Mom’s Stories

Mom’s Stories

Written by Elinora G. Rosenberg

 

Mom loved the beauty of the English language.  She always wanted to become a teacher and so she did, getting her high school teaching credential for English.  After her first year she was blacklisted because of her political views.  My family then moved to California where mom got a different kind of job to avoid having to go through a repetition of FBI-induced blacklisting.

Later in life, she joined reading and writing clubs where one of the teachers persuaded her to write down some personal reminiscences.  These stories come mostly from her growing up years in a small coal-mining town called Winburne in western Pennsylvania.  Her parents died when she was still relatively young; her mom first when she was about 10 and her father a couple of years later.  The five siblings were orphaned as the Great Depression was getting under way.

Mom and one brother went to live with an aunt and uncle; the other three siblings were placed with different relatives.  Neither mom nor dad talked about their growing up years very much, so these stories by mom contained many new glimpses into her life as a child, teenager, and young woman.  “Roots: A journey Home” describes the cross-country trip in a a small Chinook camper mom and dad made so she could attend her 50th high school reunion.  In Philadelphia, she reunited with the aunt who had helped raise her, and she found the cemetery and headstone for her parent’s grave.  But perhaps I should let her tell her story in her own words . . .  .

 

TEN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES

(prepared by her son)

1. A Clothes Remembrance

 

2. Do Re Mi- Without Me

 

3. During World War II

 

4. Father

 

5. In-Between

 

6. A Learning Experience

 

7. My First Job

 

8. One of My Favorite Successes

 

9. “Roots: A Journey Home”

 

10. Traditions-Schmaditions

 

 

Introduction

It’s easy to remember the date on which my mom passed away, for she died on Lincoln’s birthday in 1998.  Speaking of this coincidence, a friend of mom’s at her memorial service added the remark “This shows there are no accidents in history.”  I’m not sure how to plumb such a remark to its depth, or even if it is possible to do so at all, but it is comforting to know someone else thought this had special significance besides myself!

The only question remaining to me, is how did Lincoln manage to get himself born on the day my mom chose to pass from this green earth?  I’ll leave others to ponder and reply.

Luckily for us, my mom’s voice and warmth continue to reach out and touch her surviving family members in another way: through her stories, ten of which are here collected as a set of autobiographical reminiscences.  They are sketches more than anything else, a series of vignettes revealed in story-telling form.  As my mom had an excellent memory and considerable skill as a writer, these tales are well worth the reading: doubly so for my sister and myself, as we catch glimpses of her early life that she never before shared with us.

In short, she lives on for us within these pages as she describes the people and events of greatest influence in her formative years, from memories in Winburne and Clymer to those of World War II and after.  She did not waste words but economized in language and purposeful thought.  Though she often writes her sketches lightly, there are other purposes being served as well.

Though politically committed to the ideology of Marxism nearly her whole adult life, mom chose to express herself in simple human terms.  Her reflections are like those of any human being looking back upon a long life while trying to recall facts and feelings of a long ago era.  That she can re-enter into her feelings and thoughts so readily, even after the passage of so many years, makes it easier for the reader to accompany her as she re-visits the scenes and characters of her youth.

We see her and sister Ruth standing as little girls, bewildered by the news that their father had been taken suddenly and seriously ill.

We meet mom as a young woman working twelve hours on Saturdays (“nine a.m. to nine p.m.” for $2.50 a day) at her first job, taking three street cars to get home and falling into bed exhausted.  We see her hunting for cigarettes during the rationing and coupon-book days of World War II and watch as she turns it into a skillful exploration of her own psyche and will power.

We stand with her near an escalator and share her fear of attempting to ride upon the moving staircase.

We travel with her across the country as she returns home to Pennsylvania for the first time in 50 years, before attending her fiftieth high school reunion in Cleveland, Ohio.  We stand with her as she finds her parents’ grave in the “Hebrew” section of the Philipsburg cemetery as she speaks the words to them she had been saving for so many long years.

We travel with her from her girlhood in the small coal-mining town of Winburne to her “in between” years living with Aunt Freda and Uncle Isador in Clymer.

Ultimately, we travel with her the beginning pathways of her life  down to the present and to the gentle goodness of her life–the warm radiant love she gave to all of the family, to all who knew her, and which she still is giving to us, through these pages of her life.

 

 

A Clothes Remembrance, by Elinora Rosenberg

To many, summer is heralded by the bursting forth of the red rose or the sweet song of the robin.  But to those of my generation and social milieu in the midwest, it was a sharp change in our wardrobe that occurred Decoration Day.  Even labeling the holiday “Decoration Day” rather than the name currently in vogue,- Memorial Day- indicated a serious concern with adornment.  How we decorated the graves of the war dead took precedence, perhaps, over the way we memorialized them in our hearts.  This concern carried over, it seems, to the bodies of the living as well.

The holiday was a signal to put aside the drabness of winter- our greys and woolens.  It was virtually ritualistic for us young ladies to troop downtown to the May Company or Higbee’s to buy the mandatory white accessories- matching white hat, gloves, purse, and shoes.  The latter were generally pumps of the purest white- to be maintained by polishing before each wearing.

Polish at that time did not come in bottles with handy sponges connected to the cap.  Rather, a square of rough cloth was enclosed in the box and moistened by gingerly tipping the container over before each swiping.  No matter which room one chose for performing the chore, it was quickly redecorated in shoe polish white before the job were done.

Just as we were not deterred by this polishing act, so were we unaffected by the weather.  Many a summer began with unseasonably cold temperatures.  Nonetheless, we appeared on Sunday in our cotton or voile dresses with white accessories.  For it was summer now- everyone knew it- wasn’t last Monday Decoration Day?

Another sartorial event for us arrived with the High Holidays– Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (the Jewish New Year and Day of Atonement).  They did not occur on the same date each year, but always in the autumn– September or October.

For everyone who could manage it, the holidays meant an abandoning of the summer wardrobe and purchasing a dark outfit, including full accessories.

During the Depression, it was a tremendously exciting event for me to get a new dress.  My sister, Ruth, and I would be so thrilled that we couldn’t eat supper.  This is no mean measure of excitement since it was almost as hard in those days to assuage our physical hunger as it was to satisfy our yearning for aesthetic beauty.

The outfit I recall with the greatest affection was a black wool dress whose bodice was ornamented with tiny royal blue stones we called sapphires.  The small black hat came with the de rigueur veil to be raised or lowered to fit the degree of sophistication called for.  The black purse was leather– even “ordinary people” could afford it then– with a gold clasp on top.  The shoes were suede: close-fitting, narrow pumps, with a thick heel.  The small gloves matched the shoes.

We young people– regardless of the degree of fervor of our religious beliefs– felt it was important to honor our older relatives.  So, on these holidays, sacred to them, we dutifully dressed up, paraded through the crowded streets (only walking was allowed; no riding in vehicles), and paid them ceremonial visits in the “shul” (temple).

Perhaps I remember the costume I described for two reasons.  First, the blue of the stones– I was told– matched the bright- ness of my eyes– brightness due to the joy of the new dress, and feeling so feminine and grown-up.  The other was, no doubt, the betrayal by the weather.  With the World Series blaring forth from all the radios, it was suddenly summer instead of fall.  In eighty-five degree temperature, there we were in our black long-sleeved wools and suede shoes.  Why, I asked, couldn’t we have had this summer when we were supposed to- last May 30th- on Decoration Day- when we were all out parading in our cool whites?

 

Do Re Mi—Without Me

As we filed into the imposing music-room, I was filled with misgivings and apprehension.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like music; I enjoyed it, actually–as long as I didn’t have to sing by myself.  This was a required class; not the elected choir or chorus.

Mr. Jones had an outstanding reputation; the excellence of his vocal groups had been confirmed by top awards in state-wide competitions.  He was deeply immersed in music, dedicated and hard-driving.  He watched as the students entered and took seats in chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the room.  His eyes were quick and darting, his nose a thin beak, his mouth-set firm: all imposed on a frame that matched well.

To the freshman-class he explained the procedure.  He would play the piano and run through the song with us first.  Then, starting at one end of the row, each student would rise, give his name, and sing it alone.  Mr. Jones would accompany on the piano, and each student would be evaluated and graded.

My misgivings and apprehension now swelled to fear.  I could manage to scrape through in a large group singing together.  But I knew I could not carry a tune well enough to solo.  There was not much ridicule even if someone “bombed”, but even a giggle or titter would have been too much for me at that stage in my life.  It was enough of an adjustment for me to have left the small, embracing Junior High in a Pa. mining town, and to have enrolled in prestigious Glenville High in Cleveland, Ohio.  Was I to suffer total humiliation?

The fear was finally supplanted by deliberately planning and calculation.  I had heard that no one could escape Mr. Jones without singing alone.  If not for aesthetic reasons, he had a pragmatic one; he could separate the “bleats” from the “neats” for his advanced groups, or the school chorus.  I began to observe the procedure in its intimate details.

When one student finished singing, Mr. Jones’s head bobbed down instantly as he wrote something in his book.  Then the next person shot up, without being called on by name.  I studied the process long enough to be sure.  In my ferocious determination, I poked the boy on my right and commanded, “When she (the girl on my left) finishes, you get up at once and start singing!”  He looked at me in consternation.  Did that stern command come from that mild little girl wearing dark-rimmed glasses?  He obeyed me-and that’s how I out-witted the music-teacher at Glenville High.

 

Father

I ran into the store hollering “Father, father, I’ve been chosen to make the Valentine Box– let’s” . . . . Suddenly, I stopped my excited babble.  There they were- the Grownups- in a tight group around the black wall phone talking- very seriously- to someone.  Who could it be?  The Doctor- but why?  My sister (Ruth) and three brothers were all in school- so who could be sick?  Oh yes, even though I was only eleven years old, I knew all about Doctors.  Mother had all us five children close together- that’s the way they put it.  Her reward was something called Brights’ disease which took her away from us often (to the hospital in a nearby city) and then forever two years ago- when she was thirty seven.

But there had never been a Doctor for Father- never once was he sick.  He even looked healthy- ruddy complexion, sturdy build, bright dark eyes, and thick curly hair.  He was robust.  Now forty seven, he never seemed that much older than mother.  He took us on outings and picnics- in the creeks and rivers carried us on his strong back and taught us how to swim.  We even camped at Black Mashannon.  He wanted us to be healthy and care about the outdoors- just last Chanuka we were all given ice skates.

The store- often a haven for me- felt so strange now without Father.  I stood there- all my red and white streamers and crepe paper ribbons crumpled at my feet.  Our store always seemed so big to me- perhaps because our mining town in the heart of Pennsylvania was so small.  Father sold the miners everything they needed from the carbide for their head lamps, the mattresses for their beds, to the black shiny slippers for their little girls.  There were a few other stores in the town, but none the size of ours.  The white and roomy house was near, separated by a driveway wide enough for the new Studebaker, the sloping lawns, and grape arbor.  From the back of the house the vegetable garden stretched almost to the barn where the horses were kept.  And across from the barn was the chicken coop.  There was plenty to do.  Father was always working from early to after dark.

Somehow, I made my way from that phone into the house.  Gradually, I was joined by Ruth and our brothers.  Father was upstairs in his bed.  The Grownups whispered that he had gone to the bank after lunch about two o’clock.  On the way home- crossing a narrow log bridge that ran over the creek- he was stricken.  Some said the mustard sauce the housekeeper gave him for lunch must have poisoned him.  Others said the poison was some black tidings at the bank.  The year was 1929.

We were going though motions connected with daily living.  I know, because I remember when Ruth and I were at the sink, we looked at each other almost saying out loud, “could something happen to Father?”  At once, I realized no, nothing could- for he was both Mother and Father to us.  He baked our buttered, twisted loaves of bread, he made us root beer, and the wine for the holidays from our blue grapes.  He took us on special trips– getting up five o’clock in the morning while it was still dark outside– to visit relatives in other towns.  We were the only Jewish children in ours.  Father was a fine Hebrew scholar– he offered us strength and support in our daily confrontation with prayers and beliefs foreign to us.

The relatives used to talk about how much Frank (Father) and Mamie (Mother) loved each other.  One day after Mother died, when I came into the store quietly, I heard Father on the phone saying to a relative “If it weren’t for the children, I couldn’t go on.”

I knew I was his favorite- he named me after his mother Esther, and in an affectionate mood called me “Esteca” instead of by the fancy American derivative, Elinora.  On some wintry evenings, we stood around the stove in the store, while Father told me about the hard life in Russia when he was a boy.

He remembered there were many times when they had nothing to eat except herring and black bread.  I was starting to get a picture of his life before us- even before America.  All of us liked books and school- it made him proud.  He spoke of his dreams for me- college and perhaps- a teacher some day.

My vivid pictures were suddenly interrupted.  The Grownups told me I could go up to see Father.  He lay in his bed very still- his dark hair making his face seem even whiter.  I felt he was trying to let me know he knew I was there.  I took his hand in mine.  I tried to be brave.  The others took turns going in too.  Then we stayed downstairs.  I strained to grasp the word the Doctor had used- “a-r-t-e-r-” but I couldn’t.  It had something to do with his heart.  We waited and waited- time had no meaning- it was not like any other night in our lives.

Then I looked up and the Grownup coming slowly down the stairs with the Doctor said– “Your father just died”.  It was two o-clock in the morning.  We five children stood huddled together in the parlor.  The Grownups stood around pitying the Poor Orphans.

 

In Between

It had been decided: my sister Ruth, oldest brother Bernie, and youngest brother Billy, were to go to Cleveland to live with relatives.  My brother Sidney, one year younger, and I, were to go to Clymer to live with Aunt Freda and Uncle Isador.

We were doubly related to Aunt Freda: she was the daughter of Father’s brother, who apparently discarded her when he acquired a second wife.  Our father Frank, and mother Mamie, offered her a home with us.  While living there she met, fell in love with, and married Mother’s brother, Isadore.  We also had a special connection with Uncle Isador–Father had named him executor of his estate.

Clymer was a coal mining town in Pennsylvania, approximately seventy five miles from Winburne, where I was born, and lived until after Father’s death.  It was much larger, and unlike Winburne, had a number of Jewish families.

The front of the house was a wallpaper and paint store opening directly to the living quarters.  They consisted of two rooms downstairs, with several loft-like rooms above for bedrooms.  The kitchen was large and airy, with a board (“counter” would somehow grace it with qualities not possessed) running along one wall from sink to window.

Near the window stood a sturdy table and chairs.  This area, once supper was finished and the dishes cleared, became our reading and study center.  Dominating the front-center was a wood-burning stove, and a leather couch without arms hugged the wall nearest the front room.

A sharp right from the sink led into a good-sized walk-in pantry with a work table, shelves, and cupboards for food and dish storage.  It doubled as a laundry room on Mondays.  In the living room stood an upright piano, potbellied stove in the center, and not much more besides Uncle Iz’s newspaper-reading chair.

Even though we had running water, there was no indoor bathroom.  In Winburne, we were familiar with this lack in the row houses of our school friends, whose fathers were coal miners, but we had a fine bathroom, as did most of our playmates.  I began my menstrual periods during the two years we lived there, so this omission was of more than casual concern to me.  With two males in the family, in the pre-Kotex and Tampax era, the situation required considerable adjustment and judicious juggling of the use of the kitchen sink to launder Aunt Freda’s contrived feminine hygiene products.

Aunt Freda and Uncle Is had two children of their own, Dorothy and Harriet, five and six years younger than Sid and I.      Both parents, we felt, tried hard to be fair and treat us all the same, and they succeeded quite well.  Sid and I, probably more sensitive than usual, because of our recent bereavement and grief, would pretend not to notice any difference in the portioning out of choice parts of food or affection.

It was a surprisingly harmonious arrangement.  Aunt Freda was a strange mixture: a tall, attractive, motherly woman who provided a warm atmosphere with her chocolate cakes, pot roast, and chicken soup.  She was not formally educated, unsure of herself, and had difficulty making decisions.

There was an appealing shyness which she masked in social situations by adorning herself in good quality, latest fashion clothes and behaving in the de rigueur small town afternoon tea manner.  What people thought was the most powerful motivator for her.  Her voice had a prominent Pennsylvania “twang” which disappeared into a hearty laugh as her eyes twinkled and dimples formed around her mouth.  Somehow, every statement she offered seemed to end in a question mark.

One summer afternoon Aunt Freda handed Sid and me a shopping list and a five dollar bill.  With absolute consternation we discovered, upon entering the grocery, that the money was gone- vanished- and we had no idea how we had lost it.  We must have let it slip through our fingers while we chatted away.  After desperately and futilely retracing our steps, we sadly realized we had no recourse but to go home and face the music.  We caught Aunt Freda in transit on the stairs, her hair and house dress disheveled by her quickened tempo.  One look at our woebegone faces and she halted in her chore pursuit and sat down on the steps inquiring:

“What happened darlings?”  “Why are you crying?”

I meekly started, with Sid chiming in, “The money- the money’s gone- and we don’t know where.”

She followed up gently- “You looked- went over your steps?”

“Yes–everywhere”.

She was quiet for a moment and then drew herself up.

“Al right children- you’re not going to be punished.  It happens- yes, to grown ups too.  We’re going to forget about it.  I’m going to give you another five dollars- and a nickel for each of you.  It’s hot outside- you’re making a double trip.  Stop at the drug store- get yourself a nice cool ice cream cone.”

So she never heard of Dr. Benjamin Spock, she never read a psychology book, she never pondered the relative merits of theories of discipline.  But she surely made Sid and me aware at that moment- Yes, our mother was dead- she could never come back.  Aunt Freda was here and she was taking good care of us.

When Aunt Freda took us calling on friends of theirs or relatives, at the conclusion of the visit, we lined up near the front door to bid farewell to our host and hostess.  We had to don an unnatural formality while we declaimed, “Thank you for your hospitality.”  It’s a good thing Aunt Fanny and Mrs. Kaplan baked such tasty oatmeal cookies- otherwise my social impulses might have been forever aborted right then and there in that hated phrase.

This “hospitality” charade shouldn’t have surprised me.  For this is the same aunt- then in her teens- who protested after I was born when Father covered me with his maternal mantle in the name of Esther.  The family story- oft repeated- has it that Aunt Freda took one look at me lying in my cradle and announced, “With those big blue eyes she’s going to be in ‘sacyity’- so she needs a fancy American name.”  Through the True Romance tunnels of her memories she fastened on the perfect name for me– “ELINORA”.

I usually picture Uncle Is in dark, ill-fitting trousers, with suspenders and flesh hanging loose, topped by his white sleeveless undershirt, puttering about the kitchen sink.  A favorite absorbing task of his was preparing on a green glass squeezer fresh orange juice, painstakingly and elaborately removing every seed.  If Sid and I were handy he’d launch into his favorite health lecture.

“You see this orange juice?  It’s the most important thing you can do for yourself.  It guarantees health–listen to me–you won’t get sick if you have a glass each morning.”

If Sid or I were feeling impishly brave, we’d taunt,

“Yes, Uncle Is, but what about that cold and bad cough you had three times last winter?”

Undaunted he had his automatic answer, “But children, believe me, if it weren’t for the juice, I would have been much sicker–maybe even enough to go to the hospital.”

It couldn’t have been too easy for Aunt Freda to have him underfoot all the time, but I never heard her complain, even when he tramped across her freshly scrubbed yellow and green linoleum floor.  He was bald, his face more often severe than at ease, but we knew the goodness and concern for us were there.

Uncle Is devoted himself to the newspaper much the way we attacked our school texts and library books.  He studied them and by indirection so did we all.  When he couldn’t contain himself in silence, he’d explode, “Do you know what that Herbert Hoover did now?  Cut wages again– how are these people going to be able to afford paper and paint?– they’ll just have to live with the walls peeling down on them.”

Once when the Herald printed some of Hoover’s background, he added his post-script:

“Maybe he studied mining, but he sure doesn’t know anything about miners.

“Some Quaker he is!  Didn’t I tell you–we shoulda’ had Al Smith– so what if he was a Catholic.  Look what we got now.”

And the ultimate condemnation: “He sure is quick to lend money to big business–through that Reconstituted Finance Company of his–or whatever it’s called.  All his buddies–that’s who they are, believe me.”

We were thankful he had another outlet for his highly-charged reactions.  Uncle Iz loved the movies and took us almost as often as the picture changed.  At times he appeared to take on the very manner of Edward G. Robinson, Wallace Beery, or Lionel Barrymore.  He got just as wrapped up in the adventures of Tom Mix, Wm. S. Hart, and Hoot Gibson as Sid did.  He and Sid were especially fond of Laurel and Hardy, Buster Keaton, and the slapstick Mack Sennett comedies featuring the Keystone Kops; while Aunt Freda and we girls were all starry-eyed over the extravagant romances starring Clara Bow, Janet Gaynor, and Mary Pickford playing opposite Rudolph Valentino, Warner Baxter or Clark Gable.

Since there were no kosher butcher shops in Clymer, Uncle Iz periodically sent to Pittsburgh (the nearest large city) for an order of meat that mysteriously carried the rabbinical blessing.  He and Aunt Freda would huddle over the order-form late at night deciding, as if it were the first time, how many pounds of chuck roast to get, and whether two springers or one roaster would do, and should we get lamb or vealchops this time?  What a flurry of excitement the day the large package arrived in the model-A Ford the Post Office used for such auspicious occasions.  But the real fun came on our next movie-night.  As soon as we returned home Uncle Iz would prepare the luscious kosher hotdogs–plump, red, and oozing juice with each bite–and stage a contest to see who could eat the most.  The result was pre-determined, for who could compete with Uncle Iz?–but oh, the joy of the race!

When we arrived in Clymer I was still dressed as a girl-child with black patent-leather sandals, ankle socks and fussy, ruffled short dresses that ended at least two inches above my knees.  When I met some of the girls of my class, who were to become my closest friends, they tried to suppress their shock and disapproval.  After conspiratorial meetings with Aunt Freda, followed by exciting shopping expeditions, I was transformed into their idea of a young lady ready for junior or high school: long skirts, shoes with a Cuban heel, silk hose, and a bra!  A delightful new phase began–Frances, Mary, Beulah and I, in various combinations, took long walks throughout the town.  We shared our innermost secrets, our dreams, hopes, and ambitions.  There were discussions about Lorna Doone, Mill on the Floss, Julius Caesar, Huckleberry Finn, Homer’s Odyssey and other literature we were reading in Miss Appleby’s English class.

My boundaries were expanding.  Frances Mottey played not the customary piano or violin, but the ‘cello, with the same grace and talent she exhibited in her other pursuits.  It was exciting to hear her discuss music, its lure for her, and the conflict she was already experiencing in her choice of a lifetime career . . .

Beulah Long was the first girl I had met who was strongly attracted to science.  Even our crude little experiments in general science showcased her ability.  Mr. Ober often called her up front to demonstrate for the rest of the class.  She agonized over where they’d get the money for college–Carnegie Tech or the University of Pittsburgh seemed totally unobtainable, as did a career in medicine or chemistry . . .

Mary Belotti started Latin with me in Miss Withers’ class and was drawn by its clarity and complexity.  She had picked up considerable Italian at home and I had a feeling she’d shine in language–but it was doubtful what Clymer High would be able to offer her.  We could at least join her in verbal daydreams of the far away exotic lands where these tongues were spoken.

I was welcomed into their homes and developed a relationship with their parents, which for me was especially meaningful.

At the same time, Sid and I were drawing closer together, sharing family experiences, feelings, reactions and opinions.  Frequently we walked, rode our bikes, roller-skated, and in winter went sled-riding.  We were together often enough that strangers probably thought he was my boyfriend.  Sid was handsome–I thought so and others said so–tall, wavy dark hair, olive complexion, with fine, sensitive features.  He shared my intense absorption with school and my love of books.

My aunt and uncle arranged for me to take piano lessons with Miss Axline, the music-teacher at school.  It’s no wonder, aside from a lack of talent, that I never developed true competency.  After school, I would dutifully sit down to practice, but as soon as I heard the tinkling of the bell announcing a customer in the store, I would switch from scales to one of the pieces in my music-book I knew fairly well.  Miss Axline, a sweet, generous person invited me nevertheless to play occasionally at school assemblies.  Whatever harm was done to the music was compensated for by the psychological benefit to my developing self-image.

The musical highlight in our school was the gathering Wednesday morning of the student body in the auditorium for a radio-lesson by Walter Damrosch, conductor on the New York orchestra’s Children’s Concerts.  This to me was inspirational and to this day, whenever I hear Peer Gynt or L’Arlesienne Suite, I am transported back to that hall.  It was during those days, too, that I learned the popular songs, and despite the many gaps in my childhood memories I can still sing all the lyrics to Ramona, Springtime in the Rockies, Cuban Love Song, You Are My Song of Love . . . and other melodies that seemed to speak directly to my secret yearnings.

Such momentous events during those two years!  One of first magnitude was the kidnaping of the beautiful flaxen-haired Lindbergh baby.  Families who knew little of world events and rarely read newspapers, gathered to talk over in hushed voices the terrible details of this tragedy.  The events surrounding the deed, the gruesome discovery of the murdered child, and finally the trial of the accused, Bruno Hauptmann, took on more passion and significance than our daily lives.[1]

Occasionally Aunt Frieda would take the four of us to Indiana, Pa., a more important town nine miles away, best known for its Normal School where I dreamed of going to become a teacher.  In the home Aunt Frieda observed the Jewish dietary laws, but she wickedly allowed us to break them while on our larks–with an admonishment, “Don’t tell Uncle Is–no use exciting his blood pressure.”  Even though our Pittsburgh kosher hot dogs were beyond compare, the “trayf” (non-kosher) ones in Indiana were pure elixir.

Once on such an expedition, Aunt Freda led us into a darkened theater where we were utterly confounded to hear sounds coming from the screen–not only talking but music sounds.  Confused as we were by how they got those drawings and photographs to move before our eyes the way they did to make silent pictures, what were we to make of the technological triumph of the human voice jumping out at us from the screen?  It was Al Jolson in “the Jazz Singer”, still a good “schmaltzy” movie about a Jewish young man who has to break his old parents’ hearts to fulfill his dreams, but it was a small miracle to us in that little Pa. movie house more than fifty years ago.

Pittsburgh was the mecca for many surrounding towns.  The townspeople replied when asked, “Oh, we live near Pittsburgh” even if it was a hundred or more miles away.  So it was natural when repeated sore throats indicated inflamed tonsils, that I would be taken to a “tonsil hospital” in Pittsburgh by Uncle Is for the necessary surgery and an overnight stay.

The memory is vivid of awakening in the dark, with a painful throat that I didn’t feel was worth the promise of “all the ice cream you can eat”, listening to the rumble and haunting whistle of the trains in the distance; and later, struggling to swallow the proffered gruel.  When I was released we stayed a few days with Mother’s relatives in Squirrel Hill, and it was surprising how rapidly pain vanished and appetite returned and delicious chicken, soup, “lokshen kugle” (noodle pudding), and sponge cake were devoured.  I can still see Aunt Rose wink at my favorite Uncle Jack and query, “Are you sure this is the child who had her tonsils out on Wednesday?”

Uncle Is endeared his crusty old self to me forever.  The hospital had instructed me, “Gargle all day long-at least every two hours-it’s very important-so don’t forget”, but lo . . . I could not gargle.  I was apparently afraid I would swallow the medicine-so I would in a panic spit it out as soon as I got it into my mouth.  Uncle Is, more patient than I had ever seen him, stayed in that bathroom and worked with me, explaining and demonstrating over and over.  Suddenly, the same way one finds his balance on a bicycle, it came to me.  I could work the “locking mechanism” in my throat and throw back my head and gargle.  What a triumph for both of us!

Reward followed fast on the heels of triumph.  Uncle Iz took me all the way downtown to the Enright Theater for my very first live stage show!  I hugged myself sitting there in the darkness, trying to believe that this could really be happening to me.  The stage was a place of magic, peopled by gorgeous singers and dancers, lovable funny comedians, vaudeville characters, animal acts, tumblers and jugglers.  They wore bright shiny costumes with spotlights of reds, yellows, blues and purples playing over them.  And all of this was topped off by a live orchestra in the pit, playing spine-tingling music.  I felt dizzy with the wonder of it all.

Of the small cluster of Jewish families, the Levensons were the ones who mattered to me.  We went frequently of a Sunday to visit.  There was a veritable smorgasbord of boys, rather young men, ranging from grade-school through college.  And such variety!–the sensitive student, the vigorous athlete, the outgoing actor, and even a rebel.  I loved being at their home.  The older boys engaged me in conversation about my friends, our future goals, what I was reading in school, my ideas about philosophy and the conditions of the world.  No patronizing tone, no emphasis on the difference in our ages and experience clouded the ardor of these discussions.  Oh!  the sweet remembrance of those enraptured Sundays.

One of the sons, Weldon, if not a true rebel, was certainly more strongwilled and independent than his brothers.  He attempted to transport our relationship from the security of their diningroom table to the wooden swing on our tiny backporch.  However, my innocence and naivete discouraged him, although we maintained a friendship for many years.

I felt safer in my relationship with Gurney Fullerton, a classmate as studious as I.  He dressed neatly, wore hornrimmed glasses, and never made advances toward me.  I was delighted, dressed in a pretty skirt and sweater, to greet Gurney st the door when he came to call for me on a Friday evening to go to a basketball game in the school gym.  Afterwards, we would stop for a chocolate soda at Myers’ drugstore–surely, this was adventure enough for me, against a backdrop of my fantasies woven around the handsome Levenson boys.

One crispy autumn day, while we sat in English class, we looked up from our languor to see smoke billowing out of houses on Franklin Street not far from our paint store and house.  Miss Appleby, a teacher quick to seize on literary opportunities that came her way, announced “Now, class, take out paper and pencil–I want all of you to write an essay about the fire–what you feel and think as you look at it–in other words, your reaction.”  I could hear the fire-engine sputtering its way, the siren going full blast.  My heart was pounding.  Several times in the past, flimsy wooden frame houses caught afire so near ours, Fire Chief Corrigan knocked on the door and told us to gather our things and prepare to leave.

We had always been lucky–they turned out to be scary episodes, but our house remained intact.  This time I felt trapped in the classroom–helpless–sure our house was going to burn to the ground.  How could I explain to Miss Appleby and my classmates that I had lost my mother and my father–now, could it be that I would lose everything again?  The moment is frozen in my memory–not the importance of my composition, but the long-buried pain and fears lay exposed like the rich veins of coals the miners uncovered on a good day underground.

There were certainly advantages to attending school in a small town.  This I realized the suspenseful day we raced  to the gymnasium bulletin board to learn the names of the girls who had made the basketball team.  When I saw my name on the list, my joyous response was midway between a squeal and a cry.  We played girls’ rules, using half the court and fixed positions (baskets to be shot only by the center and forwards, not by the guards).

Now I remember our games with a tremendous surge of excitement, again feeling the tension, concentration, competition, and exhilaration.  These would surely have been denied me in a large metropolitan school with a much wider pool of talent available.

After two years, the news came from Cleveland from my oldest brother, Bernie, that he had rented an apartment for all five of us to live together and be reunited as a family.  It was a surprise to me that the tender roots put down in Clymer only a short time ago had taken hold so firmly.  There would be much to miss: Aunt Frieda, Uncle Iz, Dorothy and Harriet, and the close friends with whom I would not be entering senior high.

So strange now to remember, some of my strongest feelings were for my state, Pennsylvania.  I loved its hills; greenness, beautiful forests; its name, Keystone State; flower, mountain laurel; motto, “Virtue, Liberty, and Independence”–all seemed precious to me.  “Ohio” had a flat, dull sound, and it pained me to contemplate transferring my loyalty and devotion . . . I call this period “in between” and that it was–between the tiny coalmining town Winburne of my birth, and the large steel-producing city, Cleveland, where I would spend the next twenty-five years of my life, and between childhood and womanhood.  Those years represented in microcosm the life to follow; grief, sadness, love, fun, laughter, growth and development.

 

A Learning Experience

The telephone rang one evening last winter.  Our neighbor from across the street invited us over on a particular date to see a film, meet some other people, and possibly decide on a course of action.

The neighbor was John, a minister with a responsible regional position in the Lutheran Church.  His wife, Mary, worked in a child care center, and was active in the church at the local level.  The meeting was basically the social action committee of the church, augmented by selected residents in our little enclave.  The film, produced by Physicians for Social Responsibility, was The Last Epidemic.  It describes, with harrowing effect, the consequences of a nuclear explosion in the Bay Area.

After viewing the film we tentatively began a discussion.  Gathered together were young professional couples with small children, students, older couples with children already raised, single men and women, and an entire family in attendance.  The latter interested my husband Lee and me.  The teenage daughter had assumed the leadership of the meeting, capably handling the discussion, and especially the mechanics of the petition drive to collect signatures to place the Nuclear Freeze initiative on the ballot in November.  Her elementary school age brother asked questions or made comments that certainly did not have their origin in Saturday morning cartoons.  The parents relegated pride to a position below their own absorption with some of the more complex, knotty aspects of the worldwide situation.

Lee and I listened and later we both spoke.  Our opinions, experiences, and recommendations were treated with respect and thoughtful consideration.

In our wide-ranging activities in the past in the movement loosely labeled The Left, we were accustomed to instigating action, organizing others.  We, also, had unsavory opinions of the heavy-handed dogma of the Lutheran Church.  This evening was truly turning out to be a learning experience.  Of course, we realized the social action committee was the vanguard of the church; part of the concern was the wisest course to pursue in winning over the less advanced congregation at large.

Nonetheless, the level of understanding, the extensiveness of knowledge, and capacity for exploring solutions involving sharply controversial issues- were all truly amazing.  Lee and I were possibly the first Jews many there assembled had ever worked with or associated with socially.   As we munched on our cheese and sipped our wine, a closeness developed, a sense of sharing and caring.  In the months that followed, as we carried out actions decided upon that night, our respect for John and Mary grew.  We will never have to be neighbors who upon casually running into each other out front mumble, “Have a nice day”.

We know it’s not merely the day we are concerned with, but the world.

Elinora Rosenberg

 

My First Job, by Elinora Rosenberg

When I was a senior in high school, I believed the time had come to step out of my ivory tower, and to enter the real work-world.  A relative owned a department-type store on the West Side of Cleveland, where my sister Ruth and I were to be granted the opportunity to work as salespersons every Saturday.  Our hours were from nine a.m. to nine p.m.  We were to receive $2.50 each.

The Jewish community in Cleveland was based on the East Side, so going over the Lorraine bridge by trolley seemed to us like crossing to another country.  Our city was renowned for its rainbow of ethnic groups, particularly from middle and eastern Europe.  Their settlements were largely on the West Side.

The markets stretched for blocks, hawking an incredible array of merchandise.  The store where we went to work was fronted by a succession of fruit and vegetable stalls.  The street was crowded all day Saturday with families juggling purchases of tomatoes and radishes with their clothing needs.

Mr. Kramer was assisted by his son and daughter– both of them experienced, sophisticated, and intimidating to Ruth and me.

He explained to us in his clearest accent how we should handle each customer, leaving to our own imaginations what the most effective approach would be.  He demonstrated how you walked past the rack of newest dresses to that of last year’s styles.  I could feel my first clash of ivory-tower and work ethics.  He also suggested ways to add to a sale: the housedress called for a petticoat– and why not shoes?

I shyly plunged in.  The young Slovenian woman and I were getting along fine.  It was before Easter, when a fresh, bright new outfit for Church and parading was mandatory.  We selected together the dress, shoes, and hat.  Then I suggested a darling little matching purse for another fifty cents.  It turned out she didn’t have enough money for what I felt was the necessary elegant finish.  So I went to the hiding place between the shelves for my own purse, extracted the money, and lo! her outfit was completed.

We were busy all day long walking the full length of the store countless times.  There was so much to learn besides the right approach: adapting my language to the level of the customer (often an immigrant with scant English); handling all the finan- cial transactions, including the manual cash registers; measuring drygoods and oil-cloth, and estimating correctly sizes for men’s workpants to toddlers’ rompers.  The one bright spot in the long, hard day was leaving the store for lunch.  I could hurl myself into the market maelstrom and observe the whole, new scene.

Another big treat was Goldman’s delicatessen and restaurant.

Their son Harry went to Glenville High, so I felt right at home.

I wondered why their business was on the West Side market instead of the East Side.  Eating in a restaurant was a novel experience: a Jewish one was, to me, a small miracle.

It was hard to race through the meal, trying to rest my feet and legs all the while, and return to the store, out of the bright sunshine for another eight hours.  After the day was over, we helped straighten out the stock, collared our $2.50 pay, and stepped outside to do our own shopping.  We bought three bunches of radishes for a nickel, a peck-sized basket of tomatoes for a quarter, and continued on down the line until we could carry no more on the three different trolleys we had to ride home.

We limped into our apartment, too tired to eat.  Our ankles were swollen and our feet more.  We got the basins to soak our feet in warm water.  When we finished, we put away the fruit and vegetables, and crawled into bed.

So, this was the world of real work.

 

One of My Favorite Successes

The year was 1943.  I came back to my office triumphant, clutching an airplane ticket in my hand.  Soldier-husband Lee was ill in an army hospital in Little Falls, Minnesota.  I beamed to my colleagues in the U. S. Engineer’s Office in Wash., D.C. that I was departing for Minnesota by plane the following Monday.  They responded, half in astonishment half in disbelief, “Look who’s going up in a plane– she’s afraid to go on an escalator– but she’s flying half-way across the country.”

The shaft hit its mark– but not quite bull’s-eye.  I did go on escalators–but up only–not down.  How explain the difference, let alone the fear itself?  To go up seemed to me an unthreatening procedure; one stepped on much as one does any flight of stairs not in a state of mobility.  Then one rose slowly with the floor receding gradually behind.  However, to descend was a totally different matter.  One was already staring down–the stairs seemingly moving at a dizzying pace, and the floor at least a chasm below.  How to put one’s feet on that moving ladder without being able to halt it a second, and without being able to focus one’s eyes on something flat and stable nearby?  No matter how many times I resolutely approached this snaking structure, I became faint of heart when it came to the critical moment–planting my right or left foot on the first step.  I would slink away, seeking out either an elevator or an unbarricaded normal stairway.

On our first great adventure to Europe in 1966 my nemesis confronted me dramatically in Poland and the USSR.  In Warsaw we were to attend a performance of the folk opera, Halka, in their new, beautiful concert hall.  Suddenly, I learned the only way to proceed, after entry into the hall, was by steep escalators.  Hanging on to Lee I managed to stumble and stay on until the proper level was reached.

In Moscow it was far worse.  We had been invited to visit sisters of a friend from S.F. in their apartment.  We got our directions, and I was excited to learn we were going to have the chance to ride in the renowned subway with its beautiful art: tiles, sculptures and paintings and murals.  What was not so renowned was what I discovered with absolute Horror: the cavernous depths of the escalators leading down to this underworld of beauty.  The escalators move such enormous numbers of people, they operate at three times the speed of ours.  Finally, I realized we had gone too far–attempted too much.  No, this was beyond the reach of anyone with acrophobia, vertigo–whatever others had to say about my having flown in some twenty different planes since our trip began.  This could not be done.  But–alas–it had to be.  So I grabbed Lee’s arm in a pre-death vise, closed my eyes, and stepped forward.

I thought I screamed all the way down–but no one seemed to hear–thus did I learn there must be an internal silent scream.

Surely such experiences would have to increase my resolve to conquer escalators upon our return to the United States.  Lee was valiant, often more so than I.  Every trip to a department store was another lesson, another trial by fire.  I also fought the solitary battle, which led to my becoming an expert on the location of every elevator and stairway in the Bay Area emporiums.

Finally, one fateful day Lee happened to say, “As you step on, look only at the first step, and clutch the rail with your right hand.”  Ordinary enough words after all the others used during our struggles to overcome my fears.  I did as he directed, and lo! . . . it worked!  No longer te feeling that I would be hurled headlong down into space.  I was anchored.  I was firm.  I  was secure.  With bravado, I soon was showing off I could even look down as the solidity moved away.  And, triumph of triumphs, I eventually had no use for meek little souls who stood still, patiently waiting for the moving steps to transport them to their destinations.  I was a busy person.  I had no time.  I had to walk, or run, down the moving stairway!  Fear of escalators– what is that?

 

During World War II

During World War II reports filtered in of heroic actions from far-flung battlefields in places so new and strange to us, we often couldn’t even pronounce their names.  The valiant were honored, rewarded, and decorated.  But there on the home front in Cleveland, Ohio, I was waging my own gigantic battle- with no recognition nor acclaim.  This battle was the fight to keep on smoking– despite the seeming disappearance of the cigarette.

Life with baby Robin (husband Lee overseas) became one long, arduous campaign to locate cigarettes.  The focal point of each day became the desperate quest for a pack of cigarettes.  I operated via hearsay, rumor, overheard whispers, or even occasionally, direct information.  No drug store, corner grocery, or tobacco shop was too far for Robin, her carriage, or me.  We would venture forth to any neighborhood.  Tactics were called for.  After all, I had my pride.  I just couldn’t walk into a strange shop begging for a pack of Wings.  Therefore, I divided up Robin’s needs into minuscule portions– a small can of Similac for her formula here, a bottle or two there, a pair of rubber pants somewhere else– so that I could find a valid reason for entering the enemy camp daily.

Torment came in two different forms. It was so frustratingly easy to walk into any drug store and buy Lee a can of tobacco for his pipe– to enclose in my regular “care” packages.

The second came from the movies..  The star– Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, or a score of others– would ever so casually light up a cigarette.  While I concentrated on her smoking– all concern for the plot or characterization now forgotten– I would, with great disbelief, after two or three puffs see her cruelly crush out the cigarette.  How I longed for the ash tray cleaning concession on that set.

Many days the hunt failed to bring a quarry.  I made an effort during the war to write to Lee every day.  On one of these “empty” days, I couldn’t begin to write until I had a cigarette.

I searched through everybody’s coats and jackets- every pocket- hoping for some small reward.  Each ash tray was also pounced upon.  Such a concentrated search took time and patience.  Often Lee’s letter didn’t get started until one o’clock in the morning.

Twenty years is a long time– a long time to smoke a pack of Camels every day.  It began to appear as if I would go on doing just that for another twenty years- or the rest of my life.

In the mid-fifties, we had our first cancer scare.  Our family now consisted of father Lee (still addicted to his pipe rather than cigarettes), mother Elly, and two children, son Roger, and daughter Robin.  Lee and I began our discussion with the frightening new medical reports, the possible threat of cancer from smoking, and our hard-felt responsibilities to our family.  Soon we were far afield, ploughing through some behavior psychology and home-spun philosophy– man’s superiority to lower animals based on his capacity to reason.  Certainly not a fresh premise.  But what we were probing now was whether the mind could still dominate and win, even if certain elemental, sensual pleasures and feelings were involved.

There was an explosion of interest after the war in psychiatry, medicine, pharmaceutical discoveries, and mental health.  We were all “Spocking and Geselling” our children to death.  This was the time for young parents to rally ’round the hearth and do what was best for the young ones- even if it might mean doing something good for ourselves.

Certainly, Lee and I were in agreement regarding our loathing of the neatly-subsidized tobacco giants, luring into their market ever younger customers here and abroad.  But such cerebral-fed emotions had not stopped my smoking before.

Strange, I was one of those- shall we say fortunate?- addicts, who suffered no visible evil effects.  No stained teeth nor fingers, no respiratory ailments, no outside nervousness, and no doctor issuing an ultimatum to stop.  This, I thought, was going to be tougher without such compelling motivation.

It appeared I would have to use the same kind of determination to give up smoking as I had used to learn how to smoke.  Exposed, as a senior in high school, to a more sophisticated, attractive classmate who left the schoolgrounds at lunch time, in order to be able to smoke, I decided I had a new lesson to learn.  Obtaining the services of an older girl-friend, I sat in front of an open window in our three-room apartment, with no plans for the evening other than mastering the art of smoking.  At the successful conclusion of the night, I was not deterred from my smoking future, even after my oldest brother, surrogate father, gave me a resounding slap across the face for my efforts.

What I had going for me, was my will power.  I was proud of it- you know, the kid who would win the staring-without-laughing contest and the one who held her breath longest under water at the swimming pool.  Don’t know where it came from, but when I gave my word, I meant it.  I could never be a Mark Twain “must be easy- I’ve done it so many times” stop-smoking type.

The following Saturday, after our discussion, while shopping at the local A & P, Lee from a distance, held up a book he was apparently buying for me– “How to Give up Smoking” by Herbert Breen.  I shouted over, “Hope you didn’t spend too much– have to save enough for my carton of Camels.”  So, after the groceries were put away, and later, the children, I began to read the book.  My reaction throughout, “Interesting, but it has nothing to do with me.  This book was written for people who want to give up smoking.”  I had declared no such intention– just as I sat coolly on the sidelines, if an occasional friend or relative had, in the past, decided to betray our nicotine ranks.

However, I found to my surprise, I was thinking.  Apparently, more than I recognized or realized- almost as if it were going on at another level- subterranean to my daily, bustling, duty-ordered life.  This surprise turned to astonishment, when one night at eleven o’clock, over a cup of coffee, the news, and a cigarette, I announced to myself, “This is the last cigarette you will ever smoke in your life.”  Then I went to bed and slept soundly on my resolution.

The next morning, when I informed Lee of my decision, he laughed heartily, “you’ll go out on your hands and knees in six feet of snow”– a rare picture, indeed, since this was August– “to get your cigarettes.”  Not too funny, as I used to joke with other addicts that there was no question, if it came to milk and bread for the kids or my cigarettes, which would come first.

The day- August 19th- certainly an innocuous-sounding date- dawned hot, bright, and beautiful.  While I was deciding I needed a routine, demanding, long-lasting activity for my first day, the telephone rang.  It was ominously long distance.  Lee’s sister, of my vintage, lived with her family in New York City, where she worked at Mt. Sinai Hospital as a registered nurse.  Each summer she transferred her nursing duties to prestigious and expensive camps in up-state New York, so that her two boys could thus become enriched campers.  I loved Bea and husband Erzie, now on the phone, informing me that Bea, at this very moment, was being transported by ambulance to New York City to her hospital for cancer surgery– a mastectomy.  The shock- twenty eight years ago- could be heard, perhaps not around the world, but certainly, throughout mine.

Trembling and grieving, I lamented, “Of course, Elinora, you must have a cigarette– you can’t do it today.”  But from some-where I found myself answering me, “you’re going to have crises your whole life.  This is just the first.  If you can’t weather this one, you’ll never win the next.”

With grim determination I unfolded the ironing board, filled the sprinkling bottle, and started heating the iron.  This was no casual touch-up-the-collar-and-cuffs in an expansive, self-loving mood of today.  No, these were heavily starched (I cooked the starch myself in a pot on top of the gas stove), ruffled dresses, long-sleeved men’s white shirts, and a little boy’s plaid ones, table cloths and pillow cases with wrinkles resembling the ruts in the roads of my childhood in a small mining town.

As I labored, I began to feel dizzy.  My work and thoughts had previously been punctuated with smoking.  Perhaps I was destroying a happy, rhythmic balance in my body- or perhaps, just in my lungs.  I went on.  At the end of the long summer day, as I stood at the sink peeling the potatoes for supper, Lee came in looking at me with more question than answer.  I stopped– looked up at him– and announced, “I no longer smoke”.

 

ROOTS — A JOURNEY HOME

The invitation to my 50th high school reunion lay around so long, its sunny yellow color began to blend in with those of the room.  If it had been for an ordinary number, like twenty-two, thirty-eight, or forty-seven, I know I could have ignored it with ease.  After all, I’m not exactly the kind of person who clings to her past, maintaining her high school friendships.  I do not even have a copy of our yearbook.  But–number 50–it’s like a bell tolling–impressive significance–now or never–a landmark

event that wouldn’t let me ignore it.

Finally, with a certain amount of bravado and furtive trepidation, I sent off my acceptance.  What was there really to worry about?  All I had to do was join the ranks of the multitudes across the land preparing for reunions, weddings, and

bar-mitzvahs–their goal to lose twenty-five pounds in two months.  Was that the nice thing about funerals?–they were so spontaneous and unplanned–one didn’t have time to worry about losing weight.

I thought we’d make the reunion the centerpiece of a vacation–in the U.S. or abroad.  Apparently, Lee was scheming also.  One day he surprised me with an itinerary that would take me back for the first time to my roots–my earliest beginnings.  We would make our first real trip in our Chinook, a compact motorhome.  We would combine personal history with our nation’s history.  We would journey to the mountains and forests of Pennsylvania–searching for the graves of my mother and father; we would go to Winburne, the tiny coal-mining town where i was born; Clymer, the somewhat larger town where I lived for two years with Aunt Freda and Uncle Iz after Mother and Father died; and we would go visit Aunt Freda herself, who now resided in Philadelphia.

We arrived in the outskirts of Philadelphia late Sunday afternoon in a driving summer rain.  We began our search in a service station with accommodating people and a huge map that might as well have been of the interior of Africa.  Their attitude toward their city was one of estrangement and, yes, fear.  The owner stated he hadn’t gone into the town for eighteen years.  Chestnut Hill, Aunt Freda’s current address, appeared to be so far away and the directions so complicated, the storm so heavy, we felt tempted to surrender our quest to the realm of dream and fantasy where the reunion with my Aunt Freda had lain quietly these past 50 years.  Through some incomprehensible dealings  with the Pa. phone company, we were unable to obtain a phone number–so we couldn’t even “reach out and touch.”!

After following a torturous path all the way across the city (that boasted of almost one hundred neighborhood sub-divisions) through historic Germantown where the Hessian mercenaries were encamped in 1775–with the trolley-tracks and the holes in the cobble-stones obstructing our way appearing every bit that ancient–and stopping, harried, drenched residents throughout for uptodate directions–we finally arrived at Aunt Freda’s Stenton Ave. apartment.  Despite our bedraggled appearance, we passed their security, took the elevator to Floor 11 and knocked on the door of 11H.  After a minute or so, a voice inquired who was there, and I answered “It’s me, Aunt Freda–Elinora.”

She opened the door and enthusiastically enfolded me in her arms.  It was too unbelievable.  She had gone to a Chinese restaurant for dinner with friends, and had just returned.  In fact, the momentary delay was caused by her putting back on the sweater she had just pulled over her head, beginning the process of undressing.  The phone company had actually been our friend–for had we been put through to her number, there would have been no answer–and we might have left Philadelphia without ever seeing her.

Aunt Freda was a miracle–she had to be eighty-some years old–but she stood before us tall, straight, a full-bosomed attractive figure, hair smartly arranged, fashionable eyeglasses,

woolen sweater and slacks in rich earthtones.  Most outstanding was her dimpled warm smile–she looked for all the world, with the exception of her white hair, like the “second mother” I remembered from my earliest teen years.

She, too, had a large visual leap to make in picturing the smiling, grey-haired woman in front of her as that little, studious girl she’d said goodbye to in Clymer 53 years ago.  We both apparently liked what we saw.  Part of Aunt Freda’s pleasure was meeting and getting to know Lee, my husband of 44 years.  Their sense of comfort with each other was apparent from the start.  She kept saying, “This is the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.”  She and I stayed up the two nights until 2 a.m.–the first, catching up with words, the second, with pictures.  The latter were very moving to me, as I had never seen them or even known of their existence–pictures from Winburne when I was a child, and she was a teenager.  It must have been hard for her to remove them from her old album and give them to me.  But this she did, saying “These are by right yours–you should have them.”

When I wrote the story of my two years in Clymer with Aunt Freda and Uncle Iz (long since deceased), I was forced to examine for the first time my memories of their treatment of my brother Sid and me.  I think I was surprised that I found their attitude so fair, instead of “Pity the poor orphans who couldn’t hope to compete for the parents’ affection with their own two little girls.”  What a jolt it was to hear Aunt Freda confess, “You know, Elnora, all these years I have felt bad–the way I used to give Dorothy and Harriet the white meat of the chicken–and you and Sid the dark meat.  Have you ever been able to forgive me?  I didn’t know what else I could have done–they were such ‘picky’ eaters–that’s all they’d eat–you and Sidney were so good–you’d eat whatever you were given.”

One of those two daughters, Harriet, and husband Marv, lived close by, and an evening was quickly arranged at their home with several surprises and novel twists.  Their lights had just gone out before our arrival–apparently the Philadelphia Utility Co. was vying with the phone co. for an efficiency award.  Harriet had for a period in her teens been close to us in Cleveland.  We’d nicknamed her “Happy”, a name that still suited her.  They had invited close friends over after learning of their special connections with our early lives.

Yvette, a delightful youthful-looking woman remembered sitting next to me in a sociology class at Western Reserve University in Cleveland in 1939.  I must have been a few years older, for she insisted I had been her role model (she too had gone to become a teacher).  Her memories captivated us as did her husband Ed.  Now an economic professor at Drexel U., he had crossed musical paths in exciting ways with Lee’s family during his twenty years as a bassist in the Philadelphia Symphony.  The whole evening of discovery and exploration had a sparkle and glow that the candles alone could not have provided.

The next day, after our historical tour of Philadelphia–Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, the Betsy Ross House, Carpenter’s Hall (site of the First Continental Congress)–well-armed with Aunt Freda’s advice and nuggets of information, we left for Clymer.

Our first stop was at Levinson’s Department Store, the original building still standing, gussied up with fresh blue paint.  The operation was now run by their only daughter’s husband, who gave me the news and accomplishments of the brothers I had been in love with–all of them now thriving in various parts of Pa.  Sad to hear, one of the brightest, Nahum, had died relatively young, at the apex of a promising career in architecture.

I crossed the street to Scerbo’s Pharmacy as the owner, Frank, now gracious and handsome at fifty-eight, was high on Aunt Freda’s special list.  He had as a young lad been a helper in Aunt Freda and Uncle Iz’s store–an experience that had had a big impact on his formative years.  His wife, Mary Ann, twelve years younger, was sweet and very warm in her welcome.  Frank proudly stated “I had to wait for her to grow up.”  The stories from their vantage-point were nostalgic and quaint to me.

The store next door to theirs was a revelation to me.  I couldn’t believe it–our old ramshackle paint and paper store–bought from Uncle Iz and moved uptown–all laid out in neatness and order–in glossy splendor.  I tried to imagine what Uncle Iz would think if he could see it.  I certainly heard what the new owners thought of his old emporium of chaos.

By now the Chinook, parked nearby, with its Calif. license plate was starting to attract attention.  A little Pied-Piper scene began to unfold.  As we emerged from one of the stores, we were greeted by clusters of oldtimers.  I noticed the honesty of people and their sharp memories.  Aunt Freda was most beloved; Uncle Iz’s crusty exterior was clearly remembered.  I especially appreciated the appraisal as the Cohen’s had been one of the very few Jewish families in the town.

Escorted to our old home and store by neighbor Zelina, who gave me the history of each structure we passed, we made our way slowly to the lower end of Franklin Street.  A plump, spunky woman jumped up from a lawnchair, looked at us and exclaimed, “Where did you two come from–Paris?”  She bestowed on us homegrown tomatoes and flowers from her little garden, as if were visiting celebrities.  I was overcome at the beauty of Helen’s home and yard–what had been the old, cluttered wallpaper-and-paint store and the small drab adjoining rooms, was now rebuilt– bright, well-maintained, and attractive.  An amazement!  She had bought the property for $600 in 1942.

I stood in front of the dwelling finally daring to let my eyes roam about and look up.  Could it be–was that splendid pine forest a sight I saw every morning when I left for school?  The bridge we drove over to enter the town was an identical twin of the one used for departure.  I hadn’t made up a thing–Clymer was nestled in those Pa. hills.  The bridge at each end somehow contained the town in a funny way–like my life was for those two “In Between” years.

With all the good wishes ringing in our ears, we climbed into the Chinook and drove off.  The evergreens formed a canopy over the road, sheltering us in our close, warm travelling cocoon.  I was remembering–this probably was the same road (mud replaced by macadam) we took from Winburne when we used to make the trip to Clymer to visit Aunt Freda and Uncle Iz, when I was a small child and my parents were still alive.  The whole Clymer experience and this leafy-lace ride made me feel I had ventured far from the real world.

We arrived in Philipsburg to seek out the burial place of Mother and Father.  We stopped at the Harbor Inn, which was not situated on a harbor, nor was it an inn.  Again, Lee was astonished–the hostess knew well my old relatives and family-friends from the 1920’s I wished to locate.  I felt almost as if I were asking about mythological figures, so dusty and hazy were they in my memories.  Yet their comings and goings were just routine to her.

When we reached the cemetery, we began looking at stones and monuments all over, dismayed at the size of the place, despairing of ever finding what we were seeking.  After considerable time had passed, we decided to confer with the young attendant.  He took us into the office and began to go over records, explaining endlessly their system of filing.  Lee, noting a marking on one of the cards, asked “What’s this?–‘Hebrew’–”  The young man, operating at the outer limits of his intelligence, stopped and exclaimed, “Oh, you’re looking for Hebrew persons–genuine, full-blooded Hebrews.  Well, that’s a different story–they’re in a separate place–lemme show you.”

We entered a gate alone to a peaceful sequestered place where the green leaves of the elm and maple tree rustled gently in the cooling breeze.  The names were surprisingly familiar to me.  There were no flowers, just grey marblestone markers.  Since this cemetery was reserved for Orthodox Jewish people, the inscriptions were carved in Hebrew, a language I had forgotten a long time ago.  However, we took special care to photograph the stones, confident others would translate for us on our return home.  When we found Mother and Father’s graves next to each other, the first thing I did was read the dates, as I needed this confirmation.  I put my hands lovingly on both stones and spoke directly to them.

“Mother and Father, so this is where you’ve been all these years.  This is where you were when I graduated from Glenville High, from Western reserve U., and became the teacher you dreamed I would someday be; when I got married; when Robin and Roger were born; when all my suffering occurred at the hands of the Un-American Activities Committee, and when brother Billy died, so young . . . Now I know . . . I can go in peace, and you can rest on in peace”.

*         *         *

Winburne still lay ahead.  What I wondered most was–was it still there?  What would we find?  Well, what we found first was most fortunate–a family group of several generations along the roadside, pickup truck parked, who appeared to be doing what Burl Ives called “taking the evening air”.  After their initial reaction of puzzled surprise, they pointed out where everyone lived and yes, they knew where our old house had been . . . for it was still there!

There didn’t appear to be any town in the normal sense.  Not too surprising– as we had observed the played-out deserted coal mines as we approached the town.  Even Main Street was gone, with its few stores, bank and library.  The surviving families who clung to their homes got their mail by means of postal boxes.  The school on top of the hill we used to scramble up each morning had been replaced by a township one a few miles away.  More history was added to our cache of knowledge as we spoke to other residents during our brief visit.

We couldn’t suppress our astonishment every time an oldtimer spoke about Frank and Mamie Garfinkle, the five orphans they had left, and pointed to our old house and store.  This was one trip that couldn’t have been postponed much longer.  When we finally knocked on the door of our house, my heart was pounding louder than my knock.  A vivacious woman, trim and pretty, answered and immediately joined us for photos and a tour of the grounds.  What had been the town’s general store was metamorphosed into a large garage with storage satellites.  What surprised and pleased me most was what had become of our five gardens (one for each of us), chickencoops, and play areas.  My eyes now beheld a vast expanse of beautifully cared for lawn dotted with fruit trees.  I could not but wonder whether they were the same ones we used to climb, and picnic in their shade.

How could I be so lucky again?  Our hostess/owner, Dee, obviously took great pride in the home acquired when she left Canada to marry her American engineer.  Once more the everyday–the mundane–was penetrating my dreamlike state.  Just as in Philipsburg when the restaurant hostess rattled on about day-to-day activities of people I couldn’t believe were even alive, Dee, at this moment of high drama for me, was apologising for the condition of the house, as the cleaning-woman was coming the following day.

When I finally stepped inside, I couldn’t believe it was real–was this actually the house where I was born?  I saw, in my mind’s eye, our piano, where now stood her desk, with all of us gathered around it on a cold wintry evening.  I saw our library-table, instead of her chintz-covered sofa, where we used to lay our precious Chanukah presents.  I saw the chair where Father sank in blissful exhaustion at the end of his long day in the store.  I kept my eyes half-closed–so unbelieving was I yet.

At the top of the stairs I turned to examine my small “hide-away” bedroom.  From the window I looked for the blooming lilac-tree and rustic grape-arbor–a sight along with the pink and red roses that greeted me so fragrantly every morning of my few happy years in that home.

Later Dee filled me in one the history of our strange little town.  She explained it had been quite an adjustment for her, accustomed as she was to life in small Canadian towns.  But, she pointed out, unlike Winburne, they had sidewalks, streetlights, and mail delivery.  In the intervening years, as natives moved away or died, the state of Pa. had begun to settle welfare-cases in Winburne.  I could see such a family across the street–their children of stepladdered ages were playing in the dirt where Johnson’s Ice Cream Factory and their picture-perfect home used to be.  Dee told me most of the adults, like herself, found their employment in nearby, larger towns.  Yet they stayed on in Winburne.  Was it loyalty or habit?

There was to be a reunion of all the former residents the day after we were to leave.  Good timing!  I don’t think my system could have sustained any more nostalgia or emotion.  It would take me a long time to sort out, absorb, and digest all that I had already experienced . . .

What do you mean, “Aren’t you going to describe your High School Reunion?”

Let’s put a bookmark right here–we’ll start with that next time.

 

Traditions-Schmaditions

1. What could a mop possibly have to do with a family celebration or tradition? Long years ago when our two children, Robin and Roger, were in elementary school, their father, Lee, began a family tradition.  While at work he made his preparations for my Birthday and our wedding anniversary, both on the same day.  After the holiday breakfast, he steered me to our best chair in the living room now christened the “Queen chair”.  He placed on my head a crown made from cardboard and hand decorated with shiny gold and silver stars; in my hand he placed a scepter, a brand new sponge mop.  With appropriate musical fanfare, the ceremony of presenting and opening the cards and presents began.     On every holiday since that date, with little change, except for the required alteration of gender for Lee and Roger, to “King Chair”, and the eventual decline and disappearance of the mop, the ceremony continues.  Lee added an embellishment which the children dearly loved, and truth-to-tell, still do.  As he carefully opens the first envelope, he holds it on high, all the while dramatically shaking it in his earnest attempt to unearth the coins or bills he indicates rightfully belong there.  His enthusiasm for the ritual has never waned, despite the fact that he has never “mined” a penny.

The card readings– plus the hand-written messages, often longer than the bought ones, and certainly more original– take on a character their creator could not have foreseen– solemn, satiric, lyric, rhapsodic, or sing-song, to the giver’s delight.    Exaggerated appreciation accompanies every gift– no matter if a cellophane bag of a favorite candy, or a luxurious bathrobe.  Somehow, opening gifts in the King/Queen chair imparts a special luster to them.

2. The four of us would be sitting at dinner engaged in animated conversation. Nobody appeared to be signalling an end.  Suddenly, each one surreptitiously started getting up, backing away from the table, and on out of the kitchen.  “The LAW of the West” meant the whole domain belonged to the last one up.  He  was “elected” in this strange manner to do the dishes and “put the kitchen to rights”.  This judgement was proclaimed loudly and defiantly by the exiting non-performers in a set style with the emphasis on LAW drawn out to match the popular Lone Ranger cry.
3. When Robin became an adult with her own apartment in the San Jose area, she reported how family traditions live on. When our family, through the years, would get invited to an event in a different area, or to somebody’s home for the first time, we would always allow an extra fifteen minutes or so for “farblugened” time.

Leo Rosten in The Joys of Yiddish defines “farblondjet” as follows, “Lost (but really lost), mixed-up, wandering about without any idea where you are”.  He continues, “I include ‘farblondjet’ not because English lacks adequate words for what farblondjet describes, but because farblondjet’s euphony exudes an aroma all its own.  It refers not simply to being lost, but to having-gotten-way-the-hell-and-gone-off-the-track”.

And that’s exactly what our family was allowing time for!

Now, Robin on the phone, giving directions to her apartment to a new beau, finds herself adding automatically, “Allow fifteen minutes for farblondjet time”.  This to the non-Jewish flame wasn’t a good portender of the kind of communication he could anticipate.

Throughout their young years, when eating out was much more of an event than it is today, Lee would invariably pick up the check after it was presented and in mock-serious tones proclaim, “It’s an outrage– I won’t pay it!”  Such apparent impudence and independence delighted the children.  It became a ritual, time-honored as fortune cookies after a Chinese dinner.  Robin found

herself in an elegant Peninsula restaurant with a matching elegant escort, picking up the check, as a reflex, and announcing to her startled date, “It’s an outrage- I won’t pay it!”

Whatever made me start to say it?  When we all gathered around the table oh-ing and ah-ing over the current culinary creation, I would ask, “And how much do you think this would cost in a restaurant?”  Lee would prolong the pleasure by making a long series of preposterous estimates for the children to disclaim with hoots and howls.  It was not the sumptuousness of the dishes, but rather the ingenious use of left-overs or odds and ends of food already in our cupboards, that we all applauded.  We can’t seem to sit down together for a meal, even today, without someone posing my question, “And how much do you think this would cost in a restaurant?”

Since I sensed the reluctance of the children to try a new dish, or at least the wariness with which it was approached, I would offer a comforting foreword, “It tastes like chicken”.  Understood chicken was well known and accepted.  It didn’t matter if the new food was shrimp, crab, or halibut steak– I assured the little ones that it tasted like chicken.  After awhile, they grew in sophistication and became aware of my ruse.  As adults, in telling us about a special dinner, they will often describe the exotic entree, adding with a twinkle that it was delicious– “tasted like chicken”.

As in most families, popcorn was a tasty treat, especially to be munched while watching a TV program ensemble.  In the pre-electric air-type popper, we used the large Revere frying pan, letting the oil get hot before adding the kernels of corn.  On one occasion, Robin and I went out, leaving Roger and Lee home for a “bachelor” evening.  Upon our return, as we came in the door, our nostrils were assailed with a pungent vinegar smell.

What had happened?  Due to the dictates of space and salad-making, we kept  the large bottle of vinegar right next to the bottle of oil.  Voila!  Lee and Rog tried hard to get the corn to pop in the hot vinegar with little success.  It took days to “un-vinegar” the house.  Naturally, it follows that whenever the urge for popcorn occurred someone queried, “Are you sure we have enough vinegar?”

Only once do I remember Lee drawing the line on what he would endure culturally for the sake of the children.  Ordinarily we carefully chose the movies we would attend as a family, with special emphasis on kindness to animals, for we learned early that a mass slaughter of men could be tolerated, but a brutal mistreatment of one dog was never-to-be-forgotten.

On this occasion, the movie the children wanted to see was Walt Disney’s “The Shaggy Dog”.  Since we could not persuade Lee to go, we made a radical departure from custom, and I took them at night, cross town, by trolley and bus.  Of course, the film’s inaneness and lack of plausibility were a bitter disappointment to us, which we tried valiantly to hide from Lee upon our return.

However, he took one look at our faces and proclaimed, more as a statement than a question, “A shaggy dog, huh?”  Throughout the years, much critical judgement has been short-circuited merely by the judicious use of this phrase– A Shaggy Dog.

Words have always been important to the Rosenberg family– in any language.  Many of our traditions are centered on little phrases.  When Robin was living in a coop dormitory at Cal, she related an incident involving sitting outside with a captivating young man or two.  When duty required putting an end to their charming tete-a-tete, she stated, “I was loathe to go in”.  We howled, mocking her expression lovingly, contrasting it in our mind with the way other young people would casually report such a sentiment– “didn’t wanna split and break up the party”.  We still use it to indicate appreciation for a pretty phrase.

Since Robin majored in French and has become a teacher of the language, and all of us are familiar with it in varying degrees, quite a bit of our word fun has a French flavor or base.  She took “on y va” (literally meaning “one goes there”) and turned it into the family call for action.  When we prepare for departure this call is the last one- it means “Now we really go”.

Whenever any family member leaves the house to take an exam, undergo an interview, or face any other similar challenge, the parting call of the others is invariably, “Mach gut!”  Somehow, this dictum embodies more than the customary “good luck”, embracing not only the challenge to do well, but also the affectionate belief that he will certainly do just that.

In the family is an aunt overly-addicted to exaggerated speech and concern with appearances.  Her style was observed and absorbed throughout the years, as evidenced by the advice given when one member or another is off to a party or some other special function: “Don’t forget, be charming, witty, bright, interesting, warm, lively . . . ” etc. etc.  The special fun is seeing how many adjectives can be strung together in the shortest possible time without “coming up” for air.

At about age eight Robin fell victim to the tantalizing sales pitch of an over-zealous greeting card and stationery company.  When all the paraphernalia for potential wealth arrived, this rather shy and certainly sheltered child set out with high hopes in our neighborhood, going from house-to-house.

After harried housewives and mothers, time and again, abruptly closed the door on her and her neatly memorized presentation, she returned home hurt but wiser.  She set about at once to pen a letter to the company.  “Dear Sir, I am returning all the cards, because I had a bad public experience with your product”.  To this day, we have not found a better way to say it.

Even the pronunciation of a single word can have a private meaning for a family.  In ours it’s “beaeutiful” instead of the customary “beautiful”.  Erwin, the husband of Lee’s sister Bea, was most dearly beloved by each of us.  He was a person of rare attributes and accomplishments.  He wrote exceedingly well, was exceptionally witty and a master of double entendre.

Before the war he worked in the New York Post office, serving in the leadership of the union and as editor of their newspaper.  After the war he continued his education and became a psychiatric social worker.  His deep compassion, warmth, and insight aided him in becoming an outstanding person in his field,

treasured by both youngsters and adults alike.  He lectured to teachers on his Reality Therapy non-Freudian school of psychology and also in some European countries.

At the apex of his career he was struck down suddenly during an attempted coronary by-pass operation.  His untimely death was difficult for us to realize.  His enjoyment of life was as vital as the workings of his mind.  This was often expressed when admiring a savory dish set before him or a fine display of logic in the word, “beeeutiful”.  So whenever any of us feels moved by a striking sunset or a sweet gesture to say “beeeutiful”, we are not only acknowledging the beauty of the moment, we are also remembering Erzie, with love.

 

_________________________________

“portender” in “Traditions-Schmaditions” is not actually a word, though the verb “portend” is.  Original coinage, methinks!

Comma removed after “ordinarily” and “departure” (-editor, Roger)

    [1]  Editor’s note: Although Bruno Hauptmann was convicted and executed, he insisted on his innocence to the end.  More recent investigations, using stricter standards of objectivity and modern scientific techniques, continue to cast doubts upon the conviction, suggesting a possible miscarriage of justice.

[Since penning this note, more recent in-depth scientific evidence appears to point conclusively to his guilt.  –RR]