Tag Archives: memories

It was a Small World at the New York City’s World’s Fair 1964/65

14 Mar

I remember it so well, even though it was almost 50 years ago: the World’s Fair in New York City.  My parents took my brother, sister and I there several times over the two summers it was open in 1964 and 1965.  We were all amazed by the rides and the excitement of being there.  Almost like being in Disneyland, but much closer to home.

Image At the World’s Fair. My brother took this photo. 🙂

My sister, who was 5 the summer of 1964, was in love…in love with one ride only ”It’s a Small World.”  She could have sat on that ride all day, every day.  The ride was the UNICEF exhibit, and later it would become a popular ride in both Disneyland and Magic Kingdom in Disneyworld. But in 1964 and 1965, it was only at the World’s Fair.

I am sure my sister was not the only person to fall in love with both the ride and the song.  And I am sure that my parents were not the only parents to buy the 45 record and bring it home for their child.  And I am also sure, like any other 5-year-old in the world, my sister was not the only child to play the record over and over and over again.

My brother, my parents and I were about to lose our minds. My sister not only played the record, she sang the song constantly, except when we were in school.  Then the record was silent and we all had peace.

My mother was still not working full time that year. She was a substitute teacher, who stayed home when we were at school. Cleaning, cooking, doing all the things a mom did in the 1960s.  So when we came home from school one day, it was not surprising to see our room extremely clean.

What was surprising?  The record was gone.  My sister searched and searched. She finally went to my Mom to ask.  And my Mom had a story of woe.  While she was cleaning she accidentally broke the record.  My sister could no longer play it. In fact it was in so many pieces, she had to throw it out because she did not want us to get hurt.

I was so happy.  I shared a room with my sister. And I had the worst of the song.  I loved my Mom’s cleaning at that moment.  To be honest, I did not even feel sad for my sister.  Just a sense of profound relief!

Fast forward about 10 years.  We were living in a different home on the other side of North Bergen.  And our house was robbed!!! A burglar had broken in and emptied everything out of my parent’s closet.  The room was a mess.  Papers and objects were thrown about, on the floor, on the bed, on the furniture.

And there, amid the mess, what did my sharp-eyed sister see.  YES, the record of  “It’s a Small World.”  It was not broken or thrown away.  The record had been hidden for years by my mother.  She had lied.   My sister was astounded.  “MOM,” she cried. “MY record.  How could you lie to me.”

My Mom said,  “it was driving us crazy.  I had to do something.”

I wish the story would end there.  But years later, I became a mother.  And I took my daughter to Magic Kingdom in Disneyworld, while my husband was at a meeting.  And yes, history does repeat itself.  My daughter, then almost three, fell in love with “It’s a Small World.” I went on that ride over and over and over again.  It was a drizzly day in November and not many people were there.  We could get off and get right back on again. And so we did!

But I had learned an important lesson.  I did not buy the record, CD or whatever music was available.  I could not, would not relive the pain of my childhood of listening to that song one hundred thousand times.  And I am not being over dramatic.

Each time we returned to Disneyworld, my daughter wanted to go to this ride first.  Even my son agreed once he arrived on the scene.  So I was doomed.  I actually began to like it. I was haunted by the song.

And then, almost 20 years after the first time my daughter experienced the ride, she got a taste of what, one day, will be her curse.  She was a senior at Drew University in New Jersey. For spring break, she and four friends did not go on a cruise or to Mexico.  No they spent a week at Disneyworld.  She, of course, wanted to go on “It’s a Small World” over and over and over again.  Her friends did not always want to go.  She tells this story.

It was their last night in Disneyworld. They were at the Magic Kingdom for the parade, and my daughter said,  “Hey, “It’s a Small World” is not busy.  Anyone want to go?”  And they said,  “NO. But you can go.  We will wait for you.”  So she did.  She walked down the long ramp by herself.  And suddenly a young girl came running down as well.

My daughter was surprised. The parents did not come.  They sent their daughter on, and looked  and  waved at my daughter.  My daughter was not sure what to do, but she said to the little girl, “Do you want to sit with me or by yourself?“ Oh she wanted to sit with my daughter. And she talked to her the entire ride.

My daughter was amazed that any parent in 2004 would let their child go alone a ride with a total stranger.  I was not totally surprised.

I figure, they were done. No more “It’s a Small World” for them.  And there was this nice young lady who would rather miss the parade than lose one last chance on their daughter’s favorite ride.  They deserved to be together. And they were.   At the end of the ride, the girl’s mother was waiting for her.  She ran off laughing and happy!  As was my daughter.

Oh the 45 record….my sister still has it.  Safe in her home.  A memory.  As for me, I have CDs of every Disney song…including “It’s A Small World.”

For your enjoyment:  https://disneyland.disney.go.com/attractions/disneyland/its-a-small-world/

Tags: , ,

Always Missing My New Jersey Diners

20 Feb

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

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

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

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

There is nothing like a New Jersey diner.

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

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

And diners are family friendly!

There is nothing in the Midwest that can compare.

Image

Mom and Dad at the Diner the summer 2005.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tags: , , ,

Knitting and Crocheting Brings Love and Memories

13 Feb

I am told that what I do is a dying talent.  When I sit in an airplane or in a waiting room, people walk over to me to see what I am doing.  What am I making?  How did I learn to do that?

I am crocheting with thread.  I use a tiny hook, with thin brightly colored yarns.  Sometimes I make up my own designs, sometimes I navigate the instructions in a book or magazine.  My favorite is to make doilies, bookmarks and small table clothes.

Image

I started when I was nine year old.  One summer my Grandma Esther decided it was time I learned to knit and crochet.  It became our summer project.  Whenever I was not running with the ‘pack’ of children,  I was sitting with my Grandma and learning a new skill.

My Grandma was always knitting…when she wasn’t playing canasta.  She made sweaters for all of us.  Afghans were important. She made one for each grandchild and great grandchild, when they arrived.  There was a yarn store in Kauneonga Lake where you could buy yarn in bulk.  I think my Grandma, aunt and mother supported that store.

But teaching me was much, much harder than she imagined, because I was left handed, and my Grandma did everything right handed.   Which is why, in the end, I crochet right handed.

I remember sitting on her lap on a wooden chair under a tree at the bungalow colony in Kauneonga Lake.  We started with large needles and thick yarn.  I first learned to make a scarf and a hat.  Knitting and purling; straight needles for the scarf, then a needle in the round for the hat.  I learned increase and decrease, casting on and casting off.

She taught me by holding her hands over my hands.  And soon the knitting was no problem.  I just sat next to her and knitted while we talked.  If I had a problem like dropping a stitch, she was right there to help me. She showed me how to fix it and to keep on going.  The idea was not for her to fix it for me, but for me to learn how to do it for the next time.

Once I finished the hat and scarf, it was time to learn to crochet.  This was oh so much more difficult.  At least when you knit, you use two needles.  So even though I was not right handed, I could still learn to knit the way she did.

But crocheting was different. Grandma tried.  We spent hours and days as she tried to crochet left handed to teach me the techniques of single, double and triple crochets.  She eventually gave up.

“We are going to try something different,” she said, as she put the crochet hook in my right hand.  It was not a problem.  I think as a left-handed person, you learn early on to do things with your right hand.  I had to cut with scissors with my right hand, I threw a ball with my right hand…we only had left handed gloves, so it made sense that I could crochet with my right hand.

The knowledge of knitting and crocheting that I learned that summer has stayed with me my entire life.

When my children were little, I made lots of sweaters, blankets, scarves and hats.  I made gifts for my friends’ children.   A close friend of mine and I knitted all the time, sharing patterns for sweaters we made for our children.  I enjoyed knitting more than crocheting.  It went quicker.

But when my son was four, I broke my right elbow and wrist.  And all knitting had to stop.  I was in the middle of a sweater when it happened.  I tried to go back to knitting after my arm healed, but I could not hold the weight of the sweater with my arm as I knitted.

I stopped all knitting and crocheting for years.  And I missed it.

Then one day while watching my son in his gymnastic class, I noticed a woman using thread yarn to make a bookmark.   I thought. “I think I could do that. “ It did not look heavy at all.  She was nice enough to share her pattern. I went out and bought a fine needle and some yarn.

Image Crocheting at our home in Kauneonga Lake.

I was addicted!!!  I made hundreds of bookmarks.  I used patterns from books. I made my own designs.  I made about five each day.  I crocheted at music lessons, gymnastics, basketball, bar/bat mitzvah lessons, watching television.  Whenever I had down time, I crocheted.

The bookmarks were everywhere.  My children’s school friends each got some. Relatives got them for every birthday and holiday.  I donated them to the school library. I gave them away.  Finally my daughter said in exasperation,  “MOM, CAN’T YOU CROCHET SOMETHING OTHER THAN BOOKMARKS?”

And I said, “Yes, I think I can.”

I started on doilies.  I have made hundreds of doilies of every color, except white….too boring.  For my son’s bar mitzvah I made 65 thread crocheted ‘doilies’ head coverings  for the married women to wear.  It was a great idea.  The men always get something, why don’t the women?  I was going to make them all green, my son’s favorite color. But my Mom insisted I made some quieter colors.   So I made blue and beige as well.  I still see women in my congregation wearing a head covering from the bar mitzvah.

I give them to people who frame them for their daughter’s room.  I give them to friends.  I give them to strangers.  If I have some in my bag and someone admires one, I will give them the finished ones.  It’s not like I do not have at least 30 at home at any time.

I became obsessed with the yarn.  When my daughter lived at home, I would sneak more yarn into my own home, because she could not understand my need for more.   “MOM, I can’t believe you bought more yarn. You haven’t finished the yarn you have,” she would say.  She wanted to do a yarn intervention.

But these were colors I did not have.  I had to buy them.  I have way more yarn then I have time to finish. And the crochet books! They fill a cabinet.  I admit it.

However, when I crochet, I enjoy the feeling of making something.  I love giving them as gifts. I remember the times with my Grandma knitting or crocheting, I have joy from giving them away.

Image My son wearing a scarf that my daughter knit for him.

So, finally, I taught my daughter to knit scarves and hats.  She made some for her grandparents and brother and friends.  And now she loves yarn as well.

From generation to generation, my daughter learned in Kansas,  because my Grandma taught me in the quiet of the Catskills.  And a tiny bit of me is up in the Catskills, sitting on my Grandma’s lap, learning a new skill, while part of me is enjoying watching my daughter follow in a family tradition.

Tags: , , , , , ,

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.

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Love of Mah Jong started in the Catskills

14 Jan

One rainy summer day in Kauneonga Lake, my Mom pulled out her mah jong set.  It was the start of my love of the game.  Soon my grandmother came over.  And for hours, my Grandma, Mom, sister and I played maj.  I remember it as if it was yesterday.

I don’t know exactly how old I was, but probably about 12 since my sister had to be old enough to play.

I just know that we sat in the kitchen of the bungalow, with tea and cookies, and played.  In the beginning it was slow, because they were teaching us. But by the afternoon, my sister and I began to play with more assurance, making the games quicker.

That summer we played every time it rained.  I almost looked forward to bad weather.  Almost, because compared to the allure of the lake and outdoor activities, mah jong was second.  But being together with my Mom and Grandma and sister, playing mah jong was just so much fun.

I was excited because my Mom played every week with a group of friends.  Each week they played at a different home.  When they played in our home, even though we were not supposed to disturb them, as I got older, I was allowed to watch for a bit.

Now I understood the game.  Now my Mom, my Grandma, my sister and I had our own activity; something just for us to do when the weather was dreary.

Image

Those memories remain.  And each time I play mah jong, a little bit of me thinks back to those days.  I now use my Grandma’s mah jong set, while my sister has my mother’s set.

I enjoy mah jong so much I tried to spread the joy by organizing a special mah jong program through a local organization. We brought in the curator of a Mah Jong exhibit at the Battery Park Museum in New York City. As a way to advertise it, we played mah jong on the radio!

Image

People listened to the lecture and slide show, ate Chinese food, played mah jong, and examined sets that others had brought to share.  An important part of this museum exhibit was people playing Mah jong in the Catskills. They even had a photo of people playing in a pool!

I play in two groups.  One group I have been playing with for 13 years.  We started because we live in the same neighborhood and wanted to get out a bit.  We meet once a month to play this game that has been passed down from our mothers.  All of us have sets that belonged to our mothers, grandmothers or aunts.  I actually also have my mother-in-law’s set.

When we started playing our children were in still in elementary, middle and high school.  Now the youngest are still in college. But the older ones are working and living away from home.  We are empty nesters. 

When we come together we share memories.  We have helped each other though emotional upheavals: death of a parent, children moving far away, a spouse’s retirement.  We listen to stories about vacations, jobs, volunteer work.  We have been to each other’s children’s bar/bat mitzvahs, high school graduation parties.  We are waiting for the weddings to begin.

We planned special events. Like the time we all had our mothers in town over Easter, and decided to play.  Moms played at one table, daughters at the other.  Two generations enjoying the same game while laughing, snacking and sharing a memory.  Sometimes we go out for lunch, or celebrate a birthday.

Mah Jong is so much more than a game for me.  I often say it is the game I love to hate and hate to love.  But in reality, it is a game that brings back so many memories.   And teaching it to my daughter meant so much.  When she was in eighth grade I actually volunteered to teach a group at her school for students who wanted to learn.  Once a week the students played for an hour, while I and several other moms taught.  It was wonderful.  In fact my second mah jong group includes another mom who taught with me.

Although my daughter does not play now, I hope that one day she will remember fondly playing with my Mom and me.  And I hope, that just hearing the click of the tiles brings back moments of joy.

In the meantime, I promised one of my cousins that I would teach her to play mah jong.  This summer I hope we will finally have a cousins’ game in the only place possible for us to play: Kauneonga Lake, Bethel Township, Sullivan County, New York.

Tags: , , , , , ,

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.

Image

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.

Image

 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.

Tags: , , , , , ,

Newer Entries →