M. Newman's Blog, page 5
August 1, 2011
Advocate For The Severely Disabled
Hello readers. My GR friend, Rick Friedman, the moderator of the excellent group, THE JAMES MASON COMMUNITY BOOK CLUB, is an extremely supportive and caring person. He had been working at an agency for people with disabilities but was forced to resign. The other day, Rick sent this message to his many friends. I would like to share it:
To My Fellow Friends
This is the single most important letter I will EVER write to you- AND I NEED YOUR HELP AND EVERYONE WHO YOU KNOW - as this involves the most vulnerable amongst us-those with severe developmental disabilities (Autism, Mental Retardation, Cerebral Palsy and Spinal Bifida) and unfortunately - the only way to bring attention to the matters I will discuss is to have as many people cut and paste what I write- along with you own thoughts(if you so wish to include- if not just cut/paste what I have already documented below) to APD- AGENCY FOR PERSONS WITH DISABILITIES - YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE A RESIDENT OF Florida- SIMPLY A PERSON WHO CARES ABOUT THE TREATMENT OF OUR DEVELOPMENTALLY DISABLED CITIZENS.
PLEASE EMAIL THIS TO ALL YOUR FRIENDS WHO CARE ABOUT THE PLIGHT OF OUR DISABLED CITIZENS AND ASK THEM TO CUT/PASTE AND EMAIL TO the APD LINK- ONLY THOUGH A LARGE INFLUX OF EMAILS FROM THOSE FROM ALL LOCATIONS- U.S. AND ABROAD- CAN APD NOT TRY TO "SWEEP" THIS VERY SERIOUS ISSUE UNDER THE RUG.
WE MUST ADVOCATE FOR THOSE WHO ARE UNABLE TO ADVOCATE FOR THEMSELVES!!
CUT/PASTE AND EMAIL TO THIS LINK
APD_info@apd.state.fl.us
I was forced to resign from position at the HABILITATION CENTER OF BOCA RATON as a result of several reasons that, in all good conscience, I could not accept. I will list these for you- and please with you to cut/paste what I have written and email to the link above. This is the only way to make sure that action is taken, as there is a culture a severe fear among the staff to speak out- The Center Director has everyone scared that they will lose their jobs are be targeted if they do so.
PLEASE CUT AND PASTE AND SEND TO
APD_info@apd.state.fl.us
_______________________________________________CUT/PASTE_________________________
I had very serious concerns about my own safety and that of our 120-175 clients when they left the Center to enter the buses at dismissal. It is an extremely hazardous situation- with buses and vans parked on both sides- and a small narrow gap for extremely developmental disabled people to cross- many in wheelchairs and walkers. I myself was almost hit by vehicles coming around a blind turn several times (documented) This caused me immense stress - heat exposure as I was most often the Only person trying to insure safety. There is no Awning covering the exit- it was blown off during Hurricane Wilma and never replaced- I witnessed (as did other willing to testify) clients being soaked to the bone as they waited for their wheelchairs to be lifted onto Palm Tran vehicles-up to 15 minutes in duration- I myself was often soaked- resulting in illness- and a visit to my Doctor- The slate became very slippery causing clients to fall - the most recent being on 6/29/11 (documented) I suffered severe panic as a result of the severe threat posed to our clients due to lack of coverage and logistics of dismissal. Many times I would be running from bus to bus, and at the same time- running over to a vehicle that was headed towards a client- due to the blind spot- in order to stop the vehicle from hitting the client.
I have copies of documented emails sent to my supervisor expressing my concern- The first is dated 11/3/10- the last June 28, 2011. I even drew up a diagram in which we could insure client safety by placing 4 staff members in strategic places- as the exit is heading South- when clients leave- but vans must head North and then make a quick-blind turn South. I have copies of these emails as well as other staff members, parents and DOE officials who witnessed the hazards I outlined above. I write this with great trepidation as the Director of the Center (WHO HAS THE USE OF A CENTER VEHICLE- I DO NOT KNOW IF IT IS REGISTERED FOR HIS PERSONAL USE-OR TO TRANSPORT CLIENTS WHO NEED RIDES- BUT HE IS THE ONLY ONE ALLOWED TO USE IT- WHEN HE IS ON VACATION- THE CAR IS GONE- SEVERAL TIMES A WEEK HE HAS IT FILLED UP WITH GAS AND HAND WASHED BY THE MAINTENANCE MAN- IT WOULD APPEAR TO ME THAT THIS WOULD HAVE TO BE DOCUMENTED AS INCOME- BUT THAT IS A MATTER FOR THE IRS- AS I AM NOT SURE HOW THE CENTER DOCUMENTS THE VEHICLE- JUST THAT AN OLD STATION WAGON IS AN ODD CHOICE FOR A DIRECTOR'S PERSONAL USE CAR)has his employees working under such fearful conditions(they are petrified they will lose their jobs for expressing concerns) that they will say anything he tells them- yet- I have documentation, witnesses willing to testify AS the truth in my favor as to the working conditions and issues at the Center- I was threatened that if I challenged the "status quo"- I would be subject to rumor and innuendo-Other staff can and will confirm the atmosphere of fear of complaining about issues. I spoke to my Supervisor on many occasions and was fed the "company line" "The Drivers have to come into the dining room to pick up the clients" Again- I can produce many witnesses willing to testify that this is simply not the case. I also have memos confirming how well I performed that I can produce. I, simply, could not take the stress that the near misses documented, heat exposure ect would cause me greater harm than it already has.
OTHER ISSUES
1. Clients are being billed at either a 5-1 or 10 -1 client to staff ratio- yet in my two rooms, I had between 45-53 clients and the vast amount of time, the ratio was 25-1 and many times- I was the only one in the room- making the ratio 50-1
2. Developmentally Disabled Clients are used to change and clean other clients that have serious toileting accidents as well as clean out bathrooms that on a regular basis overflow- exposing them to infectious waste and materials.
3. Confidential Client records are left lying around in open places where anyone can see them- breaking HIPPA Laws
4. Before I became a teacher, my Supervisor was listed as "Teacher" even though she continued with her regular job and was almost never in the room. The APD and DOE record keeping was done by the Educational Aide and Para and signed off by the "Teacher" Fern Laskin. I was told that for many weeks at a time, there was just a Para or Aide in the room- yet billing to APD and DOE reflected 5-1 and 10-1 staff to client ratios.
5. We have regular tours by Foundations and Business Groups- and when these occur- we are pre-warned to make sure that the clients are "actively engaged in work" Interns, high functioning clients and social service workers are brought in to give the illusion that there is more coverage that is actually the case- they leave immediately after the tour passes through. Most egregious- on a recent tour- we had a job for the clients to do- and they kept asking "when are we going to work"- the Tour was delayed and we were told by Supervisors to hold off giving them the job- allowing them to sit doing nothing for about an hour- once the Tour was coming toward the rooms- we had to rush to hand out the materials so it would appear that the clients were already working- not the actual case - they sat and did nothing until the Tour came through. My Supervisor makes sure she is in the classroom"working" with clients- only during the Tours- goes right back to her other duties as soon as the Tour is over- same with the other "plants"
6. As a Habilitation Center- the aim is to teach clients to be as independent as possible-so they can go into the community and work- I had many clients who my Supervisor described my role as "babysitting" as they were so severely disabled that any honest appraisal would dictate that a Hab Center was not the place for them- except that they bring in revenue for being in the program.
7. During our Annual Meetings with clients- many who are unable to answer even the simplest of questions- there is a question as to "Work Tolerance" in which the Supervisor writes "very low"- or something to that effect- so that- as she explains it- if I don't write this in specific way- APD will wonder why the client is still in the Center and not in the Community so I have to word this right.
8. Clients are viewed as objects, ways to bring in revenue, I simply - ethically- could not go along with treating our fellow human beings as objects and not people- with their own feelings, strengths and values- I complained many times about the fact that "I am not a factory foreman- I am a Teacher" and was told that we needed to get as much work done as possible as that was the main goal of the Center- Productivity over Clients
I have documentation for much of the above and have several staff members willing to testify as to the truthfulness as long as they are free to tell the truth without fear of retribution..
PLEASE LET APD KNOW that if they do not undertake a SERIOUS INVESTIGATION/AUDIT as to the above facts- WE WILL NOTIFY OUR CONGRESSMEN, DOE AND THE STATE AND FEDERAL GOVERNMENT CHARGED WITH THE CARE OF THESE MOST PRECIOUS OF PEOPLE.
RICHARD FRIEDMAN
_______________________________________________CUT/PASTE_________________________
Please cut/paste the above- add any comments you wish and send to
APD_info@apd.state.fl.us
WE MUST ADVOCATE FOR THOSE WHO ARE UNABLE TO ADVOCATE FOR THEMSELVES!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To My Fellow Friends
This is the single most important letter I will EVER write to you- AND I NEED YOUR HELP AND EVERYONE WHO YOU KNOW - as this involves the most vulnerable amongst us-those with severe developmental disabilities (Autism, Mental Retardation, Cerebral Palsy and Spinal Bifida) and unfortunately - the only way to bring attention to the matters I will discuss is to have as many people cut and paste what I write- along with you own thoughts(if you so wish to include- if not just cut/paste what I have already documented below) to APD- AGENCY FOR PERSONS WITH DISABILITIES - YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE A RESIDENT OF Florida- SIMPLY A PERSON WHO CARES ABOUT THE TREATMENT OF OUR DEVELOPMENTALLY DISABLED CITIZENS.
PLEASE EMAIL THIS TO ALL YOUR FRIENDS WHO CARE ABOUT THE PLIGHT OF OUR DISABLED CITIZENS AND ASK THEM TO CUT/PASTE AND EMAIL TO the APD LINK- ONLY THOUGH A LARGE INFLUX OF EMAILS FROM THOSE FROM ALL LOCATIONS- U.S. AND ABROAD- CAN APD NOT TRY TO "SWEEP" THIS VERY SERIOUS ISSUE UNDER THE RUG.
WE MUST ADVOCATE FOR THOSE WHO ARE UNABLE TO ADVOCATE FOR THEMSELVES!!
CUT/PASTE AND EMAIL TO THIS LINK
APD_info@apd.state.fl.us
I was forced to resign from position at the HABILITATION CENTER OF BOCA RATON as a result of several reasons that, in all good conscience, I could not accept. I will list these for you- and please with you to cut/paste what I have written and email to the link above. This is the only way to make sure that action is taken, as there is a culture a severe fear among the staff to speak out- The Center Director has everyone scared that they will lose their jobs are be targeted if they do so.
PLEASE CUT AND PASTE AND SEND TO
APD_info@apd.state.fl.us
_______________________________________________CUT/PASTE_________________________
I had very serious concerns about my own safety and that of our 120-175 clients when they left the Center to enter the buses at dismissal. It is an extremely hazardous situation- with buses and vans parked on both sides- and a small narrow gap for extremely developmental disabled people to cross- many in wheelchairs and walkers. I myself was almost hit by vehicles coming around a blind turn several times (documented) This caused me immense stress - heat exposure as I was most often the Only person trying to insure safety. There is no Awning covering the exit- it was blown off during Hurricane Wilma and never replaced- I witnessed (as did other willing to testify) clients being soaked to the bone as they waited for their wheelchairs to be lifted onto Palm Tran vehicles-up to 15 minutes in duration- I myself was often soaked- resulting in illness- and a visit to my Doctor- The slate became very slippery causing clients to fall - the most recent being on 6/29/11 (documented) I suffered severe panic as a result of the severe threat posed to our clients due to lack of coverage and logistics of dismissal. Many times I would be running from bus to bus, and at the same time- running over to a vehicle that was headed towards a client- due to the blind spot- in order to stop the vehicle from hitting the client.
I have copies of documented emails sent to my supervisor expressing my concern- The first is dated 11/3/10- the last June 28, 2011. I even drew up a diagram in which we could insure client safety by placing 4 staff members in strategic places- as the exit is heading South- when clients leave- but vans must head North and then make a quick-blind turn South. I have copies of these emails as well as other staff members, parents and DOE officials who witnessed the hazards I outlined above. I write this with great trepidation as the Director of the Center (WHO HAS THE USE OF A CENTER VEHICLE- I DO NOT KNOW IF IT IS REGISTERED FOR HIS PERSONAL USE-OR TO TRANSPORT CLIENTS WHO NEED RIDES- BUT HE IS THE ONLY ONE ALLOWED TO USE IT- WHEN HE IS ON VACATION- THE CAR IS GONE- SEVERAL TIMES A WEEK HE HAS IT FILLED UP WITH GAS AND HAND WASHED BY THE MAINTENANCE MAN- IT WOULD APPEAR TO ME THAT THIS WOULD HAVE TO BE DOCUMENTED AS INCOME- BUT THAT IS A MATTER FOR THE IRS- AS I AM NOT SURE HOW THE CENTER DOCUMENTS THE VEHICLE- JUST THAT AN OLD STATION WAGON IS AN ODD CHOICE FOR A DIRECTOR'S PERSONAL USE CAR)has his employees working under such fearful conditions(they are petrified they will lose their jobs for expressing concerns) that they will say anything he tells them- yet- I have documentation, witnesses willing to testify AS the truth in my favor as to the working conditions and issues at the Center- I was threatened that if I challenged the "status quo"- I would be subject to rumor and innuendo-Other staff can and will confirm the atmosphere of fear of complaining about issues. I spoke to my Supervisor on many occasions and was fed the "company line" "The Drivers have to come into the dining room to pick up the clients" Again- I can produce many witnesses willing to testify that this is simply not the case. I also have memos confirming how well I performed that I can produce. I, simply, could not take the stress that the near misses documented, heat exposure ect would cause me greater harm than it already has.
OTHER ISSUES
1. Clients are being billed at either a 5-1 or 10 -1 client to staff ratio- yet in my two rooms, I had between 45-53 clients and the vast amount of time, the ratio was 25-1 and many times- I was the only one in the room- making the ratio 50-1
2. Developmentally Disabled Clients are used to change and clean other clients that have serious toileting accidents as well as clean out bathrooms that on a regular basis overflow- exposing them to infectious waste and materials.
3. Confidential Client records are left lying around in open places where anyone can see them- breaking HIPPA Laws
4. Before I became a teacher, my Supervisor was listed as "Teacher" even though she continued with her regular job and was almost never in the room. The APD and DOE record keeping was done by the Educational Aide and Para and signed off by the "Teacher" Fern Laskin. I was told that for many weeks at a time, there was just a Para or Aide in the room- yet billing to APD and DOE reflected 5-1 and 10-1 staff to client ratios.
5. We have regular tours by Foundations and Business Groups- and when these occur- we are pre-warned to make sure that the clients are "actively engaged in work" Interns, high functioning clients and social service workers are brought in to give the illusion that there is more coverage that is actually the case- they leave immediately after the tour passes through. Most egregious- on a recent tour- we had a job for the clients to do- and they kept asking "when are we going to work"- the Tour was delayed and we were told by Supervisors to hold off giving them the job- allowing them to sit doing nothing for about an hour- once the Tour was coming toward the rooms- we had to rush to hand out the materials so it would appear that the clients were already working- not the actual case - they sat and did nothing until the Tour came through. My Supervisor makes sure she is in the classroom"working" with clients- only during the Tours- goes right back to her other duties as soon as the Tour is over- same with the other "plants"
6. As a Habilitation Center- the aim is to teach clients to be as independent as possible-so they can go into the community and work- I had many clients who my Supervisor described my role as "babysitting" as they were so severely disabled that any honest appraisal would dictate that a Hab Center was not the place for them- except that they bring in revenue for being in the program.
7. During our Annual Meetings with clients- many who are unable to answer even the simplest of questions- there is a question as to "Work Tolerance" in which the Supervisor writes "very low"- or something to that effect- so that- as she explains it- if I don't write this in specific way- APD will wonder why the client is still in the Center and not in the Community so I have to word this right.
8. Clients are viewed as objects, ways to bring in revenue, I simply - ethically- could not go along with treating our fellow human beings as objects and not people- with their own feelings, strengths and values- I complained many times about the fact that "I am not a factory foreman- I am a Teacher" and was told that we needed to get as much work done as possible as that was the main goal of the Center- Productivity over Clients
I have documentation for much of the above and have several staff members willing to testify as to the truthfulness as long as they are free to tell the truth without fear of retribution..
PLEASE LET APD KNOW that if they do not undertake a SERIOUS INVESTIGATION/AUDIT as to the above facts- WE WILL NOTIFY OUR CONGRESSMEN, DOE AND THE STATE AND FEDERAL GOVERNMENT CHARGED WITH THE CARE OF THESE MOST PRECIOUS OF PEOPLE.
RICHARD FRIEDMAN
_______________________________________________CUT/PASTE_________________________
Please cut/paste the above- add any comments you wish and send to
APD_info@apd.state.fl.us
WE MUST ADVOCATE FOR THOSE WHO ARE UNABLE TO ADVOCATE FOR THEMSELVES!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 25, 2011
Mike Golub, Lacrosse Pioneer
Mike Golub was a childhood friend of mine who died way too young, of leukemia, in the early 1970s. He was a great guy, was intelligent and a terrific athlete. He attended the State University of New York at Albany and became one of the stars of that school's original lacrosse team. A bit more than 40 years later, the Founding Fathers of Albany lacrosse intend to establish a lacrosse scholarship in Mike's name. Below is part of the letter that was sent out by members of that original team. It is my intention to add to my own donation, 50% of any royalties I may earn between now and the end of August, from sales of my book, "Sophie Paraskova," on Amazon.com.
http://www.amazon.com/Sophie-Paraskov...
Here is the letter. I hope it touches you enough to make a donation or to purchase the book.
(please note this letter was sent last February to 50 former Albany lacrosse players from the late 1960’s early 1970’s)
It’s hard to believe that 40 over years have passed since our first team in the spring of 1968. Who could have envisioned what began as a club team would become a nationally ranked NCAA Division I program that came within a goal of the Final Four in 2007. It was great seeing many of you at the 40th year lacrosse reunion weekend in 2008. It gave us the opportunity to honor Joe Silvey and John Morgan, our first club coaches. As the guys who formed the first teams, we are now known as the “founding fathers” of UAlbany lacrosse. Just as any parent is proud of their child’s accomplishments, we are proud of what UAlbany lacrosse has achieved in the past eight years; 4 NCAA tournament berths, 1 NCAA quarterfinal appearance, and seven players in the professional leagues. Coach Scott Marr (2007 National Coach of the Year) has worked hard at building a lacrosse “family” which embraces its roots.
As founding fathers, we felt it would be appropriate to celebrate and commemorate the lacrosse program, help student athletes attend the University and play for a great program by establishing a men’s lacrosse scholarship. The scholarship will provide much needed support for the program and provide a link to the program’s roots by honoring one of the players from the original teams. With that in mind, the scholarship will be named the “Mike Golub/Founding Fathers Scholarship.” For those of you who don’t remember or didn’t play at the same time as Mike, he played during the first two seasons of club lacrosse and began his third season when he was stricken with leukemia in the spring of 1970. Mike was from Brooklyn and never played lacrosse until he came to college. He became one the toughest defensive middies of our era earning “The Ax Man Award” after his sophomore season. Mike left school in 1970 and never returned to play another lacrosse game. He passed away a few years later. Having been given the opportunity to play lacrosse with Mike and each of you during those early years is an experience that we wouldn’t trade for anything. The lifelong friendships that developed are irreplaceable. We now wish to give something back to the lacrosse program that had such a profound influence on our lives.
We are asking you to help us raise $25,000 over the next two years to fund a continuing scholarship in men’s lacrosse. Giving to the “Mike Golub/Founding Fathers Scholarship” will make you part of an enduring legacy and honor the memory of one of our teammates who always gave 100%. Please consider making a pledge as part of our “team” so that we can achieve our goal. Our intent is to have the scholarship in place by Homecoming weekend in October of 2011. Pledges may range from $100-$5000 or greater, and can be paid in installments.
Enclosed is a pledge form for this scholarship drive. If you have any questions, you can contact Don Ostrom, Director of Athletic Development at the University through mail; University at Albany, 1400 Washington Avenue-UAB 202, Albany, NY 12222; by e-mail: dostrom@uamail.albany.edu or by phone (518) 956-7953.
Thank you for considering this important opportunity.
Sincerely,
Michael Gottfried ’71 Steve Jakway ’71 Larry Smith ’71
http://www.amazon.com/Sophie-Paraskov...
Here is the letter. I hope it touches you enough to make a donation or to purchase the book.
(please note this letter was sent last February to 50 former Albany lacrosse players from the late 1960’s early 1970’s)
It’s hard to believe that 40 over years have passed since our first team in the spring of 1968. Who could have envisioned what began as a club team would become a nationally ranked NCAA Division I program that came within a goal of the Final Four in 2007. It was great seeing many of you at the 40th year lacrosse reunion weekend in 2008. It gave us the opportunity to honor Joe Silvey and John Morgan, our first club coaches. As the guys who formed the first teams, we are now known as the “founding fathers” of UAlbany lacrosse. Just as any parent is proud of their child’s accomplishments, we are proud of what UAlbany lacrosse has achieved in the past eight years; 4 NCAA tournament berths, 1 NCAA quarterfinal appearance, and seven players in the professional leagues. Coach Scott Marr (2007 National Coach of the Year) has worked hard at building a lacrosse “family” which embraces its roots.
As founding fathers, we felt it would be appropriate to celebrate and commemorate the lacrosse program, help student athletes attend the University and play for a great program by establishing a men’s lacrosse scholarship. The scholarship will provide much needed support for the program and provide a link to the program’s roots by honoring one of the players from the original teams. With that in mind, the scholarship will be named the “Mike Golub/Founding Fathers Scholarship.” For those of you who don’t remember or didn’t play at the same time as Mike, he played during the first two seasons of club lacrosse and began his third season when he was stricken with leukemia in the spring of 1970. Mike was from Brooklyn and never played lacrosse until he came to college. He became one the toughest defensive middies of our era earning “The Ax Man Award” after his sophomore season. Mike left school in 1970 and never returned to play another lacrosse game. He passed away a few years later. Having been given the opportunity to play lacrosse with Mike and each of you during those early years is an experience that we wouldn’t trade for anything. The lifelong friendships that developed are irreplaceable. We now wish to give something back to the lacrosse program that had such a profound influence on our lives.
We are asking you to help us raise $25,000 over the next two years to fund a continuing scholarship in men’s lacrosse. Giving to the “Mike Golub/Founding Fathers Scholarship” will make you part of an enduring legacy and honor the memory of one of our teammates who always gave 100%. Please consider making a pledge as part of our “team” so that we can achieve our goal. Our intent is to have the scholarship in place by Homecoming weekend in October of 2011. Pledges may range from $100-$5000 or greater, and can be paid in installments.
Enclosed is a pledge form for this scholarship drive. If you have any questions, you can contact Don Ostrom, Director of Athletic Development at the University through mail; University at Albany, 1400 Washington Avenue-UAB 202, Albany, NY 12222; by e-mail: dostrom@uamail.albany.edu or by phone (518) 956-7953.
Thank you for considering this important opportunity.
Sincerely,
Michael Gottfried ’71 Steve Jakway ’71 Larry Smith ’71
July 10, 2011
The Bright Lights of New York City
I have only myself to blame. Tommy was happy working his country-boy ass off down on the farm. His best friends were the horses, cows and pigs. His wardrobe consisted of straw hats, flannel shirts, overalls and a few pairs of shit-kickers. He loved to pick his guitar while sitting on the porch with the dog asleep at his feet; and he loved to go for long walks on clear mountain mornings. He was one happy hick. It was I who wanted more, envisioning myself in fancy dresses and flashy jewels instead of the tee shirts and dusty jeans that I usually wore down there in the sticks. I wanted more from life than cleaning, cooking, laundering and mending clothes; instead of square dancing at the American Legion Hall or Friday night football at the high school field, I dreamed of dancing at the finest ballrooms, partying at the finest clubs and rubbing elbows with the beautiful people. I nagged him day and night to take me away from that god-forsaken farm, just about two miles north of nowhere. Oh, how I longed for the bright lights of New York City.
One day, Tommy finally gave in to my constant browbeating. “Okay, honey,” he sighed. If you really hate it so much here on the farm, we can move to New York.”
“Oh, Tommy,” I screamed, leaping into his arms and showering him with kisses, “thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you so much for this and I know you won’t be sorry.” I did my very best that night to make sure that he wasn’t sorry.
First thing next morning I took the pickup into town and bought us a couple of one-way tickets to the Big Apple. We sold the farm and the truck, dirt cheap, to Tommy’s brother, left our kin and all our friends and rode the Greyhound to New York. We arrived at the Port Authority bus terminal at 10:00 at night and I hugged Tommy with all my might when I saw those city lights.
Tommy, however, seemed bewildered as his eyes darted from the huge skyscrapers to the litter-laden concrete sidewalks and asphalt streets. He shook his head sadly at the sight of the homeless, the panhandlers and the strung out druggies all competing for space in and around the terminal. I felt a little uneasy when I caught him staring at the large army of scantily dressed hookers who were aggressively patrolling the area.
I began to have my doubts as to whether this would work. Actually, from the moment he had agreed to move from his beloved Tennessee, I had begun to think that perhaps I had forced him into doing something he would regret. He was a full-blooded, 100% country boy and I wondered how he would get along in the big city. I suddenly feared that he would feel trapped like a coyote in a kennel. When I finally got up the nerve to question him about it, half-afraid that he would change his mind, he gazed at me with sincere blue eyes and replied, “honey, it just makes me proud to give you what you’ve been longing for.” His earnest declaration unleashed in me a tsunami of emotion and he had to beg me to stop hugging him so hard because he was afraid that I would break his ribs or that he might drown in my tears.
***
We found a little one bedroom apartment above a bodega in the East Village and set up house. I got a job waiting tables at a Greek diner on Second Avenue and Tommy checked the help wanted section every day without success. I’d get home from a hard day’s work, wake Tommy from his nap and begin cooking and cleaning just like I did back home, not even stopping to think how unfair that was. When my housework was done I’d make sure he got dressed in his finest evening wear (we’d each spent a fortune on all of the latest styles) and I’d drag him like a plaything through the streets of New York.
Soon, those big city lights lost their luster. Tommy still had not found a job and I was forced to work extra hours at the diner just to make ends meet. The Greek who owned the place had proven to be a demanding, evil-tempered boss; it was no picnic working those extra hours. To make matters worse, on my nightly trek home, I was subjected to the leers and wolf-whistles of the ever-present gangstas and junkies on the block. “Ai, mamacita,” the drunken Dominican boys on my stoop taunted each night as I struggled past, “tiene tetas hermosas,” and, after I ignored their cracks, there was always an asshole who demanded, “mamame el guevo.”
***
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said as I dropped, exhausted, onto the sofa. “I’m just too tired to go out tonight. Let’s just watch TV for a while and go to bed early.” But Tommy wouldn’t hear of it. He had grown to love the night life even more than I did. “Oh, come on, babe. Just take a hot shower and you’ll feel just like new. Put on your dancing shoes, woman; we’re going to Roseland.”
After a few more weeks, I just didn’t have the energy to let him drag me out every night, no matter how passionately he protested. He had a dancing jones but I was tired to the bones.
“Why don’t you go without me Tommy,” I suggested. “You can have a good time on your own.” I was secretly disappointed when he didn’t argue, but in the end, I was just happy for the chance to get to bed early and I was thrilled to have the opportunity for some time alone.
***
Things changed quickly. He stopped asking me to go out nights, evidently preferring to fly solo. He was often gone by the time I got home from work and sometimes did not return until after I awoke the next morning. He always seemed drunk or high on something when he came in.
“Wake up, darlin’,” he shouted as he stumbled in one morning at 4:00 and tossed a trinket onto the bed. “I got something for ya.” My eyes popped open at the sudden uproar and I thought I would die of fright; when my heartbeat finally slowed to the speed limit and I regained my wits, I angrily threw him out. After I dried my tears, something shiny on the bed caught my eye. It was a stunningly beautiful diamond necklace... the gift he’d proudly brought home to me. “Where did he get the money for this,” I wondered.
I didn’t see Tommy again until the phone rang two nights later, another 4:00 A.M. interruption of my sleep. “Honey,” the voice said, contritely, “I need you to bail me out.” After listening to a few mumbled apologies and getting directions from the cop who had taken the phone, I threw a coat over my night clothes and hurried to the precinct. “It’s all a mistake,” Tommy insisted innocently, as he hugged me and thanked me for coming to his rescue. “You know that I would never sell drugs.”
“Tommy, I’ve missed you so much, honey. I’m so sorry I kicked you out. Please don’t ever leave me again.” As soon as we got home, we fell into bed in a fever, and made the most passionate, violent love of our lives. I couldn’t understand what had made me throw him out the other night, but thank the Lord, he was back. And that drug thing... there was no way he was guilty.
Things were beautiful for a few weeks. Tommy stayed home every night and I even took a couple of days off from work. It was a welcome return to marital bliss. But all good things must come to an end. Those lights called to him like sirens and before long he fell victim to their allure, going dancing and clubbing every night just like before.
A short time later, on Friday the 13th, the cow shit finally hit the fan. I had spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning and worrying about why Tommy was not yet home. His drug trial was coming up soon and that was cause for further worry although he was confident that his hot-shot lawyer would get him off. All sorts of crazy thoughts muddled my mind: perhaps he’d been arrested again; he’d left town to avoid the trial; he’d been mugged on the way home or shot by an actual drug dealer. At this point, Tommy may have had a lawyer but I needed a psychiatrist.
I arrived at work late and was given a lecture by the Greek; things went downhill from there. I must have set a record for most dropped dishes on one shift, I got several orders wrong and, finally, had a loud argument with a customer in whose face I threw a glass of water after he’d called me some kind of a “down-home ‘ho.” Needless to say, I got canned that day.
As I walked home in a cold drizzle, much earlier than usual, depression set in. I began to feel as if I was a character in a sad country song. Wallowing in the depths of dejection, all I had to look forward to was getting into bed and sleeping away my sorrows.
“Hello, Miss,” my building’s super greeted me with a nervous smile. “You’re home early today.” I muttered something unintelligible and continued walking. The poor guy seemed put off by my rudeness or something. He’d always been helpful to Tommy and me, and I had, at the very least, always been polite. But he was acting kind of funny today. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d been rude to him or if it was something else. He wasn’t shittin’ about my early arrival, though. It was so early that the Dominican boys on the stoop were not even drunk yet. I ignored them as I passed and I climbed the stairs to my apartment, eagerly anticipating the relief that awaited me in my bed. The moment I walked through the apartment door I began taking off my clothes, just dropping them anywhere while hurrying toward the bedroom like a nomad hurrying to an oasis. I received the most painful shock of my life when I entered the room. Right there in my bed, the room still stinking of sex, some naked slut was asleep atop my Tommy.
Well, now I’m going back to Tennessee on the same dusty Greyhound that brought me here those many months ago. I learned the hard way that I’m no city girl and that Tommy loved those bright lights more than he loved me.
One day, Tommy finally gave in to my constant browbeating. “Okay, honey,” he sighed. If you really hate it so much here on the farm, we can move to New York.”
“Oh, Tommy,” I screamed, leaping into his arms and showering him with kisses, “thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you so much for this and I know you won’t be sorry.” I did my very best that night to make sure that he wasn’t sorry.
First thing next morning I took the pickup into town and bought us a couple of one-way tickets to the Big Apple. We sold the farm and the truck, dirt cheap, to Tommy’s brother, left our kin and all our friends and rode the Greyhound to New York. We arrived at the Port Authority bus terminal at 10:00 at night and I hugged Tommy with all my might when I saw those city lights.
Tommy, however, seemed bewildered as his eyes darted from the huge skyscrapers to the litter-laden concrete sidewalks and asphalt streets. He shook his head sadly at the sight of the homeless, the panhandlers and the strung out druggies all competing for space in and around the terminal. I felt a little uneasy when I caught him staring at the large army of scantily dressed hookers who were aggressively patrolling the area.
I began to have my doubts as to whether this would work. Actually, from the moment he had agreed to move from his beloved Tennessee, I had begun to think that perhaps I had forced him into doing something he would regret. He was a full-blooded, 100% country boy and I wondered how he would get along in the big city. I suddenly feared that he would feel trapped like a coyote in a kennel. When I finally got up the nerve to question him about it, half-afraid that he would change his mind, he gazed at me with sincere blue eyes and replied, “honey, it just makes me proud to give you what you’ve been longing for.” His earnest declaration unleashed in me a tsunami of emotion and he had to beg me to stop hugging him so hard because he was afraid that I would break his ribs or that he might drown in my tears.
***
We found a little one bedroom apartment above a bodega in the East Village and set up house. I got a job waiting tables at a Greek diner on Second Avenue and Tommy checked the help wanted section every day without success. I’d get home from a hard day’s work, wake Tommy from his nap and begin cooking and cleaning just like I did back home, not even stopping to think how unfair that was. When my housework was done I’d make sure he got dressed in his finest evening wear (we’d each spent a fortune on all of the latest styles) and I’d drag him like a plaything through the streets of New York.
Soon, those big city lights lost their luster. Tommy still had not found a job and I was forced to work extra hours at the diner just to make ends meet. The Greek who owned the place had proven to be a demanding, evil-tempered boss; it was no picnic working those extra hours. To make matters worse, on my nightly trek home, I was subjected to the leers and wolf-whistles of the ever-present gangstas and junkies on the block. “Ai, mamacita,” the drunken Dominican boys on my stoop taunted each night as I struggled past, “tiene tetas hermosas,” and, after I ignored their cracks, there was always an asshole who demanded, “mamame el guevo.”
***
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said as I dropped, exhausted, onto the sofa. “I’m just too tired to go out tonight. Let’s just watch TV for a while and go to bed early.” But Tommy wouldn’t hear of it. He had grown to love the night life even more than I did. “Oh, come on, babe. Just take a hot shower and you’ll feel just like new. Put on your dancing shoes, woman; we’re going to Roseland.”
After a few more weeks, I just didn’t have the energy to let him drag me out every night, no matter how passionately he protested. He had a dancing jones but I was tired to the bones.
“Why don’t you go without me Tommy,” I suggested. “You can have a good time on your own.” I was secretly disappointed when he didn’t argue, but in the end, I was just happy for the chance to get to bed early and I was thrilled to have the opportunity for some time alone.
***
Things changed quickly. He stopped asking me to go out nights, evidently preferring to fly solo. He was often gone by the time I got home from work and sometimes did not return until after I awoke the next morning. He always seemed drunk or high on something when he came in.
“Wake up, darlin’,” he shouted as he stumbled in one morning at 4:00 and tossed a trinket onto the bed. “I got something for ya.” My eyes popped open at the sudden uproar and I thought I would die of fright; when my heartbeat finally slowed to the speed limit and I regained my wits, I angrily threw him out. After I dried my tears, something shiny on the bed caught my eye. It was a stunningly beautiful diamond necklace... the gift he’d proudly brought home to me. “Where did he get the money for this,” I wondered.
I didn’t see Tommy again until the phone rang two nights later, another 4:00 A.M. interruption of my sleep. “Honey,” the voice said, contritely, “I need you to bail me out.” After listening to a few mumbled apologies and getting directions from the cop who had taken the phone, I threw a coat over my night clothes and hurried to the precinct. “It’s all a mistake,” Tommy insisted innocently, as he hugged me and thanked me for coming to his rescue. “You know that I would never sell drugs.”
“Tommy, I’ve missed you so much, honey. I’m so sorry I kicked you out. Please don’t ever leave me again.” As soon as we got home, we fell into bed in a fever, and made the most passionate, violent love of our lives. I couldn’t understand what had made me throw him out the other night, but thank the Lord, he was back. And that drug thing... there was no way he was guilty.
Things were beautiful for a few weeks. Tommy stayed home every night and I even took a couple of days off from work. It was a welcome return to marital bliss. But all good things must come to an end. Those lights called to him like sirens and before long he fell victim to their allure, going dancing and clubbing every night just like before.
A short time later, on Friday the 13th, the cow shit finally hit the fan. I had spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning and worrying about why Tommy was not yet home. His drug trial was coming up soon and that was cause for further worry although he was confident that his hot-shot lawyer would get him off. All sorts of crazy thoughts muddled my mind: perhaps he’d been arrested again; he’d left town to avoid the trial; he’d been mugged on the way home or shot by an actual drug dealer. At this point, Tommy may have had a lawyer but I needed a psychiatrist.
I arrived at work late and was given a lecture by the Greek; things went downhill from there. I must have set a record for most dropped dishes on one shift, I got several orders wrong and, finally, had a loud argument with a customer in whose face I threw a glass of water after he’d called me some kind of a “down-home ‘ho.” Needless to say, I got canned that day.
As I walked home in a cold drizzle, much earlier than usual, depression set in. I began to feel as if I was a character in a sad country song. Wallowing in the depths of dejection, all I had to look forward to was getting into bed and sleeping away my sorrows.
“Hello, Miss,” my building’s super greeted me with a nervous smile. “You’re home early today.” I muttered something unintelligible and continued walking. The poor guy seemed put off by my rudeness or something. He’d always been helpful to Tommy and me, and I had, at the very least, always been polite. But he was acting kind of funny today. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d been rude to him or if it was something else. He wasn’t shittin’ about my early arrival, though. It was so early that the Dominican boys on the stoop were not even drunk yet. I ignored them as I passed and I climbed the stairs to my apartment, eagerly anticipating the relief that awaited me in my bed. The moment I walked through the apartment door I began taking off my clothes, just dropping them anywhere while hurrying toward the bedroom like a nomad hurrying to an oasis. I received the most painful shock of my life when I entered the room. Right there in my bed, the room still stinking of sex, some naked slut was asleep atop my Tommy.
Well, now I’m going back to Tennessee on the same dusty Greyhound that brought me here those many months ago. I learned the hard way that I’m no city girl and that Tommy loved those bright lights more than he loved me.
July 3, 2011
School is Out!
Yay! Summer vacation has begun. It's time for all hard-working teachers to recharge their batteries. My more cynical colleagues often say that there are two good things about teaching: July and August. Personally, although I love my July through August vacation (as well as Christmas, Easter, etc.), I can think of lots more things that are good about the profession.
Working with young people helps to keep one young. In many cases there is a true exchange. While we are teaching the youngsters "reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic," they often share with us the culture of their youth.
As a P.E. teacher and coach, I have the opportunity to be physically active while doing my job; another tool for remaining young.
Relationships are forged, that may last a lifetime. It is not unusual for a teacher to remain in contact with many of his students for decades after their graduation.
I can not even begin to describe how gratifying it is to meet a class of freshmen and watch them grow and mature until, suddenly they are walking down the aisle at graduation, magically transformed from immature children to respectable young men and women. It makes one proud to realize that he had a hand in that transformation. Similarly, it is a wonderful feeling to coach a sports team and watch a freshman athlete who may have talent and a good work ethic but who lacks skills, develop skills through hard work and the coach's help and perhaps turn into a star by senior year.
All that having been said, I love my vacations. I plan to sleep a little later than my workday 4:30 A.M. each day and enjoy the mountains, lakes, wildife and fresh air that never fail to remind me of why I put up with a five hour per day commute during the school year. I'll play lots of golf and basketball, catch up on my reading, and perhaps most important of all, work on my writing. Before I know it, it will be time to board that commuter train and meet a new class of freshmen.
Working with young people helps to keep one young. In many cases there is a true exchange. While we are teaching the youngsters "reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic," they often share with us the culture of their youth.
As a P.E. teacher and coach, I have the opportunity to be physically active while doing my job; another tool for remaining young.
Relationships are forged, that may last a lifetime. It is not unusual for a teacher to remain in contact with many of his students for decades after their graduation.
I can not even begin to describe how gratifying it is to meet a class of freshmen and watch them grow and mature until, suddenly they are walking down the aisle at graduation, magically transformed from immature children to respectable young men and women. It makes one proud to realize that he had a hand in that transformation. Similarly, it is a wonderful feeling to coach a sports team and watch a freshman athlete who may have talent and a good work ethic but who lacks skills, develop skills through hard work and the coach's help and perhaps turn into a star by senior year.
All that having been said, I love my vacations. I plan to sleep a little later than my workday 4:30 A.M. each day and enjoy the mountains, lakes, wildife and fresh air that never fail to remind me of why I put up with a five hour per day commute during the school year. I'll play lots of golf and basketball, catch up on my reading, and perhaps most important of all, work on my writing. Before I know it, it will be time to board that commuter train and meet a new class of freshmen.
June 26, 2011
Lead Poisoning in China
Early last month, in Mengxi Village, a tiny hamlet in eastern China, a mob of more than 200 furious citizens stormed the Zhejiang Haijiu Battery Factory, a maker of lead-acid batteries for motorcycles and electric bikes. The crazed crowd crashed through a brick wall, entered the factory office and destroyed desks, cabinets and computers.
The provocation for this riotous behavior was the news that workers and villagers had been poisoned by lead emissions from the factory, which had operated for six years despite flagrant environmental violations. A confirmed 233 adults and 99 children were found to have concentrations of lead in their blood, up to seven times the level deemed safe by the Chinese government.
In the past two and a half years, thousands of workers, villagers and children in at least nine of China's thirty one province-level regions have been found to be suffering from toxic levels of lead exposure, mostly caused by pollution from battery factories and metal smelters. This exposure has caused irreversible harm in the victims; specifically, diminished intellectual capacity and damage to the kidneys, liver and nervous system. Shamefully, many of the local governments have attempted to cover up this disaster.
This catastrophe underscores a pattern of government neglect seen in industry after industry as China relentlessly strives for economic growth with only the most fundamental safeguards. According to reports, local officials, chasing the dividends of economic development, consistently ignore environmental contamination, worker safety and dangers to public health until forced to confront them by episodes like the Haiju factory riot.
A report by Human Rights Watch states that some local officials have reacted to mass poisonings by arbitrarily limiting lead testing, withholding and possibly manipulating test results, denying proper treatment to victims and trying to silence parents and activists.
In the "they never learn" department, this tragedy brings back painful memories of a previous Asian industrial pollution disaster: that which occurred at Minimata, an incident where industrial dumping of mercury caused massive damage to the citizens of that little fishing village in Japan. (I have mentioned Minimata in a previous post; photojournalist W. Eugene Smith and his wife Aileen exposed that catastrophe in a powerful book of photos entitled "Minimata").
The provocation for this riotous behavior was the news that workers and villagers had been poisoned by lead emissions from the factory, which had operated for six years despite flagrant environmental violations. A confirmed 233 adults and 99 children were found to have concentrations of lead in their blood, up to seven times the level deemed safe by the Chinese government.
In the past two and a half years, thousands of workers, villagers and children in at least nine of China's thirty one province-level regions have been found to be suffering from toxic levels of lead exposure, mostly caused by pollution from battery factories and metal smelters. This exposure has caused irreversible harm in the victims; specifically, diminished intellectual capacity and damage to the kidneys, liver and nervous system. Shamefully, many of the local governments have attempted to cover up this disaster.
This catastrophe underscores a pattern of government neglect seen in industry after industry as China relentlessly strives for economic growth with only the most fundamental safeguards. According to reports, local officials, chasing the dividends of economic development, consistently ignore environmental contamination, worker safety and dangers to public health until forced to confront them by episodes like the Haiju factory riot.
A report by Human Rights Watch states that some local officials have reacted to mass poisonings by arbitrarily limiting lead testing, withholding and possibly manipulating test results, denying proper treatment to victims and trying to silence parents and activists.
In the "they never learn" department, this tragedy brings back painful memories of a previous Asian industrial pollution disaster: that which occurred at Minimata, an incident where industrial dumping of mercury caused massive damage to the citizens of that little fishing village in Japan. (I have mentioned Minimata in a previous post; photojournalist W. Eugene Smith and his wife Aileen exposed that catastrophe in a powerful book of photos entitled "Minimata").
June 19, 2011
The Hardest Exam in the World
The College of All Souls of the Faithful Departed, more commonly known as All Souls College, of Oxford University, was founded in 1438 by King Henry VI and Henry Chichele, Archbishop of Canterbury. Recent graduates of Oxford compete for a seven year Fellowship for graduate studies at All Souls, with a maximum of three Fellowships awarded. Last September approximately one hundred people took the Fellowship exam and three Fellowships were awarded. The two day, twelve hour exam has often been described as "the hardest exam in the world." Below are some general subject questions from past tests:
What is war good for?
From where does a sense of community come?
Are there too many accountants and auditors?
Is there anything to be said for astrology?
Why should I tolerate?
Is exile always a misfortune?
If there are millions of other planets capable of supporting advanced life forms, why haven't we seen or heard from them?
Is dark energy more interesting than dark matter?
Do historical novels harm historical study?
Why does truthfulness matter?
Have any philosophical questions been finally solved?
Is it worse to be cruel to a fox than to a flea?
Do we work too hard?
Can happiness be measured?
I find these questions (which I found in the March 2011 edition of Harper's Magazine) to be extremely fascinating and hope that my readers do, as well. Please feel free to contribute answers to any of these questions.
What is war good for?
From where does a sense of community come?
Are there too many accountants and auditors?
Is there anything to be said for astrology?
Why should I tolerate?
Is exile always a misfortune?
If there are millions of other planets capable of supporting advanced life forms, why haven't we seen or heard from them?
Is dark energy more interesting than dark matter?
Do historical novels harm historical study?
Why does truthfulness matter?
Have any philosophical questions been finally solved?
Is it worse to be cruel to a fox than to a flea?
Do we work too hard?
Can happiness be measured?
I find these questions (which I found in the March 2011 edition of Harper's Magazine) to be extremely fascinating and hope that my readers do, as well. Please feel free to contribute answers to any of these questions.
June 12, 2011
The Mink Coat
The Mink Coat
by M Newman
“A shain punim kost gelt,” Moishe mused. “A pretty face costs money.” He was thinking, of course, about his lovely wife, Lily. Lily was not just another pretty face; indeed, his honey-haired wife had the face of an angel and the alluring body of a temptress. Her full, round breasts and firm, shapely tuches, separated by the narrowest of waists, would turn any man’s head. And those legs, “Oy, gevalt, what a set of wheels.” If all that were not enough, Lily had a heart of gold and made sure that he knew it belonged to him. His wife was the full package; the gantze megillah. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be married to this shainkeit. Naturally, the poor guy was a sucker for any request this goddess ever made of him.
The aforementioned proverb had come to Moishe’s mind as he nervously studied the household budget. As in most months, there was barely enough to pay the bills. Moishe had a well-paying job with a sandblasting company in Williamsburg. The mortgage for their handsome little home in a brand new neighborhood near Brownsville was quite affordable as it was purchased under the G.I. Bill. One would think that under these conditions, Moishe and his wife would be living on easy street rather than on Rockaway Parkway. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Whatever Lily wanted, Lily got; and God knows, Lily wanted a lot. For example, shortly after moving to Brooklyn, the young couple agreed that they needed a family car. “This is not the Lower East Side,” Lily reminded Moishe. “It’s impossible to get around without a car. Why, it would take us hours just to travel to Rivington Street, in New York, to visit my mother.” This was true. Brooklyn was much more spread out than Manhattan and public transportation was not nearly as efficient. Naturally, Moishe agreed that an automobile was necessary. After weeks of careful research and shopping, Moishe came home with happy news. “Lily,” he shouted, excitedly, as he burst into the house. “I have found us a car. It’s a cute little two year old Ford. It has low mileage and no dents and…” Moishe stopped in mid-sentence, startled to see tears leaking from the eyes of his little prinzesin. “What’s wrong, darling,” he asked
. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong,” she replied, incredulously. “How would we face our neighbors, driving a little piece of drek like that? They would take us for kabtzonim.”
“Please, don’t cry, darling,” Moishe pleaded. “We won’t buy the Ford. I’ll look for a more acceptable car.” Secretly, though, Moishe could not see why the Ford was unacceptable or, for that matter, what was wrong with looking like paupers. Fact was, at this rate, they would soon be paupers. In any case, two days later Moishe drove home in a brand new, emerald green, 1952 Packard. “It’s beautiful, honey,” Lily gushed, as she hugged her husband passionately and showered him with kisses. “Let’s take it for a ride.” They drove to Coney Island, where they rode the Cyclone, screaming in joyful terror as the world’s highest roller coaster dove from dizzying heights at breakneck speed. When the ride was completed, Lily, exhilarated, convinced Moishe to purchase a re-ride. After their second ride on the roller coaster, the giddy couple walked up Surf Avenue to Steeplechase Park where they rode the Ferris Wheel and the Giant See Saw. They were not brave enough to try the Parachute Jump. From Steeplechase they walked back toward where the Packard was parked, stopping on the way at Nathan’s for hot dogs and beer.
When they finally returned to the car, night had fallen and the parking lot was deserted. They plopped down into the plush bench-style seat, hungrily inhaling the leathery, new-car scent; they feasted their eyes on the fancy dashboard, luxurious wood panel and leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Now, this is a car,” Lily gushed. “Thank you so much for buying it, my darling.” She enveloped him in a torrid embrace, inviting him to have his way with her. Moishe was hesitant at first, but in the end, he was unable to resist her seductive charms. Before long, the young lovers had inaugurated the spacious back seat. As they basked in the afterglow, Moishe lit a Lucky Strike for each of them and thought, once again, about how fortunate he was to be married to this marvelous woman. Lily lounged lazily on the lush leather seat with a blissful smile on her face. “What a beautiful car,” she thought. “But I think I would have preferred a Cadillac Fleetwood.”
***
Moishe arrived home, exhausted. He’d worked like a dog today and yet, his boss, “that khazer,” was not satisfied. Moishe was looking forward to a nice dinner with, maybe, a little glass of wine followed by a quiet evening watching the Sid Caesar Show on the new television set he had recently bought for Lily. Apparently, Lily had other plans. She greeted him at the door, dressed in a gorgeous and very sexy black dress that was fit for a queen and had obviously cost more than most queens could afford. “How do you like it, honey,” she asked, smiling coquettishly and turning every which way, allowing the dress to showcase her assets. “I bought it today at that new dress shop on Church Avenue.”
“It’s beautiful, Lily, but it must have cost a fortune,” Moishe replied, uneasily.
“It was pretty expensive, I suppose, but I wanted to look good for my darling husband.” She smiled again, embraced him affectionately and told him how much she loved him.
Moishe immediately forgot his misgivings about the cost of the dress and smiled. “Well darling,” he said, “you certainly do look beautiful but why are you all dressed up?”
“I have a big surprise for you,” she replied, happily. “My friend Dottie... you know, the one with the goyishe husband, had two front row tickets to a play at the Second Avenue Theater. Maurice Schwartz is appearing in a revival of Jacob Gordin’s Der Yiddishe Kenig Lier. For some crazy reason, Dottie’s husband made her sell the tickets. Lucky for us, Dottie thought of me first.”
“Such luck I needed like a hole in the head,” thought Moishe, sardonically.
They stopped for dinner at the Second Avenue Deli, famous as the home of the world’s best pastrami sandwich. Moishe had the pastrami on rye with french fries and a Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. Lily ordered the matzoh ball soup and filet mignon, the most expensive item on the menu. When she finished the soup she had little appetite left and would only eat a couple of bites of her steak. “Nu,” she said, sheepishly, as she lay down her knife and fork, “It seems my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I can’t eat another bite; I’m so full, I could plotz.”
“Why don’t you take the leftovers home in a doggy bag,” Moishe suggested.
“Are you, meshugah,” she asked, incredulously. “How would it look to take a doggy bag to the theater?”
Moishe paid the bill, anxiously counting in his head the money that would be left until his next paycheck. His worries evaporated, though, when Lily pecked his cheek, and thanked him in her usual beguiling murmur, for the lovely dinner. He walked on air as they left the restaurant and headed for the theater, stopping, briefly in front of the deli to admire the Yiddish Walk of Fame: fifty brass plaques imbedded in the sidewalk, each with a star, commemorating the greatest stars of Yiddish theater.
***
Settled in a plush seat inside the ornate Second Avenue Theater, Moishe began to doze, sedated by the warmth and dim lighting of the auditorium, his recent heavy meal and his hard day’s work. His eyes snapped open and he nearly fell out of his seat as the first notes of the orchestra resounded throughout the playhouse and the curtain rose. Moishe was surprised to discover that The Yiddish King Lear was not a translation of Shakespeare’s King Lear. The play begins at a Purim feast at the home of David Moishele, a rich Jewish merchant in mid-19th century Vilna, a veritable “Grand Jew,” surrounded by family, friends and servants: in effect, a King in his court. As David Moishele begins to divide his empire, the story of Shakespeare’s Lear is recounted to him as a warning by his virtuous daughter who has defied his authority by becoming a student at St. Petersburg. David Moishele is destined to follow the same path to madness and ruin as did Shakespeare’s Lear. Unlike Shakespeare’s Lear, however, there is a relatively happy ending, with differences set right and David Moishele living to forgive and be reconciled with his daughters.
When questioned by Lily, Moishe had to admit that he’d enjoyed the play. He had identified with the main character, to an extent, because of the similarity of their names although he was well aware that all similarities ended right there. Moishe had no money to divide among his relatives and at the rate that Lily was spending, he would never have any. But when she told him she loved him and called him her gelibter all his money worries disappeared.
***
Lily was quite excited when she returned home from her Monday night Mah Jongg game. “You should see the mink coat my friend Esther’s husband bought for her. It’s gorgeous,” she gushed. And Malke says that her husband is buying her one, as well.” Moishe’s heart leaped into his throat because he knew what was coming next. “Moishe,” Lily asked, plaintively, “can I have a mink, too?”
“Lily,” he replied, “I wish I could afford to buy one for you but I can’t. Our bank account is nearly empty. If I bought you a mink coat, our savings would be kaput.” Moishe’s heart left his throat and sunk like a shtein when he saw Lily’s face. Her eyes had welled up and a tiny tear dripped down her cheek. She reminded him of a disappointed little girl who was trying, unsuccessfully, to be stoic. “Oh, please, Moishe, please can I have one,” she begged, childishly, beginning to lose control; the tears beginning to flow.
“Gottenyu, Lily; please stop crying. Don’t you know that I would buy it for you if I could? I would buy you anything if I had the money. Let me think about it. Perhaps I can figure something out.”
This made Lily feel a little better and the tears stopped. “Oh, Moishe,” she gushed, “I hope you can figure something out; I know you will.”
Lily truly loved Moishe from the bottom of her heart. He was the nicest man she had ever met; a real mensch. Her heart melted whenever he looked at her with his kind eyes or caressed her with his worshipping hands. She could not imagine a more loving, sensitive man and often thanked God for sending him to her. His absence, for even a short while, could make her meshugah. She didn’t know what she would do if he ever left her. At the same time, Lily hated herself for always kvetching about money and manipulating Moishe into buying her luxuries that she knew he couldn’t afford. Tonight, she felt terrible when she saw his pained expression as he apologized for his inability to buy her a mink coat. But what could she do? “A pretty girl like me deserves to have nice things,” she told herself. “I know my Moishe doesn’t mind making a little extra effort to make me happy.”
Moishe could not sleep. Frustration gnawed at him like vermin in the night. He wanted, so badly, to buy Lily the mink that she desired, but he could not think of how to afford it. Lily knew what was keeping him awake and tried, in vain, to soothe him. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered. “You needn’t worry; I don’t really need the silly coat. Just relax, it’s late; gein shlofn.”
But Moishe still couldn’t sleep. Finally, shortly before dawn, he came up with a plan. He would take a second job. He knew of an opening on the night shift at the Schaefer brewery in Williamsburg. He could invent alibis to explain his absences at home and by Chanukah, he would have enough money to surprise Lily with the gift that she wanted.
It certainly wasn’t easy. Moishe would return home from his day job and have dinner and three nights a week he would make some sort of excuse and leave for his second job. Sometimes he claimed to be meeting his buddies for a beer; sometimes he told Lily that he was going to visit his mother as she wasn’t feeling well; sometimes he just didn’t come home from his day job and told Lily that he was working overtime. On the nights that he didn’t work, he was so exhausted that he fell asleep immediately after dinner.
Lily was miserable. She felt neglected and unloved. She was sick of sitting home alone and watching I Love Lucy on TV. She wanted a man in the house with whom she could converse or who would take her out to dinner and a movie; she wanted someone who would provide, “you should pardon the expression, satisfaction in the bedroom.” She wanted her husband.
“My husband is merely a rumor,” she thought, bitterly. The longer Moishe was away, the angrier Lily became. She was no fool; she did not believe her husband’s flimsy excuses. Her imagination was working overtime. She was sure that Moishe was up to no good. At first she thought that he must be doing something illegal with his nogoodnik friends but she eventually dropped that thought when she realized that neither he nor his friends were the type of men who would do anything that was against the law. After a time she decided that he was having an affair. “All the pieces fit,” she decided. “He stays out late and comes home smelling of beer; whenever he is home, he has no interest in me; I may as well be a piece of furniture.” This was certainly true. Nearly every night, even the ones when Moishe arrived home late from his night job, Lily would throw herself at him in desperation. Unfailingly, he would push his love-starved wife away, roll over and immediately drop off to sleep.” I wonder whom he is shtupping,” Lily grumbled, angrily. “I bet it’s my friend Ethel. Ever since her divorce that kurveh has had her eye on my Moishe.”
***
Finally, the ordeal came to an end. By erev Chanukah, Moishe had earned enough at the brewery to buy Lily her mink coat and even put a few dollars into his savings account. His boss at the sandblasting company closed shop early, gave out holiday bonuses and wished his men a good yontif. Moishe hurried to the brewery, collected his paycheck and informed the payroll secretary that he would no longer be working there. He took a train to the city and entered a store on E. 32nd Street. The clerk, a tall, elegant man wearing a neatly pressed black suit and a black yarmulke, recognized him at once and greeted him with a smile and a firm handshake. Moishe had picked out the coat for Lily weeks ago and had left a small deposit. Now, it was just a matter of paying the balance. He laid his money on the counter and the clerk, after placing it in the register, went back to the storeroom. Soon, he returned with a beautiful, black, full length mink coat. Moishe was overjoyed. Frankly, he could not understand what the big deal was about mink, but he kept imagining how happy the gift would make his Lily. These past months of torture will have been well worth seeing the look in Lily’s eyes and hearing her joyful shrieks when she received the mink. He looked forward to the celebration afterward. All the way home, he daydreamed about Lily coming to him dressed only in the mink, unbuttoning it and letting it fall to her feet before coming to him in a passionate embrace.
The evening was clear and cold as Moishe approached his house on Rockaway Parkway somewhat earlier than usual. “Wonderful,” he thought, happily. “Iz kalt. This is perfect weather for Lily to wear her new coat. She will be so happy.” He entered the house with a cheerful, “honey, I’m home.” Surprisingly, he was met by silence. Puzzled, he searched the house. “Where can she be,” he wondered. Then it dawned on him. “Ah, of course,” he realized. “It’s Chanukah. She’s out buying me a gift.” Moishe placed the box with the mink in it on the sofa and entered the kitchen to see what was in the Frigidaire. “I’m starving,” he said aloud. “I hope there is something good in there to eat.” Before he reached the refrigerator, however, his gaze alighted on a note on the kitchen table. He hurried to read the note, assuming that it would tell him where Lily was and when she would be home.
“Dear Moishe (the note read),
I never thought that I would see the day when I wrote a letter like this. You were always the love of my life and I thought that you felt the same about me. I have always depended on you to make me feel special; and you did. You made me feel like a queen.
I don’t know what happened the past few months to make you stop loving me but your neglect has broken my heart. I suppose it was that fat drabke, Ethel, who stole your love. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed that zoig flirting with you for ages. I must say, however, that I am surprised that you prefer her to me. But, my darling, if Ethel is the woman who makes you happy, I will not stand in your way. Your happiness is what is important to me.
I am leaving for Chicago with your cousin Jerry. He has been keeping me company in your absence and tending to my needs. Although I don’t believe that I will ever feel for him what I once felt for you, I know that he is a good man who will remain faithful to me, always. When I agreed to go with Jerry to Chicago, he did the most thoughtful thing. He told me that it gets very cold in the ‘Windy City’ and he promised to buy me a mink coat to keep me warm.
Moishe, I will miss you forever but this is the way it must be. Please do not try to find me and talk me out of this. It will not work. Your infidelity has broken my heart into too many pieces to repair.
Dolefully yours,
Lily”
by M Newman
“A shain punim kost gelt,” Moishe mused. “A pretty face costs money.” He was thinking, of course, about his lovely wife, Lily. Lily was not just another pretty face; indeed, his honey-haired wife had the face of an angel and the alluring body of a temptress. Her full, round breasts and firm, shapely tuches, separated by the narrowest of waists, would turn any man’s head. And those legs, “Oy, gevalt, what a set of wheels.” If all that were not enough, Lily had a heart of gold and made sure that he knew it belonged to him. His wife was the full package; the gantze megillah. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be married to this shainkeit. Naturally, the poor guy was a sucker for any request this goddess ever made of him.
The aforementioned proverb had come to Moishe’s mind as he nervously studied the household budget. As in most months, there was barely enough to pay the bills. Moishe had a well-paying job with a sandblasting company in Williamsburg. The mortgage for their handsome little home in a brand new neighborhood near Brownsville was quite affordable as it was purchased under the G.I. Bill. One would think that under these conditions, Moishe and his wife would be living on easy street rather than on Rockaway Parkway. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Whatever Lily wanted, Lily got; and God knows, Lily wanted a lot. For example, shortly after moving to Brooklyn, the young couple agreed that they needed a family car. “This is not the Lower East Side,” Lily reminded Moishe. “It’s impossible to get around without a car. Why, it would take us hours just to travel to Rivington Street, in New York, to visit my mother.” This was true. Brooklyn was much more spread out than Manhattan and public transportation was not nearly as efficient. Naturally, Moishe agreed that an automobile was necessary. After weeks of careful research and shopping, Moishe came home with happy news. “Lily,” he shouted, excitedly, as he burst into the house. “I have found us a car. It’s a cute little two year old Ford. It has low mileage and no dents and…” Moishe stopped in mid-sentence, startled to see tears leaking from the eyes of his little prinzesin. “What’s wrong, darling,” he asked
. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong,” she replied, incredulously. “How would we face our neighbors, driving a little piece of drek like that? They would take us for kabtzonim.”
“Please, don’t cry, darling,” Moishe pleaded. “We won’t buy the Ford. I’ll look for a more acceptable car.” Secretly, though, Moishe could not see why the Ford was unacceptable or, for that matter, what was wrong with looking like paupers. Fact was, at this rate, they would soon be paupers. In any case, two days later Moishe drove home in a brand new, emerald green, 1952 Packard. “It’s beautiful, honey,” Lily gushed, as she hugged her husband passionately and showered him with kisses. “Let’s take it for a ride.” They drove to Coney Island, where they rode the Cyclone, screaming in joyful terror as the world’s highest roller coaster dove from dizzying heights at breakneck speed. When the ride was completed, Lily, exhilarated, convinced Moishe to purchase a re-ride. After their second ride on the roller coaster, the giddy couple walked up Surf Avenue to Steeplechase Park where they rode the Ferris Wheel and the Giant See Saw. They were not brave enough to try the Parachute Jump. From Steeplechase they walked back toward where the Packard was parked, stopping on the way at Nathan’s for hot dogs and beer.
When they finally returned to the car, night had fallen and the parking lot was deserted. They plopped down into the plush bench-style seat, hungrily inhaling the leathery, new-car scent; they feasted their eyes on the fancy dashboard, luxurious wood panel and leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Now, this is a car,” Lily gushed. “Thank you so much for buying it, my darling.” She enveloped him in a torrid embrace, inviting him to have his way with her. Moishe was hesitant at first, but in the end, he was unable to resist her seductive charms. Before long, the young lovers had inaugurated the spacious back seat. As they basked in the afterglow, Moishe lit a Lucky Strike for each of them and thought, once again, about how fortunate he was to be married to this marvelous woman. Lily lounged lazily on the lush leather seat with a blissful smile on her face. “What a beautiful car,” she thought. “But I think I would have preferred a Cadillac Fleetwood.”
***
Moishe arrived home, exhausted. He’d worked like a dog today and yet, his boss, “that khazer,” was not satisfied. Moishe was looking forward to a nice dinner with, maybe, a little glass of wine followed by a quiet evening watching the Sid Caesar Show on the new television set he had recently bought for Lily. Apparently, Lily had other plans. She greeted him at the door, dressed in a gorgeous and very sexy black dress that was fit for a queen and had obviously cost more than most queens could afford. “How do you like it, honey,” she asked, smiling coquettishly and turning every which way, allowing the dress to showcase her assets. “I bought it today at that new dress shop on Church Avenue.”
“It’s beautiful, Lily, but it must have cost a fortune,” Moishe replied, uneasily.
“It was pretty expensive, I suppose, but I wanted to look good for my darling husband.” She smiled again, embraced him affectionately and told him how much she loved him.
Moishe immediately forgot his misgivings about the cost of the dress and smiled. “Well darling,” he said, “you certainly do look beautiful but why are you all dressed up?”
“I have a big surprise for you,” she replied, happily. “My friend Dottie... you know, the one with the goyishe husband, had two front row tickets to a play at the Second Avenue Theater. Maurice Schwartz is appearing in a revival of Jacob Gordin’s Der Yiddishe Kenig Lier. For some crazy reason, Dottie’s husband made her sell the tickets. Lucky for us, Dottie thought of me first.”
“Such luck I needed like a hole in the head,” thought Moishe, sardonically.
They stopped for dinner at the Second Avenue Deli, famous as the home of the world’s best pastrami sandwich. Moishe had the pastrami on rye with french fries and a Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. Lily ordered the matzoh ball soup and filet mignon, the most expensive item on the menu. When she finished the soup she had little appetite left and would only eat a couple of bites of her steak. “Nu,” she said, sheepishly, as she lay down her knife and fork, “It seems my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I can’t eat another bite; I’m so full, I could plotz.”
“Why don’t you take the leftovers home in a doggy bag,” Moishe suggested.
“Are you, meshugah,” she asked, incredulously. “How would it look to take a doggy bag to the theater?”
Moishe paid the bill, anxiously counting in his head the money that would be left until his next paycheck. His worries evaporated, though, when Lily pecked his cheek, and thanked him in her usual beguiling murmur, for the lovely dinner. He walked on air as they left the restaurant and headed for the theater, stopping, briefly in front of the deli to admire the Yiddish Walk of Fame: fifty brass plaques imbedded in the sidewalk, each with a star, commemorating the greatest stars of Yiddish theater.
***
Settled in a plush seat inside the ornate Second Avenue Theater, Moishe began to doze, sedated by the warmth and dim lighting of the auditorium, his recent heavy meal and his hard day’s work. His eyes snapped open and he nearly fell out of his seat as the first notes of the orchestra resounded throughout the playhouse and the curtain rose. Moishe was surprised to discover that The Yiddish King Lear was not a translation of Shakespeare’s King Lear. The play begins at a Purim feast at the home of David Moishele, a rich Jewish merchant in mid-19th century Vilna, a veritable “Grand Jew,” surrounded by family, friends and servants: in effect, a King in his court. As David Moishele begins to divide his empire, the story of Shakespeare’s Lear is recounted to him as a warning by his virtuous daughter who has defied his authority by becoming a student at St. Petersburg. David Moishele is destined to follow the same path to madness and ruin as did Shakespeare’s Lear. Unlike Shakespeare’s Lear, however, there is a relatively happy ending, with differences set right and David Moishele living to forgive and be reconciled with his daughters.
When questioned by Lily, Moishe had to admit that he’d enjoyed the play. He had identified with the main character, to an extent, because of the similarity of their names although he was well aware that all similarities ended right there. Moishe had no money to divide among his relatives and at the rate that Lily was spending, he would never have any. But when she told him she loved him and called him her gelibter all his money worries disappeared.
***
Lily was quite excited when she returned home from her Monday night Mah Jongg game. “You should see the mink coat my friend Esther’s husband bought for her. It’s gorgeous,” she gushed. And Malke says that her husband is buying her one, as well.” Moishe’s heart leaped into his throat because he knew what was coming next. “Moishe,” Lily asked, plaintively, “can I have a mink, too?”
“Lily,” he replied, “I wish I could afford to buy one for you but I can’t. Our bank account is nearly empty. If I bought you a mink coat, our savings would be kaput.” Moishe’s heart left his throat and sunk like a shtein when he saw Lily’s face. Her eyes had welled up and a tiny tear dripped down her cheek. She reminded him of a disappointed little girl who was trying, unsuccessfully, to be stoic. “Oh, please, Moishe, please can I have one,” she begged, childishly, beginning to lose control; the tears beginning to flow.
“Gottenyu, Lily; please stop crying. Don’t you know that I would buy it for you if I could? I would buy you anything if I had the money. Let me think about it. Perhaps I can figure something out.”
This made Lily feel a little better and the tears stopped. “Oh, Moishe,” she gushed, “I hope you can figure something out; I know you will.”
Lily truly loved Moishe from the bottom of her heart. He was the nicest man she had ever met; a real mensch. Her heart melted whenever he looked at her with his kind eyes or caressed her with his worshipping hands. She could not imagine a more loving, sensitive man and often thanked God for sending him to her. His absence, for even a short while, could make her meshugah. She didn’t know what she would do if he ever left her. At the same time, Lily hated herself for always kvetching about money and manipulating Moishe into buying her luxuries that she knew he couldn’t afford. Tonight, she felt terrible when she saw his pained expression as he apologized for his inability to buy her a mink coat. But what could she do? “A pretty girl like me deserves to have nice things,” she told herself. “I know my Moishe doesn’t mind making a little extra effort to make me happy.”
Moishe could not sleep. Frustration gnawed at him like vermin in the night. He wanted, so badly, to buy Lily the mink that she desired, but he could not think of how to afford it. Lily knew what was keeping him awake and tried, in vain, to soothe him. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered. “You needn’t worry; I don’t really need the silly coat. Just relax, it’s late; gein shlofn.”
But Moishe still couldn’t sleep. Finally, shortly before dawn, he came up with a plan. He would take a second job. He knew of an opening on the night shift at the Schaefer brewery in Williamsburg. He could invent alibis to explain his absences at home and by Chanukah, he would have enough money to surprise Lily with the gift that she wanted.
It certainly wasn’t easy. Moishe would return home from his day job and have dinner and three nights a week he would make some sort of excuse and leave for his second job. Sometimes he claimed to be meeting his buddies for a beer; sometimes he told Lily that he was going to visit his mother as she wasn’t feeling well; sometimes he just didn’t come home from his day job and told Lily that he was working overtime. On the nights that he didn’t work, he was so exhausted that he fell asleep immediately after dinner.
Lily was miserable. She felt neglected and unloved. She was sick of sitting home alone and watching I Love Lucy on TV. She wanted a man in the house with whom she could converse or who would take her out to dinner and a movie; she wanted someone who would provide, “you should pardon the expression, satisfaction in the bedroom.” She wanted her husband.
“My husband is merely a rumor,” she thought, bitterly. The longer Moishe was away, the angrier Lily became. She was no fool; she did not believe her husband’s flimsy excuses. Her imagination was working overtime. She was sure that Moishe was up to no good. At first she thought that he must be doing something illegal with his nogoodnik friends but she eventually dropped that thought when she realized that neither he nor his friends were the type of men who would do anything that was against the law. After a time she decided that he was having an affair. “All the pieces fit,” she decided. “He stays out late and comes home smelling of beer; whenever he is home, he has no interest in me; I may as well be a piece of furniture.” This was certainly true. Nearly every night, even the ones when Moishe arrived home late from his night job, Lily would throw herself at him in desperation. Unfailingly, he would push his love-starved wife away, roll over and immediately drop off to sleep.” I wonder whom he is shtupping,” Lily grumbled, angrily. “I bet it’s my friend Ethel. Ever since her divorce that kurveh has had her eye on my Moishe.”
***
Finally, the ordeal came to an end. By erev Chanukah, Moishe had earned enough at the brewery to buy Lily her mink coat and even put a few dollars into his savings account. His boss at the sandblasting company closed shop early, gave out holiday bonuses and wished his men a good yontif. Moishe hurried to the brewery, collected his paycheck and informed the payroll secretary that he would no longer be working there. He took a train to the city and entered a store on E. 32nd Street. The clerk, a tall, elegant man wearing a neatly pressed black suit and a black yarmulke, recognized him at once and greeted him with a smile and a firm handshake. Moishe had picked out the coat for Lily weeks ago and had left a small deposit. Now, it was just a matter of paying the balance. He laid his money on the counter and the clerk, after placing it in the register, went back to the storeroom. Soon, he returned with a beautiful, black, full length mink coat. Moishe was overjoyed. Frankly, he could not understand what the big deal was about mink, but he kept imagining how happy the gift would make his Lily. These past months of torture will have been well worth seeing the look in Lily’s eyes and hearing her joyful shrieks when she received the mink. He looked forward to the celebration afterward. All the way home, he daydreamed about Lily coming to him dressed only in the mink, unbuttoning it and letting it fall to her feet before coming to him in a passionate embrace.
The evening was clear and cold as Moishe approached his house on Rockaway Parkway somewhat earlier than usual. “Wonderful,” he thought, happily. “Iz kalt. This is perfect weather for Lily to wear her new coat. She will be so happy.” He entered the house with a cheerful, “honey, I’m home.” Surprisingly, he was met by silence. Puzzled, he searched the house. “Where can she be,” he wondered. Then it dawned on him. “Ah, of course,” he realized. “It’s Chanukah. She’s out buying me a gift.” Moishe placed the box with the mink in it on the sofa and entered the kitchen to see what was in the Frigidaire. “I’m starving,” he said aloud. “I hope there is something good in there to eat.” Before he reached the refrigerator, however, his gaze alighted on a note on the kitchen table. He hurried to read the note, assuming that it would tell him where Lily was and when she would be home.
“Dear Moishe (the note read),
I never thought that I would see the day when I wrote a letter like this. You were always the love of my life and I thought that you felt the same about me. I have always depended on you to make me feel special; and you did. You made me feel like a queen.
I don’t know what happened the past few months to make you stop loving me but your neglect has broken my heart. I suppose it was that fat drabke, Ethel, who stole your love. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed that zoig flirting with you for ages. I must say, however, that I am surprised that you prefer her to me. But, my darling, if Ethel is the woman who makes you happy, I will not stand in your way. Your happiness is what is important to me.
I am leaving for Chicago with your cousin Jerry. He has been keeping me company in your absence and tending to my needs. Although I don’t believe that I will ever feel for him what I once felt for you, I know that he is a good man who will remain faithful to me, always. When I agreed to go with Jerry to Chicago, he did the most thoughtful thing. He told me that it gets very cold in the ‘Windy City’ and he promised to buy me a mink coat to keep me warm.
Moishe, I will miss you forever but this is the way it must be. Please do not try to find me and talk me out of this. It will not work. Your infidelity has broken my heart into too many pieces to repair.
Dolefully yours,
Lily”
June 5, 2011
Farewell Marshal Dillon
After hearing the news that James Arness passed away on Friday at the age of 88, folks of a certain age likely experienced pangs of nostalgia. Many of you younger readers may be wondering who the heck he was. Arness, a giant of a man at 6'7", starred, from 1955 to 1975, as Marshal Dillon on TV's "Gunsmoke," the longest-running Western series in television history.
"Gunsmoke" was the first in a line of westerns that portrayed a new, adult vision of the Old West, one which rejected stereotyped heroes and villains and cliched situations in favor of (as the NY Times said) "a chaotic frontier freighted with moral judgements and occasional failure." Until "Gunsmoke" came along, audiences were accustomed to sanitized, too-good-to-be-true cowboys like Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, the Lone Ranger and Hopalong Cassidy. This changed with "Gunsmoke" where the hero sometimes failed and only fired his gun reluctantly; over the years, Marshal Dillon was shot 30 times.
In the premiere episode of the show, which set the tone for the series, the Marshal faces an outlaw who had killed an unarmed man. Dillon grudgingly accommodates him, telling Doc Adams, "he's a gunman Doc; he's got to be eliminated."
Arness' co-stars ably portrayed a fine group of multi-layered characters who were essentially, a close family. They were Milburn Stone as Doc Adams, the beer-drinking philosopher; Amanda Blake as Miss Kitty, saloonkeeper at the Long Branch whose love for the Marshal remained unrequited; and my personal favorite, Dennis Weaver, who played Chester Goode, Dillon's lame sidekick.
For many years "Gusmoke" aired on CBS at 10:00 PM, immediately following "Have Gun, Will Travel," another excellent Western starring Richard Boone as Paladin, a gentleman gunfighter. Other great TV westerns of this new breed included "Wanted Dead or Alive," with Steve McQueen as a bounty hunter; "Bonanza," starring Lorne Greene, Michael Landon, Pernell Roberts, and Dan Blocker as the Cartwright family; "Wagon Train," with Ward Bond; and "Rawhide," starring Clint Eastwood.
"Gunsmoke" for many years held the distinction as the longest-running scripted show in television history until its record was broken by "The Simpsons" (it is still the longest running Western.) "Law and Order" was the only other show in history to run for 20 years but was canceled before it could surpass "Gunsmoke." No other show currently on the air comes close. Besides reruns, it spun off books, board games, a trove of merchandise and endless nostalgia.
Arness was nominated for three Emmy Awards in the “Gunsmoke” years and later made dozens of television movies, including “The Alamo” (1987) and “Red River” (1988). He also starred in the mini-series “How the West Was Won” (1977) and the short-lived crime series “McCain’s Law” (1981). From 1987 to 1993 he also made five “Gunsmoke” television-movie sequels. “James Arness: An Autobiography,” written with James E. Wise Jr., was published in 2001.
"Gunsmoke" was the first in a line of westerns that portrayed a new, adult vision of the Old West, one which rejected stereotyped heroes and villains and cliched situations in favor of (as the NY Times said) "a chaotic frontier freighted with moral judgements and occasional failure." Until "Gunsmoke" came along, audiences were accustomed to sanitized, too-good-to-be-true cowboys like Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, the Lone Ranger and Hopalong Cassidy. This changed with "Gunsmoke" where the hero sometimes failed and only fired his gun reluctantly; over the years, Marshal Dillon was shot 30 times.
In the premiere episode of the show, which set the tone for the series, the Marshal faces an outlaw who had killed an unarmed man. Dillon grudgingly accommodates him, telling Doc Adams, "he's a gunman Doc; he's got to be eliminated."
Arness' co-stars ably portrayed a fine group of multi-layered characters who were essentially, a close family. They were Milburn Stone as Doc Adams, the beer-drinking philosopher; Amanda Blake as Miss Kitty, saloonkeeper at the Long Branch whose love for the Marshal remained unrequited; and my personal favorite, Dennis Weaver, who played Chester Goode, Dillon's lame sidekick.
For many years "Gusmoke" aired on CBS at 10:00 PM, immediately following "Have Gun, Will Travel," another excellent Western starring Richard Boone as Paladin, a gentleman gunfighter. Other great TV westerns of this new breed included "Wanted Dead or Alive," with Steve McQueen as a bounty hunter; "Bonanza," starring Lorne Greene, Michael Landon, Pernell Roberts, and Dan Blocker as the Cartwright family; "Wagon Train," with Ward Bond; and "Rawhide," starring Clint Eastwood.
"Gunsmoke" for many years held the distinction as the longest-running scripted show in television history until its record was broken by "The Simpsons" (it is still the longest running Western.) "Law and Order" was the only other show in history to run for 20 years but was canceled before it could surpass "Gunsmoke." No other show currently on the air comes close. Besides reruns, it spun off books, board games, a trove of merchandise and endless nostalgia.
Arness was nominated for three Emmy Awards in the “Gunsmoke” years and later made dozens of television movies, including “The Alamo” (1987) and “Red River” (1988). He also starred in the mini-series “How the West Was Won” (1977) and the short-lived crime series “McCain’s Law” (1981). From 1987 to 1993 he also made five “Gunsmoke” television-movie sequels. “James Arness: An Autobiography,” written with James E. Wise Jr., was published in 2001.
May 29, 2011
Khemo
About twenty years ago, when we were living in New Jersey, I had the brilliant idea of buying my wife a horse for a milestone birthday. Kris had always been a horse lover; as a child growing up in Chicago, she would muck stalls at a local stable as payment for the opportunity to ride. When we lived in Brooklyn, there were few opportunities for her to pursue her passion. Occasionally she would rent a horse for an hour at Prospect Park or across the river at Central Park but she found these horses to be somewhat depressed and broken-down. She was unable to connect with any of them.
Now that financially we were pretty flush and living in a "horsy" suburb, this seemed to be a perfect time for what I thought had a good chance of turning out to be a good gift. Boy was that an underestimate!
Not knowing much about horses but realizing that the purchase of a horse must involve a personal decision by the potential owner, I knew that this could not be a surprise present. So, months before her birthday, I told Kris my plan. She loved the idea and immediately went to work looking for her new horse. We visited several horses without Kris finding "the one." Then one summer evening we took a trip to
Howell Township, about a half hour from our home, to meet a young Arabian horse with an excellent pedigree (he was an offspring of the great and famous sire, Khemosabe.) It was love at first sight! Khemo was an incredibly handsome little bay gelding with expressive, intelligent eyes and lots of attitude. He and Kris became immediate friends. Finally my wife had her horse.
She boarded him at Whippoorwill Farm, a beautiful property about ten minutes from our house, and every night, immediately after getting home from work, she would go to Whippoorwill to play with Khemo. She would rise early on weekends and spend most of the day with her horse. They rode in the indoor arena on weekday nights and bad-weather days and through the pretty countryside on nice weekends and holidays. They competed in endurance trail rides, and Kris taught him some tricks. Their love for each other grew daily until it appeared to be one of the great love affairs of the century.
After about ten years we decided that it would be wonderful to have a place of our own on which we could keep Khemo and our two other horses, Russian Warmbloods, Kochet and Desna who were rescued from Russia. We embarked on an extensive search of horse farms in New Jersey, Virginia, New York and other places hoping to find the home that was destined to be called "Khemoland." We finally found Khemoland about seven miles northeast of New Paltz in upstate New York. Khemo and Kris and I were very excited and in 2002 the three of us and the other two horses and five cats moved in. It was a dream come true. I loved the new place; the cats loved it; Kochet and Desna loved it. Kris and Khemo simply adored it. I got to spend more time with the horses now that they lived on our property and that was a marvelous thing.
Three years ago on Memorial Day weekend Kris went out to the barn first thing in the morning, as usual. A few minutes later, she called me at the house and told me that Khemo was in a great deal of distress; he seemed to have a bad case of colic. Kris, who is an expert horse healer did everything that she knew to relieve him of his discomfort. Nothing seemed to work. The vet arrived and Khemo was given sedatives and transported to the hospital. Exploratory surgery was performed while Kris and I went for lunch, hopeful that everything would turn out alright. When we returned to the hospital at the appointed time, we were told that Khemo had a large, inoperable tumor wrapped around his intestines. He had to be put down.
The tears flowed freely as we drove home to Khemoland, hardly believing that Khemo would not be there anymore. Three years later we still mourn his loss. Although his spirit still lives at Khemoland, and he occasionally visits in my dreams, his physical absence is palpable. Certainly, we love Kochet and Desna and Khera, a young relative of Khemo who exhibits some of his personality traits and the distinctive "Khemosabe" look but there is an empty place in our hearts which will never again be filled. There will never be another Khemo.
Now that financially we were pretty flush and living in a "horsy" suburb, this seemed to be a perfect time for what I thought had a good chance of turning out to be a good gift. Boy was that an underestimate!
Not knowing much about horses but realizing that the purchase of a horse must involve a personal decision by the potential owner, I knew that this could not be a surprise present. So, months before her birthday, I told Kris my plan. She loved the idea and immediately went to work looking for her new horse. We visited several horses without Kris finding "the one." Then one summer evening we took a trip to
Howell Township, about a half hour from our home, to meet a young Arabian horse with an excellent pedigree (he was an offspring of the great and famous sire, Khemosabe.) It was love at first sight! Khemo was an incredibly handsome little bay gelding with expressive, intelligent eyes and lots of attitude. He and Kris became immediate friends. Finally my wife had her horse.
She boarded him at Whippoorwill Farm, a beautiful property about ten minutes from our house, and every night, immediately after getting home from work, she would go to Whippoorwill to play with Khemo. She would rise early on weekends and spend most of the day with her horse. They rode in the indoor arena on weekday nights and bad-weather days and through the pretty countryside on nice weekends and holidays. They competed in endurance trail rides, and Kris taught him some tricks. Their love for each other grew daily until it appeared to be one of the great love affairs of the century.
After about ten years we decided that it would be wonderful to have a place of our own on which we could keep Khemo and our two other horses, Russian Warmbloods, Kochet and Desna who were rescued from Russia. We embarked on an extensive search of horse farms in New Jersey, Virginia, New York and other places hoping to find the home that was destined to be called "Khemoland." We finally found Khemoland about seven miles northeast of New Paltz in upstate New York. Khemo and Kris and I were very excited and in 2002 the three of us and the other two horses and five cats moved in. It was a dream come true. I loved the new place; the cats loved it; Kochet and Desna loved it. Kris and Khemo simply adored it. I got to spend more time with the horses now that they lived on our property and that was a marvelous thing.
Three years ago on Memorial Day weekend Kris went out to the barn first thing in the morning, as usual. A few minutes later, she called me at the house and told me that Khemo was in a great deal of distress; he seemed to have a bad case of colic. Kris, who is an expert horse healer did everything that she knew to relieve him of his discomfort. Nothing seemed to work. The vet arrived and Khemo was given sedatives and transported to the hospital. Exploratory surgery was performed while Kris and I went for lunch, hopeful that everything would turn out alright. When we returned to the hospital at the appointed time, we were told that Khemo had a large, inoperable tumor wrapped around his intestines. He had to be put down.
The tears flowed freely as we drove home to Khemoland, hardly believing that Khemo would not be there anymore. Three years later we still mourn his loss. Although his spirit still lives at Khemoland, and he occasionally visits in my dreams, his physical absence is palpable. Certainly, we love Kochet and Desna and Khera, a young relative of Khemo who exhibits some of his personality traits and the distinctive "Khemosabe" look but there is an empty place in our hearts which will never again be filled. There will never be another Khemo.
May 22, 2011
Support a Goodreads Author's Noble Cause
My friend Katrina Parker Williams, the talented writer of Southern fiction, is asking for your support. She is creating a scholarship to aid a student who has End Stage Renal Disease, who is on dialysis or who has had a kidney transplant and attends Wilson Community College in Wilson, North Carolina, the school at which Katrina works.
Ms. Williams says "Kidney disease runs in my family and I want to do something to give back to my community, and this project is my way of doing that. I am asking for your support."
If you purchase, on Amazon, her excellent short story collection, "Trouble Down South and Other Stories," a percentage of the proceeds will be used to set up the scholarship. The book is available on Kindle and in paperback.
This scholarship event will run from May 20, 2011 to May 27, 2011. Katrina's goal is to make 300 or more sales to get the scholarship started. Let's all pitch in to make this happen.
Here's the link to the book:
http://www.amazon.com/Trouble-Down-So...
Ms. Williams says "Kidney disease runs in my family and I want to do something to give back to my community, and this project is my way of doing that. I am asking for your support."
If you purchase, on Amazon, her excellent short story collection, "Trouble Down South and Other Stories," a percentage of the proceeds will be used to set up the scholarship. The book is available on Kindle and in paperback.
This scholarship event will run from May 20, 2011 to May 27, 2011. Katrina's goal is to make 300 or more sales to get the scholarship started. Let's all pitch in to make this happen.
Here's the link to the book:
http://www.amazon.com/Trouble-Down-So...
