It Never Rained in The Bronx

“IT NEVER RAINED

IN THE BRONX”

True, humorous stories
From a real life
Meshugana

Steven Chanzes

“IT NEVER RAINED IN THE BRONX”

Copyright ©2012 by Steven Chanzes

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of
1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval
system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author.

Printed in the United States of America

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Chanzes, Steven
“It Never Rained In The Bronx”

Copyright Pending

Page 1 of 301


LIFE IS A COLLECTION
OF
MEMORIES.

WITHOUT MEMORIES
THERE IS NO LIFE.

THESE ARE MY MEMORIES OF
GROWING UP IN THE BRONX
AND LATER SPENDING MY
ADULTHOOD IN FLORIDA
WHERE I STILL LIVE.

Page 2 of 301


DEDICATION

Usually an event takes place that causes someone to write a book. I remember
exactly where I was and what inspired me to put pen to paper. We had just
moved to Marco Island, Florida from the Fort Lauderdale area. One of the
first things I did was join the Y.M.C.A. I used to play tennis there every
Tuesday and Thursday morning. I made many friends and acquaintances,
one of which was Bob Grivicich, a gentleman who became a very good friend
of mine. One day, in between games, we got into a discussion and I asked Bob
how old he was. He replied “72, but Steve it’s just a number’” I thought
about what Bob just told me and in all seriousness I said to him, “tell me Bob,
how many people do you know with the number 100?” He picked up his
tennis racket and proceeded to chase me all over the court. I couldn’t believe
he was 72. If I make it to 72 I only hope that I have one half of Bob’s stamina.

That’s when I gave thought to writing a book because experiencing the pain of
seeing loved ones depart this earth way too early made me decide to put my
memories into the form of a book, because once my turn comes to depart then
it won’t be possible to do it and I have so many memories and stories to tell
that I hope you enjoy them. Anyways, Bob left us when he was 88, but he had
a good run at life. Thank you Bob for giving me the idea for a book.

So besides dedicating this book to my good friend Bob Grivicich I also
dedicate it to the following people.

Mrs. C., my wife Joy who is my best friend and the best darn doctor that I’ve
ever seen and I’ve seen many. Honey, I love you with all my heart and soul.
Thanks for putting up with all my Michigas (See a Jew for a translation)

My three sons, Lorne, Derek and J-Man (Jarrett). I haven’t had the
relationship that I would have preferred with Lorne and Derek but Jarrett
has more than compensated for it. I love you all.

My Mom and Dad. They gave me every chance in life to become a Mensch
and to succeed through their love, educational opportunities and advice. I
miss you and love you both very much.

Granma. She was more than a Granma. She was my second Mom. In her
eyes I could do no wrong. In my eyes she was the perfect individual. I love
you Granma. As I said when you left us, “Your shoes will never be filled.”
Page 3 of 301


Phyllis. My sister who left us at the tender age of 60. Philly, you were and are
an inspiration to me with your love of family and righteous way of life. I love
you and miss you very much.

Uncle Aaron or as I sometimes called him, Tonto. We worked together for a
while and he used to bust my chops on a daily basis, but I looked forward to it.
He was a surrogate father to me as well as my very best friend. His love and
concern for family is something that sticks out in my mind. I miss you Uncle
Aaron and love you deeply.

Uncle Jack. I cherished the times we spent together. You treated me as if I
was your very own son. I love you and miss you.

Aunt Jeanie. You took me into your home, no questions asked and gave me
an overabundance of love for which I will be eternally grateful.

Listed above were some of the very important influences and loves of my life.
But there were more, many, many more.

Adele and Howie (Cousins – When my sister Philly was in the last stages of
her illness I remember Cousin Adele saying to me, “Stevie, the circle is getting
smaller.” Boy, was she right.), Sam, Irene and Ira Kleinrock (Neighbors, very
Loud Neighbors), Sam, Ella, Sherry and Jeffrey Grosky (Neighbors), Ronnie
Krauss (Friend, killed in VietNam), Patty, Glenn, Jackie and Scott (Cousins),
Paul, Amy, Griffin, Jake and Luke (Cousins), Tsippi (Cousin – also nicknamed
Snippy because she was clipping her Parakeets toe and accidentally cut it off),
Aunt Tillie and Uncle George, Aunt Veyla and Uncle Charlie, Joel Klarreich
(Friend – Became an Attorney), Mike Lewis (Friend – Became a Financial
Analyst), Alvy Bregman (Friend – Became a Doctor), Irwin Halfond (Friend –
Became a History Professor), Mike Jaffe (Friend – Became a Psychologist),
Arthur Katzenberg (Friend – Became a, well, still a Friend), Aunt Rosie and
Uncle Manny, Aunt Ruchel and Uncle Jake, Ronnie Garber (Step-Brother),
John Catona (Friend – he is as close to me as anyone), Carmine (Boss at
Mutual Trust Life – He didn’t have time to sell insurance because he was
always in his office at night with a new woman), John and Pat Candela
(Friends), Bobby Pata and Leslie Morrow (Friends), Paul Geller (Friend – My
Granma called him a Trumbanik (Troublemaker – Little did Granma realize
that I was just as big a Trumbanik), Linda Schwabish (First Girlfriend – we
were going to get married but my Mom didn’t think it was such a good idea.
Page 4 of 301


It’s a good thing that my Mom was an exceptional cook), Annie Firkser and
Louie the Cop (Neighbors – They lived next door to us and whenever Louie
saw me he made sure to tell me a joke), Mr. Dill (8th Grade Science Teacher),
Mr. Pablo Rosario (High School Spanish Teacher), Mrs. Patrick (3rd Grade
Teacher), Jiggy (Friend – all 4’5” of him), Mark Feldman (Employee), Paul
Podhurst (Employee), Jim Bell (Employee), Jeff Backoff (Friend), Joe Stein
(Father In-Law), Gladys Stein (Joe’s Wife), Tom Lippett (Brother In-Law),
Larry Nelson (Boss at Industrial Lighting), Steve and Sheri Crown (Friends),
Jesse Fox (Friend), Randy Johnson (Boss at Progressive Lighting), Al Greiner
(Boss at Lighting Company), Leon Saja (Business Associate), Marty and
Arlene Mayor (Friends – well, they used to be. Arlene passed away and the
rest is a long, long story), Connie and Myles Loud (Friends – another long
story but at least they’re both alive), Joe and Rhoda Radoslovich (Friends),
George Adler (The General-Cousin), Aunt Ettie and Uncle Yiddel, Aunt
Lorraine (The one person to go to for advice and Love), Marv Kurz
(Bandleader at my Bar Mitzvah), Stacey, Andrew, Jamie and Ethan (Nephews
and Nieces), Greg, Marcy, Will and Jack (Nephews and Nieces), Roger Benson
(Brother In-Law), Aunt Ethel and Uncle Morris, Stuart, Ronnie, Diane and
Stan (Cousins) Ronnie Kay (Friend and Attorney – well, not an attorney
anymore, but he was the best), Patty Caia (Friend – If I’m going to war then I
want Patty in the trenches with me), Dr. Russo (My Nephrologist), Dr. Paone
(My General Practitioner), Dr. Frank (My Cardiologist), Dr. Vera (My
Nephrologist), Dr. Gadala (Nephrologist), (All of these Doctors are charged
with keeping me alive and so far they are doing a pretty good job which is
kind of amazing because one of them never even reported to his classes.), Elvis
(It’s over 50 years and I’m still his #1 fan.), Mel and Doris Goldberg
(Cousins), Fay and Dick Duchin (My adoptive parents), Eddie and Bobby
Duchin (Friends), Chanz, Charlie, Koko, Muffin, Henry, Binx, Zoey, Sammie
and Maxie (Our Beloved Pets) and many, many more too numerous to
mention; not pets but people.

Thank you all for all the times spent together, sometimes laughing, sometimes
crying but most importantly spending it together with each other.

Page 5 of 301


CONTENTS

Foreword 8
Preface 13
The Neighborhood 16
2075 Wallace Avenue 42
I Remember 49
Sex - Part 1 55
Sex – Part 2 63
Sex – Part 3 66
Sex – Part 4 68
P.S. 105 76
P.S. 83 78
Christopher Columbus High School 87
New York University 92
The VietNam War 104
Relatives 112
Dad 119
Granma 125
Mom 132
Philly 136
Tonto 139
The Lion Sleeps Tonight 140
Unforgettable Characters 141
Employment 153
Goodbye New York, Hello Florida 163
The Journey 166
The Taylor‟s 167
Transition 173
Swollen Cheeks 175
General Finance…Part 2 177
My Most Unforgettable Dating Experience 179
General Finance…Part 3 183
Blazing Saddles 191
My Wife, “J. Stein”, The Beginning 194
Choosing a Career 199
The Comet Kohotek 202
Johnnie Cochran…Move Over 204
Dumper Two 209
The Shrink Who Needed a Shrink 214
Page 6 of 301


Ouch!!! I Think a Bug Bit Me 218
An After Dinner Heart Attack 221
Don‟t You Ever Call Me Again 226
I‟ll Have a Pastrami Sandwich 228
Not For Doo-Doo 229
The Art of Recruiting Salespeople 231
Undercover Football 234
I‟ll Trade You Two Blues For One Red 236
Are You Sure You Want To See Dr. Rodriquez? 238
Win a Free Job 239
The 44th Brigade 244
H.E.L.P. or Should I Say HELP 248
Very Funny…Very Funny 251
He‟s Not My Uncle Sam 254
Aloha…Oy Vey 258
I Can Help You Sir 261
May I Have Your Signature Mr. Catona 264
Don‟t Answer the Door 266
Pets 268
Help…They‟re Trying to Kill Me 272
The Bitch Won‟t Sleep Walk No More 274
It‟s 7 O‟Clock…Go to Your Room 276
The Hell‟s Angel‟s Motorcycle Gang 278
The Hawk 279
What Do I Look Like, a Valet? 283
Is There Any Name I Can Use? 285
U.S. Bureau of Records, Inc. 287
James “Burnell” Bell 289
What If I Didn‟t Have Any Money? 291
You‟re Under Arrest 293
What Are You Doing With Your Hands? 294
I Know a Good Deal When I See One 296
Pass Me Some Water 298
You Must Be Presentable 299
Bend Over Please 300

Page 7 of 301


FOREWORD

It's Sunday, July 19, 1987. I was born forty-three years ago on this very day. What
normally would be a very happy time in one's life has been tinged with sadness.
My basic family roots that have shared my pleasures as well as sorrows have
always been my GRANMA, my MOM and my DAD. In the space of six short
years they have all left me. It doesn't seem fair. It never does. But death is a part
of life. You can't have one without the other. What matters most are the memories
you have, and in that sense death never fully arrives. We all have memories of our
loved ones as well as of our experiences in life. This is what sustains us. This is
what helps me keep my sanity intact.

And so now I'm sitting on my patio in Florida overlooking our pool which in turn
overlooks a lake stocked with bass, snakes and sometimes an alligator or two. Our
property is enclosed by a fence which keeps the alligators out. For some reason
the snakes don't come onto our property. (Maybe they don't like kosher food.)
Thank God. And of course the bass know their rightful place. My oldest boy
Lorne is defending his country in the service of the army. He's stationed in
Germany. My other two boys, Derek, age 13 and Jarrett, 7, are away for the very
first time at a summer sleep away camp in the Pocono‟s. I thought that it would be
impossible for me to ever miss their sibling rivalry. You know what I mean. The
yelling, screaming, slamming of doors and eating us out of house and home. But I
miss them. I really do. I can't wait for them to return home. Yes, I can't wait for
the yelling, the screaming and so on and so forth. But too much of a good thing is
not healthy, so of course next summer won't come quick enough for me.

My wife is visiting her Dad who was hospitalized with a stroke some twelve weeks
ago. He spent 10 weeks in the hospital and finally he was transferred to a
rehabilitative home. His right side is paralyzed but that hasn't prevented his eighty
year old left hand from pinching many a nurses‟ rump. His first ten weeks in the
hospital cost $77,000. I guess you can't put a price on a good time, especially
when Medicare is paying for it.

And so I'm home, almost all alone. My one companion lying down by my right
side is my German shepherd, Devil. Devil is ten years old and while at times she
shows her age, she's still a puppy. She's very active, frisky, friendly and extremely
wise because above all else Devil is fully aware that we humans believe her to be
(in human terms) not ten but seventy years old. Therefore Devil has in ten short
years become the oldest living being in our house. For this she receives many
considerations and privileges afforded to the matriarch of any family. For instance
Page 8 of 301


when we pile into the family van Devil must be physically assisted by yours truly
due to her arthritic legs which were diagnosed by my wife Joy who has never been
inside a Veterinary school, much less possess a degree. (But after all, what does
our Veterinarian know.) And when I help Devil into the van she looks at me with a
grin on her snout that most assuredly befits her name. And now when Devil eats I
have to stay with her until she finishes every last drop, as if someone else would
eat that CHAZARAI. (Chazarai is Yiddish for drek, which similarly is Yiddish for
shit.) And so here are Devil and I on the patio amidst a thunderous rain storm, and
I'm thinking..........

My Granma on my Mom's side was in retrospect no different than my Mom. In all
actuality I was blessed with two Mothers. My Granma was the only grandparent I
really ever knew as both my grandfathers died prior to my birth and my Father‟s
mother died when I was just four years old and I barely have any recollections of
her. Granma was never sick a day in her life and up until the time she passed away
from cancer at age 81 in 1981 she had only previously been hospitalized once for
removal of a tear duct in her right eye. Consequently my Granma had no control
over the fluid buildup in her eye and always walked around the house with tissues
rolled up and tucked into the sleeve of her blouse. In this manner she was always
prepared to dab at her eye when it teared up. In addition, most of the time the
tissues would fall from Granma's sleeve, so if you wanted to know which room
Granma was in, all you had to do was follow the trail of tissues. Approximately
two years after Granma died I was in New York and went to visit her grave. Both
of my sisters and their families were there too, as we had previously made
arrangements to meet. It was a cold and overcast day and the wind was blowing
rather briskly. I remember walking down the path to Granma's resting place with
one hand holding my YARMULKE (skullcap) in place on my head for fear of the
wind blowing it off. As I approached the grave site I looked down and there on the
ground right next to the foot stone was a tissue. I looked around in the general
vicinity and couldn't find any other tissues. I guess that none of the other residents
in the cemetery had ever had a tear duct removed.

Granma was the first to leave me. Even though she was 81 years old when she
passed away, it was very difficult to accept her death because she had never been
sick a day in her life and she was the picture of vitality. On the other hand my
Mom was a very young 61 when she died. Her death was harder to accept, for two
reasons. First there was her youth and secondly my Mom contributed greatly to
her own demise because of her smoking habit. Now that I think back, I don't
remember my Mother without a cigarette in her hand. Yet when she found out that
she had contracted lung cancer she immediately stopped smoking. Unfortunately
Page 9 of 301


she made that decision too late. Approximately four months after my Mom was
diagnosed with lung cancer, she died. I was and still am very angry at her for what
she did to herself, but if any good came out of it; it did cause me to stop that awful
habit. But my Mom paid the ultimate price for it.

My Dad was a very gruff individual. He came to this country from his birthplace
of Odessa, Russia in 1923 when he was either 14 or 15, depending upon which
piece of identification you chose to believe. I really don't know if my Father was
actually sure of his date of birth, after all he was very young when it occurred. In
any event my Dad worked very hard all his life just so that his family would have
no material wants, and we didn't, except for the companionship of our Dad. Dad
had his own butcher store, Supreme Meat Market in Harlem, New York. Harlem is
a rather large community of mostly black families and a rather large percentage of
those families are to this day struggling for their very survival. On more than one
occasion a black man with no money, but lots of pride would come into my Dad's
store and literally sing and dance for his supper. And my Dad would always be
sure to give that person some food to get him by that day.

I mentioned before that my Dad was a rather gruff individual. I never saw or heard
of him getting into any fights at all, but then again I never heard of anyone who
wanted to fight him either. But he had a knack for agitating you to the point that
you wanted to get into a scuffle. Thankfully that didn't happen in the following
story. One day my Father was getting into his car to go to work. Now I grew up
on Wallace Avenue in the Bronx. Seven story apartment buildings housing sixty
families were lined up one after the other. Within a three block radius we had a
greater population than in the same size area in virtually any other part of the
United States. And because of the congestion of people there really wasn't enough
space to accommodate all the cars. Cars were always double parked on the street.
That was the rule, not the exception. There was never a study but I would think
that the lack of parking spaces had some impact on the migration to the suburbs.
What a blessing that must have been. To have your own private parking space on
your own property. No more riding around half the night looking for a parking
space only to find one a mile from your house. And if that's not bad enough, you
got up the next morning only to forget where you parked your car the night before.
So anyway, getting back to the story, my Dad got into his car and started it up. He
backed up a bit and then pulled out into the street. About a half mile down the road
he looked into his rear view mirror and saw a Volkswagen tailgating him. Insofar
as driving was concerned there were only two things that my Father detested. One
was cars that tailgated him and the second thing was cars that were on the road,
because no one knew how to drive except my Dad. At least that is what he
Page 10 of 301


believed. So my Father keeps driving and the Volkswagen keeps tailgating. My
Dad sped up, slowed down and sped up again. It didn't matter. The Volkswagen
was in pursuit. Finally my Father had enough and stopped his car, got out and
approached the Volkswagen fully prepared to engage in at least a verbal battle. But
that didn't occur because much to my Fathers amazement there was no one in the
Volks. You see when my Dad backed up in his parking space he latched onto the
front bumper of the Volkswagen which was parked directly behind him and pulled
it into the street. So there was my Dad standing in the middle of the road looking
at this Volkswagen that was attached to his car. Dad looked around and spotted
this guy who was standing off to the side and asked him for assistance. The two of
them managed to free my Father's car from the Volks. Without saying another
word my Father got into his car and drove off into the west, leaving this fellow and
the Volkswagen behind in the middle of the street, making it impossible for any
other cars to pass.

The last time I told that story was barely two weeks ago on July 6, 1987 when I
eulogized my Dad at his funeral. He died at the age of 77 or 78, depending upon
which set of identification papers you chose to believe.

And so within a span of six years, the three people that had the biggest impact on
my life have left me. When I eulogized my Dad I said that I wasn't going to say
goodbye to him because as long as I have this ability to remember, then there's no
need to bid farewell. Thankfully I have lots of memories. Memories of my
Granma, my Mom, my Dad. Memories of family life in the 50's and 60's.
Memories of holiday festivities, family get togethers, friends, the fun times, the
sorrows, riding the elevated trains, Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds, Ebbets
Field, the Mick, the Say Hey Kid and the Duke and the arguments that ensued as to
who was better. Summers in the mountains, winter snows in the city. Dating girls
and hoping you could get a kiss on the first date, even if it's just on the cheek.
Playing stickball in the schoolyard as well as basketball, softball, two hand touch
football. Getting dressed for the holidays and then waiting for the holidays to end
so you could change into your jeans and sneakers and go back into the schoolyard.
Memories of the 5 cent pickle in the barrel at Moishes supermarket, the 2 cent
plain, the 6 cent Coke, the cherry lime rickey or the malteds with the pretzel sticks.
Knishes, hot dogs, pizza, Chinese food, Italian food, steak houses. Literally
dozens of the finest eating establishments and all within walking distance of where
you lived. Thousands of people walking in the streets safely without fear, day and
night. Vegetable and fruit stands, Chinese laundries, doctors of all kinds, clothing
stores for men, women and children. Movie houses, teen clubs. This was the
Bronx, a world of its own.
Page 11 of 301


In effect until it stops raining, it's as if Devil and I are confined to a prison cell
because we can't go anywhere and no one is going to trek through the storm to see
us. And so now my mind slowly drifts back to Pelham Parkway and specifically
2075 Wallace Avenue where I grew up. We had over 60 families in our building
with a common hallway leading to another 60 families and an underground passage
leading to the next building which housed an additional 120 families. Friends?
More than you could imagine or even want. And on inclement days like this we
would gather in someone's apartment or even in the hallway, and entertain
ourselves for hours. Yep,......................It Never Rained In "The Bronx."

Page 12 of 301


PREFACE

"It Never Rained In The Bronx" is a compilation of stories, all real, none imagined.

This book is partially a remembrance as well as a dedication to a very special place
that seemed to exist so many years ago. It was compressed into a relatively short
land mass that housed upwards of a million residents. Today people spend
hundreds of thousands of dollars to live in condominiums in each and every part of
the United States as well as abroad. In actuality the very first condominiums were
probably constructed in the late 1800's. They weren't called condominiums back
then. These new wave immigrants were plain, hardworking people who didn't
categorize large edifices with such fancy names. So instead of labeling these
structures as condominiums, they were simply called apartments, or should I say
apartment buildings. Now many of today‟s condo residents live right near the
beach which makes it very convenient for them to sun bathe or take a refreshing
dip in the water. We basically had the same benefits and for a lot less money. In
the summer time when the temperatures swelled into the nineties we went
downstairs into the street and with our trusty wrench we loosened the nearest
fireplug (there were at least two or three on each block) and within seconds, the
coolest, cleanest and most refreshing water came spouting out for all of us to frolic
in. And we didn't have to worry about getting sand in our bathing suits either.
While the opening in the fireplug was large enough for vast amounts of water to
come gushing out to cool us down it still wasn't quite so big that we had to worry
about Jaws and his friends. And I might add something else....nobody ever
drowned. As far as sun bathing was concerned, we took a blanket and rode our
elevator to the top floor and then walked up one more flight to the roof of our
building. There was plenty of room, it was never congested and you didn't have to
worry about someone walking by and kicking sand in your face.

The roofs served a dual purpose. We also used them for target practice. We would
go up to the roof with balloons. Then we would fill the balloons up with water and
seal them up. At that point we would wait for someone to walk by on the street
below. As soon as we saw our intended victim we would toss the balloons from
our seventh floor perch down to the street hoping to hit our target. We never
missed and a residual effect was that all of the water splattering on the streets kept
them very clean. Even at a young age we were all very ecologically sensitive.

Now I know what you're thinking. Some of today‟s condo residents have chosen to
live on golf courses as opposed to the beach. As you know golf wasn't in vogue
way back then. But what we lacked by not living on a golf course was surely made
Page 13 of 301


up by the fact that we actually lived in and around a sports pavilion. On any given
day you could look out your condo, excuse me, I mean apartment window and you
would see hordes of people playing any number of games such as stickball, stoop
ball, Johnny on the Pony, Ring-a-Levio, Iron Tag, touch football, potsie, etc. So
we didn't have golf. Anyway, that's just one sport. We had a regular Olympics
going on each and every day and you didn't have to train for four years before you
could participate.

Back then we didn't need cars to go shopping because anything and everything that
we could possibly want was right in our very own backyard. Within a four or five
block radius there were three or four Chinese restaurants, two pizzerias, Italian
restaurants, four delicatessens, candy stores that had a fantastic assortment of
fountain drinks, with all sorts of ice cream concoctions, and of course rows upon
rows of candies. We had Chinese laundries, grocery stores, vegetable stands,
supermarkets, all types of clothing stores, schools from grade school through high
school and all of this within walking distance of our apartments. You didn't need a
car to get around back then. Just a pair of hush puppies and maybe a shopping
cart. Movie theaters and bowling alleys were just as convenient and the cost of our
condo back then was approximately $85.00 per month….. And that included the
maintenance.

This magical place in time was called "The Bronx." Each square block had
approximately six apartment buildings with 60 families per building. Each
building would bristle with the sounds of excitement that only children can make.
There was even a labyrinth of underground tunnels that connected buildings so that
in the event of bad weather we children weren't a problem to our parents. We
could always find a friend in our building or in an adjoining building that we could
play with. We would get together either in someone's apartment or we would
simply play in the hallways.

On any given day there would be four or five guys standing on the street corner
singing Doo Wop only to be interrupted by the sound of a bell which signified that
the Good Humor Man was approaching on his bicycle driven cart to sell his ice
cream pops.

If you lived in The Bronx during the 1950's or 1960's then you lived through an era
which can best be described as our "Camelot." This entire book is about people, all
real, none imagined. This book, in part, is about the interaction of people pre-Viet-
Nam, before demonstrations, when people danced to music that had no hint of
sexual or deviant behavior in its words. It's a story of exciting times. Hundreds of
Page 14 of 301


thousands of people living in close harmony with each other, caring for each other,
sharing happy moments together and being at each other‟s side when comfort was
needed. This then was as close to pre-innocence as one could get. This book is
primarily about the remembrances that I have of my family and friends as well as
yours truly. But who knows, maybe some of these very same stories are also about
you or your loved ones and friends, or at least bare some similarity. If that's the
case, then you, like me, run the risk of being committed.

Page 15 of 301


THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I grew up in a section of the Bronx called Pelham Parkway. It was a very healthy
environment to grow up in because of the many distinct and divergent types of
folks that lived there. Pelham Parkway, circa the 1950's was a dichotomy of many
different peoples. There were old Jewish people, middle aged Jewish people and
young Jewish people. A little of everything. The elders were the new wave
immigrants that arrived in the early 1900's from places such as Russia, Rumania,
Hungary and other European countries. Their decision to come to America was
due to any one of a number of reasons. Some came to avoid religious persecution.
Some came to avoid conscription in their countries army and some made the
pilgrimage to seek a better life in a land whose streets were paved with gold. The
escape to America was not easy. It was very costly to make the trek by boat to the
New World, and because of this many families were split up, never to see each
other again. If a family could not cross the Atlantic together due to finances, then
the parents would usually send their children first, hoping to rejoin them at some
later date. These new Americans landed at Ellis Island, a processing point for the
immigrants which is located off the tip of Manhattan, in New York City. My
Father was thirteen years old when he came to America with his older sister Veyla
(Vay yah). They landed at Ellis Island in 1923. My Father and his sister, like so
many immigrants spoke little or no English. This presented a problem to the
immigration officials. The new arrivals spoke no English and the immigration
officials spoke mostly English. Cecil B. DeMille couldn't have planned a better
plot himself. All that these immigrants had on them which would attest to their
identity was paperwork from their mother country that listed their name and other
pertinent information, all spelled out in their native tongue, which in my Father's
case was Russian. Many of the immigrants who came to this country were given a
new last name because the officials had a difficult time understanding them. In
some instances you were given a name that closely resembled the hieroglyphics on
your paperwork. I suspect that is how a nice Jewish boy like me acquired the
surname of Chanzes. Some of my relatives spell their name Chanzit. No one to
this day seems to know what the proper name really was. Maybe it was
Chanzekovich. Sounds Russian. Apparently some people who made the trek to
America‟s shores only knew their father‟s profession and that is why some people
are named Schneider, which in the Yiddish language means tailor or some people
have the surname Blacksmith which once again indicates the profession that their
father was in. I'm quite confident that there were many other immigrants who
came to the New World only to leave behind in the old country their parents,
relatives, friends and most assuredly their last names.

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Most of these New Americans had family and/or friends living in the States. Upon
landing at Ellis Island they were processed by the immigration officials and they
then took their belongings, which was usually the clothes on their backs and
moved on to their new living quarters with relatives who had proceeded them to
America.

By the time the 1950's came around these immigrants had formed the largest
middle class in the history of the United States. While few were college graduated,
most were hard working, productive members of society with very strong family
ties and equally strong cultural values. These immigrants were heavily involved in
the garment center, in retail services, in the various trades and professions such as
plumbers, electricians, doctors, lawyers, teachers, etc. They were industrious
employees who came to this country with little understanding of our language and
in time many rose through the ranks to eventually own businesses of their own.
Interestingly enough, while the average husband put in an eight to twelve hour
work day, the wives tended to the care of their children. During the 1950's most
women were housewives. Their role was to raise the children. They made sure
that they got off to school on time after having consumed a nourishing breakfast.
Then they would clean the apartment, do the shopping, and make sure to be back
on time when the children came home from school for their lunch break. Then
they would darn the socks, do the laundry and ironing, greet the children when
they came home from school at the end of the day and of course make sure that a
hot dinner was ready at supper time. Work? They didn't have time to breathe.

I grew up on Pelham Parkway which is situated in the northeastern part of the
Bronx. Its western border is the world famous Bronx Zoo. Everybody fell in love
with this place because it had something to offer all who visited it. On any given
day there would be thousands of people visiting the Zoo which is laid out over
endless acres. While the Bronx Zoo at the time was located within a heavily zoned
Jewish population, the visitors to the Zoo were from all ethnic and socio-economic
areas of life. Such was the magnitude of the Zoo that it drew people to its gates
from all over the world. When someone was coming to New York for a visit,
invariably, time permitting, a trip to the Bronx. Zoo was a must.

You could spend a day at the Bronx Zoo and still not see all of its inhabitants; such
was the enormity of the place. You would see people strolling through the Zoo arm
in arm. Mothers and fathers pushing the little ones in a baby carriage. The sound
of children's laughter. The look of happiness on the faces of people watching the
various animals at play. The unforgettable odor of the elephants. Watching the
chimpanzees cavorting in their cages, the lions and tigers on patrol in theirs, the
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mammoth snakes in the reptile house. Walking through the winding walkways in
the Zoo which were surrounded by big, beautiful trees, barren of leaves in the
winter but displaying their beauty in the summer and shedding their majestic colors
in autumn. Feeding the animals, the open air caravan car which transported
hundreds of people from one point in the park to another, and of course the Bronx
River which at its greatest point was no more than 100 feet wide, bending its very
soul throughout the Zoo.

The Bronx River was stocked with various types of fish but its most famous
occupant was the Carp. Now for those of you that don't know, a Carp is a Jewish
Catfish. In other words it's a scavenger fish. It feeds itself on the remnants of the
sea, or in this case the river. But something within the system of the Carp
processes the garbage that they eat into one of the best tasting fishes found
anywhere. My Granma used to make a dish called Knubbel Carp. Now the
pronunciation of Knubbel Carp is not to be confused with the pronunciation of
Knute Rockne, the famous coach of the fighting Irish of Notre Dame. In Knute,
the K is silent, so therefore the word is pronounced Nute. Unlike our Irish friends,
Jews don't like to waste letters. If we took the time to put the letter in the word,
then you should take the time to say it. So the word is ki-nub-el, knubbel. Now
knubbel is a Jewish word which means garlic. So Knubbel Carp is Garlic Carp or
Carp very, very heavily seasoned with garlic. Granma would marinate the Carp
overnight in garlic along with other types of seasonings. She would also cut the
Carp into three quarter inch strips so that it would resemble a sparerib without the
bone. The next morning Granma would bake the Carp and refrigerate it after it
was done. That evening, this jewel of a dish was served to us straight from the
refrigerator. Granma didn't warm it up. She served it cold and we would consume
it ever so slowly. We devoured this delicacy cautiously for a couple of reasons.
First there's a large amount of little bones throughout a Carp which cannot be
filleted prior to baking and secondly the taste of this fish was second to none. So
what's the rush? Granma left us in 1981 and while she left behind her recipe for
Knubbel Carp, the one ingredient that she couldn't leave with us was her absolute
love in cooking for her family and friends. And so all I have now are the memories
of that delectable dish. Other people have tried to duplicate it, but none have
succeeded. Thank God for memories. No. Thank God for Granma.

Anyway, that's enough about the Bronx River.

Pelham Parkway consisted primarily of apartment buildings. These buildings were
either six or seven stories high with approximately nine families to a floor which
translates to roughly sixty families per building. Most buildings were connected to
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other apartment buildings via a common lobby, access across the roof or a
labyrinth of underground tunnels which housed the boiler room which provided
heat to us during the cold winters. So while there were approximately sixty
families per building, in all actuality we could have access to as many as two
hundred and forty families without venturing a foot into the streets. On each block
there were approximately twelve apartment buildings. Therefore there were seven
hundred and twenty families on each block and with an average of 3.2 people in
each family, then each block housed over 2300 people. And this statistic stretched
for blocks on end. It wasn't too difficult to find a friend back then because after all
there were 2300 people living on your block and if no one appealed to you then all
you had to do was walk across the street and there were another 2300 people.

While friends were easy to find because so many people lived in such a
concentrated area, one could imagine that you could have pulled your hair out
trying to find a parking space for your car. Seven hundred twenty families living
on one square block. Because of the transportation system which was ingenious to
New York, a car was not a necessity, so some people didn't own one, but then again
some families had more than one car. It would be safe to say that those seven
hundred twenty families owned a few hundred cars and one square block could
only accommodate about one hundred twenty five automobiles. There were hardly
any parking garages, certainly not enough to satisfy the demand, but then again not
everyone wanted to pay to park their cars anyway so therefore additional garages
would not necessarily have been the answer to this problem. The answer was
rather simple. You either double parked your car or you drove around your area
until you found a parking space, and more often than not the parking space that
you eventually found could or would be as much as five blocks from where you
lived.

The average New York block or street is rectangular in shape. A walk around the
entire block takes about fifteen minutes, only ten minutes if you're taking home a
quart of Carvel ice cream. If you couldn't find a parking space close to your
apartment building, then it wouldn't be uncommon if it took you ten to twenty
minutes to walk to your building from where you parked your car. Ten or twenty
minutes and sometimes it was raining cats and dogs and you had no umbrella. Or
maybe a twenty minute walk on a blustery, windy day with a thermometer reading
of 14 degrees, and this was before the "wind chill factor", which probably brought
it down to minus 14 degrees. Or take that same cold day and add two or three foot
embankments of snow that you had to plow through, except your plow was your
feet. And of course when you have snow on the ground and you add a touch of
rain, then the snow turns into ice. And now what would normally be a brief ten
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minute walk to your dwelling has just turned into what appears to be a qualifying
heat for an Olympic event. Imagine walking on ice through the city streets.
Walking or shall I say sliding. Trying to keep your feet under you as you walk
uphill only to find yourself sliding backwards and awkwardly grasping for
whatever is near you to prevent your fall from grace. You grab the bricks on the
buildings or the ledges that surround the apartment buildings. Car door handles
prevented many a fall as you reached out for them and held them ever so tight as
your feet did a pre-Michael Jackson moonwalk on the icy streets. If you were
walking with a friend and you felt yourself going into a free fall, then it was only
natural to grab onto the arm of your companion and together you both made your
descent to earth.

People that have garages for their cars have a tendency to take the simple pleasures
of life for granted. Such as knowing where your car is when you leave for work in
the morning. If I had a dollar for each time someone in my neighborhood forgot
where they parked their car the night before then I would have been a millionaire
before I got out of my teens. So many times I remember my Father leaving for
work in the morning only to come back up to the apartment in an hour to enlist my
help to find his car. Like Sergeant Friday from Dragnet I would give my dad the
third degree. "Dad, what kind of car are we looking for? What color is it? Are
you sure that you brought it home with you last night?"

As I stated before, people also double parked their cars when no spots were
available near their apartment building. This created a problem not only for the
person who they parked next to but quite often for all the occupants of the
building. Envision one entire street that could accommodate approximately thirty
parked cars on each side. That's parking for sixty. Now with cars being double
parked, sixty could easily turn into one hundred. The next morning you leave your
apartment to go to work. If your car is double parked then there's no problem. You
just get into your car and drive away. Suppose though that the person who wants
to use his car is legally parked but there's a car double parked next to him. The
person that is legally parked now has a problem. He has no idea whatsoever who
owns the illegally double parked car. It could be someone in his building or
someone in any number of buildings within a five block area. The double parked
car is locked, so he can't enter it and unleash the brake and move it. There is a car
in front of him and there is a car in back of him. In other words this guy has got
TZURIS (troubles). GROISA TZURIS (Big troubles). What do you do? First
you turn a bright shade of red. Secondly you start reviewing your vocabulary of
curse words. The third thing you do is open your car door and blast your horn.
There's hardly a sound more disturbing to the human ear than a car horn. First you
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give two or three short honks. This is repeated about three times. If you fail to
achieve a favorable response to your three short honks, you then move to battle
plan B, which is a series of short honks repeated over and over. By now you are
starting to get the attention of people in your building. Not so much the people
who are preparing to go to work, because they couldn't care less. Although when
they see you on the street they offer their sympathies, but as they walk away from
you they've got a grin from ear to ear. Suddenly you can hear windows opening up
and people are sticking their heads out and yelling at you to be quiet. They don't
care that you can't get out of your parking space. They don't care that you are
going to be late for work. No, all they care about is that the noise from your car
horn is deafening to their ears. All they care about is that you are waking them up
from a sound sleep. The windows from the apartments are open and scores of
people are hurtling down insults upon you. This is where you draw the line. You
do what any good field commander would do when the odds are seemingly
insurmountable. It is your decision to use psychological warfare so that all of these
people will be on your side and help you find the real enemy, the person that is
double parked by your car. You now call upon all of your wits to deliver the
ultimate battle plan. This is war and you have decided to end it in a quick and
efficient manner with as few casualties as is possible. With complete confidence
you now firmly place your hand on the horn of your automobile and................
PRESS DOWN. Your hand stays firmly entrenched on the horn. You gaze up at
the people who are looking at you through their apartment windows. It's the same
look that a General emits to his troops just before the big battle. It's a look of
confidence. Those troops that see this look know very well that the final outcome
of this battle rests squarely on their shoulders. And now all of these people that
were mad at the person who was disturbing their sleep with this constant honking
of the car horn have just switched their allegiance. You can see these people
looking at each other through open apartment windows asking everyone who can
hear them who they thought the double parked car belongs to. By now one of the
people who were looking out the window has disappeared into their apartment.
Perhaps they recognized the double parked car. Perhaps they are calling the double
parkee. Usually, within two minutes, your mission will have been completed.
Someone will have come down, apologetically I might add, and drive away in the
double parked car, leaving you with only your thoughts on a day that has not
started out very well. How often did an event like this occur? Just about every
day.

By now I'm sure that you realize that parking spaces were a premium in the Bronx.
In excess of seven hundred families lived on each block with a parking capacity of
less than one hundred fifty. So what did the geniuses that we elected to public
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office do to uncomplicate matters? NOTHING. Instead they chose to add more
fuel to the fire by coming up with the noblest of ideas to clean up our beloved
Bronx, and in the process, unbeknownst to them, they took a problem and turned it
into a full blown CALAMITY. It was a calamity of monumental proportions. This
calamity was called, Alternate Side of the Street Parking. Wednesdays, Saturdays
and Sundays were free days. In other words you could park anywhere you wanted
to on those days. Those free days were very important. It helped you recover from
Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays which were not free days. They were
horrific days. On Mondays and Thursdays you couldn't park on one side of the
street between 8 A.M. and 11 A.M. On Tuesdays and Fridays you couldn't park on
the other side of the street during those same hours. The purpose of this was so
that on those days these huge machines could lumber down our streets spraying
water and cleaning it of debris. Besides further complicating an already very
complicated parking problem, this was also an unwarranted expense. Why? The
neighborhood was like Ivory soap. It was 99.98 % Jewish. Did you ever see a
Jewish person eat? Not even a crumb is left on the plate. A dog doesn't even want
our steak bones when we're finished with them. So it was totally unnecessary to
send these machines into our fair community to clean the streets. They were never
dirty and there certainly was never any garbage on our streets. And as far as these
machines watering our streets, all I can say is this………. Plants you water.

Most people eat to live. Jewish people live to eat. We had as many eating
establishments in our neighborhood as can be found in neighborhoods five times
our size. Within a five block area we had the following: No less than six candy
stores, two pizza parlors, two Chinese restaurants, one Greek restaurant, one Italian
restaurant, one carvel, one steak house, four delicatessens and one kosher
restaurant.

The candy store on Pelham Parkway served many functions. Besides having a
more than ample display of every candy bar known to mankind, it also was the
place to go to buy a newspaper. We didn't have newspaper machines back then but
we did have a wide variety of papers to choose from. There was the Daily Mirror
and the Daily News. These papers were very similar. As a matter of fact the major
difference was their name. The Mirror and the News each had a morning and an
evening edition. They were about the size of the National Enquirer, except the
average paper had 128 pages. And for those voracious readers we also had an
afternoon paper which was called the New York Post. The Post was the same size
as the Mirror and the Daily News. These three papers, although they were written
in English, closely resembled Jewish Prayer Books, at least for most males. This
wasn't because of their contents but rather the way they were read, because just like
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a Jewish Prayer Book the reader of these newspapers would start at the back of the
paper. Why? Because that is where the most reverent and holiest of information
was placed. And that information was all of the sports scores from the day before
as well as up dated sports stories. For a male growing up in the Bronx and not
knowing which teams won and which player scored the most points and who was
in first, second and third place was tantamount to treason. Coming down into the
schoolyard on Saturday or Sunday morning unprepared to discuss the sporting
events of the day before was, well it was like taking a stroll in the street with
nothing on but your family jewels. IT JUST WASN'T DONE!

After the sports section the want ads were listed followed by the movie guide. We
had two movie theaters within five blocks of each other in our neighborhood.
There was the R.K.O. and the Globe. Movies weren't rated back in the fifties.
Children didn't have to have parents with them in order to gain admission to the
theaters. There was violence portrayed in the movies, but rather a subdued
violence. There were no unearthly sights of bloodshed, nor was there
dismemberment of limbs. Horror movies of the fifties used more ingenuity to
achieve their results than films of today. A blood curdling scream from the femme
fatale put a scare into any movie patron. Who could forget the chills that ran down
our spine when Vincent Price, star of the 3-D chiller House of Wax had his
handsome face literally peel apart in front of our very eyes to reveal the gruesome
looking monstrous ogre that was hidden beneath his mask? Sex in the movies was
also portrayed in a distinctive and equally different manner in the fifties. The fires
that lit our imagination were kindled so as to give our minds a chance to wander.
More often than not the image of what a naked person might look like was far
more exciting than the actual nakedness that is displayed in today‟s' movies.
Movies that had a comedic tone to them were also very different from those of
today. The directors understood that they could achieve the desired effect without
resorting to vulgarity, whereby in today‟s environment, vulgarity represents the
humor.

Years ago parents had an entirely more prominent role in the rearing of their
children. Today the television networks, the movie producers as well as the
tabloids have taken it upon themselves to help educate our children to their
standards and one of the by-products of this has been a tremendous moral decay in
our country.

Back in the fifties a day at the movies was almost just that, a day at the movies.
Mom would usually pack a lunch for me. Right next to the R.K.O. theatre there
was a confectionery store called Jesse's. Jesse used to sell peanuts and candy by
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the scoop. All types of nuts and candies were displayed in big fishbowls. With
barely a dollar bill you could purchase enough candy and nuts to feed your face for
the entire day.

Once inside the theater we settled down for "a day at the movies." The fare was
routinely the same. A few cartoon shorts that included Bugs Bunny, Tweetie Bird,
Heckle and Jeckle and Popeye and friends. This was usually followed by a
comedy short of the Three Stooges or the Dead End Kids. Then of course there
were previews of coming attractions followed by two full length feature films. At
this point we had spent about four hours at the theater. Unlike today‟s movie
goers, we weren't required to leave after the showings. If we wanted, at no
additional charge we could sit in our seats and see the films over and over, again
and again. It was a great way to spend a Saturday morning............... and afternoon.

Getting back to the newspapers, all three tabloids that I mentioned previously had
plenty of advertising space used by all the major department stores such as
Alexander‟s, Macys, Gimbals, Willoughby Electronics and Kor-Vettes to name a
few. After this section you were near the front of the paper which had local as well
as state and worldwide news, with the exception of the New York Post. The Post
had one other interesting article that appeared in the paper every day between the
main stories and the advertisements. There wasn't one self-respecting guy in the
neighborhood that would skip this section. Sometimes we would read this or
should I say look at this before the much heralded sports section. I'm referring to
Earl Wilson‟s' column. Earl Wilson was a very famous New York columnist who
wrote a daily article for the Post. His column was very stylish and it set him apart
from all other columnists. His articles each day dealt with famous personalities
from all walks of the entertainment field that were seen in New York the day or
evening before. There were stories about movie stars, television personalities and
sports greats who were seen in various restaurants and night spots. Some of the
stories reported fights that these personalities were involved in such as the
infamous barroom brawl at the legendary Copacabana that involved New York
Yankee legends Mickey Mantle, Hank Bauer and Billy Martin. As great a
ballplayer as Billy Martin was, due to the fight at the Copacabana, coupled with his
influence over his teammates, he lost his position as second baseman for the Yanks.
Soon after he was traded or fired from the Yankees, a trend that continued right up
until his untimely death.

One year Bridgette Bardot was visiting New York. She was staying at the Waldorf
Astoria and was not granting any interviews. Earl Wilson was determined to see
La Bardot. I don't think that he cared as much about the interview as he did in
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getting a glimpse of the hottest sex star since the advent of the silver screen. As
was reported in Earl's column, he walked into the Waldorf and donned a maid‟s
uniform, complete with a kerchief around his head. To fully appreciate this
anecdote you must visualize what Earl Wilson looked like. Earl was well under six
feet and quite portly with black rimmed glasses. He bore a slight resemblance to
Officer Gunther Tuddy from the hit television series, "Car 54, Where Are You."
Picture in your mind Gunther Tuddy with a kerchief around his head in an attempt
to impersonate a maid. One wonders what Bardot thought. Earl didn't care and
neither did his readers.

The main attraction to his column was that in the center of his article each and
every day was a picture of a female, some more well-known than others, but all
sharing something in common. They were all abundantly endowed and were either
wearing tight sweaters or were showing an ample amount of cleavage. The Post
was an afternoon paper and I might add an afternoon treat. And just like radio
commentator Paul Harvey, Earl Wilson also had his signature sign off at the
conclusion of his column, which was, "that's Earl Brother."

The candy store was also a social gathering place for teenagers and adults alike. It
wasn't uncommon to walk into a candy store at any time of the day, as they were
usually open from six in the morning until eleven or twelve at night, and find
people congregating in the booths or at the counters engaged in conversation or
reading a paper while at the same time enjoying a snack, having a sandwich or
sipping on one of New York's more popular fountain favorites. The drink that was
probably the most popular in New York was the egg cream. There were a couple
of secrets inherent to the making of a good egg cream. An egg cream consisted of
chocolate syrup, milk and seltzer (club soda). Many an egg cream was spoiled for
a number of reasons. First of all the ingredients had to be put in the glass in a set
order with the chocolate syrup first, followed by the milk and lastly the seltzer. Do
it any other way and you louse up the drink. It just won't taste the same. The other
key was in how you poured the seltzer into the glass and last but far from least,
great care had to be given as to the type of chocolate syrup that you used as only
one brand was permissible.

Now here's how to make a New York Egg Cream, and if you've never tasted it
before then be prepared to experience "a drinking sensation," guaranteed to have
you begging for more. Take an eight ounce drinking glass and add about one inch
of Fox's U-Bet chocolate syrup. Now add about one inch of milk. If you're
fortunate enough to be able to get an old fashioned bottle of seltzer, the one that
comes in a glass bottle with a silver headpiece, then by all means do so because
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your egg cream will be authentic in every sense of the word. On the other hand if
you cannot get the old fashioned seltzer bottle then use the common variety club
soda found in super markets. Make sure that the seltzer is refrigerated and very
cold prior to use. When you drink seltzer that is good and cold you'll GREPS
(Belch). Don't be ashamed. Let it out. In Europe it was customary to greps after a
good meal. It was considered a compliment. My Mom and Granma got
complimented every day of their lives. When we had a family get together it
sounded as if there was a symphony orchestra in our dining room. Now, with
regards to the egg cream, take a teaspoon and place it in the glass towards the
bottom. Pour the seltzer directly onto the spoon. This procedure provides the
proper amount of head for your drink. Continue pouring, leaving about two inches
of space at the top of the glass. Now stir your drink. If you've done this properly
then the two inch space will fill up with a frothy white foam. Bet you can't drink
just one.

Now if you ask someone what a chocolate soda is, they'll tell you that it's made
with chocolate syrup, seltzer and ice cream. In the Bronx a chocolate soda was an
egg cream without the milk. It's made the same way except you don't use milk. If
we added ice cream then we called it an ice cream soda. If we asked for a black n'
white, then we wanted an ice cream soda with chocolate syrup and vanilla ice
cream.

Another very popular drink was the malted. This was a thick drink that was
usually made with vanilla, chocolate or strawberry ice cream. A big tin canister
was used and into this canister was placed ice cream as well as the syrup of your
choice along with a small amount of malt and a lot of milk. Then the canister was
placed in a mixer for about a minute. When done the canister filled up two and a
half eight ounce glasses of one of the best drinks that you'll ever have the pleasure
of tasting. The price? Just twenty-five cents. Actually it was twenty-seven cents
because a malted tasted better with a pretzel. We used to get these pretzels that
looked like bread sticks and we would dunk then in the malted and bite off a piece.

Finally, one of the most splendid thirst quenchers on a hot day was a cherry-lime
rickey. This drink was served in a tall, slender, frosted glass and was composed of
an equal amount of cherry and lime syrup and to that seltzer was added. Stir and
throw in a piece of lime and you've got one super tasting drink.

As you have probably guessed by now, the candy store was not conducive to
weight control.

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Some candy stores were directly responsible for making capitalists of
neighborhood children or at least those children that had a yen for the free
enterprise system. Most candy stores had sliding glass windows in their store
front. The window was in place approximately four feet up from the ground and
extended to the ceiling. The purpose was to accommodate customers who were in
a rush and either wanted a newspaper which was stacked up outside the candy
store or some gum or candy which was on the counter top. At that point the
customer did not have to go into the store but rather go to the sliding glass window
and put their money in a little PISHKA (dish) which was readily available on the
counter top. At any given point in time there could be a couple of dollars in
change in the PISHKA. Now two dollars might not sound like a lot of money in
this day and age but back in the fifties you got three plays on the jukebox for a
quarter. A frankfurter with mustard and sauerkraut was just twenty cents; with
potato salad it cost an extra nickel. A two cents plain was just that and a large coke
was just ten cents. A loaf of white bread was twenty-five cents and you could get
an Italian hero UNGERSHTOOPED (loaded) with meats for less than half a
buck. You could take the train to Yankee Stadium, see a ball game, have a hot dog
and soda and still come home with change. You could go into the supermarket and
get the biggest, juiciest sour pickle that you ever saw for just a nickel. You could
buy a Spalding ball for a quarter and a stick ball bat for twenty-six cents. With two
dollars you could eat and entertain yourself for days. But now with two dollars
you're lucky enough to be able to buy toilet tissue to cleanse your TUCHAS (rear
end). That's what two dollars is good for now. But back then two dollars put you
on Broadway. And there it was, sitting in that little pishka. The owner of the
candy store as well as his employees didn't have time to clean out the pishka every
time a customer dropped a nickel, dime or quarter in it. They were too busy
serving customers inside the candy store so the employees never knew how much
or how little money was in it. The approach was simple. Walk up to the window
and take a newspaper from the rack. Through the open window alert the owner of
the store or one of his employees that you were putting a nickel in the pishka for
the paper. They would acknowledge you and then as you placed your nickel in the
pishka you scooped up the remaining change that was there, leaving in its place
your nickel. To the best of my knowledge no one ever got caught.

The one Chinese Restaurant in the neighborhood that we frequented was called
Dirty Harry's, and that was before Clint Eastwood popularized that name. Actually
the real name of the restaurant escapes me. I don't think I ever knew it and I must
have eaten in there over a thousand times. Someone, I think it was my Father, gave
the restaurant a nickname in honor of the owner Harry and in honor of.....gee, why
did we eat there so much? Anyway, the food was absolutely fantastic. We either
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ate there or brought the food up to the apartment at least every other week. When
you entered the restaurant Harry or his wife would greet you. The front of the
restaurant was approximately twenty feet deep with tables on either side. The
waiter walking down the aisle could serve the tables on each side as there was no
more than a three foot separation. Beyond the aisle there was a circular area that
had an additional five or six tables. The entire restaurant had no more than twenty
tables and they were almost always full. Harry knew me very well as my family
were steady and loyal customers. He had a very keen sense of humor. I don't
know if that is indicative of Chinese people but it certainly was of Harry. One time
I was in the restaurant with some of my friends having lunch. Now as you may
know Chinese food causes one to drink water excessively. The restaurant was
fairly crowded and I decided to have some fun with our waiter. After he would fill
up my glass with water I would wait for him to walk away from my table and then
I would hurriedly drink it up. As I said before the restaurant was small in size and
except for when the waiter was in the kitchen, he was always in my sight. As he
was serving another table I would yell out, "Waiter." He'd look up at me and I
would hold up my glass indicating that I needed more water. After repeating this
about a half dozen times the waiter became very agitated. He must have told Harry
what I was doing because all of a sudden there was Harry standing right next to my
table with a large pitcher of water. He poured a glass of water for me and stood
there with a devilish grin on his face and in his unmistakable oriental dialect he
said to me, "So, you like to dlink watah Mr. Chanzes? Go ahead, keep dlinking." I
got the message.

About a year ago my wife and I made the trip to New York and visited my old
neighborhood. I hadn't been back there for quite some time. Sure enough, Dirty
Harry's was still there. We went in for lunch. Harry's wife hadn't aged a day. I
recognized one of the old waiters. He was still old. And then I saw Dirty Harry.
He looked the same except that he had streaks of gray throughout his hair. He
didn't recognize me and for some reason I was glad. If he had I'm sure he would
have asked me about my family and because my Mom, Dad and Granma had all
passed away, it would have been difficult for me to keep my composure. As it was
I sat down with my wife and my eyes welled up. That was because I was thinking
of all the memorable times I had at Dirty Harry's with my friends and my family.

I might add that Dirty Harry has progressed with the times. He now has a smoking
and a non-smoking section. When you walk into his restaurant you can sit in the
smoking section on the left or in the non-smoking section on the right. Although
both sections are separated by a common aisle of no more than three feet in width
and although smoke from the smoking section fills up the non-smoking section,
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this in itself has not deterred Harry from keeping up with the times.

We also had four delicatessens in the neighborhood and all of them were located
within three blocks of each other. There was Zion‟s, Sonny's, The Palace and
Levine's. Zion's was on the corner of Holland and Lydig Avenue. Sonny's Deli
was on Lydig, just three quarters of a block down from Zion's. Directly across the
street from Sonny's was The Palace. Continuing down Lydig Avenue just one
block brought you to White Plains Road. Make a quick right onto White Plains
Road and a few stores down was Levine's. Four Deli's within three blocks of each
other and you had to fight for a table.

My Granma liked to go to the Palace. My Father swore by Sonny's. My sisters
preferred Zion's. My mom had no preference and I loved them all because there
was no difference between any of them. They were all equally delicious. Anytime
my Dad would send me down to get some Deli he would give me specific
instructions. "Professor." My Father always called me Professor. Maybe it was
because of my grades, or lack of them. Anyway when he sent me down for Deli
for the family he would say, "Professor, make sure you go to Sonny's. Don't go to
Zion's (which was about a block closer) and make sure you only let Phil (one of
Sonny's workers) wait on you and make sure to tell him that you want lean corned
beef and lean pastrami, okay?" So I would SCHLEP (go) down to Sonny's. Now
on any given Sunday in my neighborhood all of the delicatessens were crowded.
As a matter of fact the Chinese restaurants and the pizza parlors were equally
crowded. Jews don't eat to live, rather we live to eat. All we need is an excuse and
within seconds our knives and forks are going ninety miles per hour. Our
NACHAS (pleasures), as well as our sorrows are placated by food.....and lots of it.
So I would walk into Sonny's ready to heed my Fathers advice. Usually there were
six to ten people in front of you waiting to place a takeout order. Sonny had three
people behind the counter including himself waiting on customers as well as filling
the waiter‟s orders for his restaurant trade. There was Sonny, Phil and Curly.
Curly was a portly man in his forties with a horseshoe shaped hairdo. His hairline
was no higher than his ear and curved around the back of his head to his other ear.
The top of his head was probably used as a landing field for flies because it was
void of all remnants of growth except for a few strands of hair that seemingly
joined in unison three inches above his dome and curled to a peak. So there I was
in the Deli waiting my turn which could take thirty minutes to an hour. Have you
ever been in a Jewish Deli waiting to place your order with six to ten ALTA
COCKAS (old Jewish men) in front of you? Sonny didn't give out numbers like
they did in bakeries to determine who was next in line waiting to be served.

Page 29 of 301


This was the honor system or should I say a system without honor. The thirty to
sixty minutes that you spent waiting to be served was pure torture. For a number
of reasons. If you weren't hungry going down to the Deli, I can assure you that as
soon as you approached the store your mouth would start to salivate. The aromas
of a Jewish Deli could make a convert out of an atheist. And when you open the
door to the Deli and walk in, the heavenly smells of the corned beef, the pastrami,
the franks on the grill, the knishes (remember, Jews pronounce the k, ki-nish-es),
the salamis hanging from the ceilings greet you as if you were royalty. And just
about then the TUMULT (aggravation) starts. "Who's next?" "I am," said one
A.K... (abbreviation for Alta Cocka) "No, I am," said another A.K. "I was here
first"... "No, I was"... "I had to go to the bathroom"... "Too bad"... "I was talking
to a friend who is seated in the restaurant"... "You lost your turn"... "Sonny, how's
the corned beef today?" "Are you sure it's good?"..."Is it lean?"..."You think I
should try the pastrami instead?"..."Maybe you better give me a taste"... And after
all of this the big spender would order an eighth of a pound and pity the worker
who goes a slice over. "I told you I just wanted an eighth of a pound. How much
extra will that be?"... When my turn finally came around, I didn't care who waited
on me, I didn't bother the counterman by asking for lean meat, I didn't care how
much over he was on the scale. I just wanted to get out of the Deli with my sanity
as well as my appetite intact.

The restaurants in my community absolutely adored my family on most Sundays.
Why, you ask? Because if we weren't off visiting family and if my Dad wasn't
taking us out to eat, then we would order in food. And because I was the oldest
child in the family, that in itself would cause me to be elected "delivery boy for the
day." On the surface this honor doesn't seem so bad because if there was inclement
weather such as snowstorms, rain, sleet, hail, etc., the "Delivery Boy Election
Committee," which consisted of my Mom, Dad, Granma and two sisters, would
refrain from voting me into office and my Mom and Granma would cook
something up for us. But on those days whereby the dubious title was bestowed on
me, I want you to know that it required a keen sense of skill, preparation and
timeliness to fulfill what was expected of such an exalted position, and that
expectation was that I would return to the apartment with piping hot food. Not
food that had to be reheated, because reheated food never quite tastes the same as
fresh food, but food that was hot and ready to eat. Sounds easy, because as I have
previously stated we had no less than a dozen restaurants within a short walking
distance. We had Chinese restaurants, delicatessens, pizza parlors, to name a few.
And it would have been easy if only I could have gone to either a Chinese
restaurant, a delicatessen or a pizza parlor. But unfortunately life was not so
simple. My Granma was kosher and that eliminated Chinese food and pizza. So it
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was off to the Deli for Granma. While my sisters liked Chinese food and Deli,
their first preference was pizza, and my parents were partial to Chinese food. So in
a manner of speaking I became the first "Galloping Gourmet." It was my job to
pick up delicatessen for Granma, pizza for my sisters and Chinese food for Mom,
Dad and me. And furthermore it was expected of me to deliver the food piping
hot. My Mom would call Dirty Harry to place the order for Chinese food. It
usually took about forty-five minutes for it to be prepared. As soon as my Mom
placed the order for the Chinese food I would don my track shoes and head for the
pizza parlor to place that order. It usually took about twenty minutes for the pizza
to be baked. While the pizza was baking I'd go across the street to the Deli and get
Granma her food. With Granma‟s food in hand I would go back across the street to
pick up the pizza. Now with a hot corned beef sandwich and an equally hot pizza I
would go across the street to Dirty Harry to get the Chinese food. When I got out
of Dirty Harry's I may not have looked very organized, what with my arms filled
with Chinese food, delicatessen and pizza, but one thing was for sure. I smelled
FANTASTIC!!!

Of course every neighborhood had its own version of the infamous Madison
Square garden. Our Garden was called Public School 105 or P.S. 105. Adjacent to
the school was the schoolyard which was completely enclosed by either a chain
link fence, or a combination fence and cement wall ranging in height from ten feet
to well over forty feet. The dimensions of the schoolyard were approximately two
hundred fifty feet by four hundred fifty feet. The schoolyard served many
purposes, not the least of which was where aspiring future Hall of Famers
practiced their craft. P.S. 105 had four basketball courts where we played half
court as well as full court games. It wasn't unusual to come down to the
schoolyard on a Saturday or Sunday and find all four basketball courts in use and
at the same time there would be two softball games in progress or a touch football
game pitting twenty-two guys in action as well as five to seven stickball games
going on. The cast of players for all of these games were usually the same. It was
guys known only by either a nickname or just their last name. The only people that
addressed us by our first names were our parents, relatives and sometimes our
teachers. We had guys like Pee Wee Cohen. Pee Wee might have been short in
stature but he was a dynamo when it came to athletic competition. His diminutive
size became one of his greatest assets in athletic competition. His greatest asset
though was his desire to excel. Two examples come to mind. Stickball was a very
popular game at P.S. 105. When we played stickball it was usually one on one
competition. With a piece of chalk we would draw a box on the concrete wall in
the schoolyard. From a distance of about forty feet we would pitch to the batter.
Any ball not swung at and either landing in the box or hitting the lines around the
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box was considered a strike. A ground ball past the pitcher was a single; if caught
by the pitcher it was an out. A ball hit by a batter that bounced for the first time
past the pitching line was a double. A ball traveling far enough to hit the fence at
the opposite end of the field was considered a triple and if it went over the fence
which was about two hundred and fifty feet away, then it was a home run. The
field of play was very narrow as it was approximately fifteen feet on either side of
the pitcher. We used to use a ball that the Spalding Company made... It was called
appropriately enough, .... a Spalding. Now if you had a half way decent throwing
arm you could make this ball hum. Guys could throw this ball so fast that it would
cause batters to be very nervous standing at the plate. A black and blue mark was
often the result of being hit by the ball. That's how fast and hard it could be
thrown.

I could always throw the ball fast. My problem at times was my control. On this
particular day Pee Wee and I were playing stickball and I was throwing the ball
faster than usual with pin point control. Now I don't mean to imply that I was
placing the ball in the exact spot that I wanted to but if you could consistently
throw the ball into the chalked box then that was for me at least, evidence of pin
point control. After two innings I was actually a run up on Pee Wee and delusions
of grandeur were dancing through my head. That's not to say that Pee Wee wasn't
invincible, but I wasn't in his league when it came to stickball and social status in
the Bronx in the 1950's and early 60's was to a large degree attributable to how
many points you scored in a basketball game or who you beat in stickball. So I
had a lot riding on the outcome of this game. It had gone beyond being a game. It
was for status, it was for acceptance. It was 'mano a mano.' This was what life
was all about for a fourteen year old kid growing up in the Bronx. There was
nothing more important in life at that time than establishing your athletic
credentials. Victory in athletics meant that in team games you were chosen first.
Victory in athletics gave you a new found acceptance, so much so that the tough
guys in the neighborhood would not pick on you because the "unwritten law" of
neighborhood sports is that you don't hit the jocks. You can bother the jocks, you
can intimidate the jocks, but you don't hit a jock because that jock might hit a home
run that will cause your team to win. Unfortunately not every tough guy played
ball, so, so much for that theory. Anyway, so there I was with all of this pressure
on my mind, projecting my new found acclaim some seven innings into the future
and what does Pee Wee do? Pee Wee did what I had not seen anyone before or
since do. He was having a difficult time hitting my fastball so he stood at the plate
and started bunting. He bunted the ball over my head, he bunted it to my right, he
bunted the ball to my left and each time he bunted the ball I became more
frustrated and as a result I threw the ball that much harder which in turn made Pee
Page 32 of 301


Wee's job that much easier because the harder I threw the ball then the farther it
traveled off of his bat. When I slowed my pitches down so as to prevent Pee Wee
from bunting the ball past me, he would then take a normal swing and whack the
ball all over the place. I don't remember the final score of the game but I vaguely
remember who won. It was the short guy. Anyway I've tried to get a rematch with
Pee Wee but I think he's ducking me.

The other story that sticks out in my mind about Pee Wee was when he made the
Christopher Columbus High School basketball team. During the school year, at the
insistence of some of the members of the team, Coach Roy Rubin was persuaded to
give Pee Wee a special tryout for the team which was created when one of the
other members either hurt himself or got ill and was going to be out for the rest of
the year. Pee Wee got the tryout and made the team, although not as a starter.
Back then there was a tournament held every year at the original Madison Square
Garden in New York City for the top high school basketball teams. The
competition was referred to as the P.S.A.L. tournament. Students of the various
competing schools would fill the seats at the Garden and we were treated to as
many as three games on any given day. I forgot the team we were playing that day
and quite honestly I don't even remember if we won, but I do remember Pee Wee
being put into the game late in the contest. There was hardly any time left on the
clock and you could see that the guys from the Columbus High team were
feverishly trying to set Pee Wee up so that he could score a basket. The ball came
down the court and with little time left on the clock the ball was passed into Pee
Wee's hands. The court was crowded with guys almost twice the size of Pee Wee.
Pee Wee reacted instinctively as any good ball player will and he realized that it
would be difficult to successfully drive to the basket for a score and it would be
equally difficult to shoot the ball from his present position on the court because he
was being guarded so closely. With quick reflexes and speed to match, Pee Wee
dribbled the ball to the corner base line of the court, a distance of some thirty-five
feet. The person guarding Pee Wee backed off a little due to the distance between
Pee Wee and the basket. That bit of hesitation on the part of the defender gave Pee
Wee the opening that he needed to take a shot at the basket. Up went Pee Wee. He
released the ball and as it made its arc towards the basket you could sense that
everyone in the Garden was rooting for him. The ball arrived at the basket and in
school yard parlance it was a "swish shot." The ball went through the basket
without hitting the rim as it 'swished' the nets. The crowd, friend and foe alike
erupted with joy. A good basketball crowd applauds not only the finesse of their
players but the opposing players as well. Pee Wee started jumping in the air,
raising his right arm high up and with one fell swoop bringing it down to signify
his accomplishment. The Garden announcer, the late John Condon, announced to
Page 33 of 301


the crowd that the basket was made by Pee Wee Cohen. You would have thought
that Columbus High had just won the championship game but instead it was one of
many memorable events for a memorable guy.

There were many other guys who had nicknames. There was Tubs. And he was.
But you couldn't tell him that unless of course you were tired of living. Tubs was a
real MESHUGANA (crazy person). He was a teenage Jewish Godfather. That's
like Godfather spelled D-O-N C-O-R-L-E-O-N-E. If you had a problem with
some kid in the neighborhood, then you went to see Tubs. On the other hand if
Tubs had a problem with some kid in the neighborhood, then that kid considered
leaving home...and quickly. It's not that Tubs went around killing people. Instead
he would usually give you a good shot in the KISHKAS (kidneys) to get your
attention. One time Tubs got a little carried away. Someone was bothering one of
his friends and Tubs paid this kid a visit. Not exactly a friendly one. Tubs took
this kid on a trip. Not in a car. But in an elevator. To the seventh floor. You see
the elevators in apartment buildings would not go to the roof. They only went to
the top floor, usually the seventh. From the seventh floor Tubs walked this kid up
one flight to the roof. At this point the story gets a little fuzzy. I don't know if
Tubs hit this kid or if he just talked to him when he got him to the roof. I do know
one thing though. Tubs held on to this kid and he wouldn't let go. Tubs held onto
him by his ankles. Tubs grip on this kids ankles was so tight that the kids ankles
swelled up. And it's a good thing that Tubs had the presence of mind to hold this
kid tightly by his ankles. Because if he didn't then this kid would have fell off the
roof to the ground below which was seven stories down as Tubs was holding him
over the edge. After that episode everyone did their best not to upset Tubs.
Especially the kid with the swollen ankles.

Another character from the neighborhood who frequented the schoolyard was a
guy that everyone called "The Babe", as in Babe Ruth. The Babe loved to play
stickball with kids four or five years younger than him as his chances of winning
improved dramatically. Now the Babe, like his namesake, was stout and also
batted from the left side. The Babe was also given a tryout by the New York
Yankees, and that is how he got his nickname, but unlike his predecessor, the
Babe's home run feats were limited to the confines of the schoolyard of P.S. 105.
On any given weekend you could go to the schoolyard and see the Babe. He was
about 5' 10" tall, portly and he appeared to have had a grin impregnated on his
face. I don't think that I ever saw the Babe without a smile. I also don't believe
that I ever saw the Babe without a Spaulding in one hand and a stickball bat in the
other. There was one other thing that the Babe always had with him and that was
his own personal statistics with regards to his stickball prowess. On any given day
Page 34 of 301


he'd be able to tell you how many home runs he had hit in the schoolyard that year.
The real Babe would have been impressed. Humm. Maybe now I understand why
our Babe always played kids four or five years his junior.

A few years ago I went to pay a condolence call at my friend Harvey's house
because his mother had just passed away. Harvey was living in Fort Lauderdale.
When I walked into his home, Harvey introduced me to everyone there. During
the course of the introductions Harvey introduced me to his brother in-law Shelley.
I looked at Shelley and said, " Your name isn't Shelley, it's the Babe." This was
1978. I hadn't seen the Babe in at least fourteen years. He looked the same. It was
if the aging process had passed him by. I desperately wanted to ask him how many
home runs he had hit in 1956, 57 and 58 in the schoolyard of P.S. 105 but common
sense told me not to. I mean, think about it. Did Roger Maris ever forget how
many home runs he hit in 1961? I asked the Babe for his phone number and told
him I would call him and we could play a game of stickball in our version of an
'Old Timers Game'. He asked me how old I was. I told him that I was only about
two or three years younger than him. He said, "nah, forget it."

Then there was a man we all called Pops. Pops was in his sixties and you could
always find him on the basketball court with all of the teenagers. Now Pops
couldn't move like us kids, but he had his own distinct and effective style. Pops
would only play half court games with us. We would have six guys playing, three
against three. Pops would usually guard the kid who had the poorest outside shot.
Why? Because Pops would usually take a defensive position underneath the
basket and allow you to shoot to your heart‟s content from the outside. There's no
worse shame in basketball than having your opponent give you a free shot at the
hoop, only to have you miss. Pop's style on offense was equally adept. He would
stand in one spot about fifteen feet away from the basket and wait for you to pass
him the ball. Then he would throw a two hand set shot up at the basket and more
often than not the ball would go through the hoop.

There was a kid who lived two blocks away from me in my Granma's building
whose name was Warren Dolinsky, yet for some unknown reason the name he
answered to was "Jiggy." Life had dealt Jiggy a cruel blow. Jiggy had some sort
of bone disorder which was evident by the protruding lumps on both of his wrists.
In addition Jiggy maxed out in height at slightly over four feet. His diminutive
size kept him from competing in most sports, except for Ping Pong. In the game of
Ping Pong this little guy was a giant. A funny giant, but nevertheless a giant.
Jiggy could barely see over the Ping Pong table but there was hardly a ball he
didn't or couldn't return. He could volley and slam with great ability. When you
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played Jiggy a game of Ping Pong it was almost as if you were just playing Jiggy's
head, because that was all you could usually see at the other end of the table, just
Jiggy's head. You would hit the ball to Jiggy and then all of a sudden a crippled
hand holding onto a Ping Pong racket would come up from underneath the table
and return the ball to your side. Usually successfully. I was and still am an
excellent Ping Pong player and I played Jiggy on a number of occasions and after
most games Jiggy walked away from the Ping Pong table taller than I.

Of course some guys had last names that were funnier than any nickname could
possibly be. Like Lipschitz (pronounced Lip Shits). And other guys had
nicknames that made no sense at all, like Zorch. It was rare for girls to have
nicknames, but some of them did. My Aunt Tilly nicknamed my sister Phyllis,
"Murphy." I have no idea why. Neither does Murphy, I mean Phyllis.

Kids weren't the only ones to have nicknames. Some adults had nicknames for
their friends and the nicknames either described the line of work that the people
were in or it alluded to a particular characteristic of that individual. For instance
my Dad belonged to a club just across the street from our apartment building that
was frequented by the neighborhood men who enjoyed playing cards. There was
wagering on the games, but I couldn't tell you how much because kids weren't
allowed in there and my Dad would never discuss it with us. He would talk about
the people that went to the club. There was Maxie Bagels or as he was more
commonly called, Bagels. Now Bagels wasn't his real last name. It just described
the line of work that he was in. The most notorious of my Fathers‟ entire card
playing companions was Jake the FARTZER (one who passes gas). Now as my
Father would tell us, the Fartzer had a special talent. Jake could cut the cheese; lay
a bomb or just plain fart on cue. The Fartzer would be called upon to demonstrate
his special abilities when my Dad or his cronies were involved in a card game and
someone would sit down at the table and just KIBITZ (clown around). Money
was at stake in these games and there was no room for Kibitzers. So when a
Kibitzer appeared at one of the card tables, and if Jake was in the club, the high
sign would go out to him and the Fartzer would take up his position at that table
and do his thing. In no time flat the Kibitzer would leave and the game would
continue uninterrupted. I would ask my Dad how he and the other guys could
stand the odor and my Dad would indicate to me that it was a small price to pay in
order to continue the card game.

Our neighborhood also consisted of four Synagogues which are Jewish Houses of
Worship. Now in the Jewish religion, the Sabbath, which starts at sundown on
Friday and continues until sundown on Saturday, is considered to be the holiest of
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days with the exception of certain holidays that fall throughout the year. For those
that wanted to attend there were Friday night and Saturday morning prayer services
in the Synagogues. In our neighborhood it was usually the elderly that attended the
services, not us kids, and for a good reason. As for Friday night services I can only
speak for myself and not the other kids on the block. It was inconceivable for me
to attend services on Friday nights because my Mom and Granma cooked a dinner
on that night, that if all the elderly men had known about it, they would have
petitioned the Rabbi to change Friday night services to Thursday night so they
could eat in our home. But to be perfectly honest with you, these same people
would have loved to have eaten in our home on any night of the week. Come to
think of it, they wouldn't have complained over breakfast or lunch either, such was
the ability that my Mom and Granma possessed in the art of cooking. I have yet to
meet or hear of an individual that tasted either my Mom's or Granma's cooking and
didn't rant and rave about it. They couldn't wait to be invited back for another
royal feast. I can honestly say that I don't ever remember an invited guest not
showing up for one of my Mom's or Granma's dinners. I'm willing to bet that over
the years there were friends and relatives that showed up for dinner in pain or with
a high fever. I'm not so brash as to say that their cooking alleviated pain or
reduced a fever, but if their cooking got someone out of a sick bed to travel miles
to our apartment, then just maybe their secret blends did have some medicinal
purposes. A dinner cooked by my Mom or Granma on any night was special, but a
Friday night SHABAS (Sabbath) dinner was extra special. The first course served
was a FORESHPICE, which in English means appetizer. The foreshpice could
have been any one of a number of delectable dishes, such as chopped liver which
was served over a bed of lettuce, encircled by sliced tomatoes and topped off with
a radish placed directly in the center. Or it could have been chopped eggs and
onions. This dish was a blend of hard boiled eggs and onions, chopped and
blended together with salt and pepper and a little oil. This simple dish was
exquisite to the taste. Or the foreshpice could have been my very favorite, which
was a GEDEMPSE (mixture). Now a gedempse consists of tiny meatballs and
chicken gizzards which included the neck and the PIPPICK which is a chicken's
PUTZ (Penis), served in its own juices which was seasoned with lots of pepper.
This was some tasting putz. There are no adequate words that could describe the
taste and flavor of the gedempse that my Mom and Granma prepared. If six people
were going to sit down at the dinner table, then Mom and Granma cooked for
twelve, but they could never make enough gedempse. It was that good.

For that matter they could never make enough of anything that they cooked. When
my Mom and Granma cooked, the smells that emanated in the apartment made you
QVELL (gloat with delight). And above all, both Mom and Granma believed in a
Page 37 of 301

It Never Rained in The Bronx

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