2021: My Best Day

 

     When I was 72 years old, I retired after practicing law for 50 years. My wife Ethyl

a retired school teacher, was at the time taking ceramics at Queensborough Community College. She told me there was a sculpting class in the room next to her class and suggested I look into it. I enrolled in the class and found the teacher Phil Listengart, to be a warm person and a great  teacher. I sculpted a a variety of subjects.

     At some point, I remembered  a poem I wrote as a young teenager when I learned of the  Holocaust and the death of my relatives

                                             Aunts, uncles, cousins

                                             Some old, many young

                                             Fuels for the smokestacks belching death

                                             I never saw them, nor shall I ever

  The poem inspired me to give thought to sculpting a Holocaust subject. I was unsure I could do so or what it would consist of. But, I started and ended up after working on it for close to ten months, with what turned out to be so excellent it was exhibited in two Holocaust museums.

Recently I made another copy which greatly exceeded the previous ones. The piece, a picture attached below, included important Holocaust details.

  The bricks across the top and bottom are the Jerusalem wailing wall and the survival of Judaism. The background of the piece is not smooth, but rough consistent with the subject terror. There is an elderly woman with a babushka, a shawl women in many small villages in Eastern Europe wore. She is clothed in rags and on the left side is a Star of David. To the right is a yellow star of David with the word Jude. That is the German word for Jew, that was required to be on all clothing worn by Jews. The face of  the woman came out so good, when looking at it, I always believed the woman will speak to me about the horror she lives with. It often bring tears to my eyes. Hitler bragged the Nazi regime would last 1000 years. It lasted no more than 12 years, and in the lower left had corner of the piece there are the dates 1933-1945. My name “Haber” appears on the right side but my first name Benjamin, is in Hebrew” Binyamin.”  I did include my Holocaust poem. I named the piece Mishpocheh, the Yiddish word for relatives.  I did not name it “ My Mishpocheh “, because the Nazis persecuted many non Jews. I intended all those  who view it may also have  lost relatives in the Holocaust, .

    I recently became aware of the Irving Roth Holocaust Resource Center at Temple Judea in Manhasset, Long Island, New York. I contacted the Center  and the director came to my home to see the piece and I immediately agreed to donate it. Arrangements were made to have it installed in the museum and an unveiling date December 12 was scheduled. There were about fifty people at the unveiling which included my wife, my daughter Emily, my grand children, nieces and nephews, cousins and friends. I considered the presence of family members important so it would be a part of their ancestral memory. The Resource Center did a great job installing the piece. The wall where it was placed  faces a large window and the sun’s rays strike the face of my Holocaust woman, making her come alive. 

The date of the unveiling December 12, was the best day I had in the year 2021.

Ben Haber

December 12, 2021

Christmas Gift

On Christmas Eve it was a tradition for my mother, sister and I to go to the Chinese food restaurant and order Egg Foo Young then off to Rockefeller Center Rink to ice skate. We did this every year from 8 years old to 18.  

It was always crowded there, and we had to rent lockers to put our shoes and other belongings. We rented skates whenever we went there and brought two pairs of our own socks because we needed our ankles to be stiff in the skates. This made sure we did not break a bone if we twisted our ankle while skating. The skates were mostly uncomfortable and smelly with worn down blades and broken laces. I wondered with each pair of skates who was the last sweaty, smelly person who wore these crumpled up ice skates.  

The year when I was 12, I wrote Santa a note and asked for new ice skates. I loved ice skating. Round and round and falling down and laughing and hanging on to my sister and mother as we wobbled and clung to the handrail.  

There were many seasoned skaters there. They would twirl, glide and flow and coast as if the blades of their skates had wings. I wanted so dearly to skate in that fashion.  

Upon arriving home, we were off to sleep, too tired to be excited about Santa.  

The next morning, we went to the Christmas tree still sleepy and started opening our presents. There was a big box waiting for me, I couldn’t imagine what it was. I ripped off the blue snowflake paper and found a box that looked like a shoe box, only bigger.  

Gently I pried the top open and there they were. Brand new ice skates with white and pink rabbit fur pom poms. I put them on and they fit perfectly, the blades were shiny silver and sharp. I was ready to skate again.  

I bothered my mother so much to go back to Rockefeller Center Rink that she relented and off we went again so I could skate with brand new ice skates and brand-new socks and my pink and white pom poms.  

And that was the greatest Christmas gift I ever got.  

Georgia 

Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata No. 14

 

Listening to Beethoven makes you smart. I learned that when my kids were little. That is what their teacher told them. Interesting advice that didn’t work on my kids but did work on me.  

Listening to Beethoven allows me to focus if I have something that needs concentration. Or just chill with a cup of tea.  

Listening to Moonlight Sonata No. 14 feels nostalgic or is it regret or love? It is somewhat shocking how this music can conjure some many different emotional questions.  

Beethoven was a genius, such talent and unbelievable ability to write awe-inspiring masterpieces.  

This is what magic sounds like on a piano, profound, touching dreams in human’s hearts.  

Where have all the Beethoven’s gone?  

In the meanwhile, I will peacefully and in a grounded way, joyfully listen to my favorite Moonlight Sonata No. 14.

Georgia 

My Best Day in 2021

FRIENDS, LIVE FRIENDS!!!!! Live friends without masks! Friends visiting for lunch! Friends coming to sit in our backyard; to eat with us. It seems like an eternity since we had last been able to do this. The isolation from crowds has been abysmal. We were still honoring certain restrictions, so our friends were bringing their own lunch (brown bagging it). 

What a lovely day that was. The sun shone brightly, adding warmth to the warmth of our relationship with our friends, Sylvia, Herb and Irene. With their melodic tweeting, the birds seemed to be socializing too, or maybe mating. The cloudless sky was a beautiful cerulean blue. Magnolia petals carpeted the verdant backyard lawn and lent a splendid aroma to the still air. The June day brought full white blossoms on the remaining sour cherry tree branches, advertising a small crop of cherries for my fruit compote. Nature sent out the message, “God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.” 

All this pleasure because we were spending time with some of our dear friends, laughing, talking and dining. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. So, this was no ordinary visit. This memory makes it my best day of the year 2021.

Ethyl Haber

Season of Light

 

NYC at night is a beautiful gift. or rather a city enveloped in dazzling and glitzy paper with strange geometrically shaped buildings wrapped in sparkling diamonds of light. All of this was displayed before me as I climbed the Ed Koch/59^th Street/Queensboro Bridge. Even at this early hour, a drowsy attitude could be dangerous at this altitude in trying to avoid other cyclists or pedestrians either climbing up the mile and a quarter ascent to the apex of the bridge to Manhattan or flying down from the summit into Queens. With each revolution of the crankcase the bicycle rose incrementally like a roller coaster click-clanking cog by cog to the top of the summit. As I rose above sea level the temperature dropped and the wind increased creating black ice which could easily leave the rider splayed out on the asphalt and at the mercy of speeding cyclists which I had experienced on previous occasions. Icy crystals grew in my nose as my heart pounded and lungs inhaled the cold crisp air. Toes and fingertips were the first casualties as numbness crept into the digits.

Having successfully crossed the expanse of the bridge streaking down the far side, much to the chagrin of climbing cyclists, I pedaled up 60th street to Fifth Avenue turning left and passing the giant Menorah brightly lit at 59^th street, followed by the Plaza Hotel dressed in lights and evergreens and then FAO Schwartz a bright, bold, gleaming child’s dream of a store. I flew down Fifth Avenue past all the high-end jewelry stores Cartier, Tiffany, Bergdorf Goodman, Harry Winston and all the rest, wrapped in bows, wreaths and lights like huge gifts prepared for a giant’s child. I arrived at 51^st and Rockefeller Center and walked my bike right up to the tree fully lit and standing alone except for the security guards that now focused their attention on me as a potential terrorist, activist, extremist, miscreant, or possibly just one of the crazy people that inhabited NYC after dark.

The tree was as tall as the tallest building in most towns, but here it was dwarfed by the towering skyscrapers in Rockefeller Center. Beautiful and radiant it glowed and shined in the halo of 50,000 lights intricately woven through its branches. The thick aroma of pinecones permeated the air, and the cones were as plentiful as ornaments on the tree.

Less than ten hours ago the annual extravaganza with all its razzmatazz, hoopla, and honky-tonk had taken place right here with singers, dancers, musicians, jugglers and ice skaters all vying for their moment of attention and fame. Dazzling and extreme, the climax was the lighting of the tree. With over a million spectators in attendance and national tv coverage there was no chance to get within blocks of the tree. It was surreal that a few hours later I was standing here alone except for my personal entourage of security guards as if I owned Trump Tower!

“Thank you for coming to see me, it is most appreciated,” said the tree bending forward and embracing me in its bows. A chatter, low, but noticeable could be heard as the uneasy guards talked to each other on their walkie-talkies.

“It was necessary,” I said, unsure of proper etiquette in such situations, never having conversed with a tree before.

“There were too many people here last night to see your lighting. This is much better and so much more personal,” I exclaimed.

“Well, I’m glad you decided to come back when we could have a proper conversation,” the massive evergreen expressed.

“Correct me if I am wrong but trees cannot talk, can they?” I interjected.

“Well, that seems to be a moot point as I am talking to you now,” said the tree.

“Do you see the curious ironic situation I find myself in? An evergreen, a symbol of eternal life, fecund, in the prime of my life cut at the trunk to die a slow death as my sap slowly dries up and I wither before the whole world! From what I had heard, the plan was to dig me up, place me in an enormous planter and feed and water me for the duration of my stay here in New York City, then bring me back home to be replanted. I want to go home, having had my fill of life in the big city! I want to get back to my roots! As it stands now, in six months, I’ll be a bunch of 2x4’s or toothpicks for Jimmy Carter, creating homes for Habitat for Humanity! Not that it is a bad thing,” said the tree quite flummoxed.

“I’m so sorry that you were misinformed,” I replied.

“This all started out so simply with a twenty-foot tree bought by the construction workers who built Rockefeller Center back in 1931, with homemade ornaments created by their families, and look at how involved and complicated it has become now,” said the tree!

“Yes, it has really branched out," I exclaimed trying to inject levity into the situation.

“Yes, indeed it certainly has,” said the tree.

“Well, I’m sorry but I must get going. I need to get to work on time,” I exclaimed.

When I started to pedal away, Dawn was rising in the east wiping the sleep from her eyes, her wisps of brilliant colored light encompassing the entire spectrum winding around the buildings and lighting the sky. As she grew in strength tossing her luminous locks, the electric lights on the tree faded in comparison, unable to compete with her magnificence. I pedaled on down Fifth Avenue to Lord & Taylor’s to see the wonderful mechanical animated windows and then southeast and off to work at N.Y.U.

 

Jim

Dec 2022

Battles He Won

 

The photograph is somewhat faded from its original bright colors. It’s almost sixty years old so it’s no wonder. The framed picture sits proudly on my mirrored vanity facing me as I write, paint and even zoom. That gorgeous five-year-old was a handful the day the photo was taken. He is seated on the rug in the living room in front of the fireplace clad in his high fashion Merry Mite (vintage today) striped corduroy overalls and white Peter Pan colored shirt. Perfect attire for the family photographs. Sam, our friend and professional photographer is arriving shortly, and our son Carl’s tantrums are mounting. The problem is our child refuses to remove the big red cowboy hat. Yes, it’s okay to be holding a pretend cigarette; yes, you can be holding your favorite storybook. The big red cowboy hat has to come off for the photos. Well, there’s the picture on my mirrored vanity; cowboy hat is on. What a battle preceded, “Say cheese, smile.” Carl is triumphantly seated; he won the battle. 

There’s no photo for another battle he won.

 I remember the shouting, the screaming, the tantrums, the delays. Oh well, we will be late again. Carl, our little five-year-old, was demanding his thing, “Even all around and equal to each other.” It would never be right. It could never be right. There was no such thing as right, except in his perception. Ben, my husband, tried. I tried. We both tried, again and again. It was also getting late and then later to get to Ben’s boss’s house for dinner. How could we resolve Carl’s demands when they were not based on any reality, mathematics or even esthetics? He had to have the cuffs on his dungaree’s folded up because they were too long. To avoid the expense of replacing his pants as he grew, they were a length he would grow into. Until that time, they had to be folded up and the cuffs had to be,” Even all around and equal to each other.” We never did satisfy this request and in retrospect, we probably got out of the house late by bribery or some other distraction or pacification. All of us the worse for wear and the cuffs as even all around and equal to each other as was humanly possible without the use of a ruler. 

Could it be that this difficult little boy was already thinking in mathematical terms which would lead to his MacArthur fellowship and his current work as a high energy physicist looking for top quarks? His first-grade teacher Mrs. Belle Simon (mother of Paul Simon of Simon and Garfunkel fame) got it right. At a parent-teacher conference, I told her Carl’s motor coordination was such that he couldn’t skip. She said, "Your little boy won’t have to skip in life. He’s going to fly."

Ethyl H.

Time travel

 

Yesterday my eldest daughter and I were tourists in our own town of NYC. We visited busy colorful Chinatown in Manhattan. Paper lanterns strung high above the street, fire escape to fire escape of pink, yellow, blue and red mingled with Christmas lights. We parked in an expensive garage because there is no parking on those very narrow streets especially with wood kiosks for the local restaurants taking up parking spaces in the street.  

We went to the shops with traditional Asian art, statues, fake jade necklaces and mala beads, swords, incense and wooden altars to the Buddha. Overpriced but beautiful none the less. Then off to the three blocks that is now Little Italy. Random people selling fake name brand purses and wallets get in your face quite aggressively to get your attention.  Tons of slow-moving traffic to and from the Manhattan Bridge.  

On the way we picked up unusual vegetables and fruits that we never saw before and don’t know their names.  

After a lot of shopping, stopping at the bakery and Chinese herbal store and picture taking we finally ended in a Cantonese restaurant. It is here that I was transported back to the third grade. 

In public school we went on many different class trips: museums, parks, zoos, aquarium and wonderful Chinatown. I was transported back in time and remembered sitting in a restaurant with my class as we were served chow mien that the teachers ordered for us.  

And there they were next to the forks and spoons: chopsticks. I was fascinated. At the risk of being laughed at and judged I asked for a demonstration on how to use them. The teachers did not know how to use them. The waiter graciously showed me how to hold them and pick up food.   

My third-grade fingers fumbled but I kept trying. I ate most of my lunch with those cheap wooden chopsticks and ended up with lots of rice on my shirt. I did not give up. I felt accomplished and quite satisfied with my new skill.  

Back to the Cantonese restaurant with my daughter, I still use chopsticks when eating Asian food. It feels traditional, it feels right and eating with chopsticks comes quite naturally for me. I always get compliments from my Asian acquaintances that I use chopsticks like I grew up with them. They don’t know it but I did grow up using chopsticks.  

I think back and I am so proud of that little girl who was so brave to try a new skill of eating with chopsticks.  I look at my adult self now and I am so lucky to be an expert chopstick user just like I grew up to use.  

 

Georgia