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The Chef

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by Doris Wallace

Marty and I met on Henry Street in New York City’s Chinatown. We taught in the local junior high school along with Jim Lee, the ceramics teacher. Jim had written one of the first Chinese cookbooks in America. All of his colleagues bought a copy and stored it away on a bookshelf. Except Marty who, one day, decided to try his hand.

First, armed with Jim’s cookbook, we went to Mott Street to buy all of his supplies – a cast iron wok, a wok cover, a wok ring, wok chon and hok, a boning knife and a cleaver. He bought a sharpening stone. He needed ’S’ hooks so he could make roast pork. The basic equipment purchased, Marty stocked his ingredients. He needed soy and oyster sauce, peanut oil, cornstarch and the herbs and spices. He bought rice and black beans.

The next step was for me to explain the recipes and measurements – capital T for tablespoon, C for cup, small t for teaspoon. Marty had never read a recipe before.

He chose his menu and saw disaster immediately; the wok was turning black! So Marty called another amateur cook who told him that it was normal when you broke in a new wok and secondly, to pour himself a tall glass of Scotch for such emergencies. Martin sliced and chopped. He hung the pork from the S hooks. He stir-fried. He sipped Scotch. My job was to wash the rice and measure the water so that it was just above my flat fingers. I boiled the rice and set the table with chop sticks and rice bowls for four. After all, Marty had invited two guests for his debut. Chi sin (crazy)! Joyce and Pete were in for a treat!

What was the first meal? Spareribs and black bean sauce, beef in oyster sauce and roast pork fried rice. The kitchen and the apartment smelled divine. But the fried rice looked like soup. Who knew you were supposed to use cold previously cooked rice? Jim hadn’t mentioned that in his recipe. We laughed and scarfed up the delicious meal.

Dinner was a success, followed by decades of many others. The aromas from our kitchen were mind-blowing. The cookbooks multiplied. Marty’s expertise grew to include sea bass, soft shell crabs, hot-and-sour soup, and yung sing chow mein. His Szechuan/Hunan repertory led to eye burning, coughing delights. The floor would be coated with oil, the fire alarm might blast, but it was worth it. I became the sous chef, or dop mah, and chief dishwasher for these banquets. An electric rice cooker took over that job.  

When Marty’s Parkinson’s became worse, I graduated to the stove. Marty would sit in his chair and run the show. Today, as I look around the apartment, I see all the things I couldn’t part with. I have the makings of a gourmet Chinese kitchen – three woks (one electric), two rice cookers. an assortment of knives, countless chopsticks and Chinese spoons. Indeed, it took until last year, ten years after Marty’s death, that I went through his Chinese cupboard and gathered his spices and condiments to throw out. I‘ve kept his cookbooks and the Scotch. We had some wonderful times. Were that I could bring them and him back.

Doris has been a member of IRP/LP2 since 2004.  She credits David Grogan’s Guided Autobiography study group for inspiring this writing.

The Talker

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by Doris Wallace

My husband loved to say that I stop and talk to everyone, whether the bagel man, the hardware store clerk, the workers at Costco. I have my own fish man and butcher at Stew Leonard’s and even got invited to a Stew Leonard’s wedding when we became friends. (The marriage didn’t last.)

And indeed, I speak to strangers all the time. There’s often something to learn. Among the joys of travel is meeting new people, strangers at first, who have much to teach and guide me. Aren’t we more open when we travel? Invariably, when I sit next to someone on a plane I will know their life story way before the flight has landed. I must give off a certain vibe that says “Talk to me. I’ll hear you. I really listen.”

“You should have been a therapist,” my friends tell me. I really enjoy talking with people. I am replete with answers to common questions. I have learned not to always offer my solutions; they are often not wanted. Often I walk with a slight smile on my face; today masks are hiding this interaction.

I’ve probably initiated a conversation with you.

Only one time can I remember that was a downer. An old woman was sitting on the steps of my apartment building. She seemed confused so I stopped to help. It was winter and I brought her into the lobby. When I got to my apartment I noticed my wallet was missing. I rushed downstairs to retrace my steps. I had been pickpocketed. She was gone.  

Doris has been a member of IRP/LP2 since 2004.  She credits David Grogan’s Guided Autobiography study group for inspiring this writing.

 

Happy Birthday

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by Charles Troob

On my twenty-third birthday, with a great deal of trepidation, I attended a meeting advertised on a Yale bulletin board as a “Homosexuality Discussion Group.”

I had been slowly cracking open the closet door. I was now “out” to my housemates and to one friend in New York. This would be another baby step.

I walked in and looked around. Everyone there looked pretty much like me—nerdy grad student—but I had no feeling of fellowship or relief. These men, I supposed, had accepted their assignment to the category “gay”—but I hadn’t. Though haunted by my attraction to the male body, I wasn’t prepared to exile myself from the world I’d grown up in. I still hoped that I was really a latent heterosexual: I wanted a future with a wife and family, my gay urges either suppressed or somehow dealt with on the side.

Why then was I here? To get over the secrecy that was poisoning my life. I was terrified to be known publicly as gay—or gay-ish: to have the world see me as I really was.

I’d been with a dozen men, but those sexual encounters had taken place in a shadow world, as though a second person inhabiting my body was indulging in them—think Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I wasn’t mentally disordered: I knew that the carnally curious Mr. Hyde was the real me. If anything, he felt more authentic than the pleasant bland young man I presented to family, friends, and fellow students. To move ahead in life I would have to end this strange double identity—but that required me to find the courage to reveal to others the truth about myself.

So it was a milestone to say my full name loudly and clearly to this group. I then sat silently, my head swimming, barely hearing the discussion. Though grateful for the presence of these men, I told them little and gave them nothing. Just to be here was effort enough.

The habit of hiding in fear and shame would prove to be hard to break. It took many years and birthdays before I was as comfortable in my skin as I am today.

It has been challenging and valuable to write about myself in study groups at IRP/LP2—and to hear the stories of others as well.

Thursday Nights at the Gardens

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by Lorne Taichman

Thursday night was wrestling night at Maple Leaf Gardens. The Gardens, a sad, shabby, featureless building located at 60 Carlton Street in downtown Toronto, was the home of the Toronto Maple Leaf hockey team. The “Leafs” won eleven Stanley Cup trophies playing at the Gardens. For hockey, the main floor of the arena was flooded and cooled to form a clear sheet of ice.  For wrestling however, a four-corner boxing ring was set up in the center with an elevated ramp leading from the ring to an exit on the side. This raised ramp allowed wrestlers to enter and exit without having to come in direct contact with angry, boisterous fans. The fans were there to see good versus evil, and those colossal forces, embodied in the wrestlers themselves, were clearly on display at the fights. The good guys fought clean, obeyed the rules; the bad guys fought dirty and never abided by the rules. 

Occasionally, on Thursday nights, my father took me to see the fights. I had no special interest in wrestling, but I was delighted to accompany him to one of his favorite haunts. My father loved wrestling. What is surprising is that this mild mannered, basically shy man would climb into the ring with the wresters and slug it out. I don’t mean that literally; he didn’t really enter the ring but if you saw him watching a match you would see why I say he was there alongside these gladiators. He followed each punch and every head lock with contortions of his own body. He would grimace and twist, kick out a leg, clench his fists as the fighters slugged each other. His gaze was riveted on the action. He was transfixed. There was no other display or activity that held him so entranced. He didn’t need to know the names or backgrounds of the antagonists. The mere sight of a match on the TV would stop him in his tracks and within a moment his jaw would be clenched, his body tense and his focus there in the pit. At the time I didn’t think it odd that this soft spoken, gentle man would so enjoy seeing two grown men pummel each other. I wonder what my mother thought of his going to watch fights and what she thought of his taking his son along. I cannot recall any resistance on her part.

The attendees at the fights were mostly men, working class Joe’s, dressed in the heavy clothes, grey windbreakers, featureless pants and unadorned caps. There was the occasional woman, but it was unusual. My father would often meet friends there. It didn’t seem pre-arranged. They just met by chance, fellow travelers on that strange violent road.

The best seats in the house were located on the ground floor. Occasionally we got to sit in that section, and when we did, I too would wait alongside that entrance ramp to get a close look at the wrestlers. I recall fans throwing peanuts at a bad-guy wrestler, Fred Atkins, I believe it was, as he made his entrance. I can still see the peanuts ricocheting off his darkly tanned, muscular chest as he snarled at the screaming fans. It was a good show. Usually we sat in the bleachers. 

The names of the wrestlers were quite creative. Whipper Billy Watson, a good guy, a Canadian, rather chunky in his build, famous for his sleeper hold and twice world champion. Bruno Sammartino, an enormous, muscular, clean fighter whose obituary recently appeared in the NY Times.  There was Yukon Eric, Killer Kowalski, Bobo Brazil, Bulldog Brower, The Masked Marvel, women wrestlers, midget wrestlers, even midget women wrestlers. There was an Israeli wrestler. I don’t recall his name and could not locate it on the internet. He was a clean fighter and when he entered the ring he would neatly drape a small white towel embossed with a blue Star of David over the top rope. Of course, we rooted for him. 

Unlikely as it may seem, there was a brief moment on those Thursday nights that was somewhat magical. After the announcer had introduced the wrestlers to the cheers and jeers of the expectant crowd, the referee would motion the combatants to the center, examine their hands and nails, give them brief instructions, and send them back to their respective corners. At that moment the lights in the arena were turned down and the overhead lights turned up full to light up the stage. All attention was directed at the ring and, I swear, there was a momentary glow that seemed to emanate from the pale white tarmac, an iridescent shimmer to the air above it. For that and only during that moment, the crowd hushed. The two combatants then slowly approached and at the right moment lunged at each other, usually grabbing the back of the opponent’s neck and attempting to go for a side head lock, a full nelson or a hammerlock, anything to immobilize the other and gain an advantage. 

Wrestlers were not allowed to strike with a closed fist. They could use a forearm or an elbow but not a fist. You could not choke or pull hair. If a part of a wrestler’s body was outside the ropes, the referee patted the wrestler on the shoulder, and he was supposed release his hold and move backward. Of course, bad guys never followed those rules. They struck with closed fists, often choked, pulled hair and never broke cleanly at the ropes. No matter how egregious the bad guy’s actions were, the referee would never disqualify the offending player. It was a fine show – good versus evil and evil often won. A fight between two good guys was boring. I don’t recall ever seeing a fight between two bad guys. It was widely held that the fights were fixed. It didn’t matter. We were not there for truth. We were there for victory over evil. 

In thinking back to those Thursday nights at the Gardens, I am struck by how strange it was that my father took me, his pre-teen son, to those events. I cannot imagine taking my children or grandchildren to such a spectacle. My father came from a different time. He lived through two world wars, a Holocaust, a time of overt antisemitism, poverty and a fiercely competitive marketplace to make his living. Perhaps the fights were a way for him to deal directly with some of the tensions and stresses he lived through. Perhaps the fights were the way he saw the world. He did live through times when evil was present and danger did lurk about. There were many corners of his life with which he struggled. Only now, many years after he is gone, do I appreciate them. The other day as I was surfing through TV channels I flashed through a wrestling match. Too bad he was not here to enjoy it. Had he been, I would have stopped the surfing and joined him in watching a good match. 

 

Lorne Taichman was a physician-scientist at Stony Brook University for over three decades. This essay was written in early 2019 for a class in Advanced Autobiography coordinated by David Grogan. Lorne has been a member of IRP/LP2 for about eight years. 

 

The Stranger

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by Ron Russo

Mimi and I were having dinner at a restaurant called Luigino’s. The place came highly recommended by a number of friends. Twice before we’d made a date to eat here, and twice we had to cancel our plans. We were two years out of college and going out to a nice dinner was still a treat.

The waiter took our drink order – Scotch and water for each – and we scanned the menu. I looked up to see a man, laden with shopping bags, being ushered to a table. We made quick eye contact, then I turned my attention back to the menu. Mimi asked what I was going to order, and I suggested that we split an antipasto then each order a main course. My choice was veal scallopini; for Mimi, the grilled veal chop.

The man who’d just entered the restaurant was fussing with his shopping bags, trying to get them in place; they kept falling off the chair. The noise attracted me and once more I looked in his direction. We made eye contact once again and he nodded at me. I nodded back. “Who are you nodding to?” Mimi asked.

“Just some guy who looks like he bought out an entire store. He must have money; the shopping bags are from Alley’s.” Alley’s was an expensive clothing store in Bensonhurst which catered to – – how shall I say this – – a clientele that favored shiny suits in flashy colors. Brooks Brothers it was not.

“Well don’t stare at him,” Mimi said.

We ordered our dinner and a bottle of wine. I couldn’t help sneaking an occasional peek at this bundle-of-energy man. He was in constant motion, fussing the shopping bags, fixing his tie, checking his cuff links, moving his chair farther in or farther out. On one of my peeks we made contact yet again, and he nodded and said “hello.” I returned his greeting then turned my attention back to Mimi. “I knew you’d say hello to this guy. You always attract the crazies.”

The stranger stared at the platter of antipasto as it passed him, on its way to our table: a bounty of cheeses, cured meats and stuffed mushrooms. As I put a forkful into my mouth I once again noticed the man staring. This time he said, “Excuse me, can I axe you a question?” Mimi sighed quietly. “Sure,” I replied.

“Have you kids been here before?”

“No, first time.”

“Cauz if you wuz here before you woulda ordered the clams casino.  They’re the best.”

“Next time I will, thank you” I said. Mimi and I continued to eat and chat.  A few minutes later the waiter was heading to our table with a large platter.  He was bringing the main course before we’ had even finished with the appetizer. “Poor service”, I thought; but it turned out to be a dozen clams casino. 

“Compliments of the gentleman at that table,” the waiter said, pointing.

I raised my glass in a salute and said “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. I hope you and your pretty friend like clams.” This, of course, got Mimi’s attention. She turned, raised her glass and thanked him also. “Salud,” he said.

“That was nice of him,” Mimi said. “I wonder why he’s eating alone?”

The clams casino were indeed delicious, and unusual in that they had slivers of prosciutto mixed into the breading. “Should we send over a drink, Mimi?”

“No, that’ll encourage him even more.”

We turned our attention to the main courses that were arriving and got lost in conversation. As we were finishing our meals, I sneaked another glance at the stranger. His table was filled with plates, which seemed largely untouched. He said, “Look at all this leftover food. It’s a sin. That’s why I hate to eat alone. It’s better when you share a meal.”

I couldn’t help myself.  “Would you like to join us?” I asked.

“I don’t wanna break in on your date,” he said.

 “No, really, it’s not a date, we’re friends. Join us.”

He summoned the waiter who pulled a table up to ours and started transferring the many dishes. “What’s your name? I’m Frankie Gagliardi,” the stranger said and I introduced myself and Mimi. Frankie was probably in his early fifties, thinning hair slicked back, well-fitted shiny suit. “Ya know, the name I go by is Frankie ol’ Pal. That’s because they say I’m everybody’s pal. Too friendly.”

Frankie ol’ Pal? Sounded like a gang nickname. But he was right about being friendly. For the next two hours he talked about himself, politics, family, food – but he also asked about us. By this point he’d ordered, and we’d finished, another bottle of wine. When we told him we lived in Bensonhurst, he was surprised. “Youz ain’t Italian, are you?”

 “Sure are. Mimi was born in Sicily, even.” Now he took Mimi’s hand and kissed it. “I swear, I thought you kids were real Americans, you know how they say, WASPs. I bet you went to college you’re smart, and speak so good. Let’s have a toast. You ever have Grand Marnier?” he asked, pronouncing it “Grand Man-yay”. We hadn’t. Once again the waiter was summoned and Frankie said, “Bring these kids some Grand Man-yay.  Bring the bottle.”

We drank a few rounds then suddenly Frankie looked at his watch and said “I gotta go, I still got some business tonight. My work never ends. But listen:  every Fourth of July I throw a block party on President Street. We have fireworks better than Macy’s. You kids come this year, promise?” Then he put his hand in his pocket, withdrew a business card and handed it to me. “If you ever need work, I could always use a smart young guy like you. I won’t forget.” In a flash, he and his shopping bags were out the door.

Mimi was quite drunk, and I was feeling no pain either. We called for the check and the waiter said, “Already taken care of.” We were delighted, though not surprised.

Next day Mimi was so hungover she took a sick day. I felt fairly wretched myself but made it through the workday. That night I called Mimi.  “Quite an evening we had. I think I got recruited for the Mafia. And I think it’s a better deal than working for the phone company. I’m gonna call him”, I said, only half-joking.

“Don’t be an idiot, Ronnie, you don’t fool around with stuff like this.” Of course, she was right.

Twenty odd years later, one June, I was in downtown Brooklyn and found myself walking along President Street. I saw a group of teenagers hanging out and I asked, “Do they still have the Fourth of July block party?  With fireworks?” They nodded yes. “And does Frankie Gagliardi still live here?” Now they stared at me with interest.

“You mean Frankie ol’ Pal? No, he died a few years ago. Who wants to know?”

“Just an old friend,” I replied, and began walking to the subway, thinking ….

Ron Russo has been taking writing study groups at LP2 for many years. They provide the inspiration for him to put fingers to keyboard.

Rice Balls

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by Ron Russo

It’s New Year’s Eve, early in the morning, and my father is already up, showered and dressed. He’s surveying the kitchen like a general, getting supplies out of the refrigerator and pantry, neatly arranging them. Today is one of many in which my father excels in the kitchen. But perhaps today is the greatest of them all. Today Charlie Russo is making rice balls.

Rice balls are known as “arancini” to Italians, meaning “little oranges.”  That’s how they’re shaped, and thus they were named. People in Dad’s neighborhood eagerly await this day, for tonight there’ll be a party at one of their homes and my father will attend, bearing a huge tray of these scrumptious treats.

My mother awakens soon, grabs a cup of coffee and does her own surveying. “Try not to use every god-damned pot and pan,” she warns. My father takes no heed; he hears this every year, nods his head, then moves forward using every pot and pan imaginable.

Making rice balls is an all-day process. “It takes as much work to make ten as it does to make sixty,” Dad’s often said. Sixty is the approximate goal every year. He starts by boiling the rice – three pounds of it – then draining it, slightly-undercooked. Quickly he adds a huge amount of butter and a very generous mountain of grated Parmigiano cheese. He mixes it all vigorously then starts preparing the filling, which is a simple ragu – – a meaty sauce which contains onion, garlic, ground beef and a hint of tomato sauce that is simmered till it’s thick and fragrant. While the ragu is cooking, dad occasionally stirs the rice so that it doesn’t stick. When it’s lukewarm, he adds about a dozen egg yolks. Once the ragu is ready, he pulls out the ice-cream scoop, digs it into the rice, and makes a half-ball. With a small teaspoon he forms a well in the center and fills it with ragu. Then, with his hands he molds a top half, and the first rice ball is ready for frying. This is done in olive oil. First it’s rolled into the saved egg whites, then breaded; finally getting lowered into the sizzling oil and fried till the coating is crisp.  One down, fifty-nine more to fry.

When in my forties I decided to make a batch of rice balls. I enjoyed cooking, and figured I’d invite some friends over to eat them. I tried to get the recipe from my father but it was painful for him to try and note measurements. “Use only imported Parmigiano,” he warned, but when I asked “How much?” I got “You know. Taste along the way, stop when it tastes right.” I used instinct and would have done fine if I’d remembered the eggs. Without them, the rice balls fell apart when I tried to fry them. So I got a tasty mountain of savory fried rice. It wasn’t bad, but still . . . . 

A few years later my father died, and about a month after his funeral I got an irrepressible yen for Dad’s rice balls. It was Christmas season, just the right time of year. I had finally wangled a recipe, with measurements, from Dad after my first failure. I was ready to go.

I set up the necessary pots, pans and bowls. I made sure that I had the eggs separated and ready; I’d lined up the ingredients for the ragu; I took the imported Parmigiano out of the fridge. I was going the full route: three pounds of rice to make approximately sixty arancini.

I worked very slowly and deliberately; I had no other plans for that day.  Shaping the balls was trickier than I’d figured, and I created a few unidentifiable geometric shapes before I got the hang of it. Needless to say my father was on my mind as I was working. I’m neither religious nor superstitious, but I found myself talking to him, in my head. “Let me get this right, Dad. Let these rice balls taste like yours.”

That night I had my brother to dinner. He was never a chatty sort, nor ebullient with praise, but he took his first bite of my rice ball and his eyes popped. “God, Ron. These taste just like Dad’s!” He couldn’t have said anything better. This coming New Year’s Eve I plan on making rice balls once again. In this time of social distancing, I don’t know with whom I’ll share them. But even if I just eat a few, and freeze the rest, it will be worth the effort. Because to hear my father’s voice once again, as I undoubtedly shall, will make it all worthwhile.

  

Ron Russo has been taking writing study groups at LP2 for many years. They provide the inspiration for him to put fingers to keyboard.

Betrayal

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by Ira Rubin

The hostess, nationally syndicated Hollywood reporter, Myra Klotchman, welcomed the audience to her weekly television show, “Do You Want To Hear A Secret?,” in which ordinary people reveal startling secrets about their lives in return for a weekday meal at a local Chinese take-out. The first guest was Amanda Lamar – not her true name – a 22-year-old woman studying to be a professional beauty consultant, vulgarly called a hairdresser, from Hackensack, New Jersey.

After exchanging small talk with Amanda, Myra cut to the chase.

Myra: Tell us, dear, what secret could a sweet young woman like you possibly have?

Amanda: Oh it’s horrible, Myra. I may never recover from the embarrassment.

Myra: About something you did?

Amanda: No, it was my fiancé, Jerome. How could he do this to me?

Myra: Oh my God; don’t tell us you found him with another woman?

Amanda: No, Myra, he didn’t cheat on me with a woman.

Myra: (gasping): You mean it was with a man?

Amanda: No he didn’t cheat on me with anyone. It would have been less humiliating if he had. I walked in unexpectedly on him last week and I couldn’t believe what I saw: he was admiring himself in the mirror dressed in my new wedding gown.

Myra: That bastard; how shocking that must have been for you.

Amanda:  Absolutely; I hadn’t even tried it on yet, and now I just can’t.

Myra: Because you’re too embarrassed?

Amanda: No, because it’s stretched out of shape. And that’s not the worst part.  I can live with his cross-dressing. What I can’t accept is he looked better in the gown than I did.

Myra:  Poor dear; that truly is a problem. How will you cope?

Amanda:  What choice do I have? It’s too late to find a new gown.  Tomorrow I’m going to shop for a tuxedo I can wear at the wedding.

Myra:  How inspiring! Audience, give this courageous woman a hand for facing up to and overcoming her potentially crushing secret. And now a word from our sponsor, Fantasy Vacations, the perfect place to design your ideal getaway or honeymoon. 

Ira Rubin has been a member of LP2 for the past four years during which he was a continuing participant in the writing class study group which provided valuable feedback on a draft of this piece.

 

 

The Book of Leonard

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by Ira Rubin

The other day I read with interest an article in the New York Times about a newly discovered biblical scroll, dubbed by scholars as the Book of Leonard.

The book tells of Leonard, a shepherd overwhelmed by misfortune: his camel was flatulent, his wife wanted to move to Babylon, and he was starting to lose his hair. In despair, he cried out to the Lord, “Most Holy, please come to my aid.” There was a thunderous crack, lightning flashed, and a cone of swirling winds appeared.

Hesitantly, Leonard began to speak, “Lord, the one true God, King of the Universe.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” interrupted a powerful voice from within the whirlwind. “What do you want?”

Leonard sobbed, “Lord, who hath all power, have pity on me.” He followed with his list of problems, adding for good measure his unhappiness about not being selected for the main role in the village’s annual Purim play, and begged the Lord for relief. 

The Lord answered, “What’s in it for me?”

Leonard responded by offering to sacrifice three sheep to the Lord on the following Sabbath. [According to the Times article, some scholars believe Leonard missed a critical opportunity here. In their view, the Lord was not asking for a sacrifice, but for a part in the Purim play. As proof, they note the Lord’s penchant for casting Himself in a starring role in most Biblical stories.]  

“Here’s the thing, Leo,” the Lord replied, “a lot of people have been sacrificing animals to me lately, and I’m starting to get a bit flabby. Instead of slaughtering the few healthy sheep you have left, I’d like you to do something else. All your people talk with a lisp. For example, the word is “has”, not “hath”. I’m embarrassed to tell you this, Len, but some of your neighbors are saying the lisp is a sign you’re the kind of men who like to have sex with other men. Personally, I couldn’t care less, but it makes it harder for Me to get converts, especially when you call yourselves My Chosen People.”

Leonard wasn’t sure how to respond. What’s a lisp, he thought, and why would men want to have sex with other men when there were plenty of sheep around?  Even so, he was desperate and agreed to the terms of the deal.

The same afternoon, Leonard gathered his family together to tell them his plan. He would wander the world in search of someone who knew what a lisp was and how to correct it. The family members listened calmly until told they would have to cancel their annual trip to the bazaar. At that point, they had a gerstenboomer (roughly translated as a hissy fit). His children refused to talk to him and his wife served him only yogurt at meals, which was not only monotonous, but gave him stomach cramps because he was lactose intolerant (or milkshugenah, as it was then called).

Leonard traveled far and wide before he came upon a people in the southern most part of the land whose speech included a sibilant ‘s’. At first, everyone scorned him for his lisp, but he kept up his pursuit until one woman agreed to teach him to speak as her people did in return for an expense-paid vacation at the Desert Sea Spa.

When his instruction was completed, Leonard returned home and called out once again to God in a strong Southern drawl. “Lawd, ah am back and speakin’ fine. Y’all c’mon down and listen to this good old boy’s sweet, sonorous, sibilant sounds.”

As before, thunder roared, lightning struck, and a whirlwind appeared. “Oh, it’s you, Leonard. What do you want?”

“I have fulfilled your request, Your Magnificence. Listen to my speech.  My lisp has disappeared, and I seek my promised reward.”

“I don’t remember, Leo.  Did we have an agreement?”

“Yes, Lord. You agreed to relieve me of some of my burdens if I corrected my lisp and taught my people to do the same.”

“Sorry, Len; I still don’t remember.  Look, I’m a little busy right now. The angels and I are debating the best way to stage the next extinction event.”

“What’s an extinction event, Lord?”

“It’s some type of disaster in which I wipe out most of the life on earth.”

“Why would you do that, Your Beneficence?”

“Same reason as always – boredom.”

“How will you extinguish us, Merciful One?”

“Good question, Lennie. We can’t decide between fire and flood. Any ideas?”

Seeing a chance to win the Lord’s favor, Leonard answered thoughtfully. “Well, fire would be quicker, but it’s harder to control and you still might need a flood to put it out. Worse, hot air rises. That may make heaven almost as hot as hell. All in all, I think a flood is the way to go.”

“Makes sense to me, Leon. Any thought about how to save some animals from drowning, so I don’t have to start all over?”

“Why not get someone to build a large boat to house a male and female of every species like you did with Noah; that worked out well, didn’t it?”

“I’m afraid the Holy Scriptures don’t tell the whole story, Len. I had to edit out some events to improve narrative flow. The carpenters picketed the building site because Noah wasn’t a dues-paying member of their guild, and the sanitary conditions aboard the ark were nauseating.”

Leonard was about to suggest that the next ark include a bunch of litter boxes in odd sizes, but the Lord spoke first. “Uh oh, time to go. I have a meeting with Papyrus Press. They want to publish a follow-up to the Bible in which I answer those people who question my actions. I’m going to call it, Because I Can.”

Leonard waited for the Lord to return, but He never did. Eventually, the forlorn shepherd gave up, went home and opened a shop selling umbrellas and rainwear.

The Times article states that scholars agree that the Book of Leonard is a parable, but are uncertain about its moral. Does the story caution about the ambiguity of God’s will, the foolishness of questioning your fate, or the harmful consequences of poor diction? Personally, I am most persuaded by Rabbi Mordechai Horowitz’s more pragmatic interpretation: “Never do work for someone else without a signed contract.”

Ira Rubin has been a member of LP2 for four years during which time he has greatly enjoyed and benefited from participating in an on-going writing study group.

 

 

JFK Comes Home to the Garment District

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by Sara Petitt

 The industry that I was part of for so many years has disappeared along with the wooly mammoth and the Tasmanian tiger. From the years after WW 2 until the 1990’s the garment district and textile manufacturers’ buildings lined the streets from 34th Street to 42nd Street on 7th Avenue.

During John Kennedy’s bid for the Presidency, he came to give a speech on a platform hastily built on 7th Avenue. It was October 27th, 1960 and the sun was shining when Kennedy mounted the platform. Workers from the nearby office buildings flooded the streets while hundreds looked down from open windows. I was packed in the crowd with other textile artists from my company. 

He started with an off the cuff joke given in his Boston accent, “I have returned to my people” which was followed by uproarious laughter from the crowd of mainly natives of Brooklyn and the Bronx. We all heartily cheered this handsome aristocratic looking man so alien to our neighborhood. 

When he finished his speech the cheering crowds threw swatches of fabric from the windows instead of the usual ticker tape. Then the frenzy really started. All eyes left Kennedy and flew upwards towards the cascading remnants of fabric. Voices around me shouted, “Look, look, Lowenstein is using Periwinkle Blue…do we have any in our line?” “Over there Cone Hall Marx is using olive green!!” Then the crowd dispersed and we all ran back to our offices not to discuss politics, but to repaint designs in the array of colors that floated from the sky that sunny day.

 

Although Sara Petitt taught design for 30 years at the college level, she always loved to write and often integrated writing into her artwork. 

 

Happy Writing?

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by Mary Padilla

Attaching an emotion to writing – specifying one in advance – seems unlikely to succeed. How could you know what will pop up when it’s all about spontaneity?  Each thing leads to the next; if it’s working, it’s unpredictable. If we could anticipate it, we wouldn’t need to do it – or want to. What makes it interesting is finding out where it wants to go on its own. Such things are not subject to free will. Perhaps nothing is, but surely not such things. Let the pencil go where it wants and follow where it leads. If we’re leading it, it’s lemmings for sure. How can we know what we think until we see what we write?  

Art that can be planned is not worth doing. We need it to surprise us, as it always will if it comes from what we don’t know that we know. That way we’ll never be bored, nor will the reader. To be happy is to be engaged, to be interested in what’s coming next, and to want to be around to find out. This is why we show up – because we want to. And wanting something is necessary but not sufficient for being happy. We need to care about something enough to want it. Whether we get it or not is much less important, neither necessary nor sufficient. 

Not trying allows it to happen of itself, if we’re not invested in making it materialize. It’s not some product we’re after, but the experience of having it pass through us freely and without interference, not needing or wanting for it to be examined or perfected. Being unexpected, it will be original – there is no other choice.

If we’re happy writing, then we’re not thinking about whether or not we’re happy.  If we’re wondering whether we’re happy, we probably aren’t. If we’re happy to be happy, that’s about all it takes. It doesn’t matter what it is we’re happy about. And if we’re not happy in this moment, that doesn’t mean that we won’t be in the next one.  It’s just not predictable. These things can come and go without our knowledge or consent, but they’re not entirely beyond reach. Just keep writing.  And then comes the most important part: knowing when to stop. When whatever we add makes it worse, it’s complete – before we start to over-think and over-write, just STOP.  

Since joining the LP2 several years ago, Mary has been trying new things, like essay writing.