September 17, 2019--Garlic

For dinner we planned to make an apple and chicken sausage frittata and, among other things, needed garlic.

"Let's get an organic one," Rona said. "Frittatas are best with fresh tasting ingredients."

"Then Rising Tide it is." Our local organic food shop.

It's the height of the harvest season here and the store is a veritable cornucopia of root vegetables, many varieties of squash, greens of all sorts, and a bushel basket of locally-grown garlic.

"How does this one feel to you?" Rona asked tossing it to me.

"Perfect. Voluptuous bulbs and hard as a rock. Just what one looks for."

"And smell it," Rona said, doing so herself.

"Right out of the ground," I said. "Let's get one. It will be wonderful as part of the frittata."

"Can you believe it?" Rona said. "It's $15 a pound. And this one weighs about a quarter of a pound"--she had placed it in the scale--"and could cost four dollars. A little much, don't you think, for a simple garlic?"

"Maybe it's not so simple," I said. "The good news is that we only need a few cloves."

"I know they charge a fortune for anything organic but about this I don't know. How much less flavorable will your basic supermarket garlic taste?"

"Let's find out."

"So, we went to Hannafords and checked out their garlics. They looked pretty much the same as Rising Tide's. And cost only $5.25 a pound.

"That's more like it," I said. "It appears that they're from California. And though it costs a lot more to get here than the ones locally grown, it's still much cheaper."

"This has piqued my interest," Rona said. "Let's see what they cost in Reilly's." Our local family owned and run market. So we drove to New Harbor. Their garlic was also from California and cost about the same as the supermarket's.

"One more stop," I said. "The other food market back in town that's also family run.

With time on our hands and our interest aroused, we drove back to Damariscotta to check out the garlic at a small family-run market. It was a great surprise to see theirs cost $12.50 a pound. More than two and a half times what our supermarket and local market charge.

"I wonder why," Rona asked. "Maybe they're organic. And let's see where they come from. Perhaps France?"

"No way," I said, this is not a fancy store and their carrying imported or organic garlic is unlikely.

On the box that held the garlic was a shipping label.

"Can you believe it," Rona said, "It is imported. From China."

"iPhones and T-shirts I get, but garlic from the other side of the planet? Literally, we live in a world turned upside down. And I'm sure there's nothing so special about Chinese garlic. I suspect most of it winds up in modest pizzerias all over Brooklyn."

"You have to admit," Rona said, "That they make a lot of good pizza in Brooklyn. But here's one other possibility."

"What's that?"

"They cost $12.50 a pound because Trump's put a tariff on garlic."

"If true, and he's crazy enough to have done that, forget soybeans but do worry about the fate of Italian food."

June 26, 2019--Aunt Tanna

I've been thinking this week about my Aunt Tanna, my mother's second oldest sister who became our extended family's matriarch after my grandmother died.

This meant that all ritual occasions such as Passover and Rosh Hashanah dinners were under her auspices and occurred around her always-ladened dining room table. 

In my life I do not recall any warmer times.

Aunt Tanna was also the even-more-extended family's guardian angel. 

My earliest childhood memories were of distant cousins, who had survived Nazi concentration camps, who she somehow, at the end of the war, managed to bring to the safety of America. That "safety of America" was the security and love she provided to those who had literally been through Hell.

When they were liberated those emaciated skeletons were placed in DP camps, often tent camps, displaced persons camps, which were much less than ideal facilities, where they needed to wait, often for more than a year, before there was a place of refuge to which to send them. 

Much of Europe was in ruins and there were few places to locate freed prisoners. The United States, which sustained no direct damage, was only reluctantly welcoming. 

In America there was a long tradition of official antisemitism and our State Department, which was charged with managing the quotas that severely restricted the number of those who could be admitted to the country as refugees, was notoriously known to be unfriendly to anything Jewish. 

For example, before World War II erupted the Secretary of State ordered that ships packed with asylum seekers not be permitted to disembark them. The ships and their passengers were turned back and as a consequence many thousands were then sent to concentration camps where they were slaughtered by the Nazis. 

Aunt Tanna somehow found ways to locate scattered family members and one-by-one, occasionally in small family groups when more than one cousin miraculously survived, she managed to bring them to her apartment in Brooklyn where she arranged places for them to sleep, frequently for months, frequently three to a bed, while she searched for more permanent places for them to live and jobs so they could support themselves.

They spoke no English and I no Yiddish, the lingua franca, and so we communicated mainly though shrugs and gestures. As might be imagined I was especially drawn to the occasional young cousin survivors, who my father said, looked like "little old men." What they had been through, I came to understand, had literally left its mark on them.

And of course I could not take my eyes off the blue numbers they all had tattooed on their forearms.

I have been thinking about this recently because Portland Maine continues to be in the news as it struggles to welcome a few hundred Congolese refugees who have been granted asylum in America. There was another article in the New York Times Monday about how welcoming Portland is attempting to be. And how Portland and the State of Maine continue to be the only places in the U.S. where public money in combination with privately raised funds are being used to help defray the cost of their relocation and transition.

This, as I have written, has unleashed a storm of protest from some Mainers who feel that while citizens are struggling we should not be using taxpayer money to defray the costs associated with admitting refugees. That it is better to require that family members "sponsor" anyone seeking to live in America. The Aunt Tanna approach.

This seems to me to be worth considering.

May 28, 2019--Flying Saucers

Unable to sleep I tuned into my favorite middle-of-the-night radio show, "Coast to Coast," where talk about the paranormal is the norm and flying saucers are the prime topic of conversation.

It's a low key program and boring enough to help induce sleep; but the other night the host, guest (a UFO expert), and the listeners who called in were all unusually excited.

It seems that the Navy, as reported by the New York Times, recently issued new classified guidance for how Navy pilots are to report what the military refers to as "unexplained aerial phenomena," UAPs, or "unidentified flying objects," UFOs.

These guidelines were necessary, the Navy revealed, because in recent years there has been an increase in the number of credible reports about Navy pilots encountering unusual aircraft or otherwise unexplainable flying objects.

The excitement on "Coast to Coast" was because the Navy by developing the guidelines and the paper of record reporting about them offered validation and legitimacy for those who believe in the reality of extraterrestrial spaceships visiting Earth. This suggests that those who for decades have paid attention to reports about UFOs are not all kooks and wing-nuts but rather may be on to something.

True, half the people who call in to "Coast to Coast" share stories about being abducted by space aliens, not just that they believe the evidence that UFOs exist; but with the Navy releasing videotape of close encounters and the Times' Pentagon correspondent the author of the front-page story, it may be possible that there have been abductions.

Who knows? Who really knows?

So it's time for me to confess that I'm a UFO nut. 

Back in 1953 I came across Desmond Leslie's and George Adamski's Flying Saucers Have Landed and it stirred my adolescent imagination.

I took to watching the night sky over Brooklyn, hoping to spot a UFO and maybe, if I were lucky, I would be abducted and transported to a place more interesting than East Flatbush.

But at most all I ever spotted was a bright light in the sky perhaps over Coney Island that seemed to hover and than, at supersonic speed, turn an abrupt right, and disappear from sight over New Jersey.

But than again, as I said, I was a very undeveloped 13-year-old with little prospect of ever living in a larger world, much less one that spanned the galaxy. But I did know enough that I didn't want to be abducted to New Jersey much less Venus, where Leslie and Adamski claimed most UFOs were based.

One good thing about spending the season in Maine is that the night sky is very dark and it's thus a good place for witnessing the Aurora Borealis and spotting flying saucers. 

December 12, 2018--Murray Dinerstein 1923-2018

Friday evenings in Tannersville the women and children of the Mooney extended family would gather on the front porch that faced Route 23A to log in the arriving husbands who, after a scorching week of work in the city, dodging miles of stop-and-go traffic, would finally made it to the modest country summer house in the Catskills all members of the family chipped in to pay for in order to secure a refuge for the children from the scourge of Polio, thought to be extra contagious in steaming, densely populated Brooklyn, and for the adults a place to breathe dry air.

Uncle Bob would be first--he owned his own business, a gas station, and could arrange to get away early--bearing shopping bags full of the sugary foods and drinks we were normally not allowed to eat the rest of the year. He would unload boxes of donuts and quart after quart of Hoffman's cherry soda and ginger ale, Dr, Brown's Cel Ray Tonic, and most weeks sweating bottles of Coca Cola, while the women looked on, sensing the suspension of the state of healthy discipline they had imposed during the week on my cousins and me. I suspected that Uncle Bob's wife, Aunt Gussie, believed that drinking carbonated soda made one vulnerable to Scarlet Fever if not Polio itself.

Typically, Uncle Eli was next. Back in the city he was in the meat processing business and thus had access to prime cuts of veal, lamb, and beef and so out of his car's trunk came steaks and chops and mounds of ground meat and sausages that he, on Saturday afternoons, would sear on the backyard charcoal grill.

And then there was my father whose place of business, a parking garage in Park Slope, co-owned with his Uncle Louis, who, we would say today, was "mobbed up," was close to an Ebingers bakery and so from my father's Lincoln Continental would emerge a stack of memorable cakes. My favorite, the coffee cake pecan ring. He always remembered to bring at least one of those and made sure, in the rush to eat, that a bi slice of one was secured for me.

Finally came Cousin Murray. Fifteen years my senior, World War II veteran, and thus because of his age, military service (he was the only member of the family to have been in the army), and stature--he was the first born of my cousins--was a looming presence among the younger, especially male cousins, who idolized his can-do energy, athletic prowess, and raw, self-confident maleness. He was aware of this and made successful efforts to carry this responsibility off with graceful aplomb.

Rather than food treats he typically brought records, books, and magazines which he passed around to the eager younger cousins, winking and whispering one memorable Friday to Cousin Chuck (next in line in male seniority) when he gave him a tattered copy of Irving Shulman's Amboy Dukes, "Make sure you look at page 44," he said privately to Chuck. And when later I had my turn with it, skipping the rest, prompted by Chuck, I went right to the steamy chapter. No book, I confess after having read thousands, including everything by Philip Roth, ever thrilled me more. 

Savoring its boldness, I also couldn't help but notice that the novel had been written by a Jew. To this day I think that was one reason Cousin Murray gave us a copy--to demonstrate that even over-pampered and inhibited Jewish mamas' boys could learn to transgress.

Then on another memorable Friday, Murray arrived in a brand new car--a kelly green Plymouth . . . convertible. Transfixed, Chuck and I especially couldn't take out eyes or hands off it.

The next morning Cousin Murray asked if we wanted to join him in taking it out for a spin. Eagerly, nearly trampling each other, we piled in. 

Murray said, "Let's head down the Rip Van Winkle Drive toward Palenville. I read in the News that they're opening a new section of the Thruway. There's a stretch of about ten miles that I think they are allowing people to drive on. Straight as an arrow, let's see how fast we can get this baby to go." Tenderly, he patted the wooden steering wheel.

There was an entrance to the gleaming highway and remarkably we were the only car in sight. "Let's floor it!" Murray said. Which he proceeded to do. I was seated in the passenger seat and watched the speedometer dial quiver as the car leapt ahead.

50, 60, 70 miles an hour. The top was down and the wind ripped through our hair. I had never been in a convertible before and was as exhilarated. We were flying! It felt as if the car was about to take off, lift itself from the road. Literally fly.

80, 90. The entire car began to vibrate violently as we approached 90 mph. I feared it was in danger of coming apart. That the hood and fenders would fly off.

"Let's see if she can make it to 100," Murray shouted as the end of the newly-paved section about a mile north came into view.

The speedometer needle now appeared to be stalled on about 95. "Come on baby," Murray said softly, seductively, and she responded. 

"One hundred!" he shouted and simultaneously began to let up on the gas pedal and feather the breaks so we wouldn't crash into the barrier at the end of the run. My heart was thumping and I thought I was about to pass out from excitement or a heart attack.

When we were safely back on 23A, Cousin Murray said, "Let's stop for a soda. There's a nice place in Saugerties. We can unwind from all the excitement."

There was a roadside ice-cream stand with picnic benches. "Order anything you like," he said. "On me. It's not every day one gets to go 100 on a regular road and not in a race car." His hands too were trembling with excitement. 

All along, Cousin Chuck, who usually bubbled with stories and anecdotes, had been uncharacteristically quiet.

He finally said, as if a non sequitur, "I've always dreamed about becoming a bull fighter."

"A bull fighter?" I shrieked, "You a bull fighter? That's the craziest thing I ever heard."

Murray touched my arm and said, "No, no. Let him talk about this. Life is not only about doing the safe thing. The point about life is to figure out who you are and what you want to do with yourself." 

Chuck nodded, smiling knowingly.

"What about you?" Cousin Murray turned to me, "Who are you and what do you want to do with yourself?"

"I don't know," I said shyly. "No one very asked me that. Not that way."

"Well, the point is not to wait for people to ask you but to figure out what to ask yourself." He looked as me as if giving me sanction to dream about the person I wanted to become.

Four years later Cousin Chuck left his parents and their safe and comfortable Brooklyn life and spent a year in Mexico where he went to bullfighting school.

About me? That's another story for another time. Suffice it to say, that whoever I have become, whatever I am owes a great debt to Cousin Murray who died Monday night, with his sons nearby, a few months past his 95th birthday.

October 29, 2018--The Bambino

During my childhood, on the streets in Manhattan where the UN is currently located, as unlikely as it may seem, there were slaughterhouses and meat packing plants.

One plant, Paramount Meats, was owned by my Uncle Eli. He and Aunt Tanna and their son, my cousin Chuck, lived less than a half mile from us and so, on occasional weekend mornings, Uncle Eli would pick me up at about 6:00--he and I were very early risers--and take me with him to have breakfast at Garfield's Cafeteria, an glitzy dairy restaurant on the corner of Church and Flatbush.

We would get in line and slide our trays along until we got to the grill area where we would order eggs or pancakes or various kinds of pickled and smoked fish.

Being there with him, talking as we did about things I was reluctant to raise with my parents, we discussed everything from politics (he hated Eisenhower), the state of the world (not good), and family matters (complicated). We also spoke about the "birds and the bees"--he gave me a book about this, The Stork Didn't Bring You, But above all else, in this way, he was the first person to treat me like an adult and not a kid. And so I loved him and our time together.

One Saturday he got permission from my mother to take me, after breakfast, to his plant. He had a new Buick and it also felt good and adult to drive in it with him across the Brooklyn Bridge and then up the East River Drive to Paramount. 

There was a garage across the street from it and he had a reserved spot, another reminder that his life was different than most of my other more immigrant-cultured relatives, many of whom did not own cars or speak unaccented English.

"You know, Babe Ruth, from the Yankees also parks in this garage," Uncle Eli said as he left the car with a dollar tip to the garage attendant. He knew I was a passionate Yankee fan.

"Really? The Bambino?"

"Himself. In fact, you may get to meet him. In our smoke house today we're making pigs knuckles, and once that smell gets out into the street, if the Babe is coming to pick up his car, he may stop in. More than anything else he loves pigs knuckles right out of the oven. I always put a few aside for him."

"Really? For the Babe?" I was more excited about this than our talk earlier about storks.

"First let me show you the smoker. It's pretty big so we can walk into it and you can see the pork butts and cow's tongues we'll be smoking along with the rack of pigs knuckles. We have to be careful not to let the door swing closed. We could get trapped in here and get smoked ourselves!" I knew this wasn't true, that he was fooling with me, which also made me feel grown up. He talked with me as if I were one of his boys.

From the garage we walked to his office where I would spend the rest of the morning helping him add up his bills. He read out the numbers and I would enter them in the adding machine. I wan't sure if this needed dong or if he was creating something for me to do to make me feel important. Which it did.

Rather quickly the smoke oven heated up and fumes from it permeated the plant and poured out onto 45th Street. It did indeed smell delicious and I couldn't help but think about the pigs knuckles and The Babe.

With that, framed in the office door was the shape of an enormous man, and from what I could see--he blocked the light--he was wearing a double-breasted camelhair coat that almost reached the floor and a signature Babe Ruth cap, both of which, from pictures of him in the newspapers, confirmed that indeed it was the Sultan of Swat.

"Are you making what I hope you're making?" Ruth asked Uncle Eli with a gravelly voice. It was well known he had a serious case of cancer. 

"I am," Uncle Eli said, "I was hoping you were in the neighborhood. They should be ready in just another few minutes and I'll get you a couple. In the meantime, let me introduce my nephew. He's a big Yankee fan, which can be dangerous when living in Brooklyn. Everybody there roots for the Dodgers."

"Did I ever tell you I was their first base coach back in '38? Most people don't remember that, but I was. I wasn't very good at it, but I could use the money."

Uncle Eli left to check the status of the pigs knuckles.

Alone with the Babe, shyly I said, "That's the year I was born." 

"Let me take a look at you," he said, "So you must be about nine. You're pretty tall for nine." I walked toward him and he tousled my hair, smiling broadly. "I'll bet you play baseball."

"Not really," I said, "Sometimes on the street. You know, mainly punch ball and stick ball. Also, softball. The guys on my block aren't good enough to play hardball."

"Stick with it," he said, "If you keep growing you never know."

Uncle Eli was back with a couple of ham hocks. 

The Babe reached out for one and with great relish took a big bite out of it. "Hot," he said, "I like 'em hot like this. There's nothing better than right out of the oven. Thanks, Eli, I need to get going. And nice to meet you kid." He reached out to shake my hand, careful not to use the one with which he was holding the pigs knuckle. What's your name again? I'm not always good at remembering names."

I told him and with that he was gone.

Two weeks later, Uncle Eli came by to pick me up and again we went to Garfield's. "I have something for you," he said as we turned up Church Avenue. "It's in that bag on the back seat. Reach back there and get it. Which I did.

"Open it. It's for you, from a friend of yours."

A baseball fell out of the bag and landed on my lap. "Is it . . . ?"

"Take a close look at it." 

On it, the Bambino had written, "For Steve. From your pal, Babe Ruth."

It became my proudest possession. I kept it on a shelf next to my bed so I could see it last thing at night and right after waking up.

Of course I showed it to my neighborhood pals. Most didn't believe me, contending I was trying to pull a fast one on them. "I'm not," I said, not caring if they believed me. I knew the truth, I knew what I had experienced.

Later that summer, Heshy said, "Why don't we play a little hardball. I have a hardball bat and you have a baseball. You know, the one from your pal." The rest of the guys chuckled derisively. 

I went upstairs and came back with the baseball. We played with it for a couple of days and then lost it when it fell into an open sewer that we had been using as second base.

And then in the middle of August, The Babe died.

October 26, 2018--My Neighbor: Jackie Robinson

When I was a kid growing up in East Flatbush, on East 56th Street, as the seasons revolved and the days lengthened, our favorite thing was to head for the streets after supper to resume our punchball or stickball games.

One evening, impatiently waiting for Heshy who was the best punchball player on the block, we finally spotted him racing toward us, pumping his arms frantically.

Gasping for air, he could hardly get the words out but managed to say, "You're not . . . going to believe this . . . but I just heard . . . Jackie Robinson . . . of the Brooklyn Dodgers . . . moved into . . . the neighborhood . . . to East 53rd Street!" 

Heshy was also a prankster. Many of us tried to keep up with him but at that he also excelled. And so we didn't believe him.

"What are you up to?" the ever skeptical Irv asked.

"Nothing. It's the truth. I swear. My father told me. He's a glazer and they hired him to replace some of their windows. Jackie Robinson! And his wife. And children. From the Dodgers!"

It was early summer 1947 and Jackie Robinson had recently joined the Dodgers. The first Negro to cross the color line in the Major Leagues. 

He was already a hero to us though he was still having to deal with racist comments and threats from opposing players as well as from some of his own teammates. 

"My father said they are very nice people." Mr. Perly was a communist and like all other communists we thought he was a supporter of Negro rights. He believed they should be allowed to live wherever they wanted and to go to school with white people. So we were a little skeptical about this as well.

Sensing this, Heshy said, "Let's walk over and take a look. I'm telling the truth. I promise this time I'm not making this up."

So we jogged the four blocks to East 53rd and Tilden Avenue where Heshy said the Robinsons had bought a house, still not believing he was telling the truth. And we wondered what kind of stunt he was going to play on us.

It took just a few minutes to get there and sure enough there was a big moving van parked at the corner. It was clear someone was moving in but we still doubted it was the Robinsons. How could it be? I thought--it's just like Heshy. What a kidder.

But to give Heshy more credibility  stepping out of the front door was a Negro woman clutching a sobbing child.

I suppose that could be Mrs. Robinson, I thought. There were no Negroes at all in our overwhelmingly Jewish and Italian neighborhood. Could it be that . . . ?

We stood in the street shamelessly gaping at all that was going on.

Smirking, Heshy whispered to the four of us, "I told you so. I'm sure that's his wife. Just like my father said."

After a few minutes, realizing it wasn't polite to stand there staring, we turned to return to our block.

"Can I get you boys a glass of milk or a soda? I'm afraid I don't have much to offer you."

We turned back to look at her. She stood on the porch, smiling broadly and waving at us.

"I have to do my homework," Bernie said, shyly with lowered head. 

"Surely you have a moment to have a drink. It's still quite hot out, and if you wait just a little longer, Jackie, my husband should be home very soon and I'm sure he'd like to meet his new neighbors. The game ended an hour ago. Against St. Louis." She continued to smile while jostling her young son on her hip.

"I suppose we could . . . ," I sputtered, "Tomorrow's Saturday and . . . You know. We could maybe . . . just for a minute or two. Our mothers will be worried." 

In fact it was still quite light out and we knew our mothers were fine with us playing on the street until it was almost dark.

And with that, he arrived, smoothly gliding his convertible to the curb. He slid out of the front seat and hoisted a big bag onto his shoulder. It had Dodgers stenciled on it's side. Without doubt it was Jackie Robinson. 

He bounded up the steps and kissed his wife and son. Then turned to us, "I see, Rachel, you have some new friends." 

She smiled, nodding, "I was just about to bring the boys sodas. Will Cokes be all right?" she asked us. We all muttered that would be perfect.

"Why don't you go and get them?" he said, "Maybe we'll throw the ball around while you're doing that." He reached into his bag and extracted a couple of bats, two gloves, and three or four baseballs.

"Let's hit the street," he said to us, full of energy.

He skipped down the steps and out into the middle of the street. "Who wants to bat first?" he asked. "If any of you know how to bunt maybe you'd go first. You could lay one down and get us off to a good start. I sometimes like to lay one down and get a rally going. I'm not that interested in home runs. I prefer walks and hits and stealing bases." We knew that already from watching the Dodgers on TV. Even in his rookie year he brought excitement and speed to the Dodgers' game.

And so, many evenings after day games, after a gulped-down dinner, we went over to the Robinson's and Jackie joined us in the street where he played with us, all the while coaching us about the subtlety of the game. 

This went on for nearly three years. It was nothing short of a miracle to have him as a neighbor and for him to be so generous and forthcoming.

Then toward the end of the third year when we arrived at the Robinson house it looked vacant and forlorn. We went around back and again there was no sign of them. From the stoop we could see into the living room and it too was empty. It was if they and our time together had vanished. 

No one on the block who we asked about the Robinsons had any idea what happened and where they were.

I asked my mother. She and Rachel Robinson were elementary school teachers and I thought she might know what happened.

When I asked, my mother changed the subject. This was very unusual for her. She never held anything back from me. And so I asked again. This time she did not respond at all. Also not characteristic of her or our relationship.

I asked a third time as I knew she was not telling the truth. That she was hiding something. The truth. 

"They had to move," my mother finally said.

"Had to? Had to? Why did they have to?

"Not everyone was as happy as you, having them in the neighborhood."

"Meaning?"

"Well, you know they're . . ." 

She didn't finish their thought. There was no need to.

On the left, the Robinson house

September 25, 2018--Second Lady

To distract myself from Trump-related agita I flipped around the Internet to see if there were some things we should book to do after returning to New York City in late October. 

Maybe take in a few shows and a couple of concerts.

I checked out Live Nation's website to see what they might be featuring. Among others they represent U2, Miley Cyrus (who I confess to liking), and Beyonce.

Maybe, I thought, we should go to something at the Barclays Center in the new Downtown Brooklyn. We haven't been there for anything, including to see the hapless Brooklyn Nets, partly owned by Jay-Z. It's that hip. 

Something unexpected jumped out as Live Nation's featured attraction--

On December 1st at the Barclays Center Michelle Obama will appear to promote her new book, Becoming Michelle Obama.

Tickets are available but going like hotcakes and so a second night is being added to the schedule. 

All over the country where she will appear in more than a dozen huge stadiums, including the 23,500 United Center in Chicago--home of the Bulls--tickets are selling so fast and the price is so high that the title of the former First Lady's book could be Becoming Rich.

First, there is the astounding $65 million advance the two Obama's received for a book from each of them. And then at the Barclays Center a fifth-row seat will set you back $1,256 (not a typo). A "meet-and-greet" package goes for $3,000, wheelchair seating at the back of the house costs $400 and a perch in the very top tier is only $29.50. For these, remember to bring binoculars.

I should add, as you attempt to assimilate this, about how the former president and his wife who represented themselves as all about reducing inequality while serving in the White House, how these two could so quickly sell their souls to Mammon (and Netflix, where they have a production deal that will yield well over $100 million) , supposedly 10 percent of the tickets to each event (I almost typed "concert") will be set aside for local "charities." Nosebleed seats, I assume.

Quoted in the New York Times, Steven Barclay (not related to the Brooklyn center), a book agent, was "virtually speechless as he checked the Ticketmaster landing page for Mrs. Obama, 'Huh,' he said, 'Wow. O.K. It's like you're looking at a Madonna tour.'"

More, I say, like a Beyonce tour. I've suspected for years that Michelle has felt Barack has an eye for Beyonce. And that she kept him an a short leash whenever there was an event at the White House or Inauguration to which Beyonce was invited. And that slowly, over time, the First Lady morphed her makeup and hair to look more and more like the singer's.

Check out the photo below and tell me I'm wrong.

June 6, 2018--Frappuccino

Many of my friends are excited that the executive chairman of Starbucks, Howard Schultz, is stepping down and giving serious thought to running for president in 2020 as a Democrat.

I have been hearing from them all day.

"He's our best chance to defeat Donald Trump," one e-mailed, "A real businessman who can take on Trump, a mom-and-pop operator who's really nothing more than a snake oil salesman."

"Schultz built a global empire," another friend texted, "He made billions of dollars for Starbucks. And he's a progressive! Just last week he shut down all the Starbucks stores in the United States for diversity training."

"On his watch they created, my favorite, the Frappuccino," someone wrote, seemingly feeling this qualifies him to be president.

I say, forget for the moment if he's qualified. My question--Can he win?

Sorry, but I doubt it.

Just what we need, another businessman who knows nothing about domestic issues or international challenges. Just because there are 14,000 Starbucks shops overseas in 62 countries doesn't qualify Schultz to be commander in chief.

And, I don't know how to put this without stirring up a hornets nest, but do we need another New Yorker running for president, much less someone from Brooklyn?

I say this as a Brooklyn native.

My obsession continues to be about winning in November and then in 2020. Won't we progressives ever learn that someone known for selling Americanos and lattes doesn't have a chance. I can already hear the mockery. Remember when me-generation Democrats where called Yuppies who cared more about brie and Chardonnay than social or political issues?

My view--yes, in the mix of potential nominees let's look for CEOs who could take on both Trump and actually have the experience needed to be an effective president. For me, Howard Schultz is not that person. 

In addition, I hate Frappuccinos. 

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.

July 6, 2017--Gorgeous Donald

My Uncle Harry was the owner of numerous failed businesses. But it never stopped him from dreaming of one day striking it rich.

At one time he was a partner with my father in a bar and grill in Brooklyn. My mother felt this was not an appropriate business for Jewish people (who she contended "didn't drink"--but if they did [and they did] they should not do so in public) and so, after speaking in opposition to their buying and running the 7-11 Club (it was at 711 Snyder Avenue), she never mentioned it again.

Restraining herself from talking about things about which she disapproved (quite a few things it turned out) was not in this case going to be difficult since the 7-11 ginmill failed quickly, not so much because business was slow but for two reasons--

First, because Harry and my father disagreed about everything, including how many bulbs to buy when one burned out (my father would buy one, Harry a gross--"They'll last us a lifetime," he claimed).

And, two, it turned out that the notorious bookmaker, Harry Gross, who was married to a policewoman who he stashed in the suburbs so he could cavort in public with a sequence of blonde bombshells on his arm, Harry Gross used the back table of the Club as one of his "offices."

When in 1951 he was convicted of heading a $20 million dollar a year gambling ring that was protected  by hundreds of policemen on his payroll, many from the 67th Precinct right down the block from the bar, things went from bad to disaster at the 7-11.

Harry Gross

My Cousin Chuck and I were excited about the news--for us having family members even peripherally associated with gangsters gave us quite a lot of cred at PS 244, where my cousin soon thereafter tried his own hand at schoolyard bookmaking (with me serving as his "runner"--but that's a story for another time.)

But to the 7-11 regulars having this news exposed (many came to the Club it was subsequently discovered not for the booze but for Harry Gross' action, and thus with Gross in jail there was no longer any reason for anyone to hang out with my father and Uncle Harry.

Unless there was interest in watching the two brothers-in-law fight.

As it turned out, not much interest. Who wanted to sip Seagram's 7&7 while listening to two crazy people argue about light bulbs?

So soon the Club went bankrupt and they finally went their separate ways. My father, with another uncle with criminal associations as a partner, into the parking garage business, whereas my uncle remained in bar and grills.

His last such business in New York, on 42nd Street in Manhattan, was the bar and restaurant in the Holland Hotel. It too ultimately failed in the 1950s, with Harry sneaking off to Miami under the cover of darkness since he owed loan sharks thousands, and they were wanting to break his knee caps.

Years later, when the hotel was finally closed down by the city, the NY Post referred to it as a "once notorious den of prostitution and drugs."

I'll say this for Uncle Harry--he sure knew how to pick 'em.

I loved hanging out there. First, because it was in the CITY. I was eager to spend as much time there and as little as possible in pre-cool Brooklyn. And, then, this story is about to take a turn, the rooms and lunch counter at the Holland were favorites with professional wrestlers when they were in town to "perform" at the old Madison Square Garden, which was relatively close by on Eighth Avenue and 50th Street.

The likes of Tony Rocca, Dick the Bruiser, and André the Giant could be found there. And, my favorite, Gorgeous George. Since he was reputed to live a clean, alcohol-free life he sat at the counter of the coffee shop drinking tea and coffee while most of the wrestlers and their handlers and girlfriends would inhabit the bar.

And so, since Uncle Harry told me to stay away from the bar, Gorgeous George noticed me and at times chatted me up, asking about my school and life in Brooklyn.

In the ring he was famous for his posing, of course, but also for handing out "gold" hairpins, which he used to keep his signature blonde tresses in place. Since I was still too young to see him in action (except on TV), from time to time he would give me a handful of his hairpins which the next day I would share with my neighborhood pals.

In reading about him yesterday, in Wiki, I learned that he was one of the original "gimmick characters." Before his time pro wrestlers were quasi-athletes. Though the matches were staged with the winners and losers predetermined, to watch them was not so different from watching wrestling in, say, the Olympics.

From Wiki--

Gorgeous George's impact on wrestling has been interpreted in many ways, demonstrating how fast television changed the product from athletics to performance. His legacy was the enormous change in wrestling personas he inspired. Before him, wrestlers imitated "ethnic terrors" (Nazi, Arabs, etc.), but his success birthed a more individualistic and narcissistic form of character.

Gorgeous George

I had been thinking about wrestling since last weekend when Donald Trump posted a video of himself body slamming and pretending to punch out WWE honcho, Vince McMahon, with the CNN logo photoshopped on Vince's face.

Then it struck me--one of Donald Trumps personas is Gorgeous George!

Like so many, he wanted out of the boroughs (he is from Queens) and wrestling must have been one of the things, also in the 1950s, that lured him to the big city. Very much the Gorgeous George version of wrestler who "birthed a more individualistic and narcissistic form of character."

So we not only have a Tweeter-In-Chief, but a Wrestler-In-Chief. However, in Trump's case the outcome is not preordained. Gorgeous George always won; Trump? not so much.

January 19, 2017--The 2400 Family Diner

Here's another diner story from on the road south. This one from three years ago--

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2400 Family Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2400 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said, joint in.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?'" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did too," he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.

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.

January 19, 2016--Mr. Cuba and His Boys

A friend and I have been having a back-and-forth about the eight films nominated for Academy Awards.

So far she's liked a number of them while grumpy me has been unhappy with most. I half-enjoyed Joy but didn't feel it worthy of Oscar designation either for best picture or for Jennifer Lawrence's phoned-in acting. I disliked The Big Short feeling it was more documentary than feature film and not that great a documentary at that.

Coming from the corporate world, my friend liked it quite a lot, which I  respect. We both liked Bridge of Spies and Brooklyn, with her decidedly feeling better about them than I. (By the way, we're both from pre-cool Brooklyn.)

I'm not sure if she has yet seen The Revenant, the only movie thus far that I feel is close to being a masterpiece. I'm eager to hear what she thinks.

Room is at the top of my list of the remaining films and I am looking forward to discussing it with her. I sense we'll be on the same page and will find it memorable.

For me, and I suspect my friend, no matter the special effects, I have no intention of seeing Mad Max. I can handle only so much post-apocalyptic violence. There's enough of that going on in the real world and I still go to the movies to escape.

Then there is Spotlight.

I thought it was considerably better than OK and though about an important and deeply disturbing subject--abuse by Catholic priests of children in their charge--for me it unintentionally gives the impression that horrendous crimes of this kind, and the institutional coverup that attempts to hide them from public attention, implies that these kinds of aberrations are confined mainly to priests and their cardinal enablers.

Mt friend disagrees, finding it's focus to be appropriate and claims, perhaps correctly, that to allude to similar forms of abuse--say by clergy from other religions or coaches--would dilute the power of the film and turn it into a miss mosh. She finds it more effective to focus solely on the Catholic church.

She's probably right, but I couldn't help writing the following e-mail to her, partly derived from my own experiences with child abuse--

To tell you the truth, it may be unfair, but I have general suspicions (until proven otherwise) about men and smaller numbers of women who are attracted to work at single-sex organizations and institutions. Priests and nuns and rabbis (I knew a few of the latter who in my old neighborhood put their hands on kids they were preparing for bar mitzvahs), boy scout masters (mine I feel certain had a thing for prepubescent boys--me included!), and teachers.  

Believe it or not, I had a "shower teacher" at PS 244--Mr. Cuba--who loved drying us off after he taught us to wash what he called--in Yiddish--our heinies. Then I went to an all-boys high school and we had a number of male teachers who had roaming hands. And forget some of the coaches I knew about and played under.

I should have but didn't add, "pun intended."

My friend took this in and responded that it was unfair and to limiting to focus so exclusively on same-sex institutions. After all, she pointed out, one of the worst recent examples of coaches taking sexual advantage of young boys happened at co-ed Penn State where assistant football coach Jerry Sandusky enticed athletes to perform sex acts with him in the shower.

Touché to that, I acknowledged, but this got me thinking again about some of my own experiences.

My bar mitzvah rabbi not only used a wooden pointer to smack us when we made mistakes while reading Hebrew (not one word of which he taught us to comprehend) but for repeat offenders, including stutterers, he would call us into is office, get us to drop our pants and underwear, and beat us with a wooden paddle.

When my turn came, after doing what this "scholar" directed, I never returned to Hebrew school and fought with my mother, hinting at what had happened, until she agreed not to force me to be bar mitzvahed. I never was.

The scout master of my East Flatbush's Boy Scout Troop 152, spent more time getting us to line up and march around the gym where we met each week than teaching us about how to administer first aid or start fires using flint and steel. And when we went on overnight hikes to Alpine, NJ, without other adult supervision, he would routinely rouse us from sleep in the middle of the night, scaring and blinding us with flashlights held six inches from our eyes, and then would fill us with stories about the dangers lurking in the surrounding woods. And then when he had us fully terrorized, he would take us, clad only in our shorts and undershirts, in his arms to protect and comfort us from these fictitious threats. Retrospectively, it is obvious what he was really up to.

My high school baseball coach, after a long and punishing practices that rendered us soaking wet from perspiration, would supervise, before we hit the showers, the gathering of our discarded shorts, T shirts, and especially jockstraps. He didn't touch any of us, as far as I know from my teammates, but it was obvious even then, in our naiveté, what turned him on.

Most perverse, though, was the mandatory Shower Class at PS 244, my elementary school.

Perhaps because most of us were children of immigrants, it was assumed that we had not been taught at home the virtues of hygienic practices available to Americans. Every mooring our homeroom teacher would check our nails to see if they had been properly cleaned and she inspected our cloth hankies to see if they were neat and clean.

And then every Tuesday after gym class, as with my Boy Scout troop a class almost entirely devoted to militaristic drills with orders barked to us as if we were in basic training--there was no dodge ball, no rope climbing--the boys were ushered off to the shower room where Mr. Cuba lurked.

We were forced to strip and then huddle together in a steamy communal shower that had at least a dozen shower heads in a row. As we cringed under that alternating cascades of hot and cold water, the administration of which Mr. Cuba supervised--to open then close skin pores, he said--he paid inordinate attention to our nether parts, barking at us to get enough soap up into our heinies and then ordered us to turn around and, while not facing him, bend over. When we all had "assumed the position," as he put it, he commanded us "spread 'em" then after we did to make sure the scalding spray would in turn wash away the soapsuds.

When we stumbled from the shower his attention turned to "teaching" us proper toweling techniques. His focus was on making sure our feet and toes were thoroughly dried--to prevent Athlete's Foot, he said. And to be sure they were, he forced us, while sitting on rows of benches, to hold our feet in the air so he could see for himself by moving down the line of shivering, naked boys.

He also made sure our crotch areas were dry, again, he insisted to prevent fungus from growing. To "assist" us he would snatch the towels from our hands and complete the job himself.

So though I get my friend's good points about Spotlight, I wish someone would make a movie about Mr. Cuba and his boys.