Overtaken by Bibliomania

 

I love books, I love information, and I am addicted to the excitement of words. I cannot get enough of them. I have always been like this. I remember as a child being so frustrated because I wanted to read Babar and Madeline by myself but I was too little. My father had a huge dictionary on a music stand and he would tell me to look up words just for fun.  

As customary, I learned to read and write in school along with the rest of my class. Since then, I devour books.  

Today it is much easier to read because of the internet and with rapid speed I can Google any interest and get a slew of links to click. 

I also collect books, all kinds of books. If there is a book I have read from the library and really like it, I buy it for my collection.  

This brings me to being overtaken by bibliomania. I stalked this book for at least 5 years called Scat, the Witches Cat by Geraldine Ross January 1, 1958, it is a children’s book. I searched everywhere for that book online and in stores and no one had a copy. Not even libraries.  

This book was listed on eBay for that amount of time. The price was 59.99. So, I waited and waited until there was a price drop.  

The price drop never came but someone else posted the same book on eBay for 49.99. I still waited until I didn’t. I bought the book. I don’t know much about collecting old books so when it showed up, I read it and I saw that it had children’s writing in it here and there. Now I know why this book was 10.00 less than the other one.  

I am not sorry I bought the book because it is rare and I can sell it if I want to. Owning young books or old books is a privilege and an honor especially in a world where stories zip by via the internet. Old books hold a special place in history and very important to pass on to future generations. It is my distinct privilege to hold this piece of literature and history and eventually pass it on to the public.  

Georgia P.  Oct '22

The Hunter Moon

 

The Hunter Moon is making its debut tonight as I weave my car down towards NYC along The New York State Thruway. The road is dark, and the drivers rely on the stream of head lights to show the way. The luminous red taillights snake, slither and slide along, helping to lead the procession. I have left behind Tarrytown, and Sleepy Hollow made famous by Washington Irving. Weaving through the foothills of the Catskills, apples having managed to turn my bag over, roll around in the back playing tag, happy to have escaped their enclosure. I follow the curve in the road and there it is, a panoramic view of the beautiful new bridge, illuminated by the large Hunter Moon straddling the Narrows, but exposing the critters of the forest to danger. It will be a precarious night, during which wildlife will need to move with great stealth and cunning through the woods to live till dawn.

As the bridge grows in size the road twists and turns and at times the moon disappears, although its glow is omnipresent. The moon is playing Hide and Seek, playfully disappearing until I spot it hiding behind a hill, laughing like a child at being discovered and then running away again to repeat the process.

          While driving over the bridge I look in the rearview mirror.  Is it my imagination or do I see Ichabod Crane, being pursued by The Headless Horseman running in terror along the pedestrian walkway? Up ahead on one of the rolling hills there is an apparition of sleepy Rip Van Winkle waving goodbye to me with one hand while he rubs sleep from his eyes with the other. He is recovering after a much needed rest, brought on by playing too much nine-ball and drinking from a questionable flagon of Hollands with some mischievous inebriated dwarves. I think I need some sleep myself.

Jim

Oct ‘22

My Dy Dee Doll

I’m from an era when children played with each other; when no one had a cell phone, TV or computer. Phyllis Garelick, my apartment building friend and I spent much of our time together playing “house.” We were both the momma of our individual babies, our Dy Dee Dolls. Each windowsill became the baby’s bed, fashioned with a towel for the mattress and a washcloth for the blanket.

My Dy Dee doll was my only toy. I owned no books, puzzles, games or other dolls. I was lucky to have gotten my baby doll as a birthday gift from my rich cousin. I would not be surprised to hear you ask, “Hey, what’s a Dy Dee Doll?” I was surprised I remembered what my rubber baby doll was called. I actually Googled it and learned its history. In the 1930’s The Dy Dee Doll was an invention of two businessmen. It was a huge success as a “drink and wet” doll. It had an opening in its mouth for the nipple on the bottle. A tube inside the doll reached to an opening it the doll’s buttocks (not actually the correct place for the urinating process; accuracy was not an issue.). I fed my baby doll pineapple juice so it would at least pee the correct color. 

My Dy Dee Doll was a lucky baby to belong to me. While we were too poor to afford the assortment of clothing available in the doll catalogues, my talented seamstress mother (the doll’s grandmother) made her a huge wardrobe. I cannot recall all the many items of clothing baby doll had; I can describe my favorites. Baby doll (I never named the doll) had pajamas that were the exact duplicate of the ones my mother made me. Baby doll had a maroon velvet winter coat with a real fur collar and momma made her a beautiful soft orange velvet dress, trimmed with black piping. My Dy Dee Doll had a designer original, made to order wardrobe. She had a one-of-a kind wardrobe. I was always careful when she drank and wet. “Playing house” with Phyllis Garelick was good training for my future role as a mother.

I treasured my Dy Dee Doll. In my teenage years, but unbeknownst to me, my mother gave my niece (momma’s first grandchild) my doll. In that era, children had many toys. My niece owned a sexy Barbie Doll with a full wardrobe of gowns and bathing suits. That doll even had hair that could be combed and fashioned. The old rubber Dy Dee Doll couldn’t compete. It was tossed in a heap of discarded toys. I have an intense desire to hold that doll again.

Ethyl Haber 

Pale Doom

 

Oh, perfect Hunter's Moon, your grandness signals the room, to believe in you, in all that you do, to rescue us from this gloom.
Oh, rising October Moon,
May you Enlighten us soon, as soon as can be, to help us to remember that first cosmic boom.
Oh, distant Mars, you wrestle with the stars, to shine your light, help brighten the darkest night, and to ward off a pale doom.

Call to the trumpeter,
On high see great Jupiter.
You bring battle to my space, so in your face.
So bright in the eastern sky, the apple of my eye.
As to rhyming this poem, you make me forget why.

RM, 10-21-2022.

In an attempt to honor Jupiter,
[I can think of nothing stupider.]


As a July-born moonchild, I often gaze at and reflect upon the moon's solitary life in the vast and infinite cosmos.  I follow the Moon phases and try to locate it whenever I can.

As a historian with a decent grasp of important AND mundane events and anniversaries, December brings us 50 years back to 1972. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration sent its Apollo 17 to the Moon.
It was the sixth mission to land on the Moon and to return to Earth safely.
12 men have walked on the Moon, the last, Commander Eugene Cernan, left on December 14, 1972.  The Apollo 17 mission was epic, as it conducted scores of experiments and drove a lunar rover over many miles on three lunar excursions (EVAs).
Cernan was joined on the lunar surface by Geologist Harrison Schmitt, as Command Module pilot Ronald Evans circled the Moon, waiting to again rendezvous with the Lunar Module astronauts.
Financial reconsiderations and societal malaise told Americans that the Moon was no longer a national goal, no longer a destination to cherish, embrace, learn from, mine, and colonize.
Why we didn't return is anybody's guess.
Maybe we were told not to return. We may not be alone. Ooooooooooh...

The RM archive possesses autographed photographs of the Gemini 9 mission patch, and a postcard of Eugene Cernan driving the Apollo 17 Lunar Rover.

So, this December 2022, remember our last Moon landing, a half-century ago.

Bus Ride Memories

 

I was on the bus and a family entered. The Mom and four kids, the kids were so happy and ran to the back of the bus with Mom. They all looked happy, the kids were eating candy, talking about their day in class and Mom was listening. They all looked so content and united.  

The scene reminded me of all the times I picked up my kids from the same school and I would listen to their stories and eat candy. At home they would do their homework and play games and go to bed and we would do the same thing the next day. 

I would anything to have those days back.

Georgia

For Want of a Curtain Rod

 

I needed to replace one of my kitchen curtain rods. It was decades old, and like myself, a bit worn and weary. I was going to clean it up before rehanging my freshly laundered Battenburg lace curtains.  I just had to fiddle with it and get the kinks out. Not so easy. The two pieces of the expandable rod jammed together and they became irrevocably married to each other-- of course, at a totally unusable length. Ah, well. I was going to pass Home Depot on my way to BJ’s. I did my homework and looked up the item online. I went armed with the description, SKU number, price and other good curtain rod as a sample. The computer told me there were 41 of these rods in stock at the store branch.  This was going to be quick and easy.

Well, bear with me, while I digress. When I was substitute teaching, I was amazed that so many students felt that whatever they did with school work was “Good’nough.” It worried me that these pupils would grow up to be the people who would take care of me when I became old, sick, and senile. This is a story of those “Good’nough” people who tried to find my $2.48 replacement curtain rod.

 

*****

 

I enter my local Home Depot near Aisle #6. “Where are the curtain rods?” I ask one of the friendly team members. With great confidence and a big smile, she looks it up on the smart phone that appears to be a natural extension of her hand. She looks and looks. A wrinkle develops across her otherwise smooth, youthful forehead.  Finally, she’s got it! Long pause. “Oh no. Wrong store.” She starts all over again and looks up the store we are standing in, where she has been working these many months. “Oh, that’s Aisle 35.”

 “Thank you” I say. “Where is Aisle 35? I only see Aisles 1 through 20 here.”.

“Oh, go down to Aisle 20 to the end and walk to the back. It’ll be right near there,” she instructed me brightly. So, I trek down to the far end of the store and at Aisle 20 take a right down the long aisle to the end. Hm...  Aisle 21 is right behind 20! Of course. That’s logical. I take another right past the next 33 aisles. I have walked the length of the cavernous store to almost the aisle directly behind where I had entered.  “Well, I’m getting exercise in,” I think to myself, making lemonade from a rather sour roundabout route.

Eureka! I find the area for the curtain rods. A visual tour doesn’t reward me with the rod I need. I walk back and forth three times, and then approach another friendly team member two aisles over, who points back over to where the curtain rods are located.

“I’m sure they are there, but could you come with me?” I plead. “I just can’t manage to find the them.” He walks back and forth down the aisle a few times, but doesn’t locate the right one either.

“We don’t carry them,” he shrugs.

 “Of course, you do. The computer says you have 41 in stock,” I retort.

l bend down to where there are about 6 empty slots in the display, find a partition that reads $2.48, the exact price of my item. Then I bend further to check the itty-bitty label that is flush with the floor. (Oh, my poor old aching back.) Behold: the vacant spot for my item’s SKU!

“Maybe they’re up on top ?? in the storage racks?” I ask as politely as I can. He looks up and scans the levels directly above the display.

“Nope.”

“I want to speak to a manager.”

 “OK, but you may have to wait a while.”

“Fine.”

        Luckily, a manager walks by about ten seconds later. He duplicates the already duplicated survey up and down the aisle, and declares with authority, “We don’t have any.”

“But here’s where they belong,” I protest. “And the computer says there are 41 in stock at this store.”

He checks his own computer link on his smart phone. Nods his head in confirmation. Then he grunts, and with a face of experience tells me, “Oh, you know. Those computers are often wrong.”

In the meantime, the first team member is pulling one of those big rolling staircase ladders over. He clambers up and starts examining the ceiling-high storage racks. No luck. He comes down, moves the ladder, and climbs back up again. This time he finds boxes and boxes of my rods, 3 to a box. He pulls out one box with a bit of flair and smiles broadly. He hands it to me victoriously.

 “Thank you.” “Great job.”  “Really persistent,” I say, as I throw a nod of approval to him and his manager. His reward: I just complimented him in front of his supervisor and he showed up the guy to boot.  Of course, nobody, moves to fill up the other vacant slots. Back in some buyer’s office, they must wonder why some curtain rods just never sell.

Triumphant, my booty in hand, I head for the cash registers. And lo and behold, there assisting at self-checkout, is the helpful young lady who had sent me on my lengthy excursion.

“You know, it might be helpful if you took a walk around the store and were more familiar with the layout. I had to walk the length of the store twice.” 

“Oh, I’ve never walked back there. I just work up front,” she explains to me, an obviously overdemanding shopper. “I can’t know where every little thing is. There are thousands of items.” She walks away, quite self-satisfied with her explanation and lack of knowledge. Another “Good’nough-er.”

       Now another digression. Friends and colleagues have told me:

       You know, your expectations are just too high.

        You are a dog with a bone.

        You can be right or you can be happy.

     They are right. This is who I am. A five-minute shopping trip that takes an hour is frustrating. It confirms my fears that the “Good’nough-ers” are taking over the world, but also gives me a glimmer of hope that there are the few who will see the light eventually and save us.

At this instant, as I walk into my kitchen, I am happy. The white curtains are a perfect frame for my green plants. Here, in my sunny kitchen, I am content. ‘Tis good and ‘tis enough for me.

Marsha H

Moon Moment

 

As I stare into the hovering Hunter Moon that hangs enormous in the night sky, I feel overtaken and subsumed. In an instant, its arrow of light pierces my being and fixes me to the earth. I am tethered to that white orb in the black sky.  Even though I know that my blood surges and my synapses spark, I am totally immobilized and still.  As the moon circumnavigates the planet and pulls at the oceans, it appears a stolid power in the black sky. The Hunter Moon has entranced me within his white light.

Stasis rules. The moment is pure; the light is pure. Nothing shatters or shudders. No cloud moves to foreshadow a next moment. All stimuli cease. On earth there are no fast-moving fires, no overflowing floods, no external disorders, or internal conflicts.  In myself, I feel neither sorrow nor joy, neither regret nor satisfaction. The silent, sanctified light cleanses and purifies. My body, held fast to earth, is yet appended to the moon. I am a moment of light, stretched for eons, and stuck for an instant in time. My being is held balanced within a note of eternity. I thank the moon that blesses me with a moment of clear, unadulterated nothingness.

Marsha H.  10/15/22

Moon Time

       The full moon looks splendid. I will be watching her move across the sky for a while. 
       I talk to the moon. I tell her my troubles. I quietly listen for her advice. Eventually I fall asleep under her light and dream of better days ahead.  

Georgia P

The Goose

 

My, you are a perfect specimen, perfectly designed and honed through countless ages of evolution to match the specific qualities needed for the completion of your task like a streamlined missile streaking towards its target or a dart to the bullseye! You are heavy enough to resist the air currents but light enough to ride on the wind, instinctively counterbalancing the gusts with countless calculations. Strong muscles propel you forward, fixed on your destination, never distracted and never quitting your mission. We humans copy your slipstream choreography in cycling events using the vacuum of the strongest rider as you use the strength of the lead goose in your V shaped formation. Do you know that imitation is the sincerest form of complement? Your body is oily to keep you warm as you fly through freezing winter skies. If this plane malfunctioned, I would plummet to my death, while you would just glide down to make a soft landing, adjust your plumage and resume your flight.
Goodbye for now Goose as you rise up and away with your flock in tow. I hope that our paths cross again.
          Just as the flock was disappearing over the horizon they veered back. Returning, the lead Goose came right up to my window, pulled one of his feet from its landing gear position and stuck a post-It note on the glass before me. It read thus:
 
          Dear Human,
                         I don’t believe that you are a hunter, so I am going to give you a chance to live. The pilot has an open bottle of Grey Goose in the cockpit, and it is already one third finished! I saw him open it. Tell the stewardess quickly; she will know what to do. This is not the first time.
          Good luck!
          THE GOOSE
 
          I quickly called over Amy, the stewardess and told her that someone had seen a bottle of vodka in the cockpit.
          “Oh no, not again. I thought that he had it under control” she said. Pushing her beret down on her brow ready for a fight, she stormed off to the cockpit. I heard some commotion as Amy wrestled the bottle from the pilot and ran to the bathroom to dispose of it. She returned with a pot of black coffee from the pantry, yelling at him to drink it down or she would call the FAA. The pilot did as she asked, pleading with her to keep her quiet and save his career. Our plane made a soft landing at the airport. For a minute there, I thought that my goose was cooked.
 

October 22’ Jim

The Music of Geese

 
    Justin.
    A little tyke on his little trike, making his way in a world he knew nothing about. A five-year-old, my five-year-old on our nightly trek to trigger remote controlled spotlights that illuminated driveways and garage entrances in the back alleys of our neighborhood home in Forest Hills, New York, just a few clicks east – as the goose flew – over the once great city named Manhattan, a place more known to most as simply, New York City.
Justin was enamored with the magic, the childlike charm of spotlights illuminating him on center stage as he pedaled past. For me, forty-five at the time, living in a world I thought I had known enough about, it was a moment of peace, tranquility and pure innocence. Disney could not have provided such unadulterated delight, the joy of a child simply engaging sensors that set his senses alight.
    Alive.
    I smiled.
    A lot.
    A lot more than I do now in these troubled times in which we remain entrenched.
    Once upon a time, we knew peace, and upon that time, I believe that we never truly acknowledged that amity as we could have.
    Geese are peace.
    Untroubled, it seems, they travel in harmony, sunshine bound in synchrony.
    A fair-weathered friends symphony.

     One April eve as the sun had nearly set and the garage lights provided our light at nearly night, Justin pedaled on, his eyes aglow with the wonders of technology that made him a magician, I looked above to the fading pink sky, my eyes alight with wonder as an endless cadre of geese returned home, signaling the onset of summer, my forever favorite season.
For me, there is no greater peace than the music of geese.
 

Tom

Oct 2022

Flying Geese

 

Flying Geese remind me of the following:

This is a flying geese quilt pattern. The spiritual meaning of flying geese represents determination, purposeful movement and productivity, quest fulfillment and wisdom. (whatismyspiritanimal.com)

According to the Bible the wild goose in addition to the dove is a symbol of the Holy Spirit. (Baylor.edu)

Getting back to flying geese quilt, there are many patterns for this type of quilt. No one knows the origins of the pattern, there are many theories and folk tales about this pattern.

There is a large goose family living in the cemetery nearby along with squirrels and bunnies and birds. They eat the bugs and decaying flowers from the graves as a natural form of recycling.

The above right lower picture is a quilt from the 1840-50 and is on display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC in the American Wing and is a compilation of many types of fabric used at that time. Obviously the sewist of this beautiful quilt did not waste any extra fabric.

As a sewist myself I truly appreciate the time, money, patience, the cutting out of squares and triangles and rectangles to the point of madness and wresting with sewing the darling together and the meditative quality in sewing a masterpiece. I have made quilts like this and it is my hope that the family I gifted it to keeps it in their family forever as an heirloom.

Honk, Honk…………………………….Honk, Honk……………………….Whoosh.

 

Georgia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freya

 

It was an ordinary day of fighting giants and slaying fire breathing dragons. Freya and her two kitties Aster and Adam were tired and it was self-care time.  

“Let’s go home kitties, I am beat.” Freya breathlessly commanded. Meow, meow the kitties answered in a sleepy voice. 

Back at the castle she took a warm bath, had an ambrosia drink and went into a deep sleep. Kitties curled up next to her as usual and the two little balls of fur fell fast asleep. 

Tomorrow is a new day. 

Freya woke up and had her usual breakfast. Smoked fish that she shared with Aster and Adam. Cup of lemon tea and fresh bread.  

Since she is a goddess, she spends a lot of time listening to the petitions of her followers. The day is usually filled with requests of love, fertility, winning battles and delaying death, finding gold, doing magic, casting spells and divining the future.  Also, since her father is Njord the sea god some petitioners asked she put a good word in for them for a good days catch.  

Another ordinary day of a working goddess.  

Sitting on her throne with Aster and Adam curled at her feet she saw a young mother with a baby passing by. Freya felt deep sadness; she did not know who her mother was. No one knows. No one will tell her even if they knew because her father Njord the sea god would drown them for telling.  

Freya sort of remembered the softness and smell of her mother’s skin. She sort of remembered being breast fed. She sort of remembered how much her mother loved her. She sort of remembered her mother go missing never to be found again.  

That night Freya had a dream. Nerthus her mother came to her. Her mother spoke to her. “I have been waiting for you to think of me, I am no longer here on earth. There was a terrible event and no one told you. My body was never found. I have been watching you and I love you so much. I never wanted to leave you. I am always with you but I am restless. Find my body for a proper burial. I love you.” And her mother was gone. 

Freya woke up suddenly, she needed answers. Freya set out to the sea to see her father Njord.  

“Come Aster and Adam time to set up the chariot.” Freya called. Aster and Adam dutifully complied. The kitties grew to size of horses and the horsemen harnessed up the kitties. Aster and Adam hissed and growled impatient to move. “Onward kitties, off to the seaside, quickly.” Freya shouted. 

As goddesses can do she flew her chariot to the sky in a moment and sliced through the clouds landing on the beach. With a conch shell she bellowed a low sound.  

There appeared Njord. “Freya, I am so happy to see you. Are you OK, do you need something,” Njord sounded concerned. 

“Father, I had a dream about mother, she said she died in a terrible event and is no longer alive. She wants me to find her body so she can rest in peace. “Njord was stunned. He was silent. He dropped his head low. Freya was confused. “Father?”  

Njord swam away with no other words. Freya couldn’t follow her father.” 

“What is this mystery?” Freya yanked the harassed cats and flew away back through the clouds landing in the castle yard. Aster and Adam, as magical kitties, reduced to rat chasing size. The horse men put the chariot and harnesses away. 

Freya decided to do some astral traveling to find her mother.  

Njord was so ashamed, how can he tell Freya, his beloved daughter that it was his carelessness that killed Freya’s mother Nerthus. Freya’s mother was half mortal. She had the physical strength of one hundred men and marksmen with bows and arrows. She could conjure fire with her mind. But she cannot breathe under water like Njord. Njord mistakenly left Nerthus in a cave and the cave filled with water and there was no way out. It was Njord’s carelessness that killed her.  

As Freya fell asleep, she beckoned for her mother. Nerthus appeared in glowing white robes. “Go to the black cave. That is where I died.” Freya heard her mother, woke up and immediately left with an army of loyal soldiers.  

They arrived at the black cave and at low tide Freya and seven soldiers they battled sea weed, poisonous snakes, smelly dead shell fish and a blue monster with bulging eyes and green slime dripping out of his mouth. The blue monster knew it was Freya. The blue monster said “I have been guarding Nerthus for you; it is time to put her bones to rest.”  “Thank you.” said Freya.  

A small glowing light from a florescent fish swam flicking its tail to keep its light on. Glowing fish have been keeping vigil for a very long time waiting for the bones to be retrieved.  

There they were the bones of Nerthus. The soldiers gracefully with the honor of a queen gathered Nerthus bones and placed them in a green velvet box.  

Off they went to the castle. Freya planned the best most fabulous incredibly distinguished and noble funeral. The entire countryside was there. Except Njord. He was too ashamed to show up. 

After the official mourning time was over Freya went back to the ocean. She called for her father. Nothing. She waited a whole day and night calling for him. A whale showed up and carried her petitions to her father.  

Njord showed up with his trident.  Freya looked forlorn. “Talk to me father,” she asked.  

Njord explained what happened and cried so much that waves and waves of salty tears as he spoke. “I am so sorry Freya; I never wanted to hurt Nerthus.”  

Nerthus’ spirit materialized on the ocean, Njord and Freya saw her clearly. Nerthus heard the whole story. “Be at peace Njord, I forgive you.” “Freya I love you and I am always with you, call on me when you need me.” With that Nerthus floated up and out of sight disappearing into the guiding light of heaven.  

Freya and Njord changed that day. Freya’s mystery was solved about her mother and Njord was forgiven. Each went back to respective lives and vowed to spend more time with each other. Freya went back to goddess duties and Njord went back to managing the ocean. 

The End (for now) 

Georgia P

The Sukkot Tent

 

The cool evenings that suggest a change of season harken in the fall. Pumpkin carving, apple picking and stomping through multi-covered leaves on the way to school, are all Autumn traditions. Cooking again seems like a novel thing to do, as old spices are disposed of and new batches are purchased. Concord grapes freshly picked from the vine are greedily eaten or cooked and sealed in Mason jars turning them into a delicious jelly to sweeten the long winter ahead. Winter pears are harvested and made into pear stew. Apple delicacies are a seasonal favorite, and the scintillating smell of freshly baked apple pie is irresistible.

A Protestant carpenter, a Catholic carpenter and a Jewish Rabbi walk into a SUKKOT Tent. No, this is not the beginning of an ethnic joke conceived in poor taste for cheap laughs, preying on the prejudices of the audience and at the expense of one of the characters, parading thinly veiled racism as humor, but merely my remembrances of my first weeks in the Carpenters Shop at NYU Medical Center. The Rabbi had come to inspect the annual autumnal construction of the tent for the holiday of SUKKOT. He spoke to George, my senior partner, and left soon after, seemingly pleased with their plan. The setting for our tent was a quiet section of the Gimbel Garden, the funds for which had been donated many years before by the Gimbel family of department store fame. The garden was a quiet enclave of lush green flowering plants and shade trees with comfortable benches that were accessed from The Rusk Institute where patients and visitors to the hospital would come for a respite before or after a session of physical therapy while goldfish, turtles and tadpoles meandered through the marble pond silently enjoying their swim as brightly colored parrots  sat in large golden bird cages, never trying to escape and seemingly well aware that they had an excellent situation.

George was a tall stoic Scottish carpenter who had come to America and accepted this job at the hospital. He was an exceptional journeyman and had specialized in finishing woodwork on passenger ships. The interior of ships built in Scotland, like most ships of the time had few straight level lines but were instead an endless collection of radiuses and curves. In addition, George worked with hard woods which were expensive, and precision with attention to detail was imperative to avoid wasting material and staying in the good graces of the Foreman to stay employed. He was well over six feet tall with grey hair and black eyebrows, and he rarely smiled. Like Atlas, he carried his tall lank frame around as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. Although severe in his demeanor George was a kind man, as long as he was not crossed. He tried to teach me from his vast knowledge of skills. I had been paired with him to essentially do the bull work, preparing the materials he needed, such as lifting steel doors onto A-frames, or moving heavy lumber or plywood into position. Today we had a lighter assignment in having constructed the SUKKOT Tent for the Jewish holiday of that name. The tent was constructed out of long aluminum poles which fit into junctions and were held together with thick Allen screws forming a large rectangular shape. A heavy dark blue canvas cloth wrapped around the inside of these poles sliding down through gussets in the canvas over the top of each vertical pole and dropping down about six inches until they reached horizontal poles. Silvery writing in Hebrew and pictures of the harvest were inscribed on the interior side of the canvas. The tent was about twelve feet wide by thirty feet long and the top was open to the sky. The Rabbi had explained that it was necessary to be able to see the stars of the night sky when one looked up. Stalks of bamboo, about thirteen feet in length, were placed across the width of the tent about three inches apart and extending a few inches over each side of the tent . I later found out that this tent represented both a harvest feast, thanking God for the harvest’s bounty, and was also a rustic remembrance of the time spent in the desert. One of the last steps when our work was almost completed was to install a board attached perpendicularly to the ceiling joists for the electricians to add a long fluorescent light that they secured with screws running the extension cord to an exterior garden outlet. I called them to come when we had everything prepared. After the Electricians were done, Environmental Services were summoned to supply long wooden folding tables and chairs. This portable furniture was used all over the hospital for various occasions. Next came the Pastoral Office who sent people to decorate with shiny tinsel like representations of fruits and vegetables and other geometric designs, that hung down from the joists and bamboo. Lastly the Catering Department would supply hot coffee and tea urns and food on each day of observance. When the holiday ended about a week later, we returned to disassemble the structure and pack everything away for the next year.

The following year George and I worked together again constructing the tent but I took a more active role in the construction and when the Rabbi came for his inspection, George referred him to me. I conversed with him and later made the requested alterations. That was the last year that George and I worked together on the tent as his health seemed to be failing. The following year I had been given a new partner to help me.

As the years rolled by Rabbis came and went. There were tall Rabbis and short Rabbis, young Rabbis and old Rabbis, fat Rabbis and skinny Rabbis, serious Rabbis like George, and jovial light-hearted Rabbis. Each man had a slightly different interpretation as to how the tent should be constructed or modified. Their requests were always treated with respect and adopted if practical.  One Rabbi noted that it was difficult for visitors in wheelchairs to enter the tent with the impediment of the pole that ran across the threshold. To solve this problem, I built a shallow ramp with a notch on the bottom to straddle the pipe so that the wheelchairs could roll over it unimpeded. The Rabbi approved of my solution, and I saved the ramp with the tent for future use after the holiday was over. There were a few occasions when a Rabbi whom I was not familiar with would stop by and make suggestions for an alteration. After implementation, I had learned that he was visiting a patient and was not affiliated with the hospital, and therefore did not have the authority to give me any instructions at all. From then on, I politely asked for credentials before making any changes.

One year before the holiday, the foreman asked me to meet a truck on First Avenue that was delivering a new tent. I went over there and saw a medium sized white truck with the name Sukkah Depot emblazoned on the side of it. Out of the cab jumped a group of young men neatly dressed in traditional garb who quickly loaded the boxes onto my wagon as well as their own cart and helped me bring the new tent to where it was to be constructed. This tent was a modern modular design made of aluminum frames with grey Formica on the outside and wood grained Formica on the interior. The sections locked into one another creating a very sleek modern style. The tent even had a window and a double door to enter! The men explained that it was designed with brackets to accept wooden 2’x4’s around the perimeter at the top with additional brackets for joists to run the width of the tent. This was definitely an improvement over the old canvas tent.

One day while the tent was being set up, a young maintenance man came along and introduced himself as Eyal. He was a Moroccan Jew and he asked if I could save him some small task to perform before it was completed. Eyal explained that it would be a good mitzvah for him. I wasn’t familiar with the term but it wasn’t every day that someone offered to help you do your work, so I promised to call him. As we were finishing up and putting in the cross braces, I called Eyal on the shortwave radio, who was very appreciative for the call, and he came right away to help. I supplied EYAL with a screw gun which he used to screw in the last cross braces while thanking me profusely for remembering his request.

A few years later Eyal joined the Carpenters Shop and each year he and I installed the SUKKOT Tent together. When I was retiring Eyal was now the lead carpenter for installation of the tent, and he had his own helper. Construction of the tent was a good mitzvah for him, and it seemed appropriate to me that a Jewish carpenter was installing the tent as this task was more than just a work assignment.

To all those who are celebrating this upcoming holiday, please enjoy it!

 

Jim

October 2022