January 31, 2018--Mr. Ludwig

For decades I have been attempting unsuccessfully to locate my 7th grade teacher, Mr. Ludwig. I was a student in his English class at PS 244 in Brooklyn in 1950, nearly 70 years ago.

More than any other teacher, in fact more than almost any other person, he changed the course of my life.

From time to time I googled him but to no avail.

But then on Friday there was his obituary in the New York Times. 

I knew more about Mr. Ludwig than was usual (it was rare in that era to know even a teacher's' first name) as he shared stories from his life, which I soaked up, seeking models of adulthood to emulate. 

Obituary from the New York Times-- 

Bert R. Ludwig was born July 25, 1920, passed away January 25, 2018. He was predeceased by his adored wife Phyllis of 60 years and his brother Bob. He is survived by his sister-in-law Claire and brother-in-law Paul and nieces Joan and Karen and their husbands Warren and Jay and their children and grandchildren.  

Bert graduated from Columbia University where he was accepted at age 14. He was extremely bright and talented. He sang and played the violin, accompanied by his brother on the piano. They played many gigs together in the Borscht Belt.  

Bert was a lieutenant in the United States Coast Guard during World War II. He was the Chief Communications Officer on a flotilla of LC1 Landing Craft during the invasion of Normandy, Omaha Beach and Utah Beach on June 6, 1944. He was also in the North African Campaign and the invasion of Sicily and Salerno.  

After the war Bert was honorably discharged and he worked for the FBI; but finally decided that education was his first love. He became a teacher, Assistant Principal and principal for the New York City school system. Bert and Phyllis enjoyed 40 wonderful summers in their home in Montauk, Long Island where they entertained their many friends and relatives. 

They loved living in Manhattan and were true New Yorkers enjoying all that Manhattan had to offer. They will be missed by those of us who knew and loved them. 

Part of Mr. Ludwig's appeal was that he was so culturally different from my father that it is fair to say he became a surrogate for me. 

He was the kind of man I was wanting to become--adventurous; worldly; heroic; well read; emotionally expressive; playful; though soft, a "real man" with a touch of class. And since most of my classmates and I who came under his spell had one or more immigrant parents ("old fashioned" was the way I thought about that), he was fully American and thus doubly attractive.

He not only taught English but also coached the school's basketball and softball teams. So I had academic lessons from him during the day and life lessons after school in the gym or on the baseball diamond.

He told us about his service in the Second World War and how he had been part of the D-Day landing. He shared dramatic photos of himself and his comrades storming Omaha Beach.

And he told us that before becoming a teacher he had been an FBI agent and recounted vivid stories about his training and some of the cases on which he worked. This was very different from what I heard at home from my father and uncles, which was either criticism or silence.

I entered his class as a virtual non-reader. I am embarrassed to admit I had more interest in Batman and Superman comics than Two Years Before the Mast. To motivate those of us lagging behind in our cultural education he created a chart on which our names were listed in alphabetical order--with me thus at the exposed bottom of the list--on which he would paste a star for every book we checked out of the library and read to completion.

While many of my classmates quickly filled the chart with enough stars to rival those in the Hayden Planetarium, I was the only one who remained starless.  Then one morning, when I arrived at his classroom and slid into my chair, on top of my desk was a new, non-library book of Sherlock Holmes stories. Puzzled, I looked toward Mr. Ludwig, who with nods and winks gestured that there was no mistake, the book was for me. Not just to read but to read and then keep.

I slipped it surreptitiously (a word he taught us) into my schoolbag and once back home put it on the shelf above the table on which I did my homework. It sat there untouched for more than two weeks until, feeling guilty and pressured, I finally picked it up and read the first story, "The Hound of the Baskervilles," and then, swept along by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's narrative magic, I read a second and after that a third. 

I stayed up all night reading the book, hiding excitedly under my blanket with the pages illuminated by my Boy Scout flashlight. 

I hid beneath the covers because to my father, reading books led to men becoming effeminate and after that . . . they would turn into men like his brother Ben, who lived a closeted life surrounded by stacks of magazines and books.

In school the next day, with Mr. Ludwig standing by the chart with his box of stars at the ready, when he asked if any of us had completed a new book, after the usual two girls waved their raised hands to report that they had finished Little Women, avoiding eye contact, in a whisper I revealed that I had finally read something other than a comic book.

Without fuss or comment, Mr. Ludwig affixed a star next to my name. And after that, through the rest of the school year I not only filled my space but my personal firmament of stars spilled over to occupy the unallocated space below my name.

I devoured anything by O'Henry or Robert Louis Stevenson or Richard Henry Dana, Mark Twain, and of course more, always more Sherlock Holmes. 

To this day,  I am an voracious reader with a personal library of read books numbering in the thousands, filling every available shelf I can fit on our crowded walls.

In 1950 I also was a non-writer. As a poor speller I was inhibited when I needed to complete written assignments. Noting this, early in the term, Mr. Ludwig asked me to remain in class after the bell.  Knowing how I admired him, he told me that Winston Churchill, when he was a young student, also could not write because of spelling problems. "And," he said, "look how well he now writes. What you need to do is just to write, to let the words flow and worry about the spelling later. That's what editors are for--to correct your grammer and speling."

He continued, "And don't forget that Einstein also had problems as a boy with both reading and writing. Not that you're a Churchill or an Einstein," he winked with a smile--he wanted to make sure I wouldn't become too full of myself, "But you can do better."

And I did: Later in life I wrote and published widely. I am the author of dozens of articles and stories and five books. All traceable to the affect Mr. Ludwig had on me at that delicate time.

Then there was what to do about my graceless, overgrown body. At the tender age of 12, I was already six-feet-five inches tall. I had fears I would grow until the only hope for me would be to join the bearded lady in the circus.

But as PS 244's basketball coach, Mr. Ludwig saw past my slumping posture and awkwardness, instead sensing the makings of a potential center for the school's basketball team. 

To help me become viable as the possible pivot for the Rugby Rockets, in those days a team's tallest player would position himself directly under the basket where he would hopefully block a few shots, do some rebounding, and score some easy layups, Mr. Ludwig spent long afternoon hours encouraging me (he believed in my potential more than I) and teaching me the moves I would need to excel in inter-school competition.

Somehow, after a few months in the gym I literally stood taller, had filled out a bit, and became one of the team's most reliable scorers. The Rockets then, with a team made up of players more talented than I, became perennial challengers for the Brooklyn borough championship. 

And finally, there was my singing. Or rather, my inability to carry a tune.

When Mr. Ludwig had the class prepare a musical "production" for PS 244's annual showcase, he had two pieces of advice, which to this day, metaphorically, have stood me in good stead--If you can't carry a tune, move your lips, lip-sync. In other words, if you are unable do something well, pretend you can. 

And, seek a role, if necessary--more metaphors--that lets you, if necessary, lay low. In this case behind a scrim lit-from-behind, as he had me do when one year's show was about tribal South Africa where I, again the overgrown me, stomped behind a suspended bed sheet so that only my attenuated shadow was projected to the audience while the rest of the class, in harmony, sang--

See him there,
The Zulu warrior.
See him there,
The Zulu chief, chief, chief, chief.

Mr Ludwig found a way to transform this frog into a prince of a chief!

For me, that is his legacy. Helping me aquire the skills and confidence to become anything my talents and hard work would permit.

For decades I have been searching for him to thank him with words that I, as an adult, finally acquired.

I failed to find him until now when I read he had died and that his funeral service last Sunday would be in New York City.

I went, hoping I would be welcome at what I suspected would be an intimate family affair. Though I was the only former student able to attend, I felt I was there representing the many others upon whom Mr. Ludwig had had such a profound effect.

I also realized I had been searching for him in all the wrong places. 

He was closer to me than I had imagined. I didn't need the Internet or Google to locate him. He had always been close at hand. Right here, within me, where has has been since 1950 and will be until I finally join him.

January 28, 2016--Shooting Hoops With Bernie

I knew there was something familiar about him. More than the Brooklyn accent and all the shrugging and Yiddish hand gestures.

And then it struck me.

Toward the end of Monday's Democratic town meeting, Bernie Sanders, egged on by moderator Chris Cuomo, spoke about his athletic days. How when at Madison High School he was on the track team and earlier, at PS 197, he was the center on their basketball team.

"Oh my God," I said to Rona, "Now I know where I know him."

"This should be good." She rolled her eyes.

"No, really, I went to PS 244 in East Flatbush and he went to PS 197 in Midwood, just down Kings Highway. They were our arch rivals. In fact, in the mid-50s we played against them for the PSAL Brooklyn Basketball Championship."

"Really?" I nodded, "And?"

"And, we lost. We came in second."

"You really remember him?"

"Not all that specifically, to tell you the truth. But before the championship game, our coach, Burt Ludwig, told us what to expect. He said, the main threat was their center." Looking over at me, he continued, "He's very tall. Like you. And moves well. He's also very aggressive so expect to get pounded a lot. Especially when fighting for rebounds."

"I can handle him," I said, more reflexively than from genuine self-confidence.

In truth, my main asset was that I was so tall. An overgrown 14-year-old. Already six-four. Though I was underweight and poorly coordinated. But I was scrappy. I didn't mind exchanging elbows under the backboards.

I grew up hearing the calumny that though Jews might be smart, we were not street-tough. That's why so many of us perversely admired the remnants of the Murder Incorporated gang, a gang of more-than-tough Jews who operated out of a candy store in Brownsville. Walking distance from where I grew up.

So, I was committed to the mantra, Never Again. Never again would Jews submit to violent antisemitism and this got played out in sports.

There were a number of Jewish boxing champions, including Max Baer and Jake LaMatta, and footballers such as Sid Luckman. Also baseball stars including Hank Greenberg and Sandy Koufax; as well as more than a few basketball heroes. Dolph Schayes, Red Auerbach, and Nat Holman come to mind.

And then there were Bernie Sanders of PS 197 and not-so-little Stevie Zwerling of PS 244.

The rest is Brooklyn legend.

Though we won the semifinal game fairly easily, with Bernie pushing me around while fighting for rebounds, they killed us and then went on to win the city and state championships.

(See the team picture below from the Brooklyn Eagle of, as they put it, the borough's "second best" team.)

So, Hillary, if you think you're running against mister-nice-guy, think again and watch out for those elbows.

April 8, 2015--Finally the Final Four

Others can focus on the last few games where Wisconsin defeated odds-on-favorite Kentucky and then lost to Duke in the final. I will continue to pay attention to the hypocrisy surrounding big-time college sports and the money that doesn't get to the student-athletes without whom there would be no show.

Most of the money--mainly TV money--goes to fund the schools' athletic programs and the coaches. Especially coaches such as Kentucky's John Calipari and Duke's Mike Krzyewski, Coach K.

Coach K pockets a cool $7 million plus tons more for endorsements and bonuses for getting his team to the Final Four. In Duke's case, almost an annual event.

Coach Capillary (as I'm sure my mother would call him) does even better. He gets about the same base salary as Krzyewski and then receives another $3 million or so for going along with the university's endorsement contracts. Endorsements for everything from sneakers to "official" beverages. Using and not paying for campus facilities, he runs an annual summer basketball camp in a deal that allows him to keep all the income. His Final Four bonus is close to another half mill. Then he gets annual signing bonuses of $1.25 million when he agree to return for another season.

Not bad for a job that involves coaching overgrown boys to run around in their underwear while tossing or slamming a ball through a hoop.

Do not despair for the Wisconsin coach, Bo Ryan. In a state where the governor, Scott Walker, has turned himself into a national political figure by beating up on state employees, state employee Ryan pockets at least $3 million a season. The university chancellor? She makes about $500,000. She obviously needs a new agent.

Something is out of whack. What did the Romans call it? Panem et Circenses? Bread and Circuses? They had it about right.  As a nation we're doing pretty well with the circenses, less good with the panem.

John Calipari

March 6, 2015--LeBron

I used to be the star of  my PS 244 basketball team. Not because I was that good but because I was overgrown--a full 6-4 at age twelve and stood a head above the other sons of Eastern European immigrants. Thankfully I didn't get much taller. My father, however, was disappointed. He was hoping I'd get a basketball scholarship to pay for college or, as a backup, a job at the the Ringling Brothers sideshow.

Therefore, and in spite of this, I have been a lifelong basketball fan. Less so, I admit, in recent years when my New York Knicks have become such a dysfunctional disgrace. For example, they lost the other night by 38 points.

Thus, it wasn't until this past Sunday, with the NBA season two-thirds over, that I watched my first game, the second half of the Huston Rockets-Cleveland Cavaliers showdown. I tuned in mostly because James Harden was playing for the Rockets and of course LeBron James for the Cavs. Perhaps the two best players currently plying the hardcourt.

I'm not good at remembering scores, but when I tuned in early in the third quarter, the Rockets we up by about 10 points. From a King James perspective that was essentially a tied game since at any moment he could go on a 14-0 run and the Cavs would as a result coast into the lead, which, with LeBron in charge, would essentially mean Game Over.

It didn't turn out that way. The score seesawed back and forth well into the fourth quarter and, at the end of it, was tied and there was a five-minute overtime. James Time, I thought. Game Over.

Wrong again. The Rockets wound up on top because LeBron messed up in all aspects of the game--his defense was suspect, he couldn't make crucial baskets, and even worse missed six of his last seven free throws. He's a 78 percent foul shooter so this was unexpected. Perhaps it was the result of his choking.

Though I suspect something else was at issue, something with cultural implications.

The Cavs are not really a team but rather a stage on which LeBron James is the only star.

James Time, unlike Michael Jordan Time, does not include or involve other teammates nor does James' brilliance and will to win lift his teammates' performance.

Here's the way the last ten minutes of Cavs' games proceed--

When they have the ball, James slowly dribbles it into the forecourt. His other four teammates retreat to the four corners of the other team's defensive end. James holds onto the ball, counting down the seconds on the shot clock. With 8-10 remaining, with his teammates continuing to stand far out of the way, he begins to attack the basket. Again, unlike Jordan, he rarely passes off even when he is triple-teamed and the other Cavs are wide open. He relentlessly elbows his way to the rim and throws up a shot, hoping to score or at the minimum get fouled.

The other night, since he was not making his free throws, the Rockets hacked him and he went to the foul line line where he repeatedly missed his attempts. As a result, the Rockets won by two points--105 to 103.

In my day, and among some current retro-NBA teams, basketball was a team game. Yes, there were stars but with the better teams all five players were involved, had chances to touch the ball and even shoot. There was no standing around as if they were an retinue of acolytes.

In the age of over-praise and social media, especially Facebook and Instagram. it is no wonder LeBron James refers to himself as the King.

For me--I can't wait for the baseball season to begin.

October 28, 2014--Gar-bage Time

It's Gar-bage Time in Washington, with the emphasis on the second syllable--Gar-bage.

As a basketball enthusiast, Obama knows about Gar-bage Time. It is now that time for Barack Obama and his administration.

In the NBA it's when LeBron James' team is 30 point ahead in the fourth and final quarter. Rather than continuing to run up the score and thereby taunt and humiliate their opponent, it's when the coach puts in the third stringers and they run up and down the court for the final 10 minutes making fools of themselves.

In this case, the Obama administration is 30 points behind and there's only a little over two years left in his term. He's entering the fourth quarter of his eight-year term.

I know, this will feel like an eternity. Just as it always does during Gar-bage Time. But with Obama there are things he and his team can do to avoid making fools of themselves.

Before turning to that, to drive home the basketball analogy, in 2004, just before delivering the keynote speech at the Democratic National Convention that launched him--the "One America" speech--to pump himself up as well as to give us a rare glimpse of his ego, Obama proclaimed, "I'm LeBron, baby. I can play at this level. I got some game."

He really said that.

That may have influenced the Nobel Prize Committee, which in 2009 awarded him a premature Peace Prize, but for those of us paying attention during the first three quarters, Obama's initial six years, to paraphrase Lloyd Benson's barb delivered to his hapless VP opponent Dan Quayle, who had the chutzpah to compare himself to John F. Kennedy, "I know LeBron James, and with all due respect, Mr. President, you're no LeBron James. In fact, you don't have that much game."

I should add that Quayle, George H.W. Bush's VP nominee, actually won.

Overnight I was thinking about what the first Wikipedia paragraph will say about post-presidential Barack Obama. Currently, the first sentence says he is the "first African American too hold the office of President." I assume that will remain and certainly the first paragraph will include Obamacare; but when it then comes to sum up the rest of the essence of his presidency, to highlight his major achievements, these will include extracting us from two George W. Bush wars, finally tracking down and killing Osama bin Laden, and playing a leading role--even before he was elected--in supporting measures to prevent the Great Recession from becoming the Second Great Depression.

Then, the rest of the Wiki entry will be a list of disappointments and out-and-out failures.  Here's a list--

The Obamacare rollout
The VA hospital scandal
The IRS scandal
The Arab Spring which quickly devolved into the Arab Winter
The Ebola response
The return of the Cold War
Reupping the Patriot Act and expanding its use
Supporting the extension of Bush's tax cuts
Edward Snowdon
Red Lines in Syria
Angela Merkel's cell phone
Losing the Democrat majority in the House and, soon, the Senate

So, in the face of this and the public's disenchantment with him, how can Obama avoid two-plus years of Gar-bage Time?

By being bold. Show that like LeBron you do have game.

Prodded by Nancy Reagan, Ronald Reagan during the doldrums of the last year's of his presidency, in the midst of Iran-Contragate, made a deal with the Soviets to effectively end the Cold War.

I can only imagine what Michele is now pushing for--

• An easy one--bring Cuba back into the fold of Western nations
• Stop the continuing flood of deportations being carried out by your administration and stand up forcefully and repeatedly for the "rights" of undocumented immigrants who are essential to our economy
• Put what little is left of your political capital on the line and honor your Nobel by personally and directly intervening in the Arab-Israel nightmare. If necessary, begin the process of cutting Israel loose since they are at the heart of the ongoing problem. Ignore the Israel Lobby. You don't need them. You're not running for anything anymore.
• Reiterate your agenda even though there is no chance whatsoever of any of it being enacted into law. Maybe some of your lofty ideas will influence future presidents. As with Teddy Roosevelt.
• Speak more about race. Reread your own amazing speech delivered during the heat of the Reverend Wright affair and get back to those themes. Many of us think much of your problem with Congress and with too many Americans is lingering racism. Who other than you can do this in ways to help get more of that malignant affliction behind us. 
• Most important, devote much of your remaining time talking about the American Dream to disaffiliated young people. Poor, middle class, and wealthy. Too many of them fear for the future. And they are right to do so. Someone has to help them understand what is happening and figure out how to deal with a host of new realities. 

Or, you can continue to drag yourself dispiritedly up and down the court, feeling sorry for yourself, running down the clock. And, one more thing, put Air Force One in the hanger and if you go anywhere travel commercial.

November 5, 2013--Size Matters: Concluded . . .

We found ourselves last week in Renys general store. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of life-long habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes.

Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

"These's don't look that bad," I said to no one in particular. There were a pair of normal-looking Nunn Bush shoes on display atop a stack of shoeboxes. "A little clunky, but of the type that at least look that they won't cause any additional pain." Maybe, I thought, I should try them on.

"Thirteens, thirteens. I can't seem to find any." They had 9s and 10s, 11s and 14s, but no 13s. "Oh well," I said, again talking to myself, "business as usual."

"Oh well, what?" Rona had joined me, clutching a half dozen pairs of Earthworks socks.

"It looks as if one of us did well." I was full of attitude when it came to anything involving shoes and feet.

"I love them. They're expensive, but Renys' prices make them affordable. But what about you? You seem to have found some shoes to try on. The ones you wear all the time are ready to be dumped."

"I agree, but before I do that I have to find replacements. And for me, that's impossible. Timberland, of course, doesn't make my model any more.  I knew I should have bought six pair. But these, which sort of look OK, don't come in 13s. I mean Renys doesn't have any in that size."

"Why not try the 14s then? One never knows. Their 14s may be similar in size to Timberlands' 13s."

I was dispirited, moping around. If there is anything I hate these days it's thinking about my feet.

"Try them," Rona was attempting to be encouraging--she knew all about my shoe-feet phobias. "What have you got to lose?"

"They're so big they'll make me look like Clarabell the clown." Here I was again assigning myself to the circus. But, in spite of feeling grumpy, I pulled the box of 14s from the bottom of the stack and tried the first one on.

"To tell you the truth," I said with surprise, "it actually feels good."

"Try the other one too," Rona said, "And be sure to walk around in them for at least ten minutes. On the tiled floor too. Not just where it's carpeted."

Which I proceeded to do. Up and down, back and forth, up steps and down, I wandered all over the store. And then returned to Rona who was sitting, self-absorbed, on the bench stroking her new Earthworks. She looked up. "So what's the verdict?"

"Believe it or not they feel great and, even more amazing," I was genuinely excited about shoes, "if you can imagine, my feet, which have been killing me for years, don't seem to hurt at all. Could it be that . . ."

"Yes it could. That you've been wearing the wrong size shoes. Thirteens are too small for you. You've become a 14."

"How could that be? I'm not getting bigger," Rona restrained herself from having some fun at my expense, "In fact, I'm getting smaller."

"Indeed." That she couldn't resist.

Ignoring her I continued, "I used to be 6-5 but now I'm only 6-3. I'm shrinking, not getting bigger."

"You could stand to lose five pounds."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Though Rona is in fact right--I have been overdoing the desserts.

"But you know that as you age you're feet can get bigger. Actually, do get bigger." And she repeated, "You used to be a 13, but now you're apparently a 14."

So I bought the shoes (they were originally $110 but at Renys only $54) and have been wearing them day and night. All my foot problems have been miraculously resolved. In truth, most of them. And I am not using any Dr. Scholls' prosthetics. Just the new shoes and sensible socks.

There is, however, one problem--just as 13s were almost nonexistent back when I was an overgrown adolescent, 14s are now equally hard to come by. To cover myself, I got Renys to find a second pair so I can warehouse them. I'm gentle on shoes and these two pair should last me at least five years. I wish Renys had four more. Then I'd be set for life.

On the other hand I'm not sure I'll last five more years, much less longer; but at least when it comes to shoes, I'm in good shape. Any shoes left over, can be part of my estate.

While looking at my new shoes yesterday morning, Rona said, half to herself, "I think they'll be OK in the City. But maybe . . ."

I cut her off before she could complete her thought, "I think they're cool. So I, I mean we should be fine."

"You'll be fine," she corrected me.

November 4, 2013--Size Matters: Part 1

If you do not insist upon details, I will share a story about one of the few things that gets bigger with age.

First, some background--

I grew very tall very fast. I was at least 6-5 by the time I was 12. That was scary. If I kept growing until the typical time when boys stop, I calculated that I could get to be 7 feet tall.

My parents were worried I would become the butt of schoolyard jokes. They had cause to be concerned--there were quite a few nicknames in circulation about me, none of them flattering. "Beanpole" was the most benign. The others, I prefer not to recall.

One night I overheard my parents talking worriedly about my height.

Always not politically correct, my father said, "He's turning into a freak."

"No he's not," my mother said--she always tried to find ways to temper his frustrations, "He's just a little big for his age."

"A little big," he mocked, "Soon we'll be able to sign him up for the circus."

She was familiar with being disregarded, "The doctor said," attempting to change the subject, "we should Xray his wrists and feet to see how much growing room there is. That will give an indication of how much taller he'll get."

"So take him to the shoe store on Church Avenue. They have a machine there where you can Xray his feet. They use it to see if shoes fit. But you can just go in for the Xray."

And with that in mind my mother took me to the Treadeasy to Xray my feet.

Everything looked normal to me--I didn't see any big gaps between the feet bones, which suggested that there wasn't that much growing room left. Maybe, I thought, I'll stop growing soon and use my height to advantage when playing basketball. The only problem was that I was uncoordinated and had such big feet that when running up and down the court I kept tripping on myself.

But I did make a ritual of going to the Treadeasy store every Friday after school to Xray my feet. It's a miracle I didn't give myself radiation poisoning or cancer of the instep.

While there I pretended to be shopping for shoes. But in my size, 13, they had virtually nothing. Just an occasional pair of black Oxfords that to me looked like shoes for old men.

"Maybe," Morty the salesman said, "when you're older there'll be more people your height and size and you'll have more of a selection. In America, everyone is getting taller. Even girls."

"In the meantime," I said, "I'm doomed to walk around looking like I'm a 90-year-old immigrant."

But over time, what Morty prophesied turned out to be true. With so many very tall men around--6-5 nowadays is no big deal--for at least 15 years I have had no trouble finding shoes in my size. Even in Europe. Even occasionally shoes that actually look cool.

But in recent times my feet have begun to trouble me.

I hate going to podiatrists and thought I would either on my own figure out what the problem was and see if there were any Dr. Scholls' products available to ease my pain or, like other symptoms of aging, I would accept aching feet as part of my lot in life.

I tried Dr. Schools Orthotic Inserts (no help); Ball-of-Feet Cushions (no relief); Sport Replacement Insoles (worthless); Bunion Cushions (made things marginally better); and Molefoam Padding (about as helpful as Bunion Cushions). I even tired the good doctor's products in combination--I adhered Bunion Cushions to the soles of my feet and also inserted Molefoam Padding in my shoes.

But still I hobbled around. Now, with so much Dr. Scholls' product on my feet and stuffed into my shoes that they no longer fit and this made matters even worse.

Thus plagued, we found ourselves last week in Renys. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes. Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

To be completed tomorrow . . .