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Finding Salamanders and Relaxing in the Black Forest

13 Jul

One of my favorite activities during my summers in the Catskills was finding salamanders. I loved those little orange lizards that lived in the moss hidden in the forest of the Catskills. I have not seen any for years, but they were plentiful when I was a child.

My parents encouraged my interest in nature, so much so that my Dad built a terrarium outside of our bungalow. It was about three feet by four feet, built with wood and chicken wire, right underneath our kitchen window. My brother and I spent a lot of time catching toads, frogs and salamanders to put into our terrarium, but the rule was that they had to be return to the woods when the summer came to an end.

My sister, me, and my brother facing our bungalow. Behind us you can see Kauneonga Lake. About 1962.

My sister, me, and my brother facing our bungalow. Behind us you can see Kauneonga Lake. About 1962.

While my brother went for the frogs and toads, my favorite creature to find was the salamander. I would search in the moss along trails in the woods. They were difficult to find because they could change colors like a chameleon and match the plants that surrounded them. But usually they were a dull orange color.

Then I would take the moss and the salamander back to our terrarium to become part of our nature center. At night, when the windows were open, we could hear the sounds of the frogs coming from the terrarium. It drove my Mom crazy, but she did not complain too much. She knew that I loved to spend hours watching the lizards residing there.

When I was not searching for my lizards, my friend, Vicki, and I would often go on walks to what we called, the “Black Forest.” This was an area of the woods behind my Grandparent’s bungalow colony that was all pine trees. Vicki and I loved to go there and play imagination games.

Because of the denseness of the trees, there was not a lot of sunshine filtering through the woods, and the ground was covered with pine needles, so not many plants grew. It was a mystical place. So silent, with the shadows of the trees dancing on the pine needles, it was the perfect place for a picnic and imagining. It was so quiet, we were able to hear people coming down the trail and hide before they arrived. It was our private place and we did not want to share it when we were there.

To get to the forest we had to walk past the blueberry patch, past the last bungalow in the row, to a place far away from the parents and the swings. We entered the forest near a large growth of ferns and moss. It was here that I could often find salamanders. But that I could do on the way home, not when we were going into the woods.

After we entered the treed area, we would walk along a path that had been created by years of children walking to the “black forest.” I do not know who was the first one to go there. But there were many boys who were much older than Vicki and I. So I assume one of them taught us the way. I just know that traveling along that path and walking back to the pine forest was an important part of our summer adventures.

Most of the walk was through regular woods, but then we would come upon it — the area where only pine trees grow. In that one special place we would lie upon the bed of pine needles and dream. The mounds of pine needles were so comfortable. We share our inner thoughts and secrets. When we were there, we were away from all the boys: our brothers and all my boy cousins. It was a wonderful escape.

Sometimes some of the boys would go with us. But the atmosphere changed when the boys came. Honestly, I liked it best when Vicki and I went by ourselves.

When I look at maps now and satellite images, and I see how far we wandered into the woods, I wonder what our parents would have thought if they knew how far we actually went? It was a different time, but we did get in trouble sometimes. And there was no way to reach our parents, we just figured it out ourselves.

One time we walked out of the pine forest area into some fields. A man came running after us and told us to stay off his property. That was scary. Usually we did not see anyone there. The woods were large. But in reality we knew that if we kept walking, on the other side were those fields and other private property and then Horseshoe Lake Road. We could not get lost. I think I actually walked that way once. But after the man scared us away, we almost always went back through the woods to the bungalow colony.

We had wonderful times wandering on our own. Having picnics that we packed ourselves. Filling our minds with memories that can never be erased. I close my eyes and I can smell the pine needles, their sharp fresh scent. I can feel the crush of my body on the mounds of needles as I looked up to the sky shimmering through the branches. I am back in the ‘black forest’ planning my next acquisition of a salamander and just having a wonderful day with my best friend.

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It Happens Every Summer, Children Dying Alone in Cars

9 Jul

Every summer it happens. It gets hot; parents leave infants or toddlers in their car; the child dies. It has to be the most distressing news I ever hear. It drives me crazy. I understand that sometimes the police believe this is an accident. The parent honestly forgets that they have their child in the car and are overwhelmed with grief. But other times, parents intentionally leave them in the car…only for a minute, or so they say.

I have personal experience with a parent leaving two toddlers in a car for what they said was “only a minute”. I was furious. My daughter still remembers my anger.

I took my daughter and a friend of hers shopping. The girls were about 12 or 13 at the time. While my behavior during this incident totally embarrassed them, now as an adult, my daughter understands exactly why I did what I did. And she knows I did what I felt needed to be done.

We drove to a strip shopping center, where you can park directly in front of a store. Unfortunately we could not park near the store where we wanted to go, so we parked in front of a fancy linen shop.   As I got out of my car, I noticed two toddlers in car seats crying hysterically in the back seat of the car next to me. Their faces were bright red and they were in distress.

I looked at my watch and decided to wait for a few minutes. I did not want to over react, so I waited five minutes. It was obvious they had been there for a while. I was becoming extremely upset. So I marched into the store opposite of the car, assuming that the parent/guardian would probably park as close to her shopping destination as she could with two children in her car. The two girls followed behind me.

As I opened the door, I said in a loud teacher’s voice (I taught high school for a while), “There are two toddlers hysterically crying in a car outside. Is the Mom here?”

Everyone got silent. And then a woman spoke up. “They are my children. And I have only been in here a minute,” she declared.

“Not so,” I responded. “I have been waiting outside for five minutes. It is too hot for them to be stuck in a car. You better get out there now and take care of them or I am calling the police.”

“I am a nurse, and there is no problem,” she said.

Now I was enraged.

“If you are a nurse, you should know better,” I was yelling at this point. “MY husband is a pediatrician. Do you know how many children die in cars each year due to parents like you. Do you know if your children don’t die, they can become critically ill due to dehydration! If you are a nurse, you should know that!”

I pulled out my cell phone. “ You have one minute, then I am dialing 911.”

She was furious. But she handed her items to a sales woman and stomped out. I followed, phone in my hand ready to call the police.

When we got outside and she saw the screaming, crying, red and sweaty children. I think she might have been embarrassed and realized how bad it really was, because she got meekly into her car without saying another word.

But I was so mad. “Don’t ever do that again,” I said. “I have your license plate number. And If I ever see your car with children in it alone again, I will call the police immediately. I will not wait.”

She drove off. I felt like I had done my mitzvah, good deed, for the day. I hope I had saved those two children. But I had another issue to deal with now.

“Mom,” my daughter said. “That was really embarrassing. Did you have to yell at her in the store?” She and her friend were obviously uncomfortable.

“Yes, I did,” I told them. “Children can die in cars due to the heat. I honestly was concerned for the safety of those two children. And actually, perhaps calling the police would have been the right thing to do.”

We went on with our day. But it was an incident that stayed with us since then. Every summer it comes back into my mind. Did I do the right thing by not calling the police?

In the last few weeks we have seen the father leave his toddler son in a hot car. He is being tried for murder because it is alleged he planned it. Then there was a woman who called the police when she saw an infant in a hot car, unconscious. The policeman broke the window of the car to save the child.

And just recently when I took a road trip across Missouri, I noticed that the illuminated signs not only encouraged people to be careful drivers and not to drink and drive, but also to be aware of their children and not lock them in their car.

It is never a good idea to leave any age child alone in a car, even with the windows cracked. It gets extremely hot inside a car when the sun shines in, just like in a green house.

And leaving a child alone in the car with the motor running and the air conditioning on is just as bad. How many times do we hear about a car jacking with the child inside? Then an Amber Alert is issued. In most cases the child is found unhurt, but not always. It is just not safe!

If you need to go shopping, and cannot get a baby sitter…just take your child in to the store with you. Yes, it will take longer. Yes, they might fuss. But in reality a fussing child is much more easier to deal with than a dead one.

I might have embarrassed my daughter and her friend 15 years ago. However, I believe I saved those two children. And the fact that this is still happening makes me more adamant in the importance of everyone taking a stand and doing the right thing.

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A Strand of Pearls is Not Just Jewelry, It is a Circle of Love

6 Jul

 

To me wearing my pearls infuses them with love.

To me wearing my pearls infuses them with love.

I wear two strands of pearls to every family wedding. One strand, the longer one, belonged to my mother-in-law, Lee. She died when she was only 59, but I know that she would want to be at every wedding of her grandchildren and family members. The other strand, is slightly shorter, but has a lovely clasp. It belonged to my Mom, Fran. She also loved weddings and would want to be at every family wedding! Amazingly both strands of pearls have the same size pearls. And they look so good together.

Last night I wore the pearls to the latest family wedding, our niece. The pearls came up in conversation, and I told my brother-in-law, and another nephew and niece, why I wore two strands. My brother-in-law said, “I know they are here.” And my nephew and niece, who knew my Mom but not his own Grandma, said, “Your Mom would have loved the weddings.” And it is true.

It makes me feel as if these two wonderful women were there with us when I wear these necklaces. Pearls are so warm. And to me their glow sends off the warmth of love.

Pearls have much meaning in my family. My grandmother had opera length pearls. And my mother had them made into three necklaces, once for each of her granddaughters. As they turned 18, each girl was presented with the pearl necklace from my mother.

Unfortunately she passed away a few months before the youngest turned 18.   My Dad had us present the pearls to my niece in the hospital where my mother was soon to die. I know it was a difficult time for my niece. But I hope as time has passed she realizes how much her grandparents loved her and how important it was for my Dad, her Grandpa, that she get the pearls while Grandma was still alive.

My Great grandmother, for whom I am named, gave my Grandma a strand of pearls in Europe in 1932. They would have been mine. But another relative stole the pearls while she was in Europe. She always suspected who had taken them.

Over 40 years later he wrote her a letter. He had survived the Shoah, but his entire family had been killed, his wife and his children. He blamed himself. He believed that if he had not stolen the pearls, they would have lived.

I know this because I met him. I was living in Israel at the time. My Grandma Thelma wrote to me to meet up with “the goniff.” He was going to give me 400 lira…about $100 at the time. I was to take some of the money and buy myself something and give the rest of the money to my great uncle.

I met Zissel and he told me his story. He was a sad, sad man. He told me how his family had died and the horrible things that occurred to him. He told me how he had stolen the pearls.

“Your grandmother went into the bathroom to bath. When she came out the pearls were on the sink. I thought, she lives in America; she is rich. I can use these pearls more than she can. And I took them. Now everyone is dead, and it is my fault.” Zissel and I both cried as he told me the story. I was only 19 years old. The pain of that day lives with me. He believed if he paid my Grandma back, it would take away some of the guilt. I hope it did.

I began to visit him whenever I was in Tel Aviv. He worked in a bakery across from the giant shuk. I would meet him there, get a pastry and tea and talk to him Sometimes I would go back to his apartment.

When my parents came to visit me in Israel, I took them to see Zissel as well. His Yiddish was much better than his Hebrew. So when my parents came, he spoke mainly to them in Yiddish. He told more stories. And my mother and I cried along with him. I hope that his sad soul found peace.

The pearls were a bond between Zissel and me.

And so for me pearls, any pearls, have a story to tell. My mother-in-law’s
pearls and my mother’s pearls will be filled with joy as they experience only happy events. Every wedding will bring happiness to these pearls. And the sadness of the pearls that Zissel took will be wiped away.

The pearls my daughter and nieces have are also filled with love. And when I see them wearing my mother’s/grandmother’s pearls, their great-grandma, I know that the love of these two women are surrounding them.

A strand of pearls is not just a piece of jewelry, it is a circle of love.

 

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For Me the Fourth of July Echoes With Memories of My Dad and John Philip Sousa Marches

2 Jul

“Get up, get going, you are wasting the best part of the day,” my father would say early on a Saturday or Sunday morning. As teenagers all we wanted to do was sleep in on the weekends. But my Dad often had other ideas. He had chores he wanted us to do. If the talking did not work, he would play his favorite John Philip Sousa marches to wake us up. Heck, he would play marches all the time. He loved his Sousa marches.

I think we were the only children in North Bergen and the world who did their chores to John Philip Sousa marches. I can still see us lining up as a joke with mops and brooms marching around our house while the music blared. We would try to clean in time to the music. Well I would: vacuuming in time, dusting in time, ironing in time.

Dad loved his Sousa. Whenever I hear a march, I get the urge to clean. But I am able to resist. However, I do think of my Dad and his Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops collection (RCA Victor Label) of John Phillip Sousa marches. I can still hear “Stars and Stripes Forever” on an endless loop in my mind. But Dad had an entire collection of the Sousa marches. And we learned them all!

Needless to say, the Fourth of July was Dad’s favorite holiday. Those Sousa records would come out days before the Fourth as Dad prepared. You know my Dad could not sing at all. He tried, but he had no sense of pitch when he sang. But he would conduct along with the music, swinging his arms as if he was really in charge. I can remember seeing such joy on his face while he listened to the music.

His second favorite march was “Hail to the Chief.” Played whenever the President of the United States enters a room, with first the “Ruffles and Flourishes” introduction, “Hail to the Chief” made my Dad happy. In our house, he was the chief. And when he played that song he was letting us know who was boss. He would talk about his dream of one day having the song played for him.

And it happened. Dad served as president of his synagogue for 11 years. At a dinner honoring him, I mentioned his love of this song and his love of Sousa,   and his dream of hearing it played for him one day. When he came up to do his speech, the dance band spontaneously played “Hail to the Chief” in his honor. My Dad welled up with tears. He really was the President and he felt so honored.   I think my Mom, my siblings, our spouses and the two grandchildren there also cried out of pride and joy for Dad.

Dad did not only play his music on cleaning days. He brought his Sousa collection up to the Catskills. Since we had a very private four acres of land, he was able to play his Sousa as loud as he liked. And he liked to blast it out. I still have the sound of those brass instruments echoing in my mind.

And the times he got to see  any orchestra that played the marches live…Oh my!  That was the best for my Dad. Hearing the music live was even better than records or CDs. But I will say, his Arthur Fiedler records were his favorites.

When I think of his love of Sousa marches, I must also say that he loved the sight of a bald eagle.   Imagine my Dad, a proud veteran wearing an eagle or an American flag t-shirt, listening to John Philip Sousa marches on a relaxing weekend in the Catskills. Well he was relaxed, we were all wound up with the resounding booming music of Sousa.

Sousa wrote music for over 50 years! So there are quite a few marches to listen to over a weekend. He actually wrote almost 140 marches. And my siblings and I probably heard all of them at one time or another.

Among my favorites are the “Semper Fidelis March” written for the U.S. Marine Corps; “The Thunderer,” and the “U.S. Field Artillery,” which is the march for the US Army. (Sousa actually revised this melody, which was written by someone else.) Dad would ‘sing’ along with this last one, because it is the music to “The Caissons Go Rolling Along.” As a proud army veteran, he loved to sing this song.

For me the joys of the Fourth of July are not just the picnics, bar-b-ques,  the fireworks and the celebration of our country. For me  it is also time to listen to John Philip Sousa marches and remember my Dad.

 

 

Arthur Fiedler and Boston Pops “Stars and Stripes Forever’: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmdyobr77IA

Marine Band plays “Hail to the Chief.” : http://www.whitehousehistory.org/whha_exhibits/marine_band/audio_marine-band-03.html

John Philip Sousa’s Marine Band playing “Semper Fidelis March”: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:John_Philip_Sousa_-_U.S._Marine_Band_-_Semper_Fidelis_March.ogg

US Army Band plays, “The Caissons Go Rolling Along”: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Army_Goes_Rolling_Along

 

Space…Astronomy….and the First Walk on the Moon

29 Jun

Forty five years ago, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon.  Their adventure encourage so many children to dream of going into space as well.  Here is how it impacted my family.

My husband is the space nerd in my life. He watched the original “2001: A Space Odyssey” 21 times when it first came out. He helped start the astronomy club in high school and helped to make a six-inch reflector lens for the school’s telescope.

Eventually he went to CalTech, in Pasadena, CA, to study astrophysics and quantum mechanics. He spent a summer up on Mount Wilson doing research with a large telescope. He loved his time at CalTech. But he realized that there were others much more talented then he in physics, and left CalTech to become a doctor of medicine.

When I met him, he was in medical school. But the quest and the conquest of space was still an important part of his enjoyment. He loved learning about space. On one of our first dates he showed me the constellations. His “Sky and Telescope” magazines have been coming monthly to him for the entire 37 years we have been a couple. And yes, he does watch “The Big Bang Theory” on television each week.

His love of the night skies has influenced many of our vacations. A trip to Hawaii included a tour to the top of Mauna Kea where all the giant telescopes look to the sky. We saw the green flash at twilight and watched as the telescopes opened their eyes for the night, including the twin Keck observatories. We were standing in front of the CalTech Submillimeter Observatory telescope as it opened. My husband gleefully spoke to the students and staff inside. Oh heaven!

We then traveled partway down the volcano to look through much smaller telescopes to view the Milky Way galaxy, as well as constellations like the Seven Sisters and others. They are so much brighter and intense on a clear night on a high mountain in the middle of the ocean. We even saw twin suns, one a blue cooling star.

For a vacation in California, we went to the first ever SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial intelligence) Conference in Santa Clara during August 2010. We joined in the celebration of the 50th anniversary SETI program and honored Frank Drake, who founded SETI, on his 80th birthday.

I have even been on a private tour of MIT so Jay could see its campus and the graft of the apple tree that dropped an apple on Isaac Newton. Yes, the tree exists in a private courtyard at MIT!

To make her Dad happy from the moment she was born, our daughter was born on the 24th anniversary of John Glenn’s historic orbits around the Earth, the day after the MIR Space Station was launched, and during the time in 1986 that Halley’s Comet was in sight. What a daughter!  What a happy Dad! We really thought she would work for NASA one day.

My husband and son watching the start of an eclipse from a cruise ship near Greece.

My husband and son watching the start of an eclipse from a cruise ship near Greece.

Our children have benefited from their Dad’s sky obsessions. We have witness the aurora borealis in Alaska. Watched the Perseid’s meteor shower while lying on the ground at a castle in Hungary. They have traveled with us to stand in the moon’s shadow and experience the eerie silence of a total eclipse of the sun. We journeyed three times so far to the sweet spot where the longest duration of eclipse was to be found: the Caribbean, Hungary and Greece.

While wearing welders’ goggles to protect our eyes, we have reveled at first contact and then “ooohed” at the diamond ring that occurs immediately before totality and the aurora of the sun. We marveled that each aurora is slightly different. And enjoy those few minutes of staring straight at the sun during totality without worrying about eye damage.

Total Eclipse of the Sun 1998.

Total Eclipse of the Sun 1998.

With a six-inch reflecting telescope in our garage, our children experienced seeing the different planets and space elements up close. Our neighbors have, at times, turned off all their outside lights for a viewing party. We have watched lunar eclipses and meteor showers from our front yard. We stood outside our home with binoculars to see the comet Hale-Bopp streak by…even though it was not that great, to be honest.. and watched the transit of Venus from our back deck. Our son took an astronomy class in both high school and college so he could learn more about the sky.

My children and husband watching the transit of Venus across the sun through shadows. My daughter has her welder's goggles on for when she actually looks at the sun.

My children and husband watching the transit of Venus across the sun through shadows. My daughter has her welder’s goggles on for when she actually looks at the sun.

As a 40th birthday gift, I sent my husband to Adult Space Camp in Huntsville, where he envisioned what life for him would have been if he did not have a heart murmur and could have been a doctor/astronaut. He bought an official NASA blue jumpsuit, which he wore for many years on Halloween to the children’s hospital where he works.

Both my children have attended parent/child space camp in Huntsville, Alabama, with their Dad. And my daughter attended four additional years of Space Camp: two years in Hutchinson, Kansas, at the Cosmosphere, where we have been members for over 20 years; and two years at Huntsville.   At Space Camp she got to meet Eugene Cernan, the last man to walk on the moon, and have him autograph a book! We have all read books by John Glenn, Homer Hickman, and others who worked in the space program.

Originally she wanted to be an astronaut, but while in high school, at space camp in Huntsville, she changed her mind. “An astronaut came to talk to us,” she told me.  “He said that he was part of the ‘penguin’ group, the group of astronauts who will never fly.” WIth this information, my daughter decided it was not practical to plan on being an astronaut.

Through all this, I remain an interested accomplice because I also have a profound interest in space. Mine does not date to the movies or to my studies, but rather to July 20, 1969, when the “eagle” landed on the moon.

The anticipation had been increasing for over a week as Apollo 11 raced through space. At the bungalows that is all we could speak about as the spaceship reached each hurdle and passed on to the next step in its voyage. Would the rocket take off safely? Would they reach orbit around the moon? Would the landing ship detach correctly? Would they actually land on the moon?

In those days, 45 years ago, we did not have good television reception in the Catskills. In fact, the summer was ‘no television’ time. Most people did not even have a television in their bungalows.

But my grandparents had a year-round house with television reception. And a special exception was made for the moon landing. We were allowed to stay up so late that night. Many of us squished into a small space, sitting together on the floor, chairs, and couch, others standing as we watched the grainy black and white television.

Reception was going in and out, as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon. We stayed awake as Armstrong became the first man to walk on another surface besides Earth. We were mesmerized by the events. The adults were silent until both Armstrong and Aldrin were safely walking on the surface of the moon. Then there was cheering and a feeling of such excitement.

It was the event of the summer…till then. (Less than a month later, another closer event would also change our world: Woodstock.)

We were elated, exhausted, and extremely proud of what the United States did that night. Apollo 11’s crew members were our heroes.   What a night!

Then came the next round of anticipation. Would they be able to take off from the moon? Would they be able to connect with the orbiting Apollo 11 ship? Would they reach home? YES! They did!

During those July weeks, my interest in space and the night skies became forever part of my life. Now each time I travel with my husband to another planetarium (he wants to go to every one in the USA); or another space museum; or another eclipse; I feel that excitement bubble up. I am 14 again, watching the first men walk on the moon. We might have come to our love of space from separate places, but we share the excitement that the sky offers each and every night.

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How World War I Saved My Family or My Grandpa Was A Draft Dodger

25 Jun

World War I changed the world! One hundred years ago, Europe became a place of desolation and devastation. Young men from both sides were killed. Millions perished. From all I have read, it was horrible. The use of gases so horrific that laws were later passed banning the use of these and all future chemical weapons. We know that sometimes they are still used. But the world peoples are united against them.

For my family, World War I actually saved my branch of a family. My Grandpa Nat, you see, was a draft dodger.   As he would explain it to me, Jews in Galicia did not really have a chance in the military. They were often put in the worst positions, meant to die. And if they survived, they were conscripted for 25 years. So they never were able to live a Jewish life or return to their families again.

In 1918, when my Grandpa was about 18, his life changed; he received the dreaded notice that he was to report for military duty. It sent his family into action. Nissan, as he was known in Europe, had to be smuggled out of Galicia to save his life.

Thus began my Grandpa’s two-year journey to salvation and survival. He left his home in the middle of the night with just those things he could carry and wear. His intention was to get to British Mandate of Palestine and join the efforts to create a Jewish homeland. But his first goal was to get to his cousins in Belgium.

He wandered through Europe during the battles of 1918 and the aftermath of the war. Slowly making his way to Belgium. He had no real passport. Instead he was using the passport of a dead cousin.

Eventually he made it to Belgium and his cousins. Their reaction to his wish to travel to Palestine was, “Why go to Palestine? It is a desert! Go to the United States, to the Golden Medina. You have an Uncle there. He will help.”

So my Grandpa contacted his Uncle Julius, known as Uncle Yidel to us all, his mother’s brother. Uncle Yidel agreed to sponsor Grandpa to the United States.  But he had one problem, he had been robbed along the way and had to work to earn the money to pay for his trip to the United States.  But finally, after about nine months, the last leg of his journey began. Fortunately for him, his uncle did sponsor him, because when he arrived in the port of New York City, and the immigration site of Ellis Island, he had just a nickel. Without a sponsor he would have been sent back to Europe.

Grandpa often would tell us that we could be whatever we wanted to be. “Look at me,” he would say. “I came to this country with just a nickel in my pocket. And look at what I have.” So we learned early on not to complain to Grandpa and to never give up!

I tried finding my Grandpa’s immigration information from the Ellis Island sites, but could find nothing. My Grandma’s was easy to find. So I often wonder what that passport actually said. And how old he was supposed to be? But in 1920, immigration procedures were not as intense and documentation was not as precise as it is now.

Tanta Molly and Uncle Yidel

Tanta Molly and Uncle Yidel

Uncle Yidel and his wife, Tanta Molly (also known as Malchik)  welcomed Grandpa.

Growing up in Europe, my Grandpa had been a yeshiva brocha, a student of Torah. He had a beautiful singing voice, and perhaps might have been a cantor. But instead, somewhere along the way, he learned to be a baker. When he first came to New York, he worked two jobs. One as a butcher, the other as a baker.  But it is as a baker that he prospered in America. He and Uncle Yidel started a bakery eventually owning a building in New York City. (My Grandma told me that when Grandpa proposed he told her he had a place. She thought he rented an apartment. She did not realize he owned the building!)

 

Grandpa in his bakery in West New York, New Jersey, 1942.

Grandpa in his bakery in West New York, New Jersey, 1942.

They separated the business after my grandparents married, and Grandpa and Grandma opened a new bakery in Linden, New Jersey.  But in the early 1930s, when my grandmother took their children to Europe for six months, Grandpa sold the bakery in Linden and opened a new bakery in West New York, New Jersey.  He kept this bakery for over 35 years.

Grandpa had many cousins in the United States. His parents were first cousins. So he was double cousins to many of the family. They helped him settle in. But Uncle Yidel was the most important. Uncle Yidel and Tanta Molly were always a part of our lives. They had one son, Ezra.

Whenever we went to see them, we were welcomed in Yiddish. Tanta Molly would come running out to hug us. She would call out our Jewish names: “ Tovaleh, Fagaleh, Chavaleh!” I asked my Mom, “Why does she put an ‘aleh’ on all our names?”

“It means little,” my Mom replied. “Well that did not make sense, Tanta Molly is littler than us!” Was my response. “It means she loves us,” Mom laughed as she said that. Later I found out the ‘aleh’ did mean little, but really was an endearment.

My Grandpa always missed the hills of Galicia. He often told me that he bought his property in the Catskills because it made him think of his home and his childhood. Many years latter when I traveled to that part of Europe, I saw he was right. The rolling, low mountains and hills do look like the Catskills.

My Grandpa forever missed his family. World War I did save him. He came to the United States. But his parents, siblings, and many aunts/ uncles/cousins stayed in Galicia. They all perished in the Shoah.

My Grandpa Nat was a draft dodger, but he never stopped fighting for the right to practice his beliefs and to protect his family in the USA. He loved America. He never traveled outside of the United States. When asked, his reply was always:

“Why would I ever want to leave here? It is the best place in the world.”

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A Ride Around The Park

22 Jun

“Please Daddy! Please! Please! Please! Take us for a ride around the Park!!!”

Hudson County Park in North Bergen was one of our favorite places to go. We lived on 78th Street just off Boulevard East, and would often walk to the playground and the lake.   But our favorite thing to do with our Dad was to drive ‘around ‘ the Park.

Whenever Dad was driving us home, we would plead for this ‘treat.’ It was not a real ride around the Park. Instead it was a ride around the traffic circle in front of the Police Station. Dad would enter it carefully and then drive around the circle. If we were lucky he would do it two or three times. That was our very exciting “ride around the Park.”   My Mom thought we were all crazy, but we loved it.

Living by the Park was an adventure. Going to the playground was a favorite activity. We still had seesaws then and the merry go round. My brother was relentless in his active motions. I loved to go on the seesaw with him, a sort of excited fear. Would he let me go all the way up and down? Or would he jump off when he was down and watch me go flying? I had to hold on tight and have my legs ready to bounce!

As for the merry-go-round, this was a yellow circular toy on a pole. While some children sat on it, others ran in a circle while holding on to get it going as fast as they could, before they jumped on. It was not a good ride unless you felt like throwing up when you go off. And swinging was great fun. How high could we go and then jump off without getting hurt!

Children now no longer have these great fun activities. And to be honest, I do not know how my Mom kept from screaming at times. Although she did stop my brother from jumping off the seesaw, as I think seeing my sister and I fly through the air eventually made her nervous.

My brother and I rowing on the Lake in Hudson County Park.

My brother and I rowing on the Lake in Hudson County Park.

Walking around the lake was also fun. We always wanted to get to the island in the middle. We loved renting a row boat with my Dad and rowing over there.   But the best fun were the paddle boats. At first my legs were too short and my brother would yell at me to try harder, but eventually I could keep up with him. My sister was younger and would go with my Dad.

My Dad is rowing my Sister and me. I think my Brother is taking the picture.

My Dad is rowing my Sister and me. I think my Brother is taking the picture.

When I got older, I would sometimes meet my old friends from when I lived on Third Avenue at Nungessers Bowling Alley or the White Castle. My Mom had strict rules, “Do not walk through the Park. Go up 78 street and then across Bergenline Avenue. “ Ha!   I always walked up to Park Avenue, entered the Park there and walked across.

When I got older, the rules changed. Something bad had happened in the Park when I was about 12 or 13. Now when I went to see my best friend, who lived around the corner on 77 and Park, our Dads would walk us. We would meet with our Dads at the top of 78th and Park Avenue. Eventually they calmed down. We were allowed to walk ourselves. But our Dads stood outside our homes and waited till they saw that we were together at the top of 78th street and then we would walk to the house we planned to play at!

Another friend of mine lived in red garden apartments next to where Stonehedge was built. I was allowed to walk to her place, but had to call the moment I got there! At the time I did not know what happened. But many years later, I was told that a girl was molested in the park. Something that was uncommon in the 1960s.

When I was in college I used the tennis courts at the Park. I spent two summers working in New York City. I would go into work with my Dad. One summer I worked at his office. My Mom and sister were in the Catskills. I think my brother was as well. In any case, Dad and I would eat dinner and then go to the park to play tennis. I played on my college’s inter-mural tennis team. So the summer practice at the Park was wonderful. On the weekends we would drive up to the Catskills.

I remember when the Boy Scouts held their giant Jamboree in the Park. My brother was in the Boy Scouts and he got to sleep in a tent at the park with thousands of other boys. There were tents everywhere! I wish I could find the photos. We could hear them at night, the noise was so loud!!!

Hudson County Park was an important part of my life. I do not think that a week went by, or even a few days, that we were not doing something in the park. Walking the trails or around the Lake. Meeting up with friends. Having a picnic. It was the best place to be.

When I was growing up it was Hudson County Park. No one called it North Hudson County Park. James Braddock was still alive. In fact, he lived up the block from me. We often saw him outside. He passed away when I was away at college. He actually died on my brother’s birthday. I am not sure when the Park was named for him. It is a great honor.

But to me, it will always be Hudson County Park. My memories for going for a ride around the park, or the playground, or the boats with my family and friends will cheer me forever.

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Our Shul in the Catskills

18 Jun
Temple in Kauneonga Lake. Temple in Kauneonga Lake.

(I wrote this a number of years ago. The Congregation is now 100 years old!)

Congregation Temple Beth El in Kauneonga Lake celebrated its 90 anniversary last summer. I only found out because my daughter asked me a question about the shul in the Catskills — the shul that three generations of her family had all attended.

To be honest, I was not sure that it even still held services. I live in Kansas now, and only go up to the Lake once each summer. Even less than I used to. When my parents were alive I would spend 7 to 10 days at our home in Kauneonga Lake with my parents and one or both of my children. But since they passed, at most I have spent a weekend.

So I checked. I went on line, and there it was a website for the congregation! I sent a donation in honor of the anniversary and in memory of my parents. And then I joined the congregation.

It brings back so many memories. The shul was founded in 1923. I think I started going there in the early 1960s. Maybe before. But my memories before then are not very accurate.

We spent every Rosh Hashannah at the shul on the hill in the Catskills. It was an orthodox congregation when I grew up. The women and girls sat upstairs in the balcony, while the men and boys sat downstairs. I actually liked sitting upstairs. We could look down on everyone and see what was going on, while we could be a little less formal.

But my Grandma Thelma and her good friend, Clara Wagner, rebelled one year. They said enough was enough. They did not want to climb the stairs anymore. So the congregation made a mehitzah for the downstairs and made the last three rows of seating for women. Grandma and Clara much happier, and keeping them happy was important. They were both very strong willed women!

I think they would be thrilled to know that there will be a woman rabbi there leading services this summer. Obviously men and women are sitting together and the mehitzah is down.

The shul was where we celebrated special events as well. My parents wedding anniversary was in June. One year, in honor of their anniversary, we held a special kiddish luncheon. My Grandpa Nat, a retired baker, baked plum cake after plum cake. Every oven was filled. Luckily he had saved many of his cooking trays.

The day of the kiddish was special. We were all there, family and congregation members. My Grandma asked Grandpa to sing in Yiddish for us. Grandpa had the best voice. His first song did not make my Mother happy. He sang, “Was is Geven ist Geven it Nitch Du.” My Mom said, “Daddy, why that song?” ‘What was, was and never will be again,’ is not what my Mom wanted to hear on her anniversary. (I think he was reliving her wedding, which occurred when my Dad was in the army on his way to Korea. It was a difficult time for the family, I have been told.)

My Grandpa laughed and then sang Tumbelalika and Schtetla Belz among other songs. There was some singing along, but mainly Grandpa singing to all of us.

We also celebrated my Grandma’s birthday there once or twice. Her birthday was in July. So perhaps her 70 or 75th birthdays were celebrated in the shul.

Grandpa was a cohen. He did not want to go to shul every week, but if no other cohen was available he went. In his younger days he would walk the mile or so to shul. But as he drifted near his 80s and older, he began to drive. He would park at Newman’s or across from Sylvia’s store and then walk the rest of the way. He just could not bring himself to drive all the way to shul on Shabbat.

I remember that a rabbi was hired that was a bit too orthodox for the shul. He put strings up around the syngagoue. As we walked to the shul, my Grandpa stopped and stood so still. “Vas Machts?” He turned to my Grandma. “I haven’t seen that since the shtetl!” He said. (Yes, he said it in Yiddish, but I don’t know how to write the entire sentence.)

I wanted to know what it was; it was an iruv. It makes a wall around the area of the synagogue or community so that people can carry things. You are not supposed to carry on Shabbat, but with an iruv up you can.

My grandparents had many friends at the shul. Among their closests friends were Abe and Clara Wagner. I can still see Abe, a plumber, down in a hole at my grandparents’ bungalow colony asking for some tool.   And my Grandpa laughing hysterically at the sight of the little red haired, highly freckled plumber in a hole.   Abe was so mad, “Stop laughing and hand me the tool.” But they both had a good laugh.

I remember going to their home many times with my Grandma and sitting and talking with Clara.

When Clara passed away, my grandmother was inconsolable for quite awhile. But when Abe remarried, she was welcoming to his new wife.

It was Abe who was there for my Grandpa when my Grandma passed away. We got the phone call from the hospital early on an August morning. My Grandpa refused to go to the hospital. He said, “She is gone, why do I need to go there.” They were worried about him at the hospital as he was in his 80s. So my Mom called Abe.

I can see it as yesterday. Abe spoke to my grandfather briefly, then he pointed at me. “Ellen, you come with me,” he said.

We went to the hospital, and while I signed my grandmother’s name over and over again on documents, Abe said. “Stay with them, I will be back.” At the time the emotion of signing Grandma’s name was all I thought of, nothing else.

We left when he returned. He had a big plastic bag of Grandma’s stuff. As we passed a dumpster, Abe told me throw it all out. “Your Grandpa doesn’t need any of that stuff,” he said.

I then turned to him and said, “Abe, I never saw Grandma.”
“Don’t worry, I took care of it,” He said.

And he did.

Grandma was buried in New Jersey, in our family plot. We, my parents, Grandpa and I, drove back to the Catskills from the cemetery. Grandpa sang, Johnny Mercer’s song, “Autumn Leaves” all the way back. “We promised each other that whoever remained would sing this song,” my Grandpa said. I still cannot bear to hear that song.

When we got to the house, all was ready. There was water by the door. There was a spread of eggs and other dairy items on the table. I am not sure if it was relatives or the Jewish community who prepared everything. But I know that many members of Congregation Temple Beth El came to sit shiva with my Grandpa. They were there for him for the many years he remained living at Kauneonga Lake.

My grandparents and parents always supported Congregation Temple Beth El. And as a community the people of the shul comforted my family.

I am so glad that services are still held at the shul on the hill, and that I have renewed my membership to support it and keep it alive.

http://congregationtemplebethel.org/

http://artists.letssingit.com/johnny-mercer-lyrics-autumn-leaves-wgtz6xc

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Two Wonderful Dads!

14 Jun

I was blessed with a wonderful Dad. He had a love of people, all people, with the biggest heart. He once told me that when each child and grandchild is born, you do not split what you have in your heart. No your heart gets bigger. And that was my Dad.

He loved all of us. I was his favorite oldest daughter; my sister was his favorite youngest daughter; my brother was his favorite son. And that continued with his grandchildren. Each one knew that he loved them the most and the best, along with all the other grandchildren that he loved the most and the best.

My Dad was not perfect. But when it came to giving out love, he was the best.

Along the way, he and my Mom loved not only their children and grandchildren, but also their children’s friends and their children. So many of my friends’ children called my Dad and Mom, grandma and grandpa. Some did not have grandparents of their own. Others just felt like my parents were their grandparents too.

And I have friends who saw in my Dad and Mom, substitute parents. And my parents loved them in return. My Dad was more outgoing in his attention. But my Mom always sent them holiday greeting cards and had a special word.

One of my close friends was in New York on business. I told her, “You better let my parents know. “ She did not call them.   So who did she see walking down a street in Manhattan: my Dad. He had a few words for her.

Some of our friends got to see Dad in action in the Catskills. His enjoyment in being at the house in Kauneonga Lake was legendary. And the friends who came up, be they mine or my siblings, were always welcome with love. They all got to eat steak from the grill, or perhaps be part of the Sunday morning French toast breakfast. And if you were lucky you got to ride in the boat.

Dad loved to share his stories, his advice and his hugs and love with everyone.

I think when I looked for a husband, I wanted someone like my Dad; someone who would love and nurture our children.

My husband is a much quieter person than my Dad. But he has been a great Dad. One of his early concerns, before we had children, was that he would not have enough time to be with them. As a physician, he is often busy. But he found the time.

It was my husband who often gave them a bath, singing “Rubber Ducky” in a great imitation of Bert and Ernie. My husband has a great singing voice. He once won a talent contest on a cruise ship singing Rubber Ducky!

It was my husband who read to them every night before bed, when he was home. My reading was never accepted. My husband had voices for every character. I loved listening to him read as well. He read the entire child’s encyclopedia to my daughter. My son wanted dinosaur and lizard books.

He read every Harry Potter book to them. Even when they were in High School, they wanted him to read these books! He would lie in our bed, with our children in the room, reading for an hour or two. When he said, “That’s enough for tonight,” they would beg for more. Sometimes he gave in.

There were a few books he learned to hate. He had read “Pippi Longstocking” so many times to our daughter, that he hid it on a high shelf. He is 6’3” so it was easy for him. Years later, my daughter and I were cleaning bookshelves, and there it was. “Mom, Look! “Pippi Longstocking”! It didn’t get lost,” she said to me when she found it   I just laughed. What could I say?

Because he had such a busy schedule, I often took my children to lunch with him at the hospital where he worked. Wednesdays in the summer time was lunch date with Dad. We would pick up his favorite sandwich and spend some time with him. They loved it.

When they were older, my children had a dinner date with their Dad each week. Tuesdays were my daughter’s date night. They would try out all sorts of different restaurants and report back. She was in seventh or eighth grade when they started going out.   Wednesdays were my son’s night. Our son was younger, so they spent much time at a local pizza place. Those meals were usually a bit shorter.

As a freshman in high school, my daughter came home one day with an important comment. “Mom,” she said seriously. “I feel bad for some of the girls I eat lunch with. They never go out to dinner with their dads.”

They had been talking about parents, and my daughter had told them about her Tuesday night dinner dates with Dad. Several of the girls commented on how they would love it if they could have dinner with their dads.   My daughter thought all dads had dinner with their children.

My husband does not think he was the best dad. He was often busy or out of town. But when he was home, he was engaged and showed them attention. We took our children on trips all over the world. He taught them about the night sky because of his love of astronomy. He loved to teach and share his knowledge.

I am so fortunate to have had two wonderful Dads in my life: my father, who was a great Dad to me, and my husband who has been a great Dad to our children.

They are different in many ways, but the love they have for their children is the same.

I hope all Dads have a wonderful Fathers’ Day.

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Watching Antiques Roadshow Inspired Me to Donate My Great-Grandmother’s Matzah Cover

12 Jun

 

Matzah cover made by my Great Grandmother Chava.

Matzah cover made by my Great Grandmother Chava.

Watching the Antiques Roadshow, a PBS show, is one of my favorite television experiences.   I started watching it with my parents years ago. Whenever they came to visit, this was one of their favorite shows. They got me hooked on it!

I love learning about different items of furniture, jewelry and knick knacks. It is a history lesson along with seeing the beautiful items. But every once in a while, someone brings in a special ephemeral item: photos, letters, a diary. In my opinion, these items should really be in a museum, some place where researchers and students and others can see the items and learn from them.

It drives me crazy. I even say it out loud. Occasionally we find out that the family did donate the item. Like when a family had the musical notations of the “Star Spangled Banner.” They donated it to a museum, and that made me feel good!

I often wondered: would I be able to do that. Would I be able to donate a family treasure to a museum? The answer is yes.

When my siblings and I were cleaning out our parents’ apartment we found two items that my brother, sister and I all wanted, but knew something special had to be done with them. One was a program from the 1930s for a benefit to help the Jews of Europe, the other was a cookbook in English and Yiddish to help immigrants learn to cook American meals.

My sister contacted the Museum of Jewish Heritage in Battery Park and asked if they would want these documents. The answer was a resounding yes. So we donated them. This way they will survive, and others who might be doing research or want to know about life for immigrant women would have these items. They will be protected. The curator told us that they had only seen one other program like ours, but it was from a Chicago event. Ours was from a New York City event.

The three of us were glad that we made this decision.

I recently made another decision to donate.

I am donating the matzah cover my great-grandmother Chava made in 1901 to the same museum. I have thought about this for several years, and decided it was the best choice for this family heirloom.

The matzah cover is made of beige linen and a teal silk. I think the silk was originally blue. On the matzah cover my great grandmother embroidered the date she made it in Hebrew letters and the words: “Seder shel Pesach” (Seder of Passover) in Hebrew. It has beautiful cut work embroidery made into a Jewish star (Mogan Dovid) with embroidered roses along the edge.

My mother gave it to me about 25 years ago for several reasons: first because I was named for my great grandmother; second, because I also do embroidery; third because my parents would come and spend the second night of Pesach with me; fourth because my daughter is the oldest grandchild. I think they thought I would pass it on to her.

But I will not.

The matzah cover was made in Galicia before the First World War. I think it was made for my grandfather’s first birthday, as he was born in 1900 on the first of Nissan. It came to the USA in 1932. My Grandmother took my mother, then age 2, and her brother, age 5, to Europe for six months. They stayed with my great grandparents. And my great grandmother gave the matzah cover and some other family items to my grandmother to bring back to the United States with her family.

At some point my grandmother gave the matzah cover to my mother. And then it became mine.

I used it every year for Passover. I would cover the matzah on the table before the meal. But as soon as the food and wine came out, I would switch to a matzah cover that I made. I did not want anything to happen to this cover because I was not sure how I could ever clean it without destroying it.

As the years have passed, it has become more and more fragile. I want it to survive. My great grandmother did not survive. She and most of my grandfather’s family perished in the Shoah. This is the only religious item she made that remains.

I also thought about donating my matzah cover because I had a mild infestation of fabric eating bugs. Ugh. They are gone now. And the matzah cover is safe. But part of me was worried. What if they had reached the cover? Perhaps there is something better I can do with this item?

First I asked my daughter how she felt about my donating this item. She thought it was a great idea.

So I contacted the museum and the woman who helped us with the other donations. She asked for photos.

And then she said yes, they would like the matzah cover for their collection. She told me that the matzah covers they had that were that old were all stained and in disrepair, while mine was in wonderful shape. Which is true.

I told her I wanted to use it for one more Passover before I donated it.

2014 Passover Seder. Matzah cover in the middle of the table.

2014 Passover Seder. Matzah cover in the middle of the table.

She asked that I take photos of it in use. Which I did and you can see here.

She promised me that anyone in my family would always have the right to come and see it privately when it was not on display, although we would never be able to touch it again. (Probably a good thing as fabric decays.)

In August I will take my matzah cover from Kansas back to New Jersey, and then to its new home at the museum. I hope by sharing it with so many people, it will have continued life, and perhaps help people understand how extraordinary Jewish life was in Europe before the Shoah.

I donated the matzah cover on August 12, 2014.

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