Tag Archives: memories

Building Projects Are Family Friendly

30 Apr

Whenever my parents came to visit, I always had a list of jobs around my house and yard that needed to be done. My Dad was not the type of person to sit around and do nothing. If he did not have a goal, he would just get too antsy.

Over the years he helped my husband put together bookcases, desks, closet organizers and more. They planned and dug flower and vegetable gardens. And spent hours together walking through home improvement stores and buying much needed equipment!  My Dad and husband loved going to home improvement stores together.  If they spent less than $100, I thought it was wonderful.  Most times they spent much more.

One year they built a giant closet organizer for my walk-in closet. They went to the home improvement store and brought home information on how to do it.  We designed it. Then my husband and Dad bought all the shelving and hanging poles, and spent a few days putting it together. I have had the best use out of that one project.

My son enjoyed helping as well. The first time he really got into putting something together, besides Lego sets (which he was quite good at completing), was when he was in seventh grade. I think it was because he was taking ‘shop’ in middle school. He got the urge to really build and use tools in that class.

My son builds his first project with my husband and Dad.

My son builds his first project with my husband and Dad.

The first project they all worked on was a desk that needed to be put together for my computer. My Dad, husband and son set up a command center on my dining room floor near the stairs. Why there? I am not sure. I think it was because my dad could sit on the stairs and direct.

They pulled out the instructions, got some tools and spent the next hour happily bonding through building. It was fun for the three of them. And, eventually, they actually finished putting the desk together.

These type of projects were easy. All the pieces came in a box. They only had to assemble it. My husband and son put together three bookcases for our basement family room with these box projects. There were drawers and closet doors, which was a bit more of a challenge. But they were able to complete their mission.

Building his first independent project for the cats.

Building his first independent project for the cats.

My son wanted a bigger challenge. He wanted to build a place for our cats to hang out. We had seen some of the cat platforms in the pet store. But the one he wanted was expensive. At the same time, I was reading a magazine for cat owners, in it was the instructions on how to make one at home.

That was all information my son needed. He begged my husband to help him build it. So they took the magazine to the hardware store and bought all the needed supplies. It took several weekends, and several trips to the store. But the time they spent together building the cat hideaway and platform was worth much more than the money spent to make it.   An added benefit is that the cats love it.

The cats loved the finish project.

The cats loved the finish project.

But my son is not the only one to get the building bug. My daughter was often right there with them putting things together. She had the patience to actually read the instructions. Her Dad and brother were more likely to go by instinct. Her help was always appreciated, as she used her calm to keep them on target when the building was not going exactly as planned.

When my Dad had a more difficult time putting things together, my daughter, who went to college near by, was the helper. But she was more than just a builder, she was often a tech support. Spending a weekend with her grandparents meant also fixing the computer, the internet connection or a television’s reception.

She was not the only one to help, but since she actually stayed with them, they often saved up chores for her to accomplish when she visited. My brother-in-law and nephew were the usual tech support because they lived close by. But I think they enjoyed the ‘vacation’, when my daughter could take over for a bit.

Cousins putting together a coffee table.

Cousins putting together a coffee table.

Years later, my nephew moved to Kansas for his master’s degree.   My children and I took him shopping for a coffee table. It came, of course, in a box. The three of them had a great time putting it together. Their Grandfather would have been so happy to see them on the floor with the pieces and the screws and the directions. I sat on a chair and directed…taking my Dad’s role.

Building is fun. But more important, in our family, it brings us together for a glorious time as we reach a common goal.  Dad would be smiling.

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Why I thought An Iguana Urinating on Me Was Good Luck

27 Apr
The offending iguana before he was chased.

The offending iguana before he was chased.

I knew the moment the teen-aged boy chased the iguana that something was going to happen. The lizard had been happily sunning itself on a ledge about five feet above me and to the left just minding its’ own business and watching the ocean.

I was sitting on a little ledge below taking photos of my husband and a few others in a pool with two giant green turtles during a supervised turtle encounter. This was a preserve for all turtles on St. Thomas that were injured. Most were returned to the wild, these two were too badly injured to ever leave.

The shade and the breeze made sitting there perfect. While walking around the Coral World sea park, I had been warm and a bit uncomfortable. But here I was so comfortable that I put down my water bottle and focused on taking photos, until the iguana started running from the teen.

It went scurrying on the ledge above me. I looked up at the teen, and in my best mother voice said, sarcastically, “Thanks, that was really nice of you!” He got the message and left. The iguana did not leave. He was still, with his tail hanging over the ledge. I had nowhere to go, as I was sitting just above the pool in a restricted area on a small ledge. So I went back to taking photos.

My ledge.

My ledge.

Then I felt it.   A rain of urine fell on my arm and back, as well as landing all over my water bottle. I jumped up, luckily before the rest came out. I think I shrieked because everyone in the turtle pool looked at me, even the turtles. They actually swam over to where I was standing and popped their heads out of the water to look at me.

The turtles came to check me out after I screamed.

The turtles came to check me out after I screamed.

Sorry,” I said, “but an iguana just urinated on me.”

“I took some tissues out of my purse to clean off my arm. I could not reach my back. The biologist apologized. “For what?” I asked. “This is life. He didn’t do it on purpose. I was just startled. And my son is going to love this story.” We all laughed.

We always had lizards at home when my son was growing up: geckos, newts and snakes. He wanted a bearded lizard, but I ended that idea. So having an iguana urinate on me and defecate near me was not a big deal, just disgusting!

But the strange thing is being urinated on brought back a memory of my Mom. I was in college, but home for a vacation. My Mom and I went shopping on the Avenue in West New York. She was telling me about her days in college at the New Jersey College for Women, which was part of Rutgers. (Later it became Douglass
and then just Rutgers.)

In any case, she told me about the time she was walking to class and a bird pooped on her. She was so upset. She could not decide whether to go back to her room and shower again, or go to class. Class won out. When she told her mom, my grandma, her response was that when a bird poops on you it is good luck.

The best part of the story, as she told me, a bird pooped on my Mom, as we walked down the Avenue, all over her top. We were both so shocked and just started to laugh. We cleaned her off with tissues and continued on our way.  Later, when we told what happened to my Dad and siblings, we went inside. We were afraid if we told it outside, another bird would come along.

So when the iguana urinated on me, after I got over my shock, I wondered, “Good luck?” And I decided, “YES!” It brought my Mom alive for a minute as I remembered her bird encounters, which brought a smile to my mind.

And it provided me a wonderful story that I know my son (and daughter) will love!

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Becoming An Adult in Three Weeks My Senior Year of High School

22 Apr

When I was a senior in high school, and my sister a freshman, we were on our own for three weeks when my parents went to India. It was the trip of a lifetime for them, as my Dad was asked by the Indian government to help with the fledgling textile industry. Years later he would sometimes bemoan this trip as a foreshadowing of the death of the US textile industry, which lead to the demise of my Dad’s business.
But in 1973 it was an exotic trip. My Mom took a leave from her job teaching in West New York. She cooked and froze meals for weeks preparing for my sister and me. She worried that we would not eat.
My brother was on winter break from college but was already obligated to drive my maternal grandparents to Florida and spend several weeks with them. (They never went again. )
I had many emergency numbers to call. We had lots of family and friends to worry about us in my parents absence. My Mom had even made arrangements for a teacher friend, Lola, to call us each morning to be sure we would not be late for school.
The first night we were home we had 18 phone calls from people checking on us. 18 times we had to jump up and get the phone. There were no remote or cell phones then. Only the phones in the kitchen and my parent’s bedroom. My sister and I started fighting over who would answer the phone. We knew if we did not answer people would worry.
Each morning my Mom’s friend called. So did several others. It was almost impossible to get ready for school we spent do much time answering the phone. We finally asked them to STOP!
I was in charge of driving us to school each morning and be on time. We did fine!
And those prepared meals… We never touched them. We were invited out to dinner every night. By the end we did not want to go, but people were trying to be helpful so we went. We had lots of interesting conversations and meals, but we had lots of homework to do. When my parents came home jetlagged, my Mom did not have to cook for weeks. We just ate those meals.
Even the teachers at North Bergen High School were aware of our situation. My sister and I were good students, but Mrs Whitehouse spoke to me each day to be sure we were fine. And we were.
We did it. My sister and I kept up our school work, were always on Time, kept the house clean and the car running. Well one time I left the car lights on and a friend of my Dad’s helped us out.
My sister and I would laugh at a the backup emergency measures my Mom had put in place to keep us safe and fed. ( Much like the measures I would do for my children. We do become our mothers. )
When they came back from India they had many stories to tell. But so did we. Those three weeks turned me Into an adult. I knew from that point on that I could succeed in anything.

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The Joy of Jerry

13 Apr

Silly Uncle Jerry…as soon as my daughter could string three words together, this became her name for my sister’s husband. Silly Uncle Jerry could make her laugh by just entering the room. She anticipated that he would do something silly.

His booming baritone voice would vibrate through the room. Singing songs from Broadway shows, quoting lines from old movies, making references to obscure topics…that was Silly Uncle Jerry’s usual behavior. He used his wonderful voice for years volunteering to read books for the blind on a local New York radio station.

When he read books to the children they were entranced by the different voices he used. One time when they were stranded in an airport for hours, my brother-in-law pulled out a bunch of books to read to his own children, soon he had an audience of dozens of children and parents also stranded. He just kept reading.

Jerry in a calm Hawaiian shirt. Jerry in a calm Hawaiian shirt.

Jerry’s bright Hawaiian shirts echoed his bright and cheerful inside spirit. He had dozens of designs and colors to wear for any occasion. There really was no time that he was not comfortable in a Hawaiian shirt. (Okay, he did wear a suit to his wedding and all the bar/bat mitzvot.)

It was Silly Uncle Jerry who sat on the floor with my daughter and took a corner of her blankie and held it the way she did. It was Silly Uncle Jerry who called her Larabee, and would say, in the tone of a Maxwell Smart character, “Larabee….Get me the Chief!”

As more children arrived, including two of Silly Uncle Jerry and my sister, he became the ringleader for fun and excitement.   Raining in the Catskills with nothing to do? Wait, let’s put on swimsuits and run around in the rain. Wait, that is not enough, let’s play follow the leader in the rain.   Four little children under the age of eight running around in the rain with a giant bear of an Uncle having a great time!

 

Jerry and the children in Follow the leader. Jerry and the children in Follow the leader.

But then the leader, one of the little boys, decided he had to go potty….so he ran over to the woods, pulled down his suit and pees….and the other two did the same thing.   My daughter ran away and screamed as she came up to the porch and into the house. Silly Uncle Jerry fell to the ground laughing hysterically. It was perfect. But he got up and set a new follow the leader rule…”No Urinating when being the leader!” My daughter went back outside.

Jumping for joy in the rain. Jumping for joy in the rain.

It was Silly Uncle Jerry’s love of comic books that made him send comic books to my children for their birthdays. I wonder if he knew that reading comic books is what got his nephew to finally read. Eventually my son read manga and then regular books. Now he is studying computer animation. All this started with an uncle’s love of comic books.

When my daughter decided to go to New Jersey for college at Drew University, I knew she would be safe as my siblings and parents all lived no more than an hour away.

When she and a friend got stuck without a ride, after a program away from the university, in a horrible rain storm — the busses and trains stopped running — it was Silly Uncle Jerry to the rescue. He picked them up, drove them back to school and then home, skirting flooded and closed roads and spending hours to help. In the meantime, my sister was at home dealing with a flooded basement.

It was Jerry who could lighten up the spirit of a room, when people were feeling blue. He could make his eyes bulge out and run through a Marx Brothers’ or Laurel and Hardy routine.

Silly Uncle Jerry was not just family funny, he was a professionally funny man. Part of an improv comedy troupe, the Lunatic Fringe, he was perfect because of his quick thinking and tremendous sense of humor. Every once in a while Uncle Jerry and his comedy group would perform in Madison, NJ, area. My daughter would meet up with my sister, have dinner with them and then go to the show. She tried to see as many performances that Silly Uncle Jerry was in that she possibly could. He was in shows all around the New Jersey and New York City area, appearing in regional theater, like the Garage Theater, and off Broadway.

That was they way Silly Uncle Jerry lived. He was a big bear of a man, with a heart as big. He would do anything for his children and his nieces and nephews. His family and friends made his life complete. Most of all he loved to make life fun for his wife and children and sisters.

But it was he who left us way too young. And left a hole in the fabric of the joy of the world. April 18, he would have been 54.

We miss him.

But the joy of Jerry stayed with those who will always love him and the memory of him. Whenever I see someone in a Hawaiian shirt, I think of Jerry. And, in his memory, we — his family and friends — wear brightly colored Hawaiian shirts on his birthday to keep him with us on that day! And for a few hours he is here with us.

Lunatic Fringe:  https://sites.google.com/site/lunaticfringeimprov/home

Garage Theater: http://www.garagetheatre.org/

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My Mother’s Sunday Dinner Experiments

7 Apr

My Mother was a lovely wonderful woman, but she was not the best cook. She could make certain meals well and she made them over and over again. Her inability to cook was inherited from her mother. My Grandma T. was a horrible cook. Her hamburgers would sink to the bottom of your stomach and stay there. My Grandpa ate everything with ketchup in an effort to swallow. But she did have a few things that she made very well. And those, like her mushroom barley soup, were wonderful.

However, neither my Mom nor my Grandma were very interested in cooking. There were so many other things to do in life. So we learned to eat whatever was put in front of us, and not complain.

I think my Mom began to feel guilty. It was the 1960s. All moms cooked and stayed home. My Mom went back to work to teach elementary school. I think she felt badly that she was not home immediately after school and not doing what all the other moms did.

No matter the reason, one day my Mom made an announcement. Every Sunday from then on she was going to try a new recipe. A food she had never cooked before, and we were going to try it.

We had sukiyaki one Sunday. My Dad was a veteran of the Korean War and had spent time in Japan. He always spoke about eating sukiyaki. So Mom made it…once.

We had lasagna. It was a really hot day. And the kitchen was like an oven after she made the lasagna. So she decided we would eat it on paper plates, as she did not want to wash dishes afterwards. I will be honest, lasagna is not a food that should be served on paper plates. We ended up having to use three or four each to keep the lasagna from seeping through. Also, the paper kind of oozed into the lasagna.   Not our favorite.

There were a few casseroles she made that we did love. But these were old favorites like hot dog casserole and hamburger casserole. When she made these, we were happy. But these Sunday meals were becoming a blight on our lives.

Then came chicken with brussel sprouts.

Before I get to the meal itself, I will start my saying I had spent the weekend with my grandparents at their apartment and bakery in West New York. They also carried some grocery items. I wanted an O Henry candy bar for a snack. My grandmother said, “No,” because she knew I was going home for dinner. But to ease my sadness, she gave me an entire box of O Henry bars. I think there were 12 or 18 candy bars in the box. My brother might have been there that weekend as well. Because I see the two of us with the O Henry bars.

Back to Sunday dinner: I arrived home in North Bergen in time to set the table and help my Mom get ready for the big reveal. I still remember because on Sundays we ate dinner in the dining room and not in the kitchen. So we had to walk the food carefully from the kitchen to the dining room.

We knew immediately that this was going to be a disaster. The smell was horrendous. And the sauce was this ugly shade of puke green. We all looked at our plates in dread….even my Dad, who usually supported my Mom in her efforts.

My Mom came in, sat down, and said, “Everyone has to take one bite and swallow it.”

So we did. We each cut the smallest piece we possibly could, put it slowly in our mouths between gags, and ate the green chicken with brussel sprouts.

My Mom then stood up, went into the kitchen and returned with the garbage can. We all dumped the food from our plates into the trash. We were very quiet. No one said a word. No smiles of joy, nothing. My Mom had never thrown food away.

Mom then pulled out the box of O Henry bars and gave each of us two. Wow, O Henry bars for dinner! It was wonderful. (By the way, I have never, ever wanted to eat a brussel sprout.)

She turned to my Dad and said, “I am done. No more Sunday dinner experiments.”

We did not cheer, but I know I felt like I should.

You think I would have learned a lesson from my Mom’s experiment and this experience. But I guess until you do something yourself, you never learn. I am also not the most exciting cook. I have several meals that I make really well. And some that I have learned from friends that are easy to cook, and I make those.

But like my Mom, I felt that my children were not getting the experience they needed by tasting different foods. So I too, started Sunday dinner experiments. I actually went to a couple of cooking classes that two friends taught. (I got in trouble for talking, but really I was just trying to figure out what all those cooking terms meant.)

I made new recipes for about two months. Then I stopped. No one wanted to eat the new foods. They wanted the comfortable, family favorites.

My daughter, however, is a good cook. She makes all sorts of soups and interesting foods all the time. I think that came from her paternal great grandmother. My Grandma E served the most delicious meals and desserts.   So I am happy in believing that she will never try the Sunday Dinner Experiments when she starts a family.

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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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The Day My Sister Got Lost After School in North Bergen

1 Apr

The year I started fourth grade was extremely stressful.  We moved from our home on 85th Street and Third Avenue and away from my friends at Horace Mann Elementary School in North Bergen. We now lived on the other side of Hudson County Park, living on 78 Street and Boulevard East. I had to make new friends at Robert Fulton Elementary School.

Besides these two major changes, we also changed synagogues from Beth Abraham to Beth El. The only good thing about Beth El is that it was right across the street from the elementary school.  Added to all these changes, my Mom went back to work teaching full time in a West New York elementary school. She was no longer waiting for us at home after school!

All these stresses, but I am not done yet.  I was given a special responsibility.  My sister was only in first grade and could not be home alone till my mom arrived home from school.   My brother and I had religious school that started about 30 minutes after school let out. So I had a job. I was to walk my sister to a friend of my Mom’s, Dora, who watched my sister till my Mom came to get her.

I did this everyday Monday through Thursday before religious school started.  Every day, while my new friends played and snacked and had fun, I had to walk three blocks with my sister and return in time for class.

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Our journey was easy. We walked out of school on 74th Street and went across Hudson Street, then Broadway and finally got to Park Avenue.  I would cross the street with my sister. Then we would walk to 73rd Street. My sister would go down the hill to where Dora was waiting in front of her house. (An apartment building on the corner of 73rd and Boulevard East.) Then I would return to Beth El for my Hebrew School classes.

One day, in early autumn, my new friends said, “Come on…play with us just this one time. “  And I thought, why not?  I walked my sister just two blocks, all the way to 74th and Park Avenue.  And I said, “You just go one more block …just walk straight… then turn…and Dora will be there. “  I pointed out the way to go. And I left her and walked back to school, thinking everything would be just fine.

HA!

My sister and I remember things a bit differently about what happened.  But really, it does not matter, who remembers what. What does matter is that she did not make it to Dora. Instead, she started walking toward Guttenberg. She walked and walked and walked.  I am not sure if she made it to West New York.  But she finally sat on a street corner curb and cried.  A woman came up to her to find out what was going on.

“What is the matter little girl,” she said.  My sister said it was like a Shirley Temple movie, as she replied, crying,   “I’m lost.”  Then my sister told the kind lady the entire story. The woman wanted her to come home with her. But my sister had rules to follow.  You could not get into a car with a stranger, you could not walk to a stranger’s home and you cannot take food from a stranger. (You really shouldn’t talk to a stranger either, but my sister was scared.)

The kind woman called over a police car.  My sister would not get into the police car.  That was a stranger.

“I remember the policeman putting his hands over his eyes, when I told him I could not get into the police car with a stranger,” she told me.  “And then he just said, “Okay Sweetie.”

She could not tell them where we lived, because we had only moved there a few weeks before and she did not know the address.  She did not know Dora’s last name.  She did not know our phone number (but for days after we practice till she knew it perfectly).

However, she did know that I was at Beth El Synagogue and she knew that it was next to Robert Fulton.  So the kind woman walked my sister back to the synagogue, while the police car drove alongside.  When they got to the synagogue, they all entered.

In the meantime, my Mom and her friend, Dora, were frantic.  Where was she?  What had happened? They came up to the synagogue to find me.

And that is where they all came together.  The policeman, the kind woman, my Mom, Dora, my sister, Rabbi Nissenbaum and, of course, me. I remember walking into the Rabbi’s office with all these people in there!  My sister was crying.  My mother was between crying and yelling.

I knew I was in big trouble.

But it was not my fault!  My sister should have done exactly what I told her to do. She only had one block to go.  But was she in trouble.  NO!

I was.

Before you condemn me, you must know that I was just 9.  I was doing my best. I just wanted to play with some new friends. And I really could never understand how she got lost!

She always said she got confused.  I told her she just wanted to get me in trouble.   She told me that I wanted her to get lost.   My sister and I have argued over who was at fault for 50 years.  I still say it was her.  She still says it was me.  It really does not matter anymore.  The point is that we were both traumatized by the experience.

Looking back as an adult I am sure my Mom and Dora were traumatized as well, because I never had to walk her to Dora’s again. Thus the outcome was, in a way, good for me. But neither of us remember what happened, who walked her after this incident.

The one thing both of us will always remember is the day my sister got lost after school in North Bergen.

 

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The Great Triangle Shirtwaist Fire Anniversary Brings Memories of Grandma

30 Mar

March 25, 1911. A horrible fire breaks out at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.  The exit doors are chained shut.  There is no escape.  Young Jewish and Italian girls jump from the windows: many to their death. But jumping is much better than burning to death in the inferno inside the building. In the end 146 young women and men died.

Across the street a 13 year-old-girl is watching.    She knew many of the young women who worked at the factory.  She knew many who died.  She knew many who jumped.  She never, ever forgot.

I would call it a defining moment in her life. I say this because throughout my life, she always talked about it to my sister and me.  I became obsessed with this fire. I have purchased books about it, watched documentaries, and tried to understand what happened that day.

When my daughter was 13, 88 years later, she had a school history project where she had to interview a family member.  She interviewed my Dad.  And this is one of the stories he told her.

His words, my daughter’s writing:

“A story my mother told that took place in New York City. It is called the Triangle Fire. I will also remember this story to my grave.

There was a blouse factory that burned to the ground. It caused many young Jewish and Italian women who worked there to die.  The reason is, all the doors were nailed shut. The only escape was to jump out the windows, most of the women who tried, died.  Just a handful survived. The incident caused America to change their labor laws. The thing is, my mother lived opposite this building.  She watched the whole scene from her window.”

Two 13 year-old girls, decades apart, great grandmother and great granddaughter, now united with a story, remembering a horrible fire.  My grandmother never mentioned this fire to my daughter.  She was only 6 ½ when my grandmother died.  But to my sister and I, it was a common memory. We often listened to my grandmother relive this day.

It was the heat of the fire; the smell of the fire; the screams of the girls and the people in the street.   They were on the eighth floor.  The ladders did not reach them.  They jumped. They fell.  They died.   (90 years later I thought of this fire as others perished as they jumped from towers to avoid a deadly inferno…choosing to fly into the sky then burn to death.)

It was because of this fire that the women of New York City, and The International Ladies Garment Workers Union became a powerful force in the United States labor scene. The fire and its deadly toll helped this Union, formed years before, into the forefront.

As my sister said, I wish we could talk about my grandmother’s story in the past, because incidents like this fire no longer happen.  But when we hear about incidents in third world countries, like Bangladesh, where women and children perish in factories making the clothing that is imported to the United States, I know we have to continue to remember and to speak out.

I hope that these young women’s lives are never forgotten. It is because of this event, I think I have always volunteered to help women and children throughout the world and  am so active in National Council of Jewish Women.   And I carry my grandmother’s story in my heart and as a strident memory in my soul.

 

 

(There were not a residential area across the street.  So we think my grandmother watched from the across the street, not in her apartment as my Dad states.  No matter, it was still an important moment in her life. )

For those who want more information:  The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, 1911: List of Victims
http://www.authentichistory.com

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triangle_Shirtwaist_Factory_fire

 

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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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