1
10
324
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Numbered memoirs
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# 26 IRVING HOWE
(On June 8, 1993, the Boston Democratic Socialists of America held a memorial for Irving Howe who had died the month before at the age of 72. I think it was chutspadik that Fran and I spoke at this event along with Rose and Lewis Coser and George Scialabba and George Packer. Fran, at least, had Howe as a teacher at Brandeis. I drew on some coincidences and my admiration for his writings, his politics and his brilliance. The following are my remarks.)
I feel that I have known Irving Howe all my life, although I may have been in the same room with him five times and exchanged no more than a few sentences with him each time. He was not easily approachable. And I was in awe of him. Of his knowledge and his insights into those areas if interest that I shared with him: Socialism, Yiddish culture, and labor.
I sought reflected glory in the fact that Irving Howe and I lived in the same neighborhood in the East Bronx. The fact is he was eight years older, and there was no contact until many years later. In his autobiography, Howe described the East Bronx as a self-contained little world where Yiddish was spoken everywhere. And he quoted his father after the family was forced to move from the West Bronx as saying "at least we are not on Fox Street." I lived on Fox Street. He later explained that he really didn’t see much difference between Fox Street and Jennings Street where he lived.
I also got a kick when I read about his childhood visits to Yankee Stadium sitting behind Babe Ruth, since I also went to Yankee Stadium as a kid, sat in the bleachers, but in my time it was Joe DiMaggio in center field. I shared a similar pattern of summer jobs, and the dream of parents that their child should become a high school teacher, and the challenge for those of us preparing to teach in the New York schools to pronounce Long Island without a hard g.
His Workmen’s Circle Shule was on Wilkins Avenue; mine was on Beck Street. His father wouldn’t let him go there. My mother sent me to the Beck St. Shule and then to Hebrew school. The YPSL to which he belonged met at the Wilkins Avenue Shule Sunday nights. There was no YPSL in my immediate neighborhood. I was not recruited and I missed out on the political ferment that was a part of Irving Howe’s growing up: the street corner oratory and the debates in the City College cafeteria.
In the early fifties, I was working as an organizer for the custom tailors and alteration workers of the ILGWU. It was then that I met Ann Draper who was organizing for the hat workers. Her husband, Hal Draper, was the editor of Labor Action, the publication of the Independent Socialist League, the position Irving Howe held ten years before. Irving’s first contact with Max Schachtman was in 1937 at City College. I was invited to a meeting of the ISL by Ann and Hal to hear Schachtman. And he was impressive. (During the question period, an imposing figure arose, announced "my name is Maxwell Bodenheim" and proceeded to read a poem he had written.) No, I didn’t join ISL, but I did buy a sub to Labor Action.
In 1956 I went to work for the Jewish Labor Committee and found myself surrounded by YPSLs, both Thomasites and Schachtmanites: Manny Muravchik, Phil Heller, Don Slaiman, Irving Panken, Harry Fleischman, Iz Kugler, Harry Gersh, and Julie Bernstein. I bought my first subscription to Dissent, I joined The Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy, I read "The UAW and Walter Reuther," and when Mike Harrington split with the SP-SDF over Vietnam, and DSOC was founded at the Hotel McAlpin in 1973, I was there, and saw and heard Irving Howe in action.
Over the years, I collected his books as well as Mike’s, and was excited about the Yiddish anthologies he was producing, confirming for me our similarity of interests. So many Jewish radicals and intellectuals were, as Irving noted, quoting Isaac Deutcher, "non-Jewish Jews." The fact is, so was Irving, up to his meeting with Eliezer Greenberg, and his translating and editing of Yiddish writers. Isaac Bashevis Singer might have remained unknown to the non-Yiddish reading public if Irving didn’t get Saul Bellow to translate Gimpel the Fool.
Irving saw himself as a "partial Jew" –a man without contemporaries, since he felt that all that remained for Jewish identity was religion or nationalism, and he supported neither. Secular Jewishness was, to him, a period between faith and assimilation, like Alinsky’s description of an integrated neighborhood: the moment between all-white and all-black. To Howe, it was another lost cause.
But Irving did more to popularize Jewish Socialism than any other writer. He was unrivaled as a serious scholar, yet this 714 page book "World of Our Fathers" made the best-seller list, and gave him, as he described it, "his 15 minutes of fame." He viewed its success as American Jewry’s readiness to say farewell to that world, and move on.
My son Lewis gave me the book in 1976 for my birthday, and my wife Fran gave me Irving’s autobiography "Margin of Hope" for my birthday in 1982. My family knows who (and what) I like. Our sector, the Jewish Socialist and labor movement, represented by the Workmen’s Circle and the Jewish Labor Committee, is forever in his debt. We at the Boston Workmen’s Circle wanted to invite Irving for a fund-raiser, but that’s out. We have lost another giant. Julie Bernstein in 1977, Michael Harrington in 1989, and now Irving Howe.
Irving called Michael "Our voice, our hope, our pride." Leon Wieseltier called Irving "This skeptic, secularist and socialist; this great-souled man." Irving Howe ends "World of Our Fathers" with the Hasidic tale of Rabbi Zusia, who said before his death: "In the coming world they will not ask me Why were you not Moses? They will ask me Why were you not Zusia?" Irving Howe was always Irving Howe.
June 8, 1993
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#26 Irving Howe
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Jacob Schlitt
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application/pdf
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1993-06-08
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en
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text
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IRVING_HOWE
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"I feel that I have known Irving Howe all my life, although I may have been in the same room with him five times and exchanged no more than a few sentences with him each time."
Bronx
Friends
Jewish Identity
Socialism
Yiddish
YPSL
-
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8dfddb4eb2ca87624918941139f0eadf
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Title
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Autobiographical writing
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Shaving
I am 70 years old and have been shaving for about 55 years. I don't remember when I first started shaving, nor do I remember what I used. I have a vague memory of a metal razor that unscrewed; the top came apart and you placed a blade, like the contents of a sandwich, between two slightly curved pieces of metal that screwed back onto the handle.
My father died when I was three so I had no role model to show me how to shave. The closest I came to observing how it was done was in the movies. But it was not too difficult. In the 1940's, you took a shaving brush, made lather by rubbing the wet brush over a cake of soap, applied the lather to your face, and shaved. In the bathroom medicine cabinet, I found several Gilette razor blades which had belonged to my father, just about the only thing I had that was my father's. Shaving with them brought me closer to him in a way. Unfortunately, I believe those 20 year old blades were dull, so the knicks and cuts I received were somehow connected to him, which was a little weird, symbolically.
After a few years, a friend of my mother, Mrs. Gitter, gave me an electric razor that belonged to her late husband. It must have been one of the first electric razors, dating from the late 1930's. It didn't do a very good job, but I dutifully shaved with it for a while. Then I went back to my twin blade twist-apart razor and began buying razor blades at the drug store, though occasionally I bought them from people who would be selling them along with shoe-laces on the street. (I later learned that along with blades and laces, they sold condoms.) Gilette dominated the razor blade market as far as I can remember. Competitors included Schick and an English company--Wilkinson, but most everybody stayed with Gilette.
When I was in college, I discovered that there was something called brushless shaving cream, and that you could get a terrific buy at Macy's, both in a tube and in a jar, so I switched: another great advance in the art of removing facial hair.
The ever-busy scientists at Gilette developed a one-piece razor. Instead of the tedious process of unscrewing the razor, removing the top, inserting the blade, and screwing the top on again, the revolutionary new razor opened up like a flower when the bottom of the handle was turned, the blade was placed inside, the razor was screwed shut, and there were no parts to be misplaced, or dropped. The new, one piece razor, came in various qualities, and I received a fancy, silver-plated one from a cousin for graduation.
I had no idea that shaving implements constituted such a lucrative market, because soon after, a new razor appeared. It had a very different design and a much smaller and heavier blade which came in a cartidge. I believe it was manufactured by Eversharp. I didn't buy it. And through the '60's and '70's electric razors flooded the market. I didn't buy them either: Remington, Norelco, etc.
When I was a kid, I always went to Mr. Shaikin, the barber on Longwood Avenue, for a haircut. However, I was aware that he also had a lively business shaving customers as well. (There were several "rites of passage" associated with the barbershop. First, when you went by yourself, not accompanied by your mother. Second, when you were no longer placed on a booster chair. Third, when you no longer paid children's prices. And fourth and most important here, when you said to Mr. Shaikin, who by this time you called Sam, "I think I'll have a shave." He tipped the chair back; put a hot towel on your face; stropped the straight razor; removed the towel; applied the lather, and shaved. I don't want to give the impression that this was a frequent occurrence. The fact is I have treated myself to a barber shave only twice in my life: when I graduated from college and Mr. Shaikin (Sam) said that I had a beard that was hard to shave. And when I was living in Brooklyn and I was feeling particularly good about something.
I can't remember when the disposable razor appeared, but they eventually sucked me in. I am sure I resisted their blandishments, since I am basically a very frugal person and this new razor constituted waste of the most conspicuous kind. But as the price of razor blades began to exceed the price of disposables, I succumbed.
Another change in my shaving habits took place with the introduction of foam shaving cream in a can. Press the top of the can and out comes lather as good as any barber's. Soon the market was flooded with different brands: Gilette, Colgate, Barbasol etc. And a few years later came a gel that claimed to give an even better shave than the foaming kind.
For most of my adult life, my routine was the same: wake up, go to the bathroom, turn on the radio, wash and shave. I try to get as many shaves out of a razor as I could: at least 10 to 20. I seldom bother with after-shave lotion and I use a styptic pencil if I cut myself (which is a good indication to discard the razor blade). My wife uses disposable razors to shave her legs, and though I have never discussed it with her, I believe she disposes of them after use. So when I see them sitting on the bathtub edge, (the razors, not her legs) I place them with my razors.
The big change in my routine, now that I have retired, is to skip a day from time to time. This was common practice on vacation, and one can consider retirement permanent vacation. A couple years ago, I grew a goatee, but it requires as much shaving as without it.
A couple of years ago, my son David began shaving. He asked for, and received an electric razor, and I believed his Norelco electric razor was the best shaving implement around. It did the job quick and close. Turns out that when David wants a close shave he uses a disposable razor and shaving cream. So much for technology. Perhaps he will let me use his electric razor when I don't want to bother with the radio, washing, lathering and shaving with a blade.
Jacob Schlitt October, 1998
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Title
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Shaving
Creator
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Jacob Schlitt
Date
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1998-09-12
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application/pdf
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en
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text
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1943-_shaving_9-12-98
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1943
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"I am 70 years old and have been shaving for about 55 years."
Adolescence
Father
-
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a5c84e468a6b58ad94cc7ea347705e49
Text
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Text
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David Elkin
I first met David when Fran and I married in 1981, and I was amazed that we had not met before. Our backgrounds were almost identical: We were both from the East Bronx; we both went to CCNY, though David was a year ahead of me; we both were economics majors; we shared the same political outlook; and now we were married to very similar women.
In the years that followed, I relished our time together, visiting at each other's homes, and certainly at Welfleet. David was always fun to be with: bright, witty, perceptive. Even when the Parkinson's affliction had advanced, he was still able to make wise-cracks or particularly apt observations. Our photo albums are filled with pictures of our families together, and I look at them with mixed emotions, seeing my son David growing up, and my friend David growing weaker.
This past year has been agony. There are no words to express our loss. However, I will always remember David at the beach at Welfleet with his Red Chinese cap and his papers and his humor and his warmth.
Another area of similarity was that Yiddish was David's and my first language. We came from Yiddish-speaking homes and in some respects we were "veltliche Yidn", aware of our heritage, proud of our Jewishness, and proud of the Yiddish literature of Mendele, Peretz and Sholem Aleichem. One of the great Yiddish poets was Moyshe Leib Halpern (1886-1932), and when Peretz died in 1915, Halpern wrote a poem mourning his death.. I would like to read an excerpt from that poem, in Yiddish, and then John Hollander's translation:
Yitskhok Leybush Peretz
Un du bist toit, un nuch hut dich nisht tsugedekt di erd.
Un iber toisnt gasn veit vi a galop fun ferd.
Un vos ich zay iz bloiz di nacht in dir, dem toit in dir.
Di vistenish vos vet un dir nuch vister zien in mir.
Gebensht iz der far vemen siz a yene velt nuch daw.
Far im iz daw a treist, far mir a gurnisht, gurnisht.
Far mir vet nuch a toitnlicht farlirn zich in roich.
Far mir vet nuch a kaivershtein in drerd farzinkn oich.
Un Veiter vel ich zen far zich dos retenish, dem toit.
Un blankn vet zein serp far mir azoy vi fier roit.
Azoy vi fier roit.
Azoy vi gold.
Azoy vi blut.
-----
And you're dead; and you've not yet been covered by the ground.
Far through a thousand streets like horses galloping round.
The dead of you, the night of you is all I now can see.
This wasteland with you gone, is emptier for me.
Blessed is he for whom there is a world to come.
There can be no such solace for me, yet one more tomb.
Mine will sink below the ground and yet one more.
Death candle mine, will end in smoke, and as before
I shall be reading always the riddle of the dead.
Death's sickle flashing up in front of me--in red fire.
Like red fire.
Like gold.
Like blood.
http://www.nytimes.com/1998/03/31/classified/paid-notice-deaths-elkin-david-b.html?pagewanted=1
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application/msword
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Title
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David Elkin
Date
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1998
Format
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application/pdf
Creator
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Jacob Schlitt
Language
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en
Type
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text
Identifier
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1998_david_elkin
Description
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"I first met David when Fran and I married in 1981, and I was amazed that we had not met before."
Aging
Friends
Grief
Illness
-
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27a8870b9ad1be9cbefa2c8d1b1a1849
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Title
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Autobiographical writing
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Text
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HOW I BECAME A UNION OFFICIAL
As youngsters, we have all been asked by well meaning relatives: What do you want to be when you grow up? When I was in junior high school, I had few role models, and knew very little about "the world of work." My mother was a garment worker; most of my friend's parents were also garment workers, but no one I knew aspired to be a garment worker. It was clear that we would all go on to college, but what we would study in college was unclear.
Two of my friends, influenced by a junior high school science teacher, developed an interest in chemistry. Three of us submitted articles and poems to the school's literary magazine "The Knowlton Herald." However, none of us presumed to think of ourselves as future writers.
By ninth grade we had to choose the high school to which we would go. The choices were: the neighborhood high school--Morris; the science exam schools--Stuyvesant, Bronx High School of Science, and Brooklyn Tech; or the prestigious CCNY "prep school"--Townsend Harris. I, presumptuously, chose Townsend Harris, though our "advisor" made it clear to me that she did not believe I was Townsend Harris caliber. The issue became moot when New York closed the school for economic reasons. So, I, together with a large group of my classmates, took the Stuyvesant exam, passed it, and in the fall of 1942, started classes at Stuyvesant.
Most of the summer before entering Stuyvesant was spent looking for work. I answered every ad for "boy wanted" in my neighborhood that appeared in the Bronx Home News or that was posted in store windows, to no avail. Three weeks before the summer ended, the son-in-law of a friend of my mother's, who had heard of my plight, convinced his employer to hire me. He was a hat blocker in a small millinery factory, and my job was to pack and deliver the finished hats. The factory was in a loft on 38th Street off 5th Avenue. I felt very important getting on the subway every morning along with the rush hour crowd, getting off at 42nd Street, walking from Lexington Avenue up 42nd Street to 5th Avenue past the 5th Avenue Library to my job. I was paid $8 a week.
It was a small shop. There were two or three blockers in the outer area, and about 10 women who finished the hats--sewing ribbons or pasting feathers on them. The truth is I paid very little attention to the process. I was impressed with the strength of the blockers who would take the felt hat bodies, place them on wooden shapes and stretch and shape the hats to the various styles, pounding them with the palms of their hands. Though I don't believe I was given the title, I was the packer, shipping clerk and delivery boy. When there were hats to be delivered, I would take a hat box, line it with tissue paper, place the hat in the box, close the box and place it on the floor. When I had completed eight boxes, I would tie them together. Deliveries were in the mid-town area and I would be required to maneuver my way through the crowds with piles of hat boxes in each hand extended straight out at shoulder level, trying to avoid bumping into people. At the end of the second week, the boss gave me an extra half dollar, and I was overjoyed. At the end of my third and final week, I received a one dollar bonus. So ended my first job. High school started the following week.
Original Format
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application/msword
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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How I Became A Union Official
Creator
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Jacob Schlitt
Date
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1998-05-29
Format
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application/pdf
Language
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en
Type
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text
Identifier
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AW_career_choices_5-29-98
Coverage
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1942
Description
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"As youngsters, we have all been asked by well meaning relatives: What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Adolescence
Education
Jobs
-
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081f7263b2172af23d0274a8254359bd
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Autobiographical writing
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Text
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Canoeing
I have to admit, I am not much of an athlete. I am not a klutz, but I wasn’t the first person picked when sides were chosen for stickball. I held my own in most sports, but not much more. As I review all the sports I tried—softball, basketball, handball, tennis, ping pong, pool, I realize they all require good hand-eye coordination. That may be the problem. There is one sport that doesn’t: canoeing. All it requires is a canoe, paddles and a companion, though it can be done without a companion.
I was introduced to canoeing at camp. We first had to pass the swimming test; then we could go out in a canoe. The counselor explained the rudiments: how to get into the canoe without tipping it over, and how to paddle. Once we learned that, and the two canoeists were comfortably seated, we were ready to canoe. The canoeist in the front paddled on one side, and the canoeist in the back, paddled on the other side. We quickly learned that if we both paddled on the same side, we would be going around in circles. Then we learned different strokes: the J stroke was the most useful for the rear canoeist, because it helped you adjust the direction in which you were going. And it was essential if you were going to canoe by yourself. I learned additional strokes by trial and error. Years later, I even learned that different strokes had different names. And I learned the meaning of the expression: “Different strokes for different folks.”
Canoeing was the high point of my camp experience. When we were learning, we practiced tipping the canoe over (making sure we held on to our paddles) and then righting it and bringing it in to shore. We learned the meaning of another expression: “Up the creek without a paddle.” We had to wear life jackets so we weren’t in danger of drowning. When I was permitted to take a canoe out alone, I loved getting out in the middle of the lake, lying in the bottom of the canoe, looking up at the sky, and drifting.
To me, the canoe was the perfect vessel. Its shape was beautiful and streamlined. It was light and efficient. It was the mode of water transportation of the Native Americans, so how much more “back to nature” can you get. The canoes I had were not made of birch bark, but even the aluminum ones were fine by me. I canoed as much as possible as a camper, and then as counselor. When I was a counselor, and I was able to get away for an evening with a female counselor, it made for a romantic setting.
When two people are in a canoe, one is in the front, the bow, paddling, and the other is in the back, the stern, paddling and steering. (In a rowboat you can sit side-by-side and row together, or one can row—usually the male-- and the other—usually the female—is the passenger, facing the rower.) There is a similar hierarchy in canoeing. The person in the front, usually the female, provides the muscle, and the person in the back, usually the male, the brains. Usually, the man gallantly helps the woman into the bow, and when she is seated, he pushes off and gets in and determines the direction. Usually, they paddle on opposite sides, and when one gets tired, they switch sides. They can also switch positions returning, making the trip more egalitarian. However, the person in the back is looking at the back of the person in front, which makes conversation awkward.
I believe it was the summer of 1953, when Sylvia and I rented a campsite on an island in Lake George in the Adirondacks. We took a bus to Bolton Landing, picked up supplies and a canoe, and canoed to our site on Uncas. It was a wonderful adventure. The only concern of canoeists was a large tour boat that made enormous waves. The motor boats weren’t too much of a problem. We learned to turn our canoe into the waves so it wouldn’t hit us on the side, and rock the boat. (Another expression which has broader applicability.)
For several years in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, we rented a cottage on Bantam Lake in Connecticut, and also rented a canoe. We would go canoeing almost every day, with or without the kids. What I really loved most was going out on the lake by myself, as I had done a few times as a camper. I would paddle to the center of the lake, take a book, sit in the bottom of the canoe and read and drift. If there was no wind, I would sit in the stern, using a J stroke; if there was a wind, it would get scary and I would sit or kneel in the center of the canoe and paddle like crazy. Despite its name, Bantam Lake was a large lake, and on a few occasions, I paddled and drifted a mile or two from our dock. When the weather was calm, it was easy to paddle from the rear using a J stroke. But when the wind came up, it got scary. I would sit or kneel in the middle and paddle like crazy. It was fighting the elements, and I remember getting nervous when I found myself making very little progress. But eventually, I made it back, feeling that I had triumphed over nature.
When we moved to Washington, I discovered a canoe rental outfit in Georgetown. The Potomac was a great river for canoeing. It was such a pleasure to spend a day on the water. We would paddle down to the Tidal Basin and look up at the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, and across to the Washington Monument and the Mall. Then we might head further south to East Potomac Park and to Hains Point. Or we would dock on Theodore Roosevelt Island and picnic, or head north alongside the C and O Canal, toward Great Falls. I did this dozens of times with my kids, with friends, and alone.
In 1979, when I moved to Boston, I had other things on my mind besides canoeing. A new city, a new job, a new apartment and new friends. I met Fran, and through Fran, I met her friends Avi and Joann Ivry. And I learned that they liked to canoe too. After Fran and I married, Avi and I came up with the idea of buying a canoe together. We decided to get a canoe that could accommodate four adults. Avi learned that Charles River Canoe Rental sold used canoes after the season, and in the fall of 1982 or 1983, we each became half owners of a 15 foot Old Town Canoe, along with paddles and life jackets. I don’t know if it was fiberglass or polyethelene. I know it wasn’t birch bark or wood and canvas. It weighted about 80 pounds. Two people could manage lifting it up and taking it down from the car. We bought a car rack, and we alternated storing the canoe in our respective basements. Neither of us knew the finer points of canoe construction, but if it was good enough for Charles River Canoe Rental, it was good enough for us.
For the next few years, we did a bit of canoeing, but not enough to have saved money by owning our own canoe. A few times, we went out together, but four adults in the canoe were rather cramped. When Fran and I went out for the first time with David, he was very small and had no opinion. As he got older, he didn’t find it pleasurable. After a while, it got harder for Fran and me to lift up and take down the canoe. When the Ivry’s bought a summer home in Connecticut, we were delighted that they took the canoe with them. Visiting them over the next few years, Avi and I would do some canoeing on the lake, but then, because of my arthritis, I was having trouble getting in and out of the canoe.
My last canoeing experience was in my late 70s when Fran and I stayed at our friend Natalie Goodman’s cottage on Jenkins Pond in Falmouth. She had a small aluminum canoe, which was just right for the surroundings. We left it on the beach, turned over, and I managed to persuade every visitor to come canoeing with me. When David had friends visiting, they would take out the canoe, as well. It was a sad day when Natalie sold the cottage.
Canoeing, like almost every other sport, has become a thing of the past for me. But I have my memories.
8-10-01
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Canoeing
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Jacob Schlitt
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2001-08-10
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en
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Canoeing
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"I have to admit, I am not much of an athlete."
Childhood
Hobbies
Sports
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# 44 Music in My Life
For some people, their lives would be empty and unfulfilled without music. They may play an instrument, sing, attend concerts, dance, or simply listen to recorded music. Some have music as background wherever they can. And it doesn’t matter what kind of music. They have to have music. I can take it or leave it.
Growing up in the '30s in New York, most everyone was aware of pop music, the big bands, tin pan alley. Kids would buy song sheets for a nickel containing the words of the most popular songs, and would stand around, or sit on the stoop, and sing them. One of the most listened to radio programs was Your Hit Parade, and there were several programs featuring different popular bands, almost all of them with vocalists. I was not one of the kids who sang the songs, or who tuned in the musical programs on a regular basis. The sad truth was that I could not carry a tune. We all learned the songs, almost by osmosis, but you never saw me singing them. As we moved into our teen-age years, the kids who knew the songs and who followed the bands were the ones who became the cool lindy dancers and who were popular with the girls. They dressed sharper and were hipper. And those of us who weren’t "in" on the latest tunes, and didn’t "dig" the swing bands, were quietly jealous of them.
Running concurrently with our after-school musical education, was the music that was taught in our public schools. In PS 62 and JHS 52, we had "music" as part of our curriculum. From first grade on, we were required to sing in "assembly." We learned all the patriotic songs: The Star Spangled Banner, My Country Tis of Thee, America the Beautiful, Columbia the Gem of the Ocean, Over Hill, Over Dale, The Marine's Hymn, etc. Then there were the holiday songs: for Thanksgiving: We Gather Together, for Christmas: Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Come All Ye Faithful, Jingle Bells, etc. Then there was Americana: My Grandfather’s Clock, and Stephen Foster. We learned a lot of songs. But then came the awful moment when our music teacher asked each of us to sing individually. After listening, she designated some of us "listeners" and asked us not to sing with the rest of the class. I was designated a "listener." What shame! What stigma! What a stupid way to teach music. I can’t think of a better turn-off. To be told that you can't sing on key. What is a key, anyway? The fact is, we listeners still learned the stupid songs, and we know them to this day.
In junior high school, we were also exposed to classical music. We were taught about the orchestra, the instruments, the role of the conductor, and the great composers. And we listened to musical excerpts. Our teacher also taught us words to go with the music. For example: "This is the symphony that Schubert wrote but never finished." And "Amaryllis is a dance written for (or by?) the king of France." Or when we listened to "The Swan" or "To a Wild Rose" we were supposed to imagine the swan or the rose and were encouraged to make motions in the air, tracing them. That was really going to hook us on serious music.
Our homes were not without classical music, despite what our music teachers may have thought. I suspect most of my friends had, like myself, a Victrola in the house. It had been purchased in the '20s when it must have been the hottest new item around, along with the even more remarkable radio. The Victrola had a crank which wound it up when you wanted to listen to a record. After winding it up, you placed the record on the turntable, placed the arm with a needle on the record and the music came out of the bell shaped speaker. You had to be careful not to scratch the record when you placed the needle at the start of the record, and you had to be careful not to overwind the Victrola because that would make the record spin faster than 78 rpm, and the music would sound funny. And if the Victrola was underwound, it would go slower and sound funny in a different way. We had records by Enrico Caruso and Galli Curci singing operatic arias, and by several Cantors , and even some popular music. They were 12 inch records, recorded on only one side. One day, I really overwound the Victrola and I heard a spring pop, and the Victrola played no more. I tried turning the record on the turntable by hand, but ended up scratching the hell out of the record.
In junior high school our musical education was tremendously enriched by the performances our music teacher rehearsed us for. One, which my friends and I still remember was "The Ballad for Americans." But the most ambitious undertaking was the production of Gilbert and Sullivan's HMS Pinafore. Almost everybody in our class was in the play. It took a great deal of courage for Norman Perlmutter to agree to be little Buttercup. And even some of us "listeners" were allowed to be in the chorus. And I got hooked on G and S. (My gallant crew, good morning.)
In high school music appreciation I was exposed to a little more G and S because one of the students urged our teacher to include them. It was during that term I discovered that WQXR broadcast the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas every Saturday morning, and I made an effort to listen as often as I could. I even bought the Modern Library edition of "The Complete Plays of Gilbert and Sullivan" (for $1.95) and followed along with the D'oyly Carte recordings. Since I couldn’t carry a tune, and since I was so in love with these wonderful operettas, I tried to memorize the patter songs—I am the very model of a modern major general; when I was a lad etc. It was about this time that Danny Kaye was becoming well known and many of his songs had the same quality, and I tried to memorize them as well—I'm Anatole of Paris, Deena etc. It was not only the music but the marvelous play of words and rhymes that got me. How did Gilbert (and later Sylvia Fine) do it? When I started collecting records, the recordings of the various G and S operettas were among the first records that I bought, first in 78, then in LP.
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#44 Music in My Life
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Jacob Schlitt
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circa 2004/2008
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application/pdf
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English
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text
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1930s-today_Music_in_My_Life
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1930/2004
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"For some people, their lives would be empty and unfulfilled without music."
Childhood
Education
Music
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ad004f79fd97fc387a02b2f070ada69c
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# 2 NURSERY SCHOOL DAYS
When I was about five years old, my mother "enrolled" me in the Isaac Gerson Foundation Hebrew Day Nursery. The nursery was in a brownstone house on Beck Street off 156th St., between the large corner building, Juvenile House, (or Juvie, a Jewish "settlement house" which later became a Police Athletic League facility) and the brownstone owned by my cousin Louis’ wife’s family at 722 Beck St. I do not remember if my mother and I were still living at 566 Beck Street or if we had moved to Fox Street. I do remember that Beck Street between 156 St. and Avenue St. John, was tree-lined and had private homes, rather than apartment houses.
I have only a vague memory of my time at the nursery. Initially, my mother brought me there in the morning and picked me up in the afternoon. I do not remember attending kindergarten classes at PS 62. It is possible that I made my way from my first grade class to the nursery at 3 pm and my mother picked me up at the end of the day. I must have left the nursery at the completion of first grade or second grade.
The nursery school teacher was Miss Jean. I have no memory of any of the other children. However, I learned many years later that my friend Sol Rauch was also in the nursery. We might have been in the same group, played the same games, and took naps at the same time. Were we in one big room, or were there separate rooms for different age groups? Were there tables where children could draw and play games? I have no idea. The only memory I have of the nursery is the back yard, and I have a vision of myself standing there alone and cold.
I have wondered who Isaac Gerson was, but was unable to find anything from a Google search. Undoubtedly, a minor Jewish philanthropist who sought to help poor little Jewish boys and girls. My mother was remarkably resourceful.
The early thirties were very difficult years for my mother. My father had died in June 1931, and she was struggling to survive the depression with no income and no savings. Six years earlier, when times were good, my parents had moved from Manhattan to a four room apartment in 566 Beck Street in the Bronx. I was born two years later in Hunts Point Hospital on Kelly Street, a couple blocks away, in December 1927.
My mother saw to it that I received everything a baby needed. She must have read the Yiddish equivalent of Dr. Benjamin Spock, and for my first three years, I was hovered over and well provided for. I was an only child, born 11 years after my parents' marriage.
Among my mother's books and papers, I found an expensive, hard-bound, glossy papered book entitled "Baby’s Life" in which the parents are supposed to keep a record of the baby's birth and progress. These books are still gifts for new parents. My mother had written the date of birth: the eighteenth of December 1927, weight seven pounds, and had my father sign his name along with the doctor, Louis M. Kammal. The "Clergyman" who bestowed the "sacrament" which my mother must have made the equivalent of the Mohel was Rev. S. Libsohn. And the Baby’s Age and Weight are recorded as: 1 month—9 pounds, 2 months—10 pounds, 11 ounces, 3 months—12 pounds, 4 months—15 pounds, 6 months—20 pounds, 7 months—22 pounds. The baby’s first outing was January 7, 1928, and the baby’s first word was "ta" on July 30, 1928. The baby's first tooth was discovered on August 4, 1928. There were no more entries until my mother had me write about my 10th birthday, and three years later about my Bar Mitzvah.
The neighborhood photography studio was a very popular place in the '20's and '30's when not very many people had their own cameras. I have studio pictures of me as an infant, at six months and then at one, two, three and four years. I was surprised to see the four year photographs, realizing that my father had died six months before and there was no income.
It must have been because she tried to find work and had to make some provision for me, that she found the day nursery. My mother had worked as a "finisher"—the worker in a women's coat and suit factory who did the hand sewing on the garments. But it was the depression and there was no work. She then tried buying and selling second hand clothing. I have no first hand knowledge of this, nor did my mother tell me about her effort to enter this business, but I found business cards in our house with her name and address indicating that she is a buyer of used clothing. (Some years before, she had printed cards with her name, Mrs. C. Schlitt, address and phone number, and on the reverse side, her name and "of H. Goldstein, 6 Rue Victor Letalle, Paris." This was in 1926 when her life was good and she went to Paris to visit her sister and brother-in-law and their family.) Maybe this is where my fascination with business cards originated. When I was in high school. I carried playing cards and would present one with a flourish, announcing "my card, sir." I made sure to retrieve it since I didn't want to break up the deck. But I digress.
I have a vague memory of having come home from school, most likely first grade, and my mother was not home. I guess I then just hung out. Perhaps I had been told to go to the nursery and wasn't aware. Apparently, my mother went to the nursery to pick me up, and then she must have looked for me everywhere until we finally found each other. This may have resulted in my getting a key to the apartment. The term for young children like me who are entrusted with the house key because no parent is home is "latch key kids." I never though of myself as a latch key kid. In fact, it gave a youngster a feeling of importance to have his own house key. Unfortunately, I suspect I lost the key frequently. (That is why so many kids wore it around their necks on a ribbon.)
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#2 Nursery School Days
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Jacob Schlitt
Date
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circa 2004/2008
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application/pdf
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en
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text
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1934_NURSERY_SCHOOL_DAYS
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1934
Description
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"When I was about five years old, my mother 'enrolled' me in the Isaac Gerson Foundation Hebrew Day Nursery. "
Childhood
Elementary School (P.S. 62)
Father
Mother
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a404670b665b5ddc74a6e2cb8ea44433
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# 23 Election Days (first draft)
In six days, the United States will, hopefully, be electing a new president, and, thinking about it, I found myself reliving the first presidential election that I am able to remember.
It was the fall of 1936. I was not quite nine years old. President Franklin D. Roosevelt was in the White House and he was running for a second term against the Republican, Alfred M. Landon of Kansas. I believe Kansas is known as the Sunflower State, and Landon’s campaign buttons featured a sunflower.
The country was still suffering from the depression, my mother was unable to find work, and we were on relief. Roosevelt had observed that one third of the nation was ill-clothed, ill-housed and ill-fed, and he was going to change that. And my mother and I believed him. In fact, most everybody I knew, and most everybody in New York believed him and saw FDR as their salvation.
My mother had been a member of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union which had strong ties to the Socialist Party of Norman Thomas, but in 1936, they undid those ties, and officially supported FDR. Knowing that many of their members had never voted for, and would never vote for a "capitalist party" (and the Democratic Party was a capitalist party) the ILGWU together with a few other New York unions created the American Labor Party. This enabled tens of thousands of people to vote for FDR on the ALP line, without violating their principles.
I do not believe there was another president, with the possible exception of Lincoln, who was more loved, and who carried the hopes and dreams of so many. Hoover's depression had wiped out jobs and businesses, closed banks, and dispossessed people from their homes. I have a vivid memory of seeing people’s belongings on the sidewalks in my neighborhood. Apple sellers on corners were a reality. Every apartment house in the area had posted signs: "No Beggars and Peddlers Allowed".
My situation was compounded by the death of my father in 1931. We were left with nothing and my mother was unable to find work. Nor could her union be of help. They told her that there were no jobs for anyone, even active union members. She had taken a "withdrawal" from the union after she married, so she was no longer considered a member. However, she still saw herself as "union". She followed development in the union, and the union’s position on national affairs. She was pleased with the election of David Dubinsky as union president, and was delighted with the creation of the American Labor Party. And in the fall of 1936, she bought our first radio to hear the campaign speeches of FDR. We sat spellbound as we listened to that magnificent voice assuring America that things would get better.
He certainly convinced me! Soon after school started, I had established a routine. As we lined up in the afternoon to leave school, I would work my way to the blackboard and grab a few pieces of chalk. Then, on my way home from school, I would write "VOTE FOR FDR" on sidewalks and building walls all over the neighborhood. There were a few empty stores that had been taken over by the local Democratic party, which was obviously affiliated with Tammany Hall. A party functionary (usually referred to as a hack) sat behind a desk and dispensed palm cards, 4" x6" cards describing local candidates for office, as well as campaign posters and buttons. This was my introduction to campaign button collecting. I was never without an FDR button on my shirt or jacket. We did not have very high regard for the hacks, and had trouble reconciling their role with the noble cause of saving America that FDR had undertaken.
The American Labor Party did not have the funds to rent storefronts. They operated out of ILGWU union halls, but there were none in my neighborhood. It should be noted that a struggle ensued within the ALP in the early '40's, and by 1944, the left wing (pro-Communist, or if you prefer, not anti-Communist, faction) prevailed, the ILGWU and its supporters left and formed the Liberal Party. So New York now had two left wing third parties.
By the end of October 1936, there was no question with regard to Roosevelt’s reelection. This was also the beginning of national polling, and a defunct magazine, The Literary Digest, undertook a poll predicting that Landon would be elected. When the results were in and FDR was overwhelmingly reelected, it was observed that the pollsters did their polling by telephone, and only wealthy people had phones in 1936.
On election day, I had a pocketful of chalk and was busy chalking up the neighborhood. I remember going to the polls with my mother, staying up to listen to the radio, though I do not remember whether they were able to report on the results. Only two states voted for Landon, which resulted in the expression "As Maine goes, so goes Vermont."
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application/msword
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#23 Election Days (first draft)
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Jacob Schlitt
Date
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2004
Format
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application/pdf
Language
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en
Coverage
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1936
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Identifier
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1936_Election_Days
Description
An account of the resource
"In six days, the United States will, hopefully, be electing a new president, and, thinking about it, I found myself reliving the first presidential election that I am able to remember."
American Labor Party (ALP)
Childhood
ILGWU
Politics
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/71642/archive/files/ba0c7a2dc0d80e800fcb14778463fc09.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=OLpP1VZwRfQsZ2kg-CW06nNmDgnodPUkWn4df0ZgSZfQuxBQtoTa2Eep71QChhiEDCU4jQRT2FbHiMNXDuZNjnLiWBGCAQ8AQ4ijl3uK9CaVmuR1MIHa07BqH9pYHkpjtvTN5xUCTsoLGkIMZMMG8fuTk8bWRRVvC2HSETTcDcEkFXK5e84WEx3fS7jFX390NzTtrUItvc0zNSKGsX4DZhPr6Ga5eulRAD--ORCXGe9h57Y-WHnEVVyyQirHbuE5KgeBbWpHKtR%7Ebd8nfEUIkK-zkgsL0w7fSD-WS30tHG284x9HA-dT1AhWWmQnY4fKIUzG1h6mQ5vzFg3KeYUahQ__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
cdf88384d85c791188414359ba5ae070
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Autobiographical writing
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Text
Any textual data included in the document
THE PRIZE
I was 12 years old and had been going to Hebrew School for three years. It was located in the basement of the Hungarian shul down the block, which was also called the Fox Street Shul. However, its real name was Congregation Beth David Agudath Achim. I believe we paid tuition of twenty-five cents a week. It was 1939 in the Bronx, the depression, and we were on relief.
Though the main sanctuary of the synagogue was very impressive: a large auditorium with a balcony for the women; a beautiful carved ark with an embroidered red velvet cover, and a blue painted ceiling with white clouds and stars, the Hebrew classes were held in the dingy basement. There were three classrooms, but only one was used because there was only one teacher: Mr. Zinder. He taught all the classes from first year through Bar Mitzvah, and as the boys approached 13, he would prepare them for Bar Mitzvah, working with them on the prayers, their Haftorah, and their speech. Classes were an hour a day, Monday through Thursday, and on Sunday when Mr. Zinder would teach Yiddish and tell us stories. We learned to read and write Hebrew, to translate Genesis, we were taught the prayers from the siddur, and we learned about the Jewish holidays.
The high point for me was that special day each spring when Mr. Zinder would distribute the blue and white boxes (or pushkes) to collect money for the Jewish National Fund, Keren Kayemes L'Yisroal. The boxes were round, constructed of cardboard, and had a metal bottom and top which had a slot. Each student was given a box and a handful of blue flowers or buttons. We were instructed to give a flower or a button to those who made large contributions, which at that time meant anyone who gave you ten cents or more. In the late 30's, the usual contribution was a few pennies. I was always excited when I saw "silver" being placed in the slot, and I would present the flower or button to the generous contributor with a heartfelt "Thank you very much!"
Mr. Zinder had explained to us that the money we raised was to be used to purchase land in Palestine for a Jewish homeland. We were shown films about the brave chalutzim--pioneers--who were turning the desert into a garden and who were surrounded by hostile forces. I felt deeply that I had a personal responsibility to raise as much money as I could for such an important cause. But if this was not motivation enough, Mr. Zinder announced that prizes would be awarded to the three students who brought in the most money.
I had been involved in collecting money for the Jewish National Fund for each of the three years that I had been in Hebrew School. The year before, I came in second and was given a dip pen with a picture of the Cave of Machpela. This year I vowed to win first prize which was always an Ingersol pocket watch, know as the Ingersol Buck, because it sold for one dollar.
As soon as the boxes were distributed, I started to make the rounds of the apartment houses in my neighborhood, trying to get to them before the other kids. I went from door to door (which I later learned was both Yiddish and Hebrew for "generation to generation"). I would knock on the door, or ring the bell. Most people would ask, "Who is it?" and I would reply, "Please help the Jewish National Fund." Occasionally, I would be told from behind the door, "not interested" or "I gave already" which I knew couldn't be true because the boxes had just been distributed. Most of the time, my neighbors would open the door, rummage about for a few cents, drop them into the box, and smile. A few would pat me on the head and say something like "a leibn oif dein cup" (literally "a life on your head") or "git kint" (good child). The first coins always sounded the loudest. As the box filled, the dull clink was music to my ears.
The following morning, I would rush down to the Longwood Avenue subway entrance to catch the rush hour crowd. Most would be in too much of a hurry, but there were enough givers to make this effort worthwhile. Then I would rush off the school. I wanted to go into the subway and work my way up and down the aisles of the subway cars, calling out "Please Help the Jewish National Fund!", but my mother would not let me. She was afraid that someone might grab the box away from me, and that I might get hurt. But I was back at the subway entrance when the rush hour crowd returned in the evening, and I went to all the neighborhood stores, approaching customers as well as storekeepers. Each night, I would feel the box getting heavier. When my mother wasn't looking, I would turn the box upside down,take a butter knife, slip it into the slot and maneuver it to remove some of the coins which I would immediately put back, overcome with guilt.
The day finally came when we had to return the boxes to Mr. Zinder. Before we turned in our boxes, we would check each other's for weight, and for silver; I felt fairly confident as I compared what I had collected to the others. Our names were written on the boxes, and Mr. Zinder appointed a committee to assist him in cutting open the boxes and counting their contents. The results would be announced the following day.
The next day, the results were posted. I had collected the most money in my Hebrew school! I was to receive the first prize! My efforts were to be rewarded. My heart was pounding in anticipation. I don't remember ever looking forward to anything with as much excitement. I had won the watch!
When Mr. Zinder called me up to make the presentation, I was bursting with pride. He congratulated me; he shook my hand, and he handed me a one dollar bill. I was shocked and deeply disappointed. Where was the watch? He apologized that he did not have time to buy the watch, but he was sure I would be happy with the first prize that he had just handed me. Absolutely not! What am I supposed to do with a dollar? If I brought it home, my mother would use it to buy food or put it to the rent. I wanted that watch!
Suddenly, the idea occurred to me to go to the jewelry store on the corner of Westchester and Prospect Avenue, and buy the watch myself, which, though stricken with guilt, is what I did. I came home, a little later than usual, and announced to my mother that I had raised the most money for the Jewish National Fund and won first prize. I showed her the watch. She was very proud of me. But I always felt a little funny about that watch.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
application/msword
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Prize
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jacob Schlitt
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2004-05
Format
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application/pdf
Language
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en
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
1939
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
1939_the_prize_5-4
Description
An account of the resource
"I was 12 years old and had been going to Hebrew School for three years."
Childhood
Education
Israel
Jewish Identity
Judaism
Mother
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/71642/archive/files/573f1e3c1e7b8a2fd6faf41a9fa9e6da.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=Ayi7hnabNl5uDuuv2fQs6uh%7ECJegDN6Otrl1GhySWmMfCz08D-IfMWfDgr1TuaTDEgwRYABSURLUGqXG4HWw9-UBD3KQZ319iLoFiR5I3yZpAy-2p-lPVPAh2bhqhxnQB2zbFGIYsAemePXBnd-NKwJhzbcYSdy6rtwNVfFAnIqSZK-X3yaBVy-Q%7EeMhI9YPjCMymP7bm9dHeTtjddulUYSiLyeM88KtpRBeP3KRPj2R-C7bdI-dc2SaYZehTF-ViQREmTmEITW7lwBVnjKVp72J5tWyExc2GP0ZJ4PlZMAwB2o2MSdVGasB-d-0goOWunNG2t3hIzHe343Uf1yClA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
e8a5415e69b16a7c9645c225eec98b12
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Numbered memoirs
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Text
Any textual data included in the document
# 9 The Prize
I was 12 years old and had been going to Hebrew school for about three years. It was the spring of 1940, the country was still in the depression and my mother and I were still on relief. My father had died in 1931 when I was 3 years old, and he had left no money. Somehow, my mother managed to see to it that we had food on the table and a roof over our heads.
We lived in a two room apartment on Fox Street in the Bronx; our rent was $25 a month. The landlord, Mr. Gordon, had asked for $30 but agreed to $25, rather than leave the apartment vacant. My Hebrew school was in the basement of the Hungarian synagogue a block away. It was called the Fox Street Shul, but its real name was Congregation Beth David Agudath Achim. My mother had arranged with the synagogue for me to attend class for a token payment of twenty-five cents a week,
The main sanctuary of the synagogue was large and impressive, and whenever I entered, I felt that I was in a sacred place. The endless rows of polished oak pews. The ark with its embroidered red velvet cover behind which were the Torah scrolls, and the "bima" or raised platform, enclosed by a brass railing, with an ornate table upon which the Torah was placed. What impressed me most was the ceiling: a surprisingly realistic blue sky with clouds and stars.
Unfortunately, our Hebrew school classes were held in the dingy basement. There were three classrooms, but only one was used, since there was only one teacher: Mr. Zinder. He taught all the classes from first year through "last", and after class, as the boys approached 13, he would prepare them individually for their Bar Mitzvah. Classes were an hour a day Monday through Thursday and on Sunday. We learned to read and write Hebrew, to recite the prayers, and given a smattering of Jewish history and the holidays.
The moment I looked forward to with greatest anticipation was when Mr. Zinder would distribute the round blue and white boxes which were used to collect money for the Jewish National Fund, Kerem Kayemes L‘yisrael. Each student was given a box and a handful of blue felt flowers or later, small blue and white pins. We were instructed to give the flower or pin to anyone making a "large" contribution, which at the time meant ten cents or more. Before the boxes were distributed, Mr. Zinder explained that the money was to be used to purchase land in Palestine for a Jewish homeland. We were also shown films about the brave Jewish pioneers who were transforming the desert into a garden. I felt a personal responsibility to raise money for such an important cause, but if more motivation was needed, Mr. Zinder announced that prizes would be awarded to the three students who collected the most money.
This was my fourth year as a Jewish National Fund collector. The year before, I had come in second, and had been given a dip pen as my prize. This year, I vowed to win first prize which had always been an Ingersol pocket watch, known as the Ingersol Buck because it sold for one dollar.
As soon as the boxes were distributed, I started to make the rounds of the apartment houses in my neighborhood. It was vital that I got there before anyone else, so as not to be told "I gave already." I would knock on the door or ring the bell. "Who is it?" I would be asked. "Please help the Jewish National Fund," I would reply. Sometimes I would be told "Not interested," but most of the time my neighbors, who had very little themselves, would open the door, rummage about for a few cents, drop them into the box and smile at the earnest boychik and perhaps remark, "A leibn oif dein cop" (literally, "a life on your head.")
The following morning, I would rush down to the Longwood Avenue subway station to catch the rush hour crowd going to work. Then I would rush off to school. I wanted to ride the subway after school, going from car to car calling out "Please help the Jewish National Fund," but my mother would not let me. She was afraid that someone would take the box from me. Nevertheless, I was back at the subway entrance when the rush hour crowd returned in the evening. And I would go to all the neighborhood stores, approaching customers as well as storekeepers. I really worked the neighborhood.
The day finally came when we turned in the boxes. Before they were returned, we would check each other’s boxes for weight, and turn them upside down to see if there was more silver than copper. Mr. Zinder had appointed a committee to assist him in cutting open the boxes and counting their contents. The results would be announced the next day.
I was breathless with anticipation. And then Mr. Zinder announced the winners. I had collected the most money for the Jewish National Fund in my Hebrew School! I was to receive the first prize. My efforts were to be rewarded. It was the most exciting event of my young life. I was to receive the Ingersol Buck, my first watch!
All the classes were gathered for the presentations. When Mr. Zinder called me, I was bursting with pride. He congratulated me. He shook my hand. And then he presented me with a dollar bill. I was shocked. Where was the watch? He apologized that he did not have time to buy the watch, but knew that I would be happy with this substitute prize. Not at all! If I brought it home, my mother would most likely use it for food or rent. I wanted the watch.
When I left the Hebrew school, rather than relishing my triumph, I felt cheated and disappointed. Suddenly, the idea occurred to me to go to the jewelry store on the corner of Westchester and Prospect Avenue and buy the watch myself. Stricken with guilt, I did it. I came home, a little later than usual because of the detour, and with mixed feelings because of my deception, I announced to my mother that I had raised the most money, won first prize, and showed her the watch. She was very proud of me. But I always felt a little funny about that watch.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
application/msword
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
#9 The Prize
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jacob Schlitt
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2004-05
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Language
A language of the resource
en
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
1939_The_Prize
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
1939
Description
An account of the resource
"I was 12 years old and had been going to Hebrew school for about three years."
Childhood
Education
Israel
Jewish Identity
Judaism
Mother