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Autobiographical writing
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…AND REMAINS A COW
My mother had an expression which struck me as a meanspirited put-down, but rather accurate: In Yiddish: "A kee gayt tzum Kiev, un kimt fun Kiev, un blaybt a kee." Translation: "A cow goes to Kiev (the big city) and returns from Kiev and remains a cow." I suspect it was said about the nouveau-riche who were taking the "Grand Tour" visiting London, Paris, Rome (and maybe Kiev) who came home no wiser than when they left.
This comes to mind as I think about all the people I met and worked with in the years that I was with the ILGWU and the Jewish Labor Committee. In my case, I, the cow, didn’t go to Kiev, but to the various offices where I worked: 1710 Broadway, 137 West 46th Street and 25 East 78th Street. And during those years from 1950 to 1962, I, the cow, came in contact with a number of legendary figures, and I (like a cow) wasn't wise enough to realize how remarkable they were, what extraordinary qualities they had, and what stories they had to tell.
In May of 1950, I became part of the ILGWU Training Institute. The President of the ILGWU was David Dubinsky. He had been President since 1933, his term coinciding with and continuing beyond FDR's. It may have been his idea to create the Training Institute, a sort of West Point for future union leaders. Dubinsky would look in on our classes from time to time, and engage us in discussions. He was one of the most powerful labor leaders of the period and one of the most innovative: a 35 hour week, health benefits and a union health center, retirement benefits, political action—the formation of the Jewish Labor Committee, the American Labor Party, and then the Liberal Party, FM radio station WFDR, etc.
The person hired to direct the Training Institute was Arthur Elder, a leader in worker’s education. He was responsible for putting together the curriculum and the teaching staff. This was separate from the Union's Education Department headed by Mark Starr, a British labor educator and advocate of Esperanto, and Fannia Cohn. I later learned (from Benjamin Stolberg's Tailor's Progress that Starr was a hod carrier’s helper at 13, a miner at 14, a writer of labor education texts and named director in 1935. And Fannia Cohn was described by Louis Levine in his 1924 history of the Women's Garment Workers as having come from Russia in 1904, active unionist since 1909, vice-president since 1916, and executive secretary of the education department since 1918.
Intl. Dubinsky
Kirtzman,
Arthur Elder,
Makin, Gladnick,
Mark Starr, Fania Cohn,
Gus Tyler, Res Dir Lazar Tepper, Wilbur Daniels, Bill Gomberg, Leon Stein,
Local 38 Sorkin, Casotta, Brahinsky, Torchinsky, Laura Wolf, Ann Cagliari, --Folkways: Moe Asch and Marian Distler, WEVD—Zvee Scooler.
Local 99 Shelly Appleton, Doug Levin Rae Brandstein, Ben Laboda, Nick Mule, (Little Rock HS kid)
JLC Charles Zimmerman, Adolph Held, Jacob Pat, Benj Tabachisky, Sara Jacob, Lazar Epstein, Zalman Lichtenstein, Nathan Chanin, Will Stern, Joseph Mlotek, Rose Pesotta, Manny Muravchik, S. Estrin, Phil Heller, Bund, Scherer, Yiddish artists—poet Jacob Glatstein, Jewish Culture Congress-Hyman Bass, WC) Walter Kirschenbaum , Betty Kaye Taylor, Israel Knox, field reps,
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application/msword
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...And Remains a Cow
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
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"My mother had an expression which struck me as a meanspirited put-down, but rather accurate: In Yiddish: 'A kee gayt tzum Kiev, un kimt fun Kiev, un blaybt a kee.'"
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2004/2009
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application/pdf
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text
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en
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1950/1962
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...AND_REMAINS_A_COW
ILGWU
Jewish Labor Committee (JLC)
Mother
Yiddish
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# 101 CARS
It was 9:55 AM on Thursday August 14, 2008, and I had just returned from saying goodbye to my 1999 Toyota Camry. A tow truck from Insurance Auto Auctions came this morning to take it away, and I felt a sadness. It reminded me of the time I sold my jazz records to a record dealer. I mentioned that I would miss them, and he asked me if I wanted a few minutes alone with them.
We had driven that car for an additional 75,000 miles and most recently had taken a trip to Rochester, Toronto and Ann Arbor to visit our son David. And now I had just driven my Camry (I never gave it a name) out of the garage for the last time, and parked it behind the tow truck to make it easier for Mr. Bernier, the tower. I then patted the car on the hood, made sure I took the transponder, and left with a heavy heart.
That Camry has been through an awful lot with us. We bought it exactly six years ago from Elias Audy’s Cypress Automart. A few months before, I asked Elias if he would look for a good, low mileage three year old Camry when he went to the auto auctions. He came up with this one which had 40,000 miles, was in great condition and had several bells and whistles, like a moon roof, and a remote. The reason we got rid of it was because we had been rear ended and the appraiser totaled it.
As usual, I am trying to remember the first car in my life. It starts with the fantasy in the spring of 1952 when, with our friends Sidney and Barbara, Sylvia and I came up with the idea of buying a car and taking a trip across the country. The only problem was that we didn’t know how to drive. But that didn't stop us. We would take lessons and learn. So we took lessons, but we realized that we had to do more than take lessons: we had to practice, because we had to pass a driving test to get our driver's licenses. But how do you practice if you don't have a car?
We came up with the idea of renting a car. But you need a license to rent a car. It turns out that Sylvia’s father, Sam Feig, had a driver's license, but he hadn’t driven in years. When we approached him with the request that he rent the car, he was agreeable. There was a car rental agency on Jerome Avenue, so early one Saturday morning, Sam and I took the trolley to Jerome Avenue, rented a car for the day, and Sam drove it away. After a couple of blocks, I took over, drove it home, and Sid, Barbara, Sylvia and I spent the rest of the day practicing driving on the empty streets near the East River.
In 1952, practically all the cars were standard shift. We were working on perfecting shifting without stalling: give gas while easing off the clutch; figure out when to shift from first to second, and from second to third. We also practiced how to make a broken U turn; how to parallel park; and how to drive in reverse. There was a lot to learn. Toward evening, we returned to Fox Street, picked up Sam and drove back to the car rental agency. When we approached Jerome Avenue, we turned the car over to Sam. He got behind the wheel and as he was making a left turn onto Jerome Avenue, he hit one of the elevated's poles. Jerome Avenue is a difficult and unpleasant street to drive. The elevated trains of the IRT run above it, and it is heavily trafficked. Sam was horrified and embarrassed. We told him not to worry; we had insurance. Humiliated, Sam drove into the agency's lot, we paid for the day's rental and the deductible, and sadder and poorer, we took the trolley home.
We did not let this unfortunate incident stop us. In fact we became more determined to go through with our plan to learn how to drive, get a car and drive across the country. Again, Sylvia's family was going to come through for us. Louis Pastor, Sylvia's brother-in-law, had become a used car dealer the year before, and when he learned that we were in the market for a car, insisted that he would get us a "cream puff" at a bargain price. The following week he came up with a green 1948 Ford. It looked fine and had low mileage. And it cost $750 which sounded reasonable. Lou had really come through. So now we had a car, but we still didn't have driver’s licenses. We needed someone who had a driver's license to be with us as we practiced: My friend Mel Schwartz. It was an imposition. He lived in Brooklyn, and he was busy, but he agreed to spend a Saturday with us. So bright and early, Mel came to our house, we showed him the car, picked up Sidney and Barbara and drove back to the empty streets near the East River to spend the day practicing. We really were beginning to get the hang of driving. The best driver among us was Barbara, but we attributed that to the fact that her father drove a truck for Horn and Hardart, and before that, for a milk company.
As the day was ending, Mel felt he had to tell us something he suspected about the car: he believed it was a repainted cab. Impossible! Our brother-in-law wouldn't sell us a repainted cab. Mel explained that, as a sideline, his brother would buy cabs in New Jersey, have them repainted and sell them in New York at a sizable profit. He then pulled away the rubber from around the door and there it was: the car had originally been yellow. Mel suggested we call the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Bureau, which Sylvia did first thing Monday morning, and discovered that our cream puff of a car had been a cab. We called Lou with the sad news. He was horrified, explaining that he had gotten the car from a wholesaler; that he told the wholesaler, whom he had dealt with before, that the car was for his sister-in-law and brother-in-law; and that he had been assured that it was a cream puff.
Heartbroken, Lou took the car back and returned our money to us. By this time, we saw the foolishness of our plan. The idea that four inexperienced drivers drive cross-country was a bit foolhardy. Sylvia and I began to rethink our plan and decided that a better way to see America was by hitchhiking. We suggested it to Sid and Barbara, but they demurred. Thanks, but no thanks. We couldn't hitchhike together—nobody picks up four people. We couldn't count on getting lifts to the same places at the same time. It really wouldn't work. We promised to send them post cards and began figuring out how we would hitchhike from New York to California and back.
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application/msword
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#101 Cars
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
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"It was 9:55 AM on Thursday August 14, 2008, and I had just returned from saying goodbye to my 1999 Toyota Camry."
Date
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2008
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application/pdf
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text
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en
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1952/2008
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CARS
Bronx
Hitchhiking
Reading Out Loud (R.O.L.)
Sylvia
Travel
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88e4b28cdf3602ccacf7da51a1248f29
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Numbered memoirs
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# 102 My Draft Board and Me
What follows describes my nine-year "Herculean" struggle with my draft board to avoid the draft. I was prompted to write this when I came across the file of correspondence with my draft board: all the official letters, orders, certificates, reports, forms, and Notices of Classification, the official name for draft cards.
The first letter in my file is dated December 27, 1945. It is from The President of the United States, though it was signed by Leon Goldman, member of Local Board 80 of Bronx County, 809 Westchester Avenue. It said, "Greeting: You are hereby directed to report for preinducttion physical at 809 Westchester Ave. at 10 am on the 5th of January 1946."
Some background: In the spring of 1945, I was a senior in high school, the war was raging, and recruiters from the army, the navy, and the marines swarmed over our class, trying to persuade us to enlist. Several of my friends did, including Mel Schulman who entered the army, and Phil Bernstein who chose the navy, It was supposed to be advantageous to enlist rather than wait to be drafted. If you enlisted you could choose your branch of service. Otherwise you might end up in the infantry. You could enlist at 17 or wait to be drafted at 18. By May 8, the war ended in Europe, and on August 14, after the atomic bomb was dropped, the Japanese surrendered, and the war ended in the Pacific. I would turn 18 on December 18. And despite the fact that the war ended, the draft continued.
On January 5, 1946, I was given my preinduction physical and was found "physically fit, acceptable for general military service." The next document in my file is "Registrant's Affidavit—Family Status and Dependents" in which I listed my family group--my mother and myself--and our incomes. I was sent a postal card on January 21, asking me to report for a hearing before the Local Board on January 23. On February 4, I was notified that my "…complete file will be submitted to the Appeal Board on or before February 8, 1946. It is advisable for you to submit the reasons that you believe entitle you to deferment." I tried to make the case that drafting me would create a hardship for my mother, and that I was a full time college student. On March 14, I was advised that my induction has been stayed until June 16, 1946. And for the next two years, each fall and spring, I would submit proof that I was a full time college student and my 1A status was changed to 2 S.
In 1948, the draft ended. There are no more letters, notices, or orders--until September 25, 1950. The draft had been reinstated as a result of the "Korean conflict." The letter from Lillian Bick, clerk of Local Board 19, 1910 Arthur Avenue, stated: "You are hereby directed to report for armed forces physical examination at 39 Whitehall St. at 6:45 am on the 2nd of October 1950." And so I did. And on October 2, I received a Certificate stating that I was found acceptable for induction into the armed services. This was followed on October 19 by an "Order to Report for Induction" to 44 Whitehall Street at 8 am on Nov. 2. However, I was part of the ILGWU Training Institute which was a full time college equivalent program, On October 19, I was notified that: "Your induction into the armed forces heretofore fixed for November 2, 1950…is hereby postponed until April 30, 1951…" The Training Institute program ended on April 30, 1951. I should note that my draft board had moved from Westchester Avenue to Arthur Avenue, and it was no longer Local Board 80, but Local Board 19. My new Selective Service Number was 50-19-27-1022.
When the Training Institute ended, I thought I might keep out of the Army by getting a job at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I was offered a position as an instructor in academic subjects in the Yard’s apprenticeship program, but it was made clear that no draft board would defer anyone on the basis of such a job. I took the job anyway,
While all this was going on, I had fallen in love. Through the months of April, May and June, Sylvia was uppermost in my thoughts. In July, she left for Camp Welmet where she was to be a counselor. In August, I went up to visit her and she told me that they needed another counselor. I left my job at the Navy Yard and joined Sylvia at camp. When we returned home, I applied to NYU graduate school. I also asked Sylvia to marry me. NYU accepted me; a month later Sylvia accepted me.
September 1951 was another busy month involving my draft board. On September 20, I was ordered to report for induction (again). This time on October 3rd. Another letter dated September 20, states: "This will advise you the recent evidence submitted concerning your case has been reviewed by this Local Board, but it does not justify the reopening…" A week later I received a letter postponing induction until October 24th in order to afford me the opportunity to present my case: that I was a fulltime student in the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences of New York University. I was deferred, and continued to be deferred until January 1954.
Immediately after I was accepted at NYU and got my deferment, I went to the ILGWU and was hired as an organizer ($60 a week) with Local 38. From the fall of 1951 until January 1954, I worked full time at Local 38, and carried 12 credits as a graduate student at NYU. On December 22, 1951, Sylvia and I were married. The years 1952 and 1953 may well have been the busiest years of my life. I had my hands full at work, and I found myself unable to keep up with my classes. I felt like a fraud claiming to be studying for a Doctorate in Labor Economics, and not having the time to do the readings.
At the end of the fall semester, I notified my draft board that I am no longer enrolled at NYU. I had visions of the draft board jumping for joy, and shouting that they finally got me. Instead I received a Postal Card dated Feb. 12, 1954 asking me to report to the Local Board February 17, at 7:30 pm for an interview. I believe I asked them if they would be kind enough to take me after Passover. They said they would take me when they felt like it, not when I felt like it.
In February 1954, I left my job at Local 38, and Sylvia and I flew down to Miami to visit her folks, and then hitchhiked from Miami to visit friends in Phoenix. I notified my draft board when we returned in March.
On April 20, 1954 (after Passover) I received another letter from the President by way of my draft board: "Greeting …you are hereby ordered to the Joint Examining and Induction Station…at 7:30 am on the 4 day of May, 1954…where you will be examined…" Now it gets confusing. When I had the physical examination, they found sugar in my urine. I was very excited, thinking I might be rejected. I was told to report to Governor's Island where I would be kept overnight for a more thorough examination. Independently of the Army physical, I saw my doctor and had a blood sugar specimen taken, and in a letter dated May 27, 1954 the report indicated that my blood contained 86 mgs. of sugar per 100cc, and the norm was 80-120 mgs. Oh well. And nothing was found at the Governor's Island examination to cause me to be rejected, despite the fact that I ate four candy bars before being examined.
On May 17, in my last letter from my draft board, they wrote triumphantly and finally: "You are hereby ordered to report to the Armed Forces Induction Station…on Tuesday June 1, 1954 at 9 am for Induction." My nine year struggle was over. My draft board won. And I was on my way to Fort Dix, New Jersey for basic training.
June 27, 2008
Revised April 16, 2009
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application/msword
Dublin Core
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Title
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#102 My Draft Board and Me
Creator
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
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"What follows describes my nine-year 'Herculean' struggle with my draft board to avoid the draft."
Date
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2008-06-27/2009-04-16
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application/pdf
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text
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en
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1945/1954
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1945-54_My_Draft_Board_and_Me
Army Service
Career
Reading Out Loud (R.O.L.)
Sylvia
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Dublin Core
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Title
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Numbered memoirs
Text
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# 103 AGING
On December 18, 2007, I turned 80. The thought that has haunted me ever since is, “Now I am REALLY old.” I didn’t feel old at 79. I loved telling people who I met for the first time (obviously, when it was appropriate to the conversation) that I was 79, and they would look at me and observe, “I would never have guessed it,” or “You certainly don’t look 79.” Now I am beginning to feel old. Hopefully, I still don’t look it, but how are you supposed to look? Car salesmen talk about a car’s mileage, rather than its years. And they refer to themselves as “… not old. I just have a lot of miles on me.” Some old performer is supposed to have commented that if he knew he was going to live so long, he would have taken better care of himself. A piece of advice I once received was that if you want to live a long life, pick the right parents. It’s in the genes.
For years, my friend Sol constantly referred to himself as an old man, and he is a year younger than me. He keeps sharing medical information from the NY Times and the Wall Street Journal. I skim it and discard it. Fran gets all kinds of health newsletters, and takes every kind of vitamin, mineral and diet supplement. Last week Sol informed us that he has been diagnosed with Parkinsons. His doctors had apparently misdiagnosed his tremor for the past two years.
It is one year since Fran was diagnosed with lung cancer. Last week was not a good week for receiving news. My friend Phil called to tell me that he had seen his doctor who told him that he should no longer drive. A couple years ago, Phil and his wife Martha moved into an independent living facility in Doylestown, PA. Martha, who had had a stroke, breast cancer, is overweight, has weak ankles, uses a walker and/or a wheel chair, and is going to move into the nursing home section. Phil will give up their two bedroom apartment and move into a studio.
For some time, I have been observing my deterioration, almost as a spectator. I have been very fortunate over the years. The first thing to go was my 20-20 vision. It was about 35 years ago when I picked up a telephone book to find a number, and realized that I couldn’t read it. I held the book closer, then further away, then brought it closer to a light. Nothing doing—a blur. I saw an ophthalmologist who told me that I have excellent sight for a person my age. I was given a prescription for eye glasses and went to For Eyes to have it filled. I convinced myself that I looked more intellectual with glasses. Besides, they were half glasses, and I only wear them when I read.
Some years ago, I was visited by more and more floaters and flashes—those funny specks and lights that you see, but that aren’t there. Back to my ophthalmologist who examined me and sent me to a specialist, suspecting a torn retina. That’s what it was. The specialist sat me down in a special chair, making sure that my head won’t move, and shot bright lights—lasers--at my eye, which he described as spot welding. The retina was repaired. Amazing what they can do these days. A couple of annual visits to the specialist to make sure everything is OK, and we are back in business, though I still get floaters. As Fran would say, “I am so lucky.” It wasn’t a detached retina. It wasn’t macular degeneration. It wasn’t glaucoma or cataracts. As I tell her, “If I was really lucky, I wouldn’t have had a torn retina, and wouldn’t have required laser surgery.” I also picked up lots of pamphlets about eye problems at the specialist’s office. Maybe Fran was right.
About 20 years ago, I spent a weekend with friends in Hunter New York. We played tennis throughout the weekend. After our last game, my knee was hurting, but I didn’t give it a thought. We drove home and I had forgotten all about the pain, until I tried to get out of the car. I could hardly stand. The next morning, I called my doctor. I saw him, and he told me to see an orthopedist. He believed I had osteoarthritis in my knees. The orthopedist confirmed it.
Over the next several years—cortisone shots, arthroscopic surgery, pain killers, glucosamine and condroitin-- and lots of pain. No more tennis, bike riding, jogging, or even walking up and down stairs without holding on. I have trouble bending to pick up anything, and am unable to squat. I will never be able to catch for the Red Sox. I have almost become the person who fell and couldn’t get up. I bought a cane to help me on icy and uneven surfaces, but I usually forget to take it. On several occasions I have become immobilized on ice or uneven surfaces, convinced I was going to fall. Because of the arthritis? I don’t know. As with all ailments, I began to read articles about it: One in seven Americans have some form of arthritis. It means joint inflammation. It begins when the cartilage breaks down. Half of us over 65 have osteoarthritis. Toward the end of 2007, I checked around for the name of the best knee replacement surgeon and was told Richard Scott. I called his office at New England Baptist in January, and I was given an appointment to see him in July. He is a very busy doctor. I saw him, and we have a date for knee replacement surgery in December. He is a very busy doctor. *
About 10 years ago, I noticed I was having trouble hearing, especially in noisy places. When I went to the theatre, I couldn’t hear the actors, and started using those devices to help you hear. OK. Time to see an audiologist. I had my hearing tested and was told I was “borderline.” The audiologist showed me the audiogram. The line went straight across from 125 to 500 Hertz (whatever that means) but then took a dive from 500 to 8000. It reminded me of the graphs describing the depression. My hearing loss was “moderate to moderately severe sensorineural… starting at 750 Hz in both ears.”
So for the next five years, I sat closer to speakers, asked friends to repeat themselves, and read articles about hearing loss and what can be done about it. The answer: get a hearing aid. But what kind? In the ear, in the canal, behind the ear. And where? I wasn’t impressed with the people at the BI Division of Audiology where I had been tested. I was told that the former head of the Division, Dr. David Vernick, had his own office in Chestnut Hill. I saw him, but he turned me over to someone else. I then went to Mass. Eye and Ear. They must be the real specialists. But they are all the way downtown.
Finally, I decided to check out Boston Hearing Services located right here at Brook House. How convenient. Bob Sanderson seemed competent. Each doctor that I saw recommended Behind the Ear hearing aids. They all seemed to have the same range of hearing aids and the same prices, and since Boston Hearing Services was so convenient, that’s where I went. I did some minimal research on the internet. I sent for pamphlets from the National Institute on Deafness and other Communicable Disorders and a reprint from the FDA Consumer on Age-Related Hearing Loss. By March 2005, I had made up my mind: Behind the Ear from Boston Hearing. As always, we settled on “the middle range.” Not the cheapest and not the most expensive. The GN Resound Canta 4 Model 470 D was $2000 each. It is “fully digital…state of the art technology…customized programs…adjusted to (my) individualized hearing loss.” Molds cost $150 but I received a $100 discount. Love those discounts. My health plan reduced the final cost by $1300. Not bad. And Boston Hearing threw in a carton of batteries. The hearing aids came in a lovely black leather pouch with a matching leather purse attached by velcro inside the pouch. In the purse, there is a small brush with a metal wire loop which you are supposed to use to clean the hearing aids. Each hearing aid is in an oval blue box lined in rubber. The hearing aid with the red dot goes behind the right ear.
I now have had my hearing aids for 3 1/2 years. I am sure they are going to last a long time, because I hardly ever wear them. When I do, the earmold begins to irritate my ear after a few hours. I told this to the audiologists at Boston Hearing, and they made another earmold. They still irritate. I guess it’s me. I don’t like anything in my ears. I don’t use ear plugs to keep out sound. They are irritating. I try to remember to wear my hearing aids when we go to the movies or the theatre or to a lecture, or anywhere where there will be lots of people like a meeting or a party. But sometimes I forget. When I remember, and when the evening is over, I remove them and place them in my handkerchief, since I don’t carry those pretty little oval blue boxes with me.
My friend Bob was the first among us to need hearing aids. We assume his hearing loss came from proximity to the firing of M1 rifles in the army, He has used every kind of hearing aid made. Sol has complained of hearing loss as well. And now, Fran, as a result of the chemotherapy, has had hearing loss. She chose to use Dr. Vernick and they prescribed what may be the next generation of Behind the Ear: smaller and an almost invisible tube to the ear. The manufacturer is Phonak; the price is about the same. She seems to be having trouble with them not working. They are so small. **
This started out to be a summary of my various infirmities as I aged. I wanted to keep it light. First, eyes, then knees, then ears. Then I was going to write about something related to the heart-- irregular heartbeat for which I am taking a beta blocker.
To summarize my problems: memory, learning, dexterity, balance, unable to ride a bike, run, play tennis, crouch, walk stairs without holding on, walk on icy, uneven surfaces, “erectile dysfunction,” disorganization, psoriasis, skin dryness, dizziness, occasional incontinence, lack of energy. And I haven’t even mentioned dental problems. I am on the way to a partial bridge.
I then begin to think about my friends who are no longer here, and all those struggling with various forms of illness, including Fran: Sid and Mel gone as a result of pancreatic cancer. David Elkin and his long struggle with Parkinsons. And now Sol is diagnosed with Parkinsons. Irv Weinstein, somehow coming to terms with Alzheimers. Is this what is happening to Phil? It got to my cousin Arthur in his last years.
One thing on which everyone agrees: Exercise, exercise, exercise. Like location, location, location. It is obvious that I need to strengthen my leg muscles before knee replacement surgery. I’ll let you know how I am doing.
• It is October 2009. Since writing the above, I have had knee replacement surgery in December 2008, followed by rehab, and physical therapy. I did some exercise before the surgery, and exercise after the surgery, but it is clear that my legs are weak, I still can’t crouch or run, and I still need to hold on to a banister going up and down stairs. I don’t have the range of motion I had before the surgery.
** My hearing is about the same. I frequently forget to put in my hearing aids, so I miss part of the conversation. When I saw the audiologist, he cleaned my hearing aids and recommended that I think about getting a newer version, like Fran’s. I’ll stick with what I have.
Last July, I fell trying to hit a tennis ball against the wall. The fall turned out to be more serious than I thought. I hurt my right wrist and my right butt. That evening. I felt dizzy and I was brought to the Emergency Room where they took my blood pressure and an EKG, and acted very concerned because of the low blood pressure reading. It ended up that I had a broken wrist and my butt and thigh turned eggplant purple. At the present time, my wrist still hurts despite the cast and the therapy.
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#103 Aging
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
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"On December 18, 2007, I turned 80. The thought that has haunted me ever since is, 'Now I am REALLY old.'"
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2008/2009
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text
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en
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1990/2009
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AGING
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Fran
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Reading Out Loud (R.O.L.)
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13cee5a8389339ab7b064ee71bf69fcd
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# 14 MY FATHER
My father’s name was Louis Schlitt, spelled with two Ts. However, when I was going through some family papers, I found his "Certificate of Naturalization" dated August 1910, signed by him, in which he spelled his name with one T. The document gave his age as 26, his height as five feet five inches and his address as 183 Eldridge Street, Manhattan. All the other papers that I found with his name has Schlitt spelled with 2 T’s. He was born in 1884, but I did not find his birth certificate or any other record of his birth date. On my parents' wedding certificate, his Jewish name is Aaron Eliezer. On his gravestone, his name is Eliezer ben Isaac.
He was born in Kishinev in Bessarabia. When he was born, it was part of Russia. After World War I, it became part of Romania. After World War II, Kishinev became the capital of the Soviet republic of Moldavia, and after the break-up of the Soviet Union, it became the capital of the independent state of Moldova. Kishinev became known throughout the world because of the 1903 pogrom. Kishinev is now known as Chisinau.
I have begun a search in the US Archives and learned that my father came in 1901.
He died June 30, 1931. I was 3 1/2 years old. When my son David was approaching 3 1/2, I was concerned that a similar fate might befall him. It didn’t. Sholem Aleichem has a chapter in his story Motl the Cantor’s Son, called "It’s Good to be an Orphan." People feel sorry for you and are kind. Perhaps people who knew that I didn’t have a father felt sorry for me, but I certainly never felt that it was a good thing, nor do I remember any special kindness. On a few occasions, when I was in elementary school and was asked what my father did, I could not bring myself to say that he is dead, and I made up an occupation.
I have no memory of my father. Try as I might, I can not remember anything about him. We have pictures: the formal wedding picture from 1916, informal snapshots from the mid 1920's, and a studio picture of me as an infant on my father’s knee. I have put together an image based on scraps of conversation with relatives, comments my mother made over the years, and most troubling, writings of my mother that I discovered after she died which indicated disappointment in their relationship.
My mother died in 1951, when I was 23, (and now really an orphan). We had never really talked about my father. I began asking my cousins to tell me their memory of him. (I knew he sold job lots of men’s clothing to retailers.) They shared with me mostly platitudes and generalizations: He was a wonderful man, a very nice person, quiet, generous, a good provider, easy-going, friendly, he liked people, he smoked, he played cards. With regard to the last two traits: My mother gave me the impression that they were responsible for his death, and that she would not want me to smoke or gamble. When I asked my mother what caused my father's death, she said it was a heart attack. Years later, I found his death certificate. It indicated that he died in "The Tombs," police headquarters in downtown New York. I then asked the only person still living who might know about it, my cousin Dora Schlitt, and she told me the following story: It was the depression. My father had gone to a retailer, trying to make a sale. The owner's son did not like my father and accused him of cheating them, and called the police. The accusation was such a shock to my father that he had a heart attack and died. It was an answer. Whether it was the answer, I don’t know.
Dora was also the source of an answer to another troubling question: What caused the split between our families? My father was instrumental in bringing Dora and her husband Henry, who was my father's brother's son, to the United States after World War I. My father paid for their passage, got them an apartment and helped Henry get started. Henry was resourceful, learned how to drive, got a job in the cheese distribution business and became successful. According to Dora, some time in the late 1920's, my parents gave a party, and though Henry and Dora lived in the same apartment house as my parents, on Beck Street in the Bronx, they were not invited. Henry, angered by this slight, moved his family to Astoria and severed contact with my family. It was only when his son, Gabriel, was to have his Bar Mitzvah in 1938, seven years after my father died, that we reconnected.
I find it hard to picture my father as either a big party giver or as someone who would slight a family member. I believe my parents lived well in the period between the end of the war and the depression. Though my mother was a skilled garment worker, she stopped working after marriage. Wives were supposed to stay at home and take care of the house. The man was the breadwinner. It would reflect poorly on the husband if the wife worked. So after their marriage in 1916, my mother decorated the apartment, bought lovely furniture, china. silver, and art work. It must have made my father feel proud. My mother also went to night school. I have no information about my father's education.
Why weren't there any children until I came along 11 years after their marriage? My mother was a very romantic woman. I have found a number of love poems that she collected, as well as poems that she wrote. However, it appears that her expression of love was not returned. When I was born, my father was 43 and my mother was 39.
How did they meet? What did they have in common? Did they share similar interests? My mother loved the Yiddish theatre. Did my father go with her? Did my father maintain contact with his family in Kishinev, and with that part of the family that went to Palestine after World War I? Who were his friends and relatives in New York? My mother had been active in her union and was a socialist. She was in contact with her sister in Paris and her brother in Vaslui, Romania, and visited her sister in 1926. Why didn’t my father go with her on that trip? What was my father’s politics? Was he involved with the Kishinever landsmanshaft? I learned from my cousin Dora that Henry had become an important figure in that society, but it was many years after my father's death.
My father was a member of the Farband—the Jewish National Workers Alliance, and it is in a Farband section of Montifiore Cemetery in St. Albans, Queens, that he is buried. And it was the life insurance policy that my father had with the Farband that caused so much heartache for my mother. After his death, at 46, my mother expected payment from the policy, but she received nothing. Apparently, in need of money, my father had cashed in the policy. She did not know about it. She could not believe it could have happened. She had nothing. She was alone, a widow with a small child. Where was justice?
For years, she appealed to the Farband, and wrote letters to leaders in the Jewish community. She received a token payment which she felt was insulting. Growing up, I became the writer of these letters for my mother. My father was not someone with whom I played ball or went on walks or talked to, but someone whose insurance policy I would write letters about.
My mother described her life as "shver" hard, except for the fifteen years of her marriage—from 1916 to 1931, her life with my father. They were good years. Though I don't remember my life with my father, they must have been pretty good years too.
1-18-06
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#14 My Father
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Jacob Schlitt
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2006-01-18
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application/pdf
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en
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text
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MY_FATHER
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1884/1951
Description
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"My father’s name was Louis Schlitt, spelled with two Ts."
Family
Father
Mother
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dd3fcdbf34353e67df331e3a5b90ef2b
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# 15 Being Poor
Being poor isn’t so bad when most of the people around you are poor. The people I feel sorry for are the ones who are poor when everyone else is well off. That’s poor planning. You wonder, "What’s wrong with them?" And then you realize that they didn't get much of an education, or they don't speak English, or they are not white, and if they have jobs, they don't get paid much. So if you are going to be poor, be poor when most everyone else is poor. Which is how my mother and I did it.
Most of the families in my neighborhood in the East Bronx in the 1930's were poor, but we didn’t make a big deal of it. We didn’t feel poor. Hey, it was the depression. President Roosevelt told us that one third of the nation was ill-clothed, ill-housed and ill-fed. But that really wasn’t us. Our clothes were old, but they fit. We had a roof over our heads, and we had food. I guess we were in the second third: poor, but not the most poor.
My neighbors lived in nice but aging, five and six story walk-up apartment houses, now referred to as tenements. The typical family consisted of a father, a mother and a couple of kids, sometimes a grandparent or two, and in order to pay the rent, there was frequently a boarder.
The immigrant Jews who came to New York in the early 1900s usually lived on the lower east side, and worked in the sweatshops or peddled. Those who achieved a measure of success, moved to Harlem, and then, if they really made it, they moved to the Bronx. The most successful: the garment workers who became contractors, or the peddlers who opened a small store, moved to the West Bronx; the rest came to the East Bronx.
The parents of most of my friends worked in garment shops, but there wasn't much work. The term used to describe this condition was "slack," And it was slack for a long time. When there was work, they were able to pay their bills. Unfortunately, my mother was unable to get work, and we found ourselves "on relief." There was some shame attached to being on relief. We didn’t go around telling every one that we were getting welfare, but somehow people knew. Observant neighbors would notice the welfare worker when they came to "visit."
From time to time, surplus food was distributed to those on relief. This may have been promoted by Henry Wallace when he was Secretary of Agriculture to benefit the farmers as well as the poor. Families on welfare would go to the Welfare Office and receive bags of flour, or dry skim milk. My mother didn’t do much baking, so we passed the flour on to neighbors who did. And when we tried to mix the dry skim milk with water, it always came out lumpy, and I would gag on it. We stopped bothering with the surplus food. To this day, I can’t stand powdered milk.
In elementary school, the kids on relief received "free lunch." Another way of identifying those who were poorer. At lunchtime, there were three groups: those who went home for lunch; those who brought their lunch to school; and those who lined up in the gym to get the free lunch. I felt humiliated as one of the few boys in my class to line up for this hand-out. The teacher in charge was a frightening older woman with dyed red hair who taught the "ungraded" class, a collection of discipline problems which only she could handle. And she treated those of us receiving this largesse the same way: yelling, threatening us, warning us that if we made noise we would get no lunch. It was a sight out of Charles Dickens. And the lunch consisted of watery tomato soup, a sandwich and a container of milk. To this day, I can’t stand tomato soup.
When I moved on to junior high school, we were coming out of the depression and my mother had gotten a job in a WPA garment factory. The pay was minimal and we were still entitled to the occasional handouts from the welfare office. It was the winter of 1940-41 and my mother learned that winter jackets were available for children. She picked up a jacket for me. It was a plaid that I didn’t care for, but it was warm.
In my new jacket, I entered the schoolyard where we lined up, and I noticed about 10 or 15 other boys wearing the same jacket. The kids on welfare stood out as if we wore signs. One of the other wearers was my friend Tony Rodriguez, the only other kid in my class with the tell-tale coat. We nodded knowingly to each other. But it was cold, and the jackets kept us warm.
A few weeks later, Tony came to school with another jacket. I went over to him and asked what happened to the welfare jacket. He smiled and told me that he hated that God-damned uniform, and one evening when he was hanging out with friends in front of his house, making a fire to roast "mickeys" (potatoes stolen from the neighborhood vegetable store), he decided to throw the coat into the fire. He then returned home and told his mother how lucky he was: he tripped, fell into the fire, but was not hurt; just his coat got burned. His mother was so happy that he was alright, she went to the store and got him a new coat. I still had my jacket. To this day, I can’t stand plaid jackets.
Feb. 15, 2006
Revised 5-30-06
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#15 Being Poor
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Jacob Schlitt
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2006-02-15/2006-05-30
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en
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text
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Being_poor
Description
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"Being poor isn't so bad when most of the people around you are poor."
Bronx
Childhood
Poverty
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4c3277b536e02daa684403960fff2830
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#16 My Courtship of, and Marriage to, Sylvia Feig
The fall of 1947 was much like the fall of 1946 and 1945: classes at CCNY started right after Labor Day and I had a heavy schedule. I was also working after school at Reich and Schrift, a stationery store a few blocks from CCNY on Hamilton Place and 143rd St. At 19, I was busy discovering the world: politics, literature, theatre, movies, art, music, as well as spending time with friends, and trying to meet girls.
My first class at CCNY usually started at 9 AM. I would leave the house a little after 8 AM, take the Southern Blvd trolley to 149th St. and then transfer to the crosstown trolley. I would occasionally meet some friends on the trolley and we would walk together to school down Convent Ave. When we went to Stuyvesant High School, many of us would meet at the125th St. subway platform and ride the express together, but going to City, it was every man for himself.
One morning, I had gotten on the trolley at Longwood Ave. and at 156 St., my friend Phil Bernstein boarded in the company of a young woman. Phil introduced me to his friend Sylvia Feig. She had started in evening session the term before and had switched to day. She was wearing a low cut, green tailored blouse, and was very attractive. She had gone to James Monroe High School, and also lived on Fox Street. I hoped that we would meet again on the trolley, or at school, or in the neighborhood.
I wasn’t very good at meeting girls. The few times I went to the dances at the 92nd Street Y, I felt awkward and nothing much happened. The way I met girls was by asking my friends who had girl friends if their girlfriend had a friend. They usually did, but they also usually lived in Brooklyn. I didn’t meet anyone for whom I wanted to take that endless subway ride back and forth. I dated several forgettable (and not so forgettable) young women in those last years of college. Then, in February 1951, Phil Bernstein married Martha Fontek.
For the previous four years, I always thought of Sylvia as Phil’s girl friend, but now that he was marrying Martha, I finally realized that Sylvia was not Phil’s girl friend. Soon after Phil and Martha’s wedding , I went to Cleveland for a two month organizing assignment. The following month, on March 12, my mother died. I returned to New York in a state of shock, made the funeral arrangements with the help of my cousin, Louis Goldstein, went back to Cleveland, and in April 1951, was back in the Bronx, in the apartment that I had shared with my mother.
One evening in April, I impulsively called Sylvia and went over to her house. We had seen each other from time to time at school and in the neighborhood, but we had not dated. Now that Phil was married, I thought it would be a good idea to get to know her. Nervously, I rang the bell. She came to the door, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing a bathrobe. She had just washed her hair, and there was something radiant about the way she looked. Sylvia greeted me with a warm hug and a kiss which surprised and delighted me. She asked me in, and we went to her room. Her folks were home, but she did not introduce me to them. We spent the rest of the evening talking, she telling me about school, and I about my work in Cleveland.
From that moment, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I was smitten. I called her. I wrote her notes. We went out a great deal, and I went to her graduation from CCNY. However, we were both caught up in separate plans for the summer. Sylvia was going to be a counselor at Camp Wel-Met, and I was facing the prospect of the draft. As she went off to camp, I went to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, thinking I could get a job which would keep me out of the Army. I had worked there as a junior draftsman the summer of 1945, after graduating from high school. The Personnel Office staff was very cooperative, but they made it clear that working at the Yard would not keep me out of the Army. They looked over my resume and I was offered the position of a teacher of academic subjects in their apprenticeship program. I took it.
Sylvia and I wrote regularly, and at Wel-Met’s mid-session, I visited her at camp. It was wonderful seeing her and she introduced me to two counselors with whom she had become close friends: Connie Wain and Mel Schwartz. Then she told me that one of the male counselors was being let go, and they would need a replacement. I applied, got the job, left the Navy Yard, and spent the rest of the summer with Sylvia.
For many counselors, summer romances are passionate affairs, the opportunity to get to know someone intimately, to spend all your free time with the person with whom you were brought together by a magical accident, free from parental peering. I suspect Sylvia may have had misgivings about telling me of the position. She had been involved with another counselor which didn’t go anywhere. We did spend our free time together, and our days off with Mel and Connie, but it was not as passionate as I would have liked. But we were together.
When camp ended, I enrolled at NYU graduate school as a full time student which enabled me to get a deferment, and went to work for the ILGWU as an organizer. And we continued seeing each other. And I continued telling Sylvia how much I loved her and wanted to marry her; she kept saying she was not ready for marriage.
However, one memorable evening in October, Sylvia said yes. And over the next several weeks we began to plan a very modest wedding. We spent a great deal of time in Greenwich Village looking for wedding rings. (Why this was so important, I can’t remember.) But we found the perfect ones. Then we picked a date. It would have to be during our winter vacation, and we chose December 22. We then looked for a Rabbi in the Bronx to perform the ceremony which would take place in his study in the presence of our friends and relatives who were our age. What some people spend a year to plan, we did in a few weeks: The Rabbi came out of the Bronx yellow pages—Israel Miller. We met with him and found him very accommodating.
We sent out invitations; some of our friends came to the Rabbi’s house, and others to "our" apartment after the ceremony. We had prepared refreshments including a wedding cake and champagne. Sylvia’s parents were asked to host a wedding party for the older folks: her relatives and mine, and when we returned from the Rabbi’s house, officially married, we dropped by at the Feigs and spent some time visiting and accepting their congratulations. Then we returned to our friends and partied. We had a great time.
I am not sure when I realized how thoughtless this arrangement was. It was certainly different from the weddings that were taking place all around us. Sylvia’s parents weren’t in a position to pay for even a modest wedding, and we did what we wanted to do.
We were "cool." We were certainly unconventional. However, if we were truly unconventional, we would have simply lived together without bothering to get married. But what we did was to by-pass the traditional wedding and got married on the cheap. The event was recorded by the one friend who had a good camera. We eventually went to a photography studio and had a formal wedding portrait taken which we sent to relatives.
The day after the wedding, December 23, I went to a meeting with the other graduates of the ILGWU Training Institute that I had arranged at my office, and on December 24, Sylvia and I left on our honeymoon, taking the bus to a cottage in Mt. Tremper in the Catskills. We had a lovely week, relaxing, sightseeing, and getting to know each other as man and wife. And so began our life together which lasted a little more than 20 years.
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application/msword
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#16 My Courtship of, and Marriage to, Sylvia Feig
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Jacob Schlitt
Date
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circa 2005
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application/pdf
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en
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text
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1951_Courtship_and_Marriage_SF
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1947/1951
Description
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"The fall of 1947 was much like the fall of 1946 and 1945: classes at CCNY started right after Labor Day and I had a heavy schedule."
City College (CCNY)
Dating
Marriage
Reich & Schrift
Sylvia
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Title
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Numbered memoirs
Text
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# 19 IT’S ALL OF A PIECE
As I put together "my story" it occurred to me that it is like the resumes we prepared when looking for a job: telling the reader, the potential employer, about our education and work experience, but in one or two pages. And then it occurred to me, as my stream of consciousness kept flowing, they are also like the blurbs we wrote for our high school and college yearbooks.
At that time, we were limited to listing membership in student academic, social or athletic organizations, offices held, and awards. For the Indicator, Stuyvesant High School's yearbook, the blurb began with your name in caps and ended with the college you hoped to attend, and the career you hoped to pursue. For Microcosm, the CCNY yearbook, alongside your name, in caps, was your address and your major, followed by the blurb.
In both cases, there were three categories of response on the part of the graduating seniors. For the BMOCs (the big men—and/or women—on campus) a lengthy listing filling every inch of space alongside their photograph. For the average student, the listing was more modest. And the graduates I really admired were those who submitted nothing. I never was sure if their non-submission was a protest against materialism, capitalism and self-promotion, or a result of procrastination, just not getting the form in on time. I confess that though I was not a BMOC, I tried to look like one. My blurbs ran a respectable four lines in high school, and three lines in college.
While in college, I was also taught the value of an impressive resume. Many years later, I heard people referring to a "CV" and had no idea what they were talking about. It was mentioned in connection with a job application, so I figured they were talking about resumes. I asked what a CV was and was told a curriculum vitae. Oh, of course! (Ask someone what tefillin are and you will be told phylacteries. Big help for someone who knows neither.) I looked up curriculum vitae in my American Heritage dictionary and discovered it really does mean resume, but is literally "the race of life." And how about a new term "CRV" for curriculum rattus vitae for "the rat race of life." But I digress.
My earliest resumes listed my part time jobs in high school and college: 1942-1945 Page, Newspaper Division, New York Public Library; 1945-1949 Clerk, Reich and Schrift Commercial Stationers; and my summer jobs: junior draftsman (GS-2) at the Brooklyn Navy Yard (1945), camper waiter (1946), hotel busboy (1947) and camp counselor (1949). I dropped them with some reluctance some years after college, realizing that they were no longer relevant.
When I worked for the Federal government, we had to fill in an application known as Standard Form 57, your Personal Qualifications Statement. This was the resume you submitted for any government job for which you were applying. In 1979, it was revised and became SF 171. I am sure it has been revised many more times since. Looking through my old resumes, I was overcome with nostalgia as I relived my old jobs, and got a kick out of seeing what I emphasized and what I downplayed as I tailored resumes for different positions.
And still another thought occurred to me: that our obituary is our final resume. (I should begin to think about what I would like emphasized, and what I would like downplayed.)
And then I remembered one of the most important lessons I learned in connection with resumes and job applications: references. In December 1949, I applied for admission to the newly created ILGWU Training Institute which was to begin in May 1950, and, after a year’s training, would lead to a job with the union. I was still at CCNY going for a Master's in Education and working occasionally as a substitute teacher. The Training Institute application asked for three references. I came up with the bright idea of listing the manager of my mother's ILGWU local, Louis Hyman. That should impress them. I had met him a few times when I went to the union to pay my mother’s dues. In March, I was called for an interview, and thought I did very well. In April, I was notified that I was an alternate. They had selected 40 applicants and 10 alternates out of over 1400 candidates. Close, but no cigar. I continued my classes at CCNY.
I was writing a paper about the union’s educational program, and had scheduled a meeting with Education Director Mark Starr for the second week of May. (The Training Institute Director was Dr. Arthur Elder.) Both offices were on the same floor. When I arrived, I saw someone I knew from CCNY who was in the training program and asked him about the program and the make-up of the group. He mentioned that there were about 35 students. They were supposed to have 40, and I was an alternate. I went into Dr. Elder’s office and asked why I had not been called, since I was an alternate. (This is known as "chutzpah.") Dr. Elder pulled my application, looked it over, and told me he had to talk to Vice President Julius Hochman who chaired the union’s Education Committee, and to call him in the afternoon. I called him and he told me that I could start the next day. Several weeks later, I asked Dr. Elder why I hadn't been selected. He said they were impressed with me, but when they checked my references, Louis Hyman told them he never heard of me. From this, I learned a lesson I have never forgotten: If you give someone as a reference, let that person know.
I also learned another lesson. If I had not gone to the ILGWU to meet with Mark Starr, I would not have met my friend who told me about the class. Was it fate, or was it luck? Was it being in the right place at the right time? It certainly changed the direction of my life.
And talking about lessons which I learned from that experience, and reinforced in every job that I have had since: It is not what you know, but who you know. Which brings us back to references…
May 10, 2006
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application/msword
Dublin Core
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#19 It's All of a Piece
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Jacob Schlitt
Date
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2006-05-10
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application/pdf
Language
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en
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text
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IT'S_ALL_OF_A_PIECE
Description
An account of the resource
"As I put together 'my story' it occurred to me that it is like the resumes we prepared when looking for a job..."
Career
City College (CCNY)
Education
ILGWU
Jobs
Writing
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ad004f79fd97fc387a02b2f070ada69c
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Title
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Numbered memoirs
Text
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Text
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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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Dublin Core
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Title
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#2 Nursery School Days
Creator
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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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900846a6a70999b82a84e41b9fcc35b4
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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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
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# 20 LENNY RUBIN
Lenny Rubin was the first friend I made after entering City College in September 1945. I had come to CCNY with a close-knit group of friends that had been together through junior high school and high school. But on that first day of class, there was Lenny, seated in front of me in two consecutive classes. In those days, seats were assigned alphabetically. After the second class, we acknowledged the coincidence and became friends.
Lenny lived in Manhattan, had gone to the High School of Commerce, was tough, argumentative, smart, and exuded an air of confidence. He was of medium height, good looking with dark wavy hair, and would have been a fine athlete, except for a back injury. We shared the same politics and the same economic condition. We both had part-time jobs but managed to spend a lot of time together over the next four years.
When we graduated, I went on for a Master’s at City College, and Lenny took a job with the New York welfare department as a youth worker in Harlem, and went to Brooklyn Law School at night. By 1953, Lenny was married, had graduated from law school, had passed the Bar and started a practice with a classmate whose father was a judge. He thought it would generate business. It didn’t. One of his first cases involved a young man he knew from his days as a youth worker who had been accused of stealing tires. Lenny won the case, and when he asked for payment, his client responded, "as soon as I unload the tires."
Lenny was always very competitive. He loved litigation and was a bulldog in the courtroom. But he wasn’t getting much business. It was time to find another job. Lenny became an Assistant District Attorney in New York County. By the late ‘50s, he was a highly regarded Assistant DA who had successfully prosecuted a group of marijuana dealers. They subsequently asked him to represent them as their attorney. And it came to pass that Lenny Rubin left the DA’s office, formed a partnership with another attorney, and I suspect that their only clients were the above mentioned pot dealers. At the same time, his first marriage ended, he remarried and soon after, they had their first child.
Original Format
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application/msword
Dublin Core
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#20 Lenny Rubin
Creator
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Jacob Schlitt
Date
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2004/2008
Format
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application/pdf
Language
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en
Type
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text
Identifier
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LENNY_RUBIN
Description
An account of the resource
"Lenny Rubin was the first friend I made after entering City College in September 1945."
City College (CCNY)
Education
Friends