than he really is.
When they are gone so will my childhood finally be gone. The memories will live on but when I am gone this generation's stories will be gone. Eventually we are all forgotten, only love lives on.
On my mother's side is Grandma Lillian who used to send me to the store for cigarettes, black olives, and pencils and lived with her manic-depressive diagnosis and blindness. Lillian's father, Great Grandpa Lewis sat at Aunt Bea's dinning room table reading the Jewish newspaper. I cannot remember what he looked like, only his back. Great Aunt Bea, overweight and commanding in her housedress. Great Uncle Al who was the family patriarch, very wealthy, and took good care of his brothers and sisters in their old age. Uncle Morris who was a "bachelor." Great Grandmother Lee, who baked us poppy seed cookies and to whom my mother still felt a duty, even though the Lee family disowned my grandma and left her penniless as she raised my mom and her step-sister Annette and step-brother Harold. Uncle Sherwin who was always very handsome and a good buddy. Auntie Annette who taught me the power of positive thinking and helped mold me into the person I am today. Aunt Kate and Uncle Harold, Aunt Anne and Uncle Sol, Aunt Milly and Uncle Irving, all really cousins but old enough to be respectfully called Aunt and Uncle. Kate was funny and mentally ill, Harold was a comic and sold ties, Anne always pretty and a little jealous, Sol sold giftware's and had an affair, Milly the best baker of desserts I have ever known and Irving was always my mother's "favorite."
On my father's side, Grandpa Max used to nap in the blind slat darkened bedroom. Grandma Sarah used to love bone marrow on rye bread and always smelled like herring. Aunt Lil was always sophisticated, well dressed, and scary. She was the first to die at an early age of lung cancer. Uncle Leonard was worldly and important. Uncle Ben with his fears sat by his short wave radio. Auntie Anne painted pictures with her hands as a way to describe what she was saying. Aunt Esther, always bohemian, lost her vocal cords to cancer and poked your chest as she belched her words to keep your attention. One time when she called on the telephone and used her voice machine to leave a message on my answering machine. Two machines having a conversation. I never knew my father's sister Frieda who died on my father's birthday at the age of twenty from Leukemia.
So who is left? Aunt Elaine who is Leonard's second wife, blowzy and outspoken but authentic and lovable and still going strong. Ida Kanov, holding on despite many falls and hospital stays, close enough of a family friend to be included in my list, a tiny woman, always loving and understanding. Uncle Harold, always a comedian and the black sheep of the family who has "served time" and fancies himself more wanted by the Maffia than he really is.
When they are gone so will my childhood finally be gone. The memories will live on but when I am gone this generation's stories will be gone. Eventually we are all forgotten, only love lives on.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Christmas Beard
One day several summers ago I was having my breakfast at the neighborhood greasy spoon. In the booth in front of mine there was a young family; father, mother, and their five or six year old son. After staring at me over the booth divider while standing on the seat, the boy sat down and whispered to his parents, in the uncontrolled loud way little kids usually do, "That man in the next booth looks like Santa. But it isn't him because his beard isn't long enough."
When I finished my breakfast, on my way out to pay the check, I paused at their booth. I smiled at the mom and dad and then I directed my comments to the little boy in my deepest, Santa Clause voice, "Thank you for recognizing me. I know my beard is a little short right now but by the time Christmas comes around, it will be quite long enough. Ho ho ho!"
When I finished my breakfast, on my way out to pay the check, I paused at their booth. I smiled at the mom and dad and then I directed my comments to the little boy in my deepest, Santa Clause voice, "Thank you for recognizing me. I know my beard is a little short right now but by the time Christmas comes around, it will be quite long enough. Ho ho ho!"
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Names Have Been Changed To Protect The Innocent
Who are these people? Do you recognize them. They seem familiar to me but I am not sure who they are. The beautiful woman: content, happy, smiling? The little boy: no cares, no worries, protected, smiling? The little girl: daddy's girl, happy, confident, smiling? The good looking man: sure, successful, realized, smiling?
Adeline or should we call her wife, mom. Michael or should we call him son, brother. Libbe or should we call her daughter, sister. Louis or should we call him husband, father. And eventually shall we call them grand parent, great grandparent, wife, grand parent, partner, uncle, great uncle.
Did they have any idea of who they would be for the next sixty or so years? What joys? What sorrows? A final breath. A tear at their passing and then with tears dried, their final breaths?
I seem to know these people but maybe in a dream or in a good fiction recently read. And who took the picture?
Adeline or should we call her wife, mom. Michael or should we call him son, brother. Libbe or should we call her daughter, sister. Louis or should we call him husband, father. And eventually shall we call them grand parent, great grandparent, wife, grand parent, partner, uncle, great uncle.
Did they have any idea of who they would be for the next sixty or so years? What joys? What sorrows? A final breath. A tear at their passing and then with tears dried, their final breaths?
I seem to know these people but maybe in a dream or in a good fiction recently read. And who took the picture?
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Kookaburra
Every now and then I find myself trying to sing this song. I do not know when or where I heard it for the first time or why, but somehow the melody and some of the words have stuck. I usually try singing it to my cat Mariah, one of whose nick names is "Pooker Shell." So I started with "Pooker Berry sits in the old oak tree" but I couldn't get any further.
Today I finally sat down and did some GOOGLE searching. After the fourth or fifth entry it finally came up: "Did you mean Kookaburra?" and "Hurray," I said, "Yes." Turns out it wasn't Pooker Berry and it wasn't an old oak tree. But now I know the words and will try to be more accurate in my singing.
Today I finally sat down and did some GOOGLE searching. After the fourth or fifth entry it finally came up: "Did you mean Kookaburra?" and "Hurray," I said, "Yes." Turns out it wasn't Pooker Berry and it wasn't an old oak tree. But now I know the words and will try to be more accurate in my singing.
Kookaburra
Written By: Marion Sinclair
Copyright © Larrikin Music Publishing Pty Ltd.
International Copyright Secured.
All Rights Reserved.
CLICK HERE AFTER YOU READ THE LYRICS TO HEAR MELODY AS IT WILL CLOSE THIS BLOG AND OPEN A NEW WINDOW. CLICK YOUR "BACK" KEY TO RETURN TO THIS SITE
Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Merry, merry king of the bush is he
Laugh, Kookaburra! Laugh, Kookaburra!
Gay your life must be
Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Eating all the gum drops he can see
Stop, Kookaburra! Stop, Kookaburra!
Leave some there for me
Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Counting all the monkeys he can see
Stop, Kookaburra! Stop, Kookaburra!
That's not a monkey that's me
Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail
Gets a boo-boo in his tail
Cry, Kookaburra! Cry, kookaburra!
Oh how life can be
Eating all the gum drops he can see
Stop, Kookaburra! Stop, Kookaburra!
Leave some there for me
Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Counting all the monkeys he can see
Stop, Kookaburra! Stop, Kookaburra!
That's not a monkey that's me
Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail
Gets a boo-boo in his tail
Cry, Kookaburra! Cry, kookaburra!
Oh how life can be
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