At least one character in this short tale did exist; the other, Dorothy is a composite, a bit of my mother (though the time frame is long before my father met my mother) and who knows who else. The other aspect I like about this story is its reference to the 40s, the Astor Roof and Frankie, who made all the girls swoon.
There was little one could do to control the peregrinations of the spinning bottle. I could only hope that when it stopped, the alignment would not be myself on one and Dorothy on the other.
Fate has a malicious way of calculating the odds against which we are pitted in life. It almost makes one a believer in predestination. Dorothy beat the percentages beyond reasonable expectations, and I would brush my lips, fleetingly, against her omnipresent pucker, and mutter imprecations against "Lady Luck".
Now, in retrospect, Dorothy was indeed the most attractive of the preteen girls of the "Spin the Bottle" and "Post Office" kissing games. Early youth seeking a bit of that legendary sinful apple.
She was tall and slim. Perhaps on the threshold of thirteen, wide spaced very black eyes contrasting wit very white skin; a flashing smile brought points of light to her eyes.
I did not see her that way, then. This is all in retrospect. Young men have no sense of beauty. Their nascent drives are guided by a kind of visual anosmia. Perhaps a good thing given the meager distribution of beauty in our species.
I might have noticed the latent charm were it not that I had an uncompromising mental block; her severe hairdo--tight wavy tresses, parted in the center exposing an over-travailed whiteness of scalp in the very center of her head, and brushed severely back as if to obliterate purposely the minuscule curls in her hair.
In those days, it was Margie who had my attention.
To be fair, I must describe her also in retrospect, which is not the way I saw her in those early days of revelations.
She was short, sandy haired, wide hipped and large breasted for her age. Yet for all this, I was smitten. I thrilled when I would hear her voice, announcing from another room that the "Postman had a letter" for me.
Margie was skilled in delivering the mail. This was no hurried peck. She would come close to me, find some need to correct an errant button on my shirt, all the time leaning tastefully against my chest with her breasts. When we kissed, her little tongue darted quickly between my unopened lips, sending newly generated waves of pleasure through my awakening body.
Still, all these kisses were of rudimentary meaning in terms of that ubiquitous question asked by teachers of English exposition, or suspicious wives; "What was your first kiss like?"
Our teen years passed quickly. Some of us had cars--usually the Model A type Ford, some with that appendage in the rear known as the "Rumble seat', parenthetically an ideal place to pursue the study of kissing and related arts.
We were a tight knit social group up to the years of ferry rides to Staten Island, and trips to the dance casinos of upstate New York. There was no serious pairing. Margie did not confine her passion to correct wayward buttons to any one male. Dorothy and I were thrown together often, by unanticipated circumstance.
Several times we spent unproductive proximity in one of the wind-blown rumble seats of the day.
I remember the year of that prom. I will not give the date, but it was a memorable event. The Astor Hotel had not been demolished. Tommy Dorsey was holding forth on the celebrated Astor Roof and an emaciated Frank Sinatra was the vocal headliner.
Margie and Dorothy had no dates for their prom. Time was passing. Dorothy was forced to settle for her brother, Paul, as her escort. Margie exerted her historic proprietary rights and I was allowed the privilege of escorting her.
Paul was an aspiring stage actor, tall, poised, sophisticated, who was scheduled for a screen test in Hollywood. He drove the car with the open rumble seat.
I was not totally surprised to find that Margie had maneuvered herself into the seat beside the driver. Fate had interposed her will, again. Dorothy and I shared the rumble seat.
Somehow I was not displeased. I had never seen Dorothy as she was on this night. She was tall, poised, confident. A simple black gown draped daringly from one shoulder, leaving the other bare. It revealed the perfection of her figure.
The center parted hairdo was gone. She had allowed her hair to grow, and the weight of the growth had removed the tight waviness. Her long black hair was unencumbered and hung with its mass covering the exposed shoulder, to the front. She had discovered her own beauty.
Margie now devoted her full attention to Paul. He had no buttons on his shirt for her to manipulate, but she found his formal black tie frequently askew and in need of correction.
Dorothy was radiant. She was enchanted with the Astor Roof Garden and clearly a fan of Frank Sinatra. We danced almost every dance together. She danced well, and abandoned herself to the rhythms, lissome and unrestrained. For a good portion of the time, we stood with most of the dancers simply swaying to the beat of the Dorsey band in front of the bandstand when Frank was singing.
I had no reluctance in being relegated to the rumble seat for the ride home. It was cold and Dorothy moved close to me. I searched for a blanket in the dark recesses of the rumble, but there was none. I placed my arm around her and drew her close. She rested her head on my shoulder, looked up, and offered her slightly parted lips upward.
We kissed, that is, she kissed me and I responded, long searching kisses such as I had never known before. I responded though with some puzzlement at her ardor. I had never shown her the attention that would merit such pleasure. Her face was white in the moonlight, her eyes closed, her lips alive and apart, through which cool halting breaths accompanied each kiss.
This was truly my first kiss, unexpected, revelatory, remembered and cherished for many years, a brief, early glimpse into that labyrinthine psyche of woman.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Monday, March 20, 2017
There Is Nothing New Under the Sun
This piece is obviously a satire on history in the the late 1990s. I know, it is nearly twenty years ago, so who remembers? Anyway, I almost didn't transcribe this one, and I am editing it very slightly, to omit the last name of the young lady of Rome who is one of the two main characters. The remainder of the letters I leave to the reader's imagination and they are more than three just in case you think too quickly. I also redact two sentences that were jarring, at least to me.
Marcus Publius Varicus climbed to the top of the Palatine Hill. The sun was casting its dying rays on the drowsy city. Marcus was pensive.
"I could have torched this town. Nero almost got away with the dodge. Oh, well, something else will turn up. It always does."
Still, he could not erase apprehension from his mind. This new accusation of impiety resounded ominously. It had a perilous ring about it.
That ungrateful, vengeful Vestal. She was threatening to hold him up to a devastating accusation before all of Rome.
Aurora F. He would rue the day he ever heard the name. . . .
He would not wait. This one required immediate attention. A comforting thought struck him. It was relatively easy. He would send for his favorite town crier, Demetrius Golgotha, the one whose bald skull always reminded him of a tumescent appendage. Still, the sonofabith was effective. He could abide his disgust with his minion. Usually he avoided personal contact with him. . .The matters were always carried out through another flunky. The voice of this former slave whom he had liberated for State reasons grated on him. He abhorred the high pitch and vulgar dialect of the southern province of Neapolis, where one could not even get a good slave or pizza for that matter. . .
Say what one will. The irritating menial had done well in a half-dozen of his previous scrapes with his more vociferous playthings. They had been wished "into the fields" to coin a phrase, and not the Elysian ones.
Aurora would be accused of allowing the sacred Eternal Flame to go out. He did not consider the fact that there were six other Vestals around in continuous care of the Eternal Flame, perhaps witnesses to her innocence. Details for dissemination of the act and giving it the ring of verity was a matter for his trusted priests.
He was forced to a personal meeting with Demetrius. He had to admire, reluctantly, the labyrinthine turns of his sewer like mind. Demetrius assured him that Aurora would be done in long before the scheduled hearing with the Roman Senate scheduled for the ides of that month introduced into the calendar by his illustrious ancestor, Caesar Augustus.
Marcus Publius Varicus felt a new sense of calm. He recalled the smiling, loving faces of his audience as he orated at the Forum. It was know that he declaimed with the skill of a Cicero. Better, the great Greek Demosthenes. He did not fail his acolytes.
"I never had sex with that virgin, that Vestal, I mean, that woman," he thundered. It was an acclamation to be envied.
He was after all, in the tradition of his forbears, their god, a creator, a founding father.
So said all the street orators. So reported all his faithful followers. He himself was in the audience disguised as a peasant when he heard the bombastic Catatonious declaim, "Delenda est Aurora", "Down with Aurora". The orator continued, "Of what is our great leader guilty? The gods forbid this accusation against a peer, one who is Divine."
Did not the noted communicator Micah Jacksonius write that verity, that the Great Publius cannot be held to the standards of ordinary men.
"Yes, he is active sexually, but this is a gift of the great god Priapus."
Marcus was not concerned about the censure of the Senators. He was well provided with complete papyri on each of them. He had read many a juicy tale one night when he could not sleep and there was no other distraction available. He chuckled to himself, "Surely not Arrius Duplitius, why he brings new meaning to the Latin word, ambidextrous."
He waxed poetic. In these nocturnal musings, "breathes there a man with soul so dead/who has not in his closet hid/ a fleshy skeleton or two/or three or four."
Talk about Nero paying his lyre, or fiddle, he forgot which. Anyway, he knew he was better on the lyre than Nero was, hands down, regardless of how one spells the word.
There were irritations. Take for instance, that former mentor of his from some Asia Minor province, that Greek scribe, Papadopoulous or other, who kept gossiping among the literati of greater Rome about the nine hundred other Papyri, he, Marcus kept hid under his bed for safekeeping.
The Madonna in charge of the vestals was, he knew, more close lipped--literally and figuratively. He was certain that she had chosen the one profession suitable to her unfortunate physical aspects. Leonor Cleftus had a price, but it was worth it. She was heard to declaim, "O Tempore, Oh Mores," which has nothing to do with this narration and is simply a Latin aphorism relating to time, that he, Publius had gone from sixty four percent to sixty eight percent approval in the opinion of Rome's Virgins and that after the denunciation of that pseudo-Virgin.
Still, "judge ye, O gods," he mused. "How I am persecuted. That damned toga was stolen from my wardrobe. A toga is a toga, but this one is reputed to have miraculous manifestations. He cursed the maliciousness of certain Olympian residents, the lesser, peripheral gods. He was not about to name names, for safety's sake. They could be bitchy. It was said that the lost garment had a mysterious imprint, incontrovertibly his image, of erratic conformation. He made a mental note. This would be a job for that great interpreter for the goddess of Justice, blindfolded and holding the scales of truth, the revered patronness of Barrius Shekkius, who would explain her truth.
Truly, wasn't Leonora Cliftus a voice from Olympus when she explained, "Verily, our leader has remained reluctantly silent these many years for good and cogent reasons. He has been a fortress against the calumnies of those decadent right-wing Etruscans. For whom? For you, O people of Rome, and his immediate household, and good old fashioned Roman morality."
Marcus Publius Varicus fell soundly asleep and dreamed a kind of deja vu dream. He saw himself on the dais at the For Romano, his voice ringing sonorously above the silent masses. He was holding his battered robe before the people, pointing to the tears made by his calumniators, all stains against his divine person hood. The cheers were thunderous, thunderous, thunderous. . .
Marcus Publius Varicus climbed to the top of the Palatine Hill. The sun was casting its dying rays on the drowsy city. Marcus was pensive.
"I could have torched this town. Nero almost got away with the dodge. Oh, well, something else will turn up. It always does."
Still, he could not erase apprehension from his mind. This new accusation of impiety resounded ominously. It had a perilous ring about it.
That ungrateful, vengeful Vestal. She was threatening to hold him up to a devastating accusation before all of Rome.
Aurora F. He would rue the day he ever heard the name. . . .
He would not wait. This one required immediate attention. A comforting thought struck him. It was relatively easy. He would send for his favorite town crier, Demetrius Golgotha, the one whose bald skull always reminded him of a tumescent appendage. Still, the sonofabith was effective. He could abide his disgust with his minion. Usually he avoided personal contact with him. . .The matters were always carried out through another flunky. The voice of this former slave whom he had liberated for State reasons grated on him. He abhorred the high pitch and vulgar dialect of the southern province of Neapolis, where one could not even get a good slave or pizza for that matter. . .
Say what one will. The irritating menial had done well in a half-dozen of his previous scrapes with his more vociferous playthings. They had been wished "into the fields" to coin a phrase, and not the Elysian ones.
Aurora would be accused of allowing the sacred Eternal Flame to go out. He did not consider the fact that there were six other Vestals around in continuous care of the Eternal Flame, perhaps witnesses to her innocence. Details for dissemination of the act and giving it the ring of verity was a matter for his trusted priests.
He was forced to a personal meeting with Demetrius. He had to admire, reluctantly, the labyrinthine turns of his sewer like mind. Demetrius assured him that Aurora would be done in long before the scheduled hearing with the Roman Senate scheduled for the ides of that month introduced into the calendar by his illustrious ancestor, Caesar Augustus.
Marcus Publius Varicus felt a new sense of calm. He recalled the smiling, loving faces of his audience as he orated at the Forum. It was know that he declaimed with the skill of a Cicero. Better, the great Greek Demosthenes. He did not fail his acolytes.
"I never had sex with that virgin, that Vestal, I mean, that woman," he thundered. It was an acclamation to be envied.
He was after all, in the tradition of his forbears, their god, a creator, a founding father.
So said all the street orators. So reported all his faithful followers. He himself was in the audience disguised as a peasant when he heard the bombastic Catatonious declaim, "Delenda est Aurora", "Down with Aurora". The orator continued, "Of what is our great leader guilty? The gods forbid this accusation against a peer, one who is Divine."
Did not the noted communicator Micah Jacksonius write that verity, that the Great Publius cannot be held to the standards of ordinary men.
"Yes, he is active sexually, but this is a gift of the great god Priapus."
Marcus was not concerned about the censure of the Senators. He was well provided with complete papyri on each of them. He had read many a juicy tale one night when he could not sleep and there was no other distraction available. He chuckled to himself, "Surely not Arrius Duplitius, why he brings new meaning to the Latin word, ambidextrous."
He waxed poetic. In these nocturnal musings, "breathes there a man with soul so dead/who has not in his closet hid/ a fleshy skeleton or two/or three or four."
Talk about Nero paying his lyre, or fiddle, he forgot which. Anyway, he knew he was better on the lyre than Nero was, hands down, regardless of how one spells the word.
There were irritations. Take for instance, that former mentor of his from some Asia Minor province, that Greek scribe, Papadopoulous or other, who kept gossiping among the literati of greater Rome about the nine hundred other Papyri, he, Marcus kept hid under his bed for safekeeping.
The Madonna in charge of the vestals was, he knew, more close lipped--literally and figuratively. He was certain that she had chosen the one profession suitable to her unfortunate physical aspects. Leonor Cleftus had a price, but it was worth it. She was heard to declaim, "O Tempore, Oh Mores," which has nothing to do with this narration and is simply a Latin aphorism relating to time, that he, Publius had gone from sixty four percent to sixty eight percent approval in the opinion of Rome's Virgins and that after the denunciation of that pseudo-Virgin.
Still, "judge ye, O gods," he mused. "How I am persecuted. That damned toga was stolen from my wardrobe. A toga is a toga, but this one is reputed to have miraculous manifestations. He cursed the maliciousness of certain Olympian residents, the lesser, peripheral gods. He was not about to name names, for safety's sake. They could be bitchy. It was said that the lost garment had a mysterious imprint, incontrovertibly his image, of erratic conformation. He made a mental note. This would be a job for that great interpreter for the goddess of Justice, blindfolded and holding the scales of truth, the revered patronness of Barrius Shekkius, who would explain her truth.
Truly, wasn't Leonora Cliftus a voice from Olympus when she explained, "Verily, our leader has remained reluctantly silent these many years for good and cogent reasons. He has been a fortress against the calumnies of those decadent right-wing Etruscans. For whom? For you, O people of Rome, and his immediate household, and good old fashioned Roman morality."
Marcus Publius Varicus fell soundly asleep and dreamed a kind of deja vu dream. He saw himself on the dais at the For Romano, his voice ringing sonorously above the silent masses. He was holding his battered robe before the people, pointing to the tears made by his calumniators, all stains against his divine person hood. The cheers were thunderous, thunderous, thunderous. . .
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Random Thoughts In The Emergency Room
Now that I have put onto this blog, for posterity, the letters my father wrote to my mother during the thirteen weeks he spent in Augusta, George for Army Reserve Training, I am returning to transcribing his short short stories. Not all of them, because some were clearly unfinished experiments, but there will be many. It will take time, and this part of the project which I have undertaken, the preservation of a family whose line has ended with me, will alternate with my general blogging of thoughts.
The story that follows makes reference to a woman that my father met about four or five years after my mother died. Actually, it was a blind date set up by one of Dad's colleagues who knew the lady. Their relationship, which I encouraged, for both altruistic and selfish reasons, was beautiful, and lasted about a year. My father said he ended it, and the reasons are reflected in this story, her age, which was much younger than his, and his health. She became my friend both before and after Dad died. She said it was a mutual decision, that the timing wasn't right. I knew a little of her situation; it was possible that it was mutual. I do wonder why my father took the responsibility for the break-up. I so wanted them to stay together. She was an infusion of life for him, and for me. I always told him he made a mistake. Ours was not a family that pursued happiness. In fact, sometimes it seemed to me that we swatted it away when it approached.
It is hard not to note my father's cynicism toward religion. He was always questioning. Even after he decided to join me in my faith, officially at least, as a Catholic.
I walked towards the Admissions desk. It was three deep with applicants for service. Somehow, I caught the eye of a nurse. In that brief glance, I managed to point my index finger towards the middle of my chest. She was beside me in an instant, her unusually strong hand grasped my arm. She led me to the glass-enclosed office behind the emergency desk and sat me in a wheel chair, adjacent to another desk and a computer flashing kaleidoscopic colors.
I was reminded of the pin ball machines of my youth, and in my mesmerized state fully expected the clangor of a win--coins dropping noisily into a metallic pan and bells announcing, "JACKPOT".
She was young, pretty, long-haired. Her carefully burnished nails did not impede the speed with which she manipulated the computer.
"Are you a nurse," I asked. No secretary could have such long nails.
"Yes," she replied, never missing a stroke.
She stopped long enough to take my pulse.
"One hundred and twenty," I guessed.
"One hundred and fifteen," she corrected.
The typing was brief. I have a long history of service from Cedars-Sinai. The necessary vital material was available on the computer memory banks.
"We're short of beds," she noted, "but I'll try to set you up."
Indeed. It was the day after Thanksgiving.
The nurse smiled. It was a warming gesture. She handed me over to a volunteer, who squeezed my arm in the ritual of mercy.
The volunteer wheeled me to the entrance of the emergency room. It was barred by a large metal door that opened from time to time at the electronic signal of a guard.
It slammed shut with the authority of a prison gate, a kind of prophetic finality.
In the brief moments to allow passage the door remained open to disclose filled emergency rooms.
Before each, gurneys, wheel chairs, conveyances of all kinds guarded the spot that assured possession of the next empty bed.
I was relieved each time the door shut out the symphonies of pain, particularly the two note repeating cry of a very young child.
I was wheeled into room six. I wondered that the previously placed patient, already at the entrance had not been given the space. "Triage," I thought, apprehension overcoming my being. He looked and sounded worse than I felt.
I stood, silent, lost, not knowing what was expected of me. The room had a comfortable bed. The walls were full of equipment. My reverie was broken by a very small Japanese nurse, who threw a onto the bed.
"Get into this right away. I have to hook you up to the monitors. I did as I was told. I watched as she placed sticky circles about my upper body which had metal teats to which she snapped the leads. "An EKG," I thought.
She left. I closed my eyes and waited like old Scrooge for the next visitor. HE came. He was young, with a pointed goatee. He was dressed in a maroon shirt and trousers over which a a black leather devise, crossed against the breast squeezed against his waist and upper hips. A back support, I guessed. He had the look of an imp from some frightening darkness.
"I'm your nurse," he announced, "There'll be a little sting. . ."
There was. I could feel it--and a sudden sensation of liquid rolling down my arm. I dared a look, but he had wiped it clean. He held three vials of blood I had no idea he had taken. A little receptacle remained in my arm, secured in a fat vein, ready to receive whatever might be offered.
"Just in case," he said, pointing to the device.
I tried to doze but was interrupted by a succession of visitors, all looking at the monitors and taking notes. I forgot about the automatic blood-pressure machine and was startled by its unrelenting squeeze against my arm.
The curtains parted again with a metallic swoosh.
"I'm your volunteer." She did not elaborate. She had extraordinary, large unblinking blue eyes. They were hypnotic.
"The doctor will be in soon with the results of the tests," she whispered. I was transfixed by the ocular splendor.
She smelled pretty, though there was no hint of perfume. Probably regulations did not allow. Curiously, even with my awareness of that eternal shadow reading the kaleidoscopic monitor about my head, reaction to beauty was not dulled.
They're all wrong, Saints Paul, Peter, Jerome, Origen, the vaunted Church Fathers--those Biblical purveyors of guilt, who accuse of of Original Sin--they're all wrong. The Maker of all things watched, approvingly when Adam shared that eternal apple with Eve. It was God's way to insure the immortality of His chosen species. He opted for life.
An author said it better than I can. "Allah looks darkly on a man who refuses a woman's love, when she calls." The infinite being so near, I thumbed drowsily through memory for any faults Allah may have with me. Yes, there was one grievous sin, one for which twenty years later those who knew of us castigated me darkly, but not nearly as bad as my self-imposed penance.
I will not describe her beauty, that warmth of inner love that was transmitted with a touch. When we danced, it was as if one body was in motion. For more than a year, we dallied with the world of music, glitter and dance. Sardi's, El Morocco, The Forum of the Twelve Caesars. Rita Dmitri, of the famous Candlelight Room, descended the piano from which she sang nightly, to sit with us, and to probe--in the parlance of the milieu--whether we were "anybody."
People in love are a curiosity, and blatantly obvious.
My eyelids became too heavy to ponder this ancient sin, but the memory refused to leave on its own.
I was in a dream as real as life. We were on our way to greet the New Year. It was New Year's Eve, 1978, as we sped towards the restaurant where we had our first date, to a reserved corner table in the Chateau Henri IV, with its unique bridge over a moat, and the plus circular table setting that allowed us to sit close together, where we joined hands, and were seldom apart after that.
She sat close as I drove and her heady scent and warmth reinforced my determination. I would ask her to marry me. It was not an impediment that there was twenty years between us, that the summer her life was beginning I was well into fall. I could withstand the cynical, pervasive remark at social gatherings--"Introduce me to your daughter." It was her decision. She had assured me it was what she wanted.
I would wait till midnight. . .for sure, this time. . .I was happy.
The phone was insistent in its importunate ringing. I fought the unwanted persistent hand of the nurse on my shoulder. . .
"The doctor is here with the reports."
The story that follows makes reference to a woman that my father met about four or five years after my mother died. Actually, it was a blind date set up by one of Dad's colleagues who knew the lady. Their relationship, which I encouraged, for both altruistic and selfish reasons, was beautiful, and lasted about a year. My father said he ended it, and the reasons are reflected in this story, her age, which was much younger than his, and his health. She became my friend both before and after Dad died. She said it was a mutual decision, that the timing wasn't right. I knew a little of her situation; it was possible that it was mutual. I do wonder why my father took the responsibility for the break-up. I so wanted them to stay together. She was an infusion of life for him, and for me. I always told him he made a mistake. Ours was not a family that pursued happiness. In fact, sometimes it seemed to me that we swatted it away when it approached.
It is hard not to note my father's cynicism toward religion. He was always questioning. Even after he decided to join me in my faith, officially at least, as a Catholic.
I walked towards the Admissions desk. It was three deep with applicants for service. Somehow, I caught the eye of a nurse. In that brief glance, I managed to point my index finger towards the middle of my chest. She was beside me in an instant, her unusually strong hand grasped my arm. She led me to the glass-enclosed office behind the emergency desk and sat me in a wheel chair, adjacent to another desk and a computer flashing kaleidoscopic colors.
I was reminded of the pin ball machines of my youth, and in my mesmerized state fully expected the clangor of a win--coins dropping noisily into a metallic pan and bells announcing, "JACKPOT".
She was young, pretty, long-haired. Her carefully burnished nails did not impede the speed with which she manipulated the computer.
"Are you a nurse," I asked. No secretary could have such long nails.
"Yes," she replied, never missing a stroke.
She stopped long enough to take my pulse.
"One hundred and twenty," I guessed.
"One hundred and fifteen," she corrected.
The typing was brief. I have a long history of service from Cedars-Sinai. The necessary vital material was available on the computer memory banks.
"We're short of beds," she noted, "but I'll try to set you up."
Indeed. It was the day after Thanksgiving.
The nurse smiled. It was a warming gesture. She handed me over to a volunteer, who squeezed my arm in the ritual of mercy.
The volunteer wheeled me to the entrance of the emergency room. It was barred by a large metal door that opened from time to time at the electronic signal of a guard.
It slammed shut with the authority of a prison gate, a kind of prophetic finality.
In the brief moments to allow passage the door remained open to disclose filled emergency rooms.
Before each, gurneys, wheel chairs, conveyances of all kinds guarded the spot that assured possession of the next empty bed.
I was relieved each time the door shut out the symphonies of pain, particularly the two note repeating cry of a very young child.
I was wheeled into room six. I wondered that the previously placed patient, already at the entrance had not been given the space. "Triage," I thought, apprehension overcoming my being. He looked and sounded worse than I felt.
I stood, silent, lost, not knowing what was expected of me. The room had a comfortable bed. The walls were full of equipment. My reverie was broken by a very small Japanese nurse, who threw a onto the bed.
"Get into this right away. I have to hook you up to the monitors. I did as I was told. I watched as she placed sticky circles about my upper body which had metal teats to which she snapped the leads. "An EKG," I thought.
She left. I closed my eyes and waited like old Scrooge for the next visitor. HE came. He was young, with a pointed goatee. He was dressed in a maroon shirt and trousers over which a a black leather devise, crossed against the breast squeezed against his waist and upper hips. A back support, I guessed. He had the look of an imp from some frightening darkness.
"I'm your nurse," he announced, "There'll be a little sting. . ."
There was. I could feel it--and a sudden sensation of liquid rolling down my arm. I dared a look, but he had wiped it clean. He held three vials of blood I had no idea he had taken. A little receptacle remained in my arm, secured in a fat vein, ready to receive whatever might be offered.
"Just in case," he said, pointing to the device.
I tried to doze but was interrupted by a succession of visitors, all looking at the monitors and taking notes. I forgot about the automatic blood-pressure machine and was startled by its unrelenting squeeze against my arm.
The curtains parted again with a metallic swoosh.
"I'm your volunteer." She did not elaborate. She had extraordinary, large unblinking blue eyes. They were hypnotic.
"The doctor will be in soon with the results of the tests," she whispered. I was transfixed by the ocular splendor.
She smelled pretty, though there was no hint of perfume. Probably regulations did not allow. Curiously, even with my awareness of that eternal shadow reading the kaleidoscopic monitor about my head, reaction to beauty was not dulled.
They're all wrong, Saints Paul, Peter, Jerome, Origen, the vaunted Church Fathers--those Biblical purveyors of guilt, who accuse of of Original Sin--they're all wrong. The Maker of all things watched, approvingly when Adam shared that eternal apple with Eve. It was God's way to insure the immortality of His chosen species. He opted for life.
An author said it better than I can. "Allah looks darkly on a man who refuses a woman's love, when she calls." The infinite being so near, I thumbed drowsily through memory for any faults Allah may have with me. Yes, there was one grievous sin, one for which twenty years later those who knew of us castigated me darkly, but not nearly as bad as my self-imposed penance.
I will not describe her beauty, that warmth of inner love that was transmitted with a touch. When we danced, it was as if one body was in motion. For more than a year, we dallied with the world of music, glitter and dance. Sardi's, El Morocco, The Forum of the Twelve Caesars. Rita Dmitri, of the famous Candlelight Room, descended the piano from which she sang nightly, to sit with us, and to probe--in the parlance of the milieu--whether we were "anybody."
People in love are a curiosity, and blatantly obvious.
My eyelids became too heavy to ponder this ancient sin, but the memory refused to leave on its own.
I was in a dream as real as life. We were on our way to greet the New Year. It was New Year's Eve, 1978, as we sped towards the restaurant where we had our first date, to a reserved corner table in the Chateau Henri IV, with its unique bridge over a moat, and the plus circular table setting that allowed us to sit close together, where we joined hands, and were seldom apart after that.
She sat close as I drove and her heady scent and warmth reinforced my determination. I would ask her to marry me. It was not an impediment that there was twenty years between us, that the summer her life was beginning I was well into fall. I could withstand the cynical, pervasive remark at social gatherings--"Introduce me to your daughter." It was her decision. She had assured me it was what she wanted.
I would wait till midnight. . .for sure, this time. . .I was happy.
The phone was insistent in its importunate ringing. I fought the unwanted persistent hand of the nurse on my shoulder. . .
"The doctor is here with the reports."
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Snap Into It
I am guessing that much of this tale is true in that my father did go to Officer Candidate School during the war, when there was a great need for officers to lead platoons which usually were demolished by the various enemies of the time, Germany and Japan and their allies.
He was an awesome figure. Tall, lean and grizzled, his uniform was immaculate, tailored to fit his trim musculature. He stood austere and menacing before his platoon, monitoring the issuance of a rifle to each soldier. He was impatient with the recording of serial numbers. Clearly, administration was not his forte. "Snap into it!" he repeated over and over, as if the remark itself could hasten the inexorable authority of the Company Clerk.
When they were finally formed for the training session, he had his revenge. He called, "Attention!" in his booming voice and kept the men thus transfixed for what seemed an eternity.
Derek tried not to wobble. He cursed the intrusive insect that trod across his forehead, daring him to twitch and thus invoke the wrath of this new power in his life--the Master Sergeant--three stripes down, three up, and a diamond in the middle.
Now for you of this distorted generation where a one or two star Genera can be deposed by a civilian structure for such minor infractions as adultery, there can be no comprehension of the impact of a single stripe on a teen-age draftee from the Bronx. Three up and three down--with a diamond in the middle, alas.
"Christ," he muttered. "We hit the friggin' jackpot!" "At ease," came the booming voice, releasing them from their immobility.
Derek moved gratefully to the at ease position, his feet tingling from the tension of not being able to move. His relief was momentary.
"You, soldier," the voice was definitely addressing him. "Yes, YOU. Front and center with the rifle. Snap into it!"
Apprehension and anger merged in his gut. He especially hated the repetitive expression, "Snap into it!". He hated the Sergeant more. He hated the Army--he hated the world and that abominable lottery that gave him such a low number.
So, for the rest of that hot and humid afternoon, under a blazing South Carolina sun, he became the robot, performing under the crisp orders of the Sergeant, "Right shoulder arms; left shoulder arms, order arms, present arms", ad nauseam for the edification of the rest of the platoon. It was the first of many disagreeable experiences, one following the other like ten Biblical plagues--guard duty, P, fifteen mile hikes with full field pack, iron helmet and that damned nine pound Enfield rifle of his first travail, with the Sergeant of multiple stripes--three up, three down and a diamond in the middle.
There was worse. He was assigned extra duty as bartender at the Officers' Club. Now, all you experts, don't observe that this kind of duty was illegal. It was. But that did not make a damn bit of difference in 1942, I don't care how many years you think you had lying on your olive drab cot during your hitch.
He was given bartender duty, and that's that.
The sight of all these shiny first and second lieutenants parading the town Scarlett O'Hara's over the dance floor was painful.
"Bourbon on the rocks and a creme de menthe for the lady, and snap into it!"
That was the proverbial straw. After his duty, he repaired to the barracks, straight to Sgt. Greenspan's room, for consultation. Greenspan was his only friend, an anomalous relationship, based on the fact that they came from the Bronx and, consequently, were fellow aliens in the land of mint juleps. Besides, Greenspan was a master of the intricacies of morning reports, soft duty assignments and was not above a modicum of skulduggery.
"You can apply for Officer Candidate School," he said.
"What do I have to do?" Derek asked.
"Well," said Greenspan, "you need an IQ of 110 or better."
"Well, you SOB," Derek posited, "you have all the files, what is mine?"
"Can't tell you, classified," he said, adopting his official demeanor, and enjoying it.
"Never mind the horseshit, Greenspan," Derek shouted, "Just stamp your hoof, once for yes or two for no."
In reverence to his Bronx friend, whom he never saw again after being ordered to Officer Candidate School, Derek was before the selection board within two weeks. He starched his uniform, sat in the prescribed fashion before a panel of Colonels and Majors, answered practically every question wrong, and was selected.
"Snap into it," said Greenspan, "the truck for that 90 day wonderland is leaving." He then whispered a magic-spell word from the Bronx into his ear. "Mazeltov," said the good Sergeant and all he had was three up, three down and a miserly one up, but Derek remembered the incantation still with great affection.
There is no great climax to this story, perhaps though, a little irony. The Master Sergeant, whose name was Unger, his earlier nemesis, was the last to mount the truck for the journey. He had apparently applied for Officer Candidate School and he too was accepted. His shirt sleeves were curiously bare. He had been required to remove the formidable three up, three down, with the diamond in the middle. He didn't mount the truck fast enough for the Sergeant now in charge,
"Snap into it, soldier!"
Former Sergeant Unger sat across from me, folded his arms across his chest and stared past me.
I could still see the residual imprints of the stripes. How transitory are the symbols of power of one man over another.
For now they were starting as equals. Derek felt greater kinship now than he had before. He wished Unger luck mentally, and all the rest of the guys on the truck, for good measure.
"More that goddamn truck," bellowed the ubiquitous voice of the times. "Snap into it! There's a war going on, you know. Snap into it!"
He was an awesome figure. Tall, lean and grizzled, his uniform was immaculate, tailored to fit his trim musculature. He stood austere and menacing before his platoon, monitoring the issuance of a rifle to each soldier. He was impatient with the recording of serial numbers. Clearly, administration was not his forte. "Snap into it!" he repeated over and over, as if the remark itself could hasten the inexorable authority of the Company Clerk.
When they were finally formed for the training session, he had his revenge. He called, "Attention!" in his booming voice and kept the men thus transfixed for what seemed an eternity.
Derek tried not to wobble. He cursed the intrusive insect that trod across his forehead, daring him to twitch and thus invoke the wrath of this new power in his life--the Master Sergeant--three stripes down, three up, and a diamond in the middle.
Now for you of this distorted generation where a one or two star Genera can be deposed by a civilian structure for such minor infractions as adultery, there can be no comprehension of the impact of a single stripe on a teen-age draftee from the Bronx. Three up and three down--with a diamond in the middle, alas.
"Christ," he muttered. "We hit the friggin' jackpot!" "At ease," came the booming voice, releasing them from their immobility.
Derek moved gratefully to the at ease position, his feet tingling from the tension of not being able to move. His relief was momentary.
"You, soldier," the voice was definitely addressing him. "Yes, YOU. Front and center with the rifle. Snap into it!"
Apprehension and anger merged in his gut. He especially hated the repetitive expression, "Snap into it!". He hated the Sergeant more. He hated the Army--he hated the world and that abominable lottery that gave him such a low number.
So, for the rest of that hot and humid afternoon, under a blazing South Carolina sun, he became the robot, performing under the crisp orders of the Sergeant, "Right shoulder arms; left shoulder arms, order arms, present arms", ad nauseam for the edification of the rest of the platoon. It was the first of many disagreeable experiences, one following the other like ten Biblical plagues--guard duty, P, fifteen mile hikes with full field pack, iron helmet and that damned nine pound Enfield rifle of his first travail, with the Sergeant of multiple stripes--three up, three down and a diamond in the middle.
There was worse. He was assigned extra duty as bartender at the Officers' Club. Now, all you experts, don't observe that this kind of duty was illegal. It was. But that did not make a damn bit of difference in 1942, I don't care how many years you think you had lying on your olive drab cot during your hitch.
He was given bartender duty, and that's that.
The sight of all these shiny first and second lieutenants parading the town Scarlett O'Hara's over the dance floor was painful.
"Bourbon on the rocks and a creme de menthe for the lady, and snap into it!"
That was the proverbial straw. After his duty, he repaired to the barracks, straight to Sgt. Greenspan's room, for consultation. Greenspan was his only friend, an anomalous relationship, based on the fact that they came from the Bronx and, consequently, were fellow aliens in the land of mint juleps. Besides, Greenspan was a master of the intricacies of morning reports, soft duty assignments and was not above a modicum of skulduggery.
"You can apply for Officer Candidate School," he said.
"What do I have to do?" Derek asked.
"Well," said Greenspan, "you need an IQ of 110 or better."
"Well, you SOB," Derek posited, "you have all the files, what is mine?"
"Can't tell you, classified," he said, adopting his official demeanor, and enjoying it.
"Never mind the horseshit, Greenspan," Derek shouted, "Just stamp your hoof, once for yes or two for no."
In reverence to his Bronx friend, whom he never saw again after being ordered to Officer Candidate School, Derek was before the selection board within two weeks. He starched his uniform, sat in the prescribed fashion before a panel of Colonels and Majors, answered practically every question wrong, and was selected.
"Snap into it," said Greenspan, "the truck for that 90 day wonderland is leaving." He then whispered a magic-spell word from the Bronx into his ear. "Mazeltov," said the good Sergeant and all he had was three up, three down and a miserly one up, but Derek remembered the incantation still with great affection.
There is no great climax to this story, perhaps though, a little irony. The Master Sergeant, whose name was Unger, his earlier nemesis, was the last to mount the truck for the journey. He had apparently applied for Officer Candidate School and he too was accepted. His shirt sleeves were curiously bare. He had been required to remove the formidable three up, three down, with the diamond in the middle. He didn't mount the truck fast enough for the Sergeant now in charge,
"Snap into it, soldier!"
Former Sergeant Unger sat across from me, folded his arms across his chest and stared past me.
I could still see the residual imprints of the stripes. How transitory are the symbols of power of one man over another.
For now they were starting as equals. Derek felt greater kinship now than he had before. He wished Unger luck mentally, and all the rest of the guys on the truck, for good measure.
"More that goddamn truck," bellowed the ubiquitous voice of the times. "Snap into it! There's a war going on, you know. Snap into it!"
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Objects of Memory
I am a memory keeper. Cards, old papers, photos. Of late, I have tried to pare down, but there is always something, a letter, a matchbook (where you can get them nowadays), a voice message to keep. I was in New York last May and I went down to the site of 9/11 and the newly built One World Trade Center. I didn't make a prior reservation for the museum, so I couldn't go, but I ran across a DVD or two in the gift shop that reminded me of the power of objects in bringing to mind the lives of those who die. A bent steel beam, a Fireman's hat, a license that floated from the top floor as the two towers fell to dust, those are the objects that we cherish because they assure us that once a building and the people in them stood in ordinary days no longer taken for granted.
I was thinking about the force an object has to evoke memory in relation to Monsignor Murphy, the pastor of St. Victor, who died last Wednesday afternoon. Objects, (as well as locations) which Monsignor had used to continue to celebrate Mass during his years' long illness, which I had paid little or no attention to just a few days before, became critical for me to document after Monsignor left us, unexpectedly, for he always seemed to bounce back from the critical bouts with his illness. The objects marked not only his struggle in the shadow of the Crucifix under which he celebrated Mass, but the glorious persistence of his ministry, not unlike that of Saint John Paul II. On Friday, I decided to take a few pictures of these items before they were inevitably removed, no longer needed ritual items within the ritual.
I suppose it began with the mechanical chair. For a while, because the disease which struck Monsignor, began with his arms, he could still go up and down the few steps from the sanctuary proper to the altar. But then his legs began to be affected, and it became dangerous for him to manage stairs and the little chair appeared. As the removable railings which Monsignor Parnassus had used when his illness made walking difficult did, the chair became an integral part of the area, a necessity, but a discreet one.
After a while, the chair was no longer enough, Monsignor became wheel chair bound. He could no longer approach the altar through the back of the church, because of the steps, but a ramp allowed him to come to the side door, the outside entrance to the children's room, and one of his devoted helpers, whether it be Virgil Sr., Virgil Jr., Jayvil or Joseph, or a friend who was visiting for the day, would wheel him past his beloved potted plants and bougainvilleas of red, pink and white, to vest him. He often could be seen, after Mass, in his wheel chair, with a straw hat protecting his face, instructing one of the guys on pruning the plants and re-potting others.
When the weather was warm, when I was waiting to help at the weekday 12:10, I liked to sit outside on one of the tree stumps lined against the outer wall, watching the hummingbirds, or starlings or whatever the creature was hopping on the soft patches of grass. Monsignor would come up the path and ask if there was one to see, and if so, I'd point it out. Monsignor had us servers trained, to get him vested quickly and out into the sanctuary. "Let's go!" he'd say if one of us was dawdling.
He had a choice of many reading glasses, but he simply favored one wired pair, that seemed to me to ill fit him. More than once I got the frame hooks in his ear instead of over it. And they would inevitably slip. Sometimes we servers would notice; sometimes not, at which time, we'd hear a whisper "push my glasses up" before he read the collect or the Eucharistic prayer.
Sometimes Monsignor was patient; sometimes not so much as servers turned the pages of the Sacramentary for him, often not quite discerning the labyrinthine layout for the Ordinary, or a Memorial, or a Feast, and having the ribbon markers in the proper place. The service began at a little table near the lecturn stage left, piled with the book for readings, the Sacramentary, and the intention for the day, and then moved to the a small altar that was erected out of a long portable table, that would accommodate Monsignor's wheel chair.
When that altar was placed in front of the main marble one, there was a bit of a stir I heard through the parish grapevine.
Some folks were "scandalized" to have this makeshift altar. Others, including many of our visiting priests, liked the way it brought the celebrant closer to the people. As in all the things that have happened during these last years, for me, the adjustments that were made to allow Monsignor to do that which was his life's blood, the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, became second nature. And for many others of us as well, I know.
All these objects made Monsignor Murphy more precious to us in this last more than half a decade. And maybe, for those I call the "St. Victor regulars", those parishioners who attend the variety of services and Holy Hours which provide sorely needed Graces as we tentatively walk the Royal Road of the Cross, the example of this priest and the objects he used to assist him in his ministry made us more precious to each other. We are a family in mourning for ourselves because he is lost to us in this life, but we are a family in joy because Monsignor has been freed from suffering and has entered Eternity.
The memory evoked by these small objects will keep our hearts warm until we join him.
I was thinking about the force an object has to evoke memory in relation to Monsignor Murphy, the pastor of St. Victor, who died last Wednesday afternoon. Objects, (as well as locations) which Monsignor had used to continue to celebrate Mass during his years' long illness, which I had paid little or no attention to just a few days before, became critical for me to document after Monsignor left us, unexpectedly, for he always seemed to bounce back from the critical bouts with his illness. The objects marked not only his struggle in the shadow of the Crucifix under which he celebrated Mass, but the glorious persistence of his ministry, not unlike that of Saint John Paul II. On Friday, I decided to take a few pictures of these items before they were inevitably removed, no longer needed ritual items within the ritual.
I suppose it began with the mechanical chair. For a while, because the disease which struck Monsignor, began with his arms, he could still go up and down the few steps from the sanctuary proper to the altar. But then his legs began to be affected, and it became dangerous for him to manage stairs and the little chair appeared. As the removable railings which Monsignor Parnassus had used when his illness made walking difficult did, the chair became an integral part of the area, a necessity, but a discreet one.
After a while, the chair was no longer enough, Monsignor became wheel chair bound. He could no longer approach the altar through the back of the church, because of the steps, but a ramp allowed him to come to the side door, the outside entrance to the children's room, and one of his devoted helpers, whether it be Virgil Sr., Virgil Jr., Jayvil or Joseph, or a friend who was visiting for the day, would wheel him past his beloved potted plants and bougainvilleas of red, pink and white, to vest him. He often could be seen, after Mass, in his wheel chair, with a straw hat protecting his face, instructing one of the guys on pruning the plants and re-potting others.
When the weather was warm, when I was waiting to help at the weekday 12:10, I liked to sit outside on one of the tree stumps lined against the outer wall, watching the hummingbirds, or starlings or whatever the creature was hopping on the soft patches of grass. Monsignor would come up the path and ask if there was one to see, and if so, I'd point it out. Monsignor had us servers trained, to get him vested quickly and out into the sanctuary. "Let's go!" he'd say if one of us was dawdling.
He had a choice of many reading glasses, but he simply favored one wired pair, that seemed to me to ill fit him. More than once I got the frame hooks in his ear instead of over it. And they would inevitably slip. Sometimes we servers would notice; sometimes not, at which time, we'd hear a whisper "push my glasses up" before he read the collect or the Eucharistic prayer.
Sometimes Monsignor was patient; sometimes not so much as servers turned the pages of the Sacramentary for him, often not quite discerning the labyrinthine layout for the Ordinary, or a Memorial, or a Feast, and having the ribbon markers in the proper place. The service began at a little table near the lecturn stage left, piled with the book for readings, the Sacramentary, and the intention for the day, and then moved to the a small altar that was erected out of a long portable table, that would accommodate Monsignor's wheel chair.
When that altar was placed in front of the main marble one, there was a bit of a stir I heard through the parish grapevine.
Some folks were "scandalized" to have this makeshift altar. Others, including many of our visiting priests, liked the way it brought the celebrant closer to the people. As in all the things that have happened during these last years, for me, the adjustments that were made to allow Monsignor to do that which was his life's blood, the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, became second nature. And for many others of us as well, I know.
All these objects made Monsignor Murphy more precious to us in this last more than half a decade. And maybe, for those I call the "St. Victor regulars", those parishioners who attend the variety of services and Holy Hours which provide sorely needed Graces as we tentatively walk the Royal Road of the Cross, the example of this priest and the objects he used to assist him in his ministry made us more precious to each other. We are a family in mourning for ourselves because he is lost to us in this life, but we are a family in joy because Monsignor has been freed from suffering and has entered Eternity.
The memory evoked by these small objects will keep our hearts warm until we join him.
Monday, March 6, 2017
"Shew Me Wherefore Thou Contendest With Me" (Book of Job Chapter 10, Verse 2)
As we all do, my father struggled with faith, and the idea of it. In some ways, for most of his life he simply stood outside and watched the fray, saying that he needed proofs that God be God. We can ask God, even struggle with the circumstances that flow from being fallen humans, but not demand of Him. The reality is that we have to understand that we are not in command, that we serve, but that doesn't come easily to any of us. When my father converted to Catholicism, I knew that at base he did it for me, but that was a great concession for a man who battled so within, and I am grateful he came to it, however circuitously. This story though reflects my father's life long questions, questions that have been extant since man had consciousness.
It is said that He is aware of that solitary sparrow that glides through the vast forests of eternity. When it falls, wing broken, and thrashing on the ground; when the tree falls in that unkind wilderness, He knows the sounds of despair of his afflicted creations. Yet nothing happens to alter the fate of either the tree or the sparrow.
So it is with some human "Sparrows" who are broken in spirit, from the beginning of their sojourn, assailed at birth by the confluence of natural forces and the imperfections of the human experience.
She came with that great wave of immigrants at the turn of the century. The route was Argentina, first, then the lower East Side of Manhattan. Yitzhak, her father was a weaver. He brought his own loom which he had been guarding with his life since he left that little corner of Galicea, where he was born. Her role became that of the firstborn whose function was to minister to the brothers and sisters, which arrived with little interim between pregnancies, until there were nine. Golda, the mother, grew gray and worn, as she tried to stretch the meagre earnings of Yitshak's solitary loom into enough to stave off the constant threat of starvation.
Rachel, we have waited to give her a name, plodded silently, and dutifully, to the cacophony of needs, the cries of the newborn, the wails of the little brother who scraped his knee, and the thousand ills that befall the poverty stricken, enclosed in a railroad flat, five stories up, if one does not count the stone steps that are a preamble to the first floor.
Still, Rachel was blessed. At seventeen, she was a rare beauty. Her raven hair was uncut since birth, and when allowed to, it fell, glistening and graceful, to her waist. Her eyes were coal black, in a very white face of classical beauty. No lipstick could add anything to lips that were carmine and moist; and precociously impatient.
Such a gem cannot long escape notice. Irving Feldstein was stricken the day they met as she was coming down the stairs. Irving made his collections on insurance premiums, usually, one dollar a week on each of the policies he had sold initially.
The courtship went on for several years, perhaps because of the filial concern of Yitzhak and Golda, more likely, their need for Rachel's services. In time, they met under the canopy. Irving paid, and they moved to a frame house, on Fulton Avenue, in the Bronx, where they had two or three joyful years, sired two children, a boy and a girl, and then Irving made an unceremonious departure from this life. He left nothing but the mortgage and the cash that was found in his pockets.
Rachel had no skills. Her schooling terminated at the third grade. The children were now, ten and eleven. Once again, she was rolling that mythical stone up hill, only to see it roll down again in inexorable repetitions.
There was no help possible from Yitzhak, or any other source. She spent her nights in tearful despair, and prayer.
Hunger was not new to her. The few dollars left after the mortgage payment were gone. She already was straining the benevolence of Mr. Cohen, the grocer at the end of the block, who kept an extensive record of generosity, marked in pencil on a brown paper bag.
It was on one of these errands of need that she passed Mr. Leibowitz' candy store. It was a tiny establishment framed out of an architectural anomaly, and turned into a rental property by an enterprising landlord.
It had the ubiquitous paper stand, a fountain, and a stock of penny candies and cigarettes.
Mr. Leibowitz was very old and tired. Selling penny candies, and two cent newspapers, long, cold winters while practically immobile in his cell-like establishment, were reducing him to desperation.
It was in this context that Rachel made the deal. No money exchanged hands. She would pay him a percentage of the earnings from the proceeds of the candy store of which she was now the proprietor.
So began the next ten years of her existence. Up at five o'clock in the morning to cut the wire on the bundled Daily Mirror and Daily News, to be ready for even the earliest customer. Seven days a week. Days of selling penny cigarettes to the street kids. Three cent sodas; an occasional malted milk. She smoked but only half a cigarette at a time, keeping the "dincher" for later use. And that, she smoked close enough to burn her lips by use of a toothpick inserted to hold the butt between her teeth.
Her hair was shorn, and straggly. She wore the same hat, a kind of inverted cloth pot, perpetually. She wore men's boots, low cut, in the icy days of winter and used old newspapers to line the oversized footwear against the intrusions of cold. Her very black eyes hid in the sunken sockets in her haggard white face. She sat, patiently, in the little cubicle, immobile, in the way that Leibowitz did before her, and she thought well before disposing of a penny without purpose. Yet she paid her mortgage, and her son was now a college senior, and her daughter a jitterbug in the days of approaching war in Europe.
On the day of Pearl Harbor, she screamed loudly, in pain. She was alone in the house on Fulton Avenue that had eaten so much of the substance of her life. Some neighbors came to see. She lay on the bed her eyes wide and blazing in anger. From these once carmine lips there spewed the vilest of epithets. She cursed life, the world and most vehemently the God to whom she had prayed to free her from her life of bondage, and she died.
Does a wounded sparrow have the right to ask for reasons.
"Shall he who contendeth with the Almighty instruct Him?"
Would an answer to Rachel be the one given to Job, in those days of faith?
"Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare if thou has understanding."
It is said that He is aware of that solitary sparrow that glides through the vast forests of eternity. When it falls, wing broken, and thrashing on the ground; when the tree falls in that unkind wilderness, He knows the sounds of despair of his afflicted creations. Yet nothing happens to alter the fate of either the tree or the sparrow.
So it is with some human "Sparrows" who are broken in spirit, from the beginning of their sojourn, assailed at birth by the confluence of natural forces and the imperfections of the human experience.
She came with that great wave of immigrants at the turn of the century. The route was Argentina, first, then the lower East Side of Manhattan. Yitzhak, her father was a weaver. He brought his own loom which he had been guarding with his life since he left that little corner of Galicea, where he was born. Her role became that of the firstborn whose function was to minister to the brothers and sisters, which arrived with little interim between pregnancies, until there were nine. Golda, the mother, grew gray and worn, as she tried to stretch the meagre earnings of Yitshak's solitary loom into enough to stave off the constant threat of starvation.
Rachel, we have waited to give her a name, plodded silently, and dutifully, to the cacophony of needs, the cries of the newborn, the wails of the little brother who scraped his knee, and the thousand ills that befall the poverty stricken, enclosed in a railroad flat, five stories up, if one does not count the stone steps that are a preamble to the first floor.
Still, Rachel was blessed. At seventeen, she was a rare beauty. Her raven hair was uncut since birth, and when allowed to, it fell, glistening and graceful, to her waist. Her eyes were coal black, in a very white face of classical beauty. No lipstick could add anything to lips that were carmine and moist; and precociously impatient.
Such a gem cannot long escape notice. Irving Feldstein was stricken the day they met as she was coming down the stairs. Irving made his collections on insurance premiums, usually, one dollar a week on each of the policies he had sold initially.
The courtship went on for several years, perhaps because of the filial concern of Yitzhak and Golda, more likely, their need for Rachel's services. In time, they met under the canopy. Irving paid, and they moved to a frame house, on Fulton Avenue, in the Bronx, where they had two or three joyful years, sired two children, a boy and a girl, and then Irving made an unceremonious departure from this life. He left nothing but the mortgage and the cash that was found in his pockets.
Rachel had no skills. Her schooling terminated at the third grade. The children were now, ten and eleven. Once again, she was rolling that mythical stone up hill, only to see it roll down again in inexorable repetitions.
There was no help possible from Yitzhak, or any other source. She spent her nights in tearful despair, and prayer.
Hunger was not new to her. The few dollars left after the mortgage payment were gone. She already was straining the benevolence of Mr. Cohen, the grocer at the end of the block, who kept an extensive record of generosity, marked in pencil on a brown paper bag.
It was on one of these errands of need that she passed Mr. Leibowitz' candy store. It was a tiny establishment framed out of an architectural anomaly, and turned into a rental property by an enterprising landlord.
It had the ubiquitous paper stand, a fountain, and a stock of penny candies and cigarettes.
Mr. Leibowitz was very old and tired. Selling penny candies, and two cent newspapers, long, cold winters while practically immobile in his cell-like establishment, were reducing him to desperation.
It was in this context that Rachel made the deal. No money exchanged hands. She would pay him a percentage of the earnings from the proceeds of the candy store of which she was now the proprietor.
So began the next ten years of her existence. Up at five o'clock in the morning to cut the wire on the bundled Daily Mirror and Daily News, to be ready for even the earliest customer. Seven days a week. Days of selling penny cigarettes to the street kids. Three cent sodas; an occasional malted milk. She smoked but only half a cigarette at a time, keeping the "dincher" for later use. And that, she smoked close enough to burn her lips by use of a toothpick inserted to hold the butt between her teeth.
Her hair was shorn, and straggly. She wore the same hat, a kind of inverted cloth pot, perpetually. She wore men's boots, low cut, in the icy days of winter and used old newspapers to line the oversized footwear against the intrusions of cold. Her very black eyes hid in the sunken sockets in her haggard white face. She sat, patiently, in the little cubicle, immobile, in the way that Leibowitz did before her, and she thought well before disposing of a penny without purpose. Yet she paid her mortgage, and her son was now a college senior, and her daughter a jitterbug in the days of approaching war in Europe.
On the day of Pearl Harbor, she screamed loudly, in pain. She was alone in the house on Fulton Avenue that had eaten so much of the substance of her life. Some neighbors came to see. She lay on the bed her eyes wide and blazing in anger. From these once carmine lips there spewed the vilest of epithets. She cursed life, the world and most vehemently the God to whom she had prayed to free her from her life of bondage, and she died.
Does a wounded sparrow have the right to ask for reasons.
"Shall he who contendeth with the Almighty instruct Him?"
Would an answer to Rachel be the one given to Job, in those days of faith?
"Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare if thou has understanding."
Sunday, March 5, 2017
April 3, 1956
Dear Rosetta:
I am spending a quiet, sedate, educational afternoon in the BOQ. This morning was rainy and chill but the day has become fair and warm.
Since I arose late, about 11:30, I was not able to get to the mail room which closes at 12:00 p.m.; therefore I have no way of knowing whether or not there is any mail from you. I presume there will be an abundance awaiting me on Monday.
It was good for me to talk to you Friday night. As a result I have been in good humor--a state that promises to continue for the entire week-end.
Since early this afternoon I have been recording my voice for posterity. It seems the Iranian Officers feel--after much testing--that of all the America Officers, here, my pronunciation and voice are the est. I am recording for them the English of an Iranian English book. We also recorded a sort of informal interview, in which I answered spontaneous questions about various subjects. I do not recognize my voice on playback. It is a distinct surprise to me, somewhat deeper than I pictured it, much better inflection than I had supposed, and having many fewer defects than I would have believed. As I was told long ago, I have a radio voice.
I am listening now to Mozart's "The Magic Flute". I am not too familiar with the opera but it has some beautiful music which am enjoying. The lyrics are in English and HORRIBLE.
Did my letter worry you? I hope you did not think you were in any way responsible for the outburst of irrationality. These moods do not come over me frequently enough to be of any consequence. It is just that at a time that I was generally angry, having no specific object to vent my ire, I came upon your letter. Suddenly, inexplicably, this anger turned inward.
It was quite a thrill to hear Djinna say "Hello, Daddy." She pronounces it "Da--dd-y". Last night I was invited to the Lt. Millwee's. Captain Hahn, his wife, and Lt. Marrero, a Puerto Rican Officer were also there. I had a very interesting evening.
Capt. Hahn and his wife, though married some ten years, are childless. They are both very devoted to their Boxer, which apparently takes the place in their affections of a child. They appear to me to despise each other and I gather from observation and scarps of conversation that she possesses an ardor that he rebuffs. She is a very attractive girl, tall, petulant, nice eyes and full mouth, kittenish, deceptive in that she exudes a kind of naivete which I suspect is put on, and outspoken with regard to "sin", cheapness, etc. Her husband is short, about 32, though he looks older due to approaching baldness, a heavy drinker--he is a govt inspector for "Old Grandad", outspoken with regard for his preference for other women than his wife (in her presence)--probably due to his failure to produce and offspring, a common source of inferiority feeling in men. She is jealous.
Lt. Millwee looks like a Presbyterian Minister. He is about my height, stocky, nearing thirty and his eyes are hidden by very thick tinted spectacles. He is very sensitive about his eyes. Though very mild-spoken, with a deep Kentucky accent, I learned via the conversation that he has frequent outbursts of abusive meanness to his wife and three children. He works for a personal loan company (finance).
The children are all blonde--very--blue eyed and extremely pretty. The oldest, about five, is precocious. The youngest, who will be two April 6 was going through the "eye, nose, mouth" routine and it made me very homesick. The middle child is a mere boy and needs no mention.
Mrs. Millwee is very young, having married at twenty, has had her Fallopian tubes severed so as to preclude the possibility of another pregnancy. She speaks very frankly about her relationship with her husband, chides him for his lack of "attention" in a physical sense, speaks semi-jokingly about a divorce, "If ah knowed what to do 'bout the three young'uns." She asked me if I treat my wife "thata way," and I thought evasion was the best course in view of the circumstances.
Neither one of these men dance though their wives claim to be good dancers.
I would not not be surprised to learn that one day, two men will be shocked out of their complacency.
Luitpolodo-Juan-xxxxxx is the Puerto Rican Officer. He speaks fair English with a very thick accent. He is about 30 and quite handsome. . .fine featured, black straight hair, milk white teeth and a small mustache. He takes to very few of the officers, is sensitive and easily offended. It is more apparent to me every day that even when the supposedly discriminated against are overtly accepted, their suspicion seldom diminishes. It will take many more generations.
Among his particular problems is a Patriarchal father (he is an only son of well to do parents) a pregnant mistress and the love for a girl his father does not approve of.* He has decided to move to Michigan, marry the girl "without parental blessing", and enroll in a college for his MA in Police Science. I suspect he is too disturbed to ever find adjustment in this or any other country. *Not the impregnated one.
Once a long time ago, a French girl told me that a man should find a young, naive, child-like girl. . .
Once a long time ago I found.
It seems like only yesterday I fell in love
Buddy.
April 3 was the last letter my father wrote as he came home on that week-end having completed the course that helped with finances at home. I found these letters when I was very young, maybe 10 or 11, and yes, I read them right away. I was blown away by my parents' (as far as I could tell without having her side of the correspondence) apparent affection for each other. When I was old enough to be aware of family dynamics, I had the sense that they didn't much like each other. They seemed like two roommates more than a married couple, except when there was a dispute between them. Then my mother would go deadly silent, while my father, who admits to his tendency toward anger, fumed.
I like these letters--though one friend has called the ones he has read on these pages so far--sterile. It is true my parents did not exude emotion--they were raised at a time when emotion was considered bad taste and they had hardships in their lives concomitant with the turmoil of the mid-twentieth century. What is nice to know is that at one point, whether or not I saw it, they had a little romance. I think my father had to work very hard with my mother and she was not easily pleased. But he obviously cared enough to work at it.
So, only two things to add to these concluding Letters from Georgia. First, a calendar from Camp (later named Fort) Gordon, with a handwritten addendum from Dad. And a picture of the whole class, American, Korean, Iranian and Puerto Rican, when they and the world was young.
I am spending a quiet, sedate, educational afternoon in the BOQ. This morning was rainy and chill but the day has become fair and warm.
Since I arose late, about 11:30, I was not able to get to the mail room which closes at 12:00 p.m.; therefore I have no way of knowing whether or not there is any mail from you. I presume there will be an abundance awaiting me on Monday.
It was good for me to talk to you Friday night. As a result I have been in good humor--a state that promises to continue for the entire week-end.
Since early this afternoon I have been recording my voice for posterity. It seems the Iranian Officers feel--after much testing--that of all the America Officers, here, my pronunciation and voice are the est. I am recording for them the English of an Iranian English book. We also recorded a sort of informal interview, in which I answered spontaneous questions about various subjects. I do not recognize my voice on playback. It is a distinct surprise to me, somewhat deeper than I pictured it, much better inflection than I had supposed, and having many fewer defects than I would have believed. As I was told long ago, I have a radio voice.
I am listening now to Mozart's "The Magic Flute". I am not too familiar with the opera but it has some beautiful music which am enjoying. The lyrics are in English and HORRIBLE.
Did my letter worry you? I hope you did not think you were in any way responsible for the outburst of irrationality. These moods do not come over me frequently enough to be of any consequence. It is just that at a time that I was generally angry, having no specific object to vent my ire, I came upon your letter. Suddenly, inexplicably, this anger turned inward.
It was quite a thrill to hear Djinna say "Hello, Daddy." She pronounces it "Da--dd-y". Last night I was invited to the Lt. Millwee's. Captain Hahn, his wife, and Lt. Marrero, a Puerto Rican Officer were also there. I had a very interesting evening.
Capt. Hahn and his wife, though married some ten years, are childless. They are both very devoted to their Boxer, which apparently takes the place in their affections of a child. They appear to me to despise each other and I gather from observation and scarps of conversation that she possesses an ardor that he rebuffs. She is a very attractive girl, tall, petulant, nice eyes and full mouth, kittenish, deceptive in that she exudes a kind of naivete which I suspect is put on, and outspoken with regard to "sin", cheapness, etc. Her husband is short, about 32, though he looks older due to approaching baldness, a heavy drinker--he is a govt inspector for "Old Grandad", outspoken with regard for his preference for other women than his wife (in her presence)--probably due to his failure to produce and offspring, a common source of inferiority feeling in men. She is jealous.
Lt. Millwee looks like a Presbyterian Minister. He is about my height, stocky, nearing thirty and his eyes are hidden by very thick tinted spectacles. He is very sensitive about his eyes. Though very mild-spoken, with a deep Kentucky accent, I learned via the conversation that he has frequent outbursts of abusive meanness to his wife and three children. He works for a personal loan company (finance).
The children are all blonde--very--blue eyed and extremely pretty. The oldest, about five, is precocious. The youngest, who will be two April 6 was going through the "eye, nose, mouth" routine and it made me very homesick. The middle child is a mere boy and needs no mention.
Mrs. Millwee is very young, having married at twenty, has had her Fallopian tubes severed so as to preclude the possibility of another pregnancy. She speaks very frankly about her relationship with her husband, chides him for his lack of "attention" in a physical sense, speaks semi-jokingly about a divorce, "If ah knowed what to do 'bout the three young'uns." She asked me if I treat my wife "thata way," and I thought evasion was the best course in view of the circumstances.
Neither one of these men dance though their wives claim to be good dancers.
I would not not be surprised to learn that one day, two men will be shocked out of their complacency.
Luitpolodo-Juan-xxxxxx is the Puerto Rican Officer. He speaks fair English with a very thick accent. He is about 30 and quite handsome. . .fine featured, black straight hair, milk white teeth and a small mustache. He takes to very few of the officers, is sensitive and easily offended. It is more apparent to me every day that even when the supposedly discriminated against are overtly accepted, their suspicion seldom diminishes. It will take many more generations.
Among his particular problems is a Patriarchal father (he is an only son of well to do parents) a pregnant mistress and the love for a girl his father does not approve of.* He has decided to move to Michigan, marry the girl "without parental blessing", and enroll in a college for his MA in Police Science. I suspect he is too disturbed to ever find adjustment in this or any other country. *Not the impregnated one.
Once a long time ago, a French girl told me that a man should find a young, naive, child-like girl. . .
Once a long time ago I found.
It seems like only yesterday I fell in love
Buddy.
April 3 was the last letter my father wrote as he came home on that week-end having completed the course that helped with finances at home. I found these letters when I was very young, maybe 10 or 11, and yes, I read them right away. I was blown away by my parents' (as far as I could tell without having her side of the correspondence) apparent affection for each other. When I was old enough to be aware of family dynamics, I had the sense that they didn't much like each other. They seemed like two roommates more than a married couple, except when there was a dispute between them. Then my mother would go deadly silent, while my father, who admits to his tendency toward anger, fumed.
I like these letters--though one friend has called the ones he has read on these pages so far--sterile. It is true my parents did not exude emotion--they were raised at a time when emotion was considered bad taste and they had hardships in their lives concomitant with the turmoil of the mid-twentieth century. What is nice to know is that at one point, whether or not I saw it, they had a little romance. I think my father had to work very hard with my mother and she was not easily pleased. But he obviously cared enough to work at it.
So, only two things to add to these concluding Letters from Georgia. First, a calendar from Camp (later named Fort) Gordon, with a handwritten addendum from Dad. And a picture of the whole class, American, Korean, Iranian and Puerto Rican, when they and the world was young.
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