My Life With Guns

            The first time I ever saw, heard or touched a gun was in Mr. Tubaugh’s ninth grade English class when Don Glasser accidentally fired a starter pistol at the ceiling.

           There was, to say the least, mayhem.  Naomi Garber, who  was  sitting next to Don, screamed hysterically and ran out of the room shrieking. “I’m deaf, I can’t hear!!”

            Mr.  Tubaugh, a round, bald headed little man with a small mustache, turned beet red and appeared to be suffering from an attack of some kind, from which he recovered quickly. Don, who in later years was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics, was in shock. I grabbed the pistol and gave it back to it's owner, whose name was Bernstein and had recently moved into the neighborhood.   It was a memorable moment, still etched vividly in my aging brain.

            I thought of that bizarre junior high school moment the other day, after the terrible assault and killings in Newtown, Connecticut.  Guns had not been a part of my life or life style in the middle class, close in suburb where I grew up. We saw them in Tom Mix, and an occasional gangster flick…but not real. Pure fantasy.  In the real world I hated the idea of guns, that are designed to kill randomly, at the whim of  madmen. Or in the case of war or rebellion, kill on purpose, and all too often without an ounce of conscience.     

         Thus it was unpleasant, unfamiliar and somewhat irreverent for me four years later when a drill sergeant, in the 379^th Infantry regiment, shoved an M-1 rifle in my hand and announced to our group of the uninitiated, fresh out of  high school draftees, that this was our first day to learn how to kill. With precision.

        It was like performing in a movie.  I did exactly what I was told.  Propped the rifle on my shoulder aimed at the target and squeezed the trigger.  I must confess that in that moment in time, it felt good.  As the gun fired and propelled the bullet toward the target, I felt a sense of satisfaction in my body as if the gun were an extension of my being. Yes, extension of my being. Got it?

         What’s more, I had hit the bulls eye, earning a black eye from the recoil and damage to my ear that has left me with a ringing to this very day, perhaps to remind of that testosterone driven moment in my life.

         In spite of my initial success at marksmanship, I was assigned to regimental headquarters company, to perform duties as assigned.  Never again did I carry an M-1  rifle during the war or have a desire to use one, particularly on another human being. It was a blessing.  A twist of fate.

        But I have been left  with the lingering question, accented by the recent mass killings;   what it is that drives men, even some otherwise good men, to want to kill another living thing?

       But that we’ll have to leave to the psychologists to explain.           

Politics and Yom Kippur Don’t Mix. Or do they?

           My magnificent mother, whose lifetime in Cleveland literally spanned the 20^th century, (born in 1898 at 30^th and Orange, died 1989 at Mt. Sinai Hospital), was a tough, independent and lovely woman.

          Although she was a member of The Temple and often turned to Rabbi A.H. Silver, a personal friend of the family, for advice and comfort, she was more a pragmatist, and fatalist, than a religious Jew.

          When her husband William Weidenthal, publisher of the Jewish Independent, died in 1931 at the depth of the Depression, she was left, in her 30’s, with twin five year olds. She courageously (or perhaps stoically) told her friends, “It was meant to be”, and plunged ahead, without complaining, doing what was necessary to maintain a stable family.

          She took over the Weidenthal Co., our printing and publishing plant on Bolivar Rd. (just west of 9^th St.) and successfully ran it for a number of years. She insisted years later that she was no feminist. She left the kitchen and got into business because, “I had no choice”.

          Mother was by nature a serious Republican. She Disliked FDR and the New Deal with a passion. (It should be noted that in pre-depression days, much of the Jewish political establishment in Cleveland was Republican).  As a loyal son, I stood by her, and the cause.

          When Alf Landon the colorless governor of Kansas was nominated to challenge FDR in Cleveland Public Hall in 1936, I was excited about it and determined to do my part for the family.

          I recruited two friends at Coventry School, went down to the printing plant and printed out posters declaring LANDON FOR PRESIDENT.  Then we walked over to the Landon headquarters at the Hollenden Hotel, scooped up as many sunflower buttons we could fit in our knickers pockets and then headed back to the Heights.

          We were naively certain that our campaign efforts would swing Landon for Ohio, or at least Cuyahoga County.  As it turned out, it was a landslide for FDR. 
 Among my young Jewish friends who by now were almost entirely New Dealers, I was a rebel with a lost cause.

          In 1940 it was Wendell Willke, the One World idealist from Indiana who captured my allure. I was taken by his world view, and mother, now owner of Evelyn Wayne, a children’s store in Shaker Heights, continued her dislike for FDR. (Among other things, she resisted posting an NRA sign in her store window, as dictated by Washington.) When it was announced that Willkie would be coming to Cleveland for a campaign appearance at Public Hall, there was no doubt that I would be there.

          The situation got dicey when Grandma Kolinsky, an observant Jew, discovered that Willkie was coming to town on Yom Kippur. Her grandson, she declared at the dinner table, would not attend a political rally on the holiest of holy days. (It had been my habit to walk her to and from the synagogue on Superior Rd. up from Mayfield each year on the High Holy days, which complicated the problem.)

Courtesy of the Minnesota Historical Society

Wendell Willkie, Republican presidential candidate, campaigning with Harold Stassen in 1940.

        Over her protests, and somewhat guilt stricken, I rode the street car down to the terminal where the man from Indiana had arrived on his campaign train. I raced alongside his open car up Euclid Ave., down Ninth St. to Public Hall, where he gave a stirring speech in front of thousands of enthusiastic Gentiles and one Jewish teen-ager from Cleveland Heights, who thought he was cheering on the next president of the United States. Sadly, no such luck.

        Again a landslide for FDR. No hanging or pregnant chads. And no one even thought about asking for a recount.

I’ll Be Seeing You

Here I am at the Cleveland Clinic, of all places, where they have the best doctors, for some of the sickest people in the world. Kings, sheiks, movie stars fly here from all over the globe, seeking cures for ailments that others can’t help.       

My first appointment ever at Cleveland’s LeBron of medicine.  And I’m a little apprehensive even though I’m not really sick.  Never liked hospitals or doctors.  Too many bad experiences as a kid.  My mind had long ago been infected was unpleasant memories. I had drifted into day dreaming of as we rode down the hill toward Carnegie.

       Didn’t sleep well the night before, since the appointment was very early. Much too early for me. My daughter was picking me up for the short drive down the hill, and will join me for the session. “Patients” are invited to bring a significant others. So I’m bringing Susan, a wonderful human being, and a marvelous giving, caring daughter.  I am so lucky, I thought. I was up, wobbly but wide-eyed by four thirty, dressed by six, and somewhat awake well in time for the arrival of my ride.

           As we approached the pink granite pyramid like Crile building that has become the centerpiece of this amazing campus, I marveled at how it has changed the face of “Uptown” Cleveland, as we used to call it. (107^th and Euclid down to 79th St.)

           If anything has changed radically in this town, it has been this neighborhood. Once it was ablaze with nightclubs, movies, hotels, the Alhambra bowling alley and pool hall, the Trianon Ballroom where our high school fraternity had sponsored Tommy Dorsey band and kid singer Frank Sinatra.  Lindsay’s Sky Bar, where Nat King Cole played with his trio, well before he was a famed singer on his own.  Where I hung out on Army furloughs during the War. Every sign of life you can imagine

       Now it is an impersonal looking industrial type complex of stone and steel and glass buildings for the sick, the very sick and the dying. A new kind of Cleveland that no one thought they would ever see in our town. Not in my day, at least.   

“There’s a Booik”

      When I was a little guy, perhaps four or so, it is said that I would stand at the window looking out onto busy Euclid Hts. Blvd. and declare without a moment’s hesitation,” There’s a Booick, there’s a Thevrolet, there’s a Pymouth!”

It is clear that even in those tender years I was hooked on cars; marking the beginning of a lifelong, passionate love affair with automobiles.                                             
 And, I have come to recognize, the feeling is mutual.

This is part of that story.

Cars that have loved me

         To almost everyone, the yellow, American Motors Hornet Sportabout, with the fake wood sides looked ridiculous. I thought it was really cool. Bought it from Tom Ganley at his first agency on Lake Shore Blvd. back in the early 70’s.

Not In My Backyard

Tilting at Turbines 

        Not too long ago, while driving through the vast, unpredictable landscape of Northwest Texas, we came upon a swarm of enormous windmills, planted as far as the eye could see, in every direction.  
         Now better known as “wind turbines.” Everywhere. They are apparently beloved by many environmentalists and engineers alike, touted as the wave of the green future. the cure to the so-called global warming. And that’s scary. 

        The novelty and the pervasiveness of these monsters distorting the Texas skyline, grabbed my attention. It was nothing like I had ever seen before. My initial reaction was of amazement.  They must be creating enough power to light the whole city of Ft. Worth, I thought to myself.  Not really, I have been told.  Possibly part of Abilene. Not enough power lines exist in the area to do much more.
        My next thought: what a blight on the natural environment.

Andrew and Me

Andrew and I spent last weekend together without his mom, who was off to a high school reunion in Wisconsin.

It turned out to be a somewhat traumatic and intellectually challenging experience for both of us.

He’s three, and pretty smart for his age.  He knows and understands words.  He has good instincts.  He seems to sense what is happening around him. He knows when it’s time to go to the bathroom, and almost always knows how to tell me. He announces in his own way when he is hungry or thirsty. And when I put his food in front of him he won’t touch it until I put grated cheese on top.

I sense that he really likes me. He follows me wherever I go, even into the privacy of my bathroom. He sits under my chair when I eat. He even comes with me to den to watch the Indians game…and unlike me he seems rather relaxed about it.

Is he suffering like I’m suffering? I asked myself, after my once beloved team began to fall apart.  My jaws were tight, my mouth dry I was sweating, wondering what this embarrassing performance  means to the reputation of my beleaguered town…I’m beginning to hate the coach, the owner and everything about the team. I even hate the announcers. 

The New Normal Run Amok

   I winced the other day when the main story on page one of the New York Times declared pretty much without equivocation that births out of wedlock are the “New Normal” in America.
   My initial reaction was one of sadness for the nation and for the mothers who either by choice or by pain of abandonment go it alone.  But mostly a personal pain for the children, primarily for the boys, who must grow up without a father.  You might call it, as does the Cleveland Plain 
Dealer, "Fatherless in America. A national tragedy.”  I was startled to learn the 76 % of children  born in Cleveland out of wedlock.  fatherless boys we are told are much more likely to end up in jail, to fail in school, to become jobless.
   A national tragedy you bet.  If we wnt to fix  America, here's a very good place to start.
   I drew partly on my own experience as I wrote this story about “LeBron and Me” a while ago touching on this subject.. This is a slightly expanded and updated version that tells it as it is, or, at least, as it is for me.…

LeBron and Me

I felt an eerie, uneasy kinship with LeBron the other night as I watched him slowly, painfully walk off the court in Miami, in defeat in game six with Dallas in the NBA playoffs.

I wondered how he really felt inside.  This huge boy in a man’s body, lifted by passion and athleticism to heights few mortals ever reach,

What are his inner resources? To whom can he turn as he feels the pain of loss? Not to the man who made his mother pregnant at age 16 and never returned.

I think I know something about that sense of loss. And the inability to deal with it likes a “man”, so to speak.

Like LeBron, I grew up without a father.  It was not good experience.  This devastating loss of the man in your life leaves a hole in you gut a mile wide. And it never really goes away.  No matter how hard you try, on the basketball court or on the courtyard of life.

Particularly when the man you came to depend on disappears, or in LeBron’s case, was never there at all.
I was enchanted when he told the journalists at a news conference after the playoff loss that it was truly up to “the Man upstairs” to determine when he would ultimately win that coveted championship ring. Something, he had indicated he wanted more than anything in this world.

Hunting Down The Welfare Queens

             I was attracted to Joe Nocera’s column on the Op Ed page of this week’s New York Times (Living in Fear of the NCAA) that tells us of the probing into the very personal financial lives of the families of some college star athletes. The column set my mind wandering back 60 Years to a time when I found myself professionally involved in what you might call, the hunt for “welfare queens”, a similar, but slightly different situation.

            I was a young reporter quite new to the business, and somewhat naive to the realities of big city daily journalism. I was assigned to the “health and welfare beat” of the Cleveland Press. The job was touted by my top editors as key for Ohio’s largest newspaper that had earned a reputation as serving the fundamental needs and interests of the hard working blue collar population of our great town.

           Our  compasionate concern for the working poor, the sick and helpless, and their struggles for a decent life in our heavy industry town separated our newspaper from the rest. Indeed, Time magazine had just listed The Press one of the ten greatest newspapers in the nation. 

Coming To Terms With The Enemy

       It is often said that time is of the essence.

       Indeed:  As the seconds, minutes, days and years, tumble relentlessly by, the movement of time emerges as a haunting, implacable enemy.  Chasing you from behind.  Catching up even as you seem to run faster. And then leaving you in its dust once more.

          I don’t like that. I never have. 

          I recall, many years ago, as a young journalist, I was dating a very attractive red-headed social worker who I had met while covering the Juvenile Court. She was a joy to be with. One night we drove down to Perkins Beach, a lovely, fairly private place to park to look at the stars, or whatever.

After philosophizing about the beauty of the brightly lit downtown skyline, I put my arm around her and moved close, as though to kiss.  She pulled away. “Too soon”, she whispered through her warm, perhaps passionate breath.

“Finite anxiety” was the problem, she said almost clinically, concerning my move to caress her.  Too frantic. Too focused on time, advised this lovely young Baptist who declared that she believed in reincarnation. For her, time was a friend. For me it was the enemy.  Needless to say that relationship, with its excellent potential, never went anywhere.

Time had taken its toll.

I have often wanted to stop the movement of time.  To make it stand still to force it backwards.  To dispose of it entirely.

          Now that I have moved well into my golden years this intense pursuit of the runaway clock has become much more than an intellectual enterprise.

 I have tried to convince myself that time itself does not actually exist except as the concoction of some Middle Ages scientists who were trying to calculate the movement of the sun around the earth and, after Galileo, the earth around the sun.

         But, as the age of reason progressed, time became almost pervasive. The master, rather than the servant. There was the March of Time weekly feature at the movies, Time Magazine, and of course, Timex watches which “keep on ticking when they take a licking,” as John Cameron Swayze used to say on the radio.