I did it!

by G. V. Umadevi

I lived in Columbia University buildings for four years. Students from all over the world who were attending Teachers' College and Columbia University lived in the same building. A friend of one of the Spanish students from Teachers' College took me to a place near a Spanish church to play Christmas songs for Spanish people who spoke no English. My friend spoke in English to me and translated into Spanish for them.

My friend left me alone with these non-English speaking people. So without knowing exactly what to do, I started playing Christmas songs on my harmonica and on my Indian instrument which I had brought with me. At once the whole group began singing the same songs in Spanish!!! I asked them some questions in English and received no answer. I began feeling nervous and a bit queasy. But because of the music I was able to cope. They asked me some questions in Spanish. I answered "si, si," and I managed, somehow, with great difficulty to say a few Spanish words. Then we all laughed and I left the place happy and proud. I did it! I made it happen!

I also went to a Seventh Day Adventist Church and played songs to the churchgoers there. They were very polite and respected me. Everybody spoke English. So no problem for me. Before I went to that church everyone at Teachers' College warned me "Do not wear your Indian dress. You'll get killed if you go there dressed like that." But I went wearing my sari. Again, I did it!

I did it!

By Roberta Horowitz

Before reaching the age of 12, I had almost drowned three times. The last episode required CPR to revive me. My father told my mother "we better give her swimming lessons or we'll lose her." So that summer I took lessons. I had a great time; I lived by the pool, socializing and of course, swimming. I certainly wasn't a good swimmer nor a strong swimmer, but I set a goal for myself -- eventually I wanted to swim one mile continuously -- that's 72 laps in an Olympic-sized pool.

I began with two laps, gasping for air I had to stop. Each day I tried to swim at least the same number of laps as I had the previous day and then add a lap or two. Day after day my stamina increased. My form improved as I changed my crawl stroke. I watched children taking lessons and made changes to make my arm movements more efficient. As I approached 22 laps I had to fight boredom. I would make lists in my mind. I worked hard to keep alert. Keeping track of which lap I was up to was difficult. Was that 22 or 24? My feet kicked automatically and my arms moved to their own rhythm. It was so relaxing I had to fight sleep. Periodically I felt like a fish, as if I could breathe in the water; it was scary. Stay focused, Roberta. Each lap added up until I reached 36, a half mile. I couldn't get past that point. Day after day I swam 36 laps but not more. I couldn't get beyond it. My neck was killing me. Turning my head with each arm stroke caused great pain but I had to do that in order to breathe.

Years passed. In Israel, I was swimming in a pool at Kibbutz Ramat Rachel in Jerusalem. The sun was shining, the water sparkled as I swam lap after lap. I felt as if I were on top up the water, just skimming across the surface. it was effortless. I reached 36 laps, then 37 and 38. Lap after lap came and went. I felt as if I could swim for ever. But I stopped at, yes, you guessed it 72 laps. I did it!

My Trip to Atlantic City

By G. V. Umadevi

On June 4 I went to Atlantic City with the Y. The journey was very pleasant. We left the Y. at 8 AM to the Washington Heights YM-YWHA. From there we changed to another bus and left at 9 AM. On the way I was unable to see the scenery due to foggy conditions. I was very chilly too. It took exactly 2 hours and 10 minutes to reach Atlantic City.

As soon as I arrived I was issued a Resorts Bus Bonus card to use in the casino. I won $91 using my Bus Bonus card. Afterward, I went outside the casino to eat something. To my amazed surprise I found thousands of seagulls very beautiful with red lips and black eyes flying all over the place and even on my head. They were demanding food with their awful voices and grabbing things from people's hands. They were constantly talking to each other and to us!! I loved those birds very much.

I enjoyed the beautiful scenery of the Atlantic Ocean from each and every floor of the big shopping mall. I also saw a huge carved elephant covered with colorful precious gems. It was very beautiful. It was in an Asian store. I also saw a lot of people driving others to assorted destinations. I enjoyed the boardwalk even though it was very cold and cloudy. I walked miles to see the different casinos. At 5:30 PM we left Atlantic City and reached the Nagle Ave. Y. at 7:30 PM. After dropping off the members there were reached our own Y safe and sound.

Painting Ability

by Rose Smeenk

My neighbor suggested that I join her to go to the Bronx Y for swimming in the pool. Of course this appealed to me and I found myself exploring the other activities offered there. The club president approached me to ask if I would be interested in going to the painting class. As I had never even lifted a paint brush before, I hesitantly decided to try it. In the class I was given all the materials necessary to get started. I learned about color combinations and how to applying the shades to create flowers, etc. Before long I discovered that I had an aptitude for painting and I was hooked. Since then I've been a steady student in the painting and drawing classes. I've many canvases stacked away as proof of my painting ability and can proudly claim that I have sold some of my creations. That was a lucky day when my neighbor brought me to the Bronx Y.


Color Influences

by Rose Smeenk

I was always attracted to bright colors. Drab shades depressed me and I particularly dreaded black. Black was funereal or associated by me with monsters like Dracula. When I owned my own house I had a garden in which I planted flowers that bloomed from early spring to late autumn. Just after the frost disappeared there were white snowdrops and crocuses of hues from pink to dark purple. There were tulips from bulbs that were sent to me from Holland that started early; short ones and later blooming tall Darwin; colors ranging from white and yellow, to vivid reds. There were rosebushes, marigolds, portulacas, snapdragons and zinnias. In autumn I planted asters, chrysanthemums, and a blue hydrangea. Neighbors in the apartment houses overlooking my yard would complement me on my lovely garden. I often go to the Botanical Gardens to enjoy their arrangements from colorful ground covering like creeping phlox to the blossoming trees. At the Bronx Y where I started painting, I indulged myself in applying bright colors to my canvases. It cheers me greatly that I have access to all the colors I desire for my pallet and enjoyment.

Thoughts on the Color Green

My eyes are green; and green is the color of money – which leads many people to greed! My mailman and I have a special conversation each day – “Well is my $100,000 here yet?” I ask. And his, so far, invariable answer is “Not yet.” We both laugh. I don’t hold my breathe about it. This is just our friendly way of communicating.
Florence Glucksman


Nowadays ‘green’ is the password for going back to nature. No more excessive use of gasoline – more hybrid motors. No more extravagant electrical devices, rather wind power or solar fuel. No more chemically-processed food, but food grown naturally on organic farms. ‘Green’ means going back to nature.
Rose Smeenk


Lush, tender spring leaves reflect the afternoon light. They are welcomed and welcoming. This vibrating shade of green only graces our world for two or three weeks each year. Perhaps the fresh and innocent pallor approximates the new and open nature of a baby’s heart.
Ira Stulbaum

How we resemble our parents

MY FATHER AND ME

Ira Stulbaum

I just realized, that the day I’m reading this, would have been my father’s 9O birthday. We are similar in outward, rather superficial ways. We both have a sense of humor and a modicum of intelligence. We each can string a few words together into a coherent sentence.

He was at times, too many times, a rage-full individual. His immense, often uncontainable anger was vented at everything from the powers that be, to his own flesh and blood. He took a perverse pride in calling himself, “The Last Angry Man!” The source of this overflowing river of angst and fury is a mystery to me. I have inquired in this line, of his brother, my uncle, and have not yet received a response. Ironically, I too have often vibrated with anger, sometimes humongously out of proportion to any precipitating event. The difference, and it is an enormous difference, is that my anger was passed down from him. It is an inheritance I could do without. It is a gift unasked for. My anger is a direct result of being an unwitting victim of his rage. It is as if I’ve received an elaborate, expensive package from United Parcel, with no return address. There is no one to send it back to. So I have learned to live with this tarnished inheritance. Through hard work, an IRON WILL, and a congenitally soft heart, the devastating affects of this spoiled gift have waned somewhat over the decades. Like the pain of a sharp, jagged shard of glass slowly being pulled from my eye.

Now I set out to forge a new existence for myself, as free as possible of the cuts of the dull rusty sword from an out of control father. I will never live the life I would have, could have lived, if it were not for this legacy of lunacy. My plan is simply to put one foot in front of the other, and seek a more sanguine, gentle path, lined with hope and the glories of love.

__________________


Similarities with my mother

G.V. Umadevi

People who saw me with my mother used to say that I resemble my mother. My mother was a delicate, loving and affectionate person, always kind and loving to people she met.

I acquired those qualities – loving, kindness and generotity – from her.

But if I don’t like someone, I never even talk to them; I just walk away.

When unwanted guests arrive without prior notice, I put up with them and stay calm due to my mother’s patience. I have to tolerate them whether I like it or not!!!

As far as music is concerned, I always cooperated very well with my Mom while she was singing and playing the harmonium and I find similarity with my mother.
Good qualities I inherited from my mother and bad qualities in me are my own.


_________________________


Mama and I

Norma Crown

I have many of my mother’s qualities, although hers were taken to the nth degree. She was larger than life.

She was president of every organization to which she belonged, never afraid to take on additional responsibilities. I, too, enjoyed this challenge while serving as president of the Pitman Teachers Association and the Business Education Association.

She loved to read as I do, and told me she read classics to me while I lay listening in her womb to wonderful tales. I guess that’s why I never bothered reading War and Peace. I already knew the plot.

She was a natural swimmer. During summers my family rented rooms in an apartment in Brighton Beach, providing us with daily access to the ocean. Swimming is my only and favorite sport.

She loved to eat and so do I. Hence our life-long struggle with diet. We both ended up with diabetes which ran in her family.

She loved school and when she was a child she pretended to hold class with her younger siblings. I, in turn, became a teacher.

I resemble my mother in appearance and wrote, “Reflecting on Mama,” (copy below).

My mother loved movies and the theater. I still remember asking her to read me the titles of silent films. She took me to my first play, “Sailors Beware,” when I was about ten. I am a member of the Lincoln Center Theater,

She took life in stride and despite losses and disappointments, never whined. I try to present a positive front as well.

She always found something interesting to do and didn’t hesitate to travel on the subway at night to get there. I used to call her at 10 pm every night just to make sure she was safe. I, too, keep busy with many activities although I haven’t been in the subway for years. There’s nothing like the express bus or access-a-ride to get to a destination.
She never felt she was too old to try something new. At 65 she learned to drive and bought a big black Bonneville car. At 65 1 completed the doctoral program at Fordham University.

My mother lived to 90 years of age, and I hope to follow in her suit.


Reflecting on Mama

Norma Crown
.

When I look into the minor,
I can see my mother’s face--
Blue crinkly eyes, an upturned nose,
Hair flying out of place.

I hear her voice within me
filled with courage and with cheer.
I listen to her message
Unequivocal and clear.

“Despite the games that fools may play
To suck you into sand.
Dig your toes into the turf, dear,
And take a solid stand.”

“You may lose face, and place, and dough
Don’t let it get you down.
I will always love you honey,
Though I may not be around”

“How come you’re optimistic?”
Friends ask me frequently.
Need I really tell them
Mama’s spirit set me free?

So, seeing her face in my minor,
Gives me quite a lift.
I react to ‘our’ reflection
with a smile upon my lip.



_________________________________

Similarities to my parents

Rose Smeenk

I do not see any physical resemblance to my parents. However, I’m lucky in enjoying their longevity. My mother lived to the age of 89 and my father to 91. Both were slim and I’m keeping my figure also. Although neither of them had diabetes, I ended up with this disease, as did both of my brothers. My parents never suffered from arthritis which I have now. However, I have ingrained their manner of living. They lived very frugally and I can’t be a spendthrift. I shop for only the necessities and would feel guilty going overboard on luxuries; although I feel that I lack for nothing. My mother was housebound by choice, never going out socially or hob-nobbing with the neighbors. My father was the opposite, having quite an interest in community activities. Like my father, I enjoy my daily sojourns to the senior centers. My father was an architectural draftsman, so maybe my interest in art is an outgrowth of his abilities. I love to draw and paint.

In my family [of birth] there was never much showing of physical affection, but in my marriage and daily routines we frequently hugged and kissed each other. I can’t recall other similarities, perhaps because of the dysfunctional family atmosphere resulting from my parents’ incompatibility.



Inherited Traits

Rose Smeenk

Mother skimped and saved
Denied her own comfort for family;
Hand sewed yards of muslin to make sheets,
Cut down larger clothes for hand-me-downs;
Boiled the clothes and hand-scrubbed them
On laundry day – ironing the linens,
Stretching curtains on wooden frames.

Frugally, she used organ meats for potato soups,
Baked her own breads and pastry each Friday.
Her children were her idols for whom
She sacrificed herself and prayed earnestly
That life would be kind to them in every way.
When we ere grown and tried to show
That we too could pamper her, she protested,
Overwhelmed by luxurious gifts, yet
Proud that we could be generous.

I find I’ve inherited these tendencies,
Tempered only by the independence I gained.
As a wife I could stretch a hard-earned dollar,
at that I became an apt scholar – sewing
pillowcases cut from worn-out sheets,
patches for shirt elbows and pants’ knees,
pot holders from old dish towels,
converted dresses into gamps or skirts.

Left-over juices from cooked vegetables,
Were added to make my savory soups
And meat trimmed from bones went into casseroles.
Tofu now stretches healthful stir-fry meals
And pasta primavera is a catch-all culinary dish.

When my 12-year-old son asked for a bike
I bid at an auction to get one he liked.
To this day I can’t be a spend-thrift,
From Mom I inherited this trait.

_________________________________


The Children in China

Roberta Horowitz

“Finish what’s on your plate. The children in China are starving.” Not meaning to be chutzpedic I responded without hesitation, “Send it to them. I’m full.” Then I had my head handed to me regarding the proper way to speak, respect for parents, and, of course, ending with “Now finish what’s on your plate.”

I used to beg for less food. For dinner I was given the mandatory balanced meal – a vegetable, a starch, and a protein. The protein was consistent for each day of the week: chicken or a roast on Friday and Saturday, deli on Sunday, Monday was steak, Tuesday – hamburgers, Wednesday was fish and Thursday lamb chops or veal. I remember well a particular Tuesday. I was a little, bitty thing and my plate overflowed with peas, potatoes and two hamburgers. After I ate my fill, I viewed with dismay my still half full plate. With reminders of children in China, still in my mind, I asked ever so politely to be given only one hamburger instead of two. After a moment of thought, my mother agreed. I was jubilant. I looked forward to the next Tuesday. With my mouth watering in anticipation, I looked forward to a meal without the mention of a foreign country. My plate arrived. Next to the obligatory vegetables and starch was one hamburger. But the hamburger was huge. My mother had taken the meat of two hamburgers and formed one colossal creation. My heart sank. China was not far away.

I learned how my mother became who she was when my brothers and I were visiting my grandparents, allowing my father to take my mother away for a month long rest. Approaching the kitchen table on the first morning, a bowl of cheerios was awaiting me. My grandmother added milk and commanded “Eat your breakfast.”

I informed her that I never eat cheerios.

“Eat,” she said. “And don’t leave the table until you’re finished. The children in …” You know the rest. She never asked me what I would have preferred. Each morning cheerios awaited me and I sat at the table looking at the bowl until noon when my grandmother would move the soggy mess and announce that it was time for lunch.

I vowed to never give too much food to my children. I serve family-style, allowing everyone to take as much or as little from a variety of choices. I also vowed to never speak about China at the dining room table.

Thoughts on Birthdays and Time


______________________________________________________________________________

I was born two months premature, on the eve of Passover. At that time incubators were not common. The only one in the area was at Coney Island and that mostly for curiosity seekers to look at. So, to keep me warm, my parents had to make do with two soda cases and hot water bottles between them. They told me that they fed me with a doll’s bottle and nipple. They wrapped me in cotton batting and many blankets. I survived and expect to again celebrate my April birthday here at the “Y”.

Rose Smeenk

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My birthday represents the passing of another year. Hopefully the day will be flecked with joy and warmth, infused with smiles and serious words from those I love. Beyond those important and fundamental reflective ponds, the numeric count feels as insignificant as dandelion fluff in a hurricane. Surely I’m not fifty-five. My insides feel like a carefully concocted amalgam of six, twenty-seven and ninety-four. I am all of these ages singing together in a harmonious chorus of love and exploration.

Ira Stulbaum


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I grew up in a fun-filled house full of people and also absolutely filled with love. There were seven of us -- three girls, two boys and our parents -- and the commotion was endless. We ran up and down the stairs, we called for my mother at every turn. I don’t know how she kept her sanity. But, she was expected to be the savior of us all, to never lose her temper, to answer every question, to feed us delicious meals and to never, not ever, get sick. If mother got sick the house would fall apart. My dad was the main breadwinner and, we thought he ruled the house but looking back, my mother did the ruling, but quietly. My dad’s voice was enough to shake the earth. Our dog bowed his head and slunk away when he saw my dad coming. Other than my dad, the dog paid attention to no one. As kids we laughed, we joked, we fought, and we borrowed each other’s clothes (sisters that is). We complained about each other to my mother, always hoping she’d take sides. Frequently she ignored us, knowing that soon the fight would be over and we would be back playing with each other. At the dinner table when my dad was present we were angels, when only my mom was there all hell broke loose -- so to speak.

We made up games when we were tired of playing the ones we had. Secretly, we fed the neighborhood cats; at night they would claw at our door. Our parents wondered why they were always hanging around. During the summer we did not attend camp. We did not even know camp existed. I suspect my parents didn’t either.

When our parents were at work we had strict instructions to never open the door to anyone and to stay inside till they returned. We were also not allowed to watch TV while they were not at home. We agreed and vowed to do their bidding. As soon as they left, the TV would go on and the door would open and we were out with whoever was beckoning us to come and play. I remember once while we were outside we saw the meter-man approaching. We ran inside and locked the door to pretend no one was home. Our friends called out to us “The meter-man is here! The meter-man is here open the door!” Of course we did not open the door but after he left we scolded our friends for letting the meter-man know we were home.

As the years went by, one by one we left our cozy little home-nest. We ended up long distances away from each other, too busy to look back. We only knew about each other’s lives by calling home. Home was headquarters; if we wanted to find out about each other we called home. Years hurried by, our parents became grand parents and then our kids grew up. Looking back I wonder did we have no time or did we just not take the time to say hello. Now, we wonder where the time went. I feel as though I simply turned a page in a book and we are older. Now we appreciate each other more, especially since our parents--whom we thought were immortal--are gone. We realize that time on earth is short.

Jennifer Egyes

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FAREWELL PRECIOUS STONES AND LEGACY

As people get older, they begin to distribute items that are important to them. Such was the case when my mother was about 81 years old. I did not realize she was giving things to each of my siblings. When I went to visit her in Connecticut one weekend, she presented me with a beautiful 6-stone 18 carat ring. Each stone represented the birthstone of my siblings. Although, it was slightly big for my finger, I was so proud I wanted to wear it immediately. I planned to have the ring cut to my finger size the following week when I had some free time to go to the jeweler.
One afternoon at work I went to the ladies room. The metal stopper was missing from the sink. I was afraid that with soap on my hands, the ring might slip off my finger and down the drain, so I took the ring off and placed it on the side. I forgot the ring in the ladies room. When I opened the door to my office, I realized I did not have the ring on. I rushed back. It was GONE.
I put a notice in the ladies room asking for the return of the ring, for it was of sentimental value and a reward would be given. The ring was never returned. I never told my mother I lost her ring and a part of our family legacy. It saddened me deeply for it meant a great deal to my mother and me.

Alicia Villafane

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Adios My Loss

Some things that are meaningful to us our family may not consider important. Such was my Farberware coffee pot, which was left at the doorstep with the trash at a rented cottage when we were vacationing in upstate New York. I did not realize it was missing until I was unpacking at home. This coffee pot was given to me for my 40th birthday by my in-laws, along with a cake with 40 candles (that would not blow out). It was such a wonderful surprise when they arrived with the cake, and they knew I needed a coffee pot for my other one had recently broken.
Each decade is a milestone, and my 40th birthday was certainly that for me. The small private party meant a great deal to me; I had never had a surprise birthday party. For that same birthday, my mother and sister sent me 2 dozen long stem roses which were so beautiful and elegant. Later in the day came the cake and the coffee pot.

My husband did not understand my feelings about the pot. “I’m sorry I left the pot at the cottage,” he apologized. “I’ll get you another one. It’s no big deal.”
He missed the point. Every time I make coffee I think of that wonderful magical moment of the candles that would not blow out and I smile, and the coffee pot that reminded me of a milestone in my life -- turning forty.

Alicia Villafane

Clothing

by G. V. Umadevi

Clothing is the first sign of civilization. Our Indian way of clothing oneself is unique. I would like to give you a short description of Indian dressing. Women have worn saris for over 5,000 years.

Girls up to the age of twelve wear long skirts, down to the feet and a blouse or frock, which is called a dress in the United States. When they come of age, girls wear a half sari (about 2 ½ yards of material) over their skirts, which cover their upper body. After marriage they wear a full sari.

A sari is 6 to 9 yards of cotton, silk or tree bark woven by hand loom or power loom. On the hand loom the weaving takes 4 to 6 months. Cotton saris are worn for daily use. Silk saris are worn during marriages and other festive occasions. One corner of the sari, called a palloo, goes over the shoulder and flows down the back. Beautiful Indian designs decorate the palloos. Some saris have borders woven with gold and silver threads. Silk saris are made from silk worms or synthetic spun silk. In the north, the cities of Arni and Kancheepuram –in the state of Chennai -- are famous for silk saris. Kashmir is famous not only for woolen clothes but for silk also.

The sari, worn in different styles all over India, is the identity of a woman. One can identify a woman from her way of wrapping it: what state she comes from, her language, her culture, festivals, etc. No one has to ask any questions.

In the upper north, women in saris cover their heads unlike the southerners. The reason for this: for thousands of years foreigners invaded our country. Islam entered our land through the Khyber Pass in the 7th century and they ruled us up to the 17th century, until the British Invasion. During the early Muslim period, girls were abducted, raped and forced into marriages. To attempt to protect their wives and daughters, men adapted the system of covering the faces and heads of their wives and daughters.

Women swim, go on bicycles, play tennis, volleyball, etc. wearing saris. Now it is changing and women have started aping the West. Today men and women dress alike – wearing salwars (similar to pants) and kameez (long shirt) and covering their head with a dupatta (scarf). Today not all women wear a dupatta.

Boys wear short pants up to the knee, called knickers and shirts. All over India men wear pants, shirts and suits just as in the West. But at home, after work, they switch to Indian dressing -- a 2/3 yard long piece of cloth with a silver or gold border called dhoti. In the North, men wear a pyjama (which means py – leg and jama – dress) and long shirts called jubba.

My Many Blessings

Ira Stulbaum

My effervescent blessings dance around me like fine particles, suspended in air and illuminated by sunlight. They flow in and out of me like vapors of God’s grace. So prodigious as to overwhelm the grains of sand that call the Sinai home. As deep and rich as the sensual topsoil of the Mississippi delta, their gracious contours can cause a Stradivarius to blush. They are mundane and magnificent.

My connection to and daily conversations with the Almighty top my list, the deep love I feel toward and the intense joy I derive from interacting with others of my species and a few who are not. The sun reaching out and caressing my face from a mere 93 million miles away. The cloudless sky screaming out in perfect blueness. The laugh of a child, particularly one I elicited. The gentle gaze and freely offered smile of the stranger. To feel in complete synchronicity with another so that unspoken understanding makes words superfluous. The first bite of a brownie. The courage to take a chance on love. The courage to act when love has booked one-way passage on the 5:13 out of Penn Station. The courage to take the next step, any step, when the path is shrouded in shadow and foreboding.

Saying goodbye to my son as he left for Iraq made me think of my mother, as my brother left for Vietnam, over 30 years ago. At the time I gave her no thought. I smiled at my brother, as he was getting ready to board the plane. Those were the days when we were allowed to watch our loved ones board planes. He looked so handsome in his Air Force uniform, which I can still visualize like a photograph in my memory. I felt so sad to see him go and I can still see the touch of sadness on his face as he turned to look at me, probably thinking, “where the heck am I going and what am I doing?” I don’t remember even noticing my mother. Was she there? I have no recollection. My brother was all but 17 or 18, which at the time seemed very grown up but now, as I look at the 18- and 19-year-old faces of the men in Iraq they look so young, so innocent and baby faced. Was that how my brother looked? Of course, but I did not notice, as I like them, was young and baby faced.

I hugged my son at the airport and felt a mix of emotions. I was proud that he had been able to learn Arabic {Gulf Arabic and Syrian Arabic) well enough to pass the exams necessary to be hired by Global Linguists Solutions’ Operation Iraqi Freedom. Proud, but sad, scared and maybe a bit happy that he had work in this dismal economy. Eric is just 24, old enough to understand the circumstances into which he was entering. My brother was hardly out of high school, only in the Air Force maybe six months, not much more when they decided Vietnam was his destination. An excellent athlete, he had received a college scholarship to run track, but my Dad, being an immigrant, did not know that my brother could get a deferment; and to avoid the draft he told my brother to join the Air Force hoping he would have a better choice than if he was drafted.

My son’s departure was voluntary. He had already lived in Syria for two years, read many books about the Middle East, knew the culture, the language and had a degree in International Politics from Penn State University. He wanted to go. That alleviated some of my anxiety; but what alleviated my mother’s anxiety when my brother left? Unfortunately, my parents are both gone; I will never know. But I do know that like myself today, she secretly scanned the news each day and waited each day for that letter as I wait for that phone call or an email. I did not even think to ask my mother how she felt when he said goodbye to her or how she felt everyday that he was in Vietnam. I suspect her heart was in her hand; she must have cried many nights. I vaguely recall her writing him reminding him to brush his teeth. I have said goodbye to many persons and places in my life. Nothing is like saying goodbye to your child heading off to a war zone.

Goodbye could be happy as people march off to bigger and better things. I have had some of those, but goodbye to my son leaving for Iraq left me with a feeling of uncertainty, which I tried to hide from him as he left.

My brother was never the same. I hardly recognized him at the airport when he returned from Vietnam. We waited days for a letter, now I receive an email or a cell phone call immediately. Did that make my goodbye easier than my mother’s goodbye? I will never know; my last goodbye to my mother was forever.

Jennifer Eyges

Picture This

Ray Levine

When I was about three or four years old, a traveling street photographer took a picture of me sitting on a pony in front of a ship that sold men’s shirt collars. There I still am, 90 years later, perched on the pony, biting my lip but still looking pleased and perhaps even proud, with a big bow in my hair and my feet clad in high, laced shoes. Where the pony’s head should be, there is only a blur, as the animal chose to turn away from the camera when its master pressed the shutter.
That photo is the only one I have of myself as a child. I have no pictures at all of my father, who died in 1927, the year I turned 14. I remember someone taking a picture of him once, but I have never been able to find where that photo is, if it exists at all. It is possible that I am the only person left in the world who has an image of my father’s face as a memory.
Beginning in the 1930s, after I got married, I found myself being photographed often; my husband liked to take pictures and record our activities and those of our relatives and friends. (He recorded our incomes and expenses, too, in detailed accounts that tracked every penny that entered or exited the house. You’ll find a record in one of our budget books of the dime he once found in the coin return of a public phone.)
My husband and I placed all our photos in albums. Years after my husband passed away, I removed many of them and mounted them in collage fashion in big frames, so I could see them on my walls every day. I have a half dozen such photo collages in my apartment, and more photos displayed everywhere, on flat surfaces in the foyer, living room and bedroom and in the kitchen too --- there, I have another photo collage and framed snapshots on the counter as well. While I eat, I gaze at many family members and friends who are no longer alive, as well as the many adults and children in the families of my two daughters. I look into their eyes, and they look into mine. In that way, all of them are always with me.
When my daughters and their children and their children’s children come to my apartment, they sometimes pause in front of one photo or another and wonder, “Did I really wear my hair that way as a teenager?” or “Is that really my mother?” or “Who is that handsome man with you, Bubby?” I can give them short answers, but each photo has a story, sometimes a long one… a little chapter in the many chaptered story of my life.

Borscht Belt Memories -- the Senior Center recently collected our members memories of Catskills vacations. Below are some of them, there may be more to follow.

Berry-picking, Swimming and Hypnosis
Rose Smeenk

The first time I went up to the Catskills was with my family to a koch-a-line. Our belongings were packed on to a neighbor’s old car and we traveled to a farm house where we had one room and shared a community kitchen. It was so crowded in the room that one night I escaped to a hammock and created a scare for my family, until my brother found me and dumped me unceremoniously on the ground. We went berry-picking, swimming in a small near by river and created our own entertainment at night, such as camp fires, funny dress-ups and sing-alongs.

The second time was when my father and uncle had a ‘Society’ weekend. This time it was fancy, at the Nevele Hotel. I remember the lavish food spread at breakfast and the huge meals at lunch and dinner. One evening the entertainer was a hypnotist. He chose me, my uncle and several others to go on stage. I was told that I gave an extravagant rendition of Mae West, sexily thrusting my 18-year-old body as I strutted around the stage. When I awoke, still on stage, I saw my uncle, still hypnotized, sucking his thumb and lisping a rhyme in his native Russian. It was fascinating how each performer was under the hypnotist’s power.

The third time was when my girlfriend and I went up for our two week vacation. We extended our wardrobes by borrowing each other’s clothing and jewelry. Most of the young folks spent their time at swimming pool, girls showing off their two piece bathing suits (not quite bikinis) and flirting with the opposite sex. We danced ‘til midnight and slept late in the mornings. Occasionally we played tennis, when we could get a court. We could also get bicycles to ride. The most important thing was the success we had by actually having dates in the city with the young men we met at the hotel. However these relationships were not long-lasting because so many of the young men had to enlist or were drafted for the service.

The last time I was at the Nevele was with my bride groom, a Sea Bea, on leave for the week. We were planning on spending the weekend there but when he showed up dressed in his sailor uniform, the registrar said that they honor servicemen by giving them two free days. This was heaven for us and, we took full advantage of all the facilities.

We were never able to get back there, with his being in Okinawa. After his safe return we needed to find a place to live and jobs. We no longer could afford a vacation in the Catskills.

Dancing in the Evening was My Only Sport
Judith Dower

European refugees went to certain hotels. These were very nice and we had lots of fun. As well as having a good time, most of us met our husbands there. In the evening there were dances, sports during the day and good meals always; everybody ate an awful lot. One year a gentleman whom I knew but was not close with called me and said he would like to come up for the weekend to a hotel at which I was staying. From then on that was it. The hotel was the Takenasi. It was a big place, not one of the best ones, but always full of young people. One year after that weekend, we got married. It was a June wedding.

The ballroom dancing in the evening was wonderful. I learned how to dance from my older brother. He took dancing lessons and I was his practice partner. The hotel had a big swimming pool, golf, tennis and lots of other activities; dancing in the evening was my only sport.

After I got married, I still went up to the mountains, with my little boy. We took a room in a house with my aunt – she did the cooking; she was an excellent cook. My cousin came too – the whole mischpocha. I stayed during the week and my husband came up for the weekends. A lot of people stayed in the same house. Mostly women during the week and then the husbands appeared on the weekends.

Judith Dower

Better than the Beach

Ed Bronstein

When I was a youngster the place to go was the Catskills. My family rented a bungalow in South Fallsberg for two months. I was all of 11 or 12, my brother was 7 or 8 and my sister was three years old. We enjoyed the complete change from the Bronx. We picked blueberries, played cowboys and Indians in the woods and in the evenings listened to the bands in the casino.

In the mornings we would go outside and play on the swings and seesaws, etc. When my father came up on the weekends he would take us to visit historic sights which the Catskills were full of. Later in life, the organization I belonged to had conventions in all the Catskills hotels. The best comics in the world entertained me and I could even dance to the music when the bland played. I always enjoyed the Catskills better than the beach in Atlantic City or anyplace else. We had talent nights, bingo and card games, etc. It was quite an experience.

This Trip

Sylvia Goldberg

I met Stanley at the Tamarack Hotel in the summer. It was a very pretty place; they took care of it beautifully. The Tamarack was set up more like a motel – you just drove right up to your rooms. They had bungalows too. There were all sorts of outdoor activities – tennis, shuffleboard, ping pong – and a lot of other things happening on the premises. There was a pool. The hotel had an entire program with meals, dancing and entertainment. The food was delicious. There was always too much to eat and always a lot of choices at every meal. We had a great time. I miss going to those great hotels.

This trip – when I met Stanley -- dates back some time ago. I went with my friends on a Y trip. Stanley came over to me at a dance. He’s as good a dancer as I am. We seemed to click with our conversation and just melded into a nice long relationship – more than 10 years ago….maybe 15 years ago. I didn’t know I was going to meet someone but you never know. You hope for the best. We’re still going together. The rest is history.

He Wanted Someone to Talk to

Judy Simon

I went to the Catskills with a Riverdale Senior Center group. The hotel was called the Nevele. I remember Irving M. stopping me when I passed his table. He said he wanted someone to talk to. I sat down next to him. I couldn’t get a word in. He talked nonstop, as usual all about himself. He is dead now and we all miss his ego-centric presence.

I’ve been coming to the Simon Senior Center so many years. So many people have left for Florida, died or moved to be with their children. Life goes on! New people join us.

Catskills Honeymoon

Stan Yeamans

On my honeymoon with my first wife, we stayed at the Nevele Hotel in the Catskills, in December, 1947. This was the place to go. We drove up on the Quick Way – which was Route 17. Even though there was snow all over, the roads were clear. The snow was deep and to my amazement, we could walk on top of it without sinking in. I took my wife on a sled for the first time in her life. I was used to belly-whopping – where you go running, fall onto the sled while it’s already moving and careen down a hill, the steeper the better. With her I went down a gentle slope; I remember that we passed by the kitchen. She loved the ride!

Kochalaine Chaos

Sam(Sholom)Kimberg

My family spent many summers in the Borscht Belt – specifically at Schienman’s Cottages in Kerhonkson. Our Model T Ford survived countless trips on Route 17 to the mountains. Our (and thousands of others’) favorite place for a relaxing break was the “Red Apple Rest.” We bucked the crowds from the buses, private cabs, and cars to push our way in to buy a hot dog ($.10), a jelly apple ($.15) Charlotte Ruse ($.10), ice cream ($.10), a shtickle Nestle Chocolate ($.02), a pretzel stick ($.01), and coke ($.05). On Route 17 we passed billboards advertising the big hotels – the Concord, Flagler, Grossingers, Nevele, Fairmount, Brickmans and also touting the entertainment stars – Jackie Mason, Milton Berle, Danny Kaye, Red Buttons, Sammy Davis Jr., Eddie Cantor, Sid Caeser and more. Occasional other billboards advertised camping grounds and camps.

At our bungalow colony, the welcoming committee was my younger brother’s family and our friends, the Reiss family. We then all became busboys and schlepped our belongings to our room. We were a close family – especially in this one room accommodation.

The community kitchen was lined with refrigerators – each door had a label with a name. Here is where most of the arguments occurred.
“You used my milk!” “Who is the mamzer that took my bar of chocolate?” “I’m missing a tomato.” Etc. Most disturbing to me was the mothers walking with utensils in one hand and a food plate in the other. I was always afraid a kid would run into a knife.

The activities included making bonfires and once there toasting marshmallows, putting mickies (potatoes) in the fire, sticking hot dogs on branches and roasting them, singing and talking about the people who were not sitting around the fire. Blueberry picking and apple picking were also popular. My mother was a top apple picker. At times we went to the movies in Ellenville.

As a teenager, one of our shticks was to crash the hotels and dance with the guests. They must have wondered where we disappeared to.

We used a nearby river for swimming. It was a pleasure to hear the mothers’ spilling the cold water on themselves and shouting -- a machaye – a pleasure. We were surrounded by trees and shrubbery, all kinds of birds overhead, deer, wild turkey and, unfortunately, skunks. What else could we ask for?

Some of the main events in my 88 years (kaneinehora) are my birth at 1628 Washington Ave., my schooling at PS 23, PS 51, Morris High School and City College; my Bar Mitzvah at the Prospect Mansion, my summers in the Borscht Belt, my marriage in the Burnside Manor, my 4 years in the army, our wonderful children and grandchildren, and enjoying our second home at the Riverdale Y’s Simon Senior Center.

When I imagine God I just see a multitude of colors like a rainbow --– when we get there we’re going to see all the colors that he is.

Toby Boisseau

Winter Nights

The wind is soaring
with a swishing sound,
Batches of snow lie on the ground,
Naked trees dressed
in white, resemble ghosts
in the cold winter night.
The glittering moon
sheds its light
Around
Over the snowy
hills
and frozen ponds.

Helen Zuberman

April 2, 2006, 85th Birthday

In Memoriam – this poem was written by Senior Center member Charlotte Friedman, a rare and beautiful person, who left this world on November 25, 2006


Now I am five and eighty
You’d think I’d be quite wise
You’d think I’d learned a thing or two
Like how to organize
my stuff.
But something’s always interfering
With what I plan to do
I make a list that’s six feet long
And accomplish only two,
tasks, that is.
My lists are full of promise
Each job will be complete
The phone will ring
Oh…I’ve got time
I’ll make a pile that’s neat,
or two, or three.
Each list has the same old line
See Yesterday – it’s in bold type
Or sometimes – see Previous
So full of hope -- I have no gripe
Compulsion, never a part of me
To get things done, to hurry
To force myself to finish a task
No part of this personality
Better late than never
My mother always said.
I took the first two words to heart
And there they stayed, innate, inbred.

Now let me think a little bit
Of times gone by and still to come
How loved ones I have many
Who keep me from getting glum,
The family who surrounds me
and makes my life complete,
So what if I have piles of stuff
Divesting’s an enormous feat.

Now I am five and eighty
I’ve sown a long, long row
Hoed up and back and sideways
Hope more a row to sow.
Experiences: many
Shocked at times
At times of death scared
Mistakes enough for two lives
Accept all. Do not be sad.
Now I am five and eighty
Still thrill to sunset’s glow
No longer look for meaning
Just live and love and sow.

Piece of Clothing

Ed Bronstein



My first suit was bought for me by my mother – I was only seven or eight years old -- we were going to a wedding. My mother’s friend was getting married. I hated wearing a suit, tie and all the other mishagas!! It was so constricting!! I could hardly move! I lasted through the whole affair. But, when I got home I tore off my clothes and was elated to be rid of that suit. For the next affair that suit was passed on to my brother (he was five years younger than me). This time I wore a better constructed suit which was much less constricting.

Daddy

Norma Crown


I have written many bits and pieces about my mother, but for some unexamined reason, I have neglected to do the same for my father. Was it because he remained a shadowy figure, dead from a heart attack sixty-four years ago, or was it that my mother’s vibrant personality smothered my father’s unassuming nature and left me with vague memories of him?

He was born in 1885 in Yamnick, a little town in Russia too small to be located on any map of the area. He had three siblings, a brother, Dave, and two sisters, Esther and Miral. His mother died after the birth of her fourth child, and within a short period of time his father remarried producing another family unknown to me. The second group disappeared into history. My father never discussed them but named his first daughter Ethel after his mother Yentel.

He and his brother were apprenticed to tailors learning a craft they would follow for the rest of their lives. At the age of sixteen, to avoid eventual conscription into the Russian army, my father and Dave, almost eighteen, set off for America, arriving at Ellis Island in 1901. They immediately left New York for New Orleans having been invited to join cousins who had arrived earlier in the United States. They opened a custom-tailoring business which prospered and remained in New Orleans for about ten years.

My father never discussed his life there, but I know what he and Uncle Dave looked like at that time from a sepia-colored photograph in which they were dapperly dressed in three-piece suits. My father was 5’ 6’ in height but he looked taller since he held himself erect and was topped off with a straw hat set at a jaunty angle.

There are so many missing pieces to my father’s story that can never be unearthed. I have no idea why he never served in the armed forces during World War I. I never asked, and he never told. He met my nineteen year old mother through friends, wooed her for a year, and they were married on December 25, 1918.

In the next photograph in my possession, still very dapper he is standing next to my mother and my sister, Ethel. My mother had been born here and was a real Yankee in his eyes. He and she were not really compatible. Why she married someone fourteen years her senior was a mystery to me. There were vague rumors of how she had waited for a soldier to return to her after World War I and because he didn’t visit her on the first day of his return, she threw him over. I think she became involved with my father to spite the soldier. Do you see how my mother creeps into the story of my father? If I am not careful, she will take over the whole plot.

I need no photographs to remember my going hand in hand with him to Crotona Park on Sundays to watch soccer games. As a little girl of about five or six, I felt so proud and safe with my dad who called me his sweet patootie.

My father was not around much as I grew up since he worked six days a week as a custom-tailor, leaving before I went to school and arriving home at about nine o’clock. On his day off, he liked to read the Forward and listen to classical music and the news on the radio--our beloved Stromberg Carlson. I am sorry to say that I was ashamed of his Russian accent.

In 1931 while jay walking, my father was hit by a car, suffered massive injuries and was home bound for many months. At this point my mother found a job and we became a two-income family. I think between them they made about $35 a week.

I can’t remember any conversations with my father. He was a quiet man, but I knew he loved us and was proud of us. He had his first heart attack in 1935 and as a result we moved from the Bronx to Manhattan to be near his store. He died a week after his second attack in 1941 changing the course of my life.

Despite this attempt, my father still remains that shadowy figure, beloved but vague in my memory.

My father was my mentor

by Florence Glucksman

My father was my mentor and I was his favorite. He worked very hard at the Bronx Terminal Market where he went out on a truck to deliver food to stores.
On Friday, we sat around waiting for him to come home, take a shower and go to synagogue. Then we had our Friday night meal with Zmirot (Hebrew songs). We all went to services Saturday. My father loved learning and would study with the rabbi. My father died suddenly at 56, I was about 18. When the hearse passed the shul, the doors were opened – a special honor, not done for many people. For a long time after that I could not walk into the shul. My sister asked the rabbi to talk to me. He didn’t. I was devastated. Eventually I returned to the shul, but to this day -- because I was very angry that my father had died -- I do not go to slichos, the service that starts the High Holidays.

When my father

by Ray Levine

When my father arrived from Russia he was single and lived in a room in a friend’s house on the east side. He worked a few jobs, mostly indoors, and looked for work out-of-doors. An employment agency told him that although he was not a carpenter, he could work on a trial basis for a month on half pay, as a carpenter’s assistant at a building in Manhattan. He was very adept and proved his skill with the trade’s tools and was hired to hammer panels into place. He was promoted to work on the long, heavy beams. Just after the promotion, he joined the carpenters’ union. That was one of the smartest things he ever did. At work, soon after, he fell from a beam all the way down to the first floor. He broke his shoulder and couldn’t work anymore. Thanks to his union membership he received compensation that was supplemented by checks from the Welfare Department.

My Father

by Alicia Villafane

My father was a merchant marine,
He traveled the seven seas,
Saw countries all over the world,
Italy, Spain, France, Israel, England,
Egypt and more.

My father was a chef,
Cooked meals that were extraordinary,
The smell of the food
Made your palettes moist,
Until we sat for the meal.

When I think of my father
I think of special occasions,
He was our hero for serving us
meals that were beautiful and sumptuous.

My father was gentle and kind,
And mainly spared the rod,
Instead he would lecture us
for an hour,
a fate worse than the hand.

The papers he read were many
Every morning while drinking his coffee,
The stories he told were amazing
From the cultures and lands he traveled.

My father was a reflective man,
Absorbing the environ around him,
He mastered five languages
And he availed himself of them at his command.

My father treated people with dignity,
No matter their social or economic station in life,
He always stated wealth or social station
Are not important,
What is important is the man.

The New Year’s Dream

by Norma Crown

A path is set before me.
It meanders to the right.
I cannot see its ending
Although its way is bright.
I take a step upon it
Two, three, and then four more.
I reach a ramshackle building
And find an open door.
Shadows lurk within it.
All is dark and hidden.
I’m frightened and atremble
But I enter it unbidden.
Suddenly I hear a bell.
My telephone is ringing.
The sun is shining brightly
And robins all are singing.
A pox on dreams
That are foreboding.
Their messages sent
Need much encoding.
Is there a doctor in the house?