Maurice Heads West
My brother and I were very close. We went sleigh-riding together. I attended all the sandlot baseball games that he played in, and if anyone ever dared hurt him running around the bases, throwing a ball, or even sliding into home, I was there to get on top of the opponent. I always said that he was more important to me than breathing. And it was necessary that he be there for me at all times.
When I was ten years old, Maurice came home from school and said to my father “I want to be a baseball player.”
And Papa said to him “No son of mine is going to be a baseball bum. You will go to California and find your way there in our larger family.”
The larger family was those relatives who had come to America in the late 1800s and had gone to California. And so my brother was sent out to live with Aunt Millie and Uncle Max. He got a job in the dried fruit business with the family—it was called Rosenberg Dried Fruit. He never graduated high school because Papa decided to send him off. He went out there not thinking very happily about leaving home.
Though our house was very lovely, my brother had grown up sleeping in a room that was called the hall bedroom. It was just enough to hold his bed and his dresser. But when Maurice arrived in San Francisco, he moved into the most luxurious house that you ever thought of in your life.
If you know San Francisco, they all face the bay, the private houses, and overlooking the academy, the Presidio. The family house overlooked the Presidio and onto the bay. And he came into that house from our farm family. And suddenly, here he was out in California, living with a maid, a chauffeur, and a butler. It was quite a drag for him to understand all of the mechanics of that family. But he got comfortable very quickly.
When he got comfortable, Aunt Millie said “Over and out. This is no place for you to be living. You’re earning a living now. You are working at Rosenberg Brothers. You find yourself your own pad and live on it.”
There was a man who was about his age, named Mel Spiegel, who lived in San Francisco at the same time. He was also on the Rosenberg Brothers’ roster. He was one of the workers. And he and Maurice became good friends. So Maurice moved into the rooming house that Mel Spiegel lived in.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t with me anymore. His absence made my heart heavy.
Clara
My sister Clara never liked living on the farm. She felt it was beneath her. I think she also felt squeezed in the family grid. She was the second daughter. She wasn’t the son, the Jewish Prince, that Mama and Papa wanted. He came next. And I was the baby and beautiful.
She was offered a scholarship to Vassar when she graduated from Hunter. Unlike older sister Elsie who had gone to finishing school, Clara wanted to work.
“I always thought Elsie was dumb and obedient.” She later told me. “I had dreams. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to go to elegant places to dine and dance. I wanted to see the world. Papa thought what he provided was perfect; good horse and surrey, good food, proper clothes – clean and in good condition but not necessarily stylish.”
“I always had a desire to be different than I was. I was never satisfied with my looks, my clothes, or my friends. I went to work as a secretary for Mr. Olney and I would imitate his speech. Maybe I thought unconsciously it would improve my position in society.”
In turn, I imitated Clara’s speech. She thought it was hysterical because it was wrong enough to be amusing. I was laughed at in school. I suffered but refused to change. I speak exactly as Clara does to this day. People find it difficult to distinguish our voices over the phone. I really loved copying her. When she wasn’t home, I even tried on her clothes.
“I loved you,” she said. “But you could do no wrong in Mama or Papa’s eyes. You got love. I got every mundane job heaped on me. Elsie had the adulation for everything she baked and sewed. I was given the upstairs to clean, every Sunday. It never even showed so I didn’t hear a compliment from one end of the year to the other. I had to lash out to express my anger, otherwise I’d explode. You were an easy target for me. Young! More important, I could type and you couldn’t. I liked the edge that gave me when you needed my help.”
I remember staying in the room when Morris gave Clara her engagement ring. I must have been eight years old. She was furious that I wouldn’t leave but he couldn’t wait to be alone with her. Morris was so excited about his success- not his success in having won my sister’s affections, but his success in the purchase of the ring. But Mama and Papa didn’t approve.
“Maybe in Cologne the name Sarnoff hadn’t the importance of Oppenheimer,” Clara protested. “But it’s certainly obvious his family achieved a good deal more. Papa was really a bigot. What hurt me was that Papa considered Morris a fourflusher, a spender with no backing. I enjoyed the prominence of his family. I loved Morris’ humor and bravado.”
Be Kind To Everyone
This maxim is and continues to be a burden through my life. Bring soup to the sick. Bring a present for a crippled child. Do a flower arrangement for someone in the hospital. Invite a lonely person to dinner. Feed a lost cat. Nurse a sick animal back to health. A constant stream of unending tasks to perform for friend, relative, animal, or foe.
Papa happily used my time and energy to relieve the needy. I vividly remember Frances Affinito. She lived with her family of seven over a blacksmith’s shop where horses had their hoofs shod. Papa owned the building and rented them the apartment. They were a simple, wonderful, Italian, devout Catholic family. Church attendance was more important to their existence than eating. A baby was born every year. Her mother was overworked, thin, and wan.
Frances, the oldest child, was pale, drawn, and sickly. You felt nothing but pity for her. She was too weak to attend school. She helped her mother clean and cook. Papa took the responsibility of getting Frances to a doctor to diagnose her condition. He worried about her and constantly talked to Mama about ways to help the family.
Dr. Hargrave found that Frances had tuberculosis and everyone panicked. Papa arranged for her to go to Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks. There she would have clean air, a staff of doctors trained to cure the disease and food to give her strength instead of pasta and salami.
Mrs. Affinito missed Frances terribly. After all, she had been her built-in day worker. Papa begged Mama to let me, her baby, do the shopping and help with the light cleaning. Mama was appalled but Papa the gentle persuader won. I carried out the duties two times a week from after school until dinner for what seemed an endless incarceration. Papa agreed I must come home to do my homework. I was so resentful but I never uttered a word of anger. My teeth were clenched, I broke things in her house, but Mrs. Affinito loved the help I gave.
Frances was dreadfully lonesome in Saranac Lake and Papa felt it his responsibility to correct that. The family spoke to her on the phone but sobs were more frequent than words. Papa finally called the doctor to ask about Frances’ health and the length of time she would need to recover. The doctor made an estimated guess of two months for her cure. He told the Affinito family and Frances. They were dissolved in tears.
What solution could Papa dream up now? He called the family to a conference. He said, “If once a week, someone visited Frances and she had food from home that was familiar and faces she knew, the time would pass more quickly. They tried that and to everyone’s delight, it succeeded. No one was happier than me to see Frances back.
This is only one example of the endless tasks I performed for others. Today, free of the chains, I find it is a blessing in disguise. My greatest joy and success now is finding two people who will mutually benefit each other, to achieve the goals they set- a dress designer (Koos), a potter (Peter Shire), an artist (Olin Orr), two women documentary filmmakers. Each has broadened his horizon and added a new dimension to his art. All of this is because of my adherence to Papa’s early direction.
Sam Remembered
Sam, Oh dear dear Sam, what a flood of emotion I feel looking at our picture. It was taken in 1912 when I was almost four years old.
Do you remember me riding on Major, my Shetland pony, all gussied up in my red sweater, hat, and gloves? The cows were in the pasture. It’s a bleak winter day. We are so close, so that makes the world right.
“Yes, mein Kind, I do recall. I was so proud of the way you took to riding. Nobody in the family had your easy-seat and strong knees. I let Major run with you on him unsaddled, bareback. Dangerous, but I believed in you. Would I permit a hair on your head to be hurt?”
You were one of my family even before I was born. Your sister Rosie thought you’d be happy on our farm. I’m so glad you came. You talked very little but you did so much for Maurice and me. You fed us, bathed us, and tucked us in bed after telling a story. You had the patience of Job. You’d get us water, a blanket, close or open the window, pull the shade up or down. I realize we tormented you, though you never lost your temper. I suppose you knew we never wanted you to leave.
When I was sick with a cold, do you remember what games we played?
“Yes, we played Gummy Ball and Jacks on a board. Sometimes it was Tic Tac Toe. I told you Bible stories. I even drew silly animals for you. You always enjoyed everything.”
I loved most to be with you. You never tired of my requests or demands. You acted as though I was the most important person in your life. How warm and wonderful to think about that.
Sam, did Papa pay you enough money? Could you leave us if you liked another place better?
“Papa paid me well. I never wanted to leave. I probably never had the courage to think of leaving. Don’t blame Papa for anything. He took away any money I had loose when he saw me show signs of my habit. It happened often enough in the years for him to sense my change.”
Is it possible for you to talk about that part of you? It is so vivid in my mind. Sam, darling, at those times it seemed to me you acted like an animal. You never ate, you never slept, you were hunting for something, or maybe felt hunted by it. You leaned a two-story ladder against the house to get in and steal, because at that time, we kept the doors locked. You stole blankets and pictures and silver in the house to buy the liquor you needed. When you got over the binge, you brought everything back.
Oh, you were so sick. I wanted to hold you in my arms. I felt panic and pain when I saw you lying unconscious in the yard, with your stomach swollen and your eyes rolled back. It will be a nightmare all my life. Of course, I thought you were dead each time. I rejoiced when you revived and always got on my knees to Thank God. Today I say I’m allergic to liquor. Can you tell me WHY?
“Mein Kind, you know my native tongue. I cannot express myself in English. And if I could, I wouldn’t. This is my sickness. I had it before I came to live on your farm. I was an ordained Rabbi in Germany and lost my pulpit in disgrace because of my bad habits. WHY? I don’t know. At that time, doctors didn’t know the cure. Maybe I was unloved. Maybe I wanted children of my own. Maybe I wanted respect I couldn’t handle in the Rabbinate. I don’t know. I say, again and again, I don’t know. I know I have the love of your whole family, I hope in our lives together you have received as much as you gave.”
Sam, you never need apologize. You gave me more than I could ever conceive having given you. When pasteurization became law, Papa sold the farm and you joined Rosie and Hansha in Chicago, I really have never been the same. A piece of me left with you.
Do you remember when I visited you in Chicago on my way to see Aunt Millie in Lake Tahoe? I was pregnant with Winki. You and Rosie met me at the station and brought me to your lovely house. You looked old but beautiful.
You said, “I will run a bath for you so you will feel cool when you have to get on the train again.” I agreed. What I didn’t realize was that you would sit in the bathroom while I bathed.
I said, “Sam, I’m grown up now, not your baby anymore. You may not stay here.”
In no uncertain terms, I was told, “You were and are NOW, my responsibility. I will sit here to see no harm comes to you in Mein Haus.”
I didn’t even argue.
If I in any way gave you the fulfillment of having a child, I will be renewed.
My Nurse, Mama Jackson, Solves All Problems
The woman who worked with Sam to take care of the farm was known as Mama Jackson. She was tiny in frame, gray straight hair pulled tightly back in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin always seemed the same color as her hair to me, gray, but I think now it was milk white. Her dress the same too, a long black cotton dirndl skirt, starched white cotton shirtwaist and high button black shoes.
Any excuse to go to her house was welcome. The tea kettle was always steaming, waiting for “the little bitsa tea and little bitsa talk.” Papa and Mama usually drove us there in the horse drawn buggy. Her house was unusual because she lived on the second floor. I only knew one family houses- hers held four families. I vividly remember the kitchen because that’s where everyone sat, to be warmed, to be petted, and to find a surprise tailored to the individual.
Mama Jackson’s house was different from mine. It was in an area near Van Cortland Park, really the back woods. There were four families in her house, two downstairs and hers and anothers upstairs. My house had only my family in it. What I loved best about the house, was the basket attached to a rope that was dropped down to the yard. A good friend did her shopping daily. She filled the basket and she and I pulled it up to our dining room window. What fun to unload it.
A bed was always ready for me in the front parlor. This was a very special place because every Christmas, I was permitted to decorate the Christmas tree in that room. It seemed the biggest tree in the world to me. My Jewish parents forbid a tree in our house so this was a rare privilege.
During my early years, Mama Jackson held my hand every time I was desperate.
I remember one time when Mama sent me to Mama Jackson’s place. In Miss Wiley’s class 2A, we had daily inspection. To my chagrin, she said “Ruth, you have head lice and rules say you must remain out of school until your hair is clean.” She was very discreet and told me quietly- but I still felt weak in the knees. Do you realize the shame I felt? It felt as if everyone was staring at me and my outlaw head of hair- With the long brown curls that all the girls in the class envied and the boys pulled to attract my attention. The rule says “Home until clean.”
I cried all the way home. When Mama saw me she said “My God, what happened?” I explained between sobs. She knew the solution.
“I’ll wash your face, pack your bag and guess what next?”
“You’ll take me to Mama Jackson. She makes everything better.” Mama Jackson was always the rainbow after my storm. The horse was harnessed to the buggy and off we went. In about a half hour we arrived.
Needless to say, I was drenched in tears when I saw Mama Jackson. She held me, comforted me, and quickly got out the ball and jacks to play with me.
“We won’t think about it now,” said Mama Jackson. “Let’s have a bath and get into your cozy PJs so when Gertie, Jennie, and Layla come home you will surprise them all pretty and clean.”
Mama Jackson, were you analyzed by Sigmund Freud? When Mama bid me goodbye, you went into your routine. “Sit down my child and we’ll have a little bitsa tea and a little bitsa talk.” In no time we sat on my two little chairs at my little table. Your cookies were great. “Red Lips” made with currant jelly centers. Tea was always steeping in the pot on the back of the wood burning stove.
The talk was always your explanation of the treatment. “After dinner, my child, I’m going to warm some kerosene. You have to smell it. It’s a strong smell but pleasant. It’s what I use to light our lamps! Nits and bugs in hair hate it and die if you rub it all over the head. I’m going to do that to your hair. It’s really the same as a shampoo, but instead of soap I’ll use this. After it stays in your hair a half hour I’m really going to wash your hair with perfumed shampoo. Then I’m going to use this fine tooth comb to take the snarls out. I may pull and hurt a little, just the same as when I curl your hair but we must show those bugs who’s boss. You may play with the doll while I prepare supper. Her name is Blondie. Make her hair look pretty.”
Soon enough Mama Jackson’s three girls arrived at the house. I loved my big friends. Gertie, the fat one, came home first. She did the cooking at the restaurant in the Bronx Zoo. To me, going there was ‘The Windows Of The World.’ Gertie’s ice cream was the best. On arriving, I ran to her for a hug. Jennie was the best dressed and perfumed to choke you. Layla was the mean one. Together the three formed a perfect rescue squad.
The dinner was scrumptious. My favorite: roast pork, mashed potatoes, apple sauce and sauerkraut. Shrewdly, you held the surprise dessert for after the solution.
I knew I had to face the music. With great trepidation, I sat under your strong light. In your little silver rimmed five and dime glasses you proceeded to dampen my hair with kerosene and go through it with a fine tooth comb. I hated the smell and the comb scratched and I screamed. Your warm reassuring hug quieted me a short time.
The three sisters used every diversion available. They dressed Blondie in another outfit. They played catch with me to Mama Jackson’s dismay. We played jacks and at last Tic Tac Toe! Finally ablution complete, mission accomplished.
The surprise dessert was presented. “Wow! Gertie, how could you have known I’d be here?”
“A little birdie told me you’d need a special treat.”
Strawberry ice cream from the restaurant at the Bronx Zoo: Home made, with whole strawberries and cream the color of a deep red anemone. Tears were turned off and my smile was as big as their hearts.
Mama Jackson was the perfect Repair Person. I was back in school in two days. My class welcomed me and Mrs. Wiley gave me a big hug. Everything always ended happily when Mama Jackson held my hand- just like in the fairy tales. Mama Jackson remains MOTHER SUPERIOR in my Life Story.
My brother Maurice
My brother Maurice and I were always thick as thieves, even though he was five years older. We were the closest in age of our family of four children. When I was six years old, he scared me right out of my support system. He became very ill with a disease that was never really diagnosed. He was isolated in his room. On rare occasions, I was permitted to peek in and say “hello.” The shock of my infrequent visits always sent me into cold shivers.
His room was draped with white sheets. To me, they appeared like clouds and it seemed to be like heaven. No noise was permitted in the area of his room. There was a hush of death that existed around him. I was permitted to go to the door only once a day to say, “Hello, how are you?” He always answered in a monosyllable like “bad” or “fair”- never “good.” He was to expend all his efforts in recovery. It was scary.
We suffered an interminable time that summer. However we were rewarded for our patience by mid-summer. The doctor told us Maurice was out of the woods. He would recover. The grown-ups responded in quiet exultation. When I was told, I fell on my knees and let out a war-whoop. Jubilation! How should we thank God and the doctor for this gift? My brother was back again among the living. Mama Jackson, the innovator, the original surprise maker, suggested a picnic in the place we treasured most, Feather Bed Lane.
Feather Bed Lane was a hidden valley. A few oak trees grew in appropriate places in this expansive field so we could find shade when we wanted to rest. In summer, when Maurice began his convalescence, Feather Bed Lane was a blanket of daisies that swayed in unison in the wind as though being led by an orchestra conductor.
Mama Jackson, Sam, Mama, Papa and I kept our plan a secret from Maurice. We planned most efficiently. Weather was the essential ingredient for the event. Maurice, though better, couldn’t be exposed to raw elements like rain or cold. The lunch was to be Maurice’s favorite food. Papa would barbecue chicken on the fire we would build. Mama Jackson would make her specialties- potato salad and cole slaw. Mama would make hot biscuits with honey and butter to waft familiar smells from the picnic basket on the drive to our destination. Drinks of milk, coffee, and tea were in thermoses. Dessert was the surprise of surprises: Fruits, strawberries, dried apricots, dried peaches and fresh orange slices dipped in chocolate that chilled and hardened. All things were carefully wrapped to prevent spoilage. The picnic hamper groaned with Maurice’s favorite foods. Once plans were complete, the weatherman had to offer the perfect day.
Warm sun and mild temperatures were predicted and so we shifted into high gear. Everyone was up earlier than the crowing cocks. After breakfast, we piled foods, charcoal, drinks, toys, and ourselves in the surrey pulled by two prized prancing horses and off we went.
Maurice was languid, skinny, and wan but nevertheless attempted to force a smile of satisfaction. Fortunately, the trip was not long and once we got to our destination, he came to life. Show of shows, not even the Circus could call forth this height of elation. The birds in harmony sang welcome, the sun smiled on us, and the breeze just gave an appropriate flutter. The sky was azure blue with soft white cumulus clouds dancing quietly by. I felt the world held us, emphasis given my brother, in a warm embrace.
All hands on deck, Mama Jackson unpacked . I put the checkerboard tablecloth on the ground under the shading oak tree while Sam made the fire. Papa and Mama sat and wallowed in the joy of their son’s health and their scurrying helpers readying the feast. In minutes all hands were full of food, all mouth’s chomping. All senses were being indulged- taste, sight, sound, touch, and smell. Even Maurice rose to the occasion: for the first time he seemed to eat with relish. We enjoyed each lovingly prepared dish and, in our family pattern, we overate. That meant an enforced rest period for everyone after lunch.
Of course Mama Jackson remembered Maurice’s comforter. Ensconced on his handmade patchwork quilt, he looked like the happy prince. We all rested after lunch so he didn’t feel underprivileged. We really needed to. I spent rest period, gathering in my arms, the most perfect daisies that grew in that pasture. I wanted him to enjoy the beauty of them in his room.
When he awoke, it was play time. For Maur, it was the high point of the outing. Papa and Sam knew best how to amuse children. Each of us received insect collection kits and bottles with leaves inside. With our botany equipment, we looked for lady bugs and fire flies and actually found them. We brought them home, fed them, and saw the fire flies light up in the dark. To our amazement, at home, the ladybugs didn’t fly away even though we gave them the opportunity. Onviously, the ambience persuaded them to stay.
In my bible, given me at my birth, I still see the daisy I pressed that day. Etched in my mind is the glory of my brother’s recovery. I am grateful to say in my lifetime I always introduced him saying, ” Meet my best friend and brother Maurice.”
Mama
Mama was the harder working person in the combination of parents. She ran the whole farm, she fed the workers and she supervised the care of the milk- from milking to feeding the cows to the sale and production.
Mama was in her glory at Kafe Klotch hour- Just as the sun and moon circled the sky regularly, Mama directed this feast every Thursday. The ritual began on Wednesday night. Yeast had to be prepared and put in water to do its work overnight. Originally, on the farm, this process worked on the coal stove. When we moved to our new home, technology provided the gas stove.
Early on Thursday, everyone had to be up and out because Mama needed her space. In her kitchen, she had the room necessary to prepare her SCORE of cakes, pies, and biscuits- the variety rivaled the best bakery today or any day. Bundt kachen was my favorite. It was a full blown cake made in a ring form and it was filled with cinnamon raisins, nuts, sugar, candied fruits, and lots of butter. Her repertoire included cheesecake, plum cake, apple cake, and peach cake in season. Then there were biscuits- plain, bran, corn, and blueberry.
What fascinated me most was the placing of long foot wide boards on chairs around the perimeter of the kitchen. These served as counters on which Mama cooled the pastries as she took them out of the oven. When I went to Germany with my parents as a youngster, I realized that was routine. Aunt Sida did the same thing. Did it make it all more elaborate?
Four o’clock on Thursday was Mama’s finest hour. Her four children were permitted to invite a friend. Papa brought his cronies of the day and Mama invited her close friends.
It was a happy time- Good conversation, a lot of noise, and confusion. The smell and the variety of spices and fruits in the cakes hit the rafters. The warmth of the ovens’ day long baking permeated the house in winter and scented it in summer.
Mama was in command on this occasion and wallowed in the joy of her role. In her apron, she sat at the head of the table orchestrating the performance. The youngest children served the coffee and passed the cream and sugar. Older sisters served the choice of cake requested.
In reminiscing, it was lovely to see Mama in her shining hour. She loved being in command. She delighted in humor and conversation. She was always very energetic. The mix of ages was essential to her total satisfaction- this was the symphony she created single-handed every Thursday almost to her last days. I see the glint in her eyes yet. I think she always felt her performance was the best on the circuit.
ruthweissremembered 