A Happy KV Thanksgiving

from Susanne Pelly Spitzer

IS THERE A TANNER IN THE HOUSE? OR AT LEAST A TURKEY SHOEMAKER?
My mother's cooking abilities were the stuff of family legends. She declared rice to be cooked when it turned to glue and boiled over the edge of the pot, and loved eating raw hamburger. She ate directly out of the ice cream container, forgot to replace the top off of the orange juice container, left food out on the stove overnight, and created a host of food-borne illnesses. My childhood was a miasma of "stomach flu" interlaced with respiratory infections. Since she worked at a job where women were not supposed to have children, it was up to me to stay home, get sick, and clean up after myself. It is no wonder that all three of her children became good cooks in self-defense.
It was not until I read Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone that I realized other people also had mothers who regularly had green food in the fridge and bragged in their 70's about "never throwing food out of the refrigerator." I could only conclude that my mother ate it regardless of its state of degradation, or it walked out under its own power. Maybe both.
At her funeral, my siblings and I spoke about her odd life. She was near-homeless during the Depression, moving before the landlord demanded the next month's rent from her widowed mother. Her children drove her crazy with their independent ways, staying out too late in high school, going to an Ethical Culture youth group, and camping illegally outside of state parks with a blanket and a pillow. She graduated from college when she was in her 60's.
But it was our description of her attempted prowess at mastering culinary arts that brought the most laughs from our relatives and gasps from the officiating rabbi when he realized the funeral was becoming a "roast". She had a huge drawer of rusting cooking gadgets, most of which she never mastered. She had stained cookbooks which she rarely used and were close to disintegration. Her spices appeared to date from World War II, but like most Depression survivors, she could not bare to throw them out since there was still some left in the ancient canisters.
However, the story we remembered best was that of the Thanksgiving that Bob T. came to dinner. He was a refugee from Nazi Germany, and my sister's boyfriend. I don't know what he expected, but it was probably not a turkey that had been cooked to death, and way, way beyond. My mother managed to saw off a piece of the bird. Bob dutifully began trying to chew his way through the skin. And chewing, and chewing. Finally, after several minutes of diligent but useless mastication, he admitted defeat and spit it out. He looked at her, and in his politest tone remarked, "Mrs. Pelly, I have eaten many turkeys in many places, but this is the finest turkey shoe-leather I have ever had the fortune to try to eat!"
Many years later, I was home alone at Thanksgiving. My parents were inveterate travelers in spite of not knowing how to drive a car. This may be the time when they left me alone at 16 for a month and went to Europe. In any event, I agreed to cook Thanksgiving dinner for my brother who was living at college, and then I panicked. In the era before Butterballs and other self-basting turkeys, I had no clue as to how to make one, let alone a whole dinner. I remember that he was annoyed that I didn't get the timing of the side-dishes right, and the dinner went on much longer than it should have. But I got the turkey right, and here was my secret: I stopped every single woman I met in the elevator in the F building that week, and asked them how to cook a turkey!
In graduate school in Minnesota, there were many of us in our department without families nearby. Given my dislike for shoe leather, it was just as well. Now a veteran turkey cooker, I teamed up with a guy named Sid who also had a tailor for a zaide, to make the bird for all of us. I was a little leery, as he kept suggesting to each female graduate student that he could have a little fun with her, and some Mazola oil! Luckily, he behaved himself around me and we all ate well. But not before we had to cut the bird open with a scissors. It seems the two grandchildren of tailors did too good a sewing job on the turkey, and we had to resort to surgery!
Sid moved on to Washington, thank goodness, and became a political consultant. His oleaginous nature probably suited him better there. After 35 years from the date of the Thanksgiving of the too-expertly sewn turkey, my other friends from graduate school, their families, and ours still spend Thanksgiving (without fighting) and many other days during the year together by choice. They are all gourmet cooks, and my kids would not dream of going elsewhere. Happy T-day to y'all, and may all your turkeys be chewable!

KV Chatter: The Obama Bandwagon Meets The LES

above the store window from the framing store on Grand Street near Essex. It also sells shoes.

Just like you might say that there are a lot of people now jumping on the Barack Obama bandwagon—naming their children, ‘Barack’, sometimes even when the toddler is a girl, they call her ‘Baracka’—and in many other ways people, in my opinion, are overdoing the ways in which they seek to identify themselves with the President-Elect. I myself have been accused of fitting into such a category but regard such accusations as, not only wholly ill-founded, but entirely the result of a competitive, envious tendency that has gripped the nation. Everyone is trying to one-up their neighbor with Barackier than thou declarations. I am not going to say I am like him in this way or that because such statements would be self-serving but because some of the similarities are so pointed and particular I do wish to articulate them clearly so that for those amongst us who feel they are the lost twin of the new President-Elect they may hold up these facts and profit by allowing objective cross-comparisons to sober up their otherwise overly optimistic views of such connectedness.
For starters, Barack and I both have spent a preponderance of our adult lives in large American cities. In or around them. Both of us, in a free association exercise when asked to state the word we think of first when we are offered the word, “court,” have responded, “basketball,” whereas 73% of the adult male American population has reputedly come back with “King Arthur’s” and a cool 26% responded, ‘yard”. So it seems that Barack and I, on this measure alone, rank in a one-percent cordon. Not the kind of thing that often occurs by chance, wouldn’t you agree? There’s been a lot of comments and no small bit of consternation about the season tix similarities as well. The both of us, Barack and I, choose to subscribe to professional sports franchises for whom we root. Exclusively. And only in sports which we follow and whose rules we understand implicitly. So, for example, were either of us to be asked whether we had on-going passes to the Lancaster PA jousting events—this is not an actual example, it’s more of a hypothetical for instance—the both of us would, if we had heard the question, respond, “Not at all.” Because, and it all boils down to this one simple but important point, neither of us follows professional jousting or is even certain about the rules or schedule of the games. “Games” is what they usually call jousting events. Like when Nero used to say, “Let the games begin,” usually that would mean he’d start unpacking a picnic lunch and watching the jousters go at it. Now these points are not even the main points, it’s just that they are so darn interesting that I figured I’d mention them first. We both have certain habits that mirror each other exactly when it comes to dress. By the way, neither of us wears one—a dress that is. But that’s not the main point here. We both enjoy lining our feet with socks before slipping those limb-endings into shoes. And neither of us uses a hand liner when donning the other limb coverings-be they leather, wool or goretex. As far as gardening goes. We both don’t. Strong coffee is enjoyed most mornings—by both. Often with some sort of pastry or bread item. The consumption of cream cheese on an average workday would neither be surprising or out of character for himself or myself. To say that the list billows on and on would be an understatement. So let’s say, billows geometrically. Look at travel habits. In the event that either of us needs to go from here to there we each manage in ways that are either identical or exactly parallel. When Barack needs to move northward, for example, he will be sure to have the vehicle of transport in which he embarks point in that particular direction and, should he need or wish to be momentarily diverted, for example in order to stay with the flow of traffic, he will then—as I do too—make the appropriate turns so that he will recover the northward direction from which he had been momentarily diverted. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done the same thing. I occasionally do it without even thinking. When on a train, both of us are so confident of our sense of direction that we have each been known to doze and then, not simply as if on schedule—but actually on-schedule—have managed to wake and exit the train at the appropriate stop. There’s the use of the napkin that also distinguishes us as a pair. And the behavior is markedly similar whether we speak of linen, paper or ordinary cotton cloth. During meals, but especially at meal’s end, we gently brush our lips with the napkin and then look up cautiously anticipating dessert choices. Then we redo a similar action after dessert in the hopes that a second dessert might be offered. And so forth. A lot of his speeches by the way are exactly what I would have said had I been in his place and I have a feeling that a lot of what I’ve said to people, had he been with me at that time, describes exactly what he would have said, thought, felt and done. Do you need further proof or have I made my point? Thank you.

Jimmy Breslin And Election Day 1969

The first election I was eligible to vote in was in 1969. I voted for Norman Mailer for mayor. From Dissent Magazine along with the photo above

Norman Mailer ran in the Democratic primaries for mayor of New York City in 1969 with journalist Jimmy Breslin as his running mate (Breslin sought the nomination for President of the City Council). Their program called for New York City to secede from the state of New York. Political power was to devolve to the city’s neighborhoods. The Mailer-Breslin slogan was “The Other Guys are the Joke.” Dissent published many of his controversial articles, including “The White Negro” (Fall, 1957), which is reprinted below, and Mailer served on Dissent’s editorial board for more than three decades. The photograph above was taken by a 17-year-old campaign worker who had then never heard of Dissent, Mitchell Cohen, who now co-edits Dissent. Mailer died November 10th at the age of 84.

Over the years I enjoyed Breslin's columns, but I thought his books weren't too good. I did think Table Money, however, was excellent.
Years later I was in Barney Greengrass on the upper west side and I said hello to him. He ignored me. He was probably very much like the way he is portrayed in this story by a guest (and anonymous) contributor.

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
ONE DAY AFTER WORK AT THE JOURNAL AMERICAN, BRESLIN STAGGERED INTO MOOCHIES, ALREADY DRUNK. NOW AT THE TIME, BRESLIN'S WIFE WAS ITALIAN/AMERICAN, SO YOU WOULD THINK HE WOULD BE SENSITIVE TO ETHNIC SLURS. BUT NOT THAT FAT PIG. WORDS FLEW OUT OF BRESLIN'S MOUTH, THAT IF UTTERED IN CHERRY STREET PARK, OR ANYWHERE IN THE 4TH AND 6TH WARD, WOULD BE REASON TO START WORLD WAR III.
GUINEA. BASTARD. GREASEBALL. WOP. DAGO. THESE ARE ARE JUST A FEW OF THE KIND WORDS BRESLIN YELLED OUT LOUD, TO NO ONE IN PARTICULAR. JUST TO HEAR HIS OWN VOICE, I GUESS.
NOW BETWEEN SHOTS FLYING DOWN BRESLIN'S THROAT, AND INVECTIVE FLYING OUT OF HIS FILTHY MOUTH, BRESIN MADE MORE THAN A FEW PEOPLE ANGRY. THE TYPE OF PEOPLE, YOU WOULD NOT BE WISE MAKING ANGRY.
BRESLIN MUST HAVE FIGURED THAT BEING A MEMBER OF THE THIRD ESTATE ABSOLVED HIM FROM ANY POSSIBLE PUNISHMENT FOR HIS VULGAR SINS. AND BRESLIN WAS A BIG GUY, BOTH HORIZONTALLY AND VERTICALLY. BUT OBVIOUSLY NOT MENTALLY. THE VERTICAL PART COMES INTO PLAY LATER.
WELL, FINALLY A COUPLE OF GENTS HAD HAD ENOUGH OF BRESLIN'S MOUTH. THEY ROUGHED HIM UP A LITTLE, NOT TOO MUCH, THEN THREW HIM INTO THE EAST RIVER ACROSS THE STREET.
NOW IF BRESLIN HAD BEEN SOBER, WHILE HE WAS IN THE WATER, HE MIGHT HAVE SOLVED A FEW DOZEN MURDER CASES, NOT TO MENTION KNOCKING DOZENS OF CARS OFF THE STOLEN CAR RECORDS. (TELL THE TRUTH HERE. HOW MANY PEOPLE DO YOU KNOW DUMPED THEIR CARS IN THE EAST RIVER RATHER THAN REPLACE THE FAULTY ENGINE, OR TRANSMISSION, IN ORDER TO COLLECT THE INSURANCE?).
BUT BRESLIN WAS TOO INTENT ON NOT DROWNING. SO HE FLAILED AWAY AND YELLED FOR HELP, UNTIL SOME SOFT SOUL FISHED THE FAT BASTARD OUT OF THE EAST RIVER.THE VERY NEXT DAY, AND MY SAME RELIABLE SOURCES COME INTO PLAY, BRESLIN PERFORMED ACT II OF THE SAME PLAY. THE DRUNKEN, OBNOXIOUS BUM CAME INTO MOOCHIE'S AGAIN, AND AGAIN STARTED IN WITH HIS NAME CALLING.
ANOTHER TRIP TO THE EAST RIVER WAS THE RESULT.
SOME GUYS NEVER LEARN. SOON AFTER THIS, BRESLIN TOOK A LEAVE OF ABSENCE FROM THE JOURNAL AMERICA. ACCORDING TO RELIABLE SOURCES, (THIS IS HOW I SAVE MY ASS PEOPLE) LOCKED HIMSELF IN HIS ROOM AT THE DOWNTOWN ATHLETIC CLUB AND WROTE "THE GANG THAT COULDN'T SHOOT STRAIGHT."
THREE MEALS AND A BOTTLE OF BOOZE WAS SENT TO BRESLIN'S ROOM EVERY DAY TO STIMULATE HIS LITERARY JUICES, I ASSUME. THERE WERE NO REPORTS OF ANY OF THESE SAME BOTTLES BEING RETURNED OTHER THAN EMPTY.
BRESLIN'S BOOK MADE HIM A VERY RICH MAN, AS DID A FEW FOLLOW UP BOOKS, SOME OF WHICH I FIND ALMOST UNREADABLE. ONE EXCEPTION WAS HIS BIO ON DAMON RUNYON, WHICH WAS ACTUALLY QUITE GOOD.
BRESLIN QUIT DRINKING SOMETIME IN THE 70'S. THROUGHOUT THE YEARS, I RAN INTO BRESLIN A FEW TIMES WHEN HE WAS SOBER. UNFORTUNATELY, HE WAS STILL THE SAME OBNOXIOUS CLOWN, BUT AT LEAST HIS BREATH WAS LESS OFFENSIVE.
BARELY LESS OFFENSIVE

KV "Poetry"

The KV journeyman's European "poetic" efforts today

Presently sitting next to the gorgeous engineer of whom I spoke about in April. Still convinced she can do makeup ads, so pretty.
Maybe she got even better looking now that she told me she's getting married this year. Some guy got very lucky. But I'll enjoy the view just the same.

Here's KV domestic "poetry" of another sort

It was really great hanging with you guys.
I hope we can do it again soon.
Dave thanks for the CD I'm at my office now listening to it.
some sweet tunes.
As far as my ticket.
turns out I misread the sign.
commercial truck parking is until 1PM not 1AM as I thought.
I'll forward Info on Freddy Cole concert shortly

Sorry to hear about the ticket.
It was great to see you and you.
I was also great to see youse.
And to hear them.
And to feel ME.
And to be with you
And you
While feeling ME.
And us.
And them.
And Them.
The music was so personal.
Like from a real person.
A real Person.
Know what I'm sayin' here?
A people Person.

I know what your saying.
If you say it.
I know what I think your saying,
if I think It. However
I'll Pass on the feel you part.
You get my drift and I think you do

Neal Hellman's KV West 60th Birthday

Music: "Amazing Grace" by Nickel Creek
Kind of makes one feel that someday there could be a west coast KV reunion.
I wonder if they know about cutting punchball out there? Neal wrote a special piece called Mezuzzah Blues for the occasion

Mezuzzah Blues - Upload a doc

Read this doc on Scribd: Mezuzzah Blues

Christmas Eve

Fiction by Neal Hellman. Neal moved from Knickerbocker to Brooklyn in the late 1950's. He worked as a cab driver there in the mid 1970's. That's not really Neal in the cab, it's Abbie Hoffman in a "photoshopped" faux 1970 Brooklyn photo. The background is really in the 1940's taken on Nostrand and Parkside showing the Linden Theater on the left

Oh, how I wish the powers that be had never changed name for New York City’s largest airport from Idlewild to JFK. Just the name itself— Idlewild, sounds like a place where great birds would come to touch down.
However, on this evening this Christmas Eve at 10:00 there are no birds landing and there’s a wind chill factor of -20. I sit alone in my cab hoping to escape from JFK with a living-breathing passenger and avoid a forty-minute “dead head” trip back to the city.
I always drove a cab on holidays, business was great, tips were generous and folks were really happy to see me. You’d hear lines like “gosh you could be home with your family but here you are rolling around the streets of New York helping others to spread their holiday cheer.”
Yes that’s me, motoring around in a checkered yellow vehicle, escorting various citizens of the big apple to their desired holiday location. The mother on her way to see her new grandson, the lover on his way to meet his sweetheart, the poor fool who has to work night shift, the actor on his or her way to theater will all climb in and out my vehicle sometime during this holiday eve.
It was always best to work midtown on holidays and stay away from the airports. In Manhattan on Christmas Eve people would fight over you. Folks would see you pulling over to let someone out and the race would be on. I was a key man about town and with a little luck this workingman could return home to Brooklyn with $250. In cash in his pocket, a tidy sum for 1975.
The day had started so promising. As I was departing the cab company garage on Nostrand and Flatbush Avenues I immediately picked up a fare going out to JFK. I could get from Flatbush Avenue to JFK in less than twenty-five minutes. This always amazed my customers. To them I was indeed like a great Sherpa from Tibet that would guide travelers through the Himalayas. Instead of snow capped mountains pointing their roofs towards the heavens there was Linden Boulevard, Bushwick Avenue and my knowledge of a back entrance to JFK that only a few of the cabbie illuminate were aware of.
I looked at my watch 3:10, I’ll drop him off at United at 3:15 and then zip over to American and catch the 3:20 coming in from Houston. I had a little book of my favorite arrivals. The most important part is where they arrived from and at what day and time.
The 3:20 arriving from Houston on a Wednesday afternoon will have some mid level executives going into midtown Manhattan. Probably to the Hyatt or the Sheraton on 57th street. On a latter flight you might get a higher-level executive going to the more upscale hotels such as the Pierre or The Royalton.
By 3:20 it was already down to 10 degrees and the wind was whipping, it was hold on to your hat time out at JFK. To my good fortune the airport was “stripped and working” meaning very few cabs and a great deal of frozen life forms all desiring in no uncertain terms a warm cab to midtown as soon as possible. I pulled up and before anyone could get in my cab I yelled out “I can take a few parties to midtown”.
So two or perhaps if I was really lucky three folks who never met before would get in my cab. At that time it was a $15 to $17 tab into the city. “Ok I’d say it’s, $20.00 each tip included”.
This statement would be met with some resistance at first. “Oh no can’t we just split the clock and give you a bigger tip”? “Not on the day of Christmas Eve” I replied, it’s 10 degrees and getting colder so if you’d like to wait for another cab be my guest” I’d then start to open my door to let them out and they’d say “ok, fine just get us to our hotel”. I’d then turn around and collect my twenty's before engaging the gas pedal.
They would also notice that I didn’t throw the flag down and the meter showed all zeros.
If they would be so bold as to ask why I didn’t throw the clock I’d simply say that I was putting all the money in my pocket and that was that. Needless to say it would be a quiet ride into the city. I’d try to crack a few jokes but my audience was somewhat subdued. I’d got to the city by 4:10 and continue to roll, from the Sheraton to the village and then up to 86 St. and down around again. It’s one in one out and everyone wants to ride with me.
I am sailing, by 7:30 I have over $120. On the clock and $70.00 in my pocket. The cabbies and the company split the clock 50/50 so I’m on my way to at least a $250 night.
I’m staying away from the hotels, as a trip to the airport now would not be in my best interest. There’s an ice situation happening, flights are being canceled, JFK would be a tomb and dead heading back for a half hour when the city is working would not be the right choice. I also knew that during an ice storm some of the roads around JKF become impossible and slipping around the wilds of Queens was simply not on my dance card.
Traveling north on Park Avenue I’m hailed by a doorman. It’s 7:30 probably some well to do’s out for a night at the theater rushing to make an 8:00 curtain. “Open the trunk please”, ah words of doom, I could feel it, oh God a late night airport call. Before I could make an excuse two elderly women amble into the back seat. As they slide in the one with the big hat says “we need to make a 9:00 at Air France, were taking the red eye to Paris, get us there in time and well give you a $10.00 tip.
I then ponder my current situation. I could get them to JFK by 8:20 and grab the 9:00 United flight coming in from Miami. A 9:00 from Miami would probably insure me of taking a nice little Jewish man with great tan to an apartment in Brooklyn, that’s ok, it would take me out of the airport and then I could work the disco’s in Bay Ridge and pocket some more dough and hopefully catch a fare back into midtown.
I had it wired, I delivered my Park Avenue fare to Air France in plenty of time and they indeed gave me a ten spot. The wind is really picking and it’s starting to hail. The 9:00 from Miami can’t land, planes are now being diverted up to Connecticut, it’s either dead head it back to the city or take my chances at another terminal. There are cabs everywhere all the lines are sucked up, little yellow vehicles as far as my cabbies eyes can see.
It’s time to cut my losses, I’ll work the shortly line, meaning a short call usually $6 to $8 to Forest Hills or Brooklyn, and then maybe I can luck out and catch fare back to midtown. I’ve been fortunate all night why should it stop now? My little radio told me that many streets in Queens were becoming caked with ice.
I noticed there were at least seven cabs on the shorty line. When there's a short call the dispatcher comes out, blows a whistle, and holds up his hand over his head about a foot apart. However on this night he keeps blowing his whistle, no one seems to want the fare, and as each cab pulls up the driver take one good look, shakes his head and takes off. How bad could it be? As I desperately needed to move out of this frozen tundra known as an airport. I made the move and pulled up to the dispatcher.
I pulled my sock hat down over my ears, threw on my gloves and pop myself in front of the man with the whistle. “They’re going to Belmont Long Island”, he said, “you got to help these people out, they’ve been waiting for a half an hour and they’re about to freeze to death.”
Belmont Long Island, the worse possible address from the airport. Belmont was east of JFK, in other words away from the city, to make it worse it was not an O.T. An O.T. means out of town and you could double the clock but Belmont was the last town within the city limits, an $8.00 fare at best and a 55 minute drive back to the city with no chance of picking up a fare. I knew the area and was aware of the fact that the streets would be frozen solid. He looks at me with a death stare and yells, “for God’s sake it’s Christmas Eve and there both crippled, look there in wheel chairs. The terminal is going to shut down in ten minutes, you have heart beating in their pal?” He says as he poked his frozen finger into my wet and icy pea coat. “Sure I’ve have heart but on nights like this I just like give it a little time off” I thought. The dispatcher looks dragon like with all the foggy breath coming out of his mouth as he says, “you want theses poor cripples to sit here all night and freeze to death”?
I looked at the couple, their helpless and frozen faces looked back at me, theses two frozen bodies are looking at the same pair of eyes that recently hustled three businessmen from Houston Texas. However, they didn’t see that part of me, they saw deliverance, they saw home. It might have been Christmas Eve but to them I was Moses about to take them to the Promised Land.
“Ok fine, I’ll do it, can you help with the wheel chairs” I asked? “Sorry pal I gotta job to do here, it’s your gig now” and he walked away into the frozen night. I wheeled the women to the cab, I helped her up and into the back seat, the man was really large, at least 260 pounds, I wrapped my arms around his shoulder and literally dumped him beside his wife. I opened the trunk and just managed to stuff the two wheel chairs in. I had to remove my gloves to worth the catch and I as I did I could feel my flesh starting to stick to the metal.
Seven dollars and fifty cents latter I pulled in front of Dave and Blanche’s house, the roads were slippery, the street was dark but with a little luck I could help these folks into their home, jump back into the cab hop on to the Long Island Expressway and be back in action.
As I shut the clock off Dave handed me the keys and asked if I could unlock the door first to minimize the time the spent in -20 degree weather. Sounded reasonable to me, however as I approached their gate I realized that my sojourn in Belmont Long Island was just beginning.
The walk to their door was a good fifty feet and it was covered in at least two feet of snow with a least six inches of frozen sleet on top.
I jumped back in the cab, “how long have you been away”? My quivering blue lips asked?
“Oh at least two weeks, we were down in the Virgin Island, we had a great time” and as Blanche was about to give me a blow by blow of her wonderful tropical vacation I held up my hands and said “why didn’t you hire a neighborhood kid to shovel your walk when you were away?” Dave smiled as he replied, “well it wasn't snowing when we left” he said with what could only be described as puppy dog grin.
“Is there a shovel around”? I asked, “Yes there’s one in the house” Dave replied.
I had already shut the clock off; this was my time we were working on. I could be in the city raking in the cash and now I’m stuck in Belmont Long Island in a cab with two people and two wheel chairs and three feet of snow on a forty-foot walk.
I closed my eyes and tried to conjure all the available spirituality that one could muster in a cab in the middle of Belmont Long Island on Christmas Eve. I then asked Dave ” How well do you know your neighbors”? “Perhaps one of them might have a shovel and help us out.”
“Folks on this block are really not to friendly” Dave replied. It’s pushing 10:30 all I need is one friendly neighbor with an available shovel. I left the cab running with the heat on as I started on my journey of frozen compassion.
“Knock, knock”, a suspicious face pears through a glass window, I smile and say “look I’ve got two folks in my cab and they are in wheel chairs, there crippled you know and I need to borrow a shovel so I can get them inside, can you help us out?” He shook his head and said “no go away, I don’t know you or those people down the street, it’s late and hey it’s your problem, not mine, go away or I’ll call the police,” Hum that was not the response I was seeking. I try one more house, “please I said I’m in a desperate situation here I’ve got to help Dave and Blanche get into their house.” I said with the most humble expression I could muster. He looked me over and replied—
“Ok I’ve got a shovel but I want a $20.00 deposit,” “ok fine” I said. As I walked back to the house I wondered what would have been the future of Christianity if Joseph and Mary had tried to find a place to bring baby Jesus into the world in Belmont Long Island.
I took well over an hour to shovel my way to their door, and long before I finished there was frost inside my nose and all my fingertips and earlobes were numb. As I was chipping away I thought that this indeed was what we of the chosen would call a “mitzvah” meaning an incredible good deed that surly God would reward me for.
I got to the front door the key worked but there was a 3-inch sheet of ice and I couldn’t open it. How am I ever going top find an ice pick, it’s now 11:30.
I go back to the cab; Dave and Blanch are looking through the frosty windows with hope and they smile and I smile back. Ah yes I thought I can use the lug wrench from my car jack. To get to my car jack I had to remove wheel chairs. I haul the two wheel chairs out of the trunk, the metal is so cold that it sent a shiver up my arm and down through my already frozen body.
Hallelujah, I find the jack, I proceed toward the door, as I’m passing the cab in what can only be described as a hunched over frozen stagger, Dave rolls down the window. “Hey your not going to leave our wheel chairs out in the snow, just like that are you?” I blink my eyes; I must have looked like an enchanted fairy as all my facial hair was glistening with ice. Dave’s statement was duly ignored.
I proceeded to start banging the sharp part of my lug wrench on the doorstep.
A small epiphany thought came into my frozen cortex. Is this how psychology majors end up? Banging a lug wrench on Christmas Eve on some frozen non-descript doorstep in Belmont Long Island? Or perhaps just perhaps the powers above have chosen me because for some odd reason they want me to save Dave and Blanche from freezing to death at JFK? My decision was suspended as I broke away through the last of the ice. I returned to the cab, I shut off the engine, I lift Blanche into her chair, I wheel her in the door. I open the door and wheel her into the living room. I return to the cab, I lift Dave and wheel him home as well. I find the thermostat and in a few minutes glorious heat is pouring through the home of Dave and Blanche.
Dave opened some scotch and mixed it with hot water and we all defrosted together.
I explained about the deposit on the shovel, “no problem” Dave replied here’s the $20 for that and we’ll return it tomorrow.
“Oh and this is for you” he said as he handed me a fifty. Both the impact of the large tip and the Scotch hit at the same time. Yes I thought I’m back on it! I looked at the clock it was midnight, I could return to the city by 12:30 work until 2:00 and make my $250.00 night.
I said my farewell to Dave and Blanche, “Oh please” they said “take a load off, and have another Scotch”. I then conjured up my inner Mr. Frost and told them “I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep”.
I stepped back out into the chill; walked down the now accessible path to their home, hopped back into my cab, skidded down a few side streets and then happily entered the Long island Expressway. As New York's illuminating skyline came into view I turned up the radio, laid into that gas pedal and into the breech one more time I did go.

The Pee-Wee League Or Diamond Visions

Neal Hellman, a transplanted KVer living in Santa Cruz, California "climbed into his attic" and dusted off some of his old KV themed fiction for us. I thought I'd post it now because of the recent baseball myths that have been shattered. It's entitled
The Pee-Wee League Or Diamond Visions

When my friend Marty was excited he’d always run with both of his hands on his hips waving and flipping back and forth like the wings of a small bird as if he was flying. All the while he was running towards you, words would propel out of his mouth and naturally they would grow louder and louder as he approached. One problem with this method of communication was that by the time Marty caught up with you he’d be so out of breath that he seemed to be speaking in tongues. At that point it was advisable to put one hand on each of his shoulders and try to get him to slow down. This was also a difficult task as Marty would not stop talking and would basically run in place as he attempted to speak without the benefit of breath.
However difficult this method seemed it actually worked well for two eight year olds growing up on Manhattan’s lower east side in the 1950’s.
In between his out of breath wheezing Marty told me that a Pee -Wee League was being formed in our neighborhood and the first meeting was on Saturday in the basement of our apartment house. This was to be the first organized league for kids under twelve and there would be different teams and each team would have a uniform and best of all players would get to wear spiked shoes. This was incredible news for two kids who loved to play hardball but were still too young for the Little League. Which was a moot point because there was no little league, pony league or any kind or organized baseball where I grew up.
Organized baseball for kids was something we’d see in the movies or on television. We were not so much envious of the structure of it all as we were with the idea of wearing a uniform, yes a uniform with a number on the back. We’d imagine wearing the number of our favorite ball player. Twenty four for Willie Mays; forty four for Hank Aaron; seven for Mickey Mantle, and 4 for the Duke of Flatbush, Duke Snyder. Along with our numbered jersey we’d have matching pants that went around the bottom of our feet with a stirrup that would show off the one’s baseball socks or hose that went up to the knee. Best of all we’d finally have spikes. Leather shoes with plates of metal on the bottom so we could speed around first base and not worry about slipping.
All of which lead to a wonderful vision that both Marty and I shared. We’d walk up to home plate, bat in hand, rise up our shoes one at a time and ever so gently tap off the dirt from our spikes with our Louisville Slugger bat. We’d step out of the batters box, study the pitcher a bit, and glance down at the first base coach to catch a sign. Then step back into the box in our brand new uniforms with the magic number on the back and stare that pitcher down. That other kid, sixty feet away from us on top of the pitchers mound, he was not our friend.
Yes this was the life, the reality we had always wanted. It was 1956 and baseball was everything to my friend Martin and I. If it was round we could hit it. We played with hardballs, softballs, tennis balls, wiffle balls, half balls and pink balls. Games would be on asphalt, dirt, in the street, in courtyards, on stoups, schoolyards or wherever we could place four bases (which sometimes were our shirts) down to make a diamond.
Our games never had any structure, we just choose up sides. If there was a disagreement we argued until we got tired of yelling and whoever won the debate would always give in to the other side the next time there was a close call.
Now that we’d have the Pee-Wee league there would be no more arguments because we had also heard that there would be a lest two umpires per game. Uniforms, spikes, umpires just like the in the National and American League, this would make our lives as complete as we could ever hope it would be.
Our apartment house or apartment complex was a square city block. The basement ran all the way through it. The Pee Wee League folks choose the biggest room in the basement and on that first Saturday over 150 excited baseball-loving kids crowded in.
The two guys in charge were named Mike and Peter and they said they both had played ball in the minor leagues and were eager to pass on their skills to us. We all wondered why we met in a basement instead of being out on the baseball field. We did have on actual dirt field, which was directly under the Manhattan Bridge. “Well” Mike would say, “This is a good place to work on fundamentals”. The first day we practiced hitting the ball off a tee and the art of bunting. At the end of the day Peter mentioned that he’d be taking orders for uniforms. The cost was $5.00 for the uniform and $5.00 for the spikes. He said the uniforms would only be a jersey and a cap (no pants, no stockings) but we would have spikes. Ten dollars in 1956 was a great deal of money especially when a slice of Pizza or a subway token was just a dime.
Persuading my parents to let go of that kind of dough would be difficult. I couldn’t just settle for the jersey and have no spikes. How could I dig in against the opposing pitcher without those little pieces of steel embedded into the bottom of my shoe? Spikes without the jersey would have looked ridiculous. I needed the whole package to feel complete.
I’d imagine myself returning from the field after a great day at the ball park. My spikes tied in a knot and slung across my shoulder, my jersey a little beat up from sliding into second base, my cap tipped up on my sweated brow, and my pine bat slung across my other shoulder. Like a great warrior returning triumphant from the field of battle.
Unfortunately, this Elysian fantasy was lost on my parents. “You want a uniform, here go take a T- shirt and a magic marker and paint a number on the back and you’ll have a uniform.” Of course my mother was also worried that I’d forget to take my spikes off and chop up their hardwood floor with them. “Better you should have a nice pair of sneakers, sneakers you could wear indoors, outdoors any sport, no one in this family has ever owned a pair of spikes and there’s really no reason to start now.” Her reasoning was a bit on the arcane side but I’m sure it made sense to her. Yes, why would my great grandfather who was a Rabbi in Poland wear spikes in Temple?
They’re no mention anywhere in the old testament of anyone stealing second base. My father has no need of spikes in his sowing machine store so it follows why would I need spikes? Somewhere in the mind of my mother this all made sense. There was also an underlying spiritual factor which was that spikes, well spikes were just not a Jewish thing, little protestant kids in Indiana wore spikes, little Jewish kids growing up in New York took piano lessons and wore loafers. My parents were also extremely politically correct so just the idea of a uniform seemed very bourgeoisie and gentile America to them. True, but I’m eight years old and I want to be a real American kid and play the game of baseball with all the right stuff because that’s how the big boys did it.
I made a deal with my father. After school every day I’d go over to my dad’s store and do some clean up work. The down side of this deal was that I had to relate my mysterious German grandmother who in her 20 or so years in America had no quite mastered the English language.
Our conversations would go something like this:
Grandmother: “What you working for all of a sudden like this”?
Neal: “I’m saving up for baseball stuff”.
Grandma: “What is this Baseball, I don’t understand. So these men hit a ball and run around with little hats on and funny suits and then the people cheer for them and they run all around and it never stops, I don’t understand this baseball, why you want to play this baseball, better you should learn to play the violin.”
I would just nod and sweep the floor and as I did diamond visions played through my mind.
I would dream of the sweet part of my bat making contact with a screaming fastball. After contact the ball is sails high over the fence like a frozen rope, and I am happily circling the bases, and as I do little bits of dirt would rise and fall from my shinny spikes and the sun would glisten on my blue and white jersey, the one with the numbers forty four written on the back. As I rounded third base all my friends and neighbors would be waving and cheering me on. Even my socialist’s parents and my older brother and my mysterious grandmother they would all be cheering as well. As my spikes touched home plate I could hear all the muses of baseball singing, and out of the corner of my triumphant eye there was Lori my first childhood sweetheart, smiling as I headed back to the bench to be congratulated by my jubilant teammates. They’d all be there to greet me in all my baseball finery as I rounded the bases and crossed home plate.
My friend Marty was happy as he had a savings of over $15.00 he had earned by cleaning up at his families restaurant. So we were both set and cheerfully went to the second Peewee league meeting which was held in the same basement room underneath the apartment house known to all as Knickerbocker Village.
Most of the one hundred and fifty kids came up with the ten dollars. Towards the end of the day we each gave Mike and Peter our shoe, shirt and hat sizes and of course our hard earned dough. As there was some time left Mike went over the fundamentals of bunting again. That was my first clue that something was no right. Mike never kept his thumb in the front of the bat; anyone who knows how to bunt realizes that the thumb must always be kept safely on the far side of the bat. I mentioned to Marty that this guy was bunting all wrong. Marty being impulsive shouted out “shouldn’t your thumb be on the other side of the bat?”
“Yes of course” Mike replied, I was just testing you to see if any of you would catch my mistake and I’m really glad you did, yes someone here is really paying attention.” As he finished his speech I could see a little bit of sweat on his brow. Come to think of it Mike and Peter had showed us very little in the way of baseball fundamentals, they mainly gave us just a lot of talk and hype. I smelled rat and a big one at that. I asked my friend Walter if he’d ever seen these guys before.
Walter kind of scratched his head and said, “Yeah I think I’ve seen them around, I think”. “Where, where” I replied, “I’ve never seen them out on the field or around the apartment house, I think something's up, and we should get their phone numbers, find out where they live.”
Mike and Peter said our next meeting would be out on the baseball field and at that meeting we would form the teams and each receive our jerseys, caps and spikes. As we were leaving I asked Peter for his phone number. He reply was seamless, like he had said it countless times before. “Oh Mike and I just travel around the country setting these leagues up and right now were just staying with some friends in Brooklyn and they only have an office number and we can’t give it out.” I expressed my concern to the rest of my friends. “Oh your always worried about one thing or another” I was told by Sean “relax man these guys are great, they love baseball, hey they know all the famous players numbers.” Numbers indeed, the only number I could think of was 10 times one hundred and fifty. These two guys just collected $1,500 from a bunch of seven to nine year olds to form a league. Two guys who appeared from out of nowhere, who didn’t even know how to lay down a bunt.
The next Saturday was the perfect baseball day and everyone was excited, everyone except me. I woke up that morning with a knot in my stomach, as I knew we had been taken to the proverbial baseball cleaners. As time went by our conversations became increasingly nervous. “Hey maybe their car broke down” or “was it next Saturday we were supposed to meet here” or “did they say to meet here or in the basement?” By two o’clock I finally said “we’ve been had, there not ever coming back, their is no Pee-Wee League, no uniforms and no spikes, they took out money and left town, they probably travel city to city taking money from kids like us.” As I finished, Joel the neighborhood intellectual (whose father taught Greek culture at N.Y.U) piped up and called me a “Cassandra” over and over again. Who, what, “Cassandra” what’s a “Cassandra” is that like being an asshole or something? What a horrible day, I’m out $10.00 and my friend is calling me a girl’s name. All of which was unimportant as everyone soon all realized that Mike and Peter had skipped town with our money and our diamond dreams.
By 4:00 or so we all started to leave, our glorious visions of a Pee-Wee League had been dashed. Teary eyed and head down we took the long and silent walk home. The four blocks back to the apartments seemed like four miles. Along with our $10.00,on this day they took our spirit and our visions of a league that will now never be. I could accept loosing the $10.00 and the Pee Wee League but the hard part was going to be explaining it to my folks.
As I rode up the elevator to the ninth floor I had a spiritual moment as I tapped into my inner “mensch”. My “inner grownup” told me that things like this happened, and all I could do is accept it, and learn from it. I actually was a little proud that my instincts tipped me off to the truth of the situation. I’ll know to trust them more in the future.
So I went home and told my folks the whole story. Surprisingly, they were somewhat compassionate about it. Many of the parents got together and try to hunt down Mike and Peter but they left no tracks. They only took cash for the uniforms and none of us had any idea where they lived.
I have never forgotten this experience; it has stayed with me my entire life. At the age of eight I realized that life among men was going to be unfair at times, and one had to be on the lookout for all the Mikes & Peters in the world.
They can steal your money but they can’t steal your dreams.
Still somewhere in the labyrinth dome that sits on top of my head there remains this diamond vision—It’s a warm summer day, and all of my friends, family and neighbors are there and they are all waving their arms and they are cheering me on as I’m rounding third base, spikes gleaming, dust flying off my uniform and my cap flipping off my head as I slide head first into home.

Do Nuns Have Feet?

A piece of original fiction by a KV alum, Neal Hellman

The Madonna House was a two-story red brick building that was clearly visible from my bedroom window. It had a huge curved wooden door; with a large crucifix suspended ever so stoically above. Each time the oval gothic style portal opened, nuns would appear or disappear.
I’d gaze at them through the ninth floor window of the eighteen-story apartment house known as Knickerbocker Village and watch them making their way down Monroe Street. When they traveled in groups they were like an apparition from the middle ages. I could clearly see them—their long black habits and veils waving together in the wind, the metal keys suspended from their belts, and the wooden crosses, which adorned all of their necks. Their habits covered every part of their bodies except the center of each nuns face. The East River was just one block away and when the wind would blow it was as if they were gliding en masse and their feet never touched the earth. I ‘d be alone each afternoon and I’d watch them sail across Cherry Street on to Monroe Street and then they would pass under the crucifix, through the wooden doors, and slowly disappear into the great red fortress known as The Madonna House. In my eyes they were a fleet of dark ships floating home into their mysterious and vast red brick harbor.
I was a troubled child, a troubled nine year old growing up on New York's lower east side. Besides being raised in an extremely violent neighborhood I was also disturbed by the fact that my parents were communists. The second stage of the House of Un-American Activities Committee was in full swing and my greatest fear is that the FBI would come knocking on my door and take my parents away. This was a well-founded fear as they did just that to our neighbors Julius and Ethel Rosenberg.
I can still see him, Julius in handcuffs, standing still in the elevator with an F.B.I agent on each arm waiting for the doors to close. I always wondered if my parents were home on that evening of July 17, 1950. Did they hear the sounds of his children crying as the government agents swept through his apartment looking for evidence before they applied the handcuffs and took their father away? Could my mother have heard the two feds thumping behind the wall that separated our apartments as she was playing “The Polonaise” by Chopin on her piano?
This was the environment I grew up in— physical threats on every corner and a precarious political agenda permeating the air in our home. I never let on to my parents that I was aware of all this political intrigue.
In 1955 instead of verbalizing fear and asking for help a nine year old starts to sleep walk, have constant nausea and become extremely anxious and begins to visibly shake from time to time.
At one point I became so frightened of the elevator that I’d always opt to climb the nine flights rather then enter it alone. My parents started to notice my restless behavior and decided that I needed a creative outlet and arranged for me to have piano lessons at The Madonna House.
I’m nine years old and I’ve never once talked to a nun and now once a week I’m fated to enter those big wooden doors and God only knows what goes on in there.
At least I knew who Jesus was. I had been told a number of times by some of my Catholic friends that my religion was personally responsible for his demise. I was extremely worried about being in contact with the nuns. Why did they have so many keys on their belts? How did they seemingly just glide down the street? Would they be angry with me because I was Jewish? I needed some help and advice and I knew it wasn’t going to come from my parents.
I did have a Catholic friend, his name was Tony d’Angelo and he lived on the sixth floor in the apartment down the street. Tony and I played baseball together, we were both Dodger fans, and we liked to hang out in the luncheonette read comics and drink cokes real fast and get a wicked sugar buzz. Tony was twelve and had 5 brothers and three sisters, it seemed like his mother was always pregnant. They also had one of those crucifixes (a real big one) mounted on the wall a few feet over their diner table. It was easily two feet high and the same length wide.
The Lords only son was featured in such great detail that one could easily see the nails plunging into his hands and feet. His head was lowered and the sculptured lines on his face revealed the intense pain he must have been experiencing. “Tony” I said pointing at the immense metal crucifix on the wall “how could you look at that guy when you eat”? “Ah it’s nothing” Tony replied “it’s been there for so long I don’t even see it any more, you get used to it. My father’s mother gave it to us, and then “boom” she drops dead the very next day. So my dad likes to keep it over the dinner table because it reminds him of his mother Teresa.”
“Well why don’t you just put a picture of your fathers mother on the wall instead” I asked? “Well” Tony replied “my mother wasn't too crazy about my dads mom but she’s very religious so this way they’re both happy, while she’s seeing Jesus my dad’s seeing his Mom.
“Funny thing” Tony continued, “every Saturday before my dad goes to the track he gets up on a chair and rubs Jesus’ head. Now check this out every Wednesday night before my mom goes to bingo she rubs his feet.” I then explained to Tony about my upcoming piano lessons at the Madonna house and my many fears about coming face to face with a nun.
Tony knew the Madonna House as he attended a Catholic Youth Group there once a week.
Tony told me he didn’t know what all those keys were for either but he was pretty sure they didn’t lock up little boys and girls with them.
“Look it’s like this” Tony said, “first take off your hat when you go in, don’t say nothing dirty or disgusting or you’ll have to go to confession and you won’t like that.
As a matter of fact just ask them what room you piano lesson is in, and if your scared keep your head down and don’t say nothing stupid, take my word for it nobodies going to bite you or slap you with a ruler.”
I then told Tony that I had this fear that a nun could read your mind with a secret device that sat on top of their head underneath the crown of their wimple.
Tony looks at me rolls his eyes and says, “Who told you that stuff”? “No Neal they’re just people you know people doing a job just like a cop does his job, a fireman does his job and well a nun does her job”. “What job is that”? I asked? “Oh “Tony replied “it’s like there all married to God and they give their life to him and serve him. So you know they never go out on a date with a guy or you know they never do the nasty, you know sex with anybody.” This latest bit of information actually comforted me, as at least I knew that nun’s and I had something in common. Not that I knew anything at all about sex but I knew it existed and it had something to do with being naked. Tony did tell me about the time his sister dropped a candy wrapper on the floor and one of the Nun’s made her carry a very large and heavy rock around the building three times. This sounded a little harsh but nowhere near any of my creative vision of whips, fires, and devils with flaming pitchforks and of course eternal damnation in a place where the only thing to eat was tuna fish.
The day soon arrived for my first piano lesson. I elected to avoid the elevator and took the stairs down the nine flights to the lobby. I created a sort of rhythm with my feet as I made my way down the steps and I would also hum a little tune in counterpoint to the noise my shoes made. I did that “dance” each time I would ascend or descend the stairs; it was one of the rituals a child performs when alone to help keep him or her self-sane. I felt a sense of relief as I crossed over the baseball field, as this was always a safe place for me.
It was an extremely clear and bright afternoon, which only heightened the black habits of the nuns against the red brick building. I was really trying hard not to look too Jewish, as I wanted my first trip to the Madonna House to be as painless as possible.
I approached the large door there were three nun’s speaking outside. They were conversing in English they were not speaking in Latin or in any secret nun language that I had imagined.
Proceeding inside I went to the front desk and I walked as quietly as I could so as not to attract any attention. I did notice that as well as nuns there were also people in normal clothing just as I was. I stood in front of the information desk and waited for the nun to raise her head.
I noticed that she seemed to be dressed differently then the other sisters. I learned latter that she was a beginner nun called a novice. She lifted her head, she was young and pretty, she had a black veil pinned to the back of her head that accented her beautiful red curly hair. She looked at me, smiled and said, “oh yes your here for your one O’clock piano lesson, let me show you to the room.”
Not only could I see her feet I could see clear up to her ankles, and the little man on her
Cross-seemed almost to be smiling. I was so relieved, but not for long.
I entered the room and immediately recognized my piano teacher; it was Mr. Bloom he worked for the kosher butcher. I saw him only yesterday boning a chicken. He was bald and had a funny little mustache and wore wire rimmed eggshell glasses. It was the first time I saw him without a bloody apron and a cleaver in his hand and he still looked frightening. Mr. Bloom I exclaimed! I didn’t know you were Catholic? He scrunched up his face, removed the cigarette from his lips and looked at me with his little beady eyes and said “what Catholic, I’m Jewish just like you, I rent the room and give piano lessons, case closed, now sit down and show me what you know and try not to waste too much of your parents money.
He was arrogant, mean and horrible all at the same time. I tried to learn my scales but it’s hard to perform music when one is shaking inside. I returned a few times and each time the pleasant young nun would greet me with a smile before I entered the room with Mr. Bloom.
She’d always ask me if I had learned any pieces yet. I told her that I was working on “Volga Boatman” and the first part of “Ode to Joy” which in it’s own way seemed fitting since my father’s family was German and both my parents were communist.
It was during my third lesson that Mr. Bloom really cut me to the quick. As I was making the best pass I could at Beethoven, Mr. Bloom (with cigarette smoke bellowing out of his mouth) barked out “your fingers, there so stiff, there like bayonets”.
I never learned how to play the piano; but I did get to talk to a few nuns and they all seemed very helpful and very much human. My parents were not pleased when I told them that I’d rather play baseball with my friends on Saturday afternoons then take piano lessons. I was somehow getting used to them being annoyed with me as they both always seemed to be in a state of agitation. I did have one less fear, as I looked out my window and watch the nuns walked down Monroe Street I realized that my friend Tony was right. Just like everyone else nuns had a job to do and like a policeman a fireman and a soldier they wore a uniform as well.