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. 

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

June 25, 2018--Arthur MacArthur & Queen Hope

My friend Boyce Martin died two years ago and his wife and my great friend, Anne Ogden, knowing that I too am a history buff invited me to rummage through his shelves of books, thinking correctly that I might like to have a few of Boyce's books. After all, I wear his Kentucky hat every day.

As our reading interests are similar many of the books he had read were among those I had devoured. But I did find a few that I knew would interest me that I hadn't known about, including one devoted to the middle years of Winston Churchill's career (Young Titan: The Making of Winston Churchill) and the breathlessly titled, The Most Dangerous Man In America: The Making of Douglas MacArthur.

I had a peripheral connection to General MacArthur because his only child, Arthur MacArthur IV, was a college classmate and friend. A fellow literature major. We both sat and studied at the feet of the mesmerizing Lionel Trilling.

Though we were friends, Arthur was very private, which I understood, considering the endless controversies that swirled around his father, even years after he was fired by President Truman for insubordination during the Korean War, and his failed attempt in 1952 to secure the Republican nomination for president. Ironically, losing it to his former aide, General Dwight Eisenhower. 

And there was the relentless interest the media of the time had in all things MacArthur, including Arthur. There had even been a 1942 Life magazine cover story about him as a four-year-old that reported on his life with his parents in Brisbane, Australia, where they resided, having sought safety after escaping from the Japanese invasion of the Philippines. Life told about little Arthur's "curiously mixed-up accent," his kindergarten routine, and his new tricycle.

In contrast, at that time, in East Flatbush, I spoke Brooklynese and made a scooter out of an old orange crate and a disassembled roller-skate.

As an unlikely couple, we read and discussed Dostoevsky and Kafka and Conrad together, but during those years Arthur never said a word about his early life, though I did know he was born in the Philippines the same year I was in Brooklyn, and he and his parents had barely escaped with their lives when the Japanese overran the archipelago. 

I assumed from knowing a little about the military careers of generations of MacArthurs that there must have been unimanageable pressure on him, the general's only child, named for many heroic MacArthur "Arthurs," including his grandfather, to fulfill the family military destiny. But he was as unlike a warrior as anyone I knew and it must have taken a different kind of courage, psychological courage, to want to be at Columbia studying Proust, rather than at West Point immersed in Napoleon's campaigns.

Now, with The Most Dangerous Man In America in hand, enough new details about Arthur's life were included to have me searching the Internet to see what I could learn about him. Including, is he still alive!

He is and appears to have continued to lead a hermetic life, including evidence that he changed his name after his father was relieved of his command by President Truman as there were apparently threats on Arthur's life.

No one, though, knows the name he assumed nor where he lives. Most likely in Greenwich Village, where I too reside, though I suspect if we passed each other on the street, which we likely have, that neither one of us would recognize the other. But once back in the City I will be looking around more than usual as I would like to pick up our college discussions as well as belatedly get to know more about him and how he has been faring.

One additional curiosity--

From reading the little that is available about Arthur it appears that during the late 1960s he was considered, within certain elevated social circles, a very eligible bachelor. (I suspect this is not true since the Arthur I knew had no interest whatsoever in dating.) 

In fact, he had no inclination to date Hope Cooke, who, rejected by him, in 1963, married the crown prince of Sikkim and two years later, when he became king, became, as she was known in the tabloids, "Queen Hope." But before that, in spite of Arthur's lack of interest, she was apparently quite interested in him.

She never converted to Buddhism but, as Henry Kissinger noted, she was "more Buddhist than the population of Sikkim." 

As it turns out I knew Hope rather well as she was a classmate and close friend at Sarah Lawrence of my first wife's and, at the time, we found it more than amusing that by this marriage, the daughter of a San Francisco flight instructor, transformed herself into a Queen. 

Since Hope does not live as privately as Arthur (in 1975 her husband-king was deposed and five years later she divorced him and moved back to New York City), we do occasionally run into her. The last time on an escalator in Bloomingdale's. We were descending, she of course was going up.

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.