Statue of Liberty

About the Painter:
Phyllis Johnson worked in the business office of a hospital in Westchester before retiring. She recently started painting, beading, tiling, and working with ceramics. She is active in Hebrew Home's Wellness Center.

My Son Scott

By Phyllis Johnson

I'll try to talk about my husband and our only son, the first born of our three children. We have not known his whereabouts for almost two years.

My husband passed away last year but up until that time, he was trying to trace him. Of course, I do not have the money to continue the search.

I must state that in 1978 when our son, Scott, was of age, my husband and I terminated our 24-year marriage, amicably, in divorce. Our son remained with me until he was 47 years old at which time I entered our Hebrew Home and his father had his third wife.

Scott knew at least six months in advance that I was to enter the home. During that time Iting occasionally asked him what he would do when my apartment was sold. He would always say, "I'll stay with a friend." Since this was all the information he wished to divulge, I questioned no further.

The night we parted was during the week of his 47th birthday. We kissed goodbye and expressed our love for one another and wished each other well. I gave him $200, which was all I could give him, to tide him over.

I have not seen nor heard from him since. But I have been told that since I have never received a police report, he is not in any trouble.

About the Author: Phyllis Johnson lives in Riverdale, New York. She painted this cat and the Statue of Liberty image published on this blog.

Breakfast

By Beatrice Brecher

My father deserted from the American peace-time Army in 1912. He had been badgered by my mother who wanted him to take care of her and the baby. They had been married secretly a few months before. She was one of thirteen children who had been warned by her mother not to return home because she had enough to take care of. My father, upon hearing the news of her pregnancy, was very upset. He arranged for her to be taken care of by a neighbor. She was to be given a clean room and bed. But my mother came to him in tears and told him that the apartment was filthy and the bed full of bed bugs.

My father deserted and tried to find a way to take care of us. They lived under an assumed name, changing apartments every two or three months. He was 19, she was 17. They lived this way for a couple of years. He had some savings and they lived on that. He picked up odd jobs whenever he could, until she came to him one day and said, "we have no money and no food. You have to get some. I don't care how you do it, just get some".

He put on his great coat and high laced shoes and went out into the snow looking for work. He went back to the factories where he had previously worked as a laborer but there was no work. So he started back home, remembering that he had seen boxes on wheels, in front of grocery stores, filled with milk, eggs, bread, and maybe butter. He was very scared but he reached into one of the boxes and took food to bring home.

That morning, in that dingy little apartment, seated next to the coal stove, my mother whipped up breakfast which we quietly shared.

About the Author: Beatrice Brecher, a New York City native, lived in Manhattan until she was nine and then her family moved to the Bronx. She and her husband settled in Riverdale, where she now lives. Her hobbies include music, reading, and writing. She has two daughters

My Wedding Day

By Beatrice Dratt

It was a difficult evening...My boyfriend had difficult news. He had received his notice from the army and he was to be drafted in a few months.

We had been together for four months and we were both sure that we were in love. We decided to invite his parents over to my mother's apartment to share our plans -- to get married as soon as possible.

My friend told our parents that we were in love and wanted to share our lives together. The parents were shocked, and words flowed like animals fighting. My parents looked at me like I was a child (19 years old). My friend and I said if they couldn't understand our feelings, we would run away and marry somewhere.

Finally, we were sent out of the room and called back after an hour. We were mystified at the result -- the wedding would take place in two months. All the nasty words faded.

Today, Thanksgiving Day, will be our 65th Wedding Anniversary and as my husband said, "We were right to win the fight."

About the Author: Beatrice Dratt has lived in Riverdale, N.Y. for 36 years. She worked as the administrative assistant to the vice president of nursing at Mt. Sinai Hospital. She has three children, three grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren.

Hello Mommy

By Phyllis Johnson

I remember coming home from El Camino Hospital in Los Altos, California at the age of 32. I was recovering from the first of 13 operations. As I was walking from the car with my husband through the outside door into our family room, he and our two older children, to the tune of Hello Dolly, sang Hello Mommy. Hello Mommy, it's so nice to have you home where you belong. I'll never forget the wonderful feeling I had, listening to those words. Of course I cried, but they were tears of joy.

I Was Six Years Old

By Beatrice Dratt

I stood in the corridor of PS 188 and we, my mother and I, walked through an old brown wooden door. My mother held my hand until we came to an old room. My mother took me to the second seat in the row.

My mother told me to sit down and I looked around the room. I noticed a girl of my years with long golden curls, a little nose, and more important, a beautiful dress, white and red material, and ruffles all over.

My mother left my side and I remembered feeling frightened instead of excited, as my mother had promised me. The teacher came in the room and I noticed her staring at the girl with golden curls.

I was so young, wearing an old brown dress, worn shoes, dark brown, thin hair.

I closed my eyes again and pictured my mother neatly but plainly dressed, glasses made a ridge in her nose and her hands were rough from washing clothes on a wash board. With my eyes still closed, I prayed that the day at PS 188 would end at that moment.

About the Author: Beatrice Dratt has lived in Riverdale, N.Y. for 36 years. She worked as the administrative assistant to the vice president of nursing at Mt. Sinai Hospital. She has three children, three grandchildren, and three great- grandchildren.

Found and Lost

By Jacob Wolf

When I was in high school, I decided I wanted to be an actor. I had been in several high school productions and I thought I was very good.

In Philadelphia, we had a paper called the Evening Bulletin. One day, while reading, I noticed on the first page of the second section, a large picture of a gentleman named Richard Hernden. He had been a prominent Broadway producer. The paper mentioned several prominent actors he had been associated with. Among them were Eva Le Gallinee and Norma Shearer. He was opening a dramatic school in Philadelphia. My mind flashed; this is the place to go.

I auditioned for Mr. Hernden, and I was accepted. The school produced several plays, and I usually had the lead, but I must admit, there was very little competition.

One day, while rehearsing, a gentleman came into the room and watched us perform. After he left, I asked Mr. Hernden who he was. Mr. Hernden told me he was William Liebling of the Liebling Wood theatrical agency, one of the most prominent agencies on Broadway. I later learned that Marlon Brando was under contract with them.

About a week later, Mr. Hernden asked me to sign a contract. The contract stated that Mr. Hernden was to receive 5% of my yearly earnings. I showed the contract to my father and he told me to ask Mr. Hernden to change the contract to read that he was to receive 5% of my yearly earnings over $100,000. I repeated what my father had said and Mr. Hernden replied, "That would be fine." He made the change and I signed the contract.

About a week later Mr. Hernden told me he had made an appointment for me with Mr. Liebling in his New York office. So, full of delight, on the appointed day, I boarded a train for New York. I took a cab to Mr. Liebling's office. Shortly after I arrived, I was ushered into his office. He was seated behind a large desk. I stood, facing him. His first words were, "What does your father do?"

I was startled. I wondered what he was talking about. I told him my father operated moving picture theaters. He said, "Well, why don't you go into that. That's show business."

I could not speak. I left his office, went into a nearby fire escape and cried.

About the Author: Jacob Wolf grew up in Philadelphia, Pa., and now lives in Riverdale, New York. He worked as an engineer and sales manager for Philco, and then went into business. He coached drama, and was guest actor at the Hedgerow Theater in Rose Valley, Pa.

Snow

A story by Beatrice Dratt

My name is Geraldine. I live in a large building with seven floors and lots of people living there and I am five years old and I love the cold weather.

One time, it was Chanukah and the sky was dark, blanketed by a large cloud. We had dinner as we did every night of Chanukah and as my Dad read the Chanukah story, the sky became darker. But as my Dad finished the story, the room became lighter and lighter, and flakes started to fall quickly. I remember how the plates shone and how all the dishes, the pretty multicolored dishes, lightened the table. Suddenly the room became alive. Everyone was singing and dancing. We were happy and we couldn't figure out why.

Now, at age 42, and having witnessed many Chanukahs, I know that the beauty and the brightness and sheer cleanliness of the snow flakes made the Chanukah a happy time to be alive and share. It was a wonderful time to enjoy, all together.

About the Author: Beatrice Dratt has lived in Riverdale, N.Y. for 36 years. She worked as the administrative assistant to the vice president of nursing at Mt. Sinai Hospital. She has three children, three grandchildren, and three great- grandchildren.

Memory of My Grandfather

By Beverly Williams

I have a memory of my grandfather and of listening to the radio in the evening after supper. We listened to the Lone Ranger, the Shadow, and mysteries. This particular evening was a mystery which was quite scary. When the program broke for commercials my grandfather went out to fix the furnace for the night. He turned out the light in the kitchen. We always had lights dimmed in the dining room. There were drapes on the door between the kitchen and dining room and when my grandfather came back he put his face between the drapes and made a laugh that frightened me so that I could not move or talk. My reaction frightened my grandfather and he never tried to frighten me again.

About the Author: Beverly Williams was born in New Haven, Conn., and now lives in Riverdale, NY. She worked as a licensed practical nurse for 33 years. Her hobbies are crocheting and reading. Her daughter lives nearby in the Bronx.