Category — Cleveland, Full
The Jazz Temple was a former Packard showroom at Mayfield Road and Euclid Avenue. Coltrane and Dinah Washington played there. The Jazz Temple was in business from 1960 to 1963. I passed the Jazz Temple weekly on my way to Sunday school at The Temple, the gold-domed Reform temple in University Circle.
Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver was the head rabbi at The Temple. He once spoke at the United Nations, advocating for the founding of the State of Israel. Rabbi Silver’s son, Dan, was the assistant rabbi. Dan played football at Harvard and occasionally wrote for the Cleveland Edition.
At Sunday school, kids were mostly from Shaker Heights. One kid got a ride in a limo to temple. The driver wore a chauffeur’s cap. The limo wasn’t a Rolls; it was a Buick station wagon.
I couldn’t grasp how temple — the word — fit into the Jazz Temple. Was Jazz a religion too? Many years later, I met former beatniks who had actually gone to shows at the Jazz Temple.
The Jazz Temple was blown up in 1963. Somebody didn’t like the club or the owner, Winston Willis, a controversial black businessman. At The Temple religious school, we students attended services every Sunday morning to hear Rabbi Silver. (Services were on Sunday, not Saturday, in the 1950s at Silver’s.) Rabbi Silver looked like God. Nowadays, at The Temple East in Beachwood, there is a Abba Hillel Silver memorial study. The rabbi’s desk is laid out like he just stepped out for lunch. He died in 1963, just six days after Kennedy got murdered.
A slightly different version of this appeared 9/5/12. If you need baseball stuff, see my story at City Journal.
November 2, 2016 5 Comments
Italians have great names, grant them that. The best name from my old neighborhood was Bocky Boo DiPasquale. Bocky led a band, Bocky and the Visions, a local version of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Bocky Boo was a pre-Beatles greaser with a strong regional following; he got significant air play on Cleveland radio and on Detroit’s CKLW.
The Bock became a Cleveland legend. I, however, was too young to grasp Bocky’s vision. I didn’t listen to his music. I just knew his name and wondered, Can Bocky Boo be real?
I knew an Alfred Mastrobuono. Real.
I knew Carmen Yafanaro. Real.
Ralph Dodero. Real.
Bocky Boo’s real name was Robert DiPasquale.
Robby Stamps — another musician from my high school — knew The Bock and all other local bands, past or present. Stamps was a rocker, riding the first wave of psychedelia. (Robby’s sister incidentally was Penny Stamps.)
Stamps never showed up at high school reunions. He said the Italian greasers would harass him for being a radical. Stamps was a misher — a meddler — more than a radical. He was always around the action, like Zelig. Stamps was shot in the buttock at Kent State on May 4, 1970.
After graduating Kent, Stamps worked jobs as an adjunct faculty member in Hawaii, California and Florida. He majored in sociology and Spanish. Stamps was half Jewish — an oddity in the 1960s. Back then you were generally all Jewish, or you weren’t. Robby’s father was Floyd. (Not a Jew.)
Stamps hung around with just about everybody in high school: racks (aka greasers, dagos), white-bread American kids (aka squids, collegiates) and Jews (aka Jews). Stamps was an emissary between the various groups; he had a pisk (big mouth), played music and was fearless — except at reunions.
Stamps wasn’t part of the “in” crowd or the “out” crowd. Stamps was his own man. He scribbled “pseudo-freak” on the photo of a hippie poseur in my yearbook.
In middle age, Stamps developed every kind of illness: Crohn’s, Lyme Disease and pneumonia, plus he had the May 4 bullet wound. He died in 2008 at 58.
If Stamps had come to the reunions, he probably would have shed light — some sociology — on the cliques. Stamps’ perspective was sarcastic, bitter and funny. He would have said something like: “See those Jews at the bar, those guys wore penny loafers in seventh grade without pennies in them, and yelled at me because I put pennies in mine. They threw pennies on the floor. If you picked up the pennies, you were a ‘cheap Jew.’ I threw pennies. I worked both sides of the street.”
In 1988 Bocky Boo was shot and killed in a bar. The cops — some who had grown up with The Bock — tried hard to find Bocky’s killer. There was even a website, whokilledbocky, for a few years ago. (Now down. ) No Luck. The Bock and Stamps didn’t stick around.
Well, that’s one thing I can say about that boy, he gotta go.
–Paul Butterfield Blues Band, “Born in Chicago,” lyrics by Nick Gravenites
This post originally appeared 5/2/12.
May 4, 2016 7 Comments
My last close relative left Cleveland in 2001. Now my Seders are with friends. My relatives went to warmer places or died.
I’m in about two traffic jams a year in Cleveland. I would prefer five. I don’t relish the traffic of Chicago or Washington, but a few more traffic jams in Cleveland would be nice. In the 1970s, Clevelanders first began imagining the whole town could go under. A musician in Milwaukee wrote a song called “Thank God This Isn’t Cleveland.” Some Clevelanders never got over the trauma of the 1970s. I know Clevelanders who vacation in Cape Cod; they’re instructed by the national press to vacation on the East Coast. They wait an hour for ice cream on Cape Cod.
Some of the best scenery in America is the bike path from Gambier to Coshocton, Ohio: rolling farm country, horses, sheep, cows, pigs and Amish buggies. However, some Midwesterners need to see the ocean. They drive all day to the Carolina shore. Why? Lake Erie has beaches, waves and miniature golf.
Every one of my relatives bailed. Now I look for distant relatives. I’ve found some. My older son found Mississippi relatives via a PBS documentary, “Delta Jews,” about the Jews of the Mississippi Delta. The mayor of Louise, Miss., had been my mother’s cousin. (My mother grew up in Yazoo City, Miss.) My son called down there. We eventually met the Mississippi clan. Most were lawyers. They have Southern accents. That’s what you want from Southerners — a Southern accent. (So often Southern Jews will disappoint you on that.)
Seder-with-friends is not the same as with Aunt Bernice, Uncle Al, Cousin Howard and the rest of the family at the old Seder table. I live three miles from where I was born. I often see things that don’t exist anymore.
A version of this appeared in the Cleveland Plain Dealer 4/6/12.
April 20, 2016 6 Comments
Nobody out-talks Cleveland Councilman Mike Polensek. He’s the quote machine. He once said, “I’m old-school Collinwood. You mess with me or my property, and I mess with you.” He called former councilman Jay Westbook a “weasel,” and former mayor Mike White a “son of a bitch, but our son of a bitch.”
Before Polensek was a councilman, he was a machinist at White Motors. I saw Polensek frequently in 1981 and 1982, when I was a reporter for the Sun Scoop Journal. Polensek ran for city council against Dave Trenton — a fellow incumbent Slovenian — in 1981. The city wards had been redrawn, and Polensek or Trenton was going to be out of a job. Trenton was “shanty Slovenian,” said my editor, another Slovenian. Trenton was slightly rougher-edged than Polensek. For instance, Trenton smoked a cigar in public.
The editor endorsed Trenton, maybe because he and Trenton played softball together. The editor told me to survey the 14,000 registered voters in the ward. I talked to 75 people. Trenton received 32 votes in my poll. He had a plurality. The paper ran this headline: “Trenton called favorite in Ward 11 race.” And the endorsement stated: “As council’s majority leader, Trenton can serve the community from a position of strength . . . [He has] invaluable connections downtown.”
But Polensek, the underdog, won! When I walked into Polensek’s victory party at the Italian Cooperative Association Hall on St. Clair Avenue, a Polensek supporter announced, “Your paper endorsed Trenton!” Another man said, “You’re in the wrong place. You’re going to eat crow when you write up your shit. You’re one of the worst writers ever! What are you doing here?” A woman, somewhat calmer than the men, said, “I don’t think you’re going to find what you’re looking for here.”
They didn’t like me. (I was a curly-haired hippie Jew from the Heights. That didn’t help.) But Polensek liked me — liked me enough. He liked media people, period. He said, “Oh well, you’re here. Like I told your boss, I knew we’d win.” I said I would have voted for Polensek if I lived in Ward 11. Polensek wasn’t impressed. He said, “You’re disrespecting your boss.”
Polensek is still a councilman 35 years later. I ran into him a couple years ago and said, “You remember the ICA Hall, when some of your supporters wanted to kill me?”
He was foggy on it. I wasn’t. He said, “No hard feelings.”
February 24, 2016 5 Comments
I wasn’t in Rust Belt Chic –The Cleveland Anthology. Must have been an oversight. I’m Rust Belt chic. I’ve lived in Cleveland all my life. I use Rust-Oleum — a local brand — on my fire escapes. Granted, my Rust Belt pedigree is not total lunch bucket, like Pulitzer Prize columnist Connie Schultz, whose dad worked at the CEI plant in Ashtabula. And I’m not like the co-editor of Rust Belt Chic, Richey Piiparinen, whose dad was a “Cleveland cop who got run over on the way home from an Indians game.”
I once bumped into Richey and told him I liked the anthology. “But personally, I’m not into the Browns, booze, and broads thing,” I said.
He said, “That’s good — ‘Browns, booze and broads.’”
1) The Browns. I’ve been to about five Browns games. One was the championship game in 1964. So I’m good to go (to my grave).
1a) The Indians. I’ve been to, on average, a game a year. Believe it or not, I’ve seen three no-hitters: Stieb, Bosman and Siebert. I’m good to go, again.
2) Booze. I’ve had a couple Great Lakes Christmas Ales. No more than 10. But I’m 100 percent behind Great Lakes Brewing and heavy drinking.
3) Broads. I met a few at the Last Moving Picture Company in 1976 and they’re probably dead now — or near-dead — from too much beer.
David Giffels in his essay “The Lake Effect” wrote, “There was never any color in the 30 miles of sky between Akron and Cleveland. It was a masterpiece of monochrome.”
I see color in the sky here. I see blue right now. I’m too upbeat for Rust Belt Chic.
This post is a day early because of Yom Kippur (manana).
September 20, 2015 5 Comments
Tuesday, September 20 • 9:30 – 3:30
$30 JCC Members; $40 Non-members
Registration deadline: September 15
Meet by the Mandel JCC front entrance
I bailed from the tour halfway through (at Liberty Hill Baptist Church, formerly Euclid Avenue Temple). I was on the bus for four hours, and the tour had three more hours to go, according to the guide. I can do local Jewish history but not seven hours. I missed Kinsman and Glenville. I caught the Central neighborhood portion. James A. Garfield (not Jewish) and Mickey Katz graduated from Central High.
I’d like two half-day tours of Jewish Cleveland.
Here’s “Homeboy,” about growing up in Cleveland and never leaving. From City Journal. L’shana tova.
September 9, 2015 1 Comment
My son Ted parked his car at the Brookpark RTA lot and flew to Las Vegas. The RTA lot was cheaper than the airport lot. My son didn’t come back. I thought he was going on a vacation, but he got a job in Las Vegas and stayed for a while.
My son’s Ford Focus, a 2007, sat in the Brookpark lot for two months, until my wife, Alice, and I loaded our car with jumper cables and a generator air pump and drove to the RTA lot, which is next to Ford Engine Plant #1 and a couple strip bars.
I said to Alice, “Ted’s car is technically in Brook Park, not Cleveland. That’s good. If the car has been towed or stolen, we can deal with Brook Park red tape better than Cleveland red tape.”
The next day I drove Ted’s car to the Lusty Wrench in Cleveland Heights. Sam Bell, the repair-shop owner, said, “The car is basically in good shape, with 89,000 miles. The battery will not make it, and as you know the side-view mirror is taped on. But the tape actually is not a bad solution. The rear tires are round, black and hold air.” The car was serviceable, he proclaimed.
What I want to know, Is Greater Cleveland really this safe? I need more data. Please park your car for two months at a Rapid stop and tell me.
This post first appeared at CoolCleveland.com 5/15/13.
Here’s something new . . .
You dislike yourself for several very good reasons:
- You fist-bump too much. That is so childish. Shake hands!
- You have tiny cracks in your fingers that irritate others. Try fist-bumping.
- You are not 25, so act your age.
- Your sexuality is questionable.
- Cut back on the Facebook postings. Three a day is
- Don’t be so jittery.
- Move to a log cabin. Or else go to an airport lounge with your laptop and iPhone, and live there for a week.
- Doodle more.
- Recalculating . . . ignore this.
May 13, 2015 3 Comments
1. Norman Mlachak was a Cleveland Press reporter. I didn’t know him but knew of him. He grew up over a deli at E. 140th Street and Aspinwall Avenue. Every old-timer in Cleveland grew up over a deli, or near one. Nobody had a car, so there were a lot of delis. You bought food almost daily. Mlachak sometimes wrote nostalgic pieces for The Press. His neighborhood was Collinwood. He wrote about Fisher Body, Eaton Axle, Kuhlman Car Co. and the Collinwood Railroad Yards. He died in 1984.
2. I went to high school with Helene Mlotek, who is probably related to Zalmen Mlotek, the New York klezmer macher. Aren’t all Jewish Mloteks related? Helene and I weren’t in any of the same classes.
3. Mary Lou Hribar grew up in and around Fritz’s Tavern, a polka hangout on E. 185th Street. Her father, Fritz, was inducted into the Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame, under the category “proprietors.” I once met Mary Lou at a Shaker Heights party and haven’t seen her since. Fritz died in 2001.
4. I was at Claudia Hlebcar’s wedding . . .
OK, enough. Thank you for your patience.
— Bert Ptacek
Irregular Passover Humor:
April 1, 2015 5 Comments
I had a show biz lunch at Corky & Lenny’s. The lunch was Hollywood-style, not Hollywood. Bert Dragin, the owner of a furniture store chain, was looking for a movie script. (This was in 1980. C&L’s was still at Cedar Center.) Dragin said to me, “I’ve got money. Everybody will talk to me in L.A. Right now I have something in the Best of the New York Erotic Film Festival.” He suggested I write a screenplay about a fire at a gay nightclub in Atlanta. Not my thing, sorry.
Dragin sold his Name Brand Furniture stores and moved to Hollywood to make movies. He produced Suburbia (1983), and directed Summer Camp Nightmare (1987) and Twice Dead (1988).
I wrote a screenplay, The Flamer, about a bar mitzvah party where several kids got burned to death by playing with sterno. [This paragraph is fiction. The rest is true.]
Dragin ran a tab at Corky & Lenny’s, which he probably paid monthly. He acted in his TV ads for the furniture store. “You heard of Erotic Salad?” he said. “It’s got a soft-X rating.”
“No.” That’s as close as I got to Hollywood.
March 4, 2015 6 Comments
Howard Metzenbaum was the big name in my father’s generation. Metzenbaum made millions in parking lots, and eventually became a U.S. senator. My father and Metzenbaum were born the same year, 1917, in Cleveland. My dad didn’t know Metzenbaum but enjoyed following his career.
Metzenbaum, in his later years, owned a condo at Three Village, the holy of holies for upscale living in Cleveland. The building went up in 1978 near Cedar Road at I-271. The Three Village condo development was wooded and secluded. My parents lived nearby, at the Mark IV apartments (now called the Hamptons). I don’t know why my mother went to apartment living from a colonial in South Euclid. She was a gardener, and then suddenly she was doing tomatoes in pots on her Mark IV balcony. My parents liked brand-new housing; they weren’t keen on used. Everything had to be shiny and new, maybe because they grew up in poverty.
Across from the Mark IV was Acacia on the Green — a step up, rent- and prestige-wise. Next to Acacia was Sherri Park, a step down. Across from Sherri Park was Point East, a step up from Acacia but down from Three Village. These buildings all went up in the 1970s and were popular with my parents’ generation.
My parents never went inside Metzenbaum’s building. I did. I visited a friend who bought a condo in Three Village. Metzenbaum was long gone — dead as of 2008 — and this was 2014. The building’s buzzer directory read Maltz, Mandel, Ratner, Risman, Weinberger and Wuliger (among others). Some of the condos were 7,500 square feet.
Maltz, Mandel, Ratner . . . Maybe you have to be an old Cleveland Jew to appreciate that. If you’re not an old Cleveland Jew, and have read this far, please explain.
Buzz. Come in.
The Klezmer Guy Trio performs at Nighttown, 7 p.m. Wed., Feb. 25. An evening of social commentary, plumbing tips and music. $10. 216-795-0550. Alan Douglass, piano and vocals. Tamar Gray, vocals. Klezmer, soul and standards. I’ll do prose blurts and play clarinet.
February 11, 2015 7 Comments
The letter is from Milt — a friend of my parents — to his kids.
May 15, 1990
In 15 days I’ll be 71.
As you know, I’m not religious, but I do like a good party.
About my funeral: Use the gentile funeral home, Fioritto in Lyndhurst, to deliver my body to the Workmen’s Circle Cemetery. Just bury me. Invite some family and friends. No rabbi! I’ve never gone to synagogue, so don’t start with that now.
Pick a convenient Sunday afternoon to throw a memorial service at the Workmen’s Circle hall on Green Road. There is plenty room, a loudspeaker, and a kitchen. Anybody who wants to speak, can speak. Except Bernstein.
I want a nice sendoff: trays, Scotch, music, dancing, food, coffee, pastry, wine and cold beer. Whiskey too. Hire a klezmer band — Bert Stratton’s band. (Bert is Julia and Toby’s son.) But remember, one hour of klezmer is enough.
Get the trays at Bernie Shulman’s at Cedar Center. They’re good and cheap, but you have to pick up the goods yourself. Get pastries from Acme supermarket at Mayfield near Green. Their pastries are excellent and much cheaper than the Jewish bakeries.
I want coffee, lots of coffee; the Workmen’s Circle can make it by the gallon. And plenty of soft drinks and wine — good wine. No Champagne. And hire kitchen help.
Mom will say I’m nuts. She can stay home if she wants! This is what I want.
Footnote: Milt died 16 years after he wrote the letter. He ate a lot and never exercised and lived to 87. He had a graveside service with no band and no food. No hard feelings, Milt. All mourners received a copy of Milt’s brisket recipe at the funeral.
I slightly “enhanced” the letter. I added Except Bernstein to “Anybody can speak. Except Bernstein.” And I added “One hour of klezmer is enough.” Couldn’t help it.
“Milt” is a pseudonym. If Milt’s children want his real name here, they’ll let me know.
June 18, 2014 9 Comments
“Cleveland is a hard town. I came near committing suicide when I lived there.” — Robert Crumb, American Splendor intro, 1986.
Crumb worked for American Greetings. My dad, Toby, worked there too.
Toby was at American Greetings before Crumb. My dad worked with Morry Stone, who eventually became a vice chairman. My dad didn’t like working for anybody, including Morry, so Toby left in 1954.
Everybody in Cleveland has worked at American Greetings, I think. Or tried to. I applied for a job at American Greetings in 1981.
American Greetings had a Creative Building at West 78th Street. I didn’t even get called in for an interview. Maybe I wasn’t sick enough to write sick cards.
Robert Crumb again, 1996, Bob & Harv‘s Comics: “Cleveland is a city that has been ravaged by financiers and industrialists . . . its population abandoned to their fate, left to freeze their ass off, standing in the dirty winter slush, waiting for a bus that is a long time coming. Somehow they go on living.”
I haven’t lived anywhere else, so I can’t complain like Crumb. I went to college in Ann Arbor (which doesn’t count) and spent a few months in Bogota, Colombia, in my twenties.
Bogota was tougher than Cleveland. That, I can testify to. Bogota was rainy, gray, and headache-inducing from the high altitude. Cleveland was simply rainy, gray and slushy.
A pilot stood in a grassy field by the Bogota airport and said, “Tell your friends to throw their packs in back and we’ll be off.”
They weren’t my friends. They weren’t even Americans.
We climbed into the cargo section of the plane. “It smells like shit in here,” a Swiss girl said.
“This is Fish Airlines,” the pilot said. (Aeropesca.)
We landed in the Amazon a few hours later.
I ran into a college friend in the Amazon! I knew him from my freshman dorm. He said, “I scamp.” That meant he sold gems, coke, pot or counterfeit bills. “I’m going to reunite with my creators soon,” he said.
“I’m going back to my parents.”
I tried to catch the ferry to Belem, Brazil. I waited several days in Leticia, Colombia, by the Amazon River dock, but the ferry didn’t arrive. I flew back to Bogota on the guppy/yuppie flight. (Guppies to Bogota, yuppies to the Amazon.)
In Bogota, I froze — even indoors. I wore two sweaters and socks-for-gloves in a small house I shared with a widow and her maid. I taught English at a nearby private junior high. For fun at night I read Cancer Ward . I also looked at photos of beauty queens from El Espacio and El Bogotano — the tabloids. My bedroom had doggy pictures on the wall, a toy cannon on the windowsill, and a crucifix over the bed.
For mental exercise I tried to reconstruct my high school schedule: first and second periods, PSSC Physics. What was third? What was PSSC? [Physical Science Study Committee.] I didn’t know many people in Bogie.
I heard Charlie Byrd play “Bogota” in Bogota. He was on a government-sponsored tour. Byrd en guitarra, con bajo y batería. (Byrd on guitar, with bass and drums.)
I went back to Cleveland after three months.
American Greetings. I couldn’t take Bogie. The major bookstore in Bogota was run by a Nazi, I thought. The owner was German, and I fabricated a fake bio, in my head, about him. I went to the Peace Corps office to borrow more paperbacks. I got Papillon, about a prisoner in Latin America.
I played blues harp for my English class. The kids loved it but the administration didn’t.
I had to leave. Bogie was un frío horrible (a freezing cold).
Crumb should write about Bogota. I want to hear his take on a real tough town.
1. My Bogota adventure was in 1974.
2. I didn’t meet my college friend in the Amazon. I met him in Bogota. I remembered the encounter incorrectly. My friend straightened me out in Cleveland in 2013.
February 12, 2014 5 Comments
Yiddishe Cup has shared the stage with the Hungarian Scouts, Ukrainian Kashtan dancers, and Csardas, a Hungarian troupe. These groups draw fans to local festivals, and the dancers perform in difficult odd meters. Yiddishe Cup doesn’t draw many fans to these multicultural shows. The typical Jew doesn’t want to watch Ukrainians, Poles, or Hungarians dance.
At one festival, some of the folk dances had sappy English titles, like “My Little Cherry Tree” and “I Love You, Shepherd Boy.” I took the printed program home and looked up the real titles:
“Tylko We Lwowie” (Let’s Get Out of Lviv)
“Frogisic Sie Pani” (My Bagpipes are Soggy)
“Jaz Pa Ti” (Dad is Tipsy)
“Pytala Sie Pani” (Pierogis With Butter, Senator)
“Llactosi Nyasa Pilsenioya” (I Hate Milk and Like Beer)
“Jak Szybko Hund Chwile” (Jacko’s Chili Dog Is Outstanding)
“Nasza Jest, Noc Tylko” (Not Tonight, Not Tomorrow.)
I bought a raffle ticket for the St. Mary’s Church (Collinwood) fundraiser, Catholic Order of Foresters, Court #1640.
I bought the ticket from Stan. Stan’s father was Stan too. Stan — my friend Stan – got married at St. William’s Church, not St. Stan’s. (St. Stan’s church is Polish. Stan is Slovenian.)
Stan’s wedding reception was at the big Slovenian National Home on St. Clair Avenue at E. 65th Street. Stan hired his uncle’s polka band. At the wedding, we danced Slovenian-style polka — not the same as Polish-style polka. (If you don’t know the difference, please see Harvey Pekar’s “Polka Wars” American Splendor, issue #16.)
Yiddishe Cup can play Slovenian! We’ve done Yankovic’s “Just Because” and “Blue Skirt Waltz,” and some charts from polka musician Joey Tomsick.
I won $20 in the St. Mary’s raffle. I haven’t seen the money yet.
Slovenians are tight with a buck. That’s their in-group reputation. Amongst themselves, Slovenians brag about their frugality, and they like to trash Lithuanians, who are even tighter. Stan told me all this.
The St. Mary’s Church raffle was three years ago. Stan, you owe me $23 — that’s $20 plus interest. Pay up, Stan. Any Stan.
September 25, 2013 6 Comments
A friend from high school, Mike, found me on the Web and emailed me questions about real estate. Mike lives in Minnesota. He added a postscript: “I haven’t thought about high school in decades!” He listed a few old names – high school buddies.
I haven’t thought about high school in decades! Was he bragging? Like, “I’ve moved on.”
News flash: “Nostalgia has been shown to counteract loneliness, boredom and anxiety” — New York Times, 7/9/13, John Tierney.
I go to reunions even when they’re not mine. I was at the 50th Cleveland Heights High reunion. I was playing a gig nearby and went into the reunion for atmosphere. Go Tigers!
I wish teachers were invited to reunions. My 12th-grade English teacher, Mr. Hill, walked his dog by my house almost daily in the 1990s. One day I got up the nerve to say hi. He didn’t remember me! He said, “I had so many students.”
I said, “I bet you remember Ann Wightman!”
Yes, he remembered Ann, the smartest woman ever and salutatorian. [See post about Ann here.]
I should call my high school buddy Dennis. He’s around.
I should also call Howard. He’s in New York. We occasionally vacation together to do in-depth analyses of our high school days, to talk about the Jewish “Tiger Mom” ethos of our youth — how it no longer exists (our youth and the Jewish “Tiger Mom” ethos).
Howard has constructed two main classifications for the Jews of South Euclid, circa 1965: 1. Racetrack Jews (gamblers / working class), 2. Refined Jews (sheyne, college-educated yehudim.)
My family was in between. No New York Times, no Racing Form. We had the Cleveland Press on the doorstep.
I haven’t been back to my high school (Charles F. Brush) in decades. It’s off my flow chart, even though it’s only 5 1/2 miles from my house. If I entered my high school, I would probably feel very young or very old. I think “very old” would win. Not worth it.
I haven’t thought about high school . . . in seconds.
I gave the graphic novel Maus to a bat mitzvah girl as a gift. The girl was the daughter of my high school friend Dennis. Dennis returned Maus, saying, “She wants a gift certificate to an arts supply store.”
Dennis was the only person who could get away with that.
Dennis and I were born nine days apart at the same hospital. We were the only Jews in our elementary school class. (No wait, there was often a third Jew — Udelf.) Dennis and I were at Kent State the night before the shootings. I was the best man at his wedding. I went to a no-hitter with him. We bought Playboys together. I was not Dennis’ best man the second time around. He went on JDate and exchanged emails with a Philly woman almost immediately after his divorce. He said he was going to re-marry. I said wait. “You’re jumping off a cliff. ” He wouldn’t listen.
Dennis has been married to the Philly woman for about six years. So I guess I was wrong.
Dennis and I haven’t been on the same wavelength since about seventh grade. (For instance, he loves sports and I’m blasé — unless the Tribe keeps winning.)
It’s my turn to call.
But maybe enough is enough.
“Nostalgia makes us a bit more human” — psychologist Constantine Sedikides (New York Times, 7/9/13).
Just up at CoolCle, a Heinen’s grocery story.
Yiddishe Cup plays the West Virginia Jewish Reunion Sat. (Aug. 3) night. All Jewish Mountaineers, be there. Charleston, W. Va.
July 31, 2013 2 Comments
The cops at the Sixth District police station in Cleveland considered me a hippie spy from the Heights. But when I told the cops I was a Seiger (“My uncle owned Seiger’s Restaurant on E.118th and Kinsman”), the cops warmed up to me. The cops — the older ones, the bosses — all knew Seiger’s Restaurant.
Seiger’s Restaurant was a Damon Runyon casting hall on Kinsman Road. All manner of hustlers, cops, businessmen and shnorers (beggars) hung out there. The shnorers were Orthodox Jewish tzedakah (charity) collectors who had their own booth in the back.
My Great Aunt Lil Seiger served the shnorers kosher food from her apartment, which was at the back of the store. The shnorers wouldn’t eat the non-kosher food from the restaurant. The deli was kosher-style, not kosher. “We served the rabonim [the rabbis] on special china and silverware, milchig [dairy]’,” Lil’s son Danny said.
Rabonim — and cops — ate well at Seiger’s. Nobody ever got a ticket for an expired parking meter, and sometimes cars were parked two-lanes deep on Kinsman. “I couldn’t even spend a nickel in Seiger’s,” retired cop Bill Tofant said.
Itchy Seiger, my great uncle, was the owner and chief kibitzer (glad-handler/talker). He had been a cloak maker in Galicia, Austria-Hungary. Itchy was the greeter. Aunt Lil did the cooking, except the breads and strudels, which she bought.
There was a party room, seating about 65, in the basement. The matchbooks read: “Seiger’s Restaurant, Delicatessen, Barroom and Rathskeller.”
I didn’t go to Seiger’s Restaurant often. My parents didn’t think Kinsman was the right direction for a Sunday drive. More often we wound up out east — the other direction — at the Metroparks.
Danny — my cousin — started showing up at Yiddishe Cup gigs in the 2000s. I asked him about the mini-feud between his father (my Uncle Itchy) and my grandmother, Anna Soltzberg (nee Seiger). Itchy and Anna had been half-siblings. (Enough with the genealogy, Klezmer Guy!) Danny said Itchy and Anna had had two things in common: sugar diabetes and iron wills.
My grandmother’s candy store — near Itchy’s deli on Kinsman — had frequently been “oyf tsoris” (badly off), and Itchy rescued it, Danny said.
“Everybody loved Itchy,” Danny said. Everybody but my grandmother, who complained about Itchy’s buy-out terms on her store. Later, my grandmother opened a candy store further east on Kinsman, near Shaker Heights.
“At the restaurant, there were two brothers, the Schoolers,” Danny said. “One, Joe, wanted a soft matzo ball. The other, Morty, wanted a matzo ball as hard as a baseball. Ma made both kinds. That’s how we thrived.”
Somebody should take Danny, age 80, and a video camera for a stroll down Kinsman. Walk Danny through the old neighborhood and into Seiger’s, which was recently a soul food restaurant. (Today it’s boarded up.)
Danny: “This is where Ma made the mish-mash soup. She gave the recipe to Corky & Lenny’s. This is the counter where Jim Brown bounced a $10 check. I should have saved it for the autograph. This is where Oscar Schmaltz downed an industrial canister of soup. Oscar weighed 400.”
Footnote: Seiger’s is pronounced Sigh-ger’s (rhymes with High-gers) by Jews, and See-ger’s by cops. Seiger’s closed in 1968.
For relatives only . . . family photo above, taken at the shiva for Toby Stratton’s mother, Anna Soltzberg.
On floor, from L: Bert Stratton, sister Leslie.
Middle: Aunt Lil Soltzberg of Washington; unnamed woman who divorced out of the family; Aunt Pearl Bregman; Great Aunt Molly Mittman; Marcia Seiger.
Top: Uncle Milty Soltzberg, Toby Stratton, Julia Stratton, Uncle Sol Soltzberg, Great Uncle Sam Mittman, Aunt Lil Soltzberg of Delaware, Great Uncle Itchy Seiger, Danny Seiger.
(Sol Soltzberg, Milty Soltzberg, Pearl Bregman and Toby Stratton were siblings.)
May 8, 2013 11 Comments
I live near two large Amish settlements — Middlefield, Ohio and Holmes County, Ohio. I know some of the differences between the various Amish sects. Some Amish use battery-powered lights on their buggies. Some don’t. Some use the triangular orange “slow vehicle” sign, some don’t.
I’ve only been around Amish and Jews once. I saw an Amish man in the lobby of Green Road Synagogue — an Orthodox synagogue in Cleveland. I said to myself, “I’m wrong.”
This “Amish“ guy was probably a hipster Jew trying to look Amish, with a wide-brim hat, beard, no mustache and a vest. Like Solzhenitsyn.
I saw 15 Amish women in blue dresses and white bonnets come out of the kitchen. They carried parfaits on trays.
Then I saw a horse and buggy at the side door. (How does a horse and buggy get to suburban Beachwood? By truck.)
Solzhenitsyn stacked bales of hay in the temple lobby and brought in chickens. He was John, an Amish from Middlefield, and he worked for an Orthodox Jew who owned a mattress factory and was hosting a sheva brochas (post-wedding dinner). Yiddishe Cup played the dinner. We played our usual repertoire of Yiddish, Hebrew and klezmer. I asked the Amish buggy driver what he thought of the music. He said, “It sounds like Mozart.” Maybe because of the violin?
The man stacking the hay said some Amish in Ohio play harmonica — the 10-hole diatonic model. “That’s all, for instruments,” he said. “Other instruments [like flute, guitar] might lead to forming a band.” A Jewish joke?
The rabbi jokingly asked if Yiddishe Cup knew any Amish songs. We tried “Amazing Grace.” Probably a first for Green Road Synagogue. The Amish liked the song. We also played a Yiddish vocal, “Di Grine Kusine” (The Greenhorn Cousin), which the Amish didn’t seem to go for. I thought they would like our Yiddish repertoire, since the Amish speak Pennsylvania Dutch.
Now I know: go easy on the Yiddish at Amish-Jewish parties.
The Klezmer Guy trio plays Nighttown, Cleveland Hts., 7 p.m. Tues., April 23. $10. Play it safe and make a res: 216-795-0550.
An evening of social commentary, plumbing tips, and song. As if Garrison Keillor was raised on pastrami.
Alan Douglass, piano and vocals; Bert Stratton, clarinet and prose; Tamar Gray, vocals . . .
Next week “Klezmer Guy” posts up on Tuesday (April 23) instead of Wednesday. Just so I can remind you one more time about the April 23 Nighttown gig.
Mazel Tov to Sen. Jack Stratton (I-Calif.) for reaching his goal on Kickstarter. His band, Vulfpeck, hit the mark today.
Jack the Tummler . . .
April 17, 2013 1 Comment
I look for musical yikhes (lineage/pedigree) wherever I can find it. My grandmother played piano at a white Baptist church in Yazoo City, Mississippi. Not bad.
This Mississippi bubbe — Ida Kassoff Zalk — had a brother, Earl Kassoff, in Cleveland. Earl was a drummer, xylophonist and house painter. He went by the stage name Earl Castle, and led bands in the 1930s and 1940s.
In the 1990s — when I first began looking for musical yikhes — I couldn’t find much info on Earl. I talked to a couple relatives. Earl didn’t leave behind sheet music or tune books. He died in 1969.
At a Yiddishe Cup gig, an elderly musician schmoozed with me. I asked him if he knew Earl Kassoff. Yes, he remembered Earl. The schmoozer was Harold Finger, age 77. He had made a living playing clarinet and sax during the 1930s and 1940s.
I took my tape recorder to Harold’s apartment and interviewed him. He said there were “four or five bands that got the Jewish work.”
I asked, “What bands?” He didn’t remember the names. “What were the most popular Jewish tunes?” I said.
He said, “The songs from the Kammen Book. That was the big thing.”
The Kammen International Dance Folio, published in 1924, is still around. The Kammen book is to Jewish music what a sex manual is to sex. (Pianist Pete Sokolow makes this statement at most KlezKamp conventions.)
My Uncle Earl’s band did mostly “dance work” — American music, Harold said. Earl worked the downtown theaters, as well as the Golden Pheasant — a Chinese restaurant where Artie Shaw started.
Harold said he didn’t stick to the melody all the time. He did some “faking” (improvising). Now he played clarinet with a community orchestra. “I don’t do much jobbing anymore,” he said. (Jobbing is gigging.)
Harold died three years after the interview. I thought his kids might enjoy the interview tape, from 1992, so I called a Finger relative and left a message in the mid-1990s.
I didn’t hear back.
The relative should have called! Harold’s wife was on the tape, teasing Harold about how he loved his saxophone more than her. Harold said, “What? I quit playing music for you!”
Michiganders, come to the Klezmer Guy show at The Ark, Ann Arbor, Feb. 15. 8 p.m. $20. Bert Stratton on clarinet and prose, Alan Douglass on piano and vocals, Gerald Ross on ukulele and Hawaiian lap steel guitar. Prose pieces will contain words such as “Ann Arbor,” “Michigan” and “Rudy Tomjanovich.”
More on Mississippi Ida — my bubbe — later. Maybe not.
Yikhes update. Check out the latest from Jack Stratton’s band, Vulfpeck.
February 6, 2013 6 Comments
I’m not Orthodox, but I can walk the walk. Walking is a major part of my religion.
Last week my wife, Alice, and I walked home from Rosh Hashanah services. We were at Altamont and Compton roads, in a mostly black section of Cleveland Heights — close to a mostly Orthodox neighborhood.
Three black boys pulled up on bikes. The boys were out of school because Cleveland Heights closes on Rosh Hashanah.
I had on a yarmulke. I like to wear a yarmulke in public once in a while, just to “out” myself.
D’Shawn, leaning on his handlebars, said, “You Jewish?”
“Yes,” I said.
He turned to Alice. “You Jewish?”
“Total Jewish?” he asked.
“Yes,” my wife said, smiling. She knew D’Shawn. Alice teaches gym in the local public school and knows a lot of kids. “Being Jewish is a good thing. The food is good . . .”
“You go to that building [synagogue] up on Taylor?” D’Shawn asked.
“No, we go to the big temple — the one with the dome — over there,” Alice said, pointing toward Euclid Heights Boulevard.
Alice wears slacks. She doesn’t wear a wig. She doesn’t look Orthodox. (She isn’t — not by a long shot.)
“You breaking Armish?” D’Shawn said.
I said, “Breaking Armish? Did you say ‘breaking Armish’? What’s that mean? You mean ‘breaking Amish’?” Either way, it made no sense to me.
Breaking Amish is a reality TV show about Amish kids breaking loose in New York. The first episode was on last week. (I Googled this info when I got home.)
D’Shawn apparently thought Alice was “breaking Armish” because she doesn’t look like a member of the local black-hat Orthodox crowd.
Side B — “Beer and Coconut Bars,” a classic blog post — is below this video.
This clip may be the most innovative vid on earth. By Jack Stratton. Michael Brecker (on electronic wind instrument) jams with Uncle Milty Friedman.
A version of this post ran on CoolCleveland.com last year (12/6/11). This version has more illustrations and pics!
BEER AND COCONUT BARS
My dad admired bankers. In my dad’s pantheon of great Cleveland Jewish families, the number one clan was the Bilsky family, who made bagels, then went into medicine (son #1), bowling alleys (son #2), and started a bank (son #3). My grandmother used to say “The Bilskys make big bagels out of little bagels.”
Dr. Harold Bilsky, son #1, had liked Yiddishe Cup. Harold had grown up with my dad on Kinsman Road. Harold wouldn’t be at the gig. He died in 2007. Leo, son #2, wouldn’t be there either. He died in 1998. I asked Scott, “What about the banker?”
“That’s my grandfather Marvin,” Scott said. “He’ll be there.” Marvin is 90.
At the gig, I talked to Marvin during our breaks. He told me, “Everything I ever did began with a B — baker, banker and builder. Plus brewer.”
That “brewer” part was news to me — Bilsky a brewski?
“My father bought Cleveland-Sandusky Brewing in 1955,” Marvin said. “There were very few Jews involved in the brewing business then. In the 1960s, Israel came to us for brewing tips and equipment.”
Marvin said there were only four other Cleveland breweries in the 1950s: Carling’s from Canada (“very nice people”); Standard Brewing; Erin Brew, Irish; Leisy’s, German; and Pilsener’s P.O.C., Czech. Bilsky’s brewery bottled Gold Bond beer and Olde Timers Ale.
“We all used to meet on Mondays. I didn’t have any trouble with anybody,” Marvin said.
The last local brewery in town was Carling, which closed in 1984. National breweries killed off the locals.
My father never taught me about brewskis. He rarely drank; it would have interfered with his worrying. (Old Jewish joke.) I knew about Carling’s from old Cleveland Indians’ radio ads. “Hey, Mabel, Black Label . . . Carling Black Label beer.”
Bilsky’s brewery was just a blip in the Bilsky biz history. The Bilsky business was Bilsky’s Bakery, which had started on Kinsman and moved to Cedar Center in 1948.
Who invented the Cleveland coconut bar?
That was the question I should have asked Marvin. My dad had loved coconut bars (and halvah). I should have asked.
Marvin was in the phone book . . . .
“Marvin, this is Bert Stratton from Yiddishe Cup, the klezmer band.”
“Thank you for the concert yesterday. You did as well as you could,” he said. “No, seriously, we enjoyed it! To answer your question, I’ve always said my father invited the coconut bar, but — and I have to tell you this — I went to Sydney, Australia, and I went down into the subway there. They have a small subway system. They had coconut bars down there! They didn’t call them coconut bars. [Australians call them lamingtons, says Google.] Where did they get them? Maybe from England. Australia used to be part of England.”
“Marvin, I have a friend, my age — his grandfather was Kritzer’s Bakery on Kinsman — my friend says his grandfather invented the coconut bar.”
“It was my father!” Marvin said, laughing. “Who knows.”
I called my cousin George Becker, whose father had owned Heights Baking on Coventry. George said his father didn’t invented the coconut bar.
Yippee, one less Coconut Bar King to contend with.
Former Clevelander Scott Raab wrote in Esquire (July 2002): “Ask for coconut bars in any Jewish bakery from New Jersey to Los Angeles and you’ll get some version of this: ‘So, you’re from Cleveland . . . We don’t have ’em.’”
September 27, 2012 10 Comments
The Jazz Temple was a music club in a former Packard showroom at Mayfield Road and Euclid Avenue. Coltrane played there. Dinah Washington too. Everybody played there. The Jazz Temple was in business from 1960 to 1963.
I passed the Jazz Temple weekly on my way to Sunday school at The Temple, a Reform synagogue in University Circle, Cleveland.
Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver was the head rabbi at The Temple. Rabbi Silver was very prominent; he spoke at the United Nations, advocating for the establishment of the state of Israel. Rabbi Silver’s son, Danny, was the assistant rabbi. He played football at Harvard and blocked hard for his dad.
The Sunday school kids at The Temple were mostly from Shaker Heights. One kid got a ride in a limo to shul. The driver wore a chauffeur’s cap.
I couldn’t grasp how temple — the word — fit into a non-Jewish setting, like in “Jazz Temple.” Was Jazz a religion too? (Give me a break. I was 10.)
Years later, I met a couple ex-beatniks who had been old enough to go to the Jazz Temple in the early 1960s. They had heard Trane and Ella.
The Jazz Temple was blown up in 1963. Somebody didn’t like the club, or the owner, Winston Willis, a controversial black businessman.
At The Temple, the religious-school kids would attend the last part of the service and hear the sermon. Rabbi Silver looked like God and talked like Him.
Rabbi Silver: Live at the Jazz Temple. Interesting.
John Coltrane: Live at The Temple. Another possibility.
A love supreme . . .
A love supreme . . .
In the arts, if you’re precious, you’re bad. Precious is the worst thing. Precious means you’re dainty and overly refined.
A friend (a former music critic) called all college a cappella music precious.
Harvey Pekar called Willio and Phillio — the Cleveland music-comedy duo — precious. (Willio and Phillio was around in the 1980s.) Willio and Phillio was precious — their stage name for sure. Willio (Will Ryan) went out to Los Angeles to work for Disney, and Phillio (Phil Baron) became a cantor in L.A. They were good, and probably still are.
Yiddishe Cup is precious occasionally. The musicians say “oy vey” too much on stage. I’ve tried to get my guys to stop. I can’t.
Peter Laughner, a Cleveland rocker, died from drug abuse and alcoholism at 24. He killed himself, basically. (This was in 1977.) He was not precious. He was dead — and funny — about art. He was in the Pere Ubu underground before Pere Ubu was famous.
Suicide doesn’t appeal to me for two reasons: 1) My wife would kill me if I tried it. 2) I want to attend my kids’ weddings and eventually meet my grandkids-to-be.
“Precious” is OK for grandkids. (“Grandkids” is precious.)
New construction — Side C — for Michiganders. . .
I drove to Rochester, Michigan, which is not as cool as Rochester, New York, but it does have a small-town charm.
I’ve seen Father Coughlin’s former church in Royal Oak, Michigan.
I’ve been to Detroit many times.
My wife, Alice, said, “Detroit has very long roads.”
She probably meant Woodward, Gratiot and Telegraph.
Detroit also has the Lodge. Elmore Leonard mentions the Lodge in his books, like, “The gambling casino, Mutt, you can’t fucking miss it, over by the Lodge freeway.”
A couple Cleveland freeways and bridges have names, like the Bob Hope Memorial Bridge, but nobody ever uses the names.
I stayed at a hotel near the Silverdome, which looked like a big pillow. (The stadium did.) A Detroiter told me the Silverdome sold for about $200,000. A stadium for the price of a California carport.
Who was John C. Lodge? Probably a labor leader. [No, the mayor of Detroit in the 1920s.]
Detroit is like Cleveland. Detroit has the Eastern Market; Cleveland has the West Side Market. Detroit has downtown casinos. Now Cleveland has a downtown casino.
Metro Detroit has a few more Jews than Cleveland. And probably more Arabs, Poles and Ukrainians. And more blacks.
People who wear Tiger caps are cool, as are Indians cap wearers.
What about Berkley, Michigan? Is that worth a visit?
Elmore Leonard eats at the Beverly Hills Café. I wonder if that’s part of the Beverly Hills Café chain, or an independent restaurant in Beverly Hills, Michigan.
I wonder if Elmore Leonard spends his winters in Detroit. I bet he doesn’t. He writes a lot about Florida.
I have some Elmore Leonard junk mail.
City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit. That’s worth reading.
Maple means 15 Mile. Big Beaver is 16 Mile.
What about Oakland University? Does the university have Bobby Seale barbecue sauce in the cafeteria?
I live only three and a half hours from Berkley, Beverly Hills and Oakland.
Yiddishe Cup pulls into Motown Sunday. See us at Cong. Beth Shalom, Oak Park, Mich.,
2 p.m., Sept. 9. Open to the public. Concert info here.
September 5, 2012 7 Comments
Harold Ticktin, 85, writes a weekly column for the Cleveland Jewish News on Yiddish. For instance, he writes about what balabuste means, or balegole. (Female boss and wagon-driver.)
Also, Harold occasionally reflects on early-20th century leftist politics for magazines such as Jewish Currents.
I asked Harold for a couple Yiddish translations. I was in his backyard in Shaker Heights. I wanted to know Yiddish permutations on “How’s it going in?” — everything from “How are you?” to “What’s happnin’, man?” Ticktin gave me some options, none perfect, and concluded, “Translation is treason.”
He continued, “Listen, there was this pharmacist who did a big business in trusses – you know what a truss is?”
“The pharmacist’s slogan was Ayer kile iz undzer gedile — your hernia is our pleasure. I told the pharmacist that was a horrible translation. He told me to come up with a better one. I said, ‘Your rupture is our rapture.’ Wouldn’t that make a great bumper sticker for an abdominal surgeon?”
“Did you make that up — your rupture is our rapture?” I said.
“That’s a true story. It’s an absolutely true story.”
Ticktin is a retired workers’ comp lawyer. He can speak decent Italian, French and Spanish, as well as Yiddish. One of his favorites translations is All Screwed Up, he said, for the Lina Wertmuller film Tutto a posto e niente in ordine, which literally means “everything ready, nothing works.” “You don’t translate, you render,” Ticktin said.
Ticktin continued, “James Thurber ran into a woman in Germany who said, ‘I love your work in German.’ Thurber said, ‘Yes, it’s true, my work loses something in the original.’”
Ticktin lives three miles from his old stomping grounds — the Kinsman neighborhood. Harold grew up on E. 154th Street, Cleveland, hard by the Shaker Heights-Cleveland line. He said Shaker had been “hakodesh hakadashim [the Holy of Holies] — the other.” Shaker had been nearly unapproachable, like the inner sanctum at the Temple in Jerusalem. “I didn’t know anybody in Shaker. Maybe one person.”
Kinsman Road was Ticktin’s main artery. He said, “I walked [down Kinsman] from 154th to E. 140th to observe the class struggle. My father was a Yankee. He came over here when he was two. He liked baseball. What did he know about politics? He knew this: Roosevelt was great and Hitler was bad.”
At E. 146 Street, Harold met Peter “The Brain” Ostrovsky. “I was converted to communism by Ostrovsky on the train to the Philly Navy Yard in 1946. I was converted just west of Pittsburgh.”
The upshot: “I saw the God who was to fail, though I still have a warm spot for Marx, for his Lincoln correspondence,” Harold said. “I’m a member of the extreme center now.”
I wanted Ticktin to give me a tour of Kinsman — the proste, working-class Kinsman of his youth. “How about it?” I said. “Now?” Ticktin agreed. We got in my Lolly the Trolley — my Mercury Sable.
Stop 1. Woodhill Park at E.116th. Ticktin: “I remember when I was 10 years old  at Woodhill. It was a tremendous swimming pool. Everybody got out of the water. Why? Because Frieda Katz, a geferlikher (dyed-in-the-wool) communist took a swim with a black kid. The place cleared out. This was Frieda Katz from Katz’s Deli at E. 147th and Kinsman.”
2. Seiger’s deli at 118th. “I knew Hymie Seiger best. He went off to yeshiva in junior high. He just left. I didn’t even know what a yeshiva was.”
3. E. 121. “This was where I attended my one Seder as a child. On that street. Very important.” Ticktin eventually became president of his shul.
4. 13512 Kinsman, the Council Education Alliance. “The apex and GHQ [general headquarters] of my youth. The Communist Club met there.” It was a settlement house.
“In the 1936 election, the Communist Club painted ‘Vote Communist’ in blue on the library at E. 140th. The library had been a bank before. Some members of the club got mad because the graffiti was blue. They said, ‘We need to paint it red.’ Ostrovsky went back to re-paint it and got caught. He was defended by Yetta Land, who handled all the communists. I don’t think Ostrovsky was punished too severely; he was a juvenile.”
5. E 142 and Kinsman. “We called this place Spumoni’s. The real name was Giaimo’s — an ice cream place. The communists met across the street above the Woolworth’s, which is long gone.
“On Saturday nights all the single Jewish guys would hang out here at Spumoni’s and greet each other Marty-style, like, ‘Whadaya want to do, Marty?’ This went on up through the 1940s and 1950s.”
“Like Marty, the movie with Ernest Borgnine. You don’t remember it?”
“Single Jews guys — and married Italians — hung out, to go out on the town. I always envisioned a cowering Italian wife in the kitchen back home saying, ‘Tony, when you gonna be home?’”
6. E. 154th / the Shaker Heights line. “Hakodesh — the other,” Ticktin said. “I was in New York once and stopped in at YIVO [Jewish Research Institute] for a list of places European Jews had vacationed before the war. I needed this for a speech in Yiddish. They asked me, ‘You mean intellectuals? Peasants? We’ll get back to you.’ They didn’t get back to me. A couple weeks later, I’m at a gathering of Jews and Poles in Cleveland, an American Jewish Committee meeting, and I meet the speaker, a prominent Polish Jew, Lucjan Dobroszycki, the editor of the Chronicle of the Lodz Ghetto. I ask him about vacation spots before the war. He looks at me and says, ‘This is the second time in two weeks somebody has asked me this question.’ End of the line, Lucjan Dobroszycki — don’t ask me how to spell that.”
7. I drive Harold Ticktin into Shaker Heights. Another end of the line.
The photos, above, are from 2012, except the former Seiger’s deli pic, which is from 2010. Seiger’s — later New World Restaurant — is now boarded up.
Yiddishe Cup plays a concert in Metro Detroit.
2 p.m. Sun. SEPT 9
Congregation Beth Shalom
Oak Park, Michigan
August 29, 2012 7 Comments