End of an Era

I just cancelled my subscription to a daily newspaper after sixty-eight years of subscribing in Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Paul, Philadelphia and to the Boston Globe. No, I am not losing my eyesight, nor am I running out of money or moving to Paris, where like a proper Parisian, I will read Le Monde. It's simply that I am fed up with what the papers write about and the predictability. Actually it is not their fault. They are only the messengers for the newsmakers. The chief culprit is Congress. The Senate and House have lots of meetings, but little of genuine significance to the nation ever happens. The journals have to put out an edition every day. How can they do it if there is no news? By re-cycling the same story over and over and over with slight modifications to stress presumably, but often softball NEWS – REPUBLICANS BLAST OBAMA ON BUDGET, or DEMOCRATS FAULT GOP ON CLIMATE CHANGE.CHANGE. The story could be about Social Security or Medicare or drug lords and their cohorts and clamping down on crime (while the prison population soars, or a scandal involving celebrities, or getting divorced or having a baby, or a child killed by a parent who should have had his parental rights terminated or been sent to jail a long time ago ,or a back and forth in arguments about gun control, or -- enough, you get the point. What will I do? I'll think about other former necessities that are now not worth my time.

More Later, Joe

Post Nuptual Agreement

A husband and wife are sitting in the den after dinner. He is reading a newspaper and she is sitting at a desk writing a letter. In the background a stereo is playing Chopin piano music. She turns her chair around to face him.

She: (stops writing) I’ve been thinking. I want to buy you a new wristwatch.

He: A new watch? I have a watch, it’s old, but it still works. Thanks, but one is enough for me.

She: It’s not for now. I want you to have something to remember me by.

He : In that case you can buy me a gold Rolex. I’ll remember you real good.

She: You don’t’have to remember me that much.

He: (Lowers the newspaper to his lap) What’s this remembering business? Are you trying to tell me something?

She: Why do you have to have to read a meaning like that into a simple offer? I just want you to have something to remember me.

He: If I go first you will have wasted your money.

She: (She ignores that) Another thing. You will say Yarhzeit for me when the time comes, the way you do for your parents on the anniversary of their death? That is if your second wife won’t object.

He: I can’t believe it! Is that what this is all about? Forget it, there won’t be a second wife.

She: Every man needs a wife to take care of him.

He: It will be expensive but I’ll take my shirts to the laundry.

She: Have I been such a bad wife that you would not want to be married again?

He: Mmmm. let me think about that. (He pretends to think). No, I wouldn’t say that. It’s just that to be fair to another wife I’d have to show her that I care and I can’t see myself wanting to put that much into a wife again.

She: That’s nice.

He: Besides, considering my age and whom I would marry it could end up that I’d have to take care of her. To paraphrase your favorite poet: “In caring there is responsibility”.

She: You might have to take care of me some day.

He: That’s different. You’ve earned that right.

She: Fifty-six years is a long time. What was the best part?

He: There was no best part. It was all good.

She: You don’t mean that. A marriage is never “good” all the time. Like the time we quarreled when you wanted to go to Prague and I wanted to go to Budapest. C’mon tell me the best part.

He: The whole was better than the parts – satisfied now?

She: I knew it! Some parts were not good. (She laughs.) Remember the Mikado we saw in Sarajevo? Katishaw was ugly but she was said to have a beautiful left elbow.

He: I remember the seats were $1.70 and you sat next to the English lady who was married to the Lord High Executioner. It was opening night and people were all dressed up in and it was televised. That was the best Mikado I ever saw. It was a good trip. (They fall silent).

She: One more thing. We talked about it but we never did anything about the cemetery lots. Shouldn’t we do something now?

He: Well, with both kids living north of Boston we should buy plots up there. It’ll be handy if they want to drop by once in a while.

She: Remember to talk to the kids next time we see them.

He: Besides, at the rate our friends are dying off, it’ll get pretty lonely around here. We should probably move up there sometime soon.

She: I’ve been thinking about that, too. (they fall silent).

She: I’m finished interrupting. You can go back to your newspaper. (he resumes reading, she returns to her letter).

April 3, 1990

More Later, Joe

PS: In my previous blogs I have shared excerpts and essays like this one, from my past. My new book entitled, MY FIVE CAREERS: Increasing Brain Power and Promoting Longevity through Strenuous Exercise of the Mind, includes and is based on many of the ideals and illustrations posted at Joe's Place. Look for the book to be released in the Fall. It will be available in paperback at Amazon. I'll let you know more later. Joe

The Busboy

The first time he spoke to me was when he served the coffee at the end of the dinner. After placing the cup and pouring from the silver pot in his hand he said, “I forgot to bring the sugar and cream. After a pause he added shyly, “This my first day her and I don’t remember everything yet.”

Although I have difficulty remembering busboys and waitresses, I had noticed him because he walked as though he was not quite sure of his body and his face had an earnest but unanimated look.

I was sitting alone in the roof top luxury restaurant in a hotel in the Colorado Mountains awaiting the start of a Child Welfare League of America on children and youth. None of my friends had yet arrived and so I had no company for dinner. The inexpensive hotel coffee shop on the ground with its air of transience and filled with men and women eating quickly to get to their next appointment, was uninviting. Loneliness encourages me to extravagance, I found my way to the hotel’s luxury restaurant. Surrounded by elegance and pampered by an attentive staff. I had worked my way to the coffee.

“I don’t use sugar or cream,” I said, “so I don’t mind.” Because he still looked pained I said, “First days can be hard.”

“Yes, but I am trying,” he said. “I graduated from Vocational School

last year and I couldn’t get a job.”

“I’m glad you found one and I wish you the best of luck.”

On the way out I stopped at the reservation desk and asked to speak with the manager. Larry Mullins was his name and after mixing a salad to a table of four, he approached me.

After introducing myself, I said, “I just wanted to say something about your new busboy. I was impressed with how he wants to please people, not only me but I was watching him at other tables. You don’t find too many people like that anymore. I hope he make it.”

“You mean Daniel,” said Mullins. “It’s nice of you to mention it. He is mentally retarded but I mean to keep him. He been out of school a year and I told everyone here that I don’t care what happens, he is going to stay. I can make him learn.

I choked a little, told Mr. Mullins I was glad to hear that. We shook hands and I walked away feeling that this conference for children had already peaked for me.

More Later, Joe

Further Thoughts on the New Feminine

As if we don’t have enough portentous questions to solve, let me add another. Who will replace the vanishing Playboy Magazine “Playgirl” as the next popular ideal of American Beauty? With obesity in both sexes already beyond fifty-percent and growing, can the longings of the American male accommodate themselves to the reality of the New Feminine, or – or what?

There is a self-parodying joke about the Jewish man who, when told that the elephant population in a region of India was declining at an alarming rate, asked if that was good or bad for the Jews? We must ask, is the eclipse of the long-legged, slim and admirably proportioned, high-cheeked, sexy woman good or bad for men?

Every age has had its definition of femininity. In recent memory there were the Gibson girl (ample), the flapper (bold, unconventional), Rosie the Riveter, (World War II worker), the Bobby-Soxer, and of course, the Playgirl. Obesity was not in style. The early American woman tended toward sliminess, for among other factors, the hard physical life of a pioneering and the dominance of the farm life kept the weight down.

Concepts of physical attractiveness are, as anthropological studies have shown, malleable. Over the centuries, concepts of female physical beauty have ranged widely each having their day. Venus was the ideal in ancient times; in medieval Europe diminutiveness and daintiness in feet, hands, breasts and long necks were prized; women of some weight are considered desirable in parts of the world (the (Middle East); gaudily painted faces in some cultures (African) are the custom; the short and squat women of the Arctic have no difficulty in finding mates. In contemporary times the suburban, gym-muscled, self-assured woman, a more attainable model than Playgirl, command deep respect. Question: How flexible will the American man now be in his concept of female beauty? Judging from worldwide cultures – and from what I have observed daily in my strolls around my home town (Salem MA), he will meet the test of gallantry.

Did I say male sexual selection – and I could add female sexual identity – is malleable? In fact it seems that men and women will buy whatever happens to be in stock at the time. Maybe sexual selection should be noted and reviewed in the fashion magazines, the way high skirts-low skirts and tight jackets-loose jackets are critiqued.

More Later, Joe

The Eloquence of the Common Man

The many scholarly books on the subject describe the newcomers to America as “waves of immigrants and “hordes of New Americans;” refer to their habitats on the Lower East Side of Manhattan as “tenements” and “railroad chain cold water flats”. The streets were described as teeming with “rickety pushcarts’ and their goods for sale; and filled with children at play, dodging pedestrians and street vehicles, shrieking with joy while putting pedestrians at risk. amidst the squalor, this iconic site is also home to one of the great stories of/in the growth of America. The years were the last quarter of the 1800’s –1915. Except for the novels and short stories about the lives of immigrants, the sociological treatises fail to convey an understanding of these flesh-and-blood people. Let me tell you about a small community of Jewish men in Wilkes-Barre, PA, many from Russia, Poland, and Romania, as I knew them during the years 1927-1935.

First, the common part. These men were tradesmen – bakers, butchers, grocers, peddlers in the commodity-starved rural countryside, small shopkeepers, salesmen. The men made a living for their families, some quite successfully, and blended smoothly into the general life of the city. They were mostly Socialists, victims of cruel, anti-Semitic programs, and without exception were virulently anti-Communist. They voted routinely but futilely in presidential elections for Norman Thomas; and most important for this piece I am writing, they were all members of the Workmen’s Circle, an organization, as the name clearly denotes, for the working man. The Workmen’s Circle had a substantial building of its own on “The Hill” in Wilkes-Barre, called “The Lyceum,” that served as a forum on social and political issues, and as a cultural center for the continuity of Jewish life.

A group of perhaps twenty-five men met every Sunday morning for lox and bagels, and for discussions. My father and his younger brother, Israel, were as close and affectionately attached as any brothers I have known. We visited Israel and his family several times a year and each Sunday my father, with me in tow, attended the morning meetings at the Lyceum. Some members dressed in suits, others in sweaters. Of the many intriguing experiences I had at these gatherings, the one I remember most is the weekly “redde” session, the Yiddish word for speakers and speech-makers, -- everyone spoke Yiddish -- and the subsequent discussions.

Now for the eloquence. These ‘tradesmen” spoke fluidly, colorfully, to the point, with an aggressive intelligence and thorough understanding of the issues on tap that day, political and cultural, from current legislation to literature. Each man seemed to live for these Sunday mornings. They knew it, and put a zest into the proceedings that was infectious. I was amazed. Each man had some schooling in their homeland, some less some more, but they were avid readers of the newspapers and journals -- Yiddish and English. The bond among them and the respect they had for each other was moving. In common, they had survived successfully, first in their flight to America, and then in becoming Americanized and acquiring citizenship. Israel spoke one Sunday about his escape from Lithuania, a real thriller (discussed at length in my book). Every man had a story. At the time I knew these men they were in the prime years of life. I often wonder, with gratitude for what they taught me, how the remainder of their lives turned out.

More later, Joe

Who Am I?

WILLIAM JAMES, THE PHILOSOPHER, SAID that everyone has as many different selves as there are people who know him. Each person, from his wife and children to the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, perceives the same man differently. Ever since I heard that in Philosophy101, I have been confused. Who really am I? Which one of me is the real Joe Taylor? For that matter, who are you? If we don’t even know whom we are how can we ever solve global warming or cure cancer? The guy who figures that out should get two Nobel Prize, one for the day dreaming that is the precursor to original thinking, the second for his solution. I already qualify for one of those talents. The prospect of such riches and fame out there waiting for me to “originate” has temporarily distracted me from writing. Some may think it presumptuous of me to regard myself so highly, but a fact is a fact however absurd. I’d like to say more about that but I emptied the bottle of the stuff I was drinking to gird myself for scribbling this.

Am I deranged? The word “telefunken” keeps popping into my head and I can’t get rid of it. “Telephfunken” has something to do with telephones. Maybe it means telephone. That’s a hard way to say “telephone,” but it’s typically German. That reminds me. The recently deceased Walter Cronkite’s name was originally spelled “Chronkite”, (with the” “h” after the capital ”C”). Spelled that way the word means illness. My authority is a relative of Mr. Cronkite. Anyway, is “deranged” one of my selves? If so, I want to make it clear that there are many good parts to me. I know, because my barber told me. This barber was once at a funeral where not the preacher, not any person who spoke had a good word to say about the deceased. In desperation, the minister asked if there was anyone attending the service who had a good word to say about the dead man. The barber stood up and said, “I always found him an easy man to shave.” So there.

How can I not be out of my mind if I have to contend with so many different personalities mixed up in me and battling to be Joe Taylor? May the best man win. But seriously: Auguste Descartes, the French philosopher, said “I think therefore I am.” So, is it our cognitive capacities that define us? Emanuel Kant, the German, said, “I ought therefore I can.” Or is it our moral character? Calvin Coolidge, the President who preceded President Herbert Hoover said, “Business is the business of America.” That argues for our work life. As for me, I think it is our love life – the people we love, in the various ways that love can be expressed -- that defines our souls.

More Later, Joe

Hospital Joe

(The following is an edited version of an article Joe wrote a few years ago. Joe had minor surgery at Salem Hospital Thurday, July 15. He will be home Friday and is, of course, already back to business.)

It happens everywhere I go. There was girl in Philadelphia once, she walked toward me on a center city street. She wore a shiny tan skirt, a white blouse, blond hair falling to her shoulders, a page boy bob framing her fresh face, under a totally blue sky and sunshine all around. She passed me by like I didn't exist.

I had quite a conversation with her in my daydream prone mind:

Hey you -- yes you, in the navy blue power suit and pink blouse, with the gold necklace around your neck, and swinging that black alligator attache case, striding along confidently on your way to a corporate takeover. You passed right by and didn't even see me. But that young hunk coming the other way, you gave him a good look. OK, I don't really expect that you will pay any attention to me. My cane gives me away. But even at my age I don't like to be erased. In the inarticulate lingo of today, it feels a little like, you know, being wiped out.

Am I poking fun a myself or am I serious? Both. That girl in Philadelphia reminded me of other times and other girls, as an old photograph tells of times that can be retrieved. I used to buy camelia corsages for girls like her. Sometimes I would skip lunch or eat apples from the trees on campus to have the money. There were rides in automobiles and I would hold the girls tight. And the dancing! I inhaled the slightly scented aroma from her body and we danced cheek to cheek then, not like today where dancing looks like prizefighters squaring off in the ring. There's so much more to dancing than what what they show on TV. That's the serious part. As for the self-mockery? That comes from remembering my age.