The Best 90 Plus Years of My Life: A Voyage

possible.

Preface

This book is autobiographical and consists of my experience as a rear echelon soldier in WWII as well as reflections on many aspects of my life. The rear echelon is where the majority of GIs spent the war years. The fighting man, numbering roughly one tenth of the armed forces, represented the tip of the spear. Justifiably he received the lion’s share of the glory and attention. Accordingly the support forces also justifiably got short shrift when the war stories were told.

Why this opus anyway? With increasing frequency I had been having flashbacks on the war and my life. They have inconveniently kept me awake nights. They persisted in shouting write me! To get that monkey off my back and to achieve a measure of catharsis, I succumbed to that insistent inner voice. It has taken four years to dispatch that pesky monkey

In his best seller, The Greatest Generation, Tom Brokaw has so labeled my contemporaries. The rationale for this characterization lies in the fact that we were fired in the furnace of the great depression and prohibition and forged on the anvil of World War II.

Given that my life has covered the period of 1918 into 2013 it has embraced one of the most eventful periods in the life of the Union. The World War II veterans are dying off at a rate of over 1,000 per day, and we shall soon be but a memory. In recognition of that, we veterans are being urged to contribute to the oral history of both the war and our lives. Accordingly I am setting down my experiences in an effort to familiarize the reader with a significant chunk of our history. Since so few readers can identify with much of what I have to say, they will have it straight from the horse’s mouth and get a sense of being there or at least having some hint of what it was like.

Though initially conceived as a war memoir, the story morphed into autobiography. The wider scope will better familiarize me to family, friends and acquaintances about exactly who I am … warts and all. This is another way of saying I was here. My hope is that you will enjoy my life and let it bear testimony to what to do as well as what not to do. For my part, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Chapter 1: Early Childhood

Birth Place Philadelphia, city of my birth, looms large in my development. The circumstances surrounding that event were unusual. The place was St. Agnes hospital at Broad and Snyder Streets. The doctor was to be one distinguished obstetrician, Dr. Averet. The time drew close and the good doctor had yet to make an appearance. The hospital advised he was involved with another delivery. My mother said to my father, "Dan you’re going to have to deliver me. I can’t wait." So I was brought into this world by my dad. Not many can claim that distinction. The date was December 30, 1918. Except that he was delivering his own son, the experience was familiar to my dad. Many were the times he was called to perform that task in the homes of patients.

1918 was not a good year notwithstanding that it saw the end of World War I. There was an Influenza pandemic of Spanish Flu which killed between fifty and one hundred million people between that year and 1920. By contrast a total of twenty million military and civilians lost their lives during World War I (1914-1918). That the higher figure occurred in two years is mind numbing. There was no nation that escaped the devastation wrought by the disease.

1919 was a tragic year for the Simkins family. Herbert, my five year old brother, contracted a mastoid infection. My dad knew there was no cure, and so was helpless to prevent Herbert’s death. This was before either sulfa drugs or antibiotics came on the scene. Since I was less than a year old when he died at age five, I have no recollection of my brother Herbert. I do, however, have a vivid image of a photograph. He appears as a most handsome child dressed in a light colored double-breasted winter overcoat with a matching peaked cap. His expression is serious which comports with the stories I had heard of him. He was a thoughtful, intelligent, and inquiring youngster. So much for the good old days. They were good in many regards but fell far short insofar as medicine, comfort, and convenience were concerned. The loss of their first born hit my parents hard.

My aunt Stella, known as Stell, who was then seventeen assumed much of my care. She later embarrassed me by telling one and all how she diapered me and bit my tush. Stell was vivacious and filled with personality. She resembled film actress Sylvia Sidney and stage actress, Catherine Cornell.

Philadelphia, though consistently maligned, has a special place in my mind and heart. It boasts numerous institutions of learning. Professional schools and museums abound as do hospitals. The visual, dance, and music arts are internationally represented and respected. Culturally the city ranks high in the world. Just as important is its reputation as a city of homes. Neighborhoods abound and consist of ethnic enclaves as well as every conceivable mix of people. Unfortunately there are problematic neighborhoods which are known best for violence, robberies, rape, murder, prostitution, drug dealing, and drug use. The population of victims and perpetrators are predominantly the black underclass. The causes are manifold and complex, ranging from the misguided policies of do-gooders during the reign of FDR and his successors of both parties who were motivated by generous objectives but thwarted by the wrong-headed notion that government can and should conduct social reform by fiat.

My Father

Born in the Ukraine on a farm which raised mulberry trees and silk worms, dad and his family came to the USA when he was in his mid-teens. Emigration was spurred by the anti-Semitism in Russia and the imminent specter of the boys’ induction into the army. There the ordeal of being a Jew was more problematic than being a Jewish civilian. I have no idea of how many of the 14 children dad’s mother bore actually made it to our shores. I never saw my paternal grandfather, but met my grandmother, an invalid, who dwelled on Martha and Dave Goldenberg’s (dad’s older sister and her husband) second floor. The old lady, frail, toothless, unable to speak English, always greeted me with radiant smiles and a few endearing-sounding but incomprehensible words.

Dad and Martha could have been twins. They bore a close resemblance. In addition, they shared similar personalities: abrupt and no nonsense, though dad had a sneaky sense of humor which he enjoyed more than anyone else.

Dad’s sister and brother-in-law had five daughters and two sons. Confirming the traditional wisdom that the husband’s family plays a secondary role in the effort devoted to familial togetherness, our family was no exception to the rule. We were on good footing with the Goldenberg family. The cousins, with the exception of one daughter, who lived in Buffalo, NY, used Uncle Dan as their family doctor. Older than we, they always noted that my two sisters and I were the best behaved of the kids. Actually, their offspring were our contemporaries. That said, we did little socializing with either our cousins or our cousins once removed as opposed to our interaction with my mother’s family.

After arriving in the new land, my dad learned English, graduated high school and matriculated at the University of Pennsylvania where he majored in Chemistry. To graduate, seniors had to pass a swimming test. Not able to swim he paid someone to take the test in his stead. Then he enrolled at Jefferson Medical College. To help pay his way as an upper classman, he taught infant nutrition. He told me that when he entered the upper viewing area of the operating amphitheater, his fellow students would lift him bodily from the front row to the back-most one. He was one of several Jews in class. Better than Russia by far in this wonderful world of America, it was not quite ideal. One of his teachers was Dr. W. W, Keene, known as the father of brain surgery.

Dad graduated in 1906. He was a General Practitioner, now referred to as the specialty of Family Practice. His responsibilities ranged from treating the common cold to delivering babies in the mothers’ homes.

My dad, about five seven, slight of build, and sporting a brown mustache, affected tasteful, though not expensive clothing. Not demonstrative, he felt deeply about many things. A man with no musical training, he loved music and the theater. His taste ran towards the classical. I retain a clear picture of him seated close to the radio, upper body leaning forward as though magnetically drawn to that piece of furniture, in rapt attention that seemed to say, don’t interrupt. Though mom loved music and drama, her tastes ran more to the popular, less classical art forms.

My Mother

Twelve years younger than dad, mom came from a smaller family by far than his. Though she was born here, both of her parents, Hyman (1864-1928) and Sarah (1871-1940) immigrated to the States via Bialystock, Poland and Peta Tikva, Palestine. Mother’s brother, Louis 1889-1956) was born in Palestine. The girls were born in the States: Haddie, my mom, 1892-1970), Blanche 1893-1980), and Estelle (1901-1973). Mom and her three sisters grew up within a city block of where she and dad made their home. They all went to the Vare Elementary School, where Ellie and I started our school career. In school mom’s interest was singing, Blanche’s was comedy, and Stell gravitated toward acting. They were an impressive threesome. Their father, along with his brother Samuel, ran a successful wholesale tobacco business, with a storefront on Arch Street and a packing house in Lancaster, PA. He was one of the founders of the West Philadelphia Jewish Community Center which incorporated synagogue, class rooms, swimming pool, and auditorium. It was unique in the city for the comprehensive religious and secular activities offered. He visited Palestine from time to time, and I remember seeing pictures of him on horseback with a group of Palestinian Jewish pioneers and Arab friends. Sadly, it is unlikely such relationships will be replicated in the foreseeable future.

Grandpa Hyman Valenchick was a short man of medium but sturdy build. He had a bushy mustache, and was rarely without a lit Turkish cigarette in his mouth. Accompanying the cigarette was his ever present cough, not weak but robust as befitted his personality. He indulged his daughters who dressed in the height of fashion and good taste. Insofar as his deportment as a grandfather, I could detect none of the prideful warmth representing the ideal, but my grandmother Sarah made up for that lack in spades. As worldly as he was, she was rustic by comparison. When intervening when punishment of any of us was in the offing, grandpa would say, Sarah, don’t interfere.. He always used English. She tried her best, but was more comfortable with Yiddish. Recognizing her English weakness, she wanted us to speak English. I later came to regret that we were not required to learn more Yiddish so as to become more proficient in that jargon. Thanks to author Isaac Bashevis Singer, who wrote the story on which Fidler on the Roof was based, Yiddish achieved the status of a bona fide language.

My Identity

The foundation of my identity is firmly planted in Judaism. I am a Jew to the very marrow of my bones. I view the world through the filter of Jewish history. To me, the history of America is tightly bound with, and influenced by the Jew. 1492 saw both the discovery of America and the Spanish Inquisition. The latter bore witness to horrendous brutality and unspeakable acts of carnage visited on Jews by the Catholic Church. A contingent of fleeing prospective Spanish Jewish victims left Spain for Recife, Brazil. They later moved to New Amsterdam which became New York.

There has been some speculation that Columbus was Jewish. This has not been confirmed, but we know that his navigator, ship’s doctor, and several crewmen were Jews.

The Jews’ influence on the Revolution was profound. Chaim Solomon, a wealthy Jewish financier, furnished funds for a beleaguered General George Washington thereby enabling our forces to continue the struggle.

To do justice to the role of the Jew in the United States would require volumes. Suffice it to say, there has been no ethnic, national, or religious group who has contributed more to the culture and accomplishments of the greatest nation in the world than the Jew. How our nation and its people have responded to these contributions is cause for shame. Starting with my own experience, I can cite a time when this discrimination precluded my considering engineering as a possible career choice because the likelihood of being employed would be zero. It was not until World War II made it necessary to enlist the potential of all, did this condition cease. With regard to colleges and universities training students for the professions, there were quotas for Jews. I know of young men who went to Scotland and Mexico to study Medicine so that they might pass the Board exams to become American doctors. The quotas insured that the cream of the crop became certified in the professions. The logical inference is that in general, the quality of non-Jewish professionals was a notch lower. Here again, WWII ameliorated the quota effect.

An interesting but little known aspect of discrimination occurred following the late century influx of Jewish immigrants from Russia and Eastern Europe. This wave succeeded the arrival of the more educated and affluent German Jews who held the new, uneducated and impecunious arrivals in contempt. Fearing to appear too Jewish they avoided association. The Reform religious orientation was in conflict with the Orthodox beliefs and practices of the new citizens. Reaction to the Reform movement gave rise to formation of the United Synagogues of America, a Conservative movement roughly midway between the major divisions regarding observance.

The social discrimination continued almost unabated. While medical, dental and psychiatric doctors would be in demand to treat non-Jews and their families, they were not welcome in their golf, social and other clubs. World War II did little to impact this discrimination. Should he wish to play golf, the Jew was either relegated to the few sub-standard public courses or would have to build his own. In the larger cities of Philadelphia, New York, Baltimore, and even Harrisburg, PA., the same form of discrimination was levied against Jews. With few exceptions, the exclusive practice was the rule even throughout the twentieth century. I recall Victor Niederhoffer, national intercollegiate squash champion and ‘67 Harvard graduate who could not join the very same private clubs at which he was welcome to play. He was later a Finance Professor at Berkley. Arguably the best player in the history of American squash, he defeated professional Sharif Khan in the 1975 Open.

In my adopted city of York, PA., the York Country Club and the Lafayette Club, a social an eating club, were peopled by the top shakers and movers of the community. These organizations were Jew free until recently, when the need for operating funds necessitated the acceptance of erstwhile pariahs. The customary scenario starts with the admission of the token Jew who may have been judged to be worthy of joining the exclusive haunts of his betters. Even the Outdoor Country Club, lacking the elegance and cachet of the York CC, maintained its purity until it moved to a larger and grander venue. Even then, the stalwart members blackballed any interlopers until it was made clear by wiser heads that the policy was detrimental. They needed the money which could only be generated by a quantum leap in membership. Reality intruded on principle, hence the inclusion of Jews. Parenthetically, it should be added that the Outdoor CC has prospered since the dreaded admissions. The last redoubts of the Lafayette Club and York Country Club have surrendered to the inevitable. The result will likely not be a cataclysmic erosion of the quality of either. Since writing this, the Lafayette Club has gone belly up.

It is instructive to examine the Jewish response to what is patently unjust discrimination on the part of American society. Though this injustice runs deep and affects all of us tribesmen, we love this land of freedom and opportunity with every fiber of our being. That does not mean we are blind to its flaws or eschew criticizing where warranted. Some make Aliyah, which means Ascent or Going up, and opt to become citizens of Israel. They do so with our blessings. Their choice is generally based on religion and on the comfort of being part of a majority, free of the prejudices encountered in every other country on earth. I know the feeling well. When I visited Israel after the Yom Kippur War of October, 1973, I experienced a sense of brotherhood as never before or since. Having said that, I conclude that in the final analysis America is my country, notwithstanding a strong kinship with Israel.

Growing up in a secular household, in an ethnically diversified though strongly flavored Jewish community, most of my acquaintances were similarly oriented. We were chauvinistic in the extreme. Central to our conception of who we were was that we considered ourselves American Jews. The idea of Jewish Americans did not induce any conflict regarding who we were. We were that too, however, the primary identification was tied to our new country.

Many Jews were new arrivals in the Goldena Medina or Land of Opportunity. Mostly poor and lacking English skills, they and their children drew pride from the achievements of their co-religionists, no matter what the field. The world of Sports was the first, and easiest, for the young immigrant. Boxing was the sport of choice. Champions and top ranked performers of the early 1900s were Benny Bass, Lou Tendler, Harry Blitman, Harry Greb. The latter’s surname was Berg, but he spelled it backward in an effort to escape anti-Jewish obstacles set up by fans and fellow fighters. These men were lionized by the Jewish public, particularly by the youngsters. Later in the century Hank Greenberg and Sandy Koufax became baseball super stars, and Mark Spitz was the ultimate swimmer whose Olympic achievement of seven Gold medals remained unchallenged for thirty-six years. He broke the world record in every event.

Sports were not the prime targets for admiration among Jews. Scholarship, the professions, entertainment, and scientific achievement were the goals. The achiever was admired, regardless of his religion. Examine the aims, dreams and achievements of a people; then you will know their worth to humanity. When I regard the history of the past millennia as well as the first amazing sixty years of Israel’s nationhood, I keep coming back to the Hebrew expression, Tikkun Olam, which literally translates to Healing the World or Perfecting he World. If the Jew were the Chosen people, which I don’t believe, I should prefer that Tikkun Olam is that for which we were chosen.

When I reflect on the trials and tribulations of my people from their enslavement in Egypt on, I am amazed at the resilience, ingenuity, courage, and adaptability displayed in the face of unspeakable discrimination. The Romans and Christians (starting with the Catholic Church and proceeding to Martin Luther’s Protestant church, thence to Russia, Europe, and the Moslem world) continued the transgressions against the Jewish people. The Spanish Inquisition of 1492, authored and executed by the Catholic Church, set standards for horror and carnage impossible to exaggerate. The moral outrages implemented cannot be expunged. When Pope John Paul II apologized to the Jewish people, the effect in the Christian community was minimal. I honestly do not believe there is a significant awareness within Christendom of the heinous role its churches have played vis-à-vis the Jews. That this ignorance of history and the present reality will continue is a foregone conclusion. The Jew (and Israel) will continue as the world’s pariah. One can theorize that had the Jews not been persecuted and discriminated against, they could have ceased to exist as a discrete people and become the fossil religion as labeled by the British historian Arnold J. Toynbee, who wrote extensively on the Rise and Fall of Civilizations.

The wonder of my being a member of the remarkable people through the accident of birth fills me with joy and pride. To be part of this continuum imposes a responsibility to lead a good life: moral and charitable, and with a resolve to leave this world a tiny bit better for my having been here. Naïve perhaps, but that’s my goal.

1921-Mother, Father, Sister, and Me

Bushkill

Even when i was too young to go to school, I was aware that vacations were special. That this was so was made evident by my first. By definition vacation is a period during which one inhabits an environment different from the accustomed one. The ideal was to escape the heat and humidity of the Mid-Atlantic region and the crowded, noisy ambiance of our neighborhood. Mountains and seashore were the principal options available. Bushkill filled one of those requirements, as it was located in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, a far cry from the city streets. At about five I was transported to the new location. Even before reaching our destination via auto, I encountered my first disillusionment. The mountains did not fulfill the promise of my story book drawings of cone shaped peaks. They were less interesting, unbroken, elevated tree covered ranges.

Our destination, a large white clapboard structure, was the hotel that was to be our home away from home. It served strictly kosher fare. A porch, running the width of the building, overlooked the lawn on which croquet wickets were visible together with the wooden balls and mallets. My introduction to the game was welcome. Though thoroughly enjoyable, it never became a pastime of choice. I recall a photo showing me seated on the lawn with my mom. I was wearing a baseball suit cum pinstripes, and as proud as though I were on the team, any team.

Recalling little else, I remember two things most vividly. First was that of a young hotel employee who introduced me to an exciting diversion. The equipment was simple consisting of a tin can, piece of string, and a mysterious grey powder. In the center of the can’s bottom, a small hole was punched. The string wick was inserted, then a measure of grey powder introduced, followed by some water. The wick was lit with a struck match. Then we quickly distanced ourselves from the scene. In short order a loud explosion was heard, and the can was launched skyward. When it was time to leave Bushkill, for some unknown reason, my mom did not permit me to pack any of the grey powder. The kids back home would have loved the game.

The most fascinating series of performances marked the summer most vividly. A Shochet, or Jewish ritual slaughterer, was a member of the regular staff. His mission was to send chickens to their happy pecking grounds. The manner in which he did the job was at once fascinating and gruesome. After grabbing a chicken by the legs from the coop, he deftly plucked feathers from the neck area, hung the chicken by its legs, and slit its throat. Then he flung the bird some distance away. The blood spurted from the chicken whose head hung by a thread, and it ran quickly in a random pattern until dropping dead. Needless to say after repeating the process enough times to fill the chef’s order, the grassy area was no longer green. I found myself both attracted and repelled by the shochet’s work, with the former prevailing. The practice informs a subject for which Jews have suffered grievously over the years, namely the Blood Libel. This discredited but still living fabrication alleges that Jews use the blood of Christian children in the making of matzo. In reality the eating of food in which the blood has not been removed is proscribed. In the kashering of food the blood must be completely removed, as it is thought of as harboring the spirit of its living creature. In the case of the aforementioned chickens, removal of residual blood is effected by salting the flesh, a requirement for making it Kosher. This knocks the Blood libel myth into a cocked hat. Nothing daunted, anti-Semites persist in their Don’t confuse me with facts mind set.

Before leaving this subject, I must mention the oft-repeated expression running around like a chicken without a head. Though everyone understands the saying, few have witnessed the operation cited, so cannot have the visual recall of its fowl implication.

At five I was fully wakened to ever new aspects of life, and was eager to take on as many as came my way. What a wonderful time were those early years, and how important a role they occupied is impossible to exaggerate.

Some Early Recollections

My earliest recollections, dating from 1922 are few but mordantly clear. The Bushkill vacation represented a departure from the customary Atlantic City sojourn. My one distinct recall of the pre Bushkill/shore visit was at age four when my folks rented a cottage on a street in the Chelsea section of Atlantic City. The house was a typical white clapboard structure cum porch and fronting an access street to the boardwalk. There was no electricity, so the illumination was dependent on gas mantles throughout. Here my memory kicks out. The year following Bushkill we returned to the shore. The sole memory of that vacation had to do with my first traumatic venture into fishing. I had been given a hand line, complete with hook and sinker. The hand line is designed for fishing off piers and charter boats. I was on the beach, and walked to the oncoming surf. Tossing my line, with its hook bait-less, it lodged in the base of my right thumb. A life guard tried unsuccessfully to remove it. Soon my dad was summoned from the railroad station from which he was to be heading for Philly. Arriving at the beach he removed the hook. Decades later, that inch long white scar was still evident. Regrettably no one ever expressed any interest in viewing it. Pity, as it eventually disappeared.

Back home the lamp lighter was of unending fascination. I focused on him intently from the time I first spied him making his rounds. The street lamps were gas fired. At dusk he would appear carrying a short step ladder, broad at the base for stability, and narrow at the top to cradle the pole. He opened one of the lamp panels, turned on the gas, and ignited the gas with a flint device. This routine was enacted within view of our two front windows. It was the focus of many a viewing occasion. Outside viewing was preferred; weather permitting, as it allowed closer inspection.

On Morris Street, which intersected with 5th street where I lived, was a fire house. Whenever the clang of the fire vehicles was heard, a few adults and all of us kids ran to the intersection to watch the horse drawn apparatus race by. For me, a more exciting sight and sound could not be imagined. On the same street was the Shvitz, Yiddish for sweat. It was a bath house frequented principally by Russian immigrants. I never entered it, nor did any of my friends to the best of my knowledge. I later visited Camac, a similar operation in center city. There was the steam room where one could recline, wrapped in sheets, sweating up a storm, and drinking ice cold water. There was also the small pool of cold water for the hearty, who jumped in directly from the steam room.

We experienced other, less pleasurable events. Frequently one heard the ominous sound of a speeding automobile, horn sounding continuously and varying in pitch in obedience to the Doppler Effect. The reason was obvious. Someone was being rushed to the nearby Mt. Sinai hospital. Even more frightening to us kids was the sound of our own door-bell being rung without stop. It must be explained that my father conducted his practice from an office on the second floor of our house. The cause of the insistent ringing was that a child was having convulsions, something rarely encountered today. Alternatively, a dire health crisis as perceived by the ringer or whoever dispatched him necessitated medical intervention. My dad’s services were needed, and fast.

Early on I was instructed on answering the door bell and the telephone. In the former case I would greet the caller, conduct him, her, or them to the second floor waiting room, and notify my dad. This duty proved to be two edged. It had a positive social component and it was a source of infection. The negative aspect lay in the fact that I was the recipient of every childhood malady known to man.

The milk man was another source of interest to a little boy. He appeared early in the morning, and dropped off the day’s order on the threshold atop the front steps. The next day’s order was always placed inside an empty bottle the preceding night. His advent was accompanied by the clop clop of his horse’s hooves. In our neighborhood there were two major purveyors of dairy products: Abbott and Supplee. In later years, though the horse remained the motive force, dairies replaced the wagons with ones fitted with pneumatic tires to cut down on the noise generated by the older steel rimmed wheels.

At the time, homogenized milk had yet to make its appearance. As a result, full milk bottles displayed their two-layered contents of yellow-tinged cream on top and white milk below. The practice of separating them and using the cream for coffee was frequently employed. Among those who could afford it, cream was bought separately. On a cold winter morning it was not uncommon to find the cream extended an inch more or less above the bottle top surmounted by the cap. Other times the bottle would be broken by the expanded contents. Given the lack of homogeneity of the milk which contained globules of fat, the drink, then thought to be beneficial for growing children, was a tough sell to kids. Eventually parental insistence prevailed. What was even more difficult for kids to handle were the times when cod liver oil was added to orange juice as protection against colds and a substitute for a range of missing beneficial vitamins. The telltale yellow globules, even larger than the more familiar fat ones in non-homogenized ones in milk, were the tip-off to the adulterant.

The milkman’s routine seemed a boring one. He would place 8 or so quart bottles of milk and/or a number of assorted dairy items into a steel wire carrier, and make deliveries house to house. Meanwhile the horse would follow him and stop when the man reached the end of his mini deliveries. The carrier was then restocked and the procedure repeated. The occupation was not immune to jokes. For example, when people speculated on which parent a child resembled, someone invariably replied, the milkman. Another oldie had to do with the lady of the house calling from an open second floor window, Milkman, do you have the time? Reply, yes lady, but who’s gonna watch my horse?

What follows includes the subject of the Great Depression without specifically mentioning it, though it did impact much of our lives. I was recently asked to comment on the Depression, because I was the senior member of a dinner group by the spread of several decades. Frankly at a loss to address the subject in the small space of time allotted me by the nature of the gathering, I foolishly attempted to answer the question. My lame reply left all assembled no wiser on the subject than before the query.

The Depression hit segments of society at different times and with varying consequences. The Crash occurred when I was approaching my eleventh school year, and its effects did not substantially abate until the start of our entry into World War II in the early forties. It should also be noted that my family was not impacted by the Depression until the late thirties.

The Depression cannot be viewed as a discrete phenomenon, as it became allied with the ill-advised Prohibition Act of 1920, whose adoption can be attributed to the Protestant movement, and whose twin offspring of gangsterism and racketeering combined with the stock market crash which plunged the country, and the world, into a decline. Though the Depression passed into history with the coming of World War II, its effects, along with the remnants of Prohibition, continue to reverberate through our country and, for that matter, the entire world. The consequences, therefore, can be discerned throughout this book, and the reader can intuit their cause without being hit on the head by repeated Depression references. That my life and that of my contemporaries was profoundly affected must be coupled with the less discerning effect on our descendants. This is readily provable beyond simply saying All is prologue.

My Home Town

Philadelphia is laid out logically in a grid of parallel Streets which run North/South and East/West. Within most of the city two small streets within each block connected the numbered streets. Avenues run on a diagonal. The original architect of this commonsensical approach was none other than Ben Franklin, arguably one of the world’s most influential, intelligent and inventive men of the past three centuries. The city layout represents a departure from the Hodge podge organization of European towns. What comes to mind is Brussels where streets meander aimlessly, and change names for no apparent reason. In Philadelphia thoroughfares hold their course with few exceptions. They are as short as several blocks, as the historic Elfreth’s alley to the six plus miles of Broad Street.

Two neighborhoods influenced me: South Philadelphia where I was born and West Philadelphia where I spent chunks of time, because that was where my maternal relatives lived. Of the two neighborhoods South Philadelphia was more colorful but less affluent. Picking up where I had left off before the note on the Depression, are the following comments and recollections.

Fascinating was the ice wagon, a necessity in a time when perishable foods had to be stored in an ice box, a wooden structure preceding the electrically powered refrigerator. It had a pan underneath for collecting water from the melting ice. If the emptying of the pan was delayed too long, it overflowed onto the floor. Given the residences in our neighborhood were all row houses, the ice had to be brought in through the narrow alley and small yard at the back so as to prevent soiling the hall and dining room carpets. The actual delivery was facilitated by the deft use of the ice man’s tongs. He arrived after having hoisted the ice onto his shoulder atop burlap bags whose purpose was to ease pressure from the hard cake of ice and to soak up the water.

Later in my young life the story of the ice man was enhanced during a visit to my maternal grandparents in West Philadelphia. There the residences were semi-detached houses. The delivery system was modified from that to which I had been accustomed. The difference lent an added element of enjoyment for me.

The entertaining part of the ice man’s arrival on the street was watching him break the larger hunks into pieces ordered by his customers. He did the job skillfully, using an ice pick. The neatest tool at his disposal, though, was the ice-gripping tongs.

The customers had a choice of ice sizes. They used special cards placed in a window at the front of the house. They were designed so that the size desired, expressed In cents, appeared top center. We had been told that this particular ice man, a muscular red head, was Red Grange working a summer job to keep in shape. Gullible as we were, we found this hard to believe.

Note: Red Grange was arguably the greatest football player in the history of the game. He was a charter member of the college Hall of Fame as well as the Professional Football Hall of fame. At the time under consideration, college football was the more popular and more highly regarded by the fans. Pro football was as yet a poor cousin.

A big enjoyment for us kids was mounting the step in back of the ice wagon and grabbing slivers of ice from the floor. After brushing off the dirt, sucking on the ice was a thrill. This was a treat on a hot summer day. Our needs were few, our pleasures were many.

In south Philadelphia, we saw the Black Maria from time to time. How it got its name was a mystery to me. It was a black medium size van, with grill openings under the roof level. We imagined seeing hands of prisoners shackled to rails behind the grills. This was myth rather than fact. That prisoner transfer was involved was fact. The vehicles were used for transporting prisoners between jail and the courts at City Hall, or for any instance where numerous prisoners needed to be delivered to receiving institutions. The very nature of these closed vehicles piqued our interest and excitement by their obvious stress on security. The paddy wagon in contrast, and seen more often, was open and disclosed men and an occasional woman seated on benches located on the sides of the vehicle. On the outermost positions were policemen. The cargo consisted of petty thieves, brawlers, drunks, and prostitutes. Their frequent appearance rendered the happening unremarkable, but not to us kids who enjoyed the mini spectacle.

The role of neighborhoods, which accounted for a large part of Philadelphia’s population, was a major factor in the development of the youth as well as the socialization of the population at large. Philadelphia was known both as The City of Homes and the City of Neighborhoods. Though the former still applies, increasing affluence of the immigrant Italians, Jews, and other ethnics found those considerable populations moving to more desirable locations. The new venues lacked the attributes of connectedness and ethnic fidelity characterizing the former environment. Inasmuch as both nature and neighborhoods abhor a vacuum, poorer people began to occupy the vacated devalued houses. Negroes and later Porto Ricans filled the void, and the neighborhoods went into an accelerated decline. Assisting the decline was a practice known as block busting. Employed by unscrupulous real estate operators in neighborhoods with few or no Negroes, these operators would approach home owners, and tell them that Negroes would be moving into homes nearby. Their intention was to promote white flight. When some took the bait, homes were sold at depressed prices. Once started, the practice and the flight cascaded. The expression, There goes the neighborhood was common comment whenever a black moved into a home.

From my earliest recollection South Philadelphia had negroes living amicably with their white neighbors on a number of side streets so that block busting did not surface until the ‘40s. It is interesting to note that one South Philadelphia `Italian enclave, known as Little Italy, assumed a militant posture to the extent that it became a third rail for any real estate operator foolish enough to attempt an incursion. Through 2009 Little Italy remained pristine. In 1980 block busting became legally ÷outlawed.

In the city proper there were many parks salted throughout, and located in residential neighborhoods as well as in the retail sales areas. We called these Squares as they occupied one square block. Each incorporated identical characteristics. Paths ran parallel to surrounding streets as well as the two diagonals which defined four equal segments. Grass and trees occupied the open areas, and a metal water fountain on a pedestal took a central position. A small cement block stood at the base of the fountain, thus enabling children to access the operating control button. Youngsters sometimes played games permitted by the confining nature of the open spaces. People used the benches for resting and sunning themselves or walked along the paths. As a child, I recall the maple keys, shaped like half of a propeller causing them to spin as they fell and traveling distances to broadcast their seeds. We used the keys to adorn our nose. We removed the seed, applied saliva to the open end, and pasted it onto the bridge. That passed as great fun. Later in life Ez (my brother-in-law to be) and I repaired to a Square near his home, and played with a football. He was the designated passer and I was the receiver. We had just listened to a college football broadcast and were inspired to emulate our heroes. Still later the famed Rittenhouse Square served a different purpose when its benches became convenient nocturnal necking places.

Returning to the recollected early years, several events stand out. When I was five years of age, my aunt Stella Valenchick married Maurice Senn. On the day of the wedding, the couple emerged from her parents’ home, and climbed into a coupe. The best man, Al Granet, was a detective. A giant of six feet three inches, he climbed atop the trunk lid, holding on for dear life while the car pulled away headed for the marriage site. My characterization of Al Granet as a Giant was accurate for the time. Then, 6’ 3 drew the attention that 6’ 10 does today. As late as the 40’s a 6’ 1 basketball center was considered normal. It was not unusual for guards to range between 5’ 5 and 5’ 8". Forwards typically were about 5’ 9.

I do not recall the celebration after the marriage ceremony other than my hooking up with a young lady of my age. Though we were inseparable, the romance went nowhere.

My early years were happy, but there were several things that frightened me. First was the universally feared nightmare that prompted a trip to my parents’ bedside. I’m afraid garnered sympathy, but despite tearful pleas to get into bed with them, it yielded no result other than the gentle reassurance there was nothing to fear. I then climbed to my third floor bedroom, walked past the large dark door-less storage closet, and sought refuge under the covers. An index finger sucker and bed wetter early on, I recall having my finger in my mouth, with thumb stroking the space between upper lip and nose as being pleasurable and reassuring. The bed wetting, particularly in the cold third floor bedroom, was a source of warmth.

Another fear was the Boogie Man. If asked to describe him, I would have been at a total loss. All I knew was that he was bad and to be avoided at all costs. I suspected he might sometimes secrete himself in that large doorless dark third floor closet. Passing that yawning opening at night took no small amount of courage.

Yet another character to be feared was the Golem, a figure in Jewish lore. A mentally defective man appeared aimlessly roaming the streets from time to time. He was unkempt, bearded, shod in tattered shoes later replaced by burlap wrappings. He instilled no fear, but rather pity. The kids referred to him as the Golem, but I had my doubts. He appeared to be a candidate for Byberry, the Philadelphia State Hospital for the mentally ill .We knew it as a notorious insane asylum located on Roosevelt Boulevard just beyond city limits.

Camp

At six years of age I was sent to a summer camp. Camp Arthur was run by the YM and YWHA (Young Men’s and Young Women’s Hebrew Association). The sister camp Rita was located on the other bank of the obligatory lake. The lake held terrors for me because of the leeches that managed to attach themselves to swimmers incautious enough to enter. Though the sight of blood was disturbing, we could well afford the tiny leach libations. When it came time to pass my swimming test, I must have taken ten minutes to gather the courage to dive off the pier, though it felt more like an hour. A hazy recollection of my grandfather cheering me on raises questions I cannot answer. He was a distant player in my young life. My grandmother and I were close, and when she tried to protect me from the spankings I earned, he would say, Sarah, don’t interfere. Thanks a lot, grandfather.

Another memory, not pleasant, was that I was a member of a sizable group in the youngest cabin known as Submariners. A yellow tag hung at the foot of our cots identified us. This enabled the cabin counselor to walk the designated bed wetters to the latrine during the night. More often than not, the patrol was too late.

One of the counselors was a college football player. Naturally he was idolized. We used to delight in watching him train. The most intriguing exercise to me was watching him do bridges. The muscles and veins of his large neck would stand out in bold relief. Wow!

A finicky eater, I recall refusing to eat squash, a food I had never tasted. At camp everyone had to eat whatever was served. So, when all left the mess hall, there I sat with a counselor whose job it was to see that the squash was consumed. In the ensuing battle of wills he placed a distant second.

One of the constants of camp life is the plea by the first timers, usually the youngest, to come home. Rarely is this honored, so the youngster surrenders to the inevitable, and becomes both reconciled and happy with the camp experience. Another given is the late season competition wherein the Red and Blue (colors optional) teams compete. The range of games varies from camp to camp. There are the team songs, old or newly minted. Competition is the order of the day. Competition was not my cup of tea because of my immaturity. Though the most interesting, from a spectator’s perspective was the canoe jousting competition with its inevitable ducking and swamping of the losing canoe. I was not old enough to participate. In that event two people manned each canoe. One paddled, and one wielded the Lance, a bamboo pole terminated with a bag stuffed with soft material. The object was to unseat the opposing jouster in much the same manner as the horse mounted knights of yore in the popular tournaments of those long ago times.

Then there were the war games in which the object was to take enemy team members captive. We younger campers hid in fear of capture and didn’t venture forth to attempt to take prisoners. For us, war was strictly a holding action. Speaking of action, the counselors and junior counselors made nightly incursions into the girls’ camp when off duty. Taking prisoners was not the objective. Though generally trustworthy, the aim was to be tryst-worthy.

The camp experience was not a bad way to spend a summer, but it did not light my fire. So, it became a non-choice in the list of vacation prospects.

Atlantic City 1

Among my most memorable adventures were the visits to the shore. The prospect of sea, sand and surf as substitutes for the hot streets and stifling bedrooms were cause for eager anticipation. Getting there involved a trolley ride to Market Street, a half mile walk to Front Street, a ferry ride across the Delaware River to Camden, a train ride to Atlantic City, and either a trolley or jitney ride to our destination. This was simplified with our 1927 foray, as the Delaware River Bridge (later renamed Benjamin Franklin Bridge) opened July 1, 1926. This was the largest suspension bridge in the world at that time. Before the bridge, the trip was to be both savored and dreaded. At the ferry building entrance one watched the boat approach, dock, and discharge its passengers and vehicles. Upon boarding, the youngsters would seek good vantage points from which they could watch river traffic. The coming and going of ferries and the image of the pilots behind the ship’s wheels were unforgettable, as were the loading and unloading of all sorts of vehicles. The socializing inside on rainy days, while seated or standing on the benches lining the side, provided endless attraction.

Upon arriving at the Camden side, we boarded one of a long line of railroad cars at the front of which was a coal fired steam locomotive. A grimy, muscular man stoked the furnace with coal shoveled from the tender between locomotive and the first passenger car. The seats, upholstered in Mohair plush fabrics, proved uncomfortable for bare limbs on an invariably hot day. The seat covering was saturated with the soot which came through the open windows. Should you choose to close the window en route, you perspired. Should you open them, the soot and cinders gained passage. Chances were good that from time to time you had to remove small cinders from your eyes. While on balance the trip was fun, the fun was leavened by the vicissitudes of travel in those good old days.

Occasionally, the Delaware River Bridge enabled us to dodge using the railroad. The sixty mile auto trip to the Shore was not without its challenges. Initially, we traveled via the White Horse Pike, later supplanted by the improved Black Horse Pike.

In those days automobiles had running boards which served several functions. They assisted getting into the car whose chassis was higher than the cars of today. They provided place for the tool box containing jack, pump, tire iron, socket wrench, and repair kit. These were necessities since the introduction of the pneumatic tires, which were vulnerable to puncture by nails as well as blowouts due to weak spots in the tubes. It was not unusual to see a man at the side of the road engaged in replacing the flat tire with the spare. On some cars there was a well located on the running board extension for housing the spare tire.

A rule of thumb stated that the sixty mile ride to Atlantic City should take two hours provided you made no stops and didn’t dawdle. On approaching the city the unmistakable smell of the sea announced the voyage to be nearing its end. Sounds, sights and smells play an important but often ignored part of human experience. The automobile/trolley/subway/ferry/train complex for getting from hither to yon, either singly or in various combinations, encompassed as wide a range of sensory stimuli as anything I have encountered since the days of my youth.

Harking back to the subject of automobile use brings up a feature of car damage that has changed markedly since the late 30s. Cars manufactured during this era used heavy gauge steel for fenders, panels and bodies. Roofs were not made of steel. In the course of a mild collision, chances were that no dent occurred, so preparing and painting the abraded area was all that was required. In the case of a more serious crash, the resulting dents could be hammered out so that repainting would complete the job. It took a major accident to total a vehicle or damage it enough to require