THRIFT STORE MANIA

Dear George, 

I can’t remember when my passion for thrift stores began. The closest thing in my childhood was when my dad came back from the war. Though he had his law degree, his practice was just beginning, and he had very few clients. Hence, our family had very little income. To save money, we moved to the unfurnished cottage that my grandfather had built shortly before his death out of town on the Menominee River. Every now and then I would get my red wagon and my dad and I would walk the half mile up Riverside Boulevard to the City Dump in order to find furnishings for our new house. This was the most exciting father-son activity of my young life. While he retrieved household items (e.g., broken furniture, worn kitchen utensils), I collected soda bottle caps (a remarkable variety being available back in the forties). I definitely was convinced at an impressionable age of the wonder and value of discarded, secondhand items. 

Nowadays our nearest thrift shore is about two miles away in Winton Place. I visit perhaps once a month. I was excited when they recently opened up a discount warehouse store a block away. As an employee explained, the second store is the “end of the line.” It’s all the stuff that wouldn’t sell in the regular store and is purportedly being given away at bargain basement prices. It’s much more popular than the main store. All of the merchandise is piled into one or another of about sixty huge bins, each holding about 80 cubic feet of cast-offs. Everything is sold by the pound: clothing, toys, electronics, and odds and ends for $1.09 a pound; books for 49 cents. Most of the customers are busy searching through the clothing bins. However, it’s the books and odds and ends that appeal to me. Stuffed animals, toys and games, records and CDs, tableware, office supplies, Xmas lights, baseball caps, artwork, just about everything one might need or desire. On my first visit I filled my shopping basket with miscellaneous treasures including a 1966 Columbia Encyclopedia yearbook (the year I came to Cincinnati). The book was admittedly heavy, but, even so, I was shocked at the cash register to learn that I was being charged $2.35. Since hardback books at the “up-scale” thrift store next door cost $1.00 apiece, the so-called discount price struck me as way out of line. 

I went home and stewed about this for the rest of the day. Finally I took 10 average-sized hardbound books off our bookshelf and weighed them. The average book weighed 2.4 pounds, meaning it would cost $1.18 at the discount warehouse. Convinced of the injustice of my purchase, I wrote a letter to the manager, conveying this information and arguing that it was unfair for the discount warehouse to sell books, on average, for 18 cents more than the “main” store charges. I suggested that 39 cents a pound would be more fair. Even 29 cents would be reasonable for a discount thrift store. I didn’t hear back right away, but I assumed that the price per pound for books would have been lowered by the time of my next visit. Disappointingly it wasn’t. The manager, despite several months to consider the matter, still hasn’t replied to my carefully thought out, helpful and persuasive letter. While discouraged, I do still buy books at the warehouse. But I’m careful to only choose their less weighty offerings. 

Love, 

Dave

WRITING CLERIHEWS: CINCINNATI CELEBRITIES

Dear George, 

A clerihew is a short funny poem about a famous person. The form was invented by poet Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956) when, at age 16, he was bored in a science class. Rules are simple. Clerihews are four lines long. The first line names a person, and the second line rhymes with the first. Also the third and fourth lines rhyme with each other (i.e., an AABB rhyme pattern). A good clerihew captures something of a person’s character or reputation. The main aim is to sum up an entire life through one incident or detail, making fun of the person. Clerihews are not intended to be rude, but rather are amusing and/or silly. Lines can be any length, and one needn’t use rhythm. W.H. Auden is among the many poets who have written clerihews. Here are some of the clerihews I’ve written about Cincinnati celebrities, current and past. 

Love, 

Dave 

The Bengals’ head coach is Zack Taylor 

Has the mindset of Vlad the Impaler 

Zack draws up the plays for Joe Burrow 

Blazing rockets shot straight down the furrow 

Chef Jean-Robert de Cavel 

Attracted a hip clientele 

The crown prince of French cuisine 

He knew what to do with a bean 

A living legend, hometown hero Pete Rose 

Had gambling debts up to his nose 

Banned for life from the Hall of Fame 

Pete fortunately is impervious to shame 

We all of us remember Nick Clooney 

A most charming man, slightly goony 

Was he likeable?, believe it, Mister 

Though less famous than his son or his sister 

Channel 5’s a.m. star was Paul Dixon 

Way back in those days of R. Nixon 

Paul teased the front row about their knees 

Gave Bonnie Lou and Colleen a squeeze 

Our Reds star these days is Joey Votto 

Hitting better is what Joey ought to 

’Twas a worse than lackluster season 

The wise guys say old age is the reason 

UC’s prez is Dr. Neville Pinto 

Engineering’s the field he’s been into 

Neville’s minions — fifty thousand young students 

All but ten are chronic impudents 

The Reds were once owned by Marge Schott 

Fans prayed that she’d sweeten the pot 

Stupid thoughts about Hitler and Blacks 

But her players soft-pedaled the attacks 

The Bearcats’ best coach was Luke Fickell 

But Luke left the team in a pickle 

Wisconsin wooed our Luke away 

Eight million, hard to say neigh 

The sheriff for years was Simon Leis 

A tough nut who ruled by caprice 

No one ever called Simon humane 

Since his treatments were spankings and pain 

The worst native son is Charlie Manson 

Who was famed at Walnut Hills for his dancin’ 

Manson ordered his groupies to kill 

And they all seemed to think it a thrill 

My first love was Miss Doris Day 

Though Rock Hudson got in my way 

Doris was guileless and pure 

Not to mention her golden coiffure 

Cincy’s cowpoke, a Rogers named Roy 

Such a hero to me as a boy 

Roy would have a shootout with some goon 

Then would croon by the light of the moon

THE BEST CINCINNATI NEW STORIES OF 2022

 

Dear George, 

The population of Menominee County where my home town is located and is about 23,000 while Hamilton County which includes Cincinnati has 826,000 people. Consequently there are about forty times as much of everything in Cincinnati than in Menominee — poor people, rich people, homicides, suicides, vegetarian restaurants, tobacco shops, you name it. As a “small town guy,” I am always amazed by our local news in Cincinnati. Here are my choices for “best” stories in 2022 (where “best” means most amusing, strange, etc.). 

Love, Dave 

 THE AFTER SCHOOL SATAN CLUB 

 Local parents were disturbed when the Lebanon City Schools approved meetings of the “After School Satan Club” for children in the first through fifth grades. The club is sponsored by the Satanic Temple whose organizers say that the Satan Club is an alternative to the Good News Club, an evangelical organization that offers Bible and faith lessons after school. The Satanic Temple does not really believe in Satan but instead promotes “scientific rationality”. Lebanon parents aren’t convinced. (cincinnati.com, 1-21-22) 

DETAINED FOR BEING BLACK 

Two police officers were called to a suburban Meijer store to look for an accused shoplifter described as a white man in his 30s, wearing a dark green jacket with a red hoodie. They promptly stopped a 60-year-old Black man, Arik Lindsey*, who was wearing an orange down coat and a brown and tan scarf. Lindsey’s lawyer said its another instance of a Black person being confronted by law enforcement merely for going about his or her daily life. (cincinnati.com, 2-4-22) 

COACH WYCHE WILL BE AT SUPER BOWL 

Sam Wyche, coach of the last Bengals Super Bowl team in 1989, died of cancer in 2020 at age 74. However, his daughter, Callie Wyche, has brought his ashes and bobblehead to each of the Bengals playoff games, and she’ll have him sitting in front of the TV screen in Cincinnati for the Super Bowl. She’s not sure whether her dad has had a role in the team’s wins, but she’s not taking any chances. (cincinnati.com, 2-9-22) 

 BAD INMATE MANNERS 

Ryan Stock, 24 of Green Township, was jailed for kidnapping a man and shooting him three times in the head when he couldn’t give Stock and his colleagues $5,000. Disgruntled in jail, Stock used a bottle to spray “wet feces” on three different deputies. He is currently undergoing competency tests to see if he understands the charges against him. (cincinnati.com, 2-27-22)  

FAKE DAUGHTER ENDS SOMEONE ELSE’S FATHER’S LIFE 

When Elicia Malthus arrived at the hospital in Edgewood to visit her dying father, Donald, she was told that Elicia Malthus was already in the room visiting him. The impersonator, Marissa Jenkins, 23, signed in as Elisha Malthus and advised staff to remove life support. Marissa was not related to Donald Malthus but was his “ex-stepfather’s sister’s girlfriend’s child” and referred to him as “uncle”. Malthus died the following morning. Jenkins has been charged with identity theft and forgery. Police are also investigating the theft of $2,900 in cash from Malthus’ wallet in the hospital room. (wlwt.com, 4-1-22) 

NOT REALLY SATAN’S DOING 

Southbound I-75 drivers this week probably noticed that a billboard for “The Chosen”, a web series about Jesus, has been defaced. The graffiti artist drew heart-shaped glasses on Jesus’ face and wrote “Stupid Plots” on the billboard. As it turns out, the vandalism was the work of the series’ producers who altered billboards nationwide to promote “The Chosen”. The series co-founder said it only made sense to have the Devil attack Jesus, and he hopes that fans enjoy the humor of this gag. (cincinnati.com, 4-20-22) 

 BAD BOYFRIEND 

Pat Hickey of Clermont County pled no contest to having burnt down his own house and frame his girlfriend. The fire was caught on home security camera which showed two people entering the house with gas cans and removing two large TVs. Hiceys had purchased a custom-made mask of his girlfriend’s face from a company called “That’s My Face” and wore it during the arson. While Hickey did not go to jail, he was required to pay $400K back to the insurance company. (wlwt.com, 4-27-22) 

CRIMINAL JUDGE 

Garda A. Stuckey, 61, of suburban Wyoming, a candidate for juvenile court judge in Hamilton County, has had over a dozen run-ins with local police in the last decade. These include instances where she was found walking topless in her community or lying comatose in a parking lot. Most of the time police or witnesses describe Stuckey as intoxicated and disoriented. Police have made numerous runs to her home for “domestic trouble”, and she has been charged with child endangerment. Democratic party officials chose not to endorse Smith, saying “She did not fit the level of expertise and professionalism that we would expect.” (cincinnati.com, 4-29-22) 

 MUCH TOO YOUNG DRIVER 

A 7-year-old boy was alone in a red Kia SUV, driving in the eastbound lanes of Roosevelt Boulevard in nearby Middletown. He then crossed the median, entered the westbound lanes, struck a guardrail, and crashed into a parked red jeep. Bystanders helped get the boy out of the car after the crash. His parents, unaware that he had left the house, joined him at the hospital. (cincinnati.com, 5-13-22) 

 PURE EVIL Cincinnati police officer Erik Wertha was reassigned and then fired for having “pure” and “evil” tattooed on his right and left knuckles. Department policy forbids tattoos on the face, neck, head, and hands. Wertha appealed, saying that the tattoos do not represent “pure evil” but are on different hands and symbolize the struggle between good and evil. He will not have the tattoos removed because of the cost of cosmetic surgery. (wlwt.com, 6-7-22) 

 MEALS NOT YUMMI 

Anastasia Shinster and Sachar Wilson weren’t happy with their meals at Yummi Xpress on Reading Road in Roselawn and wanted their money back. Wilson sucker punched an employee in the face and kept asking Shinster to shoot him. Shinster then pulled a gun out of her purse and shot the restaurant owner in the arm. Both are due in court on Monday. (local12.com, 7-23-22) 

HELPING THE BENGALS WIN 

 An Enquirer sports columnist during the Bengals win streak asked readers: “What did you do to make the Bengals win again?” Here are some of their rituals. (1) I stopped watching the games live. (2) I stand up and scream on important plays. (3) Put my left leg over right for offense; right leg over left for defense. (4) Keep the remote and phone about a 30 degree angle next to each other on the couch arm. (5) Wear my gold chain every game. (6) Set the volume to 24 on my TV and 19 or 21 in my truck. (7) Wear the same sweatshirt for each home game and never wash them. (8) Don’t wear any Bengals gear. (cincinnati.com, 12-15-22) 

 *Pseudonyms used throughout.

NOLA TRIP PIX

 Dear George, 

We’re recently back from a weeklong family Thanksgiving trip to New Orleans. It was a special time to visit. Our family has recently moved from Mid-City to their new Uptown home. Our grandkids, A and L, are in their final year of junior high and will soon be taking a big test to get into the high school of their choice. K’s parents, Linda and Ted, have both recently returned to New Orleans, Ted staying in J and K’s basement apartment for the winter months and Linda in her nearby apartment complex. Here are some of the highlights of our visit.

On our first full day K took us to see the newly established Museum of the Southern Jewish Experience. It’s a very excellently done coverage of the adaptation of European Jewish immigrants to the rural South, often in situations where they were the only Jewish family in the community. Many tears and smiles and highly recommended if you visit NOLA.

 

On Thanksgiving Day J roasted a 20-pound turkey, filling it with butter under its skin, and other family members prepared sides for the holiday feast. Here are a few of the hard-working cooks (Katja, L, and A).

Before Thanksgiving dinner J took a group of us to the horse races at the fairgrounds where the local citizenry dress up in colorful and wacky costumes. My reckless associates lost all of their bets on the horses.

Here is our group at dinner: (from the left), A, Conrad (a family relative), Eddie (as family friend), our daughter-in-law K, K’s dad Ted, the back of my head, L, Linda (K’s mom), and J taking the photo. A happy and filled up bunch.

New Orleans, of course, is a great town for eating out. We had family dinners out at Dat Dog (with the fanciest hot dogs on the planet) and La Crepe Nanou, an elegant French Restaurant. We lunched at the Redfish Grill on Bourbon Street (raw oysters for Katja, a fried oyster po-boy for me), Freret Faire at Rouse’s Market, and Ted’s Frostop, a 1950’s style diner. Above is Katja enjoying her oysters at Redfish Grill, a happy trio at La Crepe Nanou, and Ted’s Frostop.

J took the kids and us to the Historic Orleans Collection which featured a digital tour of the Notre Dame Cathedral post-fire renovation, and then we visited M. S. Rau Fine Arts and Antiques on Royal Street (Picasso, Chagall, Matisse, etc., with price tags up to $2 million, including a million-dollar ornate chess set).

J also took us to see the top high school football player in the nation and University of Texas recruit, quarterback Arch Manning (Peyton’s and Eli’s nephew), in his last home game for local Newman High. Unfortunately Arch had an off day and his team got blown out by upstarts from Baton Rouge.

 

One of our favorite places is the New Orleans Art Museum. This time we saw an exhibition of Black studio photographers in New Orleans and works by surrealist painter Louise Bourgeois. 

Our week went by too quickly and we miss our sweet family. Hopefully we’ll be back in the spring. 

Love, 

Dave

TIME FOR THANKS

 

Dear George, 

I recently ran across a study that concluded that people who give weekly thanks for events in their lives are physically and mentally healthier than those who don’t. Ever since I started this blog I give thanks once a year around Thanksgiving time. That’s probably not as beneficial as once a week, but I’m sure it helps somewhat. Usually many of my thanks have had to do with the past, e.g., parents, school, job, parenting. This time I decided to concentrate on the here-and-now. Here’s what I’m thankful about in 2022. 

First of all, I owe gratitude to my doctors whose interventions have kept me alive, and I thank the Mercy Health Plex fitness center for helping keep me in reasonably good physical shape. I’m particularly happy about starting my Zumba class again after a long layoff during the pandemic. 

I owe most thanks for love and respect from my immediate and extended family members: Katja, J and K and kids, Vicki, my siblings’ spouses and families, Ami and David Werrin and families. While we’ve lost many friends in the last decade, it’s been rewarding to continue FaceTime contacts with a couple of my long-time friends. 

I’m thankful to the University whose retirement package provides us with financial security. 

While impersonal, I’m thankful to the Internet and to television for lots of rewarding activities. It’s amazing how the Internet has transformed our lives, with immediate access to weather reports, movie and TV reviews, travel planning, local and national news, poems of the day, and research on any question of interest. Likewise television resources have increased tenfold or more in the last decade, with unlimited content from PBS, Netflix, Amazon, HBO Max, Hulu, and AMC+. 

A lot of my quality of life these days is tied to my and Katja’s participation in OLLI, the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute sponsored by the university. I take a poetry writing class every term, as well as offerings in literature and art. It’s a lot like being in college all over again, minus homework, exams, and grades. 

I’m thankful for our miniature schnauzer, Iko, who provides me with exercise and ever-loyal affection day in and day out. 

For their help in making me a more “cultured” person, I’m thankful for the Cincinnati Art and Taft Museums and the Cincinnati Symphony and Linton Chamber Music series. 

Cutting across all of this, I’m thankful to be retired. While I enjoyed my job and was nervous about its ending, the freedom I enjoy to engage in whatever I please is delightful. A true blessing. 

 Love, 

 Dave

A GATLINBURG REPORT

Dear George, 

 We’ve driven through the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and North Carolina several times on our way to the South Carolina and Florida coasts, but we’ve never stopped to vacation there. Inspired by our recent trip to northern Michigan, we decided to spend a week in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, the famous resort town that’s the gateway to the Smokies. The Smokies include the country’s most visited national park, and the mountains were awesome. With both of us limping around a bit we did our mountain touring by car rather than by hiking. In particular, we visited the Roaring Fork Nature Motor Trail near Gatlinburg and Highway 441 south through the Great Smokies National Park to the Chimney Tops and to the Newfound Gap. At one stop a lady said to me, “We are in God’s presence.” While I didn’t agree with her on all the details, I did share the sentiment. Here are some of the views.

 

Downtown Gatlinburg could be regarded either as a tourist paradise or a tourist nightmare. The mile-long strip along the Parkway is filled with every sort of attraction one might imagine: endless gift shops, restaurants of all sorts, art galleries, wineries (including Cotton Candy Wine), mini-golf courses, video game arcades, an aquarium that USA Today listed as the best in the country, the Ripley Believe It or Not museum (where we spent several enjoyable hours), the Amazing Mirror Maze, an earthquake ride, escape games, laser tag, skylifts up adjacent mountains, a space needle, candy makers, movie theaters, ice cream shops, and a mountain adventure park. We browsed in the shops, ate at numerous good restaurants (most notably, Chesapeake’s), and feasted on dark chocolate almonds from the Ole Smoky candy factory. Here are a few pics to give a flavor of downtown Gatlinburg.

 

The highlight of our trip was the afternoon we spent at Anakeesta, Gatlinburg’s new mountain-top theme park that opened in 2017. You get there by riding a skylift to the top of the mountain. Katja was completely relaxed and fearless, riding no-handsies, while my knuckles turned white from gripping the safety bar in front of us. Anakeesta is a beautifully done mountain village with attractive shops, multiple restaurants, a lush botanical garden, and numerous treetop adventures for kids and families, e.g., ziplines, a mountain coaster, and an 880-foot Skywalk bridge. I climbed to the top of the AnaVista Tower which offers scenic views of the mountains as far away as Kentucky on a clear day. Among other treats, we enjoyed a delicious meal at the Cliff Top Restaurant.

One of the main things about our recent trips to Michigan and Tennessee is that they have helped us put the pandemic behind us. After two and a half years of feeling locked up at home, life does seems to be getting back to normal these days. It’s about time. 

Love, Dave

I AM A COUNTRY BOY

 

Dear George, 

 I mentioned on my blog post last week that our summer poetry group took up the task of writing about “where I am from”. Katja wrote about growing up in center city Philadelphia in a poem titled “I Am a City Girl”. I wrote about growing up at our home on the Menominee River and adopted a parallel title: “I Am a Country Boy”.  It’s fun to view the two poems in comparison, and it’s hard to imagine such different backgrounds for a couple who celebrated their 62nd wedding anniversary yesterday. 

Love, 

Dave 

I AM A COUNTRY BOY

In 1946 my father returned 

from occupied Japan, 

and our family moved from town to

my grandfather’s Norway Pine cottage 

on the banks of the Menominee River, 

a mile outside the city limits, 

the first residents ever to live 

on Riverside Boulevard. 

Looking across the river from our front yard, 

we could see the local cemetery to the east, 

grand sunsets to the west,

and wild pigs on the island to the south. 

My grandfather had died in 1942, 

and the house had never been finished, 

no electricity, 

no phone, 

no indoor plumbing. 

We bathed in the river, 

used an outhouse by the garage, 

carried water to the kitchen from an outdoor pump, 

and lit kerosene lanterns at sundown. 

I was 9, Steven was 5, Peter was 1, 

and Vicki was yet to be born. 

We shared our property with native species, 

chipmunks, red and gray squirrels, 

garter snakes, grass snakes, water snakes, 

frogs and toads and box turtles, 

snapping turtles in the river, 

crayfish, bloodsuckers, mud puppies, 

Luna moths and hordes of mosquitos, 

wayward deer and wild turkeys, 

foxes, porcupines, otter, 

dead skunks flattened on the road, 

pheasants and woodpeckers, birds of all sorts, 

mice in the pantry, bats in the attic. 

Six-foot pine snakes hid underneath the house. 

In summer we children virtually lived 

in the river and the forest, 

building rafts of dead white pine logs,

camping along Little River at Mason Park,

scouring the woods for deer antlers and snakeskins. 

Our parents taught us the names

of the trees, the flowers, the birds. 

I gathered wild strawberries for breakfast, 

collected cicada skeletons from the river bank, 

made ashtrays for my mother from river bottom clay. 

We rowed our boat to Indian Island for picnics 

with our Irish Setter Mike paddling along behind. 

Steve and I had acorn fights in the autumn, 

wrote messages in ink on birch bark, 

pressed red and yellow leaves in thick books, 

and, with the first winter storm, 

held barefoot races in the snow. 

The river froze over in December 

and we ice-fished for perch, 

shoveled off a skating rink, 

hiked to Pig Island with snowshoes, 

and followed deer tracks in the snow. 

My father tied the toboggan to the Lincoln’s rear bumper 

and towed his squealing children at terrifying speeds. 

We chopped down our own Christmas tree. 

made strings of popcorn and cranberries, 

and tried to stay awake to see Santa. 

My mother cooked whitefish, 

Texas Tommies, and potato sausage. 

When the ice melted and flowed out in April, 

my father named the tinkling sounds 

“Chinese Bells Day”. 

In spring the rainfall turned the road to mud 

and some days we got free vacations from school. 

Steve and I played basketball after dark, 

lighting the hoop with a desk lamp. 

At 16 I built a hidden camp in the woods 

from the trunks of alder trees and vowed 

to live there by myself forever. 

My father gave me Thoreau’s Walden to read. 

Like Tarzan or Robinson Crusoe, 

I had become a creature of the forest.

"I Am A City Girl" (by Katja L.)

 

Dear George, 

This summer Katja and I have been attending an informal OLLI-initiated poetry group that meets on Thursday mornings. Last week one of our members suggested that we write a poem about “Where I am from.” People responded with enthusiasm. Katja’s and my poems could not be more different. Hers about growing up in center city Philadelphia; mine about growing up in the country outside Menominee. I’m posting Katja’s here, will follow with mine in a week or so. 

Love, 

Dave 

             I Am A City Girl 

                by Katja L.  

I am a city girl 

Born from a flurry of sounds and smells 

Father and mother — two people and a 

four year old singing their way through 

the Blue Ridge mountains in a boxy 

old Chevy 

from Roanoke to our forever home — Philadelphia: 

     “It’s a long, long trail a winding 

     Into the land of my dreams 

     where the nightingale is singing

     and the white moon gleams “ 

I am a city girl 

Raised in a noisy, colorful world 

of trolley cars that clickety clacked 

across the cobblestone streets; ten 

cents to get me across town to Spring Garden School 

Lining up outside in perfect lines 

Eager to hear the buzzer — signaling 

our race to “home room” and snacks 

Apples, Twinkies, peanut butter and grape jelly, no crusts 

Every Monday lunch: 

Boiled Hot Dogs 

Boiled Sauerkraut 

Steamed Baked Beans 

Milk 

Junior High — so far away 

Trolley car, subway, bus — twenty five cents 

Eighteen hundred students 

Pushing, jostling, cursing, angry 

fourteen years old 

Algebra, English, Phys Ed 

So many smells 

Don’t forget homework, papers, deadlines, 

food, money! 

Missed the bus 

Wait until 4:30 for the next one 

Home by 5:30 

Help Dad with the animals. 

Clean cages. 

Hold the Tabbies. 

Feed the pups. 

Mom upstairs — home from her job. 

Tired and grouchy. 

The smells from the animals wafting 

up through the air vents — mixing with the aroma of hamburgers 

and onions frying. 

My father’s veterinary practice on the 

first floor 

My mother’s domain on the second 

a combination that drove the two 

of them into perpetual angry retreats 

Center City Philadelphia 

     The border between the ghetto and the Gilded Age. 

    Saturdays were the best. Grandfather

came and took me to the movies. 

Betty Grable in technicolor or 

Randolph Scott in a double header. 

Lassie Come Home 

National Velvet 

Popcorn and chocolate covered mints. 

My mother’s beloved father 

kind and gentle. A tailor from the 

“old country” living in a new world 

that had no need of bespoke tailored 

suits and, thus, had little need of him. 

Germantown — a large niche in the 

fabric of Philadelphia. 

His business was on the first floor — in front. The 

smells of dry cleaning fluid and musty 

fabric mixed with the aromas of his 

kitchen where my grandmother made 

borscht and black pumpernickel throughout 

the week. 

     Some Saturdays we would sit 

together in the kitchen before an old 

wooden cased radio listening to the 

Metropolitan Opera, marveling at the 

drama taking place before 

us — in our very own kitchen. 

Upstairs — the parlor. 

Covered in dark, prickly, plush 

fabric 

on the walls, two large black, velvet 

pictures of oriental ladies wearing 

pink geisha girl costumes — beckoning 

the onlooker in knowing ways. 

I would caress their velour bodies and 

wonder at their softness. 

 I am a city girl. 

     Years of piano lessons — another 

subway ride to Little Italy and Miss Theresa’s house. 

     The smells of Braciola and Ragu 

permeating my embrace of Grieg 

and Tschaikowsky while Miss Theresa, 

totally blind since birth, reminded

me to sit up straight and try “pianissimo”. 

 I am a city girl 

     Walking through Rittenhouse Square —

     pushing brother and sister in a royal 

     wicker pram up to Mickey’s Garage 

     where I stand — gorging 

     on gas fumes that left us swooning. 

 I am a city girl 

     I come from holiday dinners and loud, noisy eaters — each trying 

to capture the last matzoh ball 

or lightest knish. Three months of study 

with Rabbi Jacobs over in a blink! I ask 

the four Seder questions and am showered 

with gilded chocolate coins. My reward 

is candy and loud murmurings of 

“congratulations”. 

     I am the result of Sunday dinners 

at City Line Horn & Hardarts. 

Chicken a la King, Mashed Potatoes, 

Creamed Spinach, and cherry jello topped 

with real whipped cream for dessert. 

     I am a survivor of the Philadelphia 

High School for Girls. A test to get in — a test 

to get out! Rules, discipline, competition. 

Miss Wilhemina — Geometry. Failed again. 

Told to try harder — or else. 

     On to Shakespeare, French, Physics, Phys Ed. 

An opening in the orchestra. 

Hallelujah! Out of the gym, into the symphony. 

A percussionist. Big noisy me! Father comes 

every Friday to the school’s back door and off we go with the 

Timpani, snare drum, tambourines, and 

castanets to our little home where I 

practice like crazy. Poor Mr. Finkelstein 

and Mrs. Alberti next door. 

     Terrified of being cast back into 

     Phys Ed, my percussion skills improve 

     and warrant a solo performance in the 

     Girls’ High “Olympic” band. 

     My roots are in the city — 

     I come from a flurry of smells and 

     sounds that form the moving screen 

     of my life. 

     I am a city girl.