First Kiss

The school year had ended and summer was upon us as the Track and Field team emptied their lockers. The summer would be different this year; the track coach had secured a job running the sports and entertainment for Chase Manhattan Bank’s Family Camp. The inexpensive vacation would give bank employees and their families a chance for recreation and relaxation in the great outdoors of upstate New York, and at a manageable cost that included all amenities, meals and lodging. The Track Coach Mr. Ed Jawor, a legend at Mater Christi High School for his track records, had upon receiving the summer job immediately fired the entire staff from the previous year, and offered the positions to his track team.

The old crew had consisted of teenage boys who were into drugs, and caused all sorts of trouble including tardiness, fighting, not showing up for assignments and a generally poor job performance, as well as inappropriate behavior with the daughters of visiting employee families. The boys on the track team were not angels but were respectful and disciplined athletes and scholars for whom poor grades would cause suspension from the track team. I was on the field squad which consisted of the shotput, discus and javelin throwers. For Mr. Jawor, this job provided a perfect opportunity for him to get a disciplined crew who were fit, willing to work, and who knew him and respected his authority. Also, it was an opportunity to keep the boys fit and busy during the summer months and out of trouble. Different subgroups within the team were assigned various tasks and the field team were assigned to be the waiters.

The mess hall consisted of long lines of tables, separated by family or group and were movable. Each waiter had one row of tables and served about 70 people in all. The response to us by the visiting families was comical. They would ask us what had happened to the crew of miscreants from previous years. They were not used to being treated respectfully by clean cut efficient waiters who showed up for work on time with a good attitude. The job was simple as there was only one choice of food, and it was served family style. Anyone who has worked as a waiter can appreciate how much easier this makes serving. We were told that we looked more like the front line of the Jets than a bunch of skinny drugged out waiters. The administration of the camp received glowing reviews from families at the end of their stay and Mr. Jawor was much appreciated for his decision to replace the previous year’s staff.

The waiters were off between meals and we kept ourselves busy rowing, swimming, lifting weights, sprinting up the mountain and running the roads for miles at night. There would be no need to get back into shape when the school year started again and the team would have an advantage in track meets.

Into this Spartan existence came Debbie, a quiet pretty girl from whom I always managed to steal a fleeting glance whenever the opportunity came along. As the week progressed, I did manage to force myself to have a few brief conversations with her, but the feeling of butterflies in one’s stomach was unsettling and confusing. This was a time before the internet and people were generally less worldly at an early age. Finally, Debbie’s stay was ending and I could see her father packing the family station wagon for the trip home. As I stood there broken-hearted, she came over to me to say goodbye. A few words were exchanged and then she stood up on her toes and she kissed me. Although I had tried to imagine what it would be like, this feeling was not at all expected. This was not your mother’s peck on the cheek or a neighbor’s appreciative smack on the far head for raking the leaves! It did not fall into any of the previously designated categories of affection, there was no cubbyhole to file it into. It was a completely different feeling, inexplicable, like falling into the comfiest overstuffed chair imaginable; a wondrous feeling as if the earth had shifted, perspectives changed and the world seemed suddenly seen from a previously hidden view. As lips touched, the feeling of softness, gentleness and femininity was totally alien like I had landed on another planet, encountering a new life form for the first time. Coming from a world of steely, steady, self-discipline, pushing and forcing the body and mind to be molded for strength, speed and agility, this was unsettling, turbulent and rattling. All these insights happened within fractions of a second. The last slivers of light were disappearing when childhood’s door closed. In the distance a new portal was beginning to open, with a glimpse of the future and adulthood yet to come. Something had been awakened by this innocent kiss and life would somehow never be the same again.

Debbie’s father called her then; it was time to get on the road.

I never saw her again.

Fifty pushups and a cold shower would be in order to get me back on track.

Jim

July 2020

CAFÉ OLÉ

The lavender is dry and ready to be harvested. The plant sits in the center of the garden in front of my house.  I bought little pouches so I could make sachets of potent aroma.  They are always in my lingerie drawer and sometimes in my pillowcase.   Sharing them with friends and family is a source of pleasure.  

Sitting by that garden when the afternoon sun moves to the opposite side of the street allows me to observe passersby the way I often did at many a sidewalk café.  On Independence Day, I added another bistro set for additional seating.   My friend and I used both tables for a game of  Scrabble and a cocktail.  Celebrations come in all sizes, shapes and colors.

Most of the time Josette, my canine companion, sits there with me.  Like a spoiled, only child she climbs on top of the table and makes herself quite comfortable.   She doesn’t know how to be socially distant, quite the reverse.  Her gregarious disposition and affectionate nature make social distancing impossible. 

Where are the teenagers in love?  Has the time for holding hands and dreaming of that first kiss disappeared?  Will we see it in September?  Let’s all pray that we do.  Without puppy love this world just isn’t right.  The thrill and the excitement can be enjoyed vicariously too.  Did you know love songs are now on the endangered species list?

During our Fourth of July Scrabble game, my transistor radio was tuned to WABC on the AM dial.  The songs were hits from the 1960’s and 1970’s.  I almost went looking for my Archie comic book.  It must be the lavender because the air was so terrifically nostalgic.

Yvonne A.

July 2020

TREASURE

The crop had been a failure and the family were growing weak from lack of food with no money to purchase any. The boy had heard a rumor about a strange old man up on the mountain with treasure. He had left home very early, sneaking out to climb up the mountain in hopes of finding the old man. He was said to be good hearted and generous to those with a good heart and proper manners.

            The boy struggled to the top of the plateau, rested momentarily then, seeing a cabin went over to it. On the porch sat an old man rocking merrily in an old rocking chair. The boy could not decide which looked more ancient, the man, the cabin or the chair. The old man had a long grey gnarled uncombed beard that flowed down onto his chest. He was dressed like a woodsman, but still there was an air of mystery about him as if he were unaffected by the world. His eyes smiled as he spoke, and as the boy looked deeply into them, it was as if all the secrets of the universe dwelled there; unseen worlds and mystical insights were apparent, attracting the boy’s attention. The old man’s words spoke lyrical and poetic. Magic seemed to be everywhere and the forest animals that surrounded him were unafraid of his shotgun.

“Hello, boy. Have you come for my treasure so early in the morning?” the old man asked.

“Yes sir, I apologize for my promptness, but you know how fast rumors spread, and I wanted to avoid any competition,” the boy responded.

“Yes of course, my good lad. Industriousness and determination are nothing to apologize for, and those traits will get you far in life.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boy uttered.

Just then the old man’s beard started to move and out of one twisted, gnarled section a nest of hair unraveled revealing a wood nymph. As the boy looked on, he could see a miniature foot sticking out on the other side of his beard, which in fact resembled something more like a hammock than facial hair as a whole host of residents reposed in slumber there.

“Who has awoken me at this ungodly hour prattling on about nonsense?” cried the nymph with frustration in her voice.          

The old man began to laugh. “I am sorry if we disturbed you Penelope. Were we talking loudly?”

“Well only loud enough to wake the dead as I was sleeping so soundly. I could have used another week!”

“My apologies,” the boy uttered “Maybe I can come back at another time?”

“Nonsense,” said the old man. “Penelope is just grumpy, that is all.”

“I will tell you what,” offered Penelope. “There is something of value in my hand. Tell me what I am holding and you may keep it?”

While Penelope was speaking, an ant had climbed up the boy and now reached his ear unseen by the wood nymph. Climbing up on his earlobe, the ant spoke clearly into his ear.

“It is a beautiful white diamond,” whispered the ant.

“All right now speak up. What am I holding? The longer I am awake the less generous I become,” warned Penelope.

“A beautiful diamond,” the boy responded without hesitation.

The wood nymph was shocked that the boy had guessed correctly, but grudgingly gave him the diamond.

“All right, very clever,” Penelope said. “You guessed it, but if you don’t leave now the diamond will vanish before you get home. Leave now and let me return to my slumber and you may keep it!”

The boy said a hurried goodbye to the old man and the wood nymph, thanking them both profusely as he retreated down the mountain much richer than he had ascended, anxious and proud to bring the gem to his poor family. The diamond would pay for new seed and supplies to feed them.

In a months’ time the boy returned to the mountain to thank the old man and Penelope the Nymph again for their generosity, bringing an apple cake in appreciation. In the interim, seed had been purchased and planted, and had taken root. Food had also been secured with the funds received from the sale of the gem.

Upon reaching the summit and stepping onto the plateau the boy was surprised to find a barren landscape with no cabin, animals or inhabitants in sight as if all had vanished having completed their philanthropic task.

Jim

July 2020

Treasure

   In what may be a tedious subject to the outside reader, to myself, this topic is ever-present, always there, always tugging at my shirt sleeve, saying, “Is it done yet?  Is it done yet?”

   “No, it is not done yet!” I belch, and continue to belch.  The “it” is my book.  My freakin’ book, which I started compiling for in 2014, and which I signed a contract for in November 2017. 

   

   "It" is my burden, my 154,000-word burden, hopefully, soon, a 40,000-word (or more) masterpiece.  My masterpiece.  No one knows what I know about this topic. Yet, a very few, a dwindling few give a darn about it.  Hardly anyone cares.  I can hear the people say, “American history?  What’s that?  Whose history is it anyway?  I don’t care about anything that happened 244 years ago.”  Nonetheless, I must do it.  This may be the last time someone will care about this portion of our American and Long Island City history before it is rewritten, or cast aside like the classics that the modern generations no longer read.  And upon publication, I will have to hawk the book to people who may not or don’t care about America and sell my soul just to sell a few copies.  It’s sad, but I have doubts about the darn thing even before it is finished.

   The work of an historian is time-consuming, as the study of time would, of course, be; and it is also very gratifying.  Yet, I cannot believe that so much time has elapsed in this process.  Days, weeks, months, and now years have elapsed.  I must press on.  To not finish is an absolute failure. 

   

   On a happier note, I have been able to peruse, review, and scrutinize well over 50 maps and scores of books, documents, paintings, and period sketches, all in search of my LIC history.

   One sketch, entitled, “View of the opening of our Batterys at Hell Gate upon the rebel works around Walton's House on the island of N. York. 8 Sept. 1776,” by Archibald Robertson, is from the New York Public Library Digital Collection.  Myself and one colleague, the Executive Director of the Greater Astoria Historical Society, both thought this view of the Hell Gate was from the northeast, looking southwest.  The image copy that we had at GAHS was a small print from inside a book from 1955, whose author reprinted the image.  The sketch was low resolution making it hard to discern any detail, save for what was described.  Well, while analyzing a map of the Astoria peninsula and Horn’s Hook (Gracie Point) cannon batteries, I was able to distinguish exact cannon battery locations and their directions of fire.  This map was entitled, “A Plan of the Narrows of Hells-gate in the East River, near which batteries of cannon and mortars were erected on Long Island…,” by Charles Blaskowitz.

   As I compared the very detailed map to the NYPL’s high resolution sketch, both created in 1776 by British cartographers, I was able to orient the sketch to be from Hallett’s Cove’s southern shore facing northwest towards the south shore of the modern-day Astoria peninsula and beyond, to the American battery on Horn’s Hook on Manhattan Island.  The sketch of the British artillery positions at Hallett’s Point in Queens perfectly matched the map.  Our little mystery, on-going for some time now, is finally solved.  Both images will be in the book, whenever it comes out. 

   

   And so goes the very miniscule and minute triumph of the historian.  The triumphs that a very few, besides the Astoria historian or resident, while give half of a hoot about.  It’s like finding a fossil.  It may be interesting for a twenty-word blurb on page 35 of any newspaper, only to fall off the pages by day’s end.

   I have dear family and friends that do not give a “rat’s ass” (sorry, this is a family page) about the history that I study, yet, lecturing to and discussing such things with like-minded Revolutionary War scholars, authors, and enthusiasts, is most rewarding. 

  

   My “treasure” is the uncovering of little-known or unknown facts, and to impart them to the (small portion of the) masses that want to learn about their history, the truest and most accurate history of revolutionary western Queens County, now Long Island City, that I can provide.

Richard Melnick, July 4, 2020.

Solve A Mystery

After gradating from Law School, it is necessary to successfully complete a variety of procedures before being sworn in and permitted to practice law. The first requirement is to take and pass a bar examination given once a year. I took the examination and believe I may be the only applicant who knows how it feels to have both failed and passed the first time taken. Was it a mystery and if so, how was it solved?

    After the examination had been taken, results would not be made public for several months and when it would occur, it would be printed in newspapers in alphabetical order.  Ultimately, I found out the date that would occur. When I placed it in my calendar, I noted that day was Yom Kippur, a day the two candy stores in my neighborhood would be closed and newspapers not available. Not wanting to wait another day, I telephoned the Herald Tribune that was still in existence, explained why I was calling and would they be so kind to tell me if the name Benjamin M. Haber is listed with those persons who passed the bar examination.  I was told to hold on and she would let me know. Several minutes later the person  got back on the telephone and told me she was sorry to say, there were no H’s on the passing list.

    Suffice it to say, I was very disappointed and knew I would have to wait another year before taking the next examination. In the interim, I wold be  living with a failure. It turned out I did not need to hire Sherlock Holmes to solve the mystery described above. A few hours after my call to the Herald Tribune, I received a call from Everett Rosenblum a class mate with whom I became very friendly.  Everett said, “Congratulations, we both passed the examination.”  I replied, “No way!” and told him what I had been told by the Herald Tribune.  He replied he was looking at the list in The New York Times and my name was on the list.  When I finally received a copy of the Herald Tribune and examined the list, the person I had spoken to was correct when she said there were no H’s on the list.  I knew as a lawyer it would be necessary to be very careful  and seek all the evidence. So, I ran my finger down the list and when I came to the Z’s , LO and BEHOLD,  after the Z’s, there appeared the H’s  (an unusual mistake for the newspaper) which included Benjamin M. Haber. When I occasionally tell people how I could, I feel to both pass and fail, could they solve the mystery, most cannot. Could those who read this story, before reaching the second paragraph, have solved the mystery?

Ben Haber

July 2020

               

My Mystery Treasure

In the 1940’s one of my favorite radio programs was “I Love a Mystery” so when the country auction involved a mystery, I went for it. 

Summers during my early years of marriage were spent in my parents’ cottage in the Catskills. Country auctions were a popular event. The carton said APPLES but when I lifted the box, it didn’t feel heavy enough for apples, and I didn’t hear any rolling around. The handwritten label said MYSTERY BOX. When the auctioneer called for bids on this item, I went as high as $2.00. Shortly, the gavel came down and the word SOLD resonated. I was ecstatic to know the box was mine and the mystery inside, mine. We opened the box in the shade and although I had minimal expectations, the contents afforded me maximum delight. The carton contained a treasure trove of countless hand embroidered items. Someone had spent hours, days, weeks or maybe years creating this bundle of art work. As a craftsperson, I could appreciate the variety of stitches and the quality of workmanship. The assortment included table cloths, runners, samplers, doilies and squares, waiting for a backing to become pillow covers.

It may sound sexist, but I assumed the work was done by a woman and I would conjure up the life of the originator and thought of her relaxing during her limited quiet free time applying her skill to each piece. While paintings and drawings would usually have a signature, embroidery rarely would. The stitcher will remain a mystery.

In the entire embroidered assortment of works, there was only one large square that was partially done. The design was printed on the piece and most of the handwork was completed. The left-hand side contained hundreds of French knots to shape stalks of goldenrod with a small butterfly atop. Across the right side was the finest satin stitchery with the words SILVER THREADS AMONG THE GOLD. While I was familiar with the words, their meaning was a mystery. In researching them, I learned they were from a love song written in 1873. One interpretation talks of the graying and aging of the loved one. At my age, and in my stage of grayness, I would welcome such a love song. A huge spider’s web was the only incomplete portion, but the black outline of the web felt adequate and didn’t seem to require stitches. The incomplete piece was still beautiful enough to warrant a backing, a pillow insert and, Voila, I now had a lovely throw pillow for my white wicker rocking chair and so it sat on my sunporch for fifty summers.

Now that I am homebound during this pandemic, I spend countless hours on the porch so I decided this mystery pillow is calling for closure. I found my bag of floss, my needle and thimble and set to work on that project. A blue web grew with my embellishment. I added a touch of green to the goldenrod leaves and lastly, I created a huge monarch butterfly with a red abdomen and red antennae.

I worked on the stitchery for weeks. I wanted to please the mystery woman who almost finished the design. I could feel her presence. I am sharing her treasure

Ethyl H.

July 2020

My Wardrobe

For my thirteenth birthday and also the advent of the Passover holidays, I would be purchasing a big girl suit. This would be a mother-daughter shopping event. My mother usually made all my clothing but a suit would require a lined jacket and this was beyond her tailoring skills. Of course, she didn’t make my underwear, but she even made my pajamas.

She would use her leftover scraps of fabric to make the pajamas, the front could be stripes, the back-polka dots, each sleeve a different color, and the bottom equally diverse. What difference would such a hodgepodge make, since no one would be seeing them, except the family?  Who knew I would be invited to my wealthy cousin's sleepover birthday party? My rich doctor aunt and her sister, in an admiring serious tone, commented about how interesting my pajamas were, pretending flattery. Even as a child, I read their negative sincerity. My rich cousin, clad in her soft pink flannel pajamas could only have magnified the effect of my inappropriate clownish costume. Who could foresee that in today’s fashion world, my one-of-a-kind outfit would be appreciated?  

The place to go for my holiday suit was “The Lower East Side.” In that neighborhood, we would have a choice of one ladies’ store after another. Walking into the store did not mean buying in the store. First, we are getting a sense of the “going price.” By the time we reached the fifth store, the scene took on a familiar feel. The salesperson was also the shop owner. The price of the item, in no way resembled the price on the tag hanging from the sleeve. We have at last found the item I wanted for my holiday apparel. It was a pale blue woolen suit with a short jacket and flare skirt. 

The bargaining scenario took place in Yiddish. The salesperson would start with one price, my mother would halve it, he would go up from that price, and she would go down from there. All this going on, while we are pretending to be leaving. The storekeeper is practically in tears, assuring us that we have the suit for the same price he paid and has not made a penny’s profit. My mother feels victorious. I am convinced the limited vocabulary I have in Yiddish came from these shopping trips.

Dresses were an easier deal. We would go to the fanciest ladies’ dress store on Southern Boulevard with a pencil and pad. I drew a picture of the long-sleeved maroon velvet dress with the dropped waistline and scoped neck. At a nearby store, we bought the fabric, matching thread and long zipper. No Simplicity pattern for my mother. She cut directly into the fabric and pinned it together. This would require many try-ons, often getting stuck by the pins. Tempers and cursing were part of the scene. The dress would then be basted together with large white running stitches and tried on again and again with more anger, hostility and abusive language about how skinny, flat chested and shapeless I was. Sewing or altering was never done with the garment on me because the Yiddish superstition had it that the stitching would be “sewing up my brains (seykhl).” If one ever sewed while the garment was on the person, that person had better be chewing on some thread to ward off losing one’s brains. The final step was for Momma to sew the dress together on the Singer treadle sewing machine. The finished garment was as nice as the one in the store window.

One party dress, one pale blue woolen suit, some handmade skirts and blouses and a few pairs of pajamas pretty much made up the sparse wardrobe a thirteen-year-old girl from the East Bronx needed seventy-five years ago.

Today, as an adult with my “seykhl” intact, I say, “Thank you Momma for my wardrobe and memories.”

Epilogue

Characters: My grandsons Isaac and Matthew, two young adult brothers.

Format: e-mails

Dear Isaac, i know you are hoping to become a writer. I have been enjoying a writing class with grandpa so I am sending you a piece I recently wrote called, My Wardrobe.

Love, Grandma.

Dear Grandma,

                             What a sweet story! i would like to think the base of the sewing machine in your story is the same base being built into my writing desk!

Love, Isaac

Dear Matthew,

                            We’ve moved the sewing machine base for you to pick up. It’s great that you will be using this base in the writing desk you are building Isaac.

Love, Grandma

Dear Isaac,

                     Matthew came for the base. The Singer Treadle Sewing Machine base definitely was the one my mother, your great grandmother Anna sewed on and it’s the one I refer to in My Wardrobe story. When I was in college, that machine was in my bedroom. When my mother wasn’t sewing, the machine would be closed in its wooden cabinet. That sewing machine was my writing desk where I did my homework. Now it will be yours, where you will write your Great American Novel!!

Love, Grandma

Ethyl H.

June 2020