Flatbush (Click most images for larger versions.)
In 1924, we moved to 234 Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn.
I was 11 years old and ecstatic, because the move meant a better area, a larger apartment, more privacy, and more amenities. The flat had steam heat, electricity, the Bergen Street subway station close at hand, the Flatbush Trolley rolling by our door—no noisy El outside the window—and only one other tenant. The building had four stories, each long and narrow apartment taking up one floor; the ground level containing a men's clothing and tailor shop, the second held quarters accessible from that shop, and that meant we shared the stairs with only one other family, the Singers. It felt like heaven.
[This picture of 234 Flatbush was taken in 2001, but it still looks remarkably like my memory of it. Click for a larger version.]
And, O, do I remember the stairwell. It had a large skylight bathing the whole area, providing such a bright atmosphere that I would drag a table out onto our landing to do my homework—no more fear of the dark at the top of the stairs. Although there was one drawback.
Mother had agreed to clean the stairwell and entry way for a reduction in rent from forty-five dollars to thirty-five. Once a week Buster and I had to help clean it, and neither of us was fond of the work: polishing newels and banisters and rails, sweeping and scrubbing floors, then shining all the brass doorknobs. Nonetheless, it was a wonderful move, a step up, and memories filled with light.
Pleasurable memories I still have of that apartment include: helping Mother take care of little Harry; heat in every room; the bright light in the stairwell; Ike fiddling with three big knobs trying to tune-in stations on our first radio, along with the anticipation of the programs we'd hear; and roller skating—I roller skated more than I walked. I loved the process of hooking my shoes in the skates, tightening them with my key, and then taking-off down the block, rolling along effortlessly and quickly. It was a tremendous feeling of freedom. Unfortunately, there are other memories of that time not so pleasurable, one darker than the rest.
We'd been living on Flatbush awhile when one day I heard Mother crying and moaning, and calling out to me. She was in bed, writhing in pain, pale and stricken, her knees bent and legs parted. I didn't know what was going no, but it frightened me. She told me to get the doctor, so I took off not really wanting to know why.
I think I had been aware of a pregnancy, and I seem to remember another woman being with her when I took off—possibly a midwife, but I'm not sure. I am sure, however, that I was scared to death.
The terrible fear and panic chased me as I ran up Flatbush Avenue as fast as I could go. I don't remember how I knew where the doctor was, but I found him, and brought him back with me. As soon as he entered Mother's bedroom he closed the door, locking me out. It wasn't until after he'd left that I learned she had suffered a breech birth, a stillborn baby boy, a dead brother. At least that's what I was told.
[This picture of Ike, Harry and Chubb the dog was taken on the roof of 234 Flatbush. Click.]
Years later, in the fifties, Mother confessed something shocking to me. It was especially unexpected due to her religion and apparent devoutness. But, she told me I had another baby brother who didn't survive. Whether it happened before or after the stillbirth, I can't say, but she told me that she aborted it. She said she did that because she didn't want to give Ike another child. I was disbelieving, but she confessed that that was why she didn't have any more children after Harry; she wouldn't allow Ike to abuse another child.
As I write this, I wonder whether the stillbirth was a stillbirth or another abortion. Maybe the other woman I remember was the abortionist. I'll never know the truth, but her confession to me clearly demonstrated her impressions of Ike as a father. And it made me even more aware of the stressful life my mother led, a life that would get even more stressful when another "brother" showed up.
It was sometime after the stillbirth that Dad's first son, Billy, came to live with us. I don't remember Billy that well, just that Buster and I had to be really nice to him or "Dad" (Buster and I were forced to call Ike that) would take it out on us. Of course, I don't remember Billy well because he wasn't with us very long.
In 1910, after his mother died giving birth to him, Billy—and Ike—lived with Aunt Maud; and Maud loved the little tyke. But, by the time Billy came to live with us he was a ripsnorting teenager.
Through later conversations and correspondence with Howard Blanke, Billy's closest friend, I learned that they were adepts at stoop ball, stick ball, any and all games of the street. They took off to all manner of places to keep busy and away from home. The Pool at Central Park a couple of blocks east was one of their favorite hangouts either to skate in winter, sail boats in spring, or take dips in summer. Also in the park, a few blocks north of The Pool, was an old block house built during the War of 1812 that they used for playing "fort" and war games. But all that was too mundane as the two of them got older.
[Ike took this picture of Howard the day of Billy's funeral. I know, I thought it was a little strange for Ike to be taken photos, too. Click it.]
Then they would race over the fences in backyards, neighbors yelling and fuming. Also, since everything was still horse drawn, it was a stunt to run under a horse's belly as it stood at the curb. More daring lads would run under two horse teams. Hitching a ride on horse-drawn trolley cars along Columbus Avenue got a guy from here to there, but for no other reason than to return. Hitching on ice wagons was better because they could reach inside while standing on the back step and steal a slice of ice to suck on. Horses provided much of the street's entertainment—for everyone!
I remember, before motorized-fire engines came along, seeing horses in stables at fire houses. A pulley system over each horse suspended their harnesses. Then, when the alarm sounded, firemen quickly dropped the get-up over the horse and buckled it on. Occaionally, blacksmiths with "shops on wheels" stopped by to repair hooves or reshoe the horses. Those mobile shops carried red hot furnaces with which to heat shoes to glowing before shaping them on the smith's anvil. Naturally, as you would suspect, with all that equine-power came much equine-emissions.
Street cleaners, known as "White Wings," picked up with broom and shovel the piles and piles of manure. Sometimes, when we were playing on the street—I especially liked chalk games, like hopscotch—a horse would drop a load nearby and we would pray for the street sweeper to come soon.
[Here's an old photo of a White Wing at work.]
When we saw him coming we would holler, "Hooray!" It might have smelled, but I realize now that horse emissions were a lot better for us than auto emissions. Still, it was very nice when the manure left.
Before moving in with us, Billy along with Howard went to Public School 54 on Amsterdam Avenue where I began school, and they both agreed with me about the horrendous state of the outside "toilets". Misery loves company. But before Billy moved in, Buster and I didn't see much of him. He normally stayed in Manhattan with his friends. I don't remember him at all before Ike, Mother and I moved to Brooklyn. Then he began visiting, usually with Aunt Maud, but only on rare occasions.
There wasn't much familial camaraderie. I guess part of the problem was money: Aunt Maud was wealthier and raised Billy in a more affluent environment. But then there was religion. Ike and Maud were Protestants and raised Billy that way; so we didn't even share a church life in common. I don't know how Ike and Mother worked it out. I just know that Buster and I were Catholic.
At any rate, Aunt Maud, a spinster, raised Billy as her own. She loved him deeply, so she was heart-broken to see him go, even though he visited her on most weekends. Her consolation was that Billy would be with his father, plus have more of a family life. I'm not sure, but I don't think Billy drew any consolation from that. He would've been much happier staying wth her and his Manhattan buddies.
It was said, however, that Maud's age was making it harder and harder for her to look after a rambunctious teenager. And I imagine Ike had decided Billy should stay with us no matter what anyone felt—Ike always got his way. Still, I often wondered, had Billy stayed with Aunt Maud, would he have survived?
[Yes, that's me at three or four, sitting next to Aunt Maud and Billy. Click.]
It happened the winter he was seventeen, after less than three years of living with us. Billy suffered a winter sledding accident in Central Park. Although he was taken to a hospital, they only treated an injury to his left hand, completely missing the severe concussion he'd also suffered. Since he was in Manhattan with Aunt Maud when the accident occurred, Billy stayed with her after his release.
That evening when word came of what happened, Ike decided to go be with his boy. Mother, however, talked him out of going, citing how late it would be when he got there, the freezing weather, the fact Billy was okay, and that Maud would watch over him. So, although he wanted to go and felt he should, Ike stayed in Brooklyn, planning to pickup Billy the next day.
Unfortunately, due to the undiagnosed concussion, Billy passed away that night. When the horrible call came telling us of Billy's death, Ike couldn't forgive himself for not going, nor Mother for talking him out of it. Too late, he went to Maud's, inconsolable over the death of his first born. Mother was heartbroken, too, especially over keeping Ike from going, but I remember it took awhile before Buster and I understood all that had happened. Another dead brother.
After the tragedy, Baby Harry became even more precious to Ike. Without Billy, Harry quickly became Dad's idol, and that meant Buster and I had to treat the boy with even more deference. We could catch hell over any imagined slight to Ike's last surviving son.
The move to Flatbush brought other changes into my life. For instance, I transferred to St. Augustine's Elementary School, and it would stay my school through the 8th grade. During those years, a good Sister encouraged me to study. I feel her motivation ignited my lasting desire to learn—an example of how teachers can influence students.
Then, following St. Augustine's, I went to a Catholic high school for a year, but couldn't stand the strict nuns, nor the difficult curriculum that included algebra and Latin, all this left-brained activity—I'm a right-brainer or so I discovered later in life. For that reason I transferred to Girl's Commercial High School (GCHS). They had classes in typing and bookkeeping and economics, plus art and music; and I loved it. Those subjects appealed more to my practical (get a job) and artistic natures.
[These are my graduation photos from Girls Commercial High School. I especially liked the profile, it being more "serious". I've never been that fond of my smile, and if you notice the picture on the left, you'll probably understand why. In that photo I also wasn't thrilled with the right side of my face being in such shadow. No, the picture on the right is definitely my favorite, the one I had out in my room. (You can click these images for larger versions.]
My musical education, however, really began the day I walked into the Brooklyn Museum, one of the oldest and largest art museums in the world. My route home from Girls High took me right by it. So one day just out of curiosity I stepped inside. What I heard was a revelation.
Remember, up till then Ike's military marches and Scottish airs were all I heard. Music wasn't as prevalent as it is today; you didn't hear it in every store or public space, or blaring out of cars or on apartment stoops. And at home Ike decided what we listened to. So, music wasn't really an interest until I entered the museum and heard my first live performance of a classical work.
The sound of the string quartet was captivating. I felt such a thrill sitting there in the sculpture court listening to them play Rimsky-Korsakov's Sheherazade. There in the midst of beautiful marble statues with very dramatic lighting, and the diaphanous spray of the fountain, the music made me aware that I was missing something. This was music that touched my heart, opened my mind, and made me soar. I had no idea music could do that. So I resolved right there and then to learn about it, to know its composers, and recognize their pieces. You could say I became addicted.
I started my classical education by buying cheap secondhand records and, while Dad was out, playing them on his new Victor record playing machine. At first, this new music felt odd in the apartment, since Mother and Dad listened only to his military music like Sousa or Scottish records like Sir Harry Lauder, the famous Scottish singer and entertainer. But, I quickly grew to love my records and the broader scope of emotions they evoked from me.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
After elementary school, high school brought with it a new mix of emotions. There were my new musical highs, but I also felt pride and a sense of accomplishment in my technical school work—there's that "sense of accomplishment" again. At the same time, becoming more and more independent (like being able to walk into the museum or skate off down the street without repercussions) was liberating. Ike, however, provided more than enough lows to balance out the highs.
For instance, once I learned how to type he made me type up his work papers, complicated, boring documents about shipping and receiving. From then on another of my chores was writing and editing for Ike—his word skills were rudimentary at best, plus he could only hunt-and-peck at the typewriter. It was obvious that he resented the fact I was passing him by in education and skills, so he assuaged his wounded male ego by making me do his "secretarial" work.
Ike's "work" aside, I also landed an after-high school job as a tea room waitress—anything to stay out of the house. As soon as I arrived on the job, my first task was to make the Russian dressing, and I've made a good one ever since. Then, after wiping down and setting the tables, I worked until dark. I thoroughly enjoyed it, although most of what I made still went to my mother.
• I believe my body is my house and should be kept clean as long as it is occupied.
• I believe daily exercise trains me to feel and understand the joy in work and in play.
• I believe in athletics, in taking my part in school contests in courage, fair play and sportsmanship.
• I believe in playing the game to the end with all my mind, strength and courage.
• I believe this training develops the will to make the best of myself and to do greater service for others.
In June 1931, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday, I graduated from GCHS. At graduation I became a lifetime member of Taeda, which meant I was good in both athletics and scholastics. I received a calligraphic certification that included Taeda's creed. [Click the document for a larger version.]
It became, if not my philosophy of life, then an approach to it. Of course, my evolvement has altered and redirected some of those points, but I still treasure the beliefs the creed laid out. It didn't help much at the time, however, because it took me four months—an eternity at that age—to find a full-time job, and a poor one at that. I became a messenger for the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Manhattan, starting with the grand wage of $12.00 a week—five and a half days back then—and half the money still went to the household fund.
After awhile, after I grew tired of the mind-numbing deliveries, I overheard a fellow employee saying how much the Dictaphone operators made: twenty-five dollars a week, plus over-quota bonuses or "incentives"—I wasn't familiar with the term at the time. That sounded so much better than what I was doing that I got up the nerve to ask the manager about becoming an operator, explaining how I could type and how I edited Ike's papers. Impressed with my initiative, if not my skills, the manager gave me a chance to prove my worth.
[1930s Dictaphone operator—might as well be me. Click.]
I was elated, and I can still remember a woman named Esther (funny how extreme emotions anchor our memories) who taught me how to use the voice recording machine. It had buttons on the floor that you activated with your feet to start and stop the playback. You listened to what a man had recorded and typed it up.
Some men were so easy to understand and so organized in their thoughts that I could earn lots of incentives, but others weren't. While working on their gobbledygook I would get so depressed, knowing I wouldn't be making any bonuses. The last thing an operator wanted was to get on the wrong side of the boss. That would be horrible because she would assign you the hardest men to understand and your incentives would go right down the gobbledygook drain.
Oh, it was also while working at Metropolitan that I became aware of Bud's mean streak as he stood outside the office window trying to make me laugh. But first, I guess I should introduce you to my true love, Bud.