He was, this young man with the round face, an artist. Give him a needle and some thread and a little bit of cloth, fine cloth, wool cloth, nothing but the best cloth, and he could make you anything. He never had to measure, he never had to plan. He just knew. It was this magic, and little else, that my grandfather brought to this country, this land of opportunity. He came here, from a small town in Poland, with his wife and his son and his dreams.
He came speaking Yiddish, a language put together like a hearty beef stew. A little German, a dash of Polish, generous helpings of Hebrew, salted and seasoned with just enough English. He came, like so many others, to the melting pot that was America with names that were unrecognizable and highly unpronounceable. He came, with hopes and aspirations and one good pair of shoes, to Ellis Island, to the solemn stone building that served as the waiting room for the promised land. The immigration workers, now an upper class, would name these would be citizens, give them simple names, names they could spell, names based on their trades or their tribes. My grandfather took the name Levy. It was a name he could pronounce, a name he could remember.
What mattered was that he had left oppression and pogroms behind him. He had fled to a land that spoke many tongues, except his.He came, as he had left, with tattered clothes and shattered memories. He came to this new land, where schools were as free as spirits, to this land of milk and honey, where all men are created equal. Some more equal than others.
“When I came here,” my grandfather once told me, “I was a nobody. I worked 16 hours a day and 90 hours a week. I worked to become a somebody.”And that’s what he became, a man with a talent and a trade, a family and a future. He never had proper schooling. But he was smart and he was savvy. He would teach himself the one foreign language he needed to know.He would teach himself English. It didn’t matter that he spoke it with a heavy accent. It didn’t matter that he substituted a Yiddish word every sentence or two. What mattered was that he tried.
And now, 95 years after my grandfather came here yearning to be free, there is a controversy in this land, a great political debate about the language our fellow citizens should speak. English, as many of you know, is a hard language to learn. The words have more connotative meaning than almost any other language. At home, to those who understood, my grandfather spoke Yiddish. But outside that little walkup in Brooklyn, he made a deal with this great country. You give me freedom and promise and hope, he said, and I will give you my soul. And I will work to speak your chosen language.
It was a simple enough concept. No matter what you spoke at home, if you wanted a job, you needed to learn English. To be a tailor, it was the common thread. And now, as we continue the great national dialogue started by demagogues and fed by cheesesteak shop owners, we are teetering on tutoring.
Personally, I don’t buy the politics of prejudice. I think every man, woman and child is entitled to free speech and at least one cheesesteak. But if my grandfather, after 25 years in Poland, could learn the language, is it asking too much of those who come here now, those so full of possibility, to at least try?
Eat, Eat
The first time I ever ate filet mignon was at the Pub on the Airport Circle, the circle with no airport. It was after my junior prom, which I remember like it was 44 years ago. The salad, disguised as half a head of lettuce, was covered with creamy Russian dressing. The girl was covered with dreamy pink organza.
The memory that lasted the longest was that steak, so thick and red and juicy. To that point in my life, the best cut I’d eaten was a rib steak, smothered in canned corn, accompanied by a baked potato with half a cup of sour cream on top. In those days, in my house, sour cream was a condiment.
The steak would be for special times – birthdays, anniversaries, pay days. The rest of the week, we ate the usual. Sweet and sour meatballs with kasha and bowties; boiled chicken with matzoh ball soup; brisket with brown potatoes and rice; and tuna with blintzes and sour cream or a big bowl of Creamettes, the Jewish pasta.
It was such an immovable feast. I loved to eat back then, except for Thursdays. Thursday was liver. I hated liver. I hated the look of it, the thought of it, the taste of it. I used to try to hide pieces of it under the lumps in the mashed potatoes. But my mother always found them and made me finish. “There are kids in Korea who don’t have food to eat,” she said. “Can we mail them my liver?” I asked.
It was years later that I learned the food I grew up on was horrible for me. Liver is an organ meat, full of impurities. And who knew about carbs or artery cloggers? “Eat, eat,”my mother would say. “It’s all good for you.”
Back then, it was done with premeditated love. Mothers only wanted us to have the best, the best their limited resources could provide. They did it out of love and they did it out of ignorance. Who knew that those pains I had in my stomach every day on the way to school were from an intolerance to sour cream? Who knew that the pure sugar I used to dump by the tablespoon on my shredded wheat and my French toast would result in diabetes? Nobody knew.
But we do know now. We know that over 60 percent of Americans are obese.And we know that you’re not supposed to supersize. And we know you can’t eat meat at every meal. And we know you shouldn’t always have fries with that.
I read a report just last week that radiologists are having increasing trouble taking x-rays of people because the machinery wasn’t made to penetrate so many layers of fat.
We were in a casual restaurant in Cherry Hill the other day. A family walked in and asked for several tables to be pushed together because they were too big to fit in a booth. There was grandma and grandpa and mom and dad. Together, they outweighed the Eagles’ offensive line. I felt sorry for them at first. But then I watched them order and eat. Fried cheese, loaded potato skins, big double-decker cheeseburgers. A pizza on the side. It was their kids, the little four- and six year olds who I really felt sorry for. What kind of a chance do they have in life? And what are these parents thinking?
Listen, if you want to kill yourself, you have the right to main line all the cheesecake you want. Hey, put some sour cream on top, for all I care. But, knowing what we now know, if you continue to stuff your kids silly, you’re not a good parent.You’re an abuser.Nothing less. If you really care, you should stop. Stop, in the name of common sense. Stop, in the name of love.
The memory that lasted the longest was that steak, so thick and red and juicy. To that point in my life, the best cut I’d eaten was a rib steak, smothered in canned corn, accompanied by a baked potato with half a cup of sour cream on top. In those days, in my house, sour cream was a condiment.
The steak would be for special times – birthdays, anniversaries, pay days. The rest of the week, we ate the usual. Sweet and sour meatballs with kasha and bowties; boiled chicken with matzoh ball soup; brisket with brown potatoes and rice; and tuna with blintzes and sour cream or a big bowl of Creamettes, the Jewish pasta.
It was such an immovable feast. I loved to eat back then, except for Thursdays. Thursday was liver. I hated liver. I hated the look of it, the thought of it, the taste of it. I used to try to hide pieces of it under the lumps in the mashed potatoes. But my mother always found them and made me finish. “There are kids in Korea who don’t have food to eat,” she said. “Can we mail them my liver?” I asked.
It was years later that I learned the food I grew up on was horrible for me. Liver is an organ meat, full of impurities. And who knew about carbs or artery cloggers? “Eat, eat,”my mother would say. “It’s all good for you.”
Back then, it was done with premeditated love. Mothers only wanted us to have the best, the best their limited resources could provide. They did it out of love and they did it out of ignorance. Who knew that those pains I had in my stomach every day on the way to school were from an intolerance to sour cream? Who knew that the pure sugar I used to dump by the tablespoon on my shredded wheat and my French toast would result in diabetes? Nobody knew.
But we do know now. We know that over 60 percent of Americans are obese.And we know that you’re not supposed to supersize. And we know you can’t eat meat at every meal. And we know you shouldn’t always have fries with that.
I read a report just last week that radiologists are having increasing trouble taking x-rays of people because the machinery wasn’t made to penetrate so many layers of fat.
We were in a casual restaurant in Cherry Hill the other day. A family walked in and asked for several tables to be pushed together because they were too big to fit in a booth. There was grandma and grandpa and mom and dad. Together, they outweighed the Eagles’ offensive line. I felt sorry for them at first. But then I watched them order and eat. Fried cheese, loaded potato skins, big double-decker cheeseburgers. A pizza on the side. It was their kids, the little four- and six year olds who I really felt sorry for. What kind of a chance do they have in life? And what are these parents thinking?
Listen, if you want to kill yourself, you have the right to main line all the cheesecake you want. Hey, put some sour cream on top, for all I care. But, knowing what we now know, if you continue to stuff your kids silly, you’re not a good parent.You’re an abuser.Nothing less. If you really care, you should stop. Stop, in the name of common sense. Stop, in the name of love.
TV or Not TV
Growing up was a numbers game. We had six rooms in our little brick row house. Six rooms, three bedrooms, five people, one television. It was a little black and white set with Howdy Doody on it. It sat, a 15-inch screen in a giant mahogany cabinet, in the middle of our living room, with all chairs, sofas and slipcovers facing it.
It was something we all enjoyed, television. It brought us music and laughter and drama and sports. From that little room on Calvert Street, it was our window on the world. Even more important than our one telephone. This was before cell phones. Hey, this was before pushbutton phones.
We loved TV and all that it gave us. I remember the small smile on my father’s face when, after the dregs of a 12-hour workday, he got to be entertained by Berle and Benny and Burns and Allen.
As important as television was to us, it had its place. And its place wasn’t at the dinner table. Dinner was a time to talk. The TV was turned off. We talked about school, about work, about Ike’s golf game, about Richie Ashburn’s batting average. All the important stuff.
“What did you learn in school today,” my father would ask.
“Capitals. We’re learning the capitals of every state. All 48 of them.”
“OK, smart guy, what’s the capital of Kansas?”
“Topeka.”
“Montana.”
“Helena.”
“Not bad for a little kid,” he said, dunking a forkful of meatloaf in a pool full of ketchup. He would go on to ask me every state he could think of. All 30 of them. I stumbled a little over South Dakota, but I got them all right.
“You’re a pretty bright boy,” my father said. “I’m going to get you something for studying so hard. How about a new yo-yo?
“A Duncan,” I begged. “Can I get a Duncan Imperial? Please?”
He considered the request as if he were buying a new house. Five minutes later he said, “OK, a Duncan Imperial it is.”
I eventually grew up and had sons of my own. Every one of them knows the state capitals. In my house, we were more liberal about the kids watching TV. We used it as a learning tool. Sesame Street helped them learn how to read. They never missed a segment of Conjunction Junction. But there was never TV at the dinner table. At night, TV was something they earned by finishing their homework correctly. My kids grew up respecting that. It helped make them the bright, successful people they are today.
But now, I worry about their kids, and this whole generation that is growing up with camera cell phones and video iPods and games that look more real than life. I shudder every time I see a little kid in the back seat of an SUV staring at the DVD that’s playing on the tiny screen in front of him. Well, what’s a kid to do when his mom is in the front seat on the cell pone?
Media is everywhere. Missed a show? Not to worry. You can TiVo it. You can download it. You can buy the DVD. So, given that, while there are now 50 states, there are still, at last count, only 24 hours in the day, when does the talking part come in? When do you pull the plug on everything electronic and learn about their wants and needs and fears?
Wouldn’t it be nice if your kid knew how to express himself? Wouldn’t it be great if he knew what was going on the real world? And wouldn’t it be wonderful if he knew that the capital of South Dakota was Pierre? Maybe there’s a yo-yo in it for him. Or a better life.
It was something we all enjoyed, television. It brought us music and laughter and drama and sports. From that little room on Calvert Street, it was our window on the world. Even more important than our one telephone. This was before cell phones. Hey, this was before pushbutton phones.
We loved TV and all that it gave us. I remember the small smile on my father’s face when, after the dregs of a 12-hour workday, he got to be entertained by Berle and Benny and Burns and Allen.
As important as television was to us, it had its place. And its place wasn’t at the dinner table. Dinner was a time to talk. The TV was turned off. We talked about school, about work, about Ike’s golf game, about Richie Ashburn’s batting average. All the important stuff.
“What did you learn in school today,” my father would ask.
“Capitals. We’re learning the capitals of every state. All 48 of them.”
“OK, smart guy, what’s the capital of Kansas?”
“Topeka.”
“Montana.”
“Helena.”
“Not bad for a little kid,” he said, dunking a forkful of meatloaf in a pool full of ketchup. He would go on to ask me every state he could think of. All 30 of them. I stumbled a little over South Dakota, but I got them all right.
“You’re a pretty bright boy,” my father said. “I’m going to get you something for studying so hard. How about a new yo-yo?
“A Duncan,” I begged. “Can I get a Duncan Imperial? Please?”
He considered the request as if he were buying a new house. Five minutes later he said, “OK, a Duncan Imperial it is.”
I eventually grew up and had sons of my own. Every one of them knows the state capitals. In my house, we were more liberal about the kids watching TV. We used it as a learning tool. Sesame Street helped them learn how to read. They never missed a segment of Conjunction Junction. But there was never TV at the dinner table. At night, TV was something they earned by finishing their homework correctly. My kids grew up respecting that. It helped make them the bright, successful people they are today.
But now, I worry about their kids, and this whole generation that is growing up with camera cell phones and video iPods and games that look more real than life. I shudder every time I see a little kid in the back seat of an SUV staring at the DVD that’s playing on the tiny screen in front of him. Well, what’s a kid to do when his mom is in the front seat on the cell pone?
Media is everywhere. Missed a show? Not to worry. You can TiVo it. You can download it. You can buy the DVD. So, given that, while there are now 50 states, there are still, at last count, only 24 hours in the day, when does the talking part come in? When do you pull the plug on everything electronic and learn about their wants and needs and fears?
Wouldn’t it be nice if your kid knew how to express himself? Wouldn’t it be great if he knew what was going on the real world? And wouldn’t it be wonderful if he knew that the capital of South Dakota was Pierre? Maybe there’s a yo-yo in it for him. Or a better life.
The Old Ballgame
I grew up in a land where men were men and women baked cakes. A land where fathers worked all day and slept all night. While the rest of us watched Milton Berle, my father, exhausted from bringing home the kishka, would plop in his overstuffed green sateen lounge chair and snooze ‘til he snored.
That was the daily routine. That was what work was. In our humble house, celebrations were few and far between. There were birthdays and the Fourth of July and Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. They were days of rest, they were days of play.
My favorite Father’s Day ever was when I was eight years old. My father loved watching sports. This day, we would celebrate by doing what my father and I loved most. We would go to Connie Mack Stadium. I loved that place. It was other-worldly. No grass was that green. No bases were that white. We got seats in the upper deck. That way, there was money left for food. My father bought me a hot dog, slathered in bright yellow mustard, and an ice cold Coca-Cola in a cup I needed two hands to hold. It was my favorite meal.
That Sunday, the Phillies we’re playing the Dodgers, the Dodgers of Duke Snider and Pee Wee Reese and Jackie Robinson. They were a tough team. They could hit, they could run, they could score. Robin Roberts was pitching for the Phillies. This was going to be a brawl.
The Phils got out to an early lead. A Richie Ashburn single, a Del Ennis double. But the Dodgers fought back. A Gil Hodges homer with Junior Gilliam aboard gave them the lead. Then Roy Campanella cracked one that knocked in Carl Furillo. The Dodgers were up 4 to 1, and now it was the bottom of the ninth. Ashburn blooped a single to center. Man on. Granny Hamner worked a walk. First and second. Del Ennis chased one in the dirt for out number two. But Stan Lopata arose from his crouch to hit a solid single to right. Bases loaded. Now, it was all up to Willie Puddin’ Head Jones. Jones worked the count full. Every man and boy in the park stood up. This was it. You could feel it in your bones. The next pitch came right down the middle and Puddin’ Head got it all. The shot to center was majestic. It was high and it was long and it was headed out. And then, the world ended. Duke Snider came charging out of nowhere and literally climbed the wall. His arm reached high, his glove reached higher. He caught it. I have never heard such silence in a ballpark.
As we walked across the field and out to our car, no one spoke. But somewhere near Broad and the Boulevard, my father looked at me. I was almost in tears. He tugged at my cap and pulled it down over my eyes. “We’ll get ‘em next time, kid-o,” he said. When we got home, I stayed out to tell me friends about the miracle catch. And my father did what fathers do. He fell asleep in his chair.
My parents had me late in life. My father was 40. Back when 40 was the old 60. I never knew my father with hair. We never played catch. He didn’t teach me to ride my bike. But we had great times together. We had the Phillies.
I would realize, much later in life, after my dad had died, what fatherhood was all about. It isn’t about age or ethos. It’s about opportunity. And opportunity is what you make it. There is a lot I wish I’d told my father. A lot I’d wish I’d done. If your father is still alive, I suggest you hug him. Hug him long, and hug him hard.
That was the daily routine. That was what work was. In our humble house, celebrations were few and far between. There were birthdays and the Fourth of July and Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. They were days of rest, they were days of play.
My favorite Father’s Day ever was when I was eight years old. My father loved watching sports. This day, we would celebrate by doing what my father and I loved most. We would go to Connie Mack Stadium. I loved that place. It was other-worldly. No grass was that green. No bases were that white. We got seats in the upper deck. That way, there was money left for food. My father bought me a hot dog, slathered in bright yellow mustard, and an ice cold Coca-Cola in a cup I needed two hands to hold. It was my favorite meal.
That Sunday, the Phillies we’re playing the Dodgers, the Dodgers of Duke Snider and Pee Wee Reese and Jackie Robinson. They were a tough team. They could hit, they could run, they could score. Robin Roberts was pitching for the Phillies. This was going to be a brawl.
The Phils got out to an early lead. A Richie Ashburn single, a Del Ennis double. But the Dodgers fought back. A Gil Hodges homer with Junior Gilliam aboard gave them the lead. Then Roy Campanella cracked one that knocked in Carl Furillo. The Dodgers were up 4 to 1, and now it was the bottom of the ninth. Ashburn blooped a single to center. Man on. Granny Hamner worked a walk. First and second. Del Ennis chased one in the dirt for out number two. But Stan Lopata arose from his crouch to hit a solid single to right. Bases loaded. Now, it was all up to Willie Puddin’ Head Jones. Jones worked the count full. Every man and boy in the park stood up. This was it. You could feel it in your bones. The next pitch came right down the middle and Puddin’ Head got it all. The shot to center was majestic. It was high and it was long and it was headed out. And then, the world ended. Duke Snider came charging out of nowhere and literally climbed the wall. His arm reached high, his glove reached higher. He caught it. I have never heard such silence in a ballpark.
As we walked across the field and out to our car, no one spoke. But somewhere near Broad and the Boulevard, my father looked at me. I was almost in tears. He tugged at my cap and pulled it down over my eyes. “We’ll get ‘em next time, kid-o,” he said. When we got home, I stayed out to tell me friends about the miracle catch. And my father did what fathers do. He fell asleep in his chair.
My parents had me late in life. My father was 40. Back when 40 was the old 60. I never knew my father with hair. We never played catch. He didn’t teach me to ride my bike. But we had great times together. We had the Phillies.
I would realize, much later in life, after my dad had died, what fatherhood was all about. It isn’t about age or ethos. It’s about opportunity. And opportunity is what you make it. There is a lot I wish I’d told my father. A lot I’d wish I’d done. If your father is still alive, I suggest you hug him. Hug him long, and hug him hard.
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