Life is strange. Just when we think we have it figured out, another curve ball comes at us.

I had a fulfilling career at Hertz Corporation which was the world leading Car Rental company for several decades.

When I started there in 1978, Hertz headquarters was at 660 Madison Avenue, on the northwest corner of Madison and East 60th Street, near Central Park and the Pierre Hotel. Very upscale.

We were growing fast, and after I commuted to the city for many years from Brooklyn, and then from Bayside, Queens, they decided to move their headquarters to Park Ridge, New Jersey in Bergen County.

Many of us moved as well, taking advantage of a generous relocation package that Hertz offered. We bought a house in Wayne, Passaic County, in a lake community which we all loved. And it was only a thirty-minute drive to work.

1988 - Hertz Moves their Headquarters to Park Ridge, New Jersey

In September 1988, Hertz opened their new international headquarters in a 225,000-square-foot complex on Brae Boulevard.

As you can see, it was a beautiful building inside and out.

A Ford Model T and a Shelby Mustang adorned the Park Ridge lobby:

To celebrate their new headquarters in Park Ridge, Hertz held a spectacular cocktail reception in that lobby for the incoming employees, their spouses and some distinguished guests.

O.J. Simpson, who was still Hertz’s most recognizable celebrity spokesperson, headlined the event:

For years he appeared in the famous Hertz commercials where he sprinted through airports to make his rental car on time. To many Americans in the 1970s and 1980s, O.J. was almost synonymous with the Hertz brand:

O.J. exuded charm. We weren’t celebrity chasers by nature, but Mr. Simpson noticed that Claire was close to having a baby (Tara) and let us know that he and Nicole just had their second. We compared notes for a while, and he moved on to other guests.

A while later, Hertz sponsored another get-together, sans O.J. This was a daytime event for families with an emphasis on fun activities and photos. This is my favorite family pic of all time:

Please stay tuned for:

Who Knew? - Part 2 of 2 A tragedy hits home and the nation is rivetted.

On January 1, 1989, an event took place involving O.J. Simpson, and later involved countless other individuals, that became one of the most extraordinary and tragic media events in American history. I will present this respectfully and objectively.

See you next week.

We love you Baba!

Related stories:

Leave a comment

The Final Leg of the Drive

This is one of the most dramatic drives in Wyoming.

The farther west we drove from Denver toward the Winds (collectively - Wind River Mountain, Wind River Canyon and Wind River), the less the landscape felt like it was engineered by humans - and the more it felt like it was here forever.

We entered the park at the Popo Agie Primitive Area, in the Shoshone National Forest.

Wind River Canyon

The river cuts through the rock walls that expose the geological layers. The early layers go back billions of years.

This canyon is part of the same overall water system connected to the Wind River and Mountain.

We saw:

• The rivers disappear underground

• Glacial valleys

• Trout streams

• Granite peaks

We heard: Only the incessant babbling of the river.

We felt: Very small.

We hiked in for about four hours and found a nice flat area to pitch our tent. We checked in for a four-night stay with a panoramic view. No room service. Actually, we barely saw any people - but we did see several backpacks suspended from trees to keep food out of reach of bears and other wildlife.

We set up camp and chilled for the night, enjoying our freeze-dried smorgasbord.

We had a date with some cutthroat trout the next day.

“You catch it, you clean it”

With regard to fishing, this means that if you catch a fish and plan to keep it, you’re the one who has to gut, scale, fillet, and clean it.

It’s often said to newcomers who enjoy the excitement of catching fish but haven’t yet experienced the less glamorous part afterward.

The phrase is especially common in recreational fishing trips. It’s partly practical and partly a lesson in respecting the animal and understanding where food comes from. To feel that cleaning the fish is part of the responsibility that comes with harvesting it.

And guess who that newcomer was this time around?

I was well aware of the saying and prepared to do my part. So, I had a very light breakfast and trail mix lunch. I wanted to be “all in” when I needed to do what had to be done. It worked - I was already hungry when we got to the lake.

Owen caught the first “keeper” and it was also the largest fish of the day. He weighed it quickly while it flopped around on his hook.

His guidebook had the weight ranges for each lakes fish variety. For the cutthroat trout (named for a thick red line around their throat area) the one Owen caught was outside the high end of the range! That man is incredible.

Owen was thrilled with his catch but was having second thoughts about having this beautiful old-timer have its life taken. Being hungrier than my buddy, I carefully chimed in:

“This guy has had a long life - it’s the young ones they protect. But it’s up to you.”

“Ok - let me think it over - but can we take a picture?”

I skipped across the rocks to get my camera on the beach and ran back as fast as I could. I snapped one shot

The angle I took the picture from did not do the catch justice - it was plenty wide across - enough to feed two hungry fishermen, especially when served with potatoes and onions.

Then Owen rendered his verdict:

“I think I want to set it free.”

“OK, bye buddy!”

Owen gently submerged it under the water surface and let go. It just floated for a few seconds which is normal as they recover from the shock that they were subjected to. Then it wriggled a bit and the tail started flapping.

But the struggle it had endured and the length of time out of the water prevailed - it wasn’t meant to be and our buddy started listlessly drifting away. Owen quickly reached for his rod and was able to “fish it” back to us where we placed it into a small bucket of water we brought along, to join up later with the potato and onion patiently waiting.

We fished a bit longer - I still wanted to get a “keeper” so that I could contribute to the dinner, and earn my “You catch it, you clean it” ceremonial license. It took me about thirty minutes. A few nibbles, and one newbie, and then finally, I caught one that just barely made the weight minimum. But I was thrilled. The fish? - not so much.

If you’ve caught a cutthroat trout and plan to eat it, the basic process is gut it, clean it, and cook it as soon as practical. Here’s a straightforward method:

1. Gut the Trout

• Lay the trout on its side.

• Insert a sharp knife into the vent (the small opening on the belly near the tail).

• Cut forward along the belly to the base of the gills.

• Open the body cavity.

• Grab the entrails and pull them out.

• Reach up toward the throat and remove any remaining organs.

  (basically, you are removing anything that looks like you wouldn’t want to eat)

2. Remove the Bloodline, Organs and Rinse

• Along the backbone you’ll see a dark red strip - scrape it out with a spoon.

• Rinse thoroughly.

• Pat dry with paper towels.

3. Owen’s Personalized Touch

• Leave the skin, head, and tail on.

• Dice or thin-slice the potato and onion.

• Lay the fish, potatoes and onions on a sheet of aluminum foil (bring a few).

• Season with salt and pepper and wrap the foil tightly around the assortment - leave a small vent for steam to escape.

• Put securely into the hottest part of the coals and let cook for 12-15 minutes.

4. Final Steps

1. Remove and unwrap the foil

2. Cut the head and tail off

3. Open up the fish

4. Debone it by lifting the bones from head to tail, or just use your fork - the meat should just flake right off

5. Enjoy with your potatoes and onions. Separately or mixed together.

6. Thank the fish for helping to sustain you.

We spent the next two days taking day trips and fished some more. Just catch and release - as I said once before, we just made some fish a little bit late for something.

Here are some favorites of the pictures we took:

This trip was spectacular in so many ways. Very highly recommended.

Leave a comment

My brother-in-law passed away this past Tuesday, surrounded by his family and friends. A very touching funeral service was held yesterday, and I was one of several speakers who had the honor of giving a final farewell to this great man. This is my eulogy, with additional content from my written notes, and some rewrites based on further reflection.

Cliff’s Eulogy to Stewart (Updated)

I’ve said it many times, but it bears repeating – Stewart was like a big brother to me. I would have elevated that to father, but that position was already taken.

Stewart Owned it All

Wherever he lived - from Yonkers to Yorktown Heights New York, to Delray Beach Florida.

And in whatever he did - in his teaching and coaching sports at a middle school in Yonkers.

And in his caring passion - by founding Camp Lymelight, a camp for children with special needs. First in Connecticut, and then at multiple locations in the Catskills, to meet the overwhelming demand.

At the Passover seders, Thanksgiving dinners, graduation parties, Michael and Andrew’s soccer games.

And on the CB radio in the car – his handle was the “Lymelighter” - brilliant!

Through his many hobbies – Tarot cards, stained glass, stamps, coins, sports memorabilia, golf... There were so many that I’ve lost track. He didn’t just take them on. He totally owned them with a passion.

I remember all the tiny cuts on his hands and fingers from the stained-glass shards. Not because he complained about them, but because I saw them.

Stew’s life was rich and rewarding. With enough content to fill a book. And there are tributes and stories popping up online, including one very touching one from his sister Betty. I suggest you browse around. It is very inspiring.

Here are a few of my favorite memories of Stewart:

The Coffee Gourmet

It started with Barbara and Stewart frequenting the flea markets all over Westchester County, rummaging for bargains like everyone else. And before you knew it, they were vendors themselves, making and selling outdoor PVC furniture.

A few years later, this evolved into selling roasted ground coffee by the pound in assorted flavors. It was a brilliant transition, as the coffee business provided them with steady repeat orders from their customers. And when the internet became “a thing” they were all over it, providing their customers with the ability to order their coffee from home, and have it delivered right to their door.

This probably sounds mundane now, but back then, it was ground-breaking stuff.

Then to the New York City street fairs. When I lived in Manhattan, I would often visit them at the street fair they were working that week. I would have to wait up to an hour to just say hello because the line for their roasted ground coffee was up to twenty customers deep!

Finally, to the flea markets all over Florida.

I had gone to flea markets and street fairs for years and realized that what Stewart and Barbara accomplished was amazing. Though they were newbies, they came up with a product that was never thought of over all those years and utilized the internet and shipping to aggressively grow their business!

The Dogs

Ernie, Rusty, Max, Rusty – I lost count. My double “Rusty” mention is not a typo. They had so many dogs over the years that they must have decided to recycle names.

I watched him share an ice cream cone with Ernie and it kind of grossed me out - until we got a dog and then I understood how natural that was.

I didn’t grow up with a dog. But I’m sure that seeing how dogs were such an integral part of the Shein household was a huge factor for Claire and I deciding to get one - along with the wide variety of dogs that don’t shed. Thanks Stew!

That Giving Spirit

Every time I visited, he didn’t let me leave without giving me something – mostly sneakers and golf clubs. Those flea markets had deals that were just too good to pass up. That was one big way he showed me love. Stew was not the mushy type. It made me feel special. And when I watched him do this with so many of us, I realized who the truly special person was.

And he asked me about me – my jobs, my social life, everything! And he didn’t just ask. He listened. He suggested. He cared.

The Discussions and Debates

Nothing was off the table. Stew loved to play the devil’s advocate. The contrarian. It made for spirited conversation. Not just with me, with anyone, including strangers that he happened upon:

“I couldn’t help but overhear you...”

He was truly one-of-a-kind. A breath of fresh air. He told it like it is. Stew rarely raised his voice. He had a calm, succinct style, wasting no time to get to the heart of the matter.

I hear that he and brother in-law Kenny had some animated exchanges, but they got past it with only a few verbal scratches. And I had some back-and-forths with Stew as well – as families do. I don’t recall the details, but I did learn from him that I needed to lighten up a bit – maybe a little more than a bit.

Stew sometimes took the contrarian role a bit too far. Barbara, Stewart and I were sitting poolside at a weekend wedding event in Rhode Island for one of the cousins. Stew took a “hard to defend” contrarian stance on some current events topic. I countered one of his statements, feeling quite pleased with my logic. Then, without missing a beat, Stew reinforced my statement with his own words. I realized that somehow, we had switched sides on the topic. But Barbara was there as well:

“Stew – you are just repeating what my brother just said”. You took his argument!

Without missing a beat, Stew casually responded with:

“I’m just saying”.

With a twinkle in his eye. It’s hard to argue with that.

The Mets

That was the big topic of conversation Stew had with his brother. But it wasn’t about the topic. It was about the unspoken devoted, unfailing consistency.

The Golf at Boynton Beach and the Stats

With Kenny, Jonathan and Adam. And with me when I came down.

Rumor has it that I would let him win. Sadly, I didn’t. Andrew couldn’t believe it:

“Is my dad really that good or are you really that bad?”.

One word said it all:

” Yes”

Oh – the stats. Boxes and boxes of scorecards in the garage He didn’t just write his score down. He would make comments about almost every shot. I asked him:

“So, you enter these into the computer so that you can track your progress?”

“Nope – I just store them here. No Reason in Particular”.

Oh. Ok

That’s Stewart – I think this was just one of the techniques he used to fully own something:

He’d catalogue it

Actually, I was trying to get down here for one more chance at him. I have no shame.

But I hope to play with him in heaven one day.

In my eulogy on Friday I mentioned:

“Stew was a businessman disguised as a teacher.”

But upon hearing other “Stew-stories” I learned he was a great teacher and coach and life-skills mentor. To those needing mentoring and guidance and someone in their life that truly cared.

He addressed that need.

He had broad shoulders and a huge heart.

He owned it all.

The following spring we were ready to plan another outing into the Rockies. We had a fantastic time last year, learned some valuable lessons, and were eager to have a new experience. Owen was already on it, researching our next trip. And he hit the proverbial “Jackpot!”:

The Wind River Mountains of Wyoming and surrounding region is a bucket list must. Just dial in your desired degree of adventure. The more details he provided me, the more excited I became.

And last year, REI was out-of-stock of field guides covering our excursion to Flat Top. But this year we were in luck. There was ample information to help us in our planning.

We were assured from the guides that though the Flat Top and Wind River Mountains experiences were similar in their enormity and beauty, summers in the Wind River Mountains were significantly drier than Flat Top. Which meant less flooding, less mud less bugs/spray. And of course, the same amount of sunblock.

And just to be safe, we pushed this excursion back into August, giving those Rockies a little bit more time to dry out.

And before I knew it, I was getting off a plane and into Owen’s car. And like last year, it was dinner and catching up. And spending the next day at REI. But this time we were already well-equipped from what Owen already had, and what we shored up last year.

So mostly we needed getting new mountain meals and snacks, and another rental sleeping bag and backpack for me. And even though the potato and onion we had bought and brought last year turned out to not be needed, we were very optimistic about our rematch with nature, and our choices.

About three hours into our drive, we were treated to a sight, as promised in the guidebook - a few pronghorn antelope. They aren’t actually true antelope. Pronghorn is its own unique North American species. And they are incredibly fast - the second fastest land animal on the planet, behind only the cheetah. And while most people know about the cheetah, relatively few have heard of the pronghorn. They are built for open country and often seen standing motionless near fences or running in bursts across the basin land or sadly, the dangerous roads.

And their numbers increased steadily until we were estimating by the “hundreds” just to try to keep up. And that kept us busy until we finally reached our destination at the six-and-a-half-hour mark:

Lander - The Gateway Town, 1984

Lander epitomizes a classic Wyoming town where the Old West, mountain wilderness, and outdoor culture converge. It sits in west-central Wyoming along the Popo Agie River, right at the base of the Wind River Mountains. The town has about 7,500 residents, so it’s small enough to feel personal, but large enough to have a real downtown, restaurants, breweries, outfitters, and a surprisingly active outdoor scene.

Though we had scrapped the idea of making the 359-mile trip to Lander by horseback, we decidedly made no hotel reservation like in the old days. Winging it worked out fine. We found the most rustic hotel and nearby bar/restaurant that money could buy. Equipped with a pool table of course. We made good use of it and knocked down a couple of local beers, just to top off an already awesome day.

The next morning, we had a quick breakfast and drove an hour or so to the Popo Agie Primitive Area, located inside Shoshone National Forest.

Next up: “Rocky Mountain High with Owen - Part 5 of 5” Click Here

Leave a comment

Rocky Mountain Coffee and Breakfast

We were up bright and early, eager to meet the day head on. When I stepped out of the tent, Owen was on the other side of our campsite, crouched, with his back to me.

“Good morning. What are you up to?”

“Making coffee - how do you like yours?”

“Cream and sugar is fine”

“How about powdered milk and sugar?”

“Perfect”

“Here you go - enjoy!

I took a sip, careful not to burn my lip. That wasn’t an issue:

“Can we get it a bit hotter?”

“Actually, no.”

“Whoops!”

I would’ve been embarrassed by my question. But it was Owen. So easy for me to be with. The scientific fact was that even if Owen raised the flame all the way up, the water wasn’t going to get any hotter.

In simplistic terms:

At sea level, water boils at 212°F (100°C).

“Boiling” means giving the water molecules sufficient energy to escape into the air.

We observe it as steam.

And as we go higher and higher in elevation, such as in hiking up a mountain, there is less and less air to push down on the water, so it boils at lower and lower temperatures.

And where we were, high up in the Rockies, over 10,000 feet above sea level:

• The air pressure was quite low because there was less air above us.

• The water molecules escaped as steam more easily, at only 194°F (90°C).

So, turning up the gas” would NOT raise the temperature any further.

Instead, it would increase the speed that the water molecules escaped into the air.

The water would simply boil off more vigorously until we would have no water for our coffee!

We followed that up with oatmeal and powdered scrambled eggs. Both were delicious. Everything is delicious in the Rockies.

Planning the Day - Reading a Contour (topographic) Map

Owen knew his stuff. Before we left for the mountains, we had gathered sufficient information so that we could navigate effectively - i.e. - to not get lost.

REI provided topographic (“topo”) maps at a nominal cost that covered anywhere in the state of Colorado. That is a “must have” for anyone going hiking, especially in the mountains.

A typical topo map looks like this:

- Intervals Between thin lines represent 40 feet higher (or lower) elevation. - Every 5th line is a thicker line representing 100 feet or lower and is labeled. - Blue terrain is water, green terrain is vegetation or trees, white terrain is above tree line.

What this is telling you:

• Close lines indicate a steep slope

• Wide spacing is a gentle grade

• Almost touching lines represents cliffs or very steep terrain, not for hiking

They had maps available forty-five years ago as well, which was cool. The only part that I can’t believe is that it was forty-five years ago!

They also provided guidebooks for the more common destinations. These gave descriptive information about the fish and game to be expected and their size and weight ranges, and regulations that are to be observed.

But they were out-of-stock for ours in particular. We decided that the maps would suffice.

Owen and I charted out an easygoing day trip to the areas of lakes and streams nestled within plush vegetation. We would hike around four miles in order to descend a thousand feet.

We packed our trail-mix lunch, canteens and fishing gear along with water purification tablets in case the canteens needed refills.

We made sure our sunblock, and bug spray was sufficiently applied and headed out. We chose not to sling our food over the higher sturdy branches to protect it from bears, but we did notice along the way that some folks had opted to do that. We were fine.

It was an easy hike down the mountain. And the views made for a trip to remember. Nothing to talk about. Just being.

But as we made the transition from gravel and dirt to plush and green, we became aware of something that that I guess is not topo map material:

We had ventured into a large pasture used by ranchers to allow their cattle to graze. There were no cattle around, but the cattle were nice enough to leave their calling cards. Everywhere we looked!

It wasn’t a washout. Au contraire - we had a wonderful time. Owen likes to fish just for the thrill and challenge of it. And “catch and release” was rapidly. gaining popularity. And the fish weren’t complaining at all.

So that is what we did. He taught me how to fly fish. It is not easy. And since we had no waders, which were too bulky and carry into the mountains, we cast from the shore, or balancing on larger rocks closer to midstream.

Fly fishing and rod and reel fishing are very different:

Rod-and-Reel Fishing

Easy to learn and straightforward. A beginner with a rod-and-reel setup stands on the shore, ties on a shiny lure or some bait, and casts outward. The weight of the lure pulls the line through the air. Then comes the action: reeling, twitching, retrieving - trying to make the bait look alive so a fish will chase it or strike from instinct.

Fly Fishing

Hard at first but then deeply gratifying. Timing and rhythm are learned skills. The fly fisherman steps into the river, (usually) wearing waders. The tiny “fly” weighs almost nothing, so the heavy line itself must be cast in graceful loops. Instead of aggressively retrieving, the angler often lets the fly drift naturally with the current, imitating an insect landing or floating on the water so the trout quietly rises to sip it.

We did both. And caught several small cutthroat trout.

But our canteens were getting low, and the water purification tablets were not an option that day if you know what I mean.

It took two hours back up the trail, but we were in no rush - tomorrow was early check-out.

Next up: “Rocky Mountain High with Owen - Part 4 of 5” Click Here

Leave a comment

Entering into Flat Tops

Enjoy Yourself - But Be Careful

The sun is an essential consideration for any trip into the mountains. You are very high up, and also farther away from the Earth's core. So, you may feel cooler. But you must apply sunblock to all exposed areas, or you will get badly burned due to ultraviolet (UV) light exposure. And re-apply, when necessary, such as after you go in the water. Also, the air gets thinner and thinner as you climb higher and higher. So, you may feel lightheaded due to a deficiency of oxygen. Or you can even contract Hypothermia (keep reading). Try to pace yourself. Slow down. Take rests. And stay hydrated.

Knowing What is Bugging You

Bug spray is essential for obvious reasons. There are a multitude of species of flying pests. They hover around your exposed areas, feasting on your blood, sweat, and tears. Bug spray keeps them at bay, an inch or two from their human buffet

Try to Stay Dry

I wasn't as physically up to the challenge of hiking at high altitudes as I would have liked. I could see why professional athletes come to Colorado, days before their event, so that they can acclimate to the climate, and not have to compete while dealing with a significant respiratory disadvantage.

Owen was greatly supportive of my efforts. He adjusted his pace to accommodate mine. Whenever possible, he would scout ahead to make sure we were in synch with the maps and thereby minimize any retracing we would need to do. He was also carrying ten to fifteen pounds more than me. If you didn’t count our respective body weights into the mathematics.

At around 3:30 PM MDT, after over five hours of vigorous ascension, the Flat Tops finally lived up to their name, and we saw several sufficiently flat areas in the distance to set up a campsite.

But I noticed that it got gradually but steadily quite cooler over the duration. And as the sun settled to the west, the air was much thinner, as my heart attested to. I started shivering considerably.

Owen was trying to attend to me while building a campsite by himself. That was starting to become a consideration in our minds. We proceeded as best we could under the circumstances.

Owen pulled out a blanket from his backpack and wrapped it tightly around me. It was lightweight but provided good insulation. I sat on a stump, in a tight ball and just focused on my breathing. He walked about a hundred feet to where there was a clearing with good sunlight and started pulling out the tent gear.

He hadn’t gotten very far when two men on horseback seemingly appeared out of nowhere. They were young, handsome and neatly attired. It was comforting to see them in this rugged environ we chose to vacation in. There were not many people around. We chatted a bit. Then a third man joined up with them. He was easily twenty years their senior, and not as friendly. Even his horse was imposing.

“Good afternoon, how are you gentlemen doing?”

“We’re fine. How are you?”

“I’m good. I just want to let you know that we are bringing a group up here in the morning for a week-long camping excursion: I’m going to have to ask you to stop what you are doing, start tearing down your campsite and be on your way”.

He was holding a permit of some kind, and his tone was contentious. Owen tried to salvage what he could from the situation:

“My buddy is visiting from the East. We just got here and were looking to spend three or four nights. I’ve never needed a permit before. Do you know if there’s a campsite nearby that we can use? He isn’t feeling well - I think the altitude got to him.”

“Walk towards the Chinese Wall, around a mile in that direction”.

He pointed between the trees. It was breathtaking:

We would be treated to these magnificent views over the next four days.

“I would suggest you get over there as soon as possible. The temperature drops pretty quickly in these parts when the sun sets”.

We watched them ride off as Owen shook his head incredulously:

“I can’t believe it. I come out here to get away from civilization, and all of its hustle and bustle and associated bullshit”

“I get myself into the mountains, as far from all the crap as possible and then some guy comes riding up on a horse to tell me that he has this part of the mountain reserved.”

“What’s up with that???”

I know a rhetorical question when I hear one. I kept quiet

We needed to pack up what we had unpacked and hike about a mile toward the west, where the sun was setting over Flat Top. But I was now shivering and in no condition to move anywhere. And then we had a brilliant idea. There was an abundance of dry kindling, sticks and small branches to make a significant fire right where we were.

There would still be enough sunlight to pack back up, hike that mile and set up camp again where “Mr. Title” suggested. Maybe with my help.

It turned out to be quite doable.

There was a fire ring already in place. Owen started the fire up and began gathering larger sticks:

I built it up, and within ten minutes I could feel myself thawing out:

I warmed up enough to be able to get back on my feet. I didn't realize it at the time, but what I had going on was hypothermia, where your body is losing the battle with the elements, in keeping you in a healthy temperature equilibrium.

I never had anything to compare it to. But I vividly remember how badly I felt. I think it is plausible that if it hadn't been for Owen, this would have been his story instead of ours.

Hypothermia Warning Signs

These are your warning lights - when you can still turn things around quickly:

• Persistent shivering (first and most obvious sign)

• Feeling cold, numb, especially in fingers and toes

• Clumsiness (dropping things, fumbling with zippers)

• Slurred or slowed speech

• Mild confusion or poor decision-making

• Fatigue / low energy

And as I recovered, I was able to do the one-mile hike easily and assist Owen set up the new campsite:

We spent the next few days hiking and fishing:

We survived the elements and had a great time!

Next up: “Rocky Mountain High with Owen - Part 3 of 5” Click Here

Leave a comment

Since he had all of the knowledge, experience and equipment, my part of the planning was to make sure I had warm clothes, arrange a ride to the airport and buy an airline ticket. No sweat.

On our chosen date, I flew out and hung with Owen at his apartment. We were both still single. That was going to change very soon for the better. And sadly, change again. But only after a long and wonderful run of blessings.

We had dinner and caught up. The next day we spent a good part of it getting ready for tomorrow. Most of the preparation took place at REI, a camping, hiking, climbing, cycling, clothing and equipment store. Quite a mouthful, but a cool place, nonetheless. Back then They had only one location in Denver, and four in the U.S.

The experience I recall was of my feeling like a kid in a candy store. Freeze-dried food for gold. Topo maps for treasure maps. The list went on and on. But the reality was that the only things I needed (to rent) were a sleeping bag and a backpack. Owen had the rest of the items, accumulated over his many years of wonderful trips into the wilderness.

And we needed to buy food (fresh, freeze-dried and trail mix), and perishables such as toilet paper.

Here is Owen’s personalized list of the essentials needed for a successful hiking trip into the mountains:

Backpack: Multi-day backpack with good support.

Tent: Lightweight, weather appropriate.

Sleeping Bag: Rated for the lowest temperatures you expect to encounter.

Sleeping Pad: For insulation and comfort. A rock under your back is not fun.

Stove: Compact, backpacking friendly.

Fuel: Compatible with your stove

Cookware: Lightweight pot, cups, and utensils, A few sheets of aluminum foil.

Food: Freeze-dried meals, snacks, energy bars, a fresh meat, a potato, an onion.

Water Filter: For safe drinking water.

Hydration System: Bladder or bottles, plus backup purification tablets.

Clothing: Moisture-wicking layers, insulated, rain gear, sun hat, gloves, warm hat.

Boots: Sturdy hiking boots. And breaking them in is crucial to prevent blisters.

Navigation: Maps, compass, GPS, and/or a hiking app.

First Aid Kit: Including blister care and personal meds.

Sun Protection: Sunscreen, sunglasses, lip balm.

Insect Repellent: DEET-based or natural options.

Headlamp: With extra batteries.

Multi-tool: A Swiss Army Knife “on steroids”.

Trowel: For “Leave No Trace” bathroom needs. Toilet paper.

Bear Canister: For food storage, if you will be in bear country.

That covers your essentials! You can fine-tune as desired but don’t skimp - this is serious stuff and must be treated accordingly.

My sleeping bag and backpack were city-boy style. Rented.

Steamboat Springs, Flat Tops, 1983

The drive from Owen’s place to the Flat Tops was close to four hours. We continued into the foothills. Owen parked the car, and we hiked over to the nearest ranger station. We each filled out a paper with our name, contact info, the date, and which trail we were taking. So that if anyone reported us missing, the park rangers could check to see if and where we had ascended into the Rockies, and when.

We approached the beginning of the trail that we were taking. As we entered, we saw quite a number of people coming out. It was not a pretty site. Each of them donned a personalized attire consisting of bug spray, sunblock, and a copious amount of mud. Most of them looked very relieved to be getting back, and not very amenable to describing their experience. They were just too tired.

But some were happy to share and that was very helpful. We realized that now (late July) was a bit too early in the season. At this time of the year the snow is beginning to melt, but the drying-out phase had not swung into full gear yet. That would happen closer to around September.

So, Owen and I decided we may need to shorten our Flat Tops stay a little, but other than that we were fully equipped for this and

“All Systems Go!”

Next up: “Rocky Mountain High with Owen - Part 2 of 5” Click Here

The Curse of the Pickle

“Seven - call me when you are at the pickle”

“Eleven - are you at the pickle yet?”

I was the newbie. The old saying that “Ignorance is bliss” didn’t apply here, where being the seasoned “old timer” was an honor. So as long as the dispatcher du jour didn’t pick the “Three” card I was good. But where and what is this “pickle”? It must be some landmark that indicates you are near a well-known passenger pickup area. I just hoped that I found out sooner than later. Meanwhile, I had passengers waiting.

The Gravy Train

As was customary, the dispatcher office and many of the taxi cabs were strategically located at the train station in that city or town. It made sense - it served as the pickup spot for both cars and cabs.

One evening, Chip summoned the troops to the New Rochelle station.

“Everybody that is currently unoccupied, please come to the office ASAP!”

I never heard that one before. I couldn’t imagine what was up. As I pulled in, I saw a number of cabs clustered, and two that passed by me with people squeezed into them.

Chip must have seen me out there. That “Checker” persona made me difficult to miss:

“Three - come in here please”

I parked my cab and went inside,

“The Metro North train to JFK broke down right by us. We need to take as many people to Kennedy as we can to their terminals. $20 per person - not to be shared, and no exceptions. Roger Three?”

“Roger Chip. And thanks!”

“Get out there! You should be able to squeeze seven passengers into that Checker.”

“And remember - no exceptions.”

As I walked back toward my cab, my potential passengers were already approaching. A quick count told me that this group already exceeded my capacity, even with my extra seats. I laughed to myself as I observed their gait - fast enough to secure a seat, without looking like they were trying too hard for it.

Learning from past experience, I quicky took control. First, I recounted to be certain:

“We have ten here - I can only take only seven. There is a cab right behind me. If you are a “single”, please raise your hand.”

I got lucky. three hands raised.

“Thank you very much. Do you see that cab with the “24” on it? He’ll be happy to take you. Thanks again!”

That was easy.

“Hello everyone. “We are sorry about the inconvenience that you endured with the Metro North train, and glad to be of assistance. The regular rate to JFK is $35 but Chip told me to charge $20 per person. We have seven seats on this cab. Two up front with me, three in the back, and two more that lift up in front of them. I know that it’s a bit crowded, so please bear with us. Lastly, please enter one at a time, have your fare ready and let me know what terminal you are going to. Thanks!”

I got some pushback:

“My wife and I are flying together, and obviously to the same terminal. Shouldn’t that be a single $20 fare?”

“I understand that. But I was clearly told no exceptions. If it helps any, I can take you to your terminal first”.

“Ok thanks for that!”

And thanks to Chip, I crushed it!

Smokestack Hell

“Fourteen! Take down that “No Smoking” sign - passengers are allowed to smoke in our cars”

I was with “Fourteen” on that one. Subjecting us to that smoke really sucked. And sometimes it was even worse - teenagers would sit right behind you and direct the flow...

Enough said on that.

Now, for the good stuff.

As mentioned, Sundays were often slow. So, when I had the opportunity, I would drive over to near where I lived - Hudson Park and Beach, along the Long Island Sound.

Amateur fishermen were there, shoulder to shoulder, with their multi-hook rigs cast way out into the water. I waited. Usually not too long. A little more….

Then I saw it. Porgies jumping out of the water as if it was for their lives. which It was. But they weren’t the fishermen’s target. And then I heard it:

They were reeling in frantically - like dinner depended on it. A bluefish dinner!

One by one, the reels were lifted out of the water, each with 4 - 6 blues on their collective hooks. Their razor-sharp teeth and violent thrashing necessitated that they be unhooked very carefully. I was told that the longer they were kept alive, the better they tasted.

Occasionally I got a bonus showing. A snorkeled man from my building would wade into the shallower tidal areas, just a short distance from some of the families. He then submerged around 6 to 10 times, and often emerged with a lobster in each hand, which he randomly handed out to them. I guess that’s why they didn’t mind.

He told me that several years earlier, he created an artificial reef by chaining together several tires and weighting them down with bricks. This attracted lobsters, crabs and baitfish. And one cab driver.

I haven’t been back there for a long time - I hope it’s as awesome as I remember.

And by the way, I haven’t forgotten about that pickle…

Leave a comment

Whoops

It was a cold, damp and windy April evening. Good conditions for the cabbie business and I was hoping to take maximum advantage of it. Around seven, I saw an elderly Chinese couple and their young grandson and granddaughter walking along North Avenue. They were all dolled up, most likely for a big night on the town that was awaiting.

I slowed down, pulled up alongside them and rolled down the window.

“Need a ride?”

“Yes please, can you take us to the Sheraton? We are going to a graduation party.”

The grandfather’s command of the English language was choppy but discernible. And light years better than my command of Mandarin.

“Of course! Hop in. I was heading in that direction anyway”.

The four of them took their seats in the back of my Checker, the grandparents on the ends with their grandchildren sandwiched securely between them.

All was cool until I momentarily took my eyes off the road for a brief moment, not noticing that the traffic had come to a sudden stop. I quickly tried to recover, slamming the brakes hard and fast, and just barely avoided rear-ending the car in front of me.

I shared my feeling of relief:

“Whew! That was a close call.”

as I turned around to check on my passengers.

But no one was there! Where did they all go? Did they run out of the cab in fear for their lives? No such luck. I gazed over the seat and downward.

The four of them were sprawled across the floor in the well between the front and back seats. I tried to think of something witty to say but

“Whoops… sorry.”

was the best I could muster up.

The grand folks slowly picked themselves up off the floor and onto their seat, did likewise for the youngsters, and they all resettled themselves.

Not another word was spoken for the rest of the trip, and needless to say, I got a scowl for a tip. Fair enough. My bad. I wished that maybe I’d get the opportunity to redeem myself on the return trip, but strangely, I never got that chance.

That was both a disappointing way to end a rewarding career, and a rubber stamp of approval for my decision to call it “quits”. I was burned out.

Winding Down

I had spent two and a half years living in New Rochelle while working two jobs to afford to.

I worked full-time Monday thru Friday as an Assistant Statistician for Vick’s R&D, the research and development arm for the maker of several over-the-counter cough and flu relief products such as Vick’s VapoRub & NyQuil, and Oil of Olay.

And I worked all day every Saturday and Sunday for Bluebird Taxi, providing superior transportation services for New Rochelle and the surrounding areas, including Westchester, Co-op City, Orchard Beach, City Island, the surrounding airports and NYC.

All this, while attending grad school two nights a week at the Polytechnic Institute of New York, Westchester campus. It was In Hawthorne, only 30 mins away from New Rochelle. And I was on track to earn a master’s degree in Statistics within two years.

I was one busy dude. I was looking for this year to be my last at Vick’s and therefore my last in New Rochelle and driving for Bluebird - all three had served me well, but I strongly felt the need to move on.

I had responded to a job ad for a role at Hertz Corporation - the world leader in the car rental industry. They were interviewing for a position as an Operations Research Analyst at their headquarters in NYC, 660 Madison Avenue.

At that time, Howard Stern was broadcasting out of 600 Madison, two blocks away. That was just a coincidence. And a lasting memory.

But my plan was, If I got a job with Hertz, I would move to the city and continue my master’s pursuit with Polytechnic Institute at their main campus on Jay Street, downtown Brooklyn.

And lo and behold, I was asked to come into the city for an interview! I was both ecstatic and quite nervous to be given this opportunity. I now needed to focus on a strategy and began preparation to efficiently use my time to both get my master’s degree and land this position, if I felt it was a good fit.

First, I learned that Polytechnic Institute offered two master’s programs of interest:

• Statistics: (my declared major): Using graphing techniques to find statistical significance within datasets.

• Operations Research: Using mathematical techniques such as simulation systems to solve business problems.

Upon reading the course descriptions, I realized there was a significant amount of overlap - and with some additional effort, I could earn master’s degrees in both.

Also, one of the courses I was already taking was Queueing Theory. In that class, a software tool was used to model queues, which are basically waiting lines. Our final grade was based on using it to create a simulation model for helping solve a real-life business challenge.

Like reducing customer wait time on lines in retail stores.

Or reducing the airline passenger wait time for a bus to arrive and take them to their rental cars.

Bingo!

In a moment of sheer genius, rare, but very timely, I realized I could leverage the simulation tool to both fulfill a master’s course requirement at Polytechnic Institute and also show Hertz how they can use it to reduce customer wait times for buses, thus alleviating bus wait times and overcrowding.

I received my master’s degrees in both Statistics and Operations Research and began a successful 30-year career at Hertz, engineering a multitude of successful process improvement initiatives.

My Last Day at Bluebird

Chip was being super-nice. And for a part-timer, I felt that I had earned some respect from most of the old-timers. I don’t know why this was so important to me, but it was. I was spending most of the day shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with my soon-to-be former associates, and not much time driving.

But before I could head out the door for the last time, Chip directed his attention toward me:

“Are u available Three?”

I was. But kept quiet.

“I have a pickup at Iona College – two students going to Laguardia”.

No response.

“Three, I know you are winding down today but I really need your help. I’m short-staffed, so I also need you to make a pickup on your way back from the airport to New Rochelle”.

“Ok Chip - anything for you. But don’t push it”.

Iona was close by. I picked up the two students and headed to LaGuardia. When I was about twenty minutes away, there was Chip again.

“How close are you to the airport three?”

“15 minutes.”

“Good – let me know when you are at the pickle”.

When I’m at the pickle?

In all my time there, I never had the “pickle” reference hurled my way and I had stopped giving it any thought. I just thought that I wasn’t pickle-worthy. But here it was – square on my shoulders. An albatross around my neck. The whole matzah ball.

I know it sounded silly. Petty. But sometimes there are things like that – minor to everyone except us. And we can’t explain why. I guess I didn’t want to expose my ignorance. Especially after almost three years here and feeling part of the pack.

So, I dropped off the students and drove back from LGA very slowly while I looked downward from the Whitestone Expressway for any sign of a pickle. I’m thinking:

“Maybe light green. Maybe dark green. Very pickle-Ish looking”

I looked only to my right – that’s where the strip malls were, peppered along the Expressway. On the left was only water, and the NYC skyline out in the distance.

I was getting distraught and ready to “own up” to Chip regarding my dark secret, when I thought I saw something over on the right and down a bit – a wisp of cartoony purple with a smile. I know. Pickles are green. But what the hell - desperate signs call for desperate measures.

I got off the next exit - where the Whitestone Lanes bowling alley was and looped toward that strip mall I had just passed. Three right turns and into the parking lot, and to the right of “Amore Pizza”. There it was. Giving me a knowing look, as if to say:

“Where’ve you been three? I’ve been waiting for you a long time.”

And even though only Chip could hear me, I picked up the radio mic., clicked the talk button and shouted at the top of my lungs:

“Three, at the Pickle!!!”

Leave a comment

Mount Vernon High School

A pickup request came across the radio with my number on it. Two young women that I recalled driving once before were going to Mount Vernon, the town next to New Rochelle. There was a bball game between the top two boy’s teams in Westchester County, Mount Vernon and White Plains.

Because of the anticipated large turnout, Chip told me to meet them two blocks up from the high school and gave me the name of the street. But when I got there, I couldn’t remember the street name he provided. Or get Chip back on the radio - it was a very busy Saturday night.

So, after a few more failed attempts while just sitting there, I decided to keep trying Chip, while slowly getting closer to the gym and looking for the women, or a street sign to jar my memory.

Two people in hooded sweatshirts must’ve recognized the Bluebird colors because they approached and stepped into the back of my Checker. But they kept on walking and came out the other side. Then five more kids that must have seen this did the same. That was concerning. I noticed that the crowd was slowly closing in on all four sides of the car and I needed to take quick action.

First, I locked all four doors by hand - pushing the buttons down. Next, I stepped very gently on the accelerator to safely extricate myself without harming anyone. That was just in time because a few of the rowdier kids had begun rocking my cab. Gently but increasingly. I thought quickly and put my foot on the brake while I leaned hard on the horn.

That worked! They all knee-jerked straight back two or three feet from my cab. Before any of them could recover I eased my foot off the brake and was able to pull off a “Moses parting the Red Sea” miracle. I kept going in the same direction for half a block while I checked my rear-view mirror. I was relieved to now only see disinterest in the distant crowd. At the end of the block, there was my party of two waiting for me under my now-recollected street.

By then, Chip was back on the air with the street name which I no longer needed. I was already on my way back to New Rochelle with my party, safe and sound. I never mentioned any of my adventure to Chip. I had been warned before and should’ve known better.

A Tough One - Deciding to Leave Bluebird

I decided that the time was rapidly approaching to say goodbye to Bluebird. It was a great run, and I cherished my experiences. But there are only so many hours in a day, and I needed to focus on my next set of objectives. If that took less time than I planned for, leaving me with some free time on my hands, I would be thrilled to use it to decompress.

I needed to rejuvenate.

I spoke with Chip about it:

“Why don’t you think it over for a while and we can discuss further?”

“The only thing I need to think over is the timing. I have some flexibility there, but not much.”

“Ok I understand - let me take it from here so that we have a smooth transition.”

“Ok Chip, fair enough.”

“Did you tell Kenny?”

“I didn’t. I wanted to speak with you first.”

“Much appreciated, I got it. Thanks, three, or more appropriately, thanks Cliff.”!

Saying Goodbye to Kenny Dillon - The Owner of “three”.

I’ve been at Bluebird over two and a half years. Still part-time, but I’ve earned some respect with the old-timers. This is my last weekend. Chip is being super-nice. A week earlier, my boss, Kenny Dillon, owner of that infamous blue Checker, shook my hand and thanked me for allowing him to have his weekends free.

The next day, I got a call over the radio from Chip:

“Are you there three?”.

“Yes Chip – what do you have for me?”.

“Your boss wants you to go see him again. At the usual place”.

I knew where that was – O’Reilly’s Tavern on North Avenue. I scooted over there. He was at his usual spot, with a beer and whiskey in front of him, but no cigarette burning in the ashtray.

“I want you to get me a pack of camels”.

”Sure”.

I returned to leave.

“One more thing – pick up some flowers at the florist next to Paddy’s and bring them to my wife”.

“It’s our anniversary.”

I knew where Paddy’s was - a bar on the other side of town. They were separated for over a year – I guess their agreement had a clause in it that stipulated separate bars as well. I headed out to do my errand – he usually gave me money to cover the costs but didn’t this time.

I headed over to the florist. Bought a nice bouquet of cut roses. Then the drugstore for the cigarettes and into Paddy’s. Lucy was always happy to see me and the flowers broadened that smile. The bartender had a vase in the back – interesting. Lucy asked me to do the honors. I made twelve snips and arranged them beautifully. I turned to leave but she summoned me back. She neatly folded a twenty, slipped it into my front pocket and gave he a big thank you peck on the cheek.

“Say hi to Kenny for me”.

I drove back to Kenny with the Camels. He asked what I got her. And how much I spent. As I left, we shook hands – he wasn’t very touchy-feely – but he handed me an envelope.

“Should I open it now?”

“No, wait until you go back to the car – you are too close to the hydrant”.

“Did you like driving the three car?”

I noticed he emphasized the word “three”.

“I did – it was an experience of a lifetime”.

“When is your last day? “

“Not sure - but soon”.

Chip hadn’t told me yet. And I realized for sure then, that even though it was Kenny’s car I was driving, Chip clearly ran the show. And he ran it very well.

“You take care son.”

When I got a block away, I pulled over and opened the envelope. There was no note. But there were three $100 bills neatly tucked inside.

Wow!

He was a tragic figure - I felt his vulnerability and loved that man. He owned his burden.

Leave a comment

I went to a Yiddish play with Mom, Dad and Grandpa. Grandpa was living with us. I was so excited to go with them - I had heard so much about it. We took the train at Flatbush Avenue to Times Square, around thirty minutes that seemed to fly by. And there we were.

(Yiddish is a historical language spoken by Eastern European Jewish communities for about a thousand years. It is mostly derived from German, mixed with Hebrew and Aramaic with Polish, Russian and Ukrainian influences. A language melting pot.)

My Experience:

People were pouring in by the hundreds. They weren’t dressed flashy - classy described it better. They wore their respectful, proud, immigrant “Sunday best.”

We were handed a playbill as we entered - we only took one - my parents collected them at home. They were mostly in English and “framed” the play with supporting information. But for the three of them it wasn’t their first rodeo. And it was a bit over my seven-year-old head and interest level.

As the audience continued to enter, the orchestra softly played a rendition of all the songs we were going to hear this evening. Then the lights flickered a few times, which evoked some serious anticipatory stirring among the spectators. And then they slowly dimmed which cued the stirring to cease. I was quiet but very ratcheted up with excitement.

Then dead silence. It felt eternal. Finally, the curtain opened up with a start. What we saw onstage was exaggerated and larger than life. Breathtaking. Laughter erupted loud and fast. Sobbing was sincere and gut-wrenching. Arguments sounded like they’ve been going on for generations but were still unresolved. I didn’t catch too many words, but I felt all of it.

The audience around me reacted knowingly like it was personal. Because it was.

It was all in Yiddish. I don’t speak conversational Yiddish, but I knew dozens of Yiddish idioms which helped. And of course, I understood the laughter, the crying and all the emotions in between. Along with the seriousness and the silliness - sometimes at the same time. What was up with that?

My mom tried very hard to explain to me what was going on. She whispered into my ear as I watched the proceedings. I politely listened. But it wasn’t necessary - I was just so happy to be immersed in this emotion-fest along with hundreds of people, feeding on every sight and sound. It felt very special and so did I - for being part of it.

I understood much later that these weren’t just plays - they were pieces of the old world, carried into Manhattan. A keepsake of our history. Our heritage.

A brief history of the Yiddish Theater:

Yiddish theater started out as its own venue from the 1880’s to 1910’s - it quickly became big business, with its own stars, language, audiences, and buildings. Over time, it became a “guest” within the American theater, by sharing space and borrowing stages.

It eventually blended entirely into mainstream theater with hits such as “Fiddler on the Roof” which I got to see at the Winter Garden Theater starring Zero Mostel as “Tevya”.

I was very fortunate to have gotten the opportunity to attend Yiddish Theater, even if it was that one time.

I was sad to see the play end. It ran about ninety minutes. Everyone was discussing everything on the way out. I eavesdropped as best I could but soon came to realize that there were more opinions than there were people.

Outside, my dad and Grandpa were having an animated discussion. Grandpa wanted to go to a restaurant in the Lower East Side - either Katz’s Deli or Ratner’s. Dad was dead set against it. It was a two and a half to three-mile walk - well over an hour with a seven-year-old. However, grandpa was a stubborn man, and it did not look like he was going to budge on this. And he didn’t. He started walking south on Broadway and we scampered to catch up.

I still remember that long walk - I was tired but still happy. And I greatly admired grandpa’s tenaciousness.

Times Square to Houston Street - The Walk Down Broadway

Times Square faded behind us - the streets got quieter, narrower. The city gradually changed personality, block by block. We saw the last remnants of pushcarts still hanging on. Many storefronts with Hebrew lettering. Mom and Dad alternated holding my hand - mostly to keep my pace up.

And finally…

Houston Street!

We walked a few blocks east on Houston towards where Katz’s Deli was, and Ratner’s Dairy Restaurant was nearby. I was holding Mom’s hand while Dad caught up with Grandpa who was ahead a bit. Another battle of wills ensued.

Dad wanted to go to Katz’s which was kosher style and the pastrami was stacked as high as an elephant’s eye.

Grandpa insisted on Ratner’s which was more in line with strict Kosher standards. No meat. Instead, gefilte fish, smoked salmon and bagels, split pea and matzoh ball soup, latkes (potato pancakes), onion rolls and borscht (a beet soup or beets served cold with sour cream).

So, Ratner’s it was. I remember it being extremely busy and noisy. I don’t recall what I had but I’m sure it was delicious. And the subway was close by, so in under an hour we were home.

Of the two, only Katz’s withstood the test of time. Ratner’s closed their doors a few decades back. Over the years, their target demographic had moved to neighborhoods that were more in line with their religious beliefs, including rules regarding “keeping Kosher”.

Many neighborhoods in Brooklyn, (Crown Heights, Williamsburg, Borough Park, Flatbush/Midwood), Queens, The Bronx, and areas surrounding NYC like Long Island, Westchester and Rockland counties continue to thrive today, along with their phenomenally distinct restaurants.

Feats of Strength - “Pro Wrestling” on TV in the 1960’s

Grandpa loved to watch wrestling on TV. Channel 9 carried it regularly.

He would sit in the chair closest to the set, lean forward as much as possible and rock back and forth, as if his body motion would rub off on his favorite wrestlers. I was mesmerized by how fully he immersed himself into the action, grunts and all.

My dad would poke his head in at peak moments, providing his commentary as usual:

“Pa, this sounds exciting but isn’t it all fake?”

“Nisht Falsh”! “Nisht Falsh”!!

He said it twice for emphasis. And Dad did have a mischievous side to him.

This pastime was never referred to as “fake wrestling”. It was proudly known as professional wrestling, and while the outcomes were predetermined, for many immigrants like Grandpa Schevinsky, it provided a sense of belonging in a new country. A way to connect with others in their community and identify with their heroes in the ring. A symbolic battle where their person could win. And they did. At least some of the time. And because of that, the issue wasn’t about whether or not it was “real” - it was about what it represented.

Interestingly, even people who suspected it might be staged often chose to believe anyway. It made the experience more fun, more meaningful, and more communal. Like watching a movie where you don’t want the illusion spoiled. And for some of us, it strengthened our bonds with our grandfathers.

A few of the top wrestling stars of the 1960’s.

Pinochle

Grandpa loved to play Pinochle, a card game that many immigrants played in Eastern Europe as “Binokel” and brought with them to their new home. He was a fierce competitor (surprised?). My mom taught it to me so that I could play with him. I barely ever beat him, and when I did, he was pretty much disinterested. He would rummage through the discard pile and show me the card he needed to beat me if he had beaten me which he somehow had decided that he had. I just took one for the team and congratulated him.

A few months later, his health quickly began declining, and he was hanging on as best he could.

To the end, his life remained simple. Real. Packed with hard work, hardship, modesty, gratitude, pride, love and integrity. Honest.

Or as Grandpa would say in an Americanized Yiddish way:

“Nisht Falsh”

Rest in peace Grandpa. Your legacy runs deep and is in good hands.

Leave a comment

William was an incredible tailor - he could do anything - from the most complicated repairs of a cherished family heirloom to making a garment from scratch.

All out of a modest shop in the vicinity of Columbia University.

Right near Grant’s Tomb.

He was well respected for his craft, as well as his mild demeanor and kindness.

But deep down, William was a fierce “women’s libber,” well before his time.

In the late ’60s / early ’70s, a women’s libber was slang for (usually) a woman involved in the early feminist movement.

In other words, someone pushing for:

• Equal pay

• Workplace rights

• Reproductive rights

• Independence from traditional roles

Circumstances forced William into this role.

In the short time after he came to this country, William learned that his two daughters, and his mother, had died in the old country from various ailments.

Later on, in the U.S., his wife Becky died of senility in her early 70s.

Without consciously giving it a thought, Grandpa William instinctively raised three very strong, independent women.

And he provided them the support they needed to succeed in a world not yet used to female empowerment.

He saved his money so he could enroll his eldest daughter, Rose, in secretarial school.

He might have been “old school,” but he still wanted her to get ahead in the business world.

She went on to assume challenging positions in two of the nation’s leading retail chain stores.

Faye, his second daughter here in the U.S., was born with physical challenges, requiring her to use crutches for a significant portion of her life.

He was very protective of Faye.

He made sure she didn’t miss out on anything fun.

Like sledding.

He would pull her around among all the other children.

He got some looks.

Couldn’t care less.

Once, he took Faye to a fancy department store in the city.

She needed a winter coat.

He knew exactly where to go.

He told her to pick out any coat in the store.

Faye was in disbelief at this extremely generous offer.

But with his prodding, she chose a stylish - and very expensive - coat.

William didn’t flinch.

He studied it carefully.

Impressed with her taste.

They went home.

Two weeks later, he had made her an identical coat.

Completely from memory.

By far, it was the best coat she ever had.

She wore it proudly.

Most likely, it outlasted the store-made version.

Yetta (my mom) and Milton rounded out the family.

All-in-all Grandpa Schevinsky did a splendid job.

No speeches.

No fanfare.

Just a man who did what had to be done.

And in the process, raised a generation of strong women before the world was ready for them.

Grandpa Moves in With Us

As William’s health began to decline, we decided to have him live with us in our Midwood, Brooklyn apartment.

My sister Barbara and I already each had only half a bedroom.

When I outgrew my crib, my dad converted the large living room into two small bedrooms by installing a wall down the middle and adding sliding doors for each side.

It was an incredible accomplishment.

The bottom line for my sister and me:

We each had half a room.

But we would talk to each other over the wall divider…

Until she pulled her “eight-year difference” rank and declared:

“Lights out.”

Occasionally, I would sneak over to her side…

And we would play “stand on knees.”

The smaller bedroom became the living room…

Simply by removing the doors from the hallway and declaring it:

“The living room.”

Then Grandpa Shevinsky moved in with us.

He shared my room.

Which left me…

With a quarter of a room.

It was fine.

But I did enjoy bragging about how deprived I was.

Lost in America

A number of times, Grandpa would get lost coming home from shul (synagogue).

The winters were especially challenging.

He would leave while it was still light out.

Darkness would set in while he was davening (praying).

I always thought - he might have considered praying not to get lost on the way home.

Because he often did.

Most of the time, it only meant getting home late.

But a few times, my dad and I had to go looking for him.

On one occasion, we found him pretty far along…

In the exact opposite direction from home.

We walked him back to the shul he had left from.

My dad pointed back toward the errant direction Grandpa had been heading:

“Do you see that church you passed along the way?”

Grandpa’s response was predictably “old school”:

“Feh!”

Then my dad pointed in our direction:

“OK - then GO THE OTHER WAY!”

It worked!

Polar Bear Grandpa

William’s last stop on his inspiring journey was a senior residence right in the heart of Coney Island! And what a wonderful experience it was for Grandpa, having the Polar Bear Club literally up the street!

By mere coincidence.

The “Club” was founded by Bernarr Macfadden in 1903. In his day he was known as the “Father of Physical Culture”, and a staunch advocate of physical fitness and natural foods.

He believed that a dip in the ocean during the winter can boost stamina, virility and immunity.

Among his followers were FDR, Will Rogers, Shirley Temple, Clark Gable and Rudolph Valentino.

There were two factions of the Polar Bear Club within the same vicinity in Brooklyn:

• Coney Island: classic old-school NYC Americana

• Brighton Beach: heavily Russian / Ukrainian / Eastern European

Put them together, and you have Polar Bear Club - people voluntarily jumping into freezing Atlantic water in all of January.

And some for the entire winter.

For many immigrants, this wasn’t as crazy as it looked.

When they landed in Brighton Beach or Coney Island and saw people doing exactly that…

It felt natural

Cold-water plunges were a part of their cultural tradition including:

• Ice swimming (“morzhovanie”)

• Russian Orthodox Epiphany dips in January

• Sauna to ice plunge cycles (that will boost your stamina if it doesn’t kill you first!)

There was even a tradition that evolved, of blowing a conch shell to summon the Polar Bears into the water.

One day, on one of his early morning walks, Grandpa Schevinsky heard a horn in the distance.

Then he saw a group of people gather on the beach…

And run headlong into the ice-cold water - up to their necks.

They splashed around for about 15 minutes.

Then ran out significantly faster and dried off.

He came back the next day.

This time with a bathing suit and towel.

And continued this for two winters.

He was an official polar bear!

My grandfather on my mother’s side was very “old school” - whereas my dad’s folks had a good command of the English language, with, of course, a “telling” accent, Grandpa Shevin’s “goto” language was Yiddish by a mile.

Grandpa’s Russian name was pronounced “Avigdor” and his English name was William upon arrival.

He came to the United States by himself - his plan was to work, and save his money so his wife, his mom, and his 2 children could come over.

His mom, and 2 children never made it.

They died of various sicknesses before they could come here.

His wife, our grandma, Becky made it over.

He knew his mom had died. He didn’t know about his children’s fate until Grandma joined him here. A harsh example of a mixed blessing.

Every day before work, he went to shul (synagogue) with his tallis (prayer shawl) to say kaddish (a prayer for the departed) for his mom, went back home to put his tallis away, then went to work, and finally home again.

One day the cantor said he could leave his tallis at shul, to save him that extra trip, so he did. That was fine for a while. Then one day, he could not find his tallis. He asked the cantor about it. The response was curt:

“Well, you didn’t pay me to watch it”

He later found out that the cantor had sold it. That soured Grandpa for a long while. For many years he did not go to the synagogue. Including when his son, Milton was bar mitzvahed. He did attend the celebration after the ceremony. Afterall, it was his son.

Grandma Becky still practiced Judaism and lit the sabbath candles, which he never objected to. But for a long while he didn’t set foot inside the synagogue.

William and Becky had four children in the New World.

Rose, Faye, Yetta and Milton

He finally went back to synagogue after Grandma died in 1958.

Which back then was diagnosed as senility.

Better known today as Alzheimer’s disease.

Memories of Grandpa Shevinsky

When he started going back to shul, he truly found his way again.

With new synagogues to practice his faith in.

To celebrate his children.

Who gave him 7 grandchildren.

Jeffrey, Mark, Barbara, Cliff, Judy, Robin and Marty (twins)

Grandpa was able to attend four bar mitzvot and a wedding!

As cousin Robin recalls:

“I remember him being so proud of Marty getting bar mitzvahed”

“He sat in the first row and was reciting Marty’s lines with him.”

“At the end, he told Marty how proud he was, and that he only made one mistake.”

Grandpa Camp?

Some summers, Grandpa went with the family to a camp in the mountains that had a senior section.

And it turned out…

He LOVED to fish.

All day long.

Every day.

Who knew?

Did he catch fish?

Yes, some.

But he threw them all back.

I think it was just him having fun being by the lake.

And being the kind man that he was, he didn’t want to kill them.

He probably just wanted to make them late for something.

Teaching Beggar’s to NOT BE Choosey

We visited Grandpa Shevin at his eldercare residence.

It was situated only a few blocks from the Coney Island boardwalk.

We took a relatively short walk - Grandpa was not walking that well, and he tired easily.

On the way back, approaching his doorway, we saw a homeless man in front of the building trying to get some assistance.

While my parents navigated past the man, Grandpa stopped in his tracks and took inventory of both pockets.

The man got closer to see how the search was coming.

Not well - even by 1960s standards:

A nickel.
Three pennies.

The man stared into his hand… hoping for something better to happen.

I noticed also shifted his position slightly - making it awkward for us to get past him.

That didn’t go well.

Grandpa’s hand reached into the beggar’s hand again…

This time to retrieve his eight cents

The entrance gate to Camp Wel-Met, Narrowsburg, New York

No Autographs Please

The door creaked open.

My bunkmate was on his hands and knees with his head sticking through a hole in the bottom of the bunkhouse door.

We were all holding our breath.

Then someone slammed the door.

BAM.

That was just one of the brilliant ideas we had at Wel-Met summer camp in the Catskills.

My parents were typical Brooklyn middle class, and I’m very proud of that. It kept me grounded in gratitude and balanced when it came to “what you have” versus “who you are.”

Every year they saved so I could go to sleep-away camp. The camp they chose - Wel-Met - was founded during the Great Depression and affiliated with a Jewish youth organization in New York City, which made it relatively affordable compared with the elite camps. Six hundred dollars for six weeks. Incredible.

Wel-Met had three locations in the Catskills: Narrowsburg, Barryville, and Silver Lake. I went to Narrowsburg, moving from Unit 1 through Unit 6, then Pioneers, followed by a cross-country western trip.

Eight years in total.

I met a lot of great kids there, including Doug, Frank Karp, Lou, Howie, and Pete.

This story focuses on Unit 5 (1966) and Unit 6 (1967), when I was twelve and thirteen. Howie was in the bunk next to mine in ’66 and my bunkmate in ’67.

Howie was dorky - but we all were back then, each in our own way.

Unit 5

I spent a lot of time in Howie’s bunk. Our two bunks shared a small front porch where as many of us as possible would squeeze in and hang out. There was usually more action in his bunk, most of it initiated by him.

Two activities stand out.

The Porch Door Dare

Each bunk had the same style door. The top panel had a screen for ventilation. The bottom half had two thin decorative slats.

Someone realized those slats were roughly the width of our heads - and easily removable.

So we removed them.

A “volunteer” would get down on hands and knees and stick his head through the opening, leaving maybe half an inch of clearance on each side. His shoulders had to stay clear of the door frame. Eyes closed.

The door would then be opened very slowly while we encouraged him not to move.

At all.

If someone thought they saw movement, they’d yell:

“You moved!”

And we would start again.

Eventually the door opened all the way. Total silence except for the creaking.

The volunteer’s head stuck through the opening. Eyes closed. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to breathe.

The rest of us stood there frozen.

Then suddenly -

BAM.

The door slammed shut against the frame.

His head was still sticking through the opening. Eyes now wide open, sometimes with tears rolling down his cheeks - but also with an enormous sense of relief and pride.

Looking back, it was pretty scary.

Legend had it that years earlier a boy suffered severe head trauma doing this and disappeared into the woods permanently. Whether that story was true or not, it didn’t slow us down.

Fart Lighting

Howie would lie on his bed wearing only his Fruit of the Looms and a grin. He’d pull his knees in, rock back, and bring his legs up over his head.

Once he was in position, someone would light a wooden match and hold the flame a few inches from Howie’s methane outlet.

We would all lean in.

Waiting.

Howie would let one rip.

Whoosh.

A quick puff of fire.

Yes, the methane ignited. But the same burst of gas that fueled the flame also snuffed it out almost instantly. Everything happened so quickly that it was surprisingly safe.

The only smell left was the burnt match.

We did it maybe two or three times during the session before moving on to other mischief.

And just like that, “Fart Man” was born.

Unit 6

The following year Howie and I were in the same bunk.

Shortly after Taps and lights-out, someone passed around a bottle of Drambuie Scotch Whisky Liqueur (750 ml, 80 proof) under flashlight cover. Each of us took a swig.

Unfortunately, the bottle was discovered the next morning among the originator’s belongings.

About a week into the session, he was sent home.

No one ever learned who the snitch was - the dirty rat, the stool pigeon.

We were sorry to see our buddy go. Two years later he returned for our cross-country trip and promptly shacked up with one of the counselors for most of the tour.

Back to Howie.

He was terrible at sports. The jocks teased him for wearing black socks with his white sneakers, which only added to his dorkiness.

But Howie didn’t care. He leaned into it.

Crew cut. Dark sunglasses. Strutting around camp saying:

“No autographs please. No autographs please.”

It was funny and oddly charming. The girls thought he was cute.

On rainy days the guys would read Marvel and DC comics, while the girls wandered around looking for the guys. Howie and Frank were frequent targets - especially Frank. Most of us guys weren’t really into girls yet, but that didn’t stop the ladies from trying.

It was awkward - but fun.

I never saw Howie outside of camp. I lived in Brooklyn, he lived on Long Island, and my parents never had a car. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was twenty-three.

I did stay in touch with Frank, though. A few times I rode my bicycle from my Midwood High School neighborhood to where Frank lived near Madison High School. We’d hang out, played basketball, and listen to the amazing music of the 60’s.

Fast forward about fifteen years.

There’s this guy dominating New York radio. Huge personality. Loud. Controversial. Everywhere.

But I can be a little thick-headed. I didn’t listen to the radio much in my car, so I wasn’t even sure if the voice I kept hearing belonged to the same Howie I went to camp with.

The voice was deeper. Much deeper. And the hair - dark, curly, shoulder-length - looked nothing like the light fuzzy crew cut I remembered.

Then one day he mentioned Doctor Lou Weinstein.

Our Lou.

That’s when it clicked.

Howie was in fact, Howard Stern.

Maybe I should have pushed harder for an autograph back then.

My friends encouraged me to reach out to him, but I never felt comfortable doing that. I did start listening to the show regularly, though.

One of the show’s longtime sponsors was Harvey Electronics. Eventually Howard learned that Frank worked there as a radio salesman and brought him onto the show.

It was a little painful to listen to. The exchange went something like this:

“Hey Frank, remember those days at summer camp when the girls gravitated to you? You were the most popular guy. I got my share, but you were the big Don Juan - with your good looks, tan body, the works. Well look at me now. I’m a huge radio star. And you sell radios. Isn’t that a kick in the head?”

That moment reminded me why I had always been reluctant to reach out.

I still enjoy listening to him - from a distance - whenever I get the chance. And I miss Fart Man.

Analog/LCD Watch Combo

A short run in the 1980s

“I know you like watches. I got you a present”

“That’s nice of you. What is it?”

“Open It”

“Interesting - looks expensive”

“Was on sale - there were two left”

“It fits very nicely”

“I’m glad”

“I have a question for you - does the part with the hands, and the part with the digits share the same power supply?”

“I don’t think so. The analog watch is a self-wind. It uses a spring that winds itself as your arm moves around throughout the day. The digital watch uses a small lithium battery to power it. This way, if either one of them stops working, you always have the second one as a backup”

“That’s nice. Can you return it and get a full refund?”

“I think so - why?”

“Because if someone comes up to me to ask what time it is, I don’t want to have to say Its either two fifteen or a quarter to five!”

“I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream…”

My dad and his cousin Albert were very close growing up together in Bensonhurst. Like a lot of kids in Brooklyn back then, they were always looking for ways to make a few extra dollars on the weekends.

On one particular occasion, they decided to go into the ice cream business.

They chipped in together and bought a used food cooler. The first order of business was giving it a proper cleaning. They scrubbed it meticulously, inside and out, using steel wool and Ajax, and then rinsed it thoroughly.

Now they needed a market. Coney Island, of course.

They mapped out a route from Bensonhurst: south on Ocean Parkway, past Coney Island Hospital, and then across whatever vacant lots surrounded the area, depending on how overgrown they were.

The distance was a little over three miles. Carrying an empty cooler, they could make it in about an hour - but they had to haul ass.

Along the way, they would stop at a grocery store to buy dry ice and load the cooler with as many packaged ice cream cones, ice cream sandwiches, and chocolate-covered vanilla pops that they could fit.

Then came the final stretch - now carrying an extra twenty five pounds - until they reached Coney Island and looked for the perfect spot to sell ice cream for the day.

At some point they discovered what they thought was a better route.

A shortcut. But It ran through a very overgrown vacant lot.

The lot looked like a concrete jungle - thick weeds everywhere - so they had to tread carefully to avoid poison ivy. But it shaved about ten minutes off the walk, so it seemed worth it.

The first two times they used the shortcut, everything worked fine.

The third time was different.

In the distance they saw a man lying in the weeds.

At first they assumed he was just sleeping it off-maybe a little too much to drink the night before.

They tried to gingerly walk past him so they wouldn’t wake him.

But as they got closer, they realized something wasn’t right.

The man was dead.

From the looks of him, maybe for a day or two already.

My father immediately ran toward Coney Island Hospital to get help, just in case there was still some life left in him.

Albert stayed behind next to the body so that my father and whoever he brought back could find the exact spot.

My father managed to convince a hospital worker to come back with him.

But when they got close to the lot, something seemed odd.

There was a crowd.

A fairly large crowd.

Right around the area where Albert had been waiting.

From the distance my father couldn’t see what was happening because the weeds were too high.

But he could hear something.

Albert’s voice. Very loud.

As they got closer, the scene finally came into view.

A group of people had gathered around the area.

And there was Cousin Albert - standing next to the cooler.

My father could hear him shouting.

Loudly. Very loudly.

“Get your ice cream! Get your ice cream!”

“Ice cream cones! Vanilla sandwiches! Pops!”

People were edging closer, trying to see what had happened in the weeds.

When they got closer, and then turned around in disgust, there was Albert, prepared to offer them some comfort food.

He raised his voice again.

“Step carefully!”

“Watch where you’re walking! Please be careful.”

“We don’t want to disturb the crime scene.”

“Get your ice cream!”

They sold out quickly that day and went swimming. That was Cousin Albert.

Later in life he became a very successful barber in the Bensonhurst area. He had plenty of stories to tell his customers, and word spread quickly.

Before long, Brooklynites were coming from all over way just to hear the next tale.

And get a haircut of course.

He was a true entrepreneur in every sense of the word.

Ben Blackman was a very complicated man. He was the oldest of three sons born to Rubin and Becky Blackman, who came to this country around 1915 through Ellis Island, among the millions of others arriving at that time.

Ellis Island was where immigrants were screened for health, legality, and financial viability before being allowed into the country.

Later, during the naturalization process in court, Rubin requested that their family name from Poland - pronounced “Blechman” (meaning metal worker or tinsmith) - be changed to “Blackman,” which was more “Americanized,” more easily pronounced, and more likely to be approved. So Blackman it was. That simple.

Actually, “tinsmith” was appropriate, Folklore described this era in terms of people coming here from the old country because the streets were “paved with gold”. But my grandfather seemed to only find tin. He pulled my dad out of high school, just when he was beginning his freshman year, to help him in his “get rich quick” plan. He tried starting up drugstores, and candy stores in Coney Island and Brighton Beach which were thriving with people. But Rubin opted for the lowest rents, which were only available for storefronts on remote side streets with low foot traffic. My dad implored his dad:

“Pa, why don’t we save up some more money by working for someone else for a while, so we can learn the business and save enough to afford to rent a place where the customers are?”

“What do you know? You’re fourteen years old. You’ll see. They will come to me!”

Well, they didn’t. And Ben never went to high school. But he did educate himself between all these fiascos. He took books out of the library. He learned Latin from one of them, which led to his gaining a broad knowledge of French, Italian, and Spanish - they were all derived from Latin.

The only book he actually owned was a Webster’s Dictionary, which he read from cover to cover like a novel. It must have sounded something like this:

Actually this isn’t too different from a children’s book I read to my granddaughter last night!

My Earliest Memory of My Father

I was three. Dad took me for a walk. It was very cold out, but I was bundled up tightly. We made a left out of our building and went to cross E. 26th Street, a small side street behind Midwood High School. As we crossed, he tripped over my foot but didn’t let go of my hand, and quickly regained his balance. I guess we both thought it was worth a good laugh. I even tried to do it again. That didn’t work out as well. Luckily for both of us, he sidestepped the second attempt and gave me a look that said it all. Lesson learned.

And though he never went to high school, he circled back to something he had shelved for forty years. Even though he no longer needed it, he applied for the GED - the test that grants a high school diploma, legally equivalent to what high schools issue.

Back in the day, there were two parts: English and Math. The English, of course, he nailed. He asked me for help with the math part, which I was ecstatic to provide.

Needless to say, he passed on his first attempt. It was one of the proudest moments of his life - and one of my happiest as well.

A Poetic Memory: Roses are Red

My father liked to prop me up on his lap and recite poems, or tell me stories starring characters that he made up in his head. Like “Flomkin” and Slubutkeh”. But my favorite one was a poem that had no characters. He first recited it to me when I was four years old. It went like this:

I looked up at him, expecting him to continue. Apparently, he was done. He was looking back at me, trying very hard to keep a straight face. And I was still trying very hard to make sense of what I had just heard.

It felt like an eternity.

Then I saw a twinkle in his eye.

I realized the funniness was that it made no sense whatsoever. It didn’t rhyme. It had no story. No moral. No punchline. The humor was in my straining to make sense out of something that didn’t make any sense.

And I found myself laughing hysterically - and dad was so happy with himself for eliciting that reaction. I still remember it to this day.

None of my three kids were spared from this. And trust me, none of my grandkids will be either.

Ben made hundreds of people laugh over the years. His humor was a bit “off,” but that was its charm - and his way of providing keen insights into our world.

Almost Millionaires?

My parents liked to play the New York State Lottery. Back in their day, the prizes were nowhere near what they are today. Also, tools such as “Quick Pick” didn’t exist - everything was done manually.

The way it worked was as follows:

You’d walk into any deli, pharmacy, or corner store - typically right in your neighborhood - and see a prominent lottery sign in the window. It was a nice source of revenue for the stores, based on tickets sold. They also shared in the excitement by receiving a relatively small, but still meaningful, payout when a winning ticket was sold there.

And it definitely fostered a sense of community within the neighborhood.

You completed the ticket by filling in the boxes with the six numbers (from 1 to 40) that you wanted to play. You could play as many cards as you wanted, at fifty cents a card.

You brought your play slip to the clerk who would process it and give you printed tickets for your manual ones as a receipt.

These were the typical payouts that the New York State Lottery offered, based on the number of tickets sold:

Match Payout
6 of 6 $100,000 to $3 Million, typically ~ $2 Million

5 of 6: A few thousand dollars

4 of 6: Tens to low hundreds

My mother bought one lottery ticket per week - it was the early 1970’s, when the drawings went from monthly to weekly. She would pick 6 random numbers each week in her head - kind of like a manual “Quick Pick” before they automated it. She wasn’t big on doing birthdays either. Numbers would pop into her head and she would fill in the circles.

Once, she hit 5 out of the 6 numbers!

She got six hundred dollars for her “5 out of 6” prize. That was a significant amount in those days. Just not life altering. The 6 out of 6 prize was $1.8 Million dollars! - and there was only one winning ticket for that prize, and it wasn’t my mom’s.

This did not go over well with my dad. From that moment going forward, and lasting for about two weeks, a day didn’t go by without snide comments being hurled:

Every imaginable variation of this was hurled at her. Most were very disparaging. Or creatively sarcastic. We would just let it run it’s course - there were no rational comments that cold be made to counter such an emotionally unwell thought process.

Over and over and over again. Obviously, to anyone with a rational mind, that made no sense. It was totally unfair to my mother. But it didn't matter. It was the reality my father created. We just tried to survive within it. And avoid the verbal landmines. And if wasn’t “Why didn’t you pick 23 instead of 22?”, it was something. else. Lunacy kept alive and well. Within the confines of our four walls.

Maybe Happy Ending

There is a happy ending here, though I prefer the word “equanimous” (calm, composed and mentally steady). This is my perspective:

I am very grateful for just being in the present moment, and therefore, for the path that got me here. Each of us got here via a unique path. But we all share this present moment. Understanding how all this works is beyond my pay grade. So I aim to accept all people, including those like my Dad, who may have had rougher paths than mine. But not to tolerate bad behavior. It’s a work in progress.

100!

Olga Rosenstein will be turning 100 on June 6th. Her amazing and inspirational life, which is still a work in progress, will be celebrated by her loved ones, spanning miles and generations.

I have added some new stories that contribute to Olga’s legacy.

Like a Tiger and Her Cubs

To say that Olga has a strong personality is like saying that a tiger has sharp teeth. And in both cases, I recommend that you tread lightly in their presence. And as sure as I am of the fierceness with which mother tigers protect their cubs, Olga matches it with regard to her kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids.

Taking Care of the Grandkids at the Lake

Often, Olga would watch Jonathan and Matthew at the lake while Claire and I would swim out a bit deeper or go for a walk around the lake. When we came back, we noticed her head going left to right, left to right, in what seemed like a rhythmic beat and mantra. As we got closer, we realized she was confirming a sighting of Jonathan, and then of Matthew, back to Jonathan, back to Matthew, rinse and repeat, several hundred times:

When Jonathan got to that age where he was difficult to track down, Tara filled his seat nicely. The new mantra adapted:

Was there some paranoia baked into this? Maybe a little. But most of it was based on her firsthand experiences. It fostered a feeling of always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or, said in a funny, cynical but sadly true way:

“Just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t really out to get you!”

And in the old country, “They” were out to get them most of the time.

The Disappearing Canines

The Pollacks hosted most of the family events. And every time, no matter how many dogs were present (generally from two to five), one by one they would disappear under the table and behind the safe cover of the tablecloth - where they would find a beckoning hand anxious to make sure they were well taken care of, gastronomically speaking. Olga was a softy for them, and they all were well fed - by that same woman who, in the old country, needed to do very difficult things when the family cat had kittens while food was very hard to come by for humans. She understood life from a level that most of us cannot comprehend. There was no room for meanness, selfishness, or whining. There was only survival to deal with, and she dealt with it very effectively.

The Garage Door Opener

When we first bought our house in Wayne, it came with an attached one-car garage. Money was tight, and we wanted to put in an automated garage door, but we deferred it so that we could save up for putting on a second level. Finally, we were able to get that second floor built, and the automated garage door followed promptly.

We didn’t tell Olga right away - we wanted to surprise her at her next visit, which came soon enough. Claire and I picked her up from the bus stop, which was in our local shopping center. We made the five-minute drive to the house, and as we approached it, Claire pushed the remote control button. As we came up the driveway, the open garage door was already awaiting us, and Claire pulled in, perfectly centered as always. I turned to Olga:

“I had an automated garage door opener installed so that Claire wouldn’t need to deal with this anymore.”

“You should have done it five years ago.”

Ouch. I felt hurt by that comment. But there were takeaways to be found if I was open to accepting them:

• Olga was only looking after her daughter. It wasn’t personal.

• Do the right thing because it is the right thing. Seeking pats on the back isn’t necessary. And if they come, accept them graciously. But don’t seek them out. That only serves to allow people to question your intentions. Your deed spoke for itself.

• Olga was right - I should have done it five years ago! it wasn’t that expensive, and in retrospect, I’m sure I could have juggled things around financially. Lesson learned.

A Meeting of the Minds

I don’t remember what the underlying issue was, but once, Olga and I were trying to settle a difference of opinion over a topic on which she and I had differing views.

Then Olga blindsided me in an unpredictably amazing way:

“Listen, you have your opinion and I have my opinion…”

That felt like a refreshing drink!

I needed to wait - she wasn’t finished:

“…But my opinion is the right opinion!”

I looked at her - I think I saw a twinkle in her eyes. That is Olga - loving, strong, loyal, intelligent, funny, very complex. And far more self-aware than she lets on.

Our matriarch.

Stay tuned for more content celebrating “A Matriarch Turns 100” coming soon.

I woke up around ten.

Four hours of sleep that felt like eight - deep, satisfying, earned.

Quick shower. Buffet breakfast. Then downstairs to pow-wow with the concierge about how to spend my final day in “Sin City.”

She leaned in:

“You should check out the Bacchanal Room at Caesars. A must see and do.”

“What do you mean by ‘do’?'”

“It’s an experience. Trust me. Want me to call ahead?”

“Sure.”

“And order a glass of wine - don’t forget”

It was a ten-minute walk. Caesars soon rose ahead of me.

Two signs outside. I think they wanted to be noticed.

Then one inside:

The “$50” stopped me cold.

In 1981, fifty dollars was not a casual decision.

I turned around.

Three steps.

Stopped.

Time for a board meeting with myself.

You played blackjack at $40 a hand last night. You walked away up $2,500.
You responsibly locked it in the safe. And now you’re balking at a nice dinner for yourself? Balance, my friend.

I pivoted and walked in.

You don’t enter Caesars.

You cross a border.

No windows. No clocks.

Marble. Mirrors. Money. Mystique.

Columns - massive white columns. Roman statues staring down at you.

Cologne mixing with cigarette smoke. Slot machines ringing in uneven rhythm. Chips clacking. A burst of cheers from a craps table.

No worries for me - I was done gambling.

Tonight, I wanted a sure thing.

A toga-clad hostess escorted me in.

Another took my order. New York steak. Baked potato. Asparagus. Simple. Perfect.

No dessert. But I saved room for that glass of wine the concierge recommended.

“A glass of wine, for the road, please.”

The waitress approached with a full bottle. And began pouring.

Then slowly raised the bottle.

Higher.

Higher.

The stream stretched three feet through the air, landing dead-center into my glass.

I froze - concentrating on maintaining a steady hand on it.

She smiled

“I think that this wasn’t your first time doing this”

Just holding a glass steady? Yes.

Keeping it upright while talking? Not always.

I drank slowly.

I didn’t want it to end.

And no one rushed me.

Eventually, I signaled for the check.

She returned. Without it, yet.

“I’m sure you know about this part.”

“Actually… no.”

“Please stand - I’ll take your jacket.”

I stood. Jacket off. Hung neatly.

She set the chair back from the table.

“Have a seat.”

I sat down and leaned forward.

She stepped behind me.

And began.

A professional methodical. penetrating massage.

Hands working across my shoulders and upper back - slow pressure, clinical precision.

I felt every knot dissolving. Every muscle surrendering.

It lasted fifteen minutes. But forty-five years since, I still feel it in my head.

I walked back to my room lighter than when I arrived.

I had a good time even though I didn’t bring enough cash - and there was no way I was going to get a cash advance at highway robbery rates.

I left the sundry shop with a seltzer. I charged it to my room - I didn’t want to break my newly found twenty. As I walked toward the elevator, I noticed a lone blackjack table in the front lobby. No customers.

Three men in shiny suits stood behind the dealer, who looked bored. One of them was clearly the boss. His confident smile and the flower in his lapel gave him away. They were chatting away, but inaudibly, and paid me no mind. I interrupted:

“Boy, you guys never give up. Sorry to inform you - I left my dough in the other casinos.”

The boss man responded:

“That’s okay. Did you have a nice time, at least?”

“Actually, I did. And I learned how to play a couple of games.”

“That’s all that matters.”

“I guess so. I just wish I had brought more cash to play with.”

“You never know - maybe that was a good thing.”

Boss man sounded sensible - more balanced than my self-pity tone. I walked to the elevator and reached into my pocket for my room key. Out it came, along with that pesky twenty I didn’t realize I still had.

I walked back to the blackjack table. I leaned over an empty player chair and floated the twenty onto the betting spot:

“Adios, amigo!”

The dealer waited until I sat down, replaced the bill with four five-dollar chips, and commenced dealing. Boss man took notice.

The dealer showed a jack. I had seventeen and gave the sign for sticking.

He turned over his down card. A deuce. He drew another deuce. Fourteen.

“I think you guys are trying to torture me!”

He drew an eight. I added it up. Twice, to ensure I wasn’t dreaming. Twenty-two. He busted.

It felt good. It was four a.m. and I was tired, but I decided to keep at it a bit.

For about an hour, I kept my bet the same - twenty dollars - and stayed in a winning zone somewhere between lukewarm and hot and lukewarm. I rarely lost two hands in a row. When my stack hit five hundred, I upped my bet to forty. The good run continued, including a few wins on double-downs and splits.

I took a pit stop and asked the dealer to count me up while I was gone.

“How am I doing?”

“Not bad - eighteen hundred. Do you want me to cash you out?”

“Not yet.”

Boss man glanced over briefly to see how I was doing.

I kept the bet at forty and grew my stack to twenty-five forty.

I asked the dealer to slow down the pace a bit. I was tired. He looked at boss man, who nodded his approval.

My luck had a mind of its own - I climbed to thirty-two hundred.

I then hit a downturn - to twenty-seven hundred.

Ouch. I had just dropped five hundred dollars in about five minutes. I was determined to win that back before quitting, even though it was getting late.

I reached onto my stack and peeled eighty dollars in chips off the top. As I put them down, I noticed boss man giving me a hard stare. The next ten seconds felt like ten minutes. I wasn’t completely sure, but I think I understood what he was trying to communicate.

So instead of pushing the eighty toward my betting spot, I pushed it toward the dealer.

“I’m done. I’d like to cash out.”

I slid the rest of my chips his way as well.

The dealer counted it all up.

“Twenty-seven hundred, sir. Good for you.”

Boss man stayed silent, but gave me a slight nod, handed me a card, and smiled.

On one side was a two-night comp for my next visit. No expiration date. On the other were his credentials: Jack Scalera, President, Barbary Resorts.

I gave the dealer two hundred dollars, then put the remaining twenty-five hundred into the hotel’s safe deposit box and went upstairs.

It was now six a.m. Time for bed. I had the entire day to enjoy Las Vegas.

So this begs the question: When does one quit?

At a certain goal amount? When they go broke? After an elapsed time? On a winning hand? On a losing hand? When their luck runs out? When their spouse threatens them?

I will be sharing my ideas on this, which can also be used in investing. It’s not a trick. It’s a methodology that can be tailored to one’s own objectives.

It will be coming soon in The Flatbush Almanac.