Maternal Great-Grandparents

I know little about my maternal great-grandparents who were murdered in the Holocaust along with many family members, but what I do know feels precious. Mom’s maternal grandparents were Syma née Płuciennik and Hersz Pejsach Finkielsztajn; he was usually referred to as Pejsach. Both mom and her sister Giza loved their grandfather Pejsach very much. Those grandparents—Syma and Pejsach—had moved out of Lublin in the 1920s during the Depression. They moved to a town called Międzyrzec Podlaski (try saying that ten times fast, or even one time slow!). They were orthodox Jews, so when they came to visit, the family had to observe rules about Shabbat and kashrut in the house, and they most probably spoke Yiddish to them. In normal times, before the war, Supta Esther kept kosher, having grown up religious, but Saba Roman ate trafe (non-kosher food). So, while a typical religious, Jewish household would have plates for milk and meat, Roman and Esther’s house had plates for milk, meat and trafe (non kosher stuff)! 

In her book, “Walking on Thin Ice,” Giza describes how much she loved going to visit her grandparents, and talks about her grandfather Pejsach taking her skating. By all accounts Pejsach Finkielsztajn was tall, handsome and kind. Syma was elegant, beautiful and had shapely legs. Not quite sure why a religious woman’s legs were visible to onlookers, but there you have it. Mom says people used to say she had legs like Marlena Dietrich and that she was proud walking down the street with her. Like they themselves, no photographs of my great-grandparents survived the audience but the way they’re remembered is a nod to our family’s focus on outward appearance. But not to the exclusion of inner qualities—these were/are important too.

The story goes that when she was young, Syma fell in love with a boy (perhaps a distant cousin) whom she met while the family was on vacation. She wanted to marry him but her parents wouldn’t allow it because he wasn’t “religious enough.” I am guessing that he was likely pretty religious by my/our standards, but those were different times. So they made a shidduch for her—a match—with Hersz Pejsach Finkielsztajn, the son of Chemie Finkielsztajn and Nechuma Bornsztajn. Though Chemie had been a pisarz privatny like his father Manes before him, Hersz Pejsach (my great-grandfather) was a businessman. Though he is sometimes listed as a butcher, there is no doubt he was a candle factory owner. Now, from what I have been able to surmise, the word “factory” is quite grand for the operation he ran. As far as I can discern from the documents that my friend Tadeusz Przystojecki (ז”ל) found for me, Pejsach ran a very modest establishment on Lubartowska Street No. 2 (now on the corner near Ghetto Victim’s Square in Lublin) in the basement with poor ventilation and poor water flow. Woe to his workers! The document that I discerned all this from with the help of my friend Bartosz (Bartek) Gajdzik who then worked at Brama Grodzka – Teatr NN, was one in which the municipality ordered him (Pejsach) to shape up or ship out, basically. Apparently he did comply with all their demands. What I am not so clear on from the documents, is how/why he owned the factory in Lublin when he was supposedly living in Międzyrzec Podlaski. Pejsach’s son, Icek, Supta Esther’s only brother, also had a candle factory not far away on Lubartowska Street. 

Besides being tall, handsome and gentle Pejsach was supposedly very generous. He would give candles to people who could not afford them—much to Syma’s dismay—perhaps, but I am quite pleased with this legacy of generosity.

The market square in Międzyrzec Podlaski in the 21st Century

Indulging the Inner Artist

Thanks to my friend Laura, I attended Friday Night Comics last night. The assignment: Draw a recipe comic of a simple sandwich. Mine is one I have not eaten since law school, way before my celiac diagnosis. At first it was an occasional weekend treat, but while studying for the bar it became a weekly event to look forward to: a cinnamon raisin bagel from Bruegger’s, slathered with their maple walnut cream cheese. Now I would do a gf/sf version.

Little known fact about me and comics: When I was 12 I took a cartooning class at the Y and I got one published in that venerable publication: Commercial Trade Digest. Will have to find a copy of that…

Remembering “Aunt Judy” by Leora Tec

There’s something special about our oldest friends. I mean the ones who you knew when you were in the single digits.

If you’re of a certain age, you still might recognize each other’s handwriting. You remember what the inside of their childhood home looked like. Not only do you know the names of their brothers and sisters but you actually know each other! You certainly know when their birthday is. You know their parents’ names because you knew them.

I remember my friend Vicky’s childhood phone number. Vicky and I met in kindergarten and the story goes that when she came to my fifth birthday party she would not let her father leave. Her father, whom I came to call Uncle Jim at the same time I began calling her mom Aunt Judy, used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle every day, religiously. I don’t think I ever really knew what he did for work—it wasn’t something as clear cut as my dad, who was a child psychiatrist. All I know is he had something to do with filmstrips. Our fifteen minutes of fame came in sixth grade when Uncle Jim brought me and Vicky in to sing, “Yankee Doodle Dandy” for a filmstrip about US History. Remember filmstrips? If yes, you know how many years ago this was!

My earliest recollection of Vicky’s house at the top of a hill (treacherous in the winter, I would learn when I got old enough to drive—I even got stuck there a couple of times!) was they had a plastic pool way up high on a deck where Vicky and I swam in kindergarten.

Aunt Judy had met Vicky’s dad—who was an American radio operator/gunner in B-24s leading bombing runs over Germany—in London after the war, and they had come to live in the United States shortly thereafter. To me, Judy was a calming presence with a British accent (though according to her family in England she sounded American); there in the background whether Vicky and I were in their familiar kitchen making one of our concoctions like the famous, open-faced grilled cheese with garlic butter sauce , or in their cool, upstairs living room dancing to ABBA or The Bay City Rollers. Their house was cool, not only because of its mid-century modern design, spiral staircase up to the TV room and raised living room, but also, in my opinion, because they had cushiony toilet seats that I thought were the cat’s meow. Speaking of cats, the downstairs bathroom had a little cat door so Tex (fat, grey, fluffy, grumpy and deaf), Rosemary and Nutmeg (I remember them as kittens—were they brother and sister?), Sneakers and the others whose names I cannot recall could easily go in and out.

I learned what Scotch eggs were when Judy made them for Easter (though Vicky says they are made at Christmas).

I picture her often doing laundry. She was so nice when I committed a faux pas by saying, “You got a haircut…<long , awkward pause>…it looks really good from the back.” That foot in mouth moment became an inside joke because of Judy’s reasonable nature. She had an easygoing nature but had not had an easy life, like many of our parents’ generation (my mother—of the same generation—is a Holocaust survivor). She had lived through the Blitz in London and had her own story of fear and survival during World War II. I’m not sure when I found this out, but at some point she sent me some of her recollections of those times and I wrote back with encouraging comments. I am so glad she got to put pen to paper and preserved those experiences for her grandchildren and those who come after them.

Vicky’s parents let Vicky and her sister Liz each invite a friend to visit their house in Nantucket two summers in a row during Junior High. Vicky, Liz, Liz’s friend Susie and I played “Jeopardy;” made the grilled cheese with garlic butter sauce (our signature dish!); danced to The Night Chicago Died and I Shot the Sherriff; and hung out at the beach. In seventh grade I had major surgery on my legs and one day in Nantucket only a few months later, I lost my footing and fell down their loft stairs. I remember how scared I was, and I can recall exactly how it felt to slip and bounce down the bare wooden stairs on my hip. And though I didn’t remember Judy ministering to me, I was in no doubt that she had, and was not surprised when Vicky told me she remembered her mom scooping me into her arms after I fell.

At some point Judy said I could drop the “Aunt”,” which had become sort of tiresome, and just call her Judy. She generously hosted my wedding shower on the same terrace that years before I had thought was so high (it wasn’t).

I hung out a lot over the years at Vicky’s house at the top of a steep hill. Judy was always a quiet, supportive presence in the background. She died the other day at age 91. I am sad that she’s gone; the world is poorer for it. Rest in Peace, Judy.

Judy Rolls Kantor

Nantucket summer(that’s me on the right in cutoffs).

Why I Won't Be Calling Kat

I love the British sitcom, “Miranda” starring Miranda Hart, who is also the brains behind it. She plays a version of herself who is funny, clumsy, quirky, witty, creative and lovable. Miranda Hart is a great actress and a great clown. She can make fun of herself and even of others in a completely endearing way.

This show also works so well because of the fantastic performances by not only Hart, but also the other main actors, namely Tom Ellis, Patricia Hodge, Sarah Hadland and Sally Phillips.

Hart created clear personae for her characters, and characteristics that make them lovable, laughable and unique, like Dreamboat Charlie’s (played magnificently by Adrian Scarborough) tagline, “I BLOODY love crisps!” Or Tillie’s signature, “Bear with…bear with…bear with…” every time her cell rings, not to mention her fantabulisimus expressions, many of which actress Sally Phillips (who holds a first in Italian from Oxford) presumably came up with herself. Tillie mixes prefixes, suffixes and silliness with unbridled enthusiasm to come up with such gems as: La Grande Pomme (New York); I’ve got to dasheroo, I have an announcementington, I’m starvington stations and could scoffulate a [name relevant dessert], Johnny Cashingtons (money).                     .

True “Miranda” fans will nod fondly at Miranda’s mother Penny’s “what I call” expressions, which are “Such Fun!”

“Language is perhaps the most underrated part of the show’s humor. Hart has a Pythonesque ear for what makes a word ticklish. “Posh name alert,” she’ll say, turning to camera to announce a frightful new character: “Clemency Twisterton Ott.” It reaches its apotheosis in the speech of Phillips’s “spiffulent” PR girl Tilly. “Marvellismus,” she’ll purr, or in one address to Miranda: “You have majorly let yourself go – slackeroni cheese!”

(From the Telegraph via: https://anglotopia.net/british-entertainment/brit-tv/bbc/brit-language-mirandaspeak-is-such-fun/)

 The new Fox sitcom, “Call Me Kat,” starring Mayim Bialik, is based on “Miranda.” In fact, Miranda Hart is an executive producer. Unfortunately, for those of us dreaming of a Miranda fix, it seriously misses the mark.

 The biggest problem with “Call Me Kat” is its charm deficit. Charm, of course is a very difficult attribute to define. It’s analogous to what Supreme Court Justice Potter said about pornography in Jacobellis v. Ohio, “I know it when I see it.” Miranda the character and all who surround her are charming and delightful. And the rapport between the characters is great. The attraction between hunky Gary and Miranda, who shops in big and tall shops, is real and palpable. On “Call Me Kat” it feels like the actors are merely reciting lines much of the time, often not very funny lines. Do we really believe that Max is into Kat the way Gary was into Miranda? I don’t think so.

Swoosie Kurtz, whose skeletal body and immobile face has many viewers cringing with compassion, is a poor substitute for Patricia Hodge, who manages to portray an annoying mother while at the same time exuding the aforementioned charm.

Part of the conceit of both shows is the breaking of the fourth wall by the main character. Miranda Hart is really committed to it and as an audience members  we feel as if she is talking to us, such as when she tells Gary she goes to the gym “loads” but then looks at us and mouths, slightly ashamed, “Never.” I really like Mayim Bialik in “The Big bang Theory,” but here it sounds like she is reciting lines. Perhaps this is because Miranda Hart is playing a character that she created herself.

The relationship between Kat and her co-workers, Phil and Randy, cannot hold a candle to the unique and quirky bond that Miranda had with her best friend and co-worker Stevie Sutton. They have created a whole world of inside jokes that include Heather Small imitations, challenging each other to crazy contests and a special walk.

 Sure, “Miranda” is camp, but the cast is so committed to it that they manage to pull it off and we the audience are left laughing out loud a lot of the time. I did laugh out loud once during  “Call Me Kate,” when Kat inadvertently kicked Max in the face as they were about to go out to dinner.

 Miranda Hart is a great clown. She knows how to fall: over chairs, off fences, into displays in her joke store. Mayim Bialik is light on her feet and a good dancer, but her clowning skills are much less developed than Miranda Hart’s; the kick to Max’s face was one of the rare well-executed clowning moves on the show.

 “Call Me Kat” suffers from too much exposition, for example: between Kat and Max about their college days and about Kat’s friend Tara’s wedding. In “Miranda” we don’t need to hear every second, “Remember when we[fill in crazy college hijinks here] in college?” We can see and feel the strong bond between Gary and Miranda.

 The closing credits is another place where “Call Me Kat” misses the mark. In “Miranda” it always seemed like an organic ending that gave the chance for the entire cast to break the fourth wall. A song would come up that was usually in some way connected to the story and the characters would be dancing and singing along. Sometimes they just waved, but often they were doing something else first and then morphed to a wave. And when they waved, their names would appear on screen. In “Call Me Kat” the closing sequences are truly cringe-worthy, as it appears that the whole cast has been instructed to smile broadly and wave madly without understanding why. We don’t see any credits, and often the closing seems unconnected to the rest of the show.

 We should cut “Call Me Kat” some slack given that due to COVID restrictions it is not filmed in front of a live studio audience. If it were, it might make the fourth wall breaks more believable.

 I really miss “Miranda” and wish it had gone on for more seasons, but unfortunately “Call Me Kat,” despite its best intentions, is not going to scratch that itch.

The main cast of “Miranda.” Sally Phillips, Tom Ellis, Miranda Hart, Sarah Hadland and Patricia Hodge.

Judiciary Committee Hearings for Amy Coney Barrett

Random Senator: Judge Barrett, can we agree that the sky is blue? 

Judge Barrett: Senator, I’m not going to express an opinion on something that could possibly come before the court. If that issue comes before the court I will read the briefs, listen to my colleagues and my clerks and my own understanding of the Constitution in order to come to a decision. It would not be proper for me to opine on an issue that may become contentious in the future as that is inconsistent with my role.

Yom Kippur Doodles 2020

Every year on Yom Kippur I do a technology fast and one of my activities is to doodle. Here are the 2020 doodles:

The Value of knowing Another Language

When I was little my mom used to tell us a story about a mommy mouse and her babies who heard a cat approaching their home. The baby mice was cowering behind their mother, fearing the worst. There’s not a mouse family around that doesn’t have a relative whose life was cut short by an evil feline. The mama mouse whispered to her babies to stay behind her. Then she took a deep breath and with all her strength let out a huge bark,

“Woof woof! Bow wow!” she bellowed.

The cat hearing the sound of its arch rival, the dog, scampered away to safety.

Turning tp her babies the mama mouse said, “You see children, the value in knowing a second language?”

I was reminded of that story yesterday when in the supermarket. I was looking for mangoes but couldn’t find them. I approached a guy working sorting fruit and addressed him over the peaches and nectarines,

“Excuse me.”

No response. I know it’s sometimes hard to hear people through their masks so I tried again, louder this time:

“Excuse me, do you know where the mangoes are?”

Still no response, but in a matter of seconds he looked up and caught my eye. I asked him again if he knew where the mangoes were. He shook his head and gestured to his ears and I understood that he was Deaf.

I’ve taken a few sign language courses but not much of it stuck, unfortunately. What did stick was how to form my fingers into letters. I had learned that as a little girl when I read a biography of Helen Keller. So I carefully spelled out M A N G O, he showed me where they were and we both smiled.

Listening to Voice Mail (Originally posted October 16, 2016)

Listening to Voice Mail

Oct. 16, 2016

My voice mail messages are epic. My friend Sabine appreciates them. Other friends are less enthusiastic. I go on and on. I go on tangents. I might be funny, or dramatic. I might remember something I had wanted to tell the person two weeks before. And then, in the checklist of my mind it's done. But there's a problem—people don't listen to Voice Mail (hereinafter, vm--cuz really, who has time to type V-O-I-C-E  M-A-I-L?).

The other day I read a long, lazy letter that my dear friend Priscilla had written to me after she graduated from law school (Boalt Hall) and I was still in my third year (Duke). She was studying French in Lausanne, Switzerland. She wrote about her love of learning, of cultural differences, of missing me, and of course of men (or boys, it's hard to know what to call those creatures who diverted us so much in our twenties)—those whom she loved and those who loved her. I love that letter. We made time when we were younger to write letters like that. I used to write using multicolored felt-tipped markers. Once we were talking about those letters that we used to write back and forth and Priscilla's son asked, "Did you seriously write the letters or were you doing it to be like Pride and Prejudice?" We assured him that we were, as Lizzy Bennet might say, "in earnest."

Much has been written of the demise of the written letter and I, along with others, lament its disappearance. But now I fear even conversation is in danger of becoming a thing of the past. Before answering machines and texting we often ended up wasting time waiting for a phone call. One sunny Saturday in June, 1977 I waited for a couple of hours for Tom Zurich, my then crush, to either call or come by. And yet I remember those hours, and the moment when he finally did come by, fondly.

I got my first answering machine when I was in law school in the '80s. For a long time we listened to messages that people left us. But now it seems we don't have time. I have several friends who tell me outright they don’t listen to vms. This makes me sad because I feel like the most important thing in life is human connection.

I love the Andy Griffith Show. Some of my favorite scenes are when Barney and Andy are sitting on the porch and Barney will say, “Ya know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna go down to the filling station, get me a bottle of pop. Go home, take a nap, go over to Thelma Lou’s and watch a little TEEvee.” And then they will sit there for a few seconds in companionable silence. And then Barney will say, “Yees sir. That what I’m gonna do, get me a bottle of pop, go home, take a nap. Go over to Thelma Lou’s a watch a little TEEvee.” And he still does not make a move.

The same people who don’t have time to listen to a vm from a friend respond every few minutes to texts from friends and family members. They are connected. But I wonder what has been lost in our exchanging those long lazy letters of Priscilla or those porch conversations between Barney and Andy for the frenetic, staccato connection we have through texting?

So many times when I am with someone I feel I am not really with them because they are answering a text every few minutes. It’s “just a sec,” and always for a good reason, but rarely a matter of life or death. I do improv, which is all about support and working as a group. Even in improv there are people who look at their phones while others are doing a scene. I don’t get what cannot wait for the two hours that we are together.

I’m not naïve. I know we’re not going to bring back letter writing or Ma Bell, but I hope it’s not too much to ask that we really listen to each other when we are together.

Edward Albee (Original Post Date September 17, 2016)

Edward Albee

Sept. 17, 2016

I just read that the playwright Edward Albee died. I did not know him and yet I feel a loss.

Sometimes when someone famous dies we feel sadness because of a personal connection despite never having met the person and that sadness deserves recognition.

Edward Albee wrote "Zoo Story." When I was in high school someone very important to me, David Rose, Directed "Zoo Story." The actors in it were Tom Zurich and Stuart Rosenfeld. David and Tom were both high school crushes of mine. And friends. David later became a director at the Colony Theatre in Burbank, California. In "Zoo Story," perhaps his directorial debut, he decided to cast Tom, more mild-mannered in real life, in as the more volatile character. Stuart, less subdued off-stage, got the milder role. In the wake of David's death I have re-connected with both Stuart and Tom. Stuart told me last month when we met in Seattle, that Mr. Pia, our wonderful faculty mentor for drama, was not in favor of this "switch" of David's; but David did it anyway and it was a triumph. Those of us in Staples Players in 1977 still remember the brilliant performances that Tom and Stuart gave FORTY years ago!

I remember Edward Albee for another reason. My multi-talented brother Roland, a playwright, filmmaker and composer, won the Edward Albee Award for one of his plays in the 1990s and got to go to Alaska to meet Edward Albee.

And then there was a play I was in. I thought it was an Edward Albee play. Grandma was one of the characters. The only line I remember is, "The boxes dammit!" But maybe it was Pinter. [Addendum: I remembered the play, "The American Dream." It was Albee].

Rest in peace, Edward Albee

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/09/17/arts/edward-albee-playwright-of-a-desperate-generation-dies-at-88.html?_r=0

A Blast from the Past: Earliest Diary (Originally published August 31, 2016)

Those of you who read my Facebook posts have noticed that since the death of my friend and milestone high school crush, David Rose (Harry David Rose III) in June—June 24 to be exact, the same day we learned the results of the Brexit vote (I think I'll never forget that date) I have been going through my old journals, letters and notes. It started with my tenth grade journal, the year I knew David best, when we were in Staples Players together, our magical, powerful high school drama program run by Al Pia, a man who believed in us.

I've now moved beyond tenth grade (our first year of high school) to read about the rest of high school, the college years (including summers at the Westport Country Playhouse and two semesters in Spain where I wrote mostly in Spanish). Today I found my earliest diaries and thought I would share the entries with you. Punctuation and capitalization is preserved in all entries. The first entry is from age 7:

"Dear Diary, I stayed in my PJs all day."

[This was clearly an event worth noting].

Underneath that I listed all my teachers (including first names) from nursery school through 5th grade. I clearly added the later ones when I got older; the writing is much neater and I could not have known who I would have unless I was clairvoyant. Note: I wrote my Kindergarten teacher's name "Mrs. fooler," instead of "Fuller." This served her right considering that when I told her I wanted to be a doctor she told me I had to be a nurse.

Another entry from age 8:

"Dear Diary, Roland My brother Got locked in the bathroom Joe Palmaro Got him out before that Mother was Mad.

"Daddy was so mean he would not let me watch all of flipper."

A couple of entries from age 10:

"I went to Laura Gould's party. At night Laurie Deilius was making phony phone calls. Then I stole Laura's diary. Laurie and I were reading it in the bathroom. Laura (the tattletail) of course told. And Mrs. Gould blamed Ann Young.

"I fell asleep early. Laura tramped off to sleep in her own bed.

"Shorties: We made our own dinner + we watched LOVE american style."

[Needless to say I am not proud of this diary-stealing behavior however I think the fact that I was not blamed for it shows how atypical it was of me!]

And an entry from age 10:

" We went to all these restaurants before we found one that was opened. We decided on The Clam Box.

"We came back and I played with Claudia and Howard. Howard was chasing me + being vulgar.

"A dog (Sam) was trying to mate with him. His mother explained why the dog shouldn't do that.

"Shorties: He was throwing stones at the stones and me. We took a walk. We are sopposed to have Matza bri for Dinner. It is Easter Sunday."

[Well, at least I knew enough to capitalize Easter Sunday! I wonder what vulgar things Howard was doing? He was 4 years younger than me and 3 years younger than Claudia].

I hope to write posts with installments from later diaries and journals. Please comment if you like these.

Happy Father's Day

Originally Posted on June 16, 2016:

It's my sixth Father's Day without my dad. My funny, wise, handsome, curious, gregarious, multi-lingual, joke-telling dad. Stories about my dad could fill a book so I will just pick one. Dad said that celebrities meet so many people they cannot possibly remember all of them. He was handsome and distinguished looking and sure of himself. In a theatre once he spied Catherine Denueve and went up to her, kissed her twice on the cheek, and said in flawless French, "Catherine, comment allez-vous?" She smiled and answered as if she knew him. The same thing happened when Barishnikov was in the audience when we went to see a play in New York. Unfortunately I was in the rest room when my dad went up and kissed the famous dancer, saying in flawless Russian, "Misha kak djela?" Again, Baryshnikov responded as if he knew him. Those stories remind me of my dad taking my mom into Cartier when they first came to New York. They had no money but again, he looked distinguished. He asked to see a necklace worth tens of thousands of dollars and had my mom try it on. Then he said to the solicitous salesman, "I don't think so. We'll keep looking." I miss you dad!

Why Lemon Sparklestone?

Hi Everyone,

Welcome to my blog! I do have a blog on Bridge To Poland about Jewish Poland and non-Jewish commemoration thereof. This blog is about things that do not have to do with that.

It’s named in honor of my two grandmothers:

Sarah/Sonja Limon (Limon=Lemon) and Estera Finkielsztajn/Finkelstein (Finkielsztajn=Sparklestone).

The drawing is a fanciful take on my as a Lemon Sparkle Fairy as seen by Antonia Rolls, Artiste Extraordinaire.

Please let me know if you enjoy this blog!

LT