President Roosevelt is in a conference at the White House with British Prime Minister Winston Churchill when the phone rings.
"Excuse me, Winston...Oh, yes, Mr. Secretary. I understand. You received confirmation about this Karchevsky matter...Yes...You need to go to Mexico City right away and confront their Foreign Secretary. Lay our cards on the table and express how intolerable this is. It has to end immediately. Come to the White House as soon as you return. Have a safe trip."
After hanging up the phone he returns to Churchill.
"We received some intelligence that Mexico is plotting to join the Axis."
"I can't believe it. This is a diversion from our focus on Hitler. We can't afford to spend time looking for the boogie man under the bed when we have an actual full-blown monster running around Europe."
"I appreciate your point, but we need assurances that our southern border is not in jeopardy. I need to be convinced that nothing sinister is going on in Mexico. Now, where were we?"
Secretary of State Hull enters a conference room at the Mexican Foreign Ministry in Mexico City. His counterpart, Ezequiel Padilla Peneloza, is waiting for him.
"Welcome to Mexico City, Secretary Hull. Let me first express our deepest sympathy over the recent loss of life as a result of the Japanese attack at Hawaii. We wish your country well in your war efforts."
"Thank you, Secretary Peneloza. As a matter of fact, I am here regarding our war efforts."
"I don't understand. We are a neutral country."
"Then I need you to explain your government's connection to a Soviet emigre named Julius Karchevsky. We have reason to believe he's doing research in Mexico that may be harmful to the United States."
"I have never heard of this man. Furthermore, my government is not engaged in anything that would be harmful to your country."
"Perhaps you'd like to make further inquiries before making such a definitive statement."
"That is not necessary. I know what is and what is not going on in my country. An emigre with such a name would not be invisible to us. Do you have anything else to discuss?"
"No."
"Then our meeting is adjourned."
Ben and Rita sit on a sofa in their backyard on a gorgeous night. The stars and the moon are out and she rests her head on his shoulder.
"It's so beautiful tonight. I feel wonderful," she said.
"I wish it could stay like this."
"It's peaceful here. I know you're worried about your country, your family, your friends, but you're doing something to help at the American Embassy."
"Maybe I could do more."
"What's most important to me is that Mexico is not involved in the war. Maybe that's not fair, but I'm selfish. I want us to live our lives with love, not war."
Ben and Maria kiss softly.
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Sunday, October 22, 2017
Cats
It is not my intention for this post to be anti-dog. I know a wonderful dog: Fender, a Standard Poodle, who lives with our friends, Kevin and Connie, in Durham, NC.
On my sixteenth birthday in 1961, my brother Joel and sister-in-law Judy gave me a puppy for a present. She was a mix of beagle and fox terrier and I named her Trixie. She was a nice dog, obedient, but stupid. Or maybe I was just too stupid to train her well. Before her first birthday she gave birth to a litter of three puppies. Trixie had sex way before I did. When I went to Penn in 1963, I had to give her away as my mother refused to care for her in my absence.
In 1969, my ex-wife, Bonita, and I adopted a beagle whom we named Zootie. We kept her for ten years until she outgrew her welcome. Zootie had her good points, but she had plenty of bad ones. She growled at us when we disciplined her and she was obsessed with food, once nipping my daughter, Rachel, above her eye when she was nervously eyeballing a carrot being sliced nearby.
Some years after Zootie, my sister-in-law, Noreen, asked us to take care of her cat, Lucy, whom she had to give up because of a problem with her landlord in Washington, D.C. I was hesitant about bringing a cat into our house even though I had no experience with any. Why? Perhaps because of Walt Disney.
In the 1950s, my formative years, I saw three feature length Walt Disney produced cartoons which featured cats as negative characters. The first was Cinderella (1950), the story of an orphan girl named Cinderella who works as a servant in the house of her cruel step-mother, Lady Tremaine, whose cat, Lucifer, loves making Cinderella's life miserable.
Next was Alice in Wonderland (1951), the story of a girl named Alice who visits a strange land where she meets a variety of weird characters, including the Chesire Cat who displays the mischievous ability to appear and disappear at will. To Alice, the Chesire Cat is a very unreliable character.
Finally, there was The Lady and The Tramp (1955), a love story between a cocker spaniel named Lady and a mixed breed dog named Tramp. There are also two twin Siamese cats, Si and Am, who are very mean to Lady.
I believe I was influenced by this anti-cat prejudice. How many other Baby Boomers were affected as well? Many times, I have met people who, without any cat experience, will tell me they hate cats. It's irrational.
So, because of my desire to help out Noreen, I agreed to give Lucy a one month trial. She stayed with us for five years until her death. Of the three pets I had in my life, Lucy was clearly the best. She was the most intelligent, the friendliest, and the cleanest.
Lucy was so independent that we could leave her at home for a couple of days without any trouble whereas my dogs had to be boarded. We would leave a bowl of food which she would eat a little at a time. And then, so amazingly, she could jump from the kitchen floor to the counter top to drink water from the dripping faucet.
I remember Lucy's custom of sitting by the kitchen door waiting to either enter or leave the house. Unfortunately, one day she left and never returned. Our veterinarian had diagnosed Lucy with a cancerous growth on her throat. That last time, I believe, she was looking for a place to die. Lucy was unforgettable. Cats can be great.
On my sixteenth birthday in 1961, my brother Joel and sister-in-law Judy gave me a puppy for a present. She was a mix of beagle and fox terrier and I named her Trixie. She was a nice dog, obedient, but stupid. Or maybe I was just too stupid to train her well. Before her first birthday she gave birth to a litter of three puppies. Trixie had sex way before I did. When I went to Penn in 1963, I had to give her away as my mother refused to care for her in my absence.
In 1969, my ex-wife, Bonita, and I adopted a beagle whom we named Zootie. We kept her for ten years until she outgrew her welcome. Zootie had her good points, but she had plenty of bad ones. She growled at us when we disciplined her and she was obsessed with food, once nipping my daughter, Rachel, above her eye when she was nervously eyeballing a carrot being sliced nearby.
Some years after Zootie, my sister-in-law, Noreen, asked us to take care of her cat, Lucy, whom she had to give up because of a problem with her landlord in Washington, D.C. I was hesitant about bringing a cat into our house even though I had no experience with any. Why? Perhaps because of Walt Disney.
In the 1950s, my formative years, I saw three feature length Walt Disney produced cartoons which featured cats as negative characters. The first was Cinderella (1950), the story of an orphan girl named Cinderella who works as a servant in the house of her cruel step-mother, Lady Tremaine, whose cat, Lucifer, loves making Cinderella's life miserable.
Next was Alice in Wonderland (1951), the story of a girl named Alice who visits a strange land where she meets a variety of weird characters, including the Chesire Cat who displays the mischievous ability to appear and disappear at will. To Alice, the Chesire Cat is a very unreliable character.
Finally, there was The Lady and The Tramp (1955), a love story between a cocker spaniel named Lady and a mixed breed dog named Tramp. There are also two twin Siamese cats, Si and Am, who are very mean to Lady.
I believe I was influenced by this anti-cat prejudice. How many other Baby Boomers were affected as well? Many times, I have met people who, without any cat experience, will tell me they hate cats. It's irrational.
So, because of my desire to help out Noreen, I agreed to give Lucy a one month trial. She stayed with us for five years until her death. Of the three pets I had in my life, Lucy was clearly the best. She was the most intelligent, the friendliest, and the cleanest.
Lucy was so independent that we could leave her at home for a couple of days without any trouble whereas my dogs had to be boarded. We would leave a bowl of food which she would eat a little at a time. And then, so amazingly, she could jump from the kitchen floor to the counter top to drink water from the dripping faucet.
I remember Lucy's custom of sitting by the kitchen door waiting to either enter or leave the house. Unfortunately, one day she left and never returned. Our veterinarian had diagnosed Lucy with a cancerous growth on her throat. That last time, I believe, she was looking for a place to die. Lucy was unforgettable. Cats can be great.
Sunday, October 15, 2017
World Series
In October of 1968, the American League champions, the Detroit Tigers, were the home team for games 3, 4 and 5 of the World Series against the National League champions, the St. Louis Cardinals. My brother Ted, who worked for a Detroit radio station at the time, acted as host for the station's clients at their seats in Tiger Stadium during the above games. Thus, Ted, who was not a baseball fan, got to see three World Series games before I saw any. His main memory was that Vice President Hubert Humphrey, the Democratic Candidate for President, was at one of the games.
On Tuesday, October 14, 1969, forty-eight years ago yesterday, I was at my desk in the Tax Department of Joseph E. Seagram & Sons, Inc. at 375 Park Avenue in Manhattan. Besides my work, I was thinking about that afternoon's third game of the World Series featuring the National League champions, the New York Mets, who would be hosting the American League champions, the Baltimore Orioles, at Shea Stadium in Queens (the first ever World Series game played there). The two teams split the first two games of the 1969 World Series in Baltimore the previous weekend.
Late in the morning, our Tax Director, Chris Bakos, leisurely walked into the Tax Department office holding two tickets to that afternoon's World Series game. He asked who among the ten of us wanted to go. What a treat! To go to a World Series game for free instead of working. I assumed everybody would want to go. I was shocked when only three of us did. But, there were only two tickets. We drew straws and I was one of the lucky two.
The other winner, a man named Roy, offered to drive me to the game in his car. However, I thought traffic would be horrible so I opted for the subway. I was right. I got to my seat in the upper deck along the right field line well before the game started. Roy arrived by the third inning.
The Mets starting pitcher Gary Gentry shut out the Orioles until he was relieved in the seventh inning by future Hall of Famer, Nolan Ryan, who was making his only World Series appearance in a 27-year career. Baltimore started another future Hall of Fame pitcher, Jim Palmer.
Without a doubt, the hero of the day was Mets center fielder, Tommie Agee. The first batter up for the Mets in the bottom of the first inning, he hit a home run off Palmer for the only run the Mets would need.
In the top of the fourth inning, with runners at first and third base and two outs, Agee went into left center field to make a backhanded grab of a line drive off the bat of Elrod Hendricks to end the inning.
When Gentry loaded the bases with one out in the seventh inning, Met Manager Gil Hodges brought in Ryan. One out later, Paul Blair hit a fly ball to right center field that Agee made a diving catch of to end the threat. Ryan pitched the final two innings to preserve a 5-0 Met victory.
Two days later, the Mets won game 5 and the 1969 World Series. That day the ten of us were listening to the game on a radio in the Tax Department office (along with visitors from the IRS). Those were the days of the Miracle Mets (and when World Series games were played in the afternoon). A mere 7 years earlier, the Mets, an expansion team, lost 120 games, the most since 1899 and not duplicated to this day.
On Tuesday, October 14, 1969, forty-eight years ago yesterday, I was at my desk in the Tax Department of Joseph E. Seagram & Sons, Inc. at 375 Park Avenue in Manhattan. Besides my work, I was thinking about that afternoon's third game of the World Series featuring the National League champions, the New York Mets, who would be hosting the American League champions, the Baltimore Orioles, at Shea Stadium in Queens (the first ever World Series game played there). The two teams split the first two games of the 1969 World Series in Baltimore the previous weekend.
Late in the morning, our Tax Director, Chris Bakos, leisurely walked into the Tax Department office holding two tickets to that afternoon's World Series game. He asked who among the ten of us wanted to go. What a treat! To go to a World Series game for free instead of working. I assumed everybody would want to go. I was shocked when only three of us did. But, there were only two tickets. We drew straws and I was one of the lucky two.
The other winner, a man named Roy, offered to drive me to the game in his car. However, I thought traffic would be horrible so I opted for the subway. I was right. I got to my seat in the upper deck along the right field line well before the game started. Roy arrived by the third inning.
The Mets starting pitcher Gary Gentry shut out the Orioles until he was relieved in the seventh inning by future Hall of Famer, Nolan Ryan, who was making his only World Series appearance in a 27-year career. Baltimore started another future Hall of Fame pitcher, Jim Palmer.
Without a doubt, the hero of the day was Mets center fielder, Tommie Agee. The first batter up for the Mets in the bottom of the first inning, he hit a home run off Palmer for the only run the Mets would need.
In the top of the fourth inning, with runners at first and third base and two outs, Agee went into left center field to make a backhanded grab of a line drive off the bat of Elrod Hendricks to end the inning.
When Gentry loaded the bases with one out in the seventh inning, Met Manager Gil Hodges brought in Ryan. One out later, Paul Blair hit a fly ball to right center field that Agee made a diving catch of to end the threat. Ryan pitched the final two innings to preserve a 5-0 Met victory.
Two days later, the Mets won game 5 and the 1969 World Series. That day the ten of us were listening to the game on a radio in the Tax Department office (along with visitors from the IRS). Those were the days of the Miracle Mets (and when World Series games were played in the afternoon). A mere 7 years earlier, the Mets, an expansion team, lost 120 games, the most since 1899 and not duplicated to this day.
Sunday, October 8, 2017
Jersey Injury
One evening shortly after 9/11 I was home with my sixteen year-old son, Bret, preparing dinner for the two of us. I am not sure what else I was cooking, but I know the menu included Uncle Ben's white rice. When the rice was done, I put it in a large bowl and brought it to the dining room table. I then returned to the kitchen to do the finishing touches to the rest of our dinner.
Bret was hungry and asked me how much rice he should put on his plate. I responded with, "As much as you want."
When I brought the rest of the food to the table, I saw he had put all the rice on his plate. I mean all of it. In retrospect, I know he was being playful. However, at that moment, I was not in a playful mood. I responded badly. I paid a price for my bad behavior.
I walked towards Bret who was standing near the table. I grabbed his t-shirt with my right hand. He backed away, forcing my hand to release his shirt. Sounds simple, right? That simple act broke the little finger of my right hand.
I don't remember any terrific pain, but I immediately realized something was wrong. I looked at my little finger and in the top crease where it normally bends, there was something in its place. I could no longer bend it. Right away I got in my car and drove to a nearby walk-in clinic. They told me I needed to go to a hospital.
Early the next day, I drove to the North Shore Hospital in Nassau County. The doctors in the Emergency Room referred me to a hand specialist whose office was nearby. I went there as fast as I could. When I walked in, his office was mobbed, peopled with a variety of finger and hand injuries. I waited patiently until it was my turn. The doctor took four patients at a time placing them in separate examining rooms where he rotated from one to another.
I wish I could remember my doctor's name, but he appeared to be of either Middle Eastern or South Asian ancestry. Besides that, he was a great surgeon and a great human being. He calmly explained to me what happened to my finger. He told me he would try to surgically repair the finger as best he could. However, he promised me that, at the very least, I would not have pain. I don't.
A few days later, as my doctor instructed, I arrived at another hospital on Long Island and waited for his call from the Emergency Room. Since he wanted to repair my finger ASAP, he said he would fit me into the surgical schedule when he could. I waited almost 12 hours in the ER. It was fascinating being there that long. I saw victims of heart attacks and auto accidents arriving, one after the other.
Finally, it was my turn. I remember being wheeled into surgery and then waking up afterwards with my finger heavily bandaged. When my finger recovered sufficiently my doctor prescribed occupational therapy.
I went to a clinic on the east side of Manhattan. I remember walking there on a busy street full of pedestrians with my left hand and arm in front of my recovering finger trying to protect it from further harm. My therapist was a short, fat lady who turned out to be great.
On my first visit, I asked her to be very gentle with my finger. She said she would. Then, she started manipulating it. The finger was so sensitive that I almost jumped out of my chair and banged the back of my head against the wall behind me. But, slowly over time, with her help, my finger came back to where it was before the accident.
And what was my accident? My therapist called it a "jersey injury." I responded like, "New Jersey?" No, she said, as in a "football jersey." Players grab each other's jerseys and when they break away from each other sometimes fingers are broken. You can see players tape their fingers before the game to protect them. Check it out next time you watch on TV or in person.
My therapist also had a sense of humor. On Halloween, she dressed up like a witch with a black costume and green makeup.
I messed up that night when I overreacted and got my finger broken. However, there was a silver lining. I got to meet two wonderful human beings.
Bret was hungry and asked me how much rice he should put on his plate. I responded with, "As much as you want."
When I brought the rest of the food to the table, I saw he had put all the rice on his plate. I mean all of it. In retrospect, I know he was being playful. However, at that moment, I was not in a playful mood. I responded badly. I paid a price for my bad behavior.
I walked towards Bret who was standing near the table. I grabbed his t-shirt with my right hand. He backed away, forcing my hand to release his shirt. Sounds simple, right? That simple act broke the little finger of my right hand.
I don't remember any terrific pain, but I immediately realized something was wrong. I looked at my little finger and in the top crease where it normally bends, there was something in its place. I could no longer bend it. Right away I got in my car and drove to a nearby walk-in clinic. They told me I needed to go to a hospital.
Early the next day, I drove to the North Shore Hospital in Nassau County. The doctors in the Emergency Room referred me to a hand specialist whose office was nearby. I went there as fast as I could. When I walked in, his office was mobbed, peopled with a variety of finger and hand injuries. I waited patiently until it was my turn. The doctor took four patients at a time placing them in separate examining rooms where he rotated from one to another.
I wish I could remember my doctor's name, but he appeared to be of either Middle Eastern or South Asian ancestry. Besides that, he was a great surgeon and a great human being. He calmly explained to me what happened to my finger. He told me he would try to surgically repair the finger as best he could. However, he promised me that, at the very least, I would not have pain. I don't.
A few days later, as my doctor instructed, I arrived at another hospital on Long Island and waited for his call from the Emergency Room. Since he wanted to repair my finger ASAP, he said he would fit me into the surgical schedule when he could. I waited almost 12 hours in the ER. It was fascinating being there that long. I saw victims of heart attacks and auto accidents arriving, one after the other.
Finally, it was my turn. I remember being wheeled into surgery and then waking up afterwards with my finger heavily bandaged. When my finger recovered sufficiently my doctor prescribed occupational therapy.
I went to a clinic on the east side of Manhattan. I remember walking there on a busy street full of pedestrians with my left hand and arm in front of my recovering finger trying to protect it from further harm. My therapist was a short, fat lady who turned out to be great.
On my first visit, I asked her to be very gentle with my finger. She said she would. Then, she started manipulating it. The finger was so sensitive that I almost jumped out of my chair and banged the back of my head against the wall behind me. But, slowly over time, with her help, my finger came back to where it was before the accident.
And what was my accident? My therapist called it a "jersey injury." I responded like, "New Jersey?" No, she said, as in a "football jersey." Players grab each other's jerseys and when they break away from each other sometimes fingers are broken. You can see players tape their fingers before the game to protect them. Check it out next time you watch on TV or in person.
My therapist also had a sense of humor. On Halloween, she dressed up like a witch with a black costume and green makeup.
I messed up that night when I overreacted and got my finger broken. However, there was a silver lining. I got to meet two wonderful human beings.
Sunday, October 1, 2017
John Garfield
John Garfield, the actor, was born Jacob Julius Garfinkle on Manhattan's lower east side on March 4, 1913. His parents were Jewish immigrants from Russia. As a child at P.S. 45, Garfield was first introduced to acting. Later, he took "lessons at a drama school" and began to appear in theatrical productions in New York. He made his Broadway debut in 1932.
In 1938, Garfield made his film debut in the Warner Bros. picture, Four Daughters, directed by Michael Curtiz, for which he received an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor (lost to Walter Brennan in Kentucky). In 1939, he was in Juarez with Paul Muni. In 1945, Garfield starred in Pride of the Marines. In 1946, he was cast opposite Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice. In 1947, Garfield was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actor for his performance in Body and Soul (lost to Ronald Coleman in A Double Life).
Also in 1947, Garfield appeared in a supporting role in the groundbreaking film, Gentleman's Agreement, which won three Academy Awards including Best Picture. In the story, Philip Green (Gregory Peck, who was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actor, but also lost to Ronald Coleman in A Double Life), a journalist, moves to New York City to write for a magazine. His publisher asks him to do an article about antisemitism. In order to get a different perspective, Green, a gentile, adopts a Jewish identity, Philip Greenberg.
Green's Jewish friend, Dave Goldman (Garfield), is staying with Green in his Manhattan apartment while Goldman looks for an apartment for himself. One night, the two are in a restaurant for dinner. Goldman, an officer in the U.S. Army, is in uniform. A drunken customer walks by their table and bumps into Goldman.
Noting Goldman's uniform, the drunk says, "I don't like officers."
Goldman responds in jest, "Neither do I."
"What's your name, Bud?" asks the drunk.
"Dave, Dave Goldman. What's yours?"
"I especially don't like them if they're yids."
Furious, Goldman jumps up from his seat and grabs the man by his lapels. However, he is cool enough not to hit the physically impotent drunk. Goldman releases him and sits back down.
In a documentary about Garfield, another Jewish actor, Richard Dreyfuss (1978 Academy Award winner for Best Actor in The Goodbye Girl), referred to this scene as "the scene." As a fellow Jew, I think I understand what he meant.
Tragically, John Garfield died of a heart attack on May 21, 1952 at the age of only 39. That he had scarlet fever as a child contributed to his untimely death. A great actor was taken from us far too soon.
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