A note from Mr. Koondel:

Since the beginning of time, the relationship between grandparents and grandchildren has been an extraordinarily profound one. My childhood, adolescent, and young adulthood memories are flooded with special moments with my grandparents. My father's parents, Irving and Rhoda, and my mother's parents, Sidney and Lillian, helped to shape me into the adult I am today. They are responsible for a familial set of core values--integrity, honesty, discipline, hard work, and empathy--which I have spent my young lifetime attempting to realize. Most probably just like your grandparents, mine always seemed to be involved in the most important aspects of my life. Their love for me was unconditional, and everything I seemed to do in my life held their intense interest: school recitals, art projects, musical explorations, writing projects, and even girlfriends. Of course, nothing seemed to hold their interest more than a simple conversation with their grandchildren.

My mother's mother, Lillian, is my only grandparent still living. Currently, Mugga (as I have called her since I was a baby, because I couldn't pronounce "grandmother") lives in Florida--where the weather is more suited to her liking. Though separated by such a great distance, I am so very grateful that my relationship with her continues to grow. Most recently, my grandmother offered to share with me her memories of her grandparents, parents, siblings, relatives and friends. In short, she decided to write her memoirs. I was thrilled to have the opportunity to gain such insight into my family's history. (After all, how can a person truly know himself, if he doesn't know where he's been--his history?)

Starting in the end of February, every few days my grandmother sent me a letter containing the next two or three pages of her memoirs. The document was handwritten on yellow legal paper, and I have edited her work only when absolutely necessary. Updates to this site will be made, as my grandmother's work becomes available to me. Save this site to your "Favorites," so you can keep an eye out for updates.

It is truly a pleasure for me to share my grandmother's work with my students. Though her testimony is specific to my family, it is my belief that you will recognize pieces of yourself within this humanistic and universal American story. Additionally, it is my hope that My Memoirs will inspire my students to interview their grandparents and write about the results. This is a wonderful extra-credit assignment for Middle Schoolers, and can be done over the telephone, by mail, or in person. (Your grandparents will love it!) Students can prepare a list of questions for their grandparents about a whole variety of topics and issues, then organize them, and finally record the entire process in an essay, a poem, or even a short story.

* * *

This is the accompanying note from my grandmother (dated February 28, 2001):

Dear Michael,

To cement the wonderful relationship we have, I thought you might enjoy taking a peek into my past. Nothing exciting, but as I now write my memoirs for my own personal pleasure, I wish to share some of the little things about my life that you would not have been privy to, otherwise. To make it more interesting, my memoirs go back to the time your great grandfather, "Sol," was born. I hope to continue writing about it as the weeks go by.

Mugga

* * *

My father's mother and your great-great grandmother -- BASHA, later Bessie

My mother -- MERKA, later Mary

My father -- SAHVEL, later Sol

My brother--CHIAM, later Hymie

My sister--RAZEL, later Rose

Me--TRINA-GENYA, later Tillie, later Lillian

Paly Family Photographs

By Lillian Klein

My life only became a future possibility when in the year 1893, in another part of the world, in a town called "Minsk," in the country called Russia, a new baby boy was born. He was given the Hebrew Name of "Sahvel." He was later to be called "Sol," and was later to become my father. Sahvel's father (I did not know his name) earned his living as an "open road" salesman.

He often left his wife, Basha, and their six children for long periods of time, stocking his wagon with saleable and durable merchandise. When all was sold, he would return home carrying large sums of cash with him. On one such trip, he left in good spirits, but never to return home again. In all probability, he was attacked in his travels and killed somewhere for the large sums of cash he carried with him.

Basha, alone and defenseless with so many children to feed, took whatever money she had and boarded a ship for America. Unsatisfactory sanitary conditions onboard ship--packed in like sardines in a can and rough seas--produced sickening hardships along the way. In the year 1906, the Palay family arrived at the USA's Ellis Island. They later settled in Brooklyn, New York. They were told that America was the land with golden opportunities, and so they were looking forward to it. With little money left, Basha told her children they had to find work.

Sahvel (my father), the second youngest child in the family, was only thirteen years of age. It would be difficult for Sahvel to find work. He lacked the knowledge of speaking or understanding the English language. He also lacked the appearance of a young adult. All alone and on his own, with no one to guide him, Sahvel ambitiously set forth looking for work. The only job he was able to get was selling shoelaces on the street.

Day in and day out, from dawn until dusk--in snow, in sleet and in rain--in freezing temperatures and in the hot, broiling summer's sun, Sahvel earned his pennies.

Several years had passed by, and Sahvel had grown into a good-looking, fine and upstanding young man. One day, Sahvel was accompanying his mother, Basha, looking to move to another apartment. Basha had a fanatic desire for cleanliness. So much so that every six months, she moved from one apartment dwelling to another in order to get a clean, freshly painted apartment to live in (that the landlord took care of).

Freshly painted apartments were standard incentives for any new tenants renting. With an excess of apartments everywhere, landlords were only too glad to get a new, paying tenant. One or two months free rent was thrown in, depending on the bargaining capabilities of the one renting. Apartment leases and advanced security payments were unheard of at that time.

Basha had her "steady" movers! Not only did they pack up everything before the move, but they unpacked up everything after the move. They put everything into place, hung up all the wall ornaments, pictures, mirrors, etc. When they left, she was not charged anything extra. Tipping was unheard of then. This fetish of hers continued until she died at age 87.

On this particular day of apartment hunting, Sahvel noticed a very pretty girl standing outside one of the buildings. Just one look at her--surely the "love bug" must have bitten him. Somehow he just knew that one day, he would find the courage to ask for her hand in marriage.

Sahvel wasted no time and learned her name was Merka. She was a cameo of loveliness, so I was told, and before long he began "courting" her.

Merka, who was later to become my mother, told me a sweet story. One day, Sahvel and Merka were taking a leisurely walk together. It ended a distance from her home. In those days, it was considered shameful when Sahvel suddenly attempted to steal a kiss from his best girl, out on the open street. (And in broad daylight, too!) Merka refused--such a display of affection! In retaliation, Sahvel managed to slip off one of her shoes in order to get his kiss, but Merka stubbornly refused, and Sahvel refused to return the shoe. With shoulders straight back, and head held high, Merka did it her way!

Defiantly, she walked the long distance home with one shoe off and one shoe on. Sahvel never did get his kiss!

Getting married was a serious responsibility for Sahvel. He realized it was absolutely necessary for him to learn a "trade." The marriage was, therefore, postponed for one year. During that time, Sahvel became an apprentice hand shoe-cutter. He earned a salary of only four dollars per week. He worked twelve hours each day, six days a week at a job that required him to stand on his feet, continuously. He learned everything that was necessary to become an experienced leather shoe-cutter.

Cowhides have many variations as to the size of the skins, textures, shades and colors, the matching of the skins, and overcoming imperfections without having too much waste. Most important was Sahvel's learning and accomplishing his rapid and skillful handling of the hooked knife with its small, slender, razor thin-curved blade, as he skirted around the outer edges of the many intricate shoe patterns.

Speed later became an important factor when "piece work" eventually ruled the size of the weekly paycheck.

One year later had arrived, and Sahvel and Merka were married. In 1916, their son, Chiam, was born (later called Hyman, or Hymie).

On May 10, 1921, I was born.

My Hebrew name is Trina-Genya, but I was called Tillie. When I entered the public school system, my birth certificate had my name hand written and the letter "T" was mistakenly taken as an "L" and never corrected by my parents. So, I was identified by my teacher as Lillie. Upon entering Samuel J. Tilden High School in Brooklyn, New York, I personally preferred my to be Lillian; and, it became and remained so from that point on. The school assumed it was an error in transfer. My last name of Paly again became a derivative of Palay, an error made when my father arrived at Ellis Island, with it handwritten and misread.

I was told that at birth, I was a rather small, frail infant. When I was six months old, the fear then of every parent was a medical culprit that ran rampant in epidemic proportions, which robbed the very breath and the lives of young children, especially young infants.

I became a victim.

Whooping cough, a malady, an infectious disease, marked and aggravated by convulsive, spasmodic coughs, then followed by a growing intake of air. It required someone in attendance twenty-four hours of each day, or the inevitable--especially for a very young infant--death would follow.

My father took a leave of absence from his job to give me his undivided attention. Each morning he would take me to the ocean side, hoping the fresh salt air would ease my intolerable fits of coughing.

On one such day, the whooping cough did its worst. My air supply was quickly being depleted. I was suffocating and turning blue! My father made a quick decision. He inserted two fingers into my tiny mouth, down my throat and quickly cleared away a glob of heavy, wax-like mucus and saved my life.

Today, with inoculations against this life-threatening disease, it has been completely irradiated: one of many inoculations now saving the lives of infants and children.

Merka, my mother, was a charming, quiet, reserved and beautiful sweet lady. She was the typical, old-fashion Jewish mother. She cooked and baked and cleaned and took care of her family at home. She prepared all the Jewish tasting "mikals" (foods). An especially favorite for all of us was her delicious baked braided "challies." It was tastier than the most delicious cakes. My mother had a sewing machine, operated with a foot pedal. She sewed all of her children's clothes that we wore. Except for her shopping, my mother was perfectly content to be at home and had rare outside contacts with any of her neighbors. From what I can remember, except for her family and some relatives who came to our house, outside friends were not a priority. As a result, learning to speak English was never a priority, either. We all spoke Yiddish or Jewish to each other.

As a child, I was quiet, very shy and very good. I stayed close to my mother and played only with my twenty-two months younger sister, Razel (Rose). It seemed that she was always taken for the older child. Taller, heavier and bossier, I was always small and skinny.

I don't know why my parents never enrolled me in kindergarten. I still remember the first day I went to school. I was six years old and I indeed had a problem going into the first grade. I was scared and frightened; and, to make matter worse, I did not understand one word of English spoken, nor could I speak the English language. It was a completely foreign language to me.

I still see the picture all so clearly, as if I was watching it, instead. I remember the teacher speaking to me, but I merely stared at her. She was unable to communicate with me! All I knew was the Jewish language.

I remember her picking me up and sitting me on top of her desk, and her mouth was moving and sounds came out of it. Apparently, the other children in the classroom did not have the language barrier that I did. I think she was fascinated, once the Jewish words came rolling off my tongue. Today, at seventy-nine plus years (eighty in May), I can still understand a good deal of the Jewish language and still speak many words without being completely in the dark.

My father, Sahvel, was later called Sol. Out in the business world, working with English-speaking people, he learned the language and did very well. The children too did very well as soon as we all went to school. However, my mother continued to speak in Jewish, as she learned to understand the English language. Finally, when your grandfather, Papa, came "courting" me at home, we ganged up on her; and, slowly, she began speaking English.

My father, your great-grandfather, was a nice looking gentleman. He had a good disposition, a friendly smile and was ready to tell a story relating to something or anything. I always felt that he was extremely intelligent and "street smart." People liked him instantly, both young and old. He took pride in his wife, his children, his home and his work. His struggle to succeed paid off when he established himself as a self-taught businessman.

My father and his younger brother, George, built a beautiful, huge factory for the manufacturing of ladies' high-fashioned novelty shoes. The plant was occupied on one complete square block, three stories high. My father did all of the shoe designing and ran the complete operation of the factory by himself, with over 400 people working there. My uncle, George, spoke the English language as smooth as silk, and all he was responsible for was to get in the orders. He sold to the biggest and the best stores. Working the insides of the factory was not his thing. The called the shoe factory the Lormer Shoe Company--the same name as the main street thoroughfare.

In 1926, all five of us moved into a beautiful, new all-brick two-family house on Schenectady Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. The area was called Eastern Flatbush--a new, up-and-coming, better, middle-class Jewish neighborhood. All the houses were brand new, or in the process of being built. Families were anxiously waiting for their side streets and the main thoroughfare of Church Avenue to be paved. I can still see and smell the thick, rich, brown earth that lined the outer edges of all the streets waiting for their beauty treatment of freshly paved cement.

Although it was a time of prosperity, for most Jewish families there were no great demands for that horseless carriage as yet--know as the automobile. However, money being no problem, my father ventured out and did buy his first, shiny, brand new automobile. The name was of a new company called "Nash."

The paint was a rich, deep color maroon. The color of the seats inside was maroon, too, and the mohair fabric was thick in texture, as well as plush and luxurious to the touch. I do indeed remember it! The Nash was so very beautiful, that everyone passing by stopped to admire it. Business was going so well that my father paid for the car in full.

Shortly after the purchase was made, a "so-called acquaintance" stopped by the house. My father never did invite him to our home, but when he did appear on occasions, he was treated courteously. His name was Mr. Tony Cullucci. He had a thick, Italian accent with large, bulldog eyes, and a greasy. Pale complexion. He would tell his endless stories of his connections with the Italian Mafia.

My father didn't have his Nash automobile for very long. Several days after Mr. Cullucci saw the car and left our house, the automobile was stolen. My father felt certain it was the doings of Mr. Cullucci. Several weeks later, Mr. Cullucci dropped by our house again to show my father "his" new car he had just "purchased." Coincidentally, it was also a Nash, but the color of the car was black.

My father at that time was a very heavy smoker. The very day after his car was brought home, sitting and testing the comfort of the seats in the back, without realizing it, a cigarette in his left hand rested on the thick, plushy, maroon mohair fabric; then, too late, the damage had been done. A burn hole was there for one to see.

My father congratulated Mr. Cullucci and walked outdoors to view the purchase. Without causing any suspicious moves, my father sat in and inspected the car's back seats. Low and behold, there in full view appeared the cigarette burn in exactly the same spot. The color of the fabric was maroon mohair.

Having the color paint of the car changed from maroon to black was not difficult to have done, but the color and the choice of fabric was identical. The burn hole in the back seat was identical in size and location. Whether Mr. Cullucci was unaware that damage had been done, or blatantly ignored that fact, is pointless. My father wanted no trouble. Mr. Cullucci being admittedly connected to the Italian Mafia, my father said nothing to him about his discovery and chose not to buy another car. There was no such thing as car insurance back then.

The money kept rolling in faster than my father could spend it! The house, the furniture and everything else in it were all paid for in full. My mother was showered with furs, beautiful assorted jewelry, and stunning diamond rings, as my father's business continued to prosper. I remember one ring in particular that reached down to the finger's middle bone joint. It had three huge, sparkling diamonds lined up in a single row. Simply breathtaking!

It was during the era of the 1920's, the "Roaring Twenties" they called it. It was a time of prohibition, speakeasies and prosperity. The "Charleston" was the hot new dance, and ladies' flashy, beaded dresses were the style. The beads were so many and so heavy that a dress could not be hung on a hanger, but instead had to be stored away in a dresser drawer until the nest time it was to be worn.

My mother had such a dress. Gold in color, with very long, hanging and dangling gold beads that flipped and swirled about her as she danced. It was a true creation. I was only about seven years old, but that dress will forever be imprinted into my memory.

The Stock Market's success was about to go through the roof! "Happy Days Are Here Again" was the number one song on everyone's lips.

When my brother, Hymie (Chiam), was twelve and a half years old in 1929, I was eight and a half, four years younger. My sister, Rose (Razel), was twenty-two months my junior. My brother and I were close siblings. He would always read stories to me. At times, he would hold my hand as he walked me to Mr. and Mrs. Kramer's Candy Store (as it was called then, but now a thing of the past). He would treat me to candy or occasionally buy me a scrumptious "Charlotte Rous." Wow, was that ever so good!

It came in a specially designed cup--wide, round and stiff: a moderately thick paperboard cup with a movable bottom. It is still so clear to me. Inside was a layer of fluffy sponge cake. Mounted on high was a swirled mound of ice-cold whipped cream. To complete this delectable sight for a very young child, it was sheer heaven, topped off with chocolate sprinkles and a bright red, plump maraschino cherry. As the top portion was eaten, the moveable inserted bottom was pushed upwards in order to completely devour that last moment of pure ecstasy!

Little things made my brother and me "pals." One in particular was that I was allowed the privilege of trying on his oversized Boy Scout jacket and wear his Boy Scout hat (something he never let my sister, Razel, to do. He was always chasing her from his bedroom, located directly above the house's front entrance on the second floor. Only the second floor had that extra bedroom. My parents rented out the first floor.

We were a beautiful, happy, respectable, healthy family (as well as financially successful). We had it all! What could possibly go wrong? What could possibly spoil it?

But, something did: something so dreadful that it turned our family upside down--something my parents could not possibly fathom. I remember it all so vividly--then, and the years that followed, are still clearly imprinted into my memory.

In 1929, my brother, Chiam, was fast approaching his thirteenth birthday in April and looking forward to the upcoming festivities of his Bar Mitzvah. Instead, in August of 1929, my handsome, wonderful young brother was struck down and killed instantly by an unknown trucker, who didn't even stop, but rather sped away! Chiam was out joyriding on his brand new bicycle my father had bought for him--a bicycle my mother had vehemently opposed to his riding; a bicycle my father had insisted every boy should have.

My father was so devastated by his son's death, and the guilt he now carried with him, it almost destroyed him. Two years later at thirty-six years of age, my father's once jet-black hair turned completely gray. The factory my father built and loved so much never saw his footsteps enter again.

My mother became a human crying "basket case." Day in and day out, she sat at her bedroom window, and as the light from the sun came streaming inside the house, the pictures of my now deceased brother were clutched tightly in her hands, viewing and reviewing them over and over again, never letting them go, kissing each photograph one at a time, crying hysterically as the continuous flood of tears came streaming down her face.

The doctor feared my mother would have a complete nervous breakdown! He recommended she have another baby as soon as possible. One and one half years later, my sister, Irene, was born.

My Uncle George tried to run the inside operation of the factory, but it was out of his field. Selling was all he knew, and the result was a disaster.

However, it didn't really matter much. Two and a half months later, on October 29, 1929, the entire economy went "belly-up." The Stock Market had crashed! There was no "buffer" protection, and, in one day without any prior warning, the Stock Market hit bottom: zero values on once great fortunes! It was like an apocalyptic force had hit our country. Herbert Hoover was our President, but he was at a complete loss as to what to do.

Overnight, once thriving businesses, big and small, had no choice but to close their door forever. Banks failed, and the lack of money forced the people to sell off their personal jewelry, furs, and accumulated treasures--mostly to some banks who offered only small pittances on the dollar value. Millionaires became paupers, and begging on the streets became a new way of life. Many took the coward's way out by jumping out of windows or putting a bullet through their heads.

My father's business gone, we were lucky the house had been completely paid for in full. That, at least, gave us a roof over our heads. When this all happened, I was so very young. At eight and a half years old, I grew up over night as I watched helplessly what was once a happy family turn into a nightmare. My loving brother, my friend, my pal, was no longer there for us. My mother and father were constantly crying. I, for one, did not know how to help them or what I could do.

And so the years rolled on, but pain amongst us was close at hand.

Open soup kitchens (government sponsored) sprung up everywhere. All shame and dignity lost, men stood in long lines for hours waiting for a free food handout to keep body and should together. Faces, once belonging to prosperous, self-confident men, now showed the signs of frustration and despair with little hope for the future. During the Depression years, as a very young teenager, I remember the radio blasting away the song called, "Brother Can You Spare A Dime?"

"Once I built a railroad, made it run

Made it run against the time,

Once I built a railroad, now it's gone,

Brother can you spare a dime?"

I still remember the tune, but not the remaining lyrics; but it told the whole story.

In 1932, three years after the Stock Market Crash, our then President, Herbert Hoover, was running for re-election, hoping to be voted into the Presidency one more time. He tried to entice our hungry people by promising them "a chicken in every pot." It became his slogan, but he lost the election.

In 1932, Franklin Delano Roosevelt became the 32^nd President of the United States of America. Those voting for him were completely unaware that he was unable to walk.

People relied on their radios. Television had not as yet been invented. Circulation of newspapers was almost non-existent. People could not afford to spend two cents for a newspaper.

However, F.D.R. had a glorious, compelling voice that captivated his radio-listening audiences. Above all, he kept them completely in the dark by not allowing to be photographed below the waist. He feared that if the voters knew him to be a "cripple," he would lose the election. Most voters only found out after the election was won.

In 1921, F.D.R. was in a boating accident: a chill followed and paralysis set in. He had contracted polio.

"Polio," a crippling, contagious disease, attacked mostly children and became to be known as "infantile paralysis." When I was eleven years old, an epidemic of the disease surfaced, and many children were attacked, leaving them paralyzed or worse.

Parents sharply curtailed their children's summertime activities, fearing that close contacts with others would put them at risk. Perhaps an old, wives' tale, but we all did what we thought was necessary to keep away the evil spirits, or ward off the dreaded disease. Each day, we placed around our necks, on a thin, soft cord, an oblong, transparent two-inch cube of camphor. Did it work? I have no idea. It was never favorably or scientifically approved. There was no Federal Drug Administration then. All I remember was that the smell alone was obnoxious enough by itself to do the job intended.

Time went by very slowly as the Depression continued. Each and every day, I would witness the comings and goings of men standing in our driveway, but for short periods of time--playing their violins or their saxophones--begging and wishing and hoping for a handout; money they knew the people did not have. I later learned that they had been professional musicians, who no longer had a job. I knew, money that my mother could not spare, out of pity, she did find it within her heart to roll a few pennies into some paper and throw it out the window. It was thankfully acknowledged. There were so many such starving musicians as the visited the Alleys Circuit.

Whatever money my parents had left ran out completely. So too did my mother's beautiful jewelry that my father had bought for her during prosperous times. One piece at a time was "hocked" with little compensation. My father had not worked for several years after my brother's death. It was time for him to earn some kind of a livelihood.

My father opened a very small, but tastefully decorated, shoe store, four blocks from our house on Utica Avenue. Buying merchandise on credit was not difficult. He was well known in the shoe industry. In addition to selling stock shoes, my father also expanded into making hand-made shoes for those with badly disfigured feet. He was super-good at it! The customers came from far and wide based upon satisfactions, and he built an excellent reputation for making shoes for the handicapped.

However, it involved a great many hours of his time, effort and accuracy, while his compensation for his work fell far short of its true value. Teary-eyed customers always chewed him down monetarily, because they, like everyone else, just did not have the money to spend.

My father worked fourteen hours each day. He also worked the store alone, with no help to relieve him. As fate would have it, my father suddenly became very ill with totally disabling arthritis. The pain was so intense, that he was unable to get out of bed. Going to the bathroom was sheer torture. Proper painkillers were at a minimum. It became necessary to hire a young man to run the shoe store.

I was in my very early teens. Each day after school was out, my father sent me to the shoe store. I would spend a few hours there checking up on "things." What did I know, but I must have missed something that was going on with this young man running the store. A couple of months later, my father, still in excruciating pain, boarded the trolley car for that four-block ride to his store.

What he found was a complete catastrophe! The store was not only run poorly--my father found that his inventory was almost completely depleted--but, if the shoes were no longer filling the shelves when he left, what happened to the cash deposits if the shoes were being sold? The young man had no answer. A neighbor's son, my father made no attempt to have him arrested and charged with theft.

My father could not pay his creditors, because the money was stolen and gone. With no money of his own to back him up, once again he watched the doors close to something he built. Declaring bankruptcy was the only solution left.

Soon after, my father purchased a few leather skins and then rented a very inexpensive, unfinished store to begin cutting out leather slippers. It was something not in his expertise. Expensive, high fashion, ladies' novelty shoes was his experience. He brought the slipper vamps home, and my mother sewed them at the seams. Back again to the very small, rented store, and he "lasted" them on wooden shoe forms. After packaging them, my father canvassed them, shoe store to shoe store; and, he did sell them. However, the earnings were meager.

As had become the custom each morning, leaving bright and early when all were asleep, my father would leave two dollars on the kitchen table. With that, my mother managed to feed a family of five for the day--my sisters Rose and Irene, myself, plus my mother and father. If any money had been left over from the daily two dollars my mother received, she bought remnants of cloth to sew little frocks for the children to wear.

The years following the Stock Market Crash were long, lean and hard to cope with, but they somehow managed.

* * *

When I was a teenager, I remember so well those long, hot summers. We had no air-conditioning; I do not remember anyone who did. We also had no electric fans. During the night hours meant for sleeping, it was so hot, I had my feet rest on the windowsill which was close to my bed. Windows were always left wide open. In that way, if a breeze just happened tp pass by, my hot feet benefited and helped with sleep.

(Can people leave their windows wide open in today's times, especially during the night hours? Hardly! A-men for air-conditioning!)

When we were teenagers and school was out for the summer months, we found other means of cooling off. One way was to go to the beach.

The cost of the fare was a huge consideration--to go the long way or the shorter way. Money, money was always the factor! The trolley car--and the shorter way--cost five cents, plus another five cents train; a total of ten cents each way; but, nevertheless, twenty cents for the day. Only a two-block walk to the beach, but twenty cents was too costly. In fact, it was double, because my sister and I went together.

Instead, we always chose the long way to the beach. The cost for the trolley car was five cents, and we got a free transfer for another trolley car ride. Before even getting to the beach, we had at least a twenty-minute walk. The return trip was the same way.

The sun was brutal as we walked and walked, but we always had the satisfaction, by going this way, it cost us only ten cents for the day. (A savings of ten cents for each of us!)

We also carried sandwiches with us, as well as drinks from home, too. These many depression years of pinching and trying to save money became so ingrained in me that, to this day, when the necessity is no longer there, the imbedded imprint still persists to get the best value for the money.

Another way we kept cool during summer vacations was to visit the local movie theater: the "Rugby." The admission price for children twelve and under was ten cents. I was petite, and, although a few years older than twelve, I braided my hair into picktails, giving me a younger appearance. I had no difficulty being admitted inside the theater.

Our only "in-home entertainment" was listening to the radio. Television had not yet been invented. Having children at home all summer, mother were only too glad to send them to the movies, even at a cost of ten cents each, just for some peace and quiet.

The boys and girls flocked to the theater and sat in their seats for a minimum of four hours, mesmerized by the big images on the oversized screen. The movie program was long. The theater projector began showing movies at noon, never stopping, continuing showing until it all ended for the day at midnight. The children, comfy in the delightfully air-conditioned theater, with sandwiches and drinks brought from home, watched with fascination a program that consisted of two, full-length feature movies, cartoons, a weekly death-defying serial, coming attractions of the entire week's ever-changing movie feature shows, and Movie Tone News. All for ten cents.

Not one child was in a hurry to leave the theater. My stay usually lasted six hours: a complete showing that lasted four hours, plus a rerun of one of the two, featured films.

By the time we left the theater, our eyes had become so accustomed to the dark, greeting the bright sunlight as we walked outside--the sharp contrast nearly blinded us--throwing us temporarily off balance.

In addition, the cool air-conditioning inside the theater magnified the unmerciful blast of torrid heat that greeted us on the outside and nearly fried us! Nevertheless, it was always a day enjoyably well spent!

* * *

For many years, my parents owned an upright, player piano. I can't remember how we got it (probably when I was very young and before the Stock Market Crash in 1929, when money was plentiful for my parents). When I reached the age of about twelve, my parents started me on piano lessons. This was, no doubt, influenced by a distant family friend, whose son gave piano lessons. The weekly cost was fifty cents per lesson. I was truly excited, and I never had to be told to practice. I did quite well playing the music from the music book and singing the words below. Regardless of my desire for the piano, it was short-lived.

Regardless of my desire to continue my piano lessons, at the end of six months, my parents, regretfully, had to cancel them. They could not afford the fifty cents needed for my weekly lessons.

Between 1934 through 1936, my sister, Rose, and I were both teenagers; we liked not only being sisters, but also being friends with each other. She was taller than I and was always taken for the older sister. Rose was a very pretty young girl, vivacious, outgoing and attracted the boys from school and the neighborhood. I, on the other hand, was pretty, but very quiet and kind of shy; and so, we really got along very well for sisters. I always let her have her way.

However, Rose always brought the boys home, where boys and girls congregated on my parents' outside, front stoop. That was our hangout: on the stoop.

Before I knew it, the year 1937 had arrived, and I was sixteen years old. When it came to shyness, as stated before, give me top billing with a title of "Exceedingly So."

I was shy as a child, and it continued into adulthood. Today, at seventy-nine years of age, I am still shy, but to a lesser degree. However, I tend to shy away from speaking in front of an audience (large or small).

I was so shy that I never made known or revealed that I had a secret wish to anyone. Not until I talked with my father about it one day did it surface. Had it been followed through, I have no doubt that the above problem would have been overcome.

My father and I were sitting at the kitchen table when I suddenly blurted out that I wanted to take acting lessons. But, in my heart, I knew getting drama lessons was only wishful thinking. Like millions of other working people, the fallout from the Depression left its mark of financial woes: not better, not worse, merely surviving.

My father was completely surprised by my request. He paused for a moment, as if not knowing what to say. Then, as if to test me, he asked me only one question, "If I asked you to cry, right now, could you do it?"

I remember it all so clearly as if it happened yesterday.

As I gazed into my father's big, brown eyes, he eagerly waited--but not really expecting the fruits of his request. Slowly, the tears welled up into my eyes, and then, ever so slowly, rolled down my soft, pale cheeks, as I continued to gaze at him.

At that very moment, scared but completely confident, I knew I had answered him better than expected and obviously satisfactorily. My father just sat there and stared at me, as if in disbelief that I was able to do it, and so quickly! He paused, as if wanting to say something, but nothing came out of his mouth. I waited, but instead he just continued to look at me; he said nothing while he kept clasping his hands together. Then, what seemed like a nervous gesture, he slowly and methodically cracked each one of his knuckles on both hands, one at a time.

My father smiled and seemed to hesitate; for one who was never at a loss for words, all that he said to me was that I "was wonderful."

With that comment, he stood up, never answering my request, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me sitting at the kitchen table. The subject was never brought up again. The reason, I thought, was financial, and was probably so at the time; but later on, I believe, a more concrete reason took over (which I will discuss again).

The year was now 1938, and I was seventeen years of age. The Depression was still affecting the general population. Finding work and earning a living wage was difficult, if not impossible. I was growing up fast into a very pretty, young lady. I loved to sing. I knew the words and the melodies of every popular hit tune that was ever published and on "The Hit Parade of Songs." My sister, Rose, also enjoyed singing, and we often sang together just for the fun of it.

There was a lady who occasionally visited our house. She was connected with "show business" and had something to do with "The Three Ritz Brothers," a slapstick comedy team whom we had seen appearing in a few movies on the big screen during the late 1930's.

One day, she overheard my sister, Rose, and I singing together and said she was impressed. She knew of a very fine voice teacher and suggested tat he might be interested in hearing us sing, provided she could arrange such a meeting in his studio. She did set an appointment with the voice teacher. He heard the two of us sing together, and he too was impressed. He was told in advance that we could not afford to pay for any singing lessons.

The teacher was willing to forgo charging both of us for lessons. Instead, he would coach us and train our voices so that, with his connections, he would be able to earn an agent's fee of ten percent after booking us to sing at various social functions as a sister act at weddings, etc. It sounded fair to me. I was thrilled by it all. We needed some extra spending money, but my father said, "No!"

He refused to give the agent ten percent of our earnings. I realized later on that that could not be the reason. Whatever it was, I suspected it had to be the same reason he would not consider my taking drama lessons (or the time Rose and I had looked in the newspaper and had gotten a summer job selling beauty products door to door to earn some money with a fifty cent a day guaranteed salary).

I will never know why my father kept such tight reins on us. Perhaps he did not want to exploit us. Perhaps there was a danger factor on his mind, and his only wish was to protect us from possible harm. Perhaps he was still living with his guilt when he felt it was he, personally, who was responsible for his son's death, only nine years earlier. Perhaps it was the old reliable adage, "An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure."

Whatever my father's reasons were, Rose couldn't have cared less about having a sisters singing act come to fruition. I was disappointed! I know I would have enjoyed doing the whole package. The teacher's opinion was that I had the better singing voice, but Rose had a more powerful voice.

As in the past, I had too much respect for my father and was too shy to make an issue of it.

* * *

June, 1939: I was eighteen years old and had graduated from Samuel J. Tilden High School in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn, N.Y.

Rosh Hashanah! September/October, 1939--it's meant to be a happy, Jewish holiday and one of our most sacred holidays. The synagogues were filled to capacity, and Jews were praying for a happy Jewish New Year. Homes were cleaned spotlessly; the aroma of home-baked, tastefully fattening goodies filled the air and the welcome mat for unannounced visitor arrivals was the expected norm.

From head to foot, I was decked out in my new holiday finery. It was a beautiful day, and I was rarin' to go and visit someone--anyone.

My father invited me to join him to visit his brother, Jake--an uncle I had not seen or spoken to since I was a young child. Whatever perpetuated the feud between my father and his brother, I do not know, but the happy holiday spirit influenced my father to let bygones be bygones, and he was ready to make amends. Under the circumstances, my relatives were quite startled to see us, but made us feel comfortable.

My Uncle Jake, my Aunt Yetta and my father made small talk, and I felt that they were sincerely glad to see us. I also met my cousins. I did not recognize them. My older cousin was now a married man. My younger cousin, Willie, was about twenty years old and unattached. We were strangers and all grown up.

We spoke for awhile, and my cousin, Willie, invited me to a party for the coming Saturday night. My father was not part of our conversations, nevertheless, his ears tuned in and overheard the "party" discussion. It was to be held at Willie's club. Clubs were a common place for inexpensive socializing, and the boys belonging to it, for lack of space at home, would do their homework there, too. Usually, school friends would ban together and permanently rent a basement somewhere.

There were suspicions circulating that some of these boys' clubs had other ulterior motives. The one rule my parents continually stressed, and were strict about as we girls grew up, was that the most important thing for a girl to be concerned about was her reputation.

I was eighteen years old, and still my father objected to my attending this party. With a little persuasion from me, and a great deal from Willie, I could go to the party provided Rose was invited, too. Of course, Willie didn't know that my sister was tall and beautiful; all he knew was that she was my younger sister. Under the circumstances, albeit reluctantly, I had his permission to go to the part. He probably thought I would be safer if the two of us went together.

When Rose and I arrived, the party was already in progress. A nice looking young fellow approached Rose for a dance. I sat down quietly on the sofa. It didn't take long for another young man to sit down beside me. In no time, he put his arm around my shoulders. I was brought up very strictly. I did not look favorably on that, to be sure! By today's standards, I would be considered a prude!

While I was attempting to encourage this guy to keep his hands and arms to himself, the young man who first danced with Rose had, from a distance, observed the annoyance this other fellow was causing me.

I watched as he slowly walked over and politely, but firmly, said to the fellow sitting right besides me on the sofa, "She's with me!" We had never met before, nor had we been introduced to each other. With that, whether the fellow who had been annoying me believed the other fellow or not, nevertheless, he stood up and left for more condescending company.

With that, I thanked him for "rescuing" me. He introduced himself and told me his name was Sid. He then asked me to dance.

In a flash, the silliest thought ran through my mind: "Why, oh why did I take that hair permanent that day? The day of the party?" Hair permanents were done differently at that time. Today, it is set with a solution, a waiting period, and washed. Then, it was set with a solution and put under the hair dryer machine causing baby fine hair (like I have) to frizz up like a tightly closed accordion. To make it worse, it was my very first permanent.

As we continued to dance, my thoughts and frustrations continued to torment me. I realized at that moment that I was attracted to this tall, young man with the sweet smile and broad shoulders.

My thoughts were going like a house-a-fire. As we danced, I couldn't help thinking, "If only I did not agree to indulge in Rose's selfish desires"--I was always giving in to her, even when I thought I shouldn't.

Upon graduation, my parents had bought me a beautiful dress, and I loved it because it was so comfortable and flattering. It would do the same for any girl who wore it. But, instead, I allowed her to wear my graduation dress to the party, and I wore her dress and not my cup of tea!

It didn't matter what I was wearing or how badly I looked with my new tightly frizzed permanent hairdo, because Sid was hooked with no effort on my part. It was love at first sight for him.

He saw me the next night and every chance thereafter that he could.

Sid's family consisted of a father, mother, and three sisters, all younger than he. They all loved their brother, but couldn't resist teasing him, especially that particular night when he had a date with his best girl. The apartment they lived in had only one bathroom. Playing the teasing game, all three girls locked themselves into the bathroom, knowing their brother would want access to it before he left the house. Sid did not want to be late for his date. After giving his sisters proper warnings, and after their giggles continued behind the locked door, he physically broke down the bathroom door. Sid arrived at the set time, and he was not late for his date with me.

I have to laugh now, as I remember Sid's competition. There were Alan and Marty, and Bernie and Herbie. My four interested beaus did not like each other, for obvious reasons. When Sid came into the picture as a suitable beau, and became a threat to each one of them, the four, at-odds musketeers suddenly bonded together, trying to find a solution on how to get rid of their new threat!

They were all no match for Sid!

Sid went to Brooklyn College. He was given a full, free scholarship for high scholastic grades in high school. He was entitled to day classes with a full load of subjects. All he was responsible for was a fifty-cent registration fee each and every year.

However, he could not accept this wonderful girt. His dream was to one day become a doctor. Sid had to go to work to earn some money to contribute to his family's needs. Instead, he settled by going to evening classes after work, taking only a few subjects. The cost was still only fifty-cents a term.

Sid had a day job hand hammering designs onto large, silver platters. When work was over, he quickly had a hurried dinner just before taking the train to Brooklyn College. Near the subway entrance was a diner. Each and every evening, it was the same: a frankfurter and a cold root beer. The total cost was five cents.

The Depression years continued into its tenth year. In the year 1939, food purchased at the grocery store or market was practically a giveaway. A full dinner in a restaurant was approximately twenty to twenty-five cents. Before meeting Sid, I rarely went to a restaurant with a date (and never with my family). It was much too expensive; it was money they could not spare.

Sid continued to work during the day and go to school at night. Each week, though meager, Sid turned over his complete pay envelope to his mother to help pay for the family's expenses.

Sid's mother's name was Fannie, and she was the sweetest lady with a heart of gold (if that were possible). Secretly, she tried not to spend Sid's small but hard earnings; but, instead, saved most of the money for Sid, should he need it.

Sid was always the perfect gentleman in every way and a "sport" whenever he took me out on a date or brought me gifts. Most Saturdays, we went into New York City, which was always exciting for me. Our transportation was the trolley car first, then we took the train into the City.

Whenever in the City, we ate at our favorite Italian restaurant, "Romeo's." Comparing today's restaurant prices, there is only room for unbelievability! We ate a full, sumptuous, Italian dinner with unlimited bread, butter and beverages at a cost of twenty-five cents per person. After dinner, we went to see a new movie at the New York Paramount Theater or at another comparable movie theater in New York City.

Before I continue, it may be strange that I could possibly remember the prices of so many things from fifty years ago, but most all of my life I have been good at remembering numbers. As a comparison shopper, I had rarely needed to write down the cost of an item; I simply look at the price and it registers with me forever. Even today, at my age, I have not lost that gift.

One Saturday after dinner, we couldn't agree on the movie to see. Sid wanted to see John Wayne in a war film, and I wanted to see Betty Grable in a musical; so, we saw both movies at different movie theaters in NYC. This decision Sid made only proved what a truly clever man he was!

In December of 1939, on a freezing cold evening, we (and hundreds of other people) stood in a line that wound around the block, waiting for the theater ticket window to open. It was the very first showing of a new movie called, Gone With The Wind! It, indeed, was spectacular!

Sid, always remaining the perfect gentleman, did always go out of his way to make me feel important and to give me a really good time. I never knew what financial sacrifices he had to make for himself by doing so.

I remember a very special and fancy Chinese restaurant in town Sid would often take me to. Soft background music greeted us. The Chinese waiters wore black, neatly pressed suits, black bow ties and white shirts with stiffly starched collars. The tablecloths were of stark, white linen cloth, giving the appearance of utmost cleanliness. White gloves worn by the Chinese waiters as they served the food indicated elegance. The restaurant owner went to special effort to attract customers. A full course dinner, including Chinese tea, noodles and desert cost Sid a husky thirty-five cents per person (he splurged).

Going to college at night left only two days, sometimes three, when Sid and I were able to see each other. Two and a half months and never a kiss between us; until one day, at a Christmas party, Sid gave me a beautiful, large, round powder compact, gold in color with tiny, red stones in the center. And so, I gave him my first kiss…a small one, and he returned it.

I did not fall "head-over-heels" in love with Sid at first sight, or even in the beginning of our courtship. I knew I liked him a lot, and truly enjoyed being with him, definitely attracted to him, but there was no pitter-patter of my heartstrings, and I heard no bells ringing. I thought that that was the way it was supposed to be. I had to grow up. Sid was very intelligent, good looking in a rugged sort of way, and every girl's dream of a perfect gentleman. He made me feel happy, content, comfortable and safe. Sid went out of his way to please me, with compassion and concern for me when needed. And, without realizing it, I fell in love.

To bring everything into focus, I once again must regress to the tragic, unforgettable summer of 1929. At about the very same time that my brother, Chiam, had been killed, another accident had occurred to another young boy.

These two boys lived in different towns in Brooklyn, went to different schools, had different friends and used different means of transportation. They had never met each other or heard of each other from outside sources. However, that month of August, they were both involved in separate accidents, totally unrelated to each other. The older boy who died was my twelve and a half year-old brother, Chiam. The other young boy survived the accident. He was nine and a half years old. His name was Sidney Klein.

I vaguely remember hearing Sidney's accident being discussed in my parents' house very soon after my brother's death. It was written up in the Jewish newspaper called The Forvitz. Many years later, the full story was revealed to me.

This young, nine and a half year-old boy was with his parents, Max and Fanny Klein, visiting some relatives. Sidney, no doubt, was bored during this get-together, went looking for an adventure of some sort and found it. He climbed outside of his relatives' second floor apartment building window with intentions of crossing over to the adjacent window, a couple of feet away. Unfortunately, his legs weren't long enough. While reaching, he missed the ledge, then quickly slipped and fell two stories down onto the hard pavement below. It was an absolute miracle that the young boy was not killed. Apparently, no one witnessed it, because no one came forward to help.

In a great deal of pain, he forced himself to walk back up the two flights of stairs to his relatives' apartment. He did not say a word to anyone for fear of being scolded.

Later that afternoon, the family's visit over, they all walked the distance to the trolley stop station. Sidney was silent the entire time until they arrived home. Suddenly, he found it difficult to breathe.

His father called an ambulance, and he was rushed to the hospital's emergency room. Sidney was immediately placed into an oxygen tent. X-rays revealed internal bleeding, a ruptured spleen that had to be immediately removed, as well as other less serious injuries. Sidney's name was placed on the hospital's critical list.

The nine and a half year-old Sydney hovered between life and death. His grandfather, a highly religious old man sporting a long, white beard and wearing his usual black yarmulke, came to visit his grandson. He told him that he had a very special gift for him, one that he brought with him, straight from the synagogue. He explained that the gift he brought was a second Hebrew name that was blessed by G-d, with prayers for a speedy recovery and a long life.

The new Hebrew name Sidney received was "Chiam," the same Hebrew name that belonged to my brother.

Just prior to Max Klein's son's accident, Max read an article in the Jewish newspaper, The Forvitz, stating that a young boy was mortally injured whose name was Hymie Paly. The article continued to state that this boy, out riding his bicycle, was killed by a man driving his truck, who sped away without stopping to investigate. He especially remembered the boy's name, because the surgeon who performed the splenectomy on Max's son, Sidney, had the same name. The doctor's name was Dr. Paly!

All of the Paly children arriving at Ellis Island had the same last name, but each one's last name was documented and spelled differently.

Paly

Palley

Pallay

Palay

Paley

The children were Sol, George, Ben, Dave, Rose, and Minne.

* * *

There are countless ways for boys and girls to meet that could eventually lead to marriage. However, there is seldom this unusual scenario. It is almost a feeling I have that it was destined to be. I can't seem to let go and put it out of my mind the circumstance that brought Sid and me together. Regardless of the fact that there wasn't a ghost of a chance, the faintest probability, even the remotest possibility of my ever meeting Sid. Our paths simply did not cross, but in 1941 Sidney and I were married. It was as if there was a reason it was meant to be!

It's strange that my cousin, who I had not seen since I was a child (because of a feud between his father and my father), and I were reintroduced on one of the high religious holidays, Rosh Hashanah, after a lapse of twelve years. This made it possible for Sid and I to meet and later marry.

It was strange, too, that Sid and Willie were not even friends. Sid and Willie were merely distant acquaintances, who happened to live in the same neighborhood, though far from each other. They happened to cross the street together one day, and, as a polite gesture, stopped to say hello to each other.

Willie was having a party with his friends at their social club. Sid found it surprising when Willie invited him to join them for the approaching Saturday night get-together. Sid later told me that he told Willie that he would try to be there but had no intentions of going. He felt that he and Willie had nothing in common with each other, and he planned on studying for a college exam at home; he felt it was far more important. It's as if a powerful force had suddenly changed all of the dynamics!

Sid's sister, Terry, was not his favorite sibling. That Saturday night, Sid was studying in the living room. He had no bedroom of his own to study in. Each night, he slept in the kitchen on a folding cot. He opened it each night and closed it up each morning. Terry took full advantage and delight in annoying her brother as he studied.

Terry was a professional singer. She had a beautiful, powerful operatic voice and made the walls shake as she sang those endless, monotonous scales while playing the piano. She knew it and was bent on annoying her brother. That Saturday night, he asked Terry to practice singing her scales at another time, so that he could concentrate on his studies; but, fate took a hand in it, and Terry refused.

With that, Sid closed his books and went to the Party! Because of Willie's sudden appearance into my life, Sid and I did get to meet.

I saw Willie only one more time after that party. He and his family were invited to a family circle meeting held at my parents' house. They all came; but it was the last time. I then heard that Willie had moved to Texas and died shortly thereafter. He had cancer. I never really got to know him. It was as if Willie stayed on until he had a mission from G-d to fulfill: us!

The list of odd occurrences cannot be ignored and just be considered coincidental. I truly believe that there is so much more to life that none of us truly understands. Did my father secretly take comfort by believing that how I met Sid had some special meaning and that the whole scenario was meant to be ("Bershet" in Jewish)? Was his belief that his new son-in-law, Sidney, now called Herman Sidney ("Chiam" in Hebrew), a replacement son for the Chiam (Hymie) my father lost on that tragic day in August 1929?

Sid always was his favorite son-in law. Only G-d and the Heavens above really know.

In the 1930's, houses were heated with coal. Each and every week, a delivery of black, shinny chunks of coal was delivered to our house. It was poured into a chute through an open basement window that landed into a large, enclosed coal bin in our unfinished part of the basement. Opposite was a big fat-bellied furnace. The shiny coals were fed into the furnace, and as the burning coals reached the proper heat, it funneled its way up into pipes that lead directly into stationary, exposed radiators. The escaping steam left a hissing sound that spread warmth throughout each room and throughout the entire house. Temperature controlled, we were toasty warm in the wintertime. It gave us plenty of hot water, too.

My parents hired a "steady," Italian janitor. His only job was to take care of the furnace. Each and every day of the week, and several times daily, our janitor would return to our house, remove the ashes from the furnace, and place them into tall, galvanized metal cans; then he would refill the furnace with fresh coals again. At the end of each day, the janitor would remove the ash cans, bring them to the front of the house and set them at the curb. In the morning, the cans already emptied, the janitor would place the cans back into the basement, once again.

The janitor was a middle-aged man, and always had ash and soot all over his face and in his hair. He serviced many houses on the block in the same capacity as at my parents' house. Long and difficult work hours, seven days a week, after a while began to "tell" on him. Tired-looking and bent over as he walked, many times gave him the appearance of being an old man. However, he was thankful he had a job.

* * *

Little things I remember back then that were commonplace and expected. I sometimes compare the medical practices of then and today's doctors.

Back then, whether a child or an adult was too ill to leave the bed to travel to be examined by the doctor at his office, within a reasonable amount of time (or sooner, if necessary), the doctor came calling at the patient's home carrying his small, black, leather medical bag. From personal experiences, the doctor came in snowstorms, in rain and thunder storms, during daytime and in the middle of the night. He was there for his patient with his unhurried, warm bedside manner. He was a credit to his profession.

Today, the doctor's nurse informs the patient to go to the emergency room at the hospital, or instead, fight the outside elements and get to the office at the doctor's convenient time.

However, I sometimes remember how much the medical remedies have advanced for the better without the general population giving it any thought at all. I'll never forget the sore throats my sister and I continually suffered from. "Tonsillitis" they called it. Today, we take so many things for granted. Now it seems so simple and easy. A few days in bed, a few pills to be taken, and the outcome is usually successful.

When I was a child, we didn't have aspirin or any of the other numerous pills like it to control elevated temperatures. All that I can remember, each time the doctor came calling to the house, he brought a white, sulfur powder with him. Each dose was wrapped in a thin, white paper wrapper, like found wrapped around a slice of chewing gum. Diluted in water, we drank it down very quickly because of the bitter taste.

Tonsillitis caused blisters in the back of our throats. The treatment for that was to use a long-handled, very thin and soft brush dipped into a horrendously smelly and bitter tasting, dark brown liquid solution called "Argerol."

My mother would quickly insert the medicated brush down our throats and quickly paint the blistered areas.

I also remember when I was a youngster, the summer months were unbearably hot. Our house windows were always kept wide open. It was very easy to hear the shrill voice of the iceman ringing out as he drove up with his horse and flattop wagon yelling, "Iceman! Iceman!" It was his way of notifying the people that he had arrived.

Huge, oversized blocks of ice lay covered underneath a heavy tarp to keep the ice from melting too quickly. When given the go-ahead by the customer as to the size wanted, and what the cost would be, the iceman returned to his flattop wagon, cut a chunk of ice, and with giant, hooked tongs swung it onto his cloth-covered shoulder. He climbed and carried the ice up a couple of flights of stairs into the apartment and placed it into an icebox. Refrigerators were only in experimental stages using gas and were not ready for public usage. A pan was placed beneath the icebox in order to catch the melted water drippings that needed to be emptied every day.

During the cold winter months, my mother placed her perishable foods into a specially built box outside her kitchen window.

* * *

My father was a loving but very strict man, and we all loved him very much. We also gave him the utmost respect.

Whenever a group of our young friends partied in our basement, my father would intentionally, and frequently, go downstairs to the unfinished basement to throw a few coals into the furnace. Not because it was needed, but it was his way of playing detective.

Directly opposite in full view was the finished basement, as he checked up on things to make sure the party was not getting out of hand and that the boys and girls were all behaving themselves properly.

On a late, Sunday afternoon, a "grown up" boys and girls party was in progress in my parents' basement. My parents kept their Victrola along with their records there. I remember the boys had discovered them while being in a silly, frivolous and mischievous mood. Many of those records were priceless, authentic recordings of the then admired and world-renowned tenor, Enrico Caruso. They began tossing them around and to each other like they were Frisbees. All records then were the breakable kind. It didn't take very long for each record to meet its doom, as they came crashing down to the floor; and, unfortunately, they were all destroyed.

That Sunday afternoon saved those boys from a good scolding by my father, because suddenly continuous vexing news bulletins were being blasted over the radio's airwaves. The date was December 7^th, 1941. It was a day that will forever live in history, and one that no one will ever forget!

On a relaxing December 7, 1941 afternoon, without forewarning or knowledge of a sneak attack about to happen, suddenly out of nowhere a sky full of Japanese warplanes came into view. They quickly and viciously began raining down a succession of bombs onto our United States fleet in Pearl Harbor. So many of our huge warships were completely destroyed; hundreds of planes sitting on the decks of these ships too were completely destroyed, and thousands of people on land or stationed on ships didn't have a chance. They were instantly killed, too.

Destroyed: 21 ships

Destroyed: 300 planes

Killed: 2,388 civilians and sailors.

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the only President in our United States history to ever become elected to a third term, immediately took to the radio airwaves, declaring that a state of war now existed against the Japanese Imperial Empire. It lasted until 1945. President Roosevelt died in 1944 of a massive stroke to the brain. 

Up until that point, our friends--both boys and girls--found our home to be a pleasant "hangout" for casual outdoor get-togethers, as well as parties that were held in my parents' basement. They were good, decent, clean-type young people who liked and felt comfortable with our parents, too.

Although I was no longer considering any of my former beaus as possibilities, nevertheless they would often just drop in to say "hello," whether the Paly sisters were at home or not. They often stayed for a while, indulging in conversations with my father. My mother still spoke only Yiddish.

Sid never did actually propose to me. Never asking me to marry him, he did come close to it one day.

"What would you say if I asked you to marry me?" he asked. I didn't think it a real proposal because of the word "if" in his question.

Today, I would have been a great deal more forward and asked him, "Why the 'if?'" but I didn't. Instead, my reply was no better than his question, leaving Sid completely in the dark as to what he really wanted to hear.

To overcome my puzzling answer to his "somewhat" proposal, Sid took the initiative, and on May 10, 1940 presented me with an expensive birthday gift that sealed our relationship. The gift was beautiful. It consisted of a bracelet and a matching picture locket with a chain--all 14K pink and yellow gold with a Florentine finish to enhance it. To add to its beauty, two shaped hearts sat side by side on the face of the bracelet. To match was the heart-shaped locket. Engravings on both sides gave it a warm and personalized touch.

To celebrate the day that we met on October 14, 1939, Sid had given me a beautiful wristwatch, now owned by one of my granddaughters. The gold locket is now owned by my daughter, Ellie, and the gold bracelet was stolen by thieves, who broke into my home.

On May 10, 1941, Sid gave me a 1.09-carat diamond engagement ring, and plans for a spring or summer 1942 wedding began.

In 1941, Sid wanted to have his very own automobile. His new brother-in-law, Jack, did have his very own automobile and was an excellent driver. To please Sid, Jack taught him the fundamentals of driving, and when Sid was assured he could handle it on his own, he immediately went shopping for his own car. Money, money, money! The one thing no one had enough of! After weeks of shopping, Sid did find a car--a very old one!

Short in length, tall in height with two running boards--one on each side--it resembled a box. The car looked especially old because of its dull, faded, zapped out gray paint. However, there was one good thing, and one bad thing, about the car. The good thing was that the twenty-five dollars Sid could afford to pay is what he paid for it. The bad thing was that the car needed a new rear-end. Sid's brother-in-law, Jack, happened to have a friend in the car junk business, and for a couple of dollars, it was taken care of.

I remember how thrilled Sid was and how happy I was for him. When I seated myself comfortably in the front seat and the ride began, how proud I was of him. I might as well have been driven in a Rolls Royce. I remember the price of gasoline. Normal price then was one dollar for eight gallons of gas. A little shopping around, and one dollar bought the customer ten gallons of gas.

In December of 1941, we were officially at war with Japan. My father liked Sid a great deal and only had our best interests at heart. One day soon after, he suggested we marry ahead of time than we had planned to. He knew that the Army did not favor taking married men, then. He stressed the sooner the better.

We agreed, and one week later on December 14, 1941, Sid and I were married by a Justice of the Peace in an American courtroom. To ease my father's worries, we also agreed to be married in the Jewish religion very soon after.

I was twenty years old, and I had never been to a wedding. It was a sign of the times. I had no means of comparison to know what a wedding should be like. My father never mentioned how big a wedding he planned to make for us. My mother left it completely up to him. I knew my father could not afford a big wedding, so I asked him for nothing, but hoped he would soon volunteer to discuss it with us.

There were three secrets in varying degrees that Sid did not share with me before we were married. It wouldn't have affected our relationship, although Sid might have thought that they would.

During the hot, summer months, I always loved going to the beach; and we did go most times when it was possible. After we were married, it took two complete summers in a row before I realized that each time I suggested spending a couple of hours at the beach, Sid either wasn't in the mood, or was too busy, or was tired, or wanted to visit other places than the beach. When I finally insisted, he finally told me that he HATED the beach and refused to go again. My beach days were over, unless I wanted to go alone. I decided against that. On rare occasions, both of our families went in a group, so we tagged along with them.

Secondly, Sid had a most hostile aversion to eating already cooked meat or fowl on the bone. The tiniest bit of fat, skin or vein on the food was enough cause for Sid not to eat any of it at all.

My mother never forgot that late Sunday afternoon dinner as we all sat in the formal dining room. It was during our courtship. My mother's most impressive and most delicious recipe was the way she cooked her breaded, fried veal cutlets, which was to be our dinner. We rarely ate it, because it was a costly cut of meat. It looked absolutely, invitingly wonderful, and it smelled heavenly as my mother placed a generously sized portion of the food before him. However, the veal was on a long bone with a slight amount of fat around the edges.

My mother couldn't help notice Sid's constant maneuvering of his food beneath his knife and fork. It was wintertime, and the house was comfortably cool, but Sid kept wiping the sweat off of his brow. He was polite when my mother questioned him if there was any problem. He said no, there wasn't any. Sid did manage to eat a small portion of the veal cutlets, but only out of respect for my mother and her cooking.

After we were married, it became a standard practice for me to stand at the kitchen sink and with scissors in hand, trim every little bit of fat, skin or vein off the meat, veal or chicken.

Sid's third secret was a bit more involved. He told me a little "white lie" when I met him for the first time, no doubt to impress me. He told me that he was twenty years old. I was eighteen years old then.

I often wondered about his age being twenty. It didn't add up. When I met Sid's father and mother, they told me they were married for twenty years. In my heart, I believed Sid's mother had been pregnant with Sid before they were married. I didn't want to bring it to Sid's attention for fear of embarrassing him. By today's standards, it is acceptable; however, eighty years earlier in 1920, it was considered shameful.

Sid's mother, Fannie, knew Sid had lied to me. She was terribly embarrassed and pleaded with Sid to tell me the truth; but he would not tell me he was nineteen (and not twenty) years old. For two years and two months, I carried that secret with me. Did my parents figure it out, I wondered?

On December 14, 1941, the six of us, Sol and Mary, Max and Fannie, Sid and myself stood at the Marriage License Bureau window to get the forms needed to be filled out before being married by a judge of the court. I filled out my form, and Sid was in the process of filling out his. I noticed that Sid's mother was being very uneasy. I also noticed that she had bitten her fingernails down as far as it was possible. I knew she liked me, so why was she fretting so? I was the one getting married.

Sid filled out the papers and all he had to do was sign them. He had waited until the very last possible moment before telling me of his lie about his age. He knew me, and he knew that I wouldn't back out at the last minute.

It didn't matter to me whether he was twenty or nineteen years old. I told him and everyone in our group that it didn't matter. However, it temporarily saddened me that he caused his mother and me unnecessary concerns. I told Sid I loved him, and of course I would marry him.

Once that was over, everyone looked and acted happy, especially his mother, Fannie. She must have felt the honor of her reputation had been restored!

Once Sid and I were married in court, my mother and I went shopping for a wedding gown while my father made the rounds looking for a satisfactory place for the wedding to be held. Exhausting Brooklyn, he finally went into the City. He found a low budgeted nightclub called the Rainbow Inn (not to be confused with the famous Rainbow room in New York City). The following day, my dad and I returned. I was shown where the reception was to be held. I thought the place was quite nice. After further deliberations, I gave my approval. The wedding date was set for December 27, 1941.

It included live evening entertainment with a band, a dancing girls' review, and a vocalist. We were given a sectioned off area for the wedding guests to party in, and a varied kosher dinner menu to choose from. My father chose the chicken dinner, and I once again gave my approval. I did not know then Sid's aversion to chicken on the bone.

Prior to the wedding reception, the wedding ceremony location my father chose was to be held on the premises of Rabbi Miliken in a building across the street. We walked into the building and I viewed the choice my father had made. Having no knowledge or means of comparison, I once again gave my approval; but the moment I opened the entry door, I was disappointed.

It was necessary to walk straight up one long flight of stairs in a dimly lit, narrow hallway. At the top, the door opened into one, long room. Very cheaply set up with chairs lined up on both sides of the isle laid a long, faded carpet runner leading up to a very plain "kupper" (altar). To the left of the altar was a very small bathroom with one toilet and one sink.

The wedding guest list was to be a short one. Attending were to be our immediate families--aunts and an uncle (not one considered a favorite of mine). Cousins were not invited (they might have brought some laughter to the place). Sid's best friend, Mike Levine, was invited, too! I did not invite my best friends, Rhoda Miller and Margie Slain. They were snobs. Rhoda later married a rabbi, and Margie later a rich, old millionaire. Both were divorced later on.

Had I insisted on an alternative type of wedding, no doubt I would have made my parents feel inadequate and hurt their feelings. I would have been happier if Sid and I were married by a rabbi in a simple ceremony in Brooklyn, close to home, and then had a simple dinner in a restaurant. Those invited would only have been our two immediate families and a few close friends. I would then have invited my very close friends, Rhoda and Margie. However, I know my parents wanted to give us something more festive, with their brothers and sisters attending (my aunts and uncles). I had no close relationship with any of them.

The guests arrived at the rabbi's quarters, the wedding ceremony took place and Sid and I were married. It was not a customary ceremony. Without consulting us to get our approval, the rabbi went into a dialogue that brought gloom to us, personally, and the guests, as well. He spoke about the war thrust upon us, with its inevitable horrors and brutal resulting consequences. He spoke about precious young sons of fathers and mothers, marching off to war, who would be maimed and killed, never to return again to their loved ones. I don't know if any of our relatives and guests cried, but I suddenly exploded and burst into hysterical crying.

Racked with sobs, I didn't even wait for the normal kiss expected soon after the ceremony was completed. Today, I don't remember Sid breaking the customary wineglass. I ran into the bathroom to complete my display by putting cold water on my eyes. When I emerged, I offered no explanations to my families.

Perhaps it was all my worries suddenly surfacing at once; perhaps it was the emotional tensions of rushing our wedding in a period of less than two weeks; perhaps I was worried because we were beginning our new lives together and we didn't have a dime saved; perhaps it was Sid's losing his job three days before the wedding took place.

Although his boss was invited to the wedding, instead of a wedding gift and Christmas gift, he gave Sid his "walking papers." Financial difficulties was his boss's excuse. He could not afford to pay Sid his eighteen dollars per week salary. No money, no job, no prospects and we were about to go on a honeymoon.

The wedding ceremony over, we all walked across the street for the reception at the Rainbow Inn. The service was good, the food was good and the live entertainment was good, too.

Somehow, I can't seem to remember our guests getting up to dance. All I remember about dancing was my grandfather, Charlie, probably a bit drunk, but known to be a bit of a "ham," joined the cast of the entertaining dancing girls on stage. They were good sports about it and allowed my grandfather to infiltrate their dance number. I had a good laugh and enjoyed watching my grandfather make his debut!

My aunts and uncles were not old, but they certainly acted older. The ladies, in their dark, calf-length dresses, and the men in their dark suits, acted like they were strangers with one another. I remember them sitting glumly at their dinner tables--no laughter, and very little conversation amongst themselves.

We should have had many more young people at the wedding to cheer things up. It was supposed to be a happy celebration.

Perhaps it was the ramifications of the War and what the rabbi had said during the wedding ceremony that could happen to their loved ones. Perhaps they were dreading the late hour-long ride home to Brooklyn and the Bronx with trains and trolley cars. If they were lucky, someone might have had a car.

Or…

Perhaps it was their knowing that when it was time for them to leave and wish the bride and groom well, it was customary for them to have a monetary gift in hand, and they knew that they would and could not.

I was surprised when Sid and I received only a few five-dollar bills. Almost all of my aunts and uncles, as well as my father-in-law's best friends he had invited, gave us nothing at all. Lots of promises were made for the wedding presents to be sent, but in their hearts they knew that those promises would be broken--and they were.

Our honeymoon plans were to drive Sid's car up to South Fallsburg, New York, and find a hotel to stay in. We knew accommodations would not be a problem. The day of the wedding, Sid discovered his car's brakes were slipping and not holding. His best friend, Mike Levine, offered to drive us into New York City for the wedding and later up to the Catskill Mountains for our honeymoon.

After our guests said their good-byes to us, we headed back to Brooklyn to change out of our formal wear and get ready for our trip. I was one nervous bride. My sister, rose, went along to make sure Mike did not fall asleep at the wheel. A persistent talker, she would just fit the bill (and did).

We located a place called "Klein's Hilltop Hotel." We registered, and Mike and Rose turned the car around and headed back to Brooklyn.

Years later, we returned wanting to spend a few days at that hotel, purely for nostalgic reasons. We searched high and low, but could not locate it. Perhaps it was torn down only to be replaced with a newer and better hotel.

Our return trip home was with a Greyhound bus. In 1941, the Wurtsboro Hill was considered a "Boy, what a hill!" kind of hill. If your car made it, your car was considered real ok. Today, cars are so much improved, no one would even notice the Wurtsboro Hill as being a significant hill.

We had a bit of excitement on the Greyhound bus when the slippery ice on that hill caused the bus to go into a downward slide. Everyone on the bus held their breath, except for one man. Panicky, he ran to the front door, pounding on it for the bus driver to open up. He wanted to get out. He could have gotten killed. Sid said he was with a lady companion, leaving her just sitting there. When the bus was under control again, the man sheepishly (and no doubt embarrassed) returned to his seat next to his companion.

Just prior to the wedding, Sid and I rented a one-bedroom apartment on East 54^th Street and Snyden Lane in Brooklyn, seven blocks from my parents' house. We were on a third floor walk-up--no elevators and no intercom system, we also had no phone then or later.

Sid's sister, Dotty, with her newly married husband, Jack, gave us a wedding gift of a Formica kitchen table with four, chrome/aluminum straight-legged chairs. The year before when they had married, Sid and I had given them a kitchen table with four chairs, too. Before we left on our honeymoon, the kitchen set was delivered and placed in our newly rented apartment--and the dizzying pace of the merry-go-round continued.

All wedding costs were paid for by my parents. My father-in-law did offer to pay part of that bill, but my father said no thank you, claiming that, as father of the bride, the wedding was his responsibility. However, before we left for our honeymoon, both of our parents decided to buy us a wedding gift and share the cost.

Our parents, Sol and Mary and Max and Fannie, became and remained very close friends to the end of their days on earth.

Sid and I were taken to a furniture district. Their wedding gift to us would be bedroom and living room furniture. We were thrilled that we would have a place to put our heads down on and comfortable furniture to sit and relax on.

The storeowner was "hungry" for a sale and wanted to do business with us. Sid and I chose inexpensive furniture and it was adequate. We didn't want to burden our parents any more than was absolutely necessary because of their generosity.

The bedroom furniture consisted of a double bed and mattress with no headboard, a veneer chest of drawers with a small dresser and two night tables. For the living room, we chose an upholstered mohair sofa and two upholstered chairs to match.

My father-in-law, Max Klein, was an absolute genius when it came to price bargaining. After "chewing" down the storeowner to a ridiculously low price, he had them note on the bill: all the furniture had to come directly from the warehouse and not to be the furniture demonstrated to us in the store.

When it seemed like the sale had been completed, Max was somehow able to get the furniture storeowner to give us a wedding gift, too, with no additional charge. The free extras were a cocktail coffee table, one oblong living room end table, one round top living room lamp table with a choice of beautiful lamps and a shade.

Our furniture was to be delivered during the week that Sid and I were on our honeymoon. Notified of the day and time of delivery, Max waited patiently at our new apartment. Before unloading the delivery truck, one of the men needed to climb the three flights of stairs to get the approval.

Piece by piece, the deliverymen carried each heavy piece up the three flights before final completion. As protection against possible abrasions, large, brown paper wrappings covered each piece of furniture.

My father-in-law was not one to be asleep at the switch, as the saying goes. He was sharp as a tack! Max questioned the man getting the approval to unload and deliver if all of the furniture had come directly from the warehouse and not the store. He answered in the affirmative.

The brown paper wrappings were removed. The deliveryman watched in horror as Max placed his hand inside the sofa and removed a small piece of white paper with the signature of Max Klein on it! He continued with the two, heavy mohair chairs and ended with the bedroom furniture drawers, each having a "Max Klein" marker. Max had also noted small markings on the backs of the bedroom furniture. It was obvious that all was done in the store at the time of purchase.

The bill held in the hands of the delivery driver hung limply from his fingers, fearing the worst. The worst was about to happen! Checking the bill once again, it plainly stated, no floor sample furniture would be accepted. It was the same floor sample furniture we had been looking at and sitting on in the store.

I'm glad I was not there! My father-in-law was as smart or smarter than the furniture storeowner. The men had no choice but to remove each piece of furniture from the apartment. Two days later, a new delivery was made. Would they chance it and redeliver the same furniture again? Somehow, I don't think so! Other tell-tail signs might suddenly surface and then where would they be?

We kept all the same furniture for ten to fifteen years before making changes.

* * *

 January 1942: back from our honeymoon, we settled into our new apartment, our new furniture, and our new way of life together. We were home.

With the help of my father, Sid became a "jobber," like his former boss had been. A jobber is the middleman between the manufacturer and the storekeeper. Retailers found it prohibitive to buy merchandise in large quantities, a requirement most manufacturers insisted on. Therefore, the retailers had to rely on the jobber to get small orders filled, at a slightly higher cost.

Sid rented a small loft on Fulton Street in Brooklyn, New York and started his new adventure as an entrepreneur. From the very beginning, he did very well, especially in the selling end of it. However, the big problem was getting the retailers to pay their bills. They were not paid on time and usually very much later on. Some had not paid their bills at all.

As the saying goes, it was like "trying to get blood from a stone." They just didn't have the money! After six months, not only was Sid being financially hurt by his customers' late (or lack of) payments; but worse, he was unable to pay my father for the slippers that he had purchased earlier. Eventually, they did pay up, and my father was paid, too. Sid continued to forge ahead determined to make his new business work.

In the meantime, defense factories were springing up all over the United States. Messages were constantly being broadcast over the radio for the public to become involved in the war effort. Young men were being drafted and marching off to basic training camps, and then it was on to the war front. Older men and married, young men were taking jobs in defense plants, and for the first time women, too, in huge numbers were entering and adapting to the challenging work ahead.

For the first time, women felt liberated as they left their daily "Jock of all trades" tasks in their homes with little or no appreciation for their selfless deeds and no compensation to speak of.

Finally, after weighing all of the possibilities that could arise and a serious talk with a family friend and attorney, Mr. Zash, Sid was convinced that the time was right to go in another direction.

The war and patriotism were both at the top of the agenda, and so Sid decided that it was the right time and the right thing to do: be patriotic and bring home a guaranteed weekly paycheck. He gave up the loft on Fulton Street and got a job working in the Brooklyn Navy Yard's defense factory. There, they were producing ball bearings and assorted airplane parts.

Sid's new job began by working on the night shift. He felt he had a better chance for advancement, and that is exactly what happened. In a short span of time, Sid advanced to Managerial Supervisor. By that time, he already knew how to operate each and every complex machine. He also learned on his own how to repair each and every machine so that in an emergency, when the assigned repair technicians were unavailable, Sid could and would temporarily fill in, thus avoiding unnecessary layoffs.

It didn't take long for Sid to become qualified in setting the prices for piece-workers on new parts as well as repricing old airplane parts, always with a special stopwatch timer in hand. Before long, under Sid's supervision, he hired several members of his family to work in the defense plant: Sid's brothers-in-law, Jack (Dotty's husband) and Abie (Micky's husband), and his uncle, Willie (Sid's mother's sister's husband).

For the first time, each man was bringing home a decent paycheck. So pleased was Uncle Willie's wife, Aunt Pauline, that she wanted to please Sid, too. Aunt Pauline, knowing how much Sid loved eating the confectionery Hallavah, sent Sid a Hallavah sandwich (Uncle Willie being the bearer). Inside a huge, oversized buttered roll was filled with marbleized Hallavah. I, too, sent a normal, varied sandwich as Sid's lunch each and every day. Sid kept it a secret from me that he was eating a double lunch each day and had no explanations why he was suddenly beginning to put on weight.

Years later, Sid made several requests for such sandwiches at home, and I satisfied his "sweet tooth." However, I thought it was horrendous! It was like eating a roll with a candy bar inside and smothered with sweet butter.

January, 1942.

The big problem was Sid worked at night when I slept, and I worked during the day when he slept. We didn't get to see each other much during the week. Many times we would meet on the stairway. He would be through for the day, and I would be just beginning my day. We would speak briefly, kiss and say our good-byes. However, we did look forward to our weekends.

For me, it was a long trolley car ride to work--approximately one hour. It went as far as the last stop before turning around at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge going into Manhattan. It was a ten-minute walk before climbing the three flights of steps into my father's slipper factory. Nevertheless, I loved going to work each morning; I loved being the bookkeeper in the office. I loved the people working there, and I sure liked the eleven dollars each forty-hour week.

In my mid-teens, I remember all of those Saturday mornings before I met Sid. Bright and early, my father and I left the house early. He would treat me to breakfast in a "restaurant." Actually, it was at the Sunrise Cafeteria before taking the trolley car ride to his slipper factory. After I completed all the payroll checks and odds and ends bookkeeping tasks, we returned home. For that work, I was compensated with being fifty cents richer than I was that morning.

Sid wasn't happy that I decided to work after we married, but I had promised him I would quit after one year. I did so to the exact one-year cutoff. He wanted a "stay-at-home" wife. I am sure he wished I were home sooner considering what happened one day.

One afternoon, I was at work and Sid had just awakened from his sleep. After having had his breakfast, he had some trash he wanted to throw down the dumbwaiter, which was situated out in the hall, not more than ten steps away from our apartment. Completely barefoot and nude (except for his bottom underwear shorts), Sid checked to see if anyone was out in the hallway for modesty reasons. The coast being clear, Sid quickly ventured out leaving the door slightly ajar. No sooner did the trash enter the dumbwaiter, than Sid heard the click of our apartment door shut tight. He had forgotten to release the bottom lock on the door and was unable to get back in again.

The neighbors he feared he might encounter in the hallway were not even at home, but he needed a key to get back into our apartment. The "super" of our building lived in another large complex apartment building around the block. In his very brief attire, Sid left the building barefoot and embarrassed and went looking until he found the super. He was one unhappy man that day! (The same thing happened to his father in Puerto Rico years later.)

* * *

I loved my mother very much, but thus far I haven't written too much about her. She was a wonderful woman: always sweet, kind and loving. I can't remember her ever raising her voice to me or punishing me for anything, never! However, she was never one for displaying open, demonstrative affection to any of her children, not even to my father. Instead, her affection was shown with an occasional compliment.

My mother taught me how to bake--especially her delicious apple pie (more like an apple cake). Years back, it had become a standard weekly recipe for me to indulge. My daughter, Barbara, has been baking her grandmother's apple pie recipe since she was married, and it is always a treat for her family and friends.

My mother was also well known for her unusual and outstandingly tasty baked "holly." Sid had always complimented my mother by saying it was better than the best cake he ever ate (and Sid sure loved his cake). I did learn how to bake the holly. However, repeated hand-kneadings--in order for the dough to rise sufficiently--required a great deal of time. When my first daughter, Ellie, was born, I stopped baking it. However, my mother always had Sid in mind. She often baked two hollies at a time, giving Sid a half of one holly to take home with him.

When I entered Samuel J. Tilden High School, I was required to take a home economics class. The project for the term was for the students to learn how to sew up a dress from "scratch" to wear.

Although, my mother had previously taught me how to work her foot-peddled, Singer sewing machine, nevertheless, the assignment for the dress had to be sewn by hand and with perfect stitches to get a passing grade.

The teacher's first homework assignment for the students was to buy a dress pattern that we liked, then purchase the fabric. The pattern that I purchased was very easy to follow. It had excellent instructions. Once that was done at home, we were to do the hand sewing in the classroom.

My mother was my personal, private teacher. Together, we pinned the soft fabric to the pattern, notched it, cut it, and last, basted it. When it came to matching up the cut-out notches, fabric to fabric, my mother had a special way of saying it in Hebrew, "Vee it bets aahk." When matching up isn't exact, don't force it. Do allow the fabric to go the way it is begging to go. The fabric will "sit" better. I have applied that thought many times successfully during my lifetime.

When completed, I had accomplished owning a beautiful dress ensemble. Using the same, two complementary fabrics of the dress material, I braided the fabrics into a wreath type headpiece. Adorning the back of the headpiece hung long, flowing chiffon streamers about two inches wide (to match the colors of the completed dress ensemble: cherry red and pale chartreuse).

At the end of the term, the home economics teacher put on a fashion show in the High School auditorium, selecting only a handful of students from each of her many classes. These students were to model their own hand-made "creations." Very shy, but equally proud, I walked out onto that stage. With the sudden sound of loud applause, I guess a little bit of "ham" surfaced within me.

1941--Sid and I were married. In 1943, Sid left his job working in the defense plant. "There was no future there." Sid joined my father in his struggling slipper manufacturing business. A good salesman, Sid was a hopeful asset. Hard work and working additional long hours in the factory became a way of life. The war was taking its toll in more ways than one and people were buying only the bare necessities and waiting to resume a normal life again. It would be many years later before the pendulum would swing over to the other side.

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