Kicking & Screaming Into a Wonderful World

Maurice, Evelyn & Margaret

         Weidenthal family lore has it that on Thanksgiving Day, many years ago, a little guy to be named Maurice, for his grandfather, came splashing out of his mother’s womb, kicking and screaming, hanging on to his twin sister’s big toe for dear life. 

         The event is reported to have taken place at a small hospital converted from an aging apartment house on E.55^th St. between Cedar and Woodland Avenues.  It was not much of a neighborhood   and in a matter of days young Maurice and his twin Margaret were hustled up Cedar Hill to a rented duplex on Meadowbrook Blvd. near Lee Rd. in Cleveland Heights.

        

The Revolution of Coventry

   A considerable number of years ago, the father of a good friend got involved in a new kind of venture for the selling of food and other household commodities.
   And they decided to open their first store on Coventry Road, in Cleveland Heights.  This was not your ordinary mom and pop food store that we were used to in those days. There was no counter where you talked to real person and told them what you wanted and they went and got it for you. Clearly this approach was no longer stylish; going out of fashion as the American dream moved dramatically forward in the 40’s and 50’s. It was labeled “progress”.
   It was summer, and my friend and I were hired to stack the aisles with all this stuff.
   This store was big for its time. Three store fronts wide. It had everything imaginable.  Of course, you picked them out yourself and put them into some kind of wheeled cart. Thankfully, there were some employees around to help you.  And when you were through you went to the front of the store, stood in line and paid a cashier.  Cleverly, they called it Pick-n-Pay. 

Our Last Christmas Tree

  The troubling news that Wal-Mart, Walgreen’s and several other big box stores had caved into the pressure of religious Christian right and will bring the theme “Merry Christmas” back into their stores, replacing the more palatable, “Happy Holidays” sent my mind spinning back to the early 1930’s and the year of our last Christmas tree.  I suspect that we were not the only secular or Reform Jewish family in Cleveland to erect a Christmas tree in the living room during those blustery final weeks of December during the Depression.

  Our tree, of course, in my impressionable young mind, was special.  It was enormous, majestic. And the center of a lot of excitement and anticipation, that had absolutely nothing to do with the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ.
    For me Christmas was sneaking downstairs in the early a.m. of that “holiday” to get a look at what “Santa” had brought. It brought joy to our house. At age five I thought nothing more of it than that. In fact, Christmas, the tree, the gifts, the songs was the major topic of conversation among classmates and in the classroom at Coventry School in Cleveland Heights.

My Dirty Little Secret

Lida & Maurice Weidenthal 1911

   There are photos of my grandmother Lida and my grandfather Maurice romping in the water in the strangest kind of swimming attire. Defying simple description. There was my Dad hanging from a tree limb over the beach, playing some kind of ball with the others and running in the the water.

  I cannot identify the day my body and my mind become completely obsessed with the need to swim.  Not the ordinary, once a week “let’s go the beach” kind of need. That’s controlled, modified by weather, where you happened to be, one’s mood etc. This is uncontrollable. I need to do it every day. The circumstances are irrelevant. Much more scary, much more psychologically mysterious.

  I certainly wasn’t addicted when I was a kid. I had ear trouble, and kept away from the water much of my youth.  When I went to Cumberland pool as a youngster, my friends would jump off into the deep end.  I would timidly approach the three feet, splash around pretending that I knew what I was doing, and then return to the safety of the deck and hide behind a book or something. 

My Orvis Adventure

  A new store that specializes in men’s outdoor wear has just opened on Chagrin Blvd. It’s called Orvis, an old-time high-end outfitter that I have known by catalog for many years. I was intrigued by the news, and stopped by a few days after the premier. It turned out to be a wonderful place, spacious, a huge selection of leather, canvas, waterproof, windproof, and snow proof garments, some guaranteed to keep you warm to 20 below. A little expensive. But there before my eyes were some of the coats and jackets that I have always admired. And craved. I started trying them on. I smiled at myself as I looked in the mirror. I saw a country gentleman, properly prepared for any winter-like eventuality.

Remembering Uncle Leo Weidenthal,The Lion of Willowdale

  Sitting across the dinner table from him, as I often did, one would be hard pressed to recognize that this quiet, scholarly man had been the hard hitting, investigative City Hall reporter for the Plain Dealer. Revered and sometimes feared by the town’s leading politicos.  City fathers dubbed him Leo the Lion of Willowdale for his journalistic tenacity. (“Willowdale”—the English translation of Weidenthal).   When he got on to a story or a cause, he never let go.  Among the more esoteric were the Shakespeare Cultural Garden which he campaigned for in 1916, the Hebrew Gardens, and the Cleveland Cultural Gardens which came eleven years later.  He and his brother (my grandfather Maurice who later founded the Jewish Independent) successfully campaigned for the creation of the Mall surrounded by stately public buildings, from Public square to the lake.