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Shopping on the Avenue…. I don’t mean Fifth, I mean Bergenline!

10 Mar

When I grew up in New Jersey, the place to shop was Bergenline Avenue.  It was filled with shops of all types.  There was an advantage to shopping in Jersey then crossing the River (Hudson) to shop in the City (New York).  First of all, we paid no tax on clothing in Jersey, while they did in New York.  (We could have our purchases shipped home, which saved us the cost of these taxes, but then we had to wait.)  Second it was so convenient and there were so many shops!

We could go to find lingerie at Sylvette’s; boy’s and men’s clothes Al’s Army/Navy; a bit of everything at Schlesinger’s; shoes at National Family; women’s fancy clothing at Corduroy Village.  And of course, there were many places to get something to eat.

For me there was one more advantage.  My Mom knew everyone.  She had grown up in West New York, the daughter of a store owner.  And she was an elementary school teacher in the West New York schools.  So if people did know her for one reason, they knew her for the other.

My Mom’s favorite place to shop for us was Little Marcy’s.  She knew the owners well.  That is true.  But what is also true is that they had everything you could want.  It was conveniently located right on the Avenue with a bus stop right there, and we always could find parking..

The store was really several stores linked together over time.  It started on a corner and moved to the middle of the block.   When you first walked in there was the infant clothes, then you walked to your left and entered an area with toddler’s clothing; walk through another opening and children’s clothes.  Up to this point there was clothing for both girls and boys.  But once you entered the teen clothes, the emphasis changed to girls only.  There were, I think, two small dressig rooms on this floor.  Young girls do not like to change in front of others.

I loved shopping there.  And I loved it even more once I turned about 16. That is when my mom took me to the staircase in the back of the infant clothing and we walked up to the adult women’s clothing for the first time. Oh my….a world of bargains of all bargains of designer clothes.

Upstairs were two rooms of women’s clothing with the labels removed.  This is where designer clothing that were overstocks and now highly discounted were located.  In the second room was a dressing room along a back wall. It was a common room where everyone changed together.

My Mom, sister and I loved going there.  We got back to school clothes, clothing for special events.  (Although I will admit a few excursions to Corduroy Village for special events. The dress I wore to my brother’s bar mitzvah came from Corduroy Village.)

We loved to browse through the racks upon racks of clothing, searching for the just the right item.  Then bringing them back to the dressing room area.  My sister, mother and I would carry so many hangers filled with clothing.  Mom usually did not try on that much.  She got her enjoyment helping my sister and I.  But every once in a while, we could talk her in to trying something on.  Especially if we were the only three in the dressing room!

Image My wedding day. My sister wearing her most wonderful dress from Little Marcy’s.

But the most important purchase of all occur in the winter of 1980.  We were in crisis mode.  I was getting married in March.  And my sister did not yet have a dress. My Mom, sister and I had gone everywhere looking for a dress for my sister to wear as the maid of honor for my wedding. We had looked in every store. And frustration and fear was rising.  Would we find something before the wedding?  Could we, would we find anything  for her to wear that went with my dress?

In our last ditch effort,  we went to the upstairs room at Little Marcy’s.  We went to the second room, where prom dresses and long dresses hung along the walls in color and size order.  And there….in her size…. a dress.  The perfect dress!  Waiting just for us!  You cannot imagine our joy and astonishment.

She tried it on.  Oh my,  it fit perfectly!  No alteration needed.  And the sleeves of the dress echoed the sleeves of my dress!  Wow!

And most amazing of all, it only cost $28.

We could not believe our luck!

Later this month, I will celebrate 34 years of marriage.  Whenever I look at the photos of my wedding.  I see my sister in this glorious dress standing next to me, and I remember the happy days shopping at Little Marcy’s and the fun on the Avenue!

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A Hudson County Embroidery Shop Started My Dad’s Career

26 Feb

Embroidery. That is the first word that comes to mind when I think of my Dad. The second is textiles.  These words define his profession.  Yes, he loved my Mom, my siblings and I. But it was the embroidery and textile industry where he spent most of his time.  My Dad’s life followed the course of the American textile industry.

When I was young, my Dad and a friend, Marty T., owned an embroidery shop in New Jersey on the corner of 60th Street and Bergen Boulevard in Hudson County.  At that time Union City was called the Embroidery Capital of the World, and North Bergen had many shops as well.

I remember going to visit him at work on rare occasions. First you entered a front room that showed samples of the work they had finished.  My Dad and his partner did lots of patches for the Army and Navy, as well as fabric.  I still have some curtains I made from fabric made in my Dad’s shop.  Even though it is more than 50 years old, it is in great shape.

Image Valance made from embroidered fabric from my Dad’s shop.

Behind the showroom was a large room with the big embroidery machines.  We knew not to ever touch them.  The rule was to walk down the middle aisle…turn right and go into the office.

But one time, the machines were down and being cleaned. So my Dad took me around and explained how they worked. How the cards told the machines where to stitch on the fabric.  I was intrigued.  Later I learned that these cards used on the jacquard embroidery machines helped in the development of computers!

When I was about 8, the business had a crisis.   Marty and Dad and taken in a third partner. This guy was a crook, a ‘goniff. ‘ He embezzled money from the firm and disappeared.  He did not pay any of the company’s bills. It was awful for my family.  Dad held three jobs through the help of friends and family.  We never saw him.  He borrowed money from family members to pay off the debts, and later spent many years paying back these loans. It was a tremendous burden that, although it scarred my Dad, it did not stop him.  He was persistent.

Finally he once again got a job in the textile embroidery business with a company called Hanna.   Mario, who owned Hanna, was both a mentor and supporter of my Dad. Dad started in production and moved to sales with Mario’s support.  Now Dad was now traveling around the country selling embroidery, checking the manufacturing and dealing with clients.

Although he learned to love sales, at first he was scared. He often told us how he walked around the block three times before he entered his first sales appointment.

At the time New Jersey and New York City were the hub of the textile industry of America.  North Carolina and Rhode Island had many textile mills. And Dad traveled to these states often.  However, over time the American textile industry declined as more and more fabric was imported from over seas.

Dad did not stay with Mario, he moved on to a company in New York City.  Arnie, the owner, became Dad’s new mentor and supporter. Eventually my Dad became manager of one of this company’s divisions.  He eventually bought this part of the company, started his own company and expanded it.  His niche was swimsuits and lingerie fabric.  He traveled not only in the US but also to Europe, primarily Italy. He had many friends in the textile industry.  I loved the summer I worked for him in Manhattan.  The many people I met did not forget me either.  When I got married, three different designers sent me peignoir sets for my honeymoon.

Many years later I went to Italy.  My Dad said, “Go to Como. It is the most beautiful city.  And it is where the silk industry of Italy started.”  In fact, Como was known as the City of Silk.

Book from the Silk Museum in Como. Book from the Silk Museum in Como.

So I went to Como.  Our tour guide had studies textiles at the university in Como. He took us to the Educational Silk Museum.  Even though he did not speak English and I do not speak Italian, we understood each other. Why? Because the machines were so like the machines in my dad’s embroidery shop from so long ago. I knew all about jacquard pints and how the cards told the machines where to stitch.  I recognized many of the pieces of equipment.  My husband just stood to the side as we analyzed everything.  I bought books about the textile/silk museum for both my Dad and for me.

My Dad spent his entire adult life in the American textile industry.  But even before he served in Korea for the US Army, he had one other experience in the ‘textile’ business.  When he was a teenage, Dad had the opportunity to work in a textile warehouse one summer. One of his best buddy’s father owned the company.  Every day they went to work in a giant empty warehouse where the two of them played catch.  But every once in a while a large shipment would come in. They would stencil all the boxes with words saying that there was textile machinery inside.

Years later, Dad was reading a book and started to laugh.  The book told about the smuggling of weapons to Israel before the 1948 war…the warehouse my Dad worked in that summer was one of those known to have shipped arms to Israel.

The American textile industry not only gave my Dad and my family a great life, it also provided my Dad with one of his favorite personal stories.

 

(Thanks to my brother for remembering with me.)

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Always Missing My New Jersey Diners

20 Feb

There are some things about New Jersey that I miss more than others.  At the top of the list is the wonderful New Jersey diner.  There is nothing in the world like eating at a diner.

Okay, perhaps the food is not the best…but there is a lot of it.

Perhaps the décor is a little outdated….but it is fun!

The wait staff might sometimes be a little gruff, but they can help you decide on the best meal ever.

There is nothing like a New Jersey diner.

Typically owned by a Greek family, a diner’s menu usually consists of both American and Greek food.  Of course you can order matzah ball soup and deli sandwiches as well.  Breakfast, lunch and dinner can be ordered at any time of the day. And on Friday, they usually have challah.

The best thing about the food in the diner, is that everyone can find something to eat.  Because the menu choices are so vast, no one can complain.  A great value when you take children out to dine.

And diners are family friendly!

There is nothing in the Midwest that can compare.

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Mom and Dad at the Diner the summer 2005.

When my parents were living, every time I went to New Jersey, we had our first meal at the River View Diner on River Road in North Bergen.  It was my parent’s favorite.  Tom, the owner, would greet my parents with a big hello.  He was always happy to see my children and me. ( One comment, although named the River View Diner, and located very close to the Hudson Rive, you cannot see the River from the eating area of the diner. )

We would meet my sister and her family there.  In fact, the night before my sister gave birth to her daughter, we ate at the diner. My husband, children and I had flown into NJ for Passover.  For our ‘last’ meal out, we ate at the diner.  My sister was already at least a week past her due date.  It was obvious that she was ready to have the baby.

The next day, my niece was born.  Although I would like to say that diner food helped speed her along to giving birth, I cannot not.  My sister really did not eat much that evening.

Whenever my parents said, “Let’s eat at the Diner,” we knew exactly where they were talking about.  There was no other diner for them. And as they aged, their dining at the diner increased.   In fact, after they both passed away, my siblings and I, along with some of our children, went to the diner to eat.  It seemed right.

When I was in New Jersey to clean out my parents’ apartment, my brother and I again went to the diner on River Road, for the memory of our parents. Tom’s children now run the diner. They have updated the outside and inside décor.   It looks really nice. But the menu is still the same.  Thank goodness.

However, one diner visit was not enough for me.  Since I was staying in Tenafly with my sister, I was able to convince her that eating at the diner in town was important as well.  There are a multitude of good restaurants in Tenafly. But somehow we ate three meals at the diner.

To those who have never seen a diner, the outside is always somewhat the same: a sort of metallic, (usually)  rectangular box with windows.  And the word, Diner, must be included in the title.  Tenafly Diner, River View Diner…. Nothing fancy.  There are lots of booths in a diner, with formica table tops.  The booth seats must be covered in vinyl…red, blue, grey.  The color does not matter that much.  An important element used to be the little jukeboxes at each table.  But in many diners these have been removed.

Desserts were also important when having a diner meal.  Besides filling up on the enormous amounts of food, you have to save room for a pastry or a cookie.   I loved the chocolate chip cookies at my parent’s favorite diner.  I would check out all the cookies they had and pick out the perfect ones. Mom and I loved them.  No one else really did.  We didn’t care.  We always ordered one or two to bring home and then would eat them with our tea each evening.  We shared a cookie each night.

Recently my daughter revealed a secret to me.  She actually did not like eating at the diner. I was shocked.  How could my daughter feel that way?  But I realized she was brought up in Kansas.  There were probably too many choices  on the menu for her.  And what did she know of good diner food?

She did not know what she was saying!  But for me…I will always be missing my New Jersey diners.

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My Jobs Behind a Deli Counter: Daitch Shopwell and Butensky’s

5 Feb

Daitch Shopwell supermarket in Monticello is where I spent my summer vacations once I turned 16.  Of course I was not there all the time, but I did work 20 hours a week in the deli department.  The first summer I was assigned to the cheese section, but in later years,  I worked in the deli as well.

It was not my favorite job, but I did meet people who became close friends.  I learned how to speak to all types of people, from the nice grandmotherly types who came in for simple cheeses. To the smartly dressed summer mothers who wanted a specific Tilsit or blue cheese.

I also learned to deal with difficult people.  From those I worked with to those I had to be polite to because they were customers.  I learned that some people treat workers badly, while others will do their best to help you have a good day, especially if they see someone being mean to you.

There was Richard G. who drove me crazy, but kept me sane when things were going badly.  He had a wicked sense of humor. He also was kind enough to drive me home many times, even though I lived 10 miles in the opposite direction from him.  Rich and I became good friends and even were in touch after we married others.

I can still smell the cheeses.  Some were very pungent, others had a nicer aroma.  I got very good at judging what was a 1/3 pound, a half pound, a ¾ pound and a full pound of any meat or cheese in the counters.  It is a skill.  And to this day I can watch someone at a deli counter and tell how much is going to be on the scale.

The one thing I really hated was being on clean up duty.  The people who close up the deli counter also have to clean up.  All those knives had to be washed; all the counters cleaned off; all the trash thrown out.  Not my favorite thing to do at all. But I did it.  It is another thing I learned while working.  The bad comes with the good.

However, working at Daitch also led to my winter job in North Bergen, NJ.  Our neighbor across the street owned a deli on Bergenline Avenue between 77th and 78th  Streets.  I just had to walk up the hill from Boulevard East and I was there.  Sometimes my Dad would drive me up.

I worked for Kenny and Betty Butensky starting in my senior year of high school. Later,  I used to come home from college one or two weekends each month just to work in the deli.

So many people I knew would come into the store.  Working behind a deli counter is not just providing the customer what he or she wants, it is helping them know what they want.  White fish, sable, lox.  Corned beef, pastrami, tongue, bologna, salami.  Rye bread, challah, rolls.  So many good options!

I was the best at deboning the white fish.  This goes back to my days in the Catskills catching fish at Kauneonga Lake.  I learned very early how to filet a fish. I used those skills at Kenny’s.

I learned so much from the Butensky’s.  I learned how to make a deli tray.  I learned to cut a radish to look like a flower.  I learned to garnish.  I learned how to slice lox.  But since I was left handed that job was taken away from me, as I always messed up the angle for everyone else… Sigh.  Whenever I have a party I think of them as I prepare my food trays.

I made sandwiches, bowls of cole slaw and potato salad. There is lots of work in a deli, especially on the weekend.

I made the best corned beef sandwiches….and I had one for lunch each day I worked.  Kenny would  (‘kibbitz’) joke with my dad that he should pay me in corned beef because I loved it so much. When Dad and Kenny teased me too much, Betty would step in and stop them.

In fact when I got married and moved to Kansas, Kenny would send me a corned beef sandwich packed in dried ice for my parents to bring me.  I can still taste those sandwiches.  We do not have great delis in Kansas.  Whenever I went home, I visited the Butensky deli until it closed.

Kenny had another skill.  He was a cantor with a magnificent voice.  It was Kenny who walked down the aisle first in my wedding chanting the sheva brochot…the seven blessings for a bride and groom.   It was beautiful. I still hear his voice, even though I have been married almost 34 years.

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Kenny Butensky is the shorter man standing in front.

Everything you do in life shapes you.  I was shy and quiet.  Working in the deli at both Daitch and Kenny’s taught me to be a ‘shmoozer,’ someone who can talk to anyone.  And I do.

I still see Daitch Shopwell in its prime.  The store was always packed with people.  Now it is an empty lot.  But when I go there, I see a filled parking lot.  So many memories are contained in the shell of the store.

In my mind, I see Kenny and Betty behind the counter.  There were times when it was really busy and we could not chat…just work. But then when things were slower we would chat while we worked.

These were times I can never forget.

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Bakery Aromas Bring Back Delicious Memories

1 Feb

There are bakery aromas that help me time travel in my mind.  Until I was 3 ½ years old I lived with my parents and brother in an apartment above my grandparents’ bakery, Amsterdam’s Bakery,  on Palisade Avenue in West New York, New Jersey.  I do not remember much of those days. But I remember the smells.

ImageEven though we moved to North Bergen, my brother and I alternated weekends at my grandparents.  They were wonderful adventures.  My younger sister’s birth was the reason we moved, as well as the reason we were sent off to my grandparents.  It gave my mom a needed break.

Staying with my grandparents was the best.  They lived in the top floor of a three-story building.  The bottom, ground level was the bakery. Above it was two smaller apartments. And the top floor was my grandparent’s home.

I loved going to sleep at night, knowing in the morning I was expected to get up on my own…get dressed and make my way to the bakery, with those glorious aromas.

I loved walking into the store area.  Grandma would be behind the counter.  The moment she saw me, her eyes would light up.  Breakfast would soon be coming.

Between the bakery shop and the store was a narrow room with a small kitchen, bathroom and the candle-ing room for the eggs. (My grandfather had a kosher bakery, so all the eggs had to be checked before use.)  Here I would get my warm breakfast of eggs and toast.    Grandpa would often bake me a little loaf of rye bread.  I loved the crust. I did not like the inside.  I would scoop out the inner part and give it to grandma, then eat all the crust with butter. YUM

When done, I would enter the bakery!  Grandpa and Uncle Leo would be busy.  But never too busy to forget to give me my dough, raisins and some chocolate chips to make cookies.  I would knead my dough and make round cookies.  These would be baked and given to me to take home for my parents.

After I finished my baking, I always returned to the storefront.  Now was snack time.  All that work in the bakery made me hungry.  It was time to forage along the case and decide which of my favorite treats I should eat.  A crumb bun, a chocolate chip cookie, a linden tart, a black and white cookie?  Oh there were so many choices.  But these were my favorites.   Usually after breakfast, I would have a crumb bun.

There is a special way to eat it.  You put it on a napkin upside down.  Eat the cake first and save the crumbs for the last.  Delicious!  Great with a cup of tea!

My chores were not over of course.  After that snack, I always worked behind the counter.  There was a wooden milk carton to stand on to help the customers.  Grandma and I would work together.  But I got to put the money in the old cash register and give the change.

Our lives changed in 1969 when my grandfather sold the bakery.  No more early morning deliveries of bread and cake to our front door.  No more weekend baking expeditions.  My mother went for months looking for a bakery that met her expectations.  She finally settled on Hill Top, although it was not the same as my Grandpa’s baking, it was a wonderful second best.

But my grandfather did not totally stop baking. He moved some of his equipment:  giant mixer, baking trays, cooling racks, bowls, whisks and more, to his home in Kauneonga Lake, New York.

This began another adventure in baking.

Grandpa had all this equipment moved to his basement where he set up a little bakery.   He would make cookies, challah, cakes and pies. And we would help!  I learned many ways to braid a challah, among other skills.

I remember one time he made so many plum cakes.  Someone gave him a bushel of plums. We baked for an entire day. He made it into trays upon trays of cakes that he gave to Beth El Synagogue in Kauneonga Lake, for a Shabbat oneg.

Every year for Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur , he made dozens of round challah. We did not eat them all, so he must have given them to his friends.

Even though he was retired, he still would bake for Katz Bakery on the weekends. When my brother was old enough, he started baking as well and working for Katz, with my grandfather as his teacher.  My grandfather’s attitude was that learning a skill was important.  My brother became a chemist….perhaps all those recipes helped him learn formulas later on.

My grandmother and I worked at a Katz outlet in Kauneonga Lake. We were only opened on the weekends. But it was my first real summer job. I was only 14. There was no baking there, just a storefront to sell the cakes, cookies and breads.  I worked there for two summers.  It was very close to the post office; and friends would come and visit me when they got their mail.

I loved working there because it brought back memories of my grandparents’ bakery, but it was not quite the same. My Grandpa’s chocolate chip cookies were still the best.  His basement bakery was the source of many care packages sent to my brother and me in college.  Whenever the box of chocolate chip cookies arrived, my roommates and friends would line up for a sample.

To this day, when I enter a bakery, the aromas take me back in time.  I see my grandparents, I smell the bakery, I remember working with them and sharing precious time.  I am once again a child waiting for a favorite treat.

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My Birthday Sewing Machines

29 Jan

For my birthday my children bought me a new sewing machine.  I had been saying for two years that I needed one.  I would pass them in the store, see them advertised in a flyer, but do nothing about it.  It was an emotional decision.

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The first sewing machine I used was a 1947 Singer portable that belonged to my Mom and Grandma.  It only could make straight lines.  In the beginning of my sewing career, it was fine; but as my competence grew, I needed something better.

My parents purchased a sewing machine for me as a sweet 16 birthday gift. I was so excited. It even made buttonholes! They also purchased a cabinet, so I could leave the machine out while working on a project. It was the best gift!

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I used this sewing machine to make clothing for my grandma, mom, sister and me.  Once I had children, I made clothing and Halloween costumes for them.  I made curtains and drapes. I mended clothing.  Whenever my parents came to visit, they always had clothes that needed hemming or altering.

As the machine aged, my Dad would keep it going for me.  Once a year he took the machine apart, oiled every part and then reassembled it.  It was the best machine.  Then my Dad died.  And my machine broke.  And I could not sew anymore.

I talked about a new machine. But how could I ever replace the one that meant so much for me?  It had memories; it held love.

I took two sewing classes in high school. I learned to match plaids and design my own patterns.  I learned to make special seams and clean, well- sewn garments.  The lessons I learned in Mrs. Kilkenny’s sewing classes at North Bergen High School were the most practical. I have used these skills for my entire adult life.

My mom and I had a deal, whenever I made an outfit for her or my sister, she would buy me more fabric to make my own clothes.  I hated buying store bought clothes. They were never made well enough for my standards.  Where were the French seams, the good tight stitches?  I hated frayed fabric.  So instead, I made prom dresses, pant suits, even the dress I wore for my sister’s wedding.

I made dresses for my Grandma Thelma. She had scoliosis as a child in Europe and it was never corrected.  So one side of her torso was two inches shorter than other. I made her dresses so that no one ever could tell.

I made curtains for my Mom and Grandma.  And when I moved into my house, three months pregnant, I made all the curtains and drapes for my home!  I was crazed. I understand now I was nesting. But then it was an obsession.  And my sewing machine was there for me!

I made some of my maternity clothes. But once my children arrived, most of my sewing focused on them. I made dresses for my daughter and costumes for my son.

I made projects for their classes.  For a long time on the wall of the first grade class was a quilt I put together. I had each child sign their name on a square and quilted it for the teachers.  I made reading pillows, as well as, vests for a program.  If sewing needed to be done for school, I did it.

Then there was my son and daughter and their imagination. My daughter wanted to be gypsy or a princess.  My favorite costume for her was the Indian Princess, Tiger Lily, from Peter Pan. She watched the Mary Martin version over and over again.  And had to be Tiger Lily. So a costume was created.

My son needed to dress up as Pokeman as a dragon or a lizard. I was constantly making new outfits as his imagination soared.

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When he was four, we took our children to see “Joseph and his Technicolor Dreamcoat.” My son was entranced. He was Joseph. I had to make him a Technicolor Dreamcoat. He wore it all the time!! I have saved that one.

There were new curtains for their room to match the changing décor as they aged: purple for my daughter, green for my son.

My sewing machine never let me down.

The last large project I finished was valances and shades for the basement family room/rec room.   I was working on new valances for the family room when my machine broke.  When my parents died.

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But now I have closed up the cabinet that holds my broken machine. And on top of it I have placed my new portable sewing machine that my children got me for my 59th birthday.  Now I can sew again.

Two sewing machines purchased 43 years apart. But both purchased with love.  I am so lucky.

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My Days in the English Department Office at NBHS

19 Jan

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I basically spent the last two years of my North Bergen High School education hanging out the English Department office or in a journalism office working on the school newspaper or yearbook.  I am not quite sure how that happened.  I know my senior year I did an independent study research and I used the English office as my office.  I sort of took over seventh, eighth and ninth periods. 

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Mr. Vecchione, Mrs. Whitehouse, Mr. Polente, and Mr. Boyle were my verbal sparring partners. When I was not actually working on my project, I was sort of, helping out in the office. Sometimes I was arguing with the teachers over some cause I believed in…mainly women’s rights.   I think I was an English Department aide?  Who knows?  I cannot remember.

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But even before senior year, I had developed, what was for me,  an important relationship with Mrs. Whitehouse and Mr. Vechionne.

Celia Whitehouse’ impact on my life was the most visable.  She provided the space for me to become involved in journalism and creative writing. Although I was never editor in chief of the yearbook or newspaper, I had editorial positions on the newspaper both junior and senior year, and on the yearbook in my senior year. 

Even when I was in college, I would come back to visit the English Department teachers and hang out in the office.  I knew that they had to be missing me.  And since my sister was in high school for three more years, I had an easy in.  So conversations with Mr. Vecchione and Mrs. Whitehouse continued. 

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It was Mrs. Whitehouse, who told me, when I was looking for graduate schools, that Columbia University was not the only place to apply.  In fact, Missouri had a really good school of journalism.  I applied…why not?

Thus it is thanks to Mrs. Whitehouse that I ended up living in Kansas (and meeting my husband). I was accepted to both Columbia University and University of Missouri- Columbia for graduate school.  My Mom said…. in 1977…”How will I sleep at night knowing you are in Harlem every day?”  So I moved to Missouri.  “You won’t know what I am doing, so you won’t worry.”  I told her.  “Thank Mrs. Whitehouse for telling me to apply.”

When in high school I was in honors English and was a member of the Merit Society, which meant I could leave a class if there was no exam.  I took that to mean I would be leaving class whenever there was a substitute, and hangout in the English office.  Giving me even more time to be in my favorite place.  Mr. Vecchione would just sigh when I showed up and invaded his space.

I loved high school.  Junior prom, senior prom, yearbook, newspaper, literary supplement, independent study, school plays, all were fun times.  Even my classes were fun for me.  I loved school; I loved learning.  We had a community of about 20 students who were in almost every class together.  And the memories are still strong.

During my junior year of high school, I became ill toward the end of the school year.  I spent a week in the hospital, not fun at all.   Mrs. Whitehouse not only came to visit me, she wrote me a book: Ellen and the Sorceress. Handwritten….no computers in those days.  I still have the book!

My honors English teacher, however, sent a take-home test to the hospital with my friend, Faye, who was afraid to give to me.  I still remember her telling my mom about it, even though I was quite sick.  My Mom was furious.  She called Mr. Vecchione, asking, “Who sends a test to someone in the hospital?”  Needless to say, I never took that test. 

But then they knew I was a good student.  And I was not malingering.  Believe me, a week in the hospital was not enjoyable. 

My days in the English department were not wasted.  I received my undergraduate degree in English literature.  I worked on the college newspaper and yearbook, continuing on the path I found in high school.  Then on to graduate school, where I earned my master’s degree in journalism.  I even taught high school journalism for four years: in a way my homage to Celia Whitehouse, Anthony Vecchione and my many hours in the English Department office.

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Missing My Mom

15 Dec

My mother was a weather witch. Whenever she came to visit, the weather would go berserk.  Often my neighbors would call to find out exactly when Mom would arrive, to plan for snow.  

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So it was not surprising that my Mom died during one of the worst snow storms ever in New York City, over 27 inches of snow in less than 24 hours.  Everything shut down.  The day of her funeral, her coffin was placed in front of a window.  As my niece stated,  “ I know Grandma is in heaven,”  a great, giant, massive clump of snow fell off the roof and on the ground outside the window.  Lovely torrents of snow arched upward.  Mom was there … heading to heaven.

My mother had the mind of a vault.  Any information that went in stayed there.  She remembered everything.  So when Mom suffered her first TIAs, mini strokes, we were very concerned.  My sister and Dad took her to a neurologist.  Mom scored a 100 percent on the test.  The doctor said something like,  “I believe you when you tell me that your Mom’s memory is not as good, but if this is bad, your Mom was very high functioning.”

And that is true. 

My mother was the glue that held people together.   She taught school for 30 years.  And the group of teachers who retired would often get together.  My Mom would make the plans.  After she died, the meetings basically ended.   One of the group, Pat, told me,  “It was your Mom who would call us all and tell us when we were meeting and where.  Without her, we just don’t have anyone organizing.”

It is true, all my organizing skills come from my Mom.

My mother was the kindest person.   Another teacher told this story at a memorial for my mother:  “The first day I taught at the school, I was worried.  Where would I sit during lunch?  Would the other teachers welcome me?  I was black and Cuban.  I don’t know why I worried.  I entered the lunchroom, and it became quiet.  Frances turned around,  “Oh there you are.  I have saved a seat for you next to me.”  And I sat there that day, and the next day and the next day.  And I realized I did not have to worry where I was going to sit.  I was going to sit with Frances and her friends for the rest of the years I taught.”

And she did sit with them for over 20 years.

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My mother was a great friend.  Her two best friends, Wini, who she knew since kindergarten, and Judy, who she met in 8th grade, are still alive.  It is difficult sometimes to think of them without thinking of my mother.  They shared so many memories and adventures together.  After my Mom died, Wini and Judy were there for my Dad during the nine months he lived.  They still call me to keep in touch and to send love to my brother and sister.  Their love for my mom continues.  She was also a great friend to mine and my siblings’ friends.  She opened her home to them, always making them welcome.

She was a warm and loving hostess.

My mother was an excellent teacher.  Two stories.  Many years ago, when my grandfather was ill and staying with my parents, a young immigrant named Selma came to stay with Papa, while Mom and Dad went to work.  My mother gave Selma homework every day.   Not cleaning or cooking, rather her work was  learning to read and write English.  And when my mom got home from school, she would work with Selma on her studies.  Second story.  Several weeks before she died, I had to take my Mom to the emergency room.  An intern came over.  This young doctor said, “Mrs. Rosenberg. Oh my, you were my fourth grade teacher!  You were the best teacher ever.  When I found out I was going to have you, I was so afraid, because you were so strict.  But you were the best.  I am a doctor today, because you encouraged me.”

And it was true.  My Mom touched the lives of hundreds of children.

My mother was the best grandmother.  Every one of her grandchildren can tell you stories about staying with her and learning from her.  She made each child feel loved.   As my father said, for both of them, they did not divide their hearts of love with each child or grandchild, their hearts got larger. 

They both had very strong and large hearts filled with love.

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My mother had a wonderful sense of humor.  Mom loved people and spread joy quietly wherever she went.  She had a wonderful way to make people feel comfortable and an easy way to laugh.  A story, after my Mom’s TIAs she lost the ability to sequence things.  So cooking, cleaning and laundry became difficult.  One day she asked me.  “Ellen, Dad says my memory is not as good.  What do you think? “   I answered:  “Well Mom, do you cook anymore, or does Liz (their helper) cook?  Do you do laundry anymore or does Liz do the laundry?  Do you clean any more or does the service clean?  My Mom got very quiet and then said,  “Well you know Ellen, I never liked doing any of those things anyway!:  

And that is true.  Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry were not high on my mother’s to do list.   Teaching, visiting, talking, loving were her charms.

December 27, 2010, my Mom left us on Earth forever. But she is forever in my heart and the hearts of all her children, grandchildren and the many people she loved.

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My Dad was A Proud Veteran

26 Nov

My Dad was a proud veteran.  He instilled a love of country and duty in my children. And my children loved him.   I know that my son adored my Dad.  But I guess until this past Veteran’s Day I did not realize how great that love was and remains.

My Dad died in 2011, ten days after my son’s 21st birthday.  On his birthday, Dad called.  I did not hear the phone call. But my son called me immediately after to tell me that Grandpa called to wish him a happy birthday and to say he loved him and would always love him.

My Dad was in the hospital.  Very ill.  When he hung up, he turned to my sister and said,  “No more treatments, no more food, and I am not talking to you anymore.”  Those might not be the exact words.  I wasn’t there. I was in Kansas. Dad was in a hospital in New Jersey.  But both my sister and brother agreed that he stopped talking and eating, and refused all treatment.

Did I tell you my Dad was very stubborn?

But in this case, he was right, because he made his own choice.   And he passed away 10 days later.

It was very difficult.  I had plane reservations for that morning.  But it was too late.  The phone call came at 12:30 am.  My brother calling.  I did not want to answer the phone.   But I had to face the reality…losing my Dad nine months after losing my Mom.   My grief was overwhelming.

I flew home to New Jersey, where my brother met me at the airport.  His words were in a way helpful.  “Dad saved us from making very difficult decisions,” he said.  And he was right.  Because we might have fought with him to do the one thing he never wanted…putting in a feeding tube.

Dad was strong willed.

My father was the recipient of both the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.  Even though he died on a Saturday, the funeral home was able to contact the military.  At my father’s funeral were two soldiers. At the cemetery they removed the flag covering his casket with great ceremony as they folded it.  While  the commanding soldier delivered the flag to my brother, saying the scripted, but heartfelt, words of the military, the other soldier disappeared.  A few minutes later, I knew why. From a far came the sound of  a soldier playing taps.  I still cry thinking of how proud my Dad was of serving his country.  And how the grateful nation return his respect with the tribute of a bugle.

 

The flag from Dad's funeral. His favorite Korea Veteran cap.

The flag from Dad’s funeral. His favorite Korea Veteran cap.

We kept the flag in the room where we sat shiva.  It seemed right that it be with us.  As it seemed right that my brother now has the flag.

So what does this have to do with my son?

Well first off, my brother and sister agreed that we would give my son my Dad’s newest tallit as a 21st birthday gift.   My Dad had three tallisim  (prayer shawls).  One from his bar mitzvah, one from his wedding, and then the beautiful one my Mom gave him when he became president of his synagogue.  In Jewish tradition, you bury the tallit with the owner.  But at the funeral home, the director told us, “Keep this one.  Use it for a huppah (wedding canopy)for his grandchildren.  Burying two is enough.“

My son was very quiet when I gave him the tallit. He held it for a while, then stroked the velvet case.  I cried because I could see the emotion in that gesture. Now  he  wears Dad’s tallit when he goes to synagogue.  My sister recently said to me that this Dad’s most personal item….his tallit.  That is true. My Dad was proud to wear his tallit.  Proud to be Jewish. As he was proud to be a veteran.

What does Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day have to do with this story?  So much.  My Dad served as a forward observer/radio man in the Korean War.  As he told my children,  “There were no cell phones then.  Someone had to go in front of the front line to lay the radio wires.  That was me.”

Korean Vet

My Dad explaining the Korean War.

 

So when they built a Korean War Veteran’s Memorial near my home, I helped fund it by buying a inscribed stone in honor of my Dad.   One Thanksgiving, when my parents were visiting,  I took them and my children to the Memorial, where Dad told them all about the war… He started to cry….even after over 55 years, the trauma of Korea still was fresh for him.

After my father died, in October 2011, I started going to the Memorial on Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day, to say hi to my Dad.  I cannot visit his grave, as he is buried in New Jersey. But this year, I could not go on Veteran’s Day.  I was out of town.  It bothered me that I could not make this important visit.

A few days after we got home, I had lunch with my son and his girlfriend.  I asked if I could take their photo to send to my daughter.  They said yes.  But then my son started making funny faces.

“Why are you doing that?”   I asked annoyed.

“I am channeling Grandpa,” he said.  “He would have done worse.  He would have also made bunny ears.”

I smiled.  But what he said next made me cry.

“I went to the Korean War Memorial on Veterans’ Day,” he said.  “I went there because I wanted to pay my respects and honor his memory,” he told me later.

When I told him that I went twice a year.  And I really appreciate his going for me.  He looked at me astonished and said he did not go for me.  “I never knew you went there to do that every year,” he said.  No he went there just to say hi to his grandfather.

There are no words….but love.

My Dad always said that with each child and grandchild your heart does not divide more, it gets bigger.  My Dad had the biggest heart, something he gave to his grandchildren.

So each year on Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day, I will continue to honor my father by visiting the Korean War Veteran’s Memorial. I will think of him and of all the veterans who served with pride.

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