A Cab Ride to Forget

A Cab Ride to Forget                                                       August 2015   

This is a true story. It is a story from the past, a coming of age story. It happened in Cincinnati in 1944. Looking back on the incident from where I am today, is much fun.
      I was a young social worker concluding my obligations to Family Service of Cincinnati. The agency had made it possible for me to go to the Columbia School of Social Work in New York, to obtain my Masters’ Degree. I owed them a year on staff for every year in school. The boy was a seminary student, bright and sure-footed, too sure-footed. He was studying to become a rabbi. I had dated one of his fellow-students. When we broke up, Dan (not his real name) asked me for a date. We went to dinner, had a great time, the evening went well. We talked easily about our undergraduate days at different Big Ten schools: Dan had his Bachelors’ degree from Ohio State University. I was a graduate of the University of Michigan, mortal enemies on the football field.
     When a game was scheduled during the November football season of 1944, Dan asked me to go with him to Columbus, his hometown, so we could enjoy our rivalry and our football teams. I trusted my friend completely, foolishly, I was naïve at 22, had no idea that he had the trip well planned. I was simply eager to go to the game. In answer to my questions, my friend lied in absolutely bad faith. Yes, we could stay at his home in Columbus, yes I would have a room to myself and yes his parents would be at home. I trusted him, I was a foolish innocent girl.
     We took the bus between Cincinnati and Columbus. My friend Dan was a good talker, we chatted all the way as time flew. I was delighted to be with such a bright friendly man and thrilled at the prospect of hearing the Michigan band once again while watching “my” team beat his team. Deep down I knew that Mother and Dad would admonish me: “You are going to his home overnight and you have not been invited by his Mother, you should not go!” I was 22, living on my own and said to my conscience, “we will discuss this later.” It took twenty years before I told my parents about that weekend. By then it was a humorous incident.
       We arrived in Columbus on the Friday evening before the game. His parents had taken a “sudden” trip to Detroit; it was too late for me to raise objections or find a hotel room in a strange city. Of course he entered my bedroom that night. I ordered him out. I surprised myself, shocked him, my fury overtook his expectations. I think I frightened him with my intensity. He had offended me and I let him know it. I am sure his anger-disappointment matched mine. I was trampling his pride, at the time I was shocked, naïve enough to be angry at his deviousness. As he had promised, I had a room to myself. I was a virgin who felt protected by his promise that his parents would be home. We did not even pretend to be in love with each other, good friends, maybe.
     We went to the game together the next day without speaking. I believe Michigan won, that only added fuel to his ire. I do not recall having a meal with him or talking to him on the way home on the bus. We reached Cincinnati at 2 am in the morning. My Sir Galahad paid me back for my refusals. He left me on the sidewalk in downtown Cincinnati to find my own way home in the middle of the night. Dan did not scare me, but the circuitous cab ride surely did.

 

Highway of the Homeless

  Traveling From North to South as Erv Herman Saw it!  August 2015

   Let me tell you about Erv.  Erv Herman was a human magnet!  People, all kinds of people were drawn to him.  If someone with a sense of humor crossed his path, he matched him joke for joke.  Anyone who wished to discuss politics, Erv had an opinion and never hesitated to share it.  He discussed Bible revealing an uncanny memory and sensitivity.  And he adored children; with children he was a pied piper.  They never left him alone in the swimming pool pushing his very own kids out of the way.  In his religious schoolroom, teens stepped over the little kids to get his attention.

   You see, Erv Herman was a rabbi, pastor to the Jewish community.  I mean community in the truest sense of the world.  Wherever this man was, a community formed around him, members of his own flock, of course, but others also turned to him for guidance and counsel. In his congregation in Scranton, he had heard that the teenagers had not related well to his predecessor.  Without commotion Rabbi Erv Herman installed a pool table in the basement of the synagogue. The teens flocked to the temple, Erv had to lock his door when he needed privacy to work though he preferred to play pool with the kids.

   When Erv arrived at his first congregation in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, among the responsibilities that he shouldered, was the “Fund For the Homeless”.  This meant that he was responsible for handing out small amounts of money to the folks who traveled between the North and South, following the weather, jobless, frequently without family, always with a heart-rending story.  Very quickly Erv Herman ran out of funds and asked for more to distribute.  They tried to take the responsibility away from him because he was “too” generous.  He believed each story he was told.  He looked people in the eye and believed that they were telling the truth, always.

   In as much as no one else wanted the job Erv retained the responsibility.  He continued his generosity until one day in his office in Scranton, far from Winston-Salem his secretary announced that there was a homeless person who wished to talk to him.  Erv welcomed the disheveled man in, gave him a seat and sat down himself, to hear his story.  As the story moved along, the man warmed to his rapt listener, but bells were ringing for Erv Herman.  Bits and pieces of the story became familiar.  Erv suddenly realized that the story was becoming very familiar.  Did so many men have sick, lonely mothers in Florida? The homeless man had received help several years earlier on his way North from Winston; years later on his way back down South he again sat in front of Erv Herman in Scranton, worrying over his sick mother.  He furiously denied that he had ever seen this rabbi before, but the secretarial staff remembered him, there was no mistake.

   This time Erv decided to tell the gentleman what he would have to do to “earn” financial assistance.  The older and wiser rabbi made a call to Jewish Family Service and made an appointment for his “friend” to talk with a social worker to get help and perhaps job.  He also called the local shoemaker (a member of the Temple) and arranged to pay for having the man’s shoes fixed. He gave him money for a meal.   After that interview, Erv Herman lost confidence in the people who ran on the Highway of the Homeless from season to season, the man in question took the few dollars Erv had given him for a meal, never kept the appointments, simply continued on his way begging from rabbis to keep himself fed and cared for.  I guess he figured that no rabbi would turn away a Jew. He was correct.  Erv Herman did not stop giving aid to the homeless, he learned to fill only basic needs and trimmed his own expectations.  It is true that a Jew will not turn a fellow-Jew away, but when one deals honorably with people, one can expect honesty in return.  Erv Herman kept on giving despite his disappointment.

  

A Cab Ride to Forget                                                       August 2015

  
This is a true story. It is a story from the past, a coming of age story. It happened in Cincinnati and is too good to keep to myself.
     I was a young social worker concluding my obligations to Family Service of Cincinnati. The agency had made it possible for me to go to the Columbia School of Social Work in New York, to obtain my Masters’ Degree. I owed them a year on staff for every year in school. The boy was a seminary student, bright and sure-footed. He was studying to become a rabbi. I had dated one of his fellow-students. When we broke up, Dan (not his real name) asked me for a date. We went to dinner, had a wonderful time, the evening went well. We talked easily about our undergraduate days at different Big Ten schools: Dan had his Bachelors’ degree from Ohio State University. I was a graduate of the University of Michigan.
     Our schools were big rivals on the football field. When a game was scheduled during the November football season of 1944, Dan asked me to go with him to Columbus, his hometown, so we could enjoy our rivalry and our football teams. I trusted my friend completely, foolishly, I was naïve, had no idea that he had every moment planned. I was simply eager to go to the game. In answer to my questions, my friend lied in absolutely bad faith. Yes, we could stay at his home in Columbus, yes I would have a room to myself and yes his parents would be at home. I trusted him, I was foolish.
     We took the bus between Cincinnati and Columbus. My friend Dan was a good talker, we chatted all the way as time flew by. I was delighted to be with such a bright friendly man and thrilled at the prospect of hearing the Michigan band once again while watching “my” team beat his team. Deep down I knew that Mother and Dad would admonish me: “You are going to his home overnight and you have not even been invited by his Mother, you should not go!” I was 22, living on my own and said to my conscience, “I will tell Mom and Dad about it later.” I was twenty years older before I made my confession.
       We arrived in Columbus on the Friday evening before the game. His parents had taken a “sudden” trip to Detroit. Of course he entered my bedroom that night. I simply shouted, “get out ”; I made my fury over take his expectations. He had offended me and I told him so. I am sure his anger-disappointment matched mine. I was trampling his pride, at the time I was shocked, naïve enough to be angry at his deviousness. As he had promised, I had a room to myself. I was a virgin who felt protected by his promise that his parents would be home. We did not even pretend to be in love with each other, good friends, maybe.
     We went to the game together the next day without speaking. I believe Michigan won, that only added fuel to his ire. I do not recall having a meal with him or talking to him on the way home on the bus. We reached Cincinnati at 2 am in the morning. My Sir Galahad paid me back for my refusals. He left me on the sidewalk in downtown Cincinnati to find my own way home in the middle of the night. Dan did not scare me, but the circuitous cab ride surely did.

   The Men in My Life              8/12/15

     David & Joel are among my closest friends.  They share their wisdom, their love and their listening ears with me. I cherish and depend upon their friendship.  I do believe that we share each others lives as true friends are supposed to do so.  We are interested in one another and always challenged.  They are my brothers.

     Once upon a time I had a brother with whom I shared genes and arguments. He was four years older than I.  When we were children I did not think so much of his wisdom but was embattled more by his huge intellect and his physical strength.  He could painfully twist my arm without breaking it; he could do it and elicit my screams and get in trouble with Mom.  That big intelligence failed to threaten me as much as it encouraged me to lay back and not compete.  As we grew and became adults, he and I found a developing respect for one another.  I depended upon his political know-how, he stopped treating me as a kid sister.

     I recall the day that he won Junior Phi Beta Kappa, after the excitement simmered down I realized that I was next up.  I made a decision, said to my parents, “Do not expect anything like that from me.”  I met my own mark; I was a good student throughout school: valedictorian in the eighth grade; along the way to college there was the high school honor society and advanced classes, with an easy acceptance to the University of Michigan. Perhaps my brother was a role model that stretched me just far enough to do well, I was also encouraged by my parents to be myself. There is no Phi Beta Kappa in my history, no sense of disappointment either. At the University, I was not the most popular girl on campus, but I had fun; I had a boyfriend whose name was David.  That name has been attached to meaningful men in my life.  Even in high school, there was a boy named David who was one of my best friends.  Today he is a retired Hollywood director.

     Why the name David has an especially warm and wonderful ring for me, I will never understand.  So much so that when we adopted our son, there was no question that he would have the name David.  Because we also wished to honor my husband’s grandfather whose name had been Jacob, we chose Jeffrey David for our son.  His Hebrew name was Yaacov David.

     I did not marry a David.  My husband’s name was Erwin Lee, it too always landed softly onto my ears.  The reason that we did not name our son after my husband, it is against Jewish tradition to name a child after someone living.  Like so many “old wives tales” this was explained to me this way: if you name a child after the living, the Angel of Death may come by and make a mistake.  Davids come and go in my life. At the moment I have a good friend, my counselor who helps me navigate some of the rough spots that occur in life.  Yes, his name is David!

     In these late years of mine, I have found that a friendship with a man is valuable and fun without a hint of romance.  Men and women share many viewpoints, but there is a huge difference between the sexes and I am always happy to understand the other side of the story.  The men in my life today and those there yesterday have always been supportive, helpful and challenging.  I am so grateful to be alive and enjoying my friends. Of course my very best friend was my husband of almost 63 years.  He is a story unto himself.

    

  “Ready Set No”!                                                                 August 8, 2015

   I write this for all of my beloved family and friends, for Judi, for Rachel and the others who have expressed their concerns about me, to me and to each other.  I understand those concerns for me and for my future.   I share them!

   When concern, however becomes intrusion, a line must be drawn.  I am thoroughly and completely grateful for the love and fears that some members of my family show for my welfare and my health.  I understand that my age is a red flag.  How can one be past 93 and continue to live alone?  That is a fair question.  Of course I answer that question from my experience.  If “alone” means that I sleep alone and when day is done, I am usually alone, that is correct, that is the way of life that I have studied and crammed for during the last 7+ years.  I wish my family to understand 1/ that I am not afraid, 2/ that over the years since my beloved took off, I have schooled myself in the art of being alone and 3/ that I like my own company!  Incidentally, most important, I have an infinite number of ways to fill my time.   In addition, my friends are always ready to lend a hand, have some fun, answer my questions and my needs.

   I regret that my “aloneness” worries others.  I am always grateful and appreciative to accept guidance, suggestions and help. I know it would be more comfortable for everyone who loves me, to know that I am ready now to be safely stashed in a comfortable retirement facility.  Unfortunately for the concerns of my others, I am not yet ready to give up my freedom, independence and the comfort of my home.  Call me selfish, I do not mind. I believe that we old folks have earned the right to be selfish; so many years of being unselfish have gone by.

   I hope that everyone understands that the decision to move has to happen when I am ready to make it, not when others think that I am ready.  I understand my beloveds believe that it is for my comfort and safety that they know I am ready and should be eager.  When I lose my mental acuity and when I tire of living alone, I will be ready.  Not yet!

Okey-Dokey

                               Okey-Dokey                                                            August 6, 2015
 
Okey-Dokey is a word, a phrase, or a saying that we rarely hear today. I have a friend who uses it constantly. I have heard it from him so frequently that I was motivated to look it up. It is an anachronism that was used and abused in the thirties when I was in elementary school!

   In recent years, I have wondered every time my friend responds with okey-dokey why it sounds so strange to my ears. I believe that he uses it to end a specific piece of our conversation.  It resonates as a mindless agreement, a shut-down:  “OK you have said your piece, I have had enough, now let’s talk about something else!”  My friend succeeds, it does shut down conversation but I am not always satisfied because the implied agreement does not always ring true.   I am uncomfortable with the phrase; the person using it was not around in the ‘30s.  It is his automatic shut down valve and I have to be wise, simply accept it.

   It is almost like using “thee or thou” in everyday conversation today. Okey-dokey was a favorite of those of us who graduated in the thirties.  Those were tough years coming out of the Depression, prewar years when Europe was erupting.  I was just a kid graduating from the eighth grade, heading to high school.  Okey-dokey was perhaps like whistling in the dark.  If you said it and felt it, the world might get off its merry-go-round and provide some sense of security.

   Some words become dated.  I recall that I insisted that my father was “mid-Victorian” whenever he corrected me or reminded me of the boundaries.  That was the worst insult I could safely think of, I used it over and over again.  He simply shrugged it off; sometimes he said he was sorry, he was pleased because I was not cursing.  Today, our young people have a vernacular that is frequently incomprehensible to me.  I ask occasionally what a word means, always happy when the answer does not embarrass me.

   So, perhaps I can simply hear my friend’s okey-dokey and not listen for bells to ring when it is repeated.  Okey-Dokey? Finis!