July 2, 2019--My East Flatbush Sweatshop

The New York Times reported that Apple is planning to end the manufacture in Austin Texas of its $8,000 a copy high-end desktop Mac Pro. This will mean that soon none of Apple's products will be made in America. The Mac Pro will be made in, of course, China.

Expect to hear cries of outrage from the White House but Apple CEO, Tim Cook, is dug in. 

He also claims that all of Apple's complex products are in effect made in many places, including the United States because they are totally designed and engineered here. Actual parts are made in many countries and in the case of the Mac Pro it will "only" be assembled in China where that is much cheaper than if it were to continue to be fabricated in Austin.

Raise your hand if you believe anything Tim Cook says about this.

I guess I get it. It's all about the bottom line, Always has been, always will be.

I also get it because many years ago, when I was about 10, I put together an assembly line on our dining room table in our apartment in East Flatbush. 

It was to assemble cigarette lighters from parts made in Japan. At that time Japan was our China, the country to which businessmen flocked to get their products made for about 10 percent of what it would have cost if they were made in the USA. "Made in Japan" stamped on a product was almost the equivalent of  labelling it "Junk." 

I am sure you are wondering about how I, just 10, got involved in this.

It was because of my Aunt Fanny and Uncle Jac for whom she worked.

Uncle Jac did business globally and among his many products was a knock-off version of Ronson's most popular pocket lighter. To get around customs and copyright regulations lighters made in Japan could not be imported if fully assembled. The lighter in question (see below) was made up of about a dozen small parts and they arrived disassembled. Thus they needed to be put together in America.

I was sick as I frequently was with the croup and this time I couldn't manage to shake it. I was home and seriously bored. My mother was having difficulty keeping me in bed. Fanny said to her, "Stevie is good with his hands. What if I brought him a dozen lighters to assemble? It will keep him occupied for days while he's recovering and he'll earn 75 cents, which is what it costs us to have a dozen assembled." 

My mother was desperate and agreed to give it a try. 

I too was desperately unhappy and thus quite excited when Fanny came by the next day with a shopping bag full of lighter bodies and the other parts that needed to spark and then flame when a smoker pressed the right button.

While Aunt Fanny joined my mother for a glass of tea in the kitchen I assembled all 12 lighters. Feeling good about myself, I didn't call out to them but rather remained smugly in bed, with my arms folded, waiting patiently for them to "discover" me with the dozen now assembled lighter, wrapped in tissue paper, and placed and in small cardboard boxes. Ready for my Uncle to sell to Gimbels while I was ready to get my hands on the 75 cents. Real money at that time.

"I told you he's a genius," Aunt Fanny said, "Another Einstein."

"Not quite," my mother valued the truth even though it was flattering to have her son compared to the father of the atomic bomb.

So the next day Fanny brought me five dozen lighters and a check for 75 cents. The first money I ever earned and the first check I ever received. Or, as I preferred to think about it, earned.

It took me a couple of hours to assemble them. Though no Einstein I was good at arithmetic and knew as a result I would get a check for $9:00

At the same time Uncle Jac said they were selling like "hotcakes." He couldn't ship them fast enough to Gimbels and the Five-and-Ten to keep up with the demand. He had a supply chain problem.

And so, after finally recovering from the croup, on Monday afternoon when I got home from school, on the front porch there was a huge wooden shipping crate, at least 8-feet-by-8-feet-by-8-feet, covered with Japanese writing.

I felt certain that there were many thousands of lighter bodies and parts there waiting for me to assemble.

When my father got home from work he borrowed a crowbar from a neighbor and pried off a couple of slats. Sure enough, it was completely full of counterfeit Ronson pocket lighters.

I realized immediately that this big a job was beyond my ability to take on on my own, and before I thought through the implications, I asked my father if he would be willing to help.

He indicated that he was but before agreeing I wanted to make sure that this was my project and that he was there to help, not take it over. It was a difficult conversation but he agreed and subsequently we did not have any ownership problems. "In fact," he said a day or two later, "You should keep the money. If we get all these assembled it will amount to quite a lot."

It took a number of evenings after dinner for us to get that first dozen-dozen done. We hardly made a dent in what had been packed in the crate. "We need more help," I said, "Maybe Aunt Fanny and Uncle Harry can come over on the weekend and help with some of the assembling. I can break it down into individuals steps and come up with something they each can handle."

Fanny was a talented knitter and so with her manual dexterity I had her insert wicks and flints, both essential to causing a spark and ignition. Harry, who in truth was quiet clumsy I had adding lighter fluid through the port at the base of the body. My only fear was that with their combustable relationship, as a combative couple, they would literally ignite one weekend night and set fire to our apartment.

Next, Aunt Tanna and Uncle Eli joined the assembly line. My aunt had worked in a women's notions store and was thus skilled at boxing and wrapping things. And so that became her job--to wrap assembled lighters elegantly in tissue paper before nesting them in their boxes.

I had Uncle Eli testing the lighters after they were fully assembled and put aside those that didn't work properly. My father was the self-designated head of the repair department, sometimes stubbornly spending hours on a lighter that resisted fixing. 

"We only get paid for the ones that work," he kept saying when I prodded him to move on since we still had thousands to complete. But he insisted someone needed to do it; and for the most part, since he was an insomniac, he ran his repair operation after midnight.

And my mother served as our bookkeeper. Not that she didn't trust her brother. It was because she wanted to avoid mistakes. At our end as well as his. There were so many lighters it would be easy for things to, as she put it, get "mixed up." And because of her nothing ever was mixed up and every dollar was kept track of.

It took us more than six weeks of day and night work to get all the lighters  assembled. We had a wonderful time. Stories about that time together became part of family lore and legend.

And altogether the final accounting showed that we made more than $1,000 dollars. I gave everyone $50 and with the rest bought myself a set of Sam Snead golf clubs and a new Schwinn Racer. I even had enough left to help pay for my bar mitzvah, which in fact never happened. But that's a story for another day.

April 9, 2018--Passover With Donald Trump

Traditionally, at the Passover seder a fifth cup of ceremonial wine is left untouched at an empty place at the table in honor of the prophet Elijah, who, according to tradition, will arrive one day to herald the coming of the Messiah.

Last year and this, at Pesach, that place, apocryphally, was occupied by Donald Trump. 

Likewise he was a malignant spirit present at last week's Easter dinners and before that at Christmas gatherings and family Thanksgivings.

In this regard, at least, Trump was ecumenical. Spoiling these family occasions equally without regard to ethnicity, national origin, or religious affiliation. He disrupted everyone and everything.

Family members don't always get along. OK, family members almost never get along. But a lot gets papered over for the sake of peace. 

We all have our "crazy" Uncle Harrys with their roving hands, Republican families include at least a grumpy Democrat or two and the families of progressives usually have a few grouchy conservatives. 

Customarily, after just one glass of wine, though by tacit agreement we agree not to discuss Sandra's divorce, Eli's bankruptcy, Mary's hysterectomy, Jack's children's problems with drugs, or Irene's facelift these come up but are quickly squelched by whomever serves as the family matriarch or patriarch.

When gathered around the dining room table, things can get heated. OK, they always do, but there has been a layer of affection (if not love), civility, and respect that prevents things from spinning out of control. 

At least there used to be.

Family protocols were such that cousins and in-laws were constrained from becoming so furious with each other that harsh words evolved to accusations and epithets, which in turn would lead to threats or fist fights. In the past no one got so riled up that they threatened to never again make the trek to Long Island or New Jersey for Passover or Easter. For the sake of familyness, unspoken limits were agreed upon and mostly obeyed.

But friend after friend reported this year that things have gotten to be so nasty and personal that they plan to absent themselves from future family gatherings as long as Donald Trump is president and occupies the Elijah chair. 

Things have descended to that point. He has so profoundly contributed to coarsening the environment that they see no hope of retaining any semblance of family ties as long as he postures and swaggers in our national midst. 

I have been hearing stories about how previously close brothers-in-law, who agreed about almost everything and when they did differ had enough respect for each other that they heard each other out and managed to find common ground, or agreed amicably to agree to disagree, are sadly no longer talking. 

I head from one of the brothers-in-law that he will no longer have anything to do with his sister's husband because he called him a fascist. The brother-in-law who shared this with me said that though he did not support Trump and worries about where he is leading the country, he wanted to talk about why Trump had been successful in order to come up with strategies to resist him and his rule and defeat him during the midterm elections in November. 

But now, simply for taking Trump seriously, he was accused of "normalizing" him and thereby lending him support. Thus, he was accused of being an enabler for America's Mussolini. 

He said to me, "Now when I send him a happy birthday email he doesn't even say 'thank you.'"

And I heard from a cousin who is sensing that his brother-in-law may be a Trump enthusiast and, if so, does not want to have anything further to do with him. He is thus considering preemptively cutting off the relationship. Doing so, again, not because he knows but because he suspects his brother-in-law likely voted for Trump.

For my part, from now on I'll be celebrating various holidays by going to the movies and having dinner in Chinatown.

Elijah's Seat

September 11, 2017--Irma & Cousin Murray

I have about a dozen relatives who live all year round in south or southern Florida. Mainly cousins. 

Two live in Miami-Dade but almost all the cousins are in Palm Beach County, not far from the ocean. And so this past two weeks my thoughts and emotions have been there with them as Hurricane Irma approached and then made landfall.

I have been calling and emailing through the days to see where they are--a few evacuated--and how they are faring. And of course I have been glued to the Weather Channel both on TV and via the Internet.

The oldest cousin is 93. He has begun to show his years and so I have been focusing much of my attention on him, Cousin Murray. He can be a bit fragile and now, with his wife in rehab, happily recovering well from a recent stroke, under pressure to evacuate, he resisted, not wanting to leave her even though she was more secure and sheltered than he. 

A friend of the family convinced him to leave for his wife's sake, Cousin Elaine, to head for Tampa where it was thought to be safer than where they live in Delray Beach. 

Quoting Rona who drew an analogy to what they tell passengers on airplanes--"In case of an emergency and oxygen is needed, put your mask on first before attempting to help others."

In other words, you're not much good to others if you yourself are in danger.

So they drove to Tampa ahead of the storm and then when Irma drifted west, returned to Ft. Lauderdale, where Cousin Murray's friend has a solidly constructed house. Another advantage--this allowed him to be closer to his wife of more than 70 years.

I have been blessed with many wonderful cousins. A number of them are among my best friends. Cousin Chuck, four years older, was like a big brother. We essentially grew up as if in one household, living just two blocks apart in East Flatbush. We did everything together from playing street games, to taking marathon bike rides, to me "managing" and "training" him when he became obsessed with boxing, working out relentlessly so as to get good enough to become the next Jewish world middleweight champion.

I put manage and training in quotes because I knew as little about what they meant as he knew about boxing. Needless to say, Chuck never made it even to the Golden Gloves. But everyday was a sweet adventure following in his footsteps.

Unfortunately, he died suddenly more than 10 years ago and as a result forever there will be a vacancy in my heart.

Cousin Murray was an idol to me. He was a GI during the Second World War and when he came home on leave I huddled close to him so I could hear every word of his stories about his training and wartime assignments. Fortunately, he was not sent overseas but in his crisp uniform and spit-polished shoes, was a hero to me.

After the War, the extended family together rented a small house in the Catskill Mountain village of Tannersville. Murray worked in the city in a family business and commuted to the country on weekends. More than anyone else I looked forward to his arrival. Among the many big-cousin activities he included me in was golf (he taught me to play and let me use his clubs) and the exploration of the local countryside. He was the first and only family member to have a convertible. A green Plymouth with a black rag top.

With me in the passenger seat he loved finding open roads to run it at full speed. At that time, the New York State Thruway was being built in sections. He would learn about a completed five to 10 mile stretch before anyone else knew about it and we would head for it. 

It was the most beautiful road I had ever seen and much of it, straight as an arrow. It was irresistible to floor the accelerator pedal and get the car ripping along at more than 100 miles per hour. The first time I had experienced that velocity. Among other things, though the car's buffeting made me feel at risk, sensing this, he would turn to me and simply wink. That wink settled me and made me feel I was safe no matter what in his protective presence.

He still makes me feel that way, so many years later, in spite of his inevitable physical weakening.

And so when I finally managed to reach him again Saturday night, I could hear the roaring wind, not unlike the way the wind sounded and felt as we raced along the Thruway, eliciting in me some of the same fears, hearing that in my voice, my 94-year-old cousin, still unhappily separated from his wife, likely feeling vulnerable himself, in a south Florida bungalow that had already lost power, to calm me he said, "I don't want you to worry about me. I'm fine," he chuckled, "We're as snug as a bug in a rug."  

August 25, 2016--Down At the End of Mary's Lunch Counter

"Those are my parents," he said, nodding in the direction of the couple sitting at right angles to him down at the end of Mary's lunch counter. "My mother and father. I'm six-two but she's only four-nine and he's just an inch taller. I can't explain me. My two brother are both under five feet."

He didn't look at her but was sitting next to Rona with me on her other side. We were sharing a turkey salad sandwich.

"Genetics," she said. "There's no other explanation."

"'S'pose so," he said. "Makes for a lot of confusion. I thought they weren't my folks when I shot right by them. Made them feel good though. To have a normal son. Me? I was fully grown at 12 and was the tallest person in the school. Including the teachers. The kids thought I was a freak of nature. Not a lot of fun there. So I never did get much education. Or much luck for that matter."

"Sorry to hear that," Rona said. "You look fine to me."

"Bag-a-bones, that's me. Can't hardly eat no more." Mindlessly, he stirred his hash and eggs together, making a desultory mess of them.

He was painfully underweight but Rona said, "Better to be thin than the alternative."

"You got that right." For the first time he perked up and scooped a forkful of the mix he had made. "Haven't been able to eat a thing for more than a year now." Deflated again, he lowered his fork.

"Sorry to hear that," Rona repeated herself.

"Since my wife was diagnosed."

"Sorry to . . ."

"Was as rough as anything you could imagine. It was rapid spreading. Took her in less than six months. That was about half a year ago."

"You're so young. She must have been . . ."

"Thirty-six. Just getting started. One good thing, we didn't have kids. Must have been related to her condition. I was quite an eater before that. When the doctor told us what was going to happen, I stopped cold turkey. Pardon the pun. Juice and soup kept me going. Not that I wanted to. But for Sally . . ."

"Really rough," Rona said.

"You don't know the half of it. What it did to her. And me." He resumed staring at his food. His mother gestured for him to eat.

"Now they want me to eat. Twenty years earlier, I was living with them. I was just a kid. They hid food from me. Had a chain with a lock 'round the fridge. Some life. If you can call it that."

So his parents couldn't hear, Rona whispered, "A lock on the refrigerator? I never . . . " She caught herself now that what had been happening with him was becoming apparent.

"Yes, that's right." Rona hadn't said anything. "From the look of me now you'd never guess. Right?"

"I don't. I mean. It could be." Rona didn't know what to say.

"Six-fifty." For the first time he looked at her and smiled. "That was me. Six-two with parents who were almost midgets weighing six-fifty."

"Well, I . . . "

"Nothing to be upset about or feel badly about. That was me then and this is me now."

He picked up his T-shirt to let the hanging flaps of his now emaciated stomach come into view. "That's the last of that me," he said, pointing, "I may need surgery. But to tell you the truth, what with . . ."

He broke off and returned to playing with his food.