Tag Archives: Kauneonga Lake

Grandma Thelma Knows What She Knows

29 May

We always wondered how old my Grandma Thelma was when she celebrated her birthday. She insisted that she was born in 1906 and arrived in the United States when she was 16. This is a debate that went on for years, as her passport had her as two years older.

Her explanation was that she was so desperate to get out of Poland, she made herself two years older to get out. In fact when she finally got her passport and papers in Poland, the official said to her, something like, “I hope you have a safe trip and return safely.” When she got to the door, she turned around and said, “I will never come back here, never.” And then ran for home. Her happiest day was the day she arrived into the New York City harbor.

I have her passenger records from Ellis Island. She arrived as Tauba (Tova), from Boleslawiec, Poland, on November 7, 1922. An 18 year-old, single female, she traveled by herself on the Gothland from Antwerp, Belgium.

Grandma reinvented herself to Thelma. She stopped using the name Tova except in synagogue.

She lived with relatives, her Aunt Gussie, her father’s sister, had agreed to sponsor Grandma. Aunt Gussie had four children, three boys and a girl. But the stories Grandma told always revolved around the cousin who was her age, Katie, who was treated as a queen. While my Grandma said she was treated as the “deinst,” the maid. She had to work all day, go to the school at night, and then when she was in the apartment clean and work for her board.

When Katie would have her friends over, they would tease my grandmother because she was a “greener.” My grandmother also had to ‘serve’ them, and was not allowed to really just sit and visit. It made my Grandma mad, as many of Katie’s friends were also once “greeners.” It also made her mad to be treated like that when she was family. However, she and Katie did become friends, because despite everything, they liked each other.

It was a difficult life made more difficult because her Aunt Gussie wanted her to marry an old widowed man with children. And Grandma did not want to marry him. She had met my grandfather, Nathan (Nissin) who was a baker and either four or six years older than her (depending on the birth year accepted). My sister and I think one reason Grandma and Katie became firm friends is that she helped my Grandma in her romance with Grandpa.

This became a battle with Aunt Gussie. My grandmother took matters into her own hands by writing her father, Avraham Shlomo, in Poland.   She told him about her love for Nathan and the pressure from Aunt Gussie to marry the other man. My great grandfather did what any good Jewish father would do for his daughter, he investigated Grandpa’s family; found out they were a good family of Cohen descent, and approved the marriage. When the letter arrived from Poland, my grandmother got her way, and married my grandfather.

 

Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat in their wedding finery. Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat in their wedding finery.

Grandma always kept in touch with Katie. Throughout their lives, they did not see each other, but they wrote many letters. We remember whenever a Katie letter arrived in the Catskills, Grandma sat down and read it. They were always in Yiddish. And then Grandma wrote her a many-paged response. Although Grandma loved her cousin, Katie, she never forgave Aunt Gussie for the harsh treatment. It was difficult because she was also always grateful that her aunt had sponsored her to come to the United States and gave her a place to live, however begrudgingly.

In the meantime, my Grandpa and his Uncle Yidel (Julius) had a bakery. Their business grew. At some point they decided to separate. Uncle Yidel stayed in New York, while Grandma and Grandpa moved to New Jersey and opened their own bakery.

My Grandma was a shrewd businesswoman. She enabled the business to survive through the 1929 stock market crash. She had two children to support, but during the Great Depression she gave out food on credit to those who needed it.   She invested in the Stock Market, but at the same time she had money spread out in lots of different banks. I remember going bank hopping with her in both New Jersey and New York City. She would bring all her bank passbooks at the end of each month, to have the interest entered.

My Grandma is 36 or 38 in this photo. My Grandma is 36 or 38 in this photo.

Over the years, my grandparents became financially and personally successful. They had the bakery and the building it was in; they owned a small bungalow colony in the Catskills, as well as a winter home about half mile from the bungalows. They had investments. They had two children and five grandchildren. All was happy and well.

The memories of Katie A and her parents, as well as their treatment of Grandma, had stayed within my Grandma’s memories and were not really discussed until one day in the Catskills. A day I will always remember, because it shows you how small the world can be, and how connections make changes.

Both my Dad’s parents and their siblings were born in the United States. His mom, my Grandma Esther, was one of five siblings, including her brother Sam. Uncle Sam was a little different from everyone else. He worked for the New York City Port Authority, and he was divorced and remarried. I loved my great Uncle Sam. He had a great sense of humor and was wonderful with us children. His second wife, Sylvia, had a little yappy dog, who scared us all. She carried that dog everywhere. Aunt Sylvia was always perfectly dressed, blonde hair in a French twist. She expected elegance wherever she went, thus she did not like to come to the Catskills because she felt it was too middle class.

Her feelings might have changed the day they decided to finally take a ride up to the Catskills and see everyone. My father’s parents and sister and her family stayed at the bungalow colony owned by my maternal grandparents. So first Uncle Sam went there to see his sister and visit. Later in the day, he and Aunt Sylvia drove up to the ‘big’ house where my maternal grandparents lived, and where we had our bungalow.

Of course there were introductions all around so that Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Nat could meet Uncle Sam’s wife Aunt Sylvia.

When my Grandma met Aunt Sylvia, she said, “I know you.”

“No,” Sylvia replied. “I never met you before.”

I started walking with Grandma back to the house. “I know her,” she said again. My Mom heard. “Mom,” she said. “She probably just reminds you of someone.”

I thought it was over. No big deal. But a short time later, Grandma came back to our bungalow, where we were sitting outside. She walked up to Aunt Sylvia and said, “Sadie, you are Sadie. You were a friend of my cousin, Katie. I remember you.”

Aunt Sylvia…now Sadie, looked at my Grandma and said, “Tova, is that you!?”

And it was. They hugged. They kissed. They spoke in Yiddish for hours.

When Uncle Sam and Aunt Sylvia left, my Grandma Thelma had a new ‘best’ friend. They had so many memories to share.

And then my Grandma turned to my Mom and said, “I told you I knew her.” We should have known that Grandma Thelma knows what she knows.

This incident impacted my Grandma Esther as well, once she heard what had happened. From then on, whenever her sister-in-law made her crazy, she would say, “Sylvia…she is so hoity toity, but she is really just Sadie from Brooklyn.”

Thanks to my sister for remembering with me.

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Beautiful Skies Light Up Catskills Nights

27 May

“Do you know what weekend you are coming?” My sister asked, when I gave her the dates I planned to come to New York for my annual Catskill visit. “It’s the weekend of the Perseid meteor shower!”

“Perfect!” was my response. “Do you remember lying out on the grass to watch?”

The night sky in the Catskills is so beautiful. No city lights block out the view. The nights are so quiet and so dark, (and sometimes scary), it makes watching the sky and the stars special.

In the Catskills, it is crisp and cool when the sun goes down. We often spent the nights sitting out on the wooden lawn chairs watching the sky, while wrapped in woolen blankets. Sometimes we would put blankets on the ground so we could look straight up at the sky. This gave us a much better view. But the grass was often damp at night, so my Mom had to give the okay to get some blankets wet.

Watching the sky during the second week of August was our favorite time. How many meteors would we see? Who would see the first one? How late would we be allowed to stay up to watch? How many nights would we actually be able to see the meteors? Although August 12 is the most active night for shooting stars, they appear for a few nights before and after.

I also remember my Dad pointing out man-made satellites and telling us how we could tell the difference between them and shooting stars. (Man-made satellites move steadily through the sky, while shooting stars go quickly and then disappear.)

When we had our own children and started taking them to the Catskills, we shared the love of the night sky and taught them to count the shooting stars. We loved passing along this tradition to our children. Sitting out on a wooden chair with a child in your lap is so warm and wonderful.

Occasionally, when we were little in the 1960s and 1970s, we were also able to see the aurora borealis. It did not happen often, but every once in a while, to the north, those greenish yellow lights would shoot up to the sky from behind the trees, or so it seemed.

I still remember the first time I really understood what it was when I saw them. I was about ten years old. And one evening, while looking for shooting stars, I noticed a yellowish glow above the line of trees. I was worried; was it a fire? The adults assured me it was not fire, instead it was the Northern Lights, the aurora borealis lighting the sky. I still remember the sight of the dancing green and yellow lights above the trees. This is the spot where, in the future, we would normally see them. I remember at night always turning to this spot on our property to look for the lights.

Whenever I see the aurora borealis, and I have seen it several times in my adult life, I always think of one of my favorite stories about my sister’s husband. Let me set the stage:

The first point is that my sister’s son was a very fussy baby at times. He did his best sleeping when being driven in a car. My sister and her husband spent many hours driving my nephew’s first six months of life.

The second point is that my sister’s husband had not spent his childhood summers in the Catskills, so had no true experience with the night sky. He was a metropolitan New York, Long Island boy, who had never seen the northern lights.

That is the setting. Now the story:

One night, when their son was being fussy, my sister and her husband took their baby for a drive in the Kauneonga Lake, Bethel, Swan Lake area, part of the time along old 17B. My brother in law kept driving and driving and driving, for quite a long time, along the dark, hilly, curving roads. Finally my sister asked, “Where are you going?”

“I am going to drive to those lights…to that city,” he responded.

My sister knew there was no city there. And those were definitely not the lights of any city.

“You will be driving for a very long time,” she told him. “Those are the Aurora Borealis.”

He had no idea that we could see them in the Catskills. He was mildly incredulous, but he did turn around and head back to my parent’s home.

We had been getting worried. It was the time before cell phones, so all we could do is wait for them to return. My father considered calling the state troopers. But they returned before the call was made.

When they got back, and my sister told us what happened, we loved it! Even better, my nephew continued sleeping.

I still love that story!

My husband did not have that problem. He recognizes the aurora borealis. He studied astrophysics and quantum mechanics at Cal Tech (in Pasadena, California) for two years of undergrad before he changed his major and his college. But his interest in the night sky started when he was very young, when he was growing up in St. Louis.   His Dad told me how he took my husband to classes at the St. Louis McDonnell Planetarium when he was a boy. And my husband told me how his Dad slept through the presentations. But at least his Dad went with him.

My husband’s interest in astronomy made the beautiful night skies an added attraction and enjoyment during his visits to our home in Kauneonga Lake. When he came up, he would set a blanket out on the grass at night and star gaze for hours. When our children were old enough, he would take them outside to watch the sky with him. They would stay out there for hours wrapped in blankets.

My children learned the name of the stars and the constellations at an early age. They also learned at a young age that Dad would wake them up in the middle of the night if there was something interesting going on in the sky. In the Catskills it was easy to see these special sky events, which made them much more fun.

There might more lights on in the Catskills at night now. But it is still dark enough to enjoy the night sky and the meteor showers. I cannot wait to see them this year. I wish everyone happy star gazing!

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Boating on the Lake Always Brings Joy

6 Apr

Canoes and putt-putt motor boats that went no more than a few miles an hour were the only boats on Kauneonga Lake when I was a child. My friends and I loved to go canoeing. It was such fun. We did not wear life jackets then. We would just get a canoe and paddle. Our favorite spot was to skim over the water and enter the channel so we could canoe on Amber Lake. It was ever so peaceful there.

As times changed, boats got bigger. Sometimes when we canoed, friends would come by and purposely swamp us. There is nothing like sitting is a sinking canoe. We would jump out…abandon ship…then turn the canoe over and lift it over our heads as we headed to shore. I hated being swamped!!! Those boys!

But those boys with motorboats were my friends, and we often went out with them boating around the lake. Canoeing was disappearing. Water skiing was becoming a big deal. And, although I never skied, I was often the spotter, yelling when the skier fell into the water. This time on the late was still wonderful as only a few motorboats were out.

After I moved away from the New York area, my Dad decided that he needed a boat. My Mom was ambivalent on this purchase. But since a friend of theirs, my Dad’s best friend, sold them his old boat and trailer for all of $1.00, my mother could not say no.

It was a putt – putt boat. Yes, it had a motor… small. Yes, it could make it around the lake…. slowly. Yes, my Dad spent hours fixing it.. almost. But he was so happy. He loved to say to his grandchildren, ”Let’s go for a ride in the boat!”

Mom enjoying the breeze on the pontoon boat.

Mom enjoying the breeze on the pontoon boat.

Luckily our waterfront property and dock is and was very close to my cousins, both of whom are engineers, and very loving nephews. They, and later their sons, were my Dad’s support. I think they had special alert when my Dad took his little putt-putt boat out on the lake. Whenever we were out, within 15 minutes, one of my cousins would boat up to us and make sure everything was going well. And then they stayed out on the lake. Why? Because every once in a while, it felt like almost every time, my Dad’s boat would stall in the water.

One of my nieces believes she will carry the emotional scars from a water stranding rescue forever. She was so embarrassed that her cousins had to tow the boat back to the dock. For years later, whenever my Dad would say, “Let’s go for a ride in the boat,” she would try to hide.

My Dad’s dream boat was a pontoon boat.   And eventually he sold his little putt-putt boat and purchased an older pontoon boat. He worked on that boat for as long as he owned it, replacing so many parts and making it presentable. He just loved it. As did my Mom. They would go out on the Lake and slowly peruse the sites. They would watch the skiers and the tubers and the people on jetskis. They would wave to friends. In their pontoon boat, they would meander around the lake and enjoy the breeze of the lake.

They enjoyed taking their friends, children and grandchildren out. It held many more people than the little boat. And I do not remember it ever needing to be towed back to shore. But my cousins were always there when the motor would not start, or a plug came undone, or my Dad just could not get something to work. Thank goodness for my cousins!

We eventually told Dad that he should only go out on the Lake when my cousins were up. And we think when he was 80 he listened to us.

My Dad driving his pontoon boat on Kauneonga Lake.

My Dad driving his pontoon boat on Kauneonga Lake.

They were blissful days. I still see my parents’ smiles as they roamed Kauneonga and White Lakes in their pontoon boat. I hear the laughter and joy of the grandchildren. I see hats blown off into the water, and the exciting water rescues to get a hat back.

I have such joyful memories.

My Dad sold his boat the summer before my Mom died. It did not matter, he never spent another summer there.

My nephew waterskiing in a boat driven by cousins. Kauneonga Lake 2013.

My nephew waterskiing in a boat driven by cousins. Kauneonga Lake 2013.

My cousins still have boats and jetskis on the Lake. When I go up I spend my sunny days with them by their beach and docks. We have not put our dock in since my parents passed away. But when I go on the lake with my cousins, part of me is looking for my Dad’s pontoon boat. Another part of me is laughing as we zoom around the lake and talk about all the changes that have occurred in the past year or so.

Most of all, when I am out on the Lake, I think of all of our happy memories. How lucky we were to spend our summers there. And how lucky we are to be able to share that time with our children. Summers at the lake are the best summers.

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My Dad’s Sunday Morning Challah French Toast Feast

3 Apr

My Dad loved to make challah French toast for us on Sunday mornings. He would make a big production of it, even wearing a chef’s hat for this important event. He mixed his secret formula…it wasn’t just a dozen eggs in his batter; heated his cast iron skillets…the best to make French toast; prepared the bread…cutting it into thick slices; and getting the bowl ready to receive the finished toast…it had a lid so that the toast was warm so we could all eat at once.

Making French toast made him happy! It took him to a joyful place!

My parents and Aunt and Uncle after a healthy French toast breakfast.

My parents and Aunt and Uncle after a healthy French toast breakfast.

We would set the table. Putting out all the needed accessories. In our home we put sugar on our French toast, but when others came to visit there was also syrup as well. And there had to be cut up fruit: cantaloupe, berries, watermelon, honey dew. These were important side dishes to have along with the toast.

Once it was ready, we would all sit down to eat together. It still is my most favorite meal. I could eat French toast all day every day.

When we were done, it was time to clean up. Of course my Dad never cleaned up the mess he made. And it was a mess! That was the job of my Mom, my sister and me. But I did not care, I loved this meal so much!!

In the Catskills my father held a Challah French Toast Feast Sunday once every summer. He planned it to be on a weekend when I brought my children to New Jersey and New York for our annual vacation. My cousins, who had summer homes in Kauneonga Lake, were all invited. Sometimes other relatives and friends came up for the weekend. It was my Dad’s French Toast Feast and all were invited.

For weeks he would tell my cousins the exact day and time they were expected to arrive. It was always in the mornings so it did not interfere with time on the lake, because we would all be going to the lake later in the day. In fact part of the breakfast conversation was to plan events for the rest of the day.

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My Dad after an exhausting morning of cooking French toast.

My Dad was in his element. He lorded over the stove top. He would buy extra challah each week and put it into the freezer to be ready for this big event. He spent hours slicing bread and preparing his batter, calling my cousins to remind them…over and over. He loved the chaos of all the people talking and sharing and eating.

My cousins would arrive with their children and anyone else staying with them. We would put up extra tables. My Mom would get out a supply of paper plates and plastic utensils. (Don’t worry, we washed the utensils and used them again and again. We were environmentally sound before it was popular.)

We had orange juice, milk and coffee. Sometimes my Dad would call one of my cousins, because he forgot something. They would have to make a grocery run for him. And because he was worried there would not be enough to eat, there was always bagels, lox and cream cheese as a side dish.

It was always a special and crazy breakfast.

One year in particular was wonderful. My Dad’s brother and his wife came up along with two of their daughters and granddaughters. They usually were not in the Catskills…they were Hamptons people. So this was extra special. We took lots of photos. But cooking all that French toast wiped my dad out. He actually fell asleep immediately after eating, with his chef’s hat still on. (To be honest, that was not so unusual, my Dad could sleep anywhere, and often feel asleep when people were over.)

I loved our Sunday morning French toast breakfasts. When I became a Mom, I would make challah French toast on Sundays for my children. And when my husband was out of town, I sometimes made it for us as a special treat for dinner. YUM.

French toast at my home.

French toast at my home.

I still make French toast on many Sunday mornings, even though my children no longer live with us. However, my son still lives close by. I often text him a few days in advance to say: Making French Toast on Sunday? You coming? The response is almost always ”What time?” He always is on time for French toast.

I am happy to say that I have passed the love of challah French Toast onto the next generation.

 

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Grandma Esther’s Afghans Wrap Me in Love

28 Mar

Throughout my home are reminders of my Grandma Esther.   She spent much of her time knitting and crocheting for her three children, nine grandchildren and later 18 great grandchildren.

During the summers she stayed with my Aunt and Uncle in a bungalow in Kauneonga Lake, where my other grandparent’s bungalow colony once stood. Most days, rain or sunshine, Grandma crocheted.

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I still have the first afghan that she helped me to make, when she first taught me to crochet. It was the first thing I made after a scarf.  This afghan began life as a poncho. But when I got tired of wearing it, Grandma helped me find matching yarn, and we made it into my first afghan with my Mom’s help when Grandma was not around.  This green, orange, yellow, brown and beige afghan stays in my sewing room/guest room.  It is starting to fray, and the stitches do not look so wonderful. But since it has to be about 47 years old, I would say it is in pretty good shape.

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In my bedroom is the afghan she made as one of nine for her grandchildren.  My brother, sister and I each got one when we got married.  Mine is orange and green, because those were once my favorite colors (though not anymore). I keep it in my bedroom on a comfortable reclining chair.  When I am having a bad day or feeling sick, I wrap myself in my Grandmother’s afghan and feel only love and warmth.

My daughter has two afghans made by Grandma.  By this time Grandma only remembered one stitch.  So all the great grandchildren have the same pattern, just different colors.

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She made one afghan when I was pregnant and presented to me as a baby gift.  The other afghan she made at my daughter’s request, using the colors she wanted…pinks and purple. (My daughter was almost seven when my grandmother passed away.)  But the green, yellow and blue one was made in anticipation of my daughter’s arrival.

Grandma was 88 years young when she flew from New York to Kansas to be here the week after my daughter was born. My sister and her husband flew here with Grandma. Nothing was going to stop her from seeing my daughter. She stayed for a long weekend.  It was a special time.  And these memories are there in the afghan.

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A dark blue, kelly green and orange afghan was made for my son.  By this time Grandma has having trouble.  My son was born when Grandma was 92. Grandma had three great grandchildren born close together that year.  If I remember correctly, my Aunt helped Grandma complete these afghans.   She had several more to make after my son was born.  I think his is one of the last full-size afghan.  She made a matching pillow to go with it as well.

I keep his in a plastic bag in his closet.  When he was little he liked to sleep on the floor of his bedroom in a teepee wrapped in this afghan.  Now it waits for him to once again use it.  There is no room in his little college apartment.

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On the back of the chair I work in, is a small lap afghan. This my Grandma made from scraps of yarn leftover from other projects.  She gave it to my parents, who used it for almost 20 years  after she passed away, until they also died. When we cleaned out their home, I took it home with me.

Besides my Grandmother’s afghans, I also have ones that I have made.  A purple one for my daughter when she was born is one of my favorites.

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Each afghan holds love in each stitch.  The love I remember when Grandma taught me to crochet and knit.  The love my Grandma put into each afghan she made. And the memories she wanted us to hold with the little label sewn in each one that says “Made especially for you by Grandma Esther.”

A short update/ January 2022:  For the past seven years I have been making baby blankets for all babies born into my family, as well as for all babies whose parent’s invited me to their weddings.  Well over 60 blankets so far.  For my extended family, I make them in honor and memory of Grandma Esther.

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The Great Shoe Catastrophe

18 Mar

Spending the summers in the Catskills was so important to my brother, sister and I, that once we became of age to work, we looked for jobs in and around Kauneonga Lake.  We wanted to be able to spend the weeks in the Catskills and not have to join the long line of cars that went to and from the City every Friday and Sunday night/Monday morning.

For two years, when my brother was 16 and 17, his job was at a shoe store in Monticello.   It started as National Shoe Store, but then was changed to the Triangle Shoe Store. He worked five days a week.  Sometimes he worked during the week, but many times on the weekends, because that is when all the tourists were up.  For this job he had to be dressed appropriately.  No jeans and tee-shirts  and sneakers for him, instead he was in nice pants, a collared, button-down shirt and dress shoes.  This attire lead to what I call the GREAT SHOE CATASTROPHE.

It started as an abnormal day to begin with for us.  Not only was my Dad in the City working, but my Mom had left the day before to spend time alone with Dad at our home in North Bergen, New Jersey.  I think they had a meeting and a social event they had to attend.  My Mom decided she would take some items back to our house.

At this point, we were no longer staying on the grounds of my grandparent’s bungalow colony.  Instead we had a bungalow on the same property as their year-round home about 1/2mile from the colony.  Both houses sat on several acres of land.  It was peaceful and beautiful.

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A peaceful Catskills morning on our property.

But not so peaceful on this morning.

My brother was getting ready for work, when he realized he had no shoes.  My Mom had taken his good shoes with her to New Jersey to get the repaired or resoled or something. But she did not only take the damaged shoes, she took both pairs of shoes. All my brother had to wear was a pair of sneakers.

He went bonkers.  He was yelling, he was screaming. “How could she take my shoes! Both pair.!”  I have to be honest, I was laughing.  That is what a younger sister does, when an older brother is annoyed.

But then he lifted up a kitchen chair.  I don’t think he meant to do anything really wrong.  But first the chair hit the ceiling then crashed into the floor.  A t this point, my sister and I decided it was prudent to leave the bungalow and get my grandmother.  Which we did: we ran to get her, screaming all the way.

She quickly went back to the bungalow to see what was happening.  And then came back to the house, laughing.  With a big smile on face, she turned to my grandfather and said, ”Go back there.  Look at yourself.”

We stayed with Grandma, while Grandpa walked back to the bungalow and my crazed brother.  I was not witness to what was said. But it became family lore.

My brother raved and ranted about my Mom taking both pair of shoes and leaving him with only sneakers. And he had to wear nice shoes for work.  And why would she do that to him?  (This was before the age of cell phones, so he could not even call her.)

My grandfather laughed.  “Shmenrick ,”  he said.  “You work in a shoe store.  Buy another pair of shoes.” And he gave my brother money for shoes.

I am laughing as I remember the story.  My brother, for a long time, did not think it was so funny.  But later…the words,  “You work in a shoe store, buy yourself shoes, “ became amusing even to him.

When my Mom returned, she felt terrible.  She realized when she got to Jersey that she had both pairs of his shoes.  She had not meant to do that. But it was done.  However, she was not happy with the hole in the ceiling or the broken chair.

That chair matched her kitchen set.  And there were only four of them.  She wanted it fixed.  So it was put in the corner of the screened-in porch.  We all knew not to sit in it.  Eventually my Dad was going to fix that darn chair.  But he did not get around to it right away.  It sort of just sat there in the corner for most of the summer.

Several weeks later, we had lots of company one weekend.  We were all eating breakfast on the porch.  Along came my cousin to join in for the food and conversation.  But there were no empty chairs at the table. In the corner was a chair that looked fine.  So he went over to sit on it.  (Yes that broken chair.)

We all yelled at the same exact moment,  “NO DON’T SIT THERE!!!!!”

Too late.

He was down and out. The chair splintered into hundreds of pieces beneath him and scattered everywhere.

He had a horrified look on his face.  And said,  “Did I do that?”

None of us could respond because we were laughing … there was nothing else to do. The chair was a goner.  My cousin was fine, just startled.  We tried to explain what happened.

The great shoe catastrophe had taken one more victim.  But the outcome was important: my brother never lost his temper like that again.

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We are going to the LAKE!!!

1 Mar

I did not swim in a pool until I was 17.  Up until then I had only ever swam in a lake…one lake in particular: Kauneonga Lake in Sullivan County, NY.  My grandparents owned a small bungalow colony right across the street from the lake on West Shore Road. 

Kauneonga Lake is the northern side of White Lake.  White Lake and Kauneonga Lake once had just a small channel connecting them, but it was widened many years ago.  Amber Lake was off to the side, and could only be accessed on foot or by canoe because the channel was so shallow.

Each spring we would begin to prepare for the first visit to the lake.  Memorial Day weekend the bungalows would open. But the season would really not begin until the end of June, when school ended.  We would go up earlier so my Mom and Dad could help my grandparents prepare for the season.  My siblings and I would be put to work. . My brother and I would be scrapping paint off the bungalows to get ready for a new coat!  My sister was too young for those jobs, so was given a simpler job to do. 

Oh the excitement of knowing that summer was coming!  Once school was out, we would be there for two months of joy.  We would pack up the car, put on our pajamas, and head out for what was then a four-hour ride.  When we woke, we were there in our bungalow at Kauneonga Lake.

There, in the mornings we could watch the mist rise above the lake. In those days it was so cold in the mornings, we slept with our clothes under our pillows to keep them warm.  We would dress in layers under the covers and then get up.  Going to the bathroom in an unheated bungalow, first thing in the morning, was a COLD experience.  But even though the lakes were fed by spring water, in the mornings the water was warmer than the air, and mist would rise so ghostly above the water.

Watching the mist rise over the lake was a normal experience and also a beautiful one.  It was so peaceful.  There were very few motor boats on the lake then, just canoes and rowboats. 

My grandmother, who grew up in Poland, believed that washing your hair in the lake was the best.  So some mornings I would join her to walk over to the dock.  She wore her hair in braids on top of her head. But at the lake, she let it down and then would wash it with Ivory soap. She would wash my hair as well.  Then we would dunk in to the warmth of the lake and quickly wrap ourselves in towels when we came out.

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Swimming in Kauneonga Lake 1961.

Every afternoon, when it wasn’t raining or too cold, we would all go to the dock to swim.  Along side the dock were rocks were we could hunt for crayfish.  Some mornings we would fish.  I was an expert in filleting fish, which I did for my brother and I.  Later these skills were important when I worked in a deli and would filet white fish for the customers.  But then it was the joy of fishing and being at the lake.

When we swam, we tried to stay out of the gush. This was the seaweed and the bottom of the lake. The area we swam in was sandy because of all the activity. But on either side it was gushy. The older boys tried to make us have to step there. And in the gush were turtles and fish that would nibble at our feet.

We knew that a warm spot was a bad sign…and we would scream and yell when we walked or swam through one.  Who had peed in the lake?  No one would ever tell.

When I reached my teens, the lake atmosphere had changed. But I still loved it!  Now there were many motor boats and water skiing.  My friends and I would go out on the lake for hours, boating over to the cove where we could swim without our parents watching.

In the early fall, we would come back for weekends.  Even though the colony was closed, we came out to help do the closing of the buildings.  A friend of mine, who had a boat, came up sometimes as well, especially during Rosh Hashannah.  We would ride in his boat over to the beach at Camp Hi Li and sit on its floating dock working on our homework.

My parents had a pontoon boat in their later years.  It was perfect for my Dad to go gently around the lake. My cousins would keep watch over my parents when they went boating. Just as my parents kept an eye on my cousins when they were young.  Generation reversal!

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Kauneonga Lake summer 2013.

I still go up to the Lake.  There are so many more boats on it.  I don’t see as many people swimming. Most are boating.  My cousins have a large beach area where we hang out.  The ‘youngsters’ swim and boat and ski and go tubing and other water sports.  We, now the older generation, go out on the boat once in a while for a spin around the lake.  My cousins tell me about all the changes in the past year.

For all of us, there is joy just being by the lake.  Visiting with each other. Continuing the fun we had in the many years we spent growing up together across the street from Kauneonga Lake.

To this day, the words,  “We are going to the Lake,” still bring joy to my soul.

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Shopping at Sylvia’s In Kauneonga Lake

8 Feb

Every summer of my childhood and teen years, I spent some time in the S & G Outlet clothing store; or as my grandmother called it, the schmattah store.

Also known as Sylvia’s, this small store was an important part of Kauneonga Lake life.  Located on the hill just as you enter town and overlooking the lake, Sylvia’s carried a bit of all the types of clothing you might need during the summer and beyond.

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The town of Kauneonga Lake, looking up the hill to where Sylvia’s store used to stand.

Because it was the only clothing store in town, it had the undivided attention of all the girls and their moms. Sylvia, the owner, was a short, blonde dynamo of a woman.  She could sell anything.  And she did.

My sister, my mom, my grandmother, and I loved going to Sylvia’s.  We bought our bathing suits there each summer. We got jeans and sweaters, socks and underwear, sneakers and flip-flops, shoes and hats.  Everything you needed to survive the summer, you could get there.  It was the time before the big stores like Target and Walmart.  If you outgrew your clothes during the summer, as my brother often did, it was at Sylvia’s that he could get new jeans.

When my friend, Vicki, and I were 13, we were so excited that we were allowed to walk up to Sylvia’s by ourselves.  We both worked as mother’s helpers.  We would save our pay and then shop.  It was great. We felt in control because we shopped by ourselves.  But looking back, I realized our moms had no worries.  Sylvia did not carry anything we could not wear.  Sylvia kept an eye on us and knew both of our moms. And finally if we found something we could not afford, Sylvia would set it aside till our moms could come up to, perhaps, buy it.

We would often buy some of our back-to-school clothes at the store. One year Vicki and I got matching long, mustard gold sweater vests. We thought they were beautiful.  I remember we called each other to plan to wear them to North Bergen High School on the same day, once we were back in school in New Jersey.

The store itself was small. Just one large room with two lines of tables down the middle piled with clothing. A pathway between the tables allowed you to examine all the clothes. Under the tables were stacks of brown shoeboxes filled with sneakers, shoes, and sandals in children and adult sizes.  Extra merchandise was hidden under the tables as well.  Men and boys clothing did not take up as much room as the girls and women clothing. While along the walls were shelving and hanging items.  If you wanted to try something on, you went into the bathroom, which served as the changing room.

Behind the store was a small apartment where Sylvia lived with her son.  It had a little kitchen.  Sometimes when we went there with my grandmother, we had tea in the kitchen.  If the store was not busy, Sylvia and my grandmother would visit and have tea. We were allowed to go into the store and search, while they chatted.

My sister started working for Sylvia when she was 14. Sylvia always loved her.  She, my sister, had the most extensive vocabulary for a small child.  When she opened her mouth, you never knew how she would express something.  I believe Sylvia enjoyed this about my sister.  In any case, as soon as she was old enough to work in a store, she became Sylvia’s helper.

Once my sister started working there, we had an advantage over everyone else. Since she unpacked the boxes and put out the new merchandise, she knew when the best stuff arrived. When she came home from work, she would let us know what had been delivered.  If she really liked something, she would put it on the side.  I remember a pair of shoes, in particular, that my sister felt we both needed.  For that I had to go up and try them on.

When my sister was 14, I was 18.  My full time summers in the Catskills were coming to an end.  By the time I was 21, I was spending my work weeks in the city, and coming up only for the weekends.  I did much of my shopping at B. Altman’s in NYC, or at Little Marcy’s in West New York.

But I still shopped at Sylvia’s.  There was something special about walking up and down those aisles, checking everything out and finding the perfect treasure.

It was a sad day when Sylvia retired and no longer opened her store on the top of the hill overlooking Kauneonga Lake.

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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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Blueberries Bring Back Catskills Memories

29 Dec

I love blueberries.

Almost every morning I add them to my breakfast menu.  Some days I have them for a snack in the middle of the day.

When I eat blueberries I feel joy.  When I eat blueberries I travel back in time.  I am no longer sitting in my kitchen in Kansas.  No I am now sitting at a table with my Mom, sister and brother.  It is summer time.  Cool in the mornings, warm in the afternoons…the perfect weather even when it rains!

Blueberries bring me back to the Catskills at Kauneonga Lake, BethEl Township, in Sullivan County, upstate New York in the 1950s and 60s.

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My entire childhood, we spent the summers at a small bungalow colony owned by my maternal grandparents.  Situated on West Shore Road, just opposite Kauneonga Lake, the bungalow colony was the home to all four of my grandparents, some aunts and uncles, cousins, other assorted relatives, and close friends.  We spent 10 weeks together every year.  The happiest times were there.

We biked, we swam, we played.  It was in the Catskills that I stayed up late to watch Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.  And it was there that I watched the hundreds of thousands stream into town for the Woodstock concerts.  In the Catskills I spent time at the Firemen’s Festival, shopped at Newmans and Vassmers.   Worked in the town’s bakery.  I lived for the summers.

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 We were watched my five grandmas: Grandma Thelma and Grandma Esther, were my true grandparents.  Grandma Rose was my cousins’ other grandma.  Nana, or Mrs Anoff, was my friend’s grandma.  And Aunt Minnie was also Grandma Esther’s sister.  They ruled the roost.  When they wanted something done, it happened.  There were moms, dads, and grandpas as well. But the eyes of the grandmas were always alert.

Sometimes, when we got too bored or in too much trouble, the buckets would come out.

“Go pick some blueberries!”  One of the moms or grandmas would say.

And heaven opened.

Next to my grandparents’ property was a blueberry patch.  As a child I never thought about it.  But this patch was not just a few wild blueberry bushes growing on the side of the woods, no this was over an acre of blueberry bushes.  Someone at some time had to have cultivated it and planted the bushes in the symmetrical lines.  But there it stood…abandoned.   And so each summer it provided us with wonderful free fruit.

We would grab those buckets and run to the patch.  Filling the buckets was so much fun.  Two berries for the bucket, …one berry to eat.

“Look at the size of this berry!!  I am going to eat it!!!”

We would all run over to see the biggest blueberry ever!!!

And watch as it was eaten with glee and joy.   We all wanted to find the biggest berry!

The buckets always got filled. Then we would run back to our bungalows and show off our blueberries to our moms.  The next step was to fill a bowl with salt water and put in the berries.  The bad ones, the ones with worms or the ones not ripe, would float to the top.  These we put back outside for the birds.  The others we washed and ate.  Some got put in the refrigerator for later.

They made the best blueberry pancakes. I can still taste them.

But every once in a while, we were told to bring all the blueberries to Aunt Leona’s bungalow.  And there, my Grandma Esther and my aunt would make blueberry muffins for all!!!  Oh yum!  I can still smell the tantalizing aroma; see them warm from the oven and covered in butter.  It was a special treat.

So today when I go to the grocery store and buy pint after pint of blueberries, no matter the price, I am not buying my favorite fruit. I am buying a moment to revisit a moment of childhood and remember the joy of picking blueberries.

I am buying time with my parents, grandparents and aunts and uncles who have passed.  I am buying memories that I share with my sister, brother, cousins and friends.

I loved the blueberry patch.

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