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.

“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.

Why They Believe (As translated from The New York Times)

  When God, in his infinite wisdom, created man, he did a pretty good job, although it took a while.  He obviously paid special attention to our brains, that turn out to be different from all other animals.        

  Of particular note is the amazing ability of humans to ask the question “why?”, and that is where the trouble began.

  We had to know why the sun is orange and hot, why the wind blows, why flowers bloom, thunder rocks our souls, etc.  And the wise men of their day set out to find answers.  At first they assigned names to all these events and attributed the events to things they call “gods” with all kinds of Greek sounding names.

   Then science came along during the enlightenment and started finding explanations for many of these unnerving mysteries, and we felt better and dropped many of the god words.

To Whom It May Concern:

On This Special Day, Thank You.

For depositing me on this planet, kicking, screaming and hanging on to my sister’s big toe for dear life….

And choosing the United States of America endowed precious gift of human freedom, unrivaled in world history. Smack in the middle of the Roaring Twenties. Between the War to End all Wars, and the war of the greatest generation.

For permitting me to live in remarkable times. To have shared for a brief moment the sights and sounds of Flappers, Fitzgerald, Cole Porter, and Dancing in the Dark, silent movies, dance marathons, Al Jolson and Maurice Chevalier.

For endowing us with a gutsy, selfless mother who could survive the gruesomely premature death of her husband and our father when were just five and she was still in her thirties.