Was it a town, a hamlet, an existing site? All we knew was that it had appeared on some old marriage and birth records as far back I could trace my Scottish relatives, and we wanted to see it.
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Post Office Philosopher 

Recently two of my out-of-town friends had birthdays and as both are serious readers I thought they’d enjoy a good book I had just read.

So I bought two more copies,  wrapped each for mailing,  and headed to the post office where I found John my favorite postal guy behind the counter,

“I’ll send them book rate.”  he said putting the first one on the scale.  “It’ll be $4.95.”  And so I took out a $10 bill to cover the anticipated postage for two.

Then John put the second book on the scale.  “This one will be $5.80.”  he said

Puzzled I told John that the two books were identical and should weigh and cost the same.

”Ah yes,  they should,”  said my post office philosopher,  “but life is a bitter mystery.”

So true.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

2024 is the 80th anniversary of D-day, the joint Allied invasion on the beaches of Normandy to liberate France from the Nazis.
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I haven’t written here for a long time, but I couldn’t resist penning my memories of trips to Jones Beach in the 1950s.

Excitement mounted when mom informed me and my little brother that we were going to the beach. We ran around in circles, chasing each other and laughing, til Dad yelled at us to stop. Dad wasn’t going…he hated getting sand in his shorts…and that made it all much more fun. Auntie Ann and cousin Jamie were going with us, too. That was super fun.

Mom started packing up fruits and sandwiches in a big old plastic cooler, and filling a giant red and white thermos…for some reason I remember the spigot…with Koolade and ice cubes. We searched through our summer clothes, pulling everything out of the drawers, looking for our bathing suits. Dad dug up his old khaki grren Army blanket and folded it into the trunk of the car. I packed my transistor radio.

Auntie Ann showed up in her white short shorts and red halter top, already tanned. I wanted to look like her. I didn’t have the word for it then, but when I think back, she looked sexy. She and my mom were twins, but she was the beauty and my mom was the brains…and the heart. Still, I loved looking at my aunt. Years later she told me she never left the house without makeup. She probably wore makeup to the beach.

The drive to the beach couldn’t have been long…we only had to cross Long Island and then Drive east on two parkways…but it seemed to take forever. We could hardly sit still, us three kids sliding around the back seat of the black Ford sedan and carrying on. This was before seatbelts of course. Who knows how we ever survived.

When we finally parked in the lot, we ran, barefoot, our feet burning, carrying (and repeatedly dropping) all our beach stuff. Towels and cooler and thermos and blankets. We walked under the highway and through a tunnel which cooled our feet and seemed to be designed to echo the screams of kids. We made as much noise in there as possible, running back and forth before emerging with Mom and Aunt Ann on the other end. There, flower beds of purple and red pansies greeted us, along with the vast expanse of fine, white sand and the endless ocean with its booming crashing waves. Even as a child, and still, today, that sight takes my breath away.

The sand was hot. We quickly laid our blankets out and set the coolers on the corners to keep the blanket flat. Jamie and I ran into the water to cool our feet and jump the waves. The ocean was cold and scary, but I wasn’t about to be intimidated. I tried to pick my waves but I sometimes missed and was sucked under by waves I had misjudged. Could I hold my breath long enough? I was twisted and turned by the ocean and dragged along the rocky, sandy ocean floor until the undertow pulled the sand and water away and finally released me so I could surface, dizzy and trying awkwardly to stand. But I kept going back for more, intent on defeating the Atlantic Ocean.

After enough of that fun, I located my mom and Aunt Ann on our blanket. Ann was lying on her back, sunning herself, probably listening to my radio. My brother was making sand castles. Mom was sitting up, looking anxiously in my direction. When she saw me, she got up and ran toward me with a towel and a peach. I was shivering. Jamie was laughing at me. Mom wrapped me in a towel. I took a big bite of the sweet, juicy peach. Juice dribbled down my chin. The peach tasted sweet and salty.

 

I had a vague familiarity with the digeridoo and some of the paintings. What to expect?
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I found myself being seduced by hand-crafted dolls from different lands over the years, finding serendipitous treasures in flea markets, souvenir shops, street vendors, and craft markets.
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Catskill Farm Memories

My father was born on a farm that bordered a small lake in the Catskill town of Liberty,  NY.  Years later his folks added an addition to what had been their farmhouse and began taking in boarders who came up from the city seeking the country air.   And eventually my grandparents ran the homestead as a small hotel – no longer a farm – and it’s that hotel I remember from my own childhood.  (See My Heart Remembers My Grandmother’s Hotel,  Hotel Kittens,  The Cat and the Forshpeiz,  Our Special Guests,  and The Troubadour)

But through his high school years my dad lived on the farm,  and he would regale us with his happy farmboy memories as well as some not so happy ones.

In fact one that sounds rather cruel was his propensity for catching frogs in the lake and dissecting them.   But chalk that up to his early interest in biology and anatomy as he did go on to become a physician!   (See GP,  Turkey and Trimmings with Flu Shot  and Saying Farewell to a Special Guy)

Another unhappy memory was of his bachelor uncle Max who lived with them on the farm and was responsible for feeding and caring for the chickens.   Family legend has it that Max fell for a young woman who lived in town,  and was often gone from the farm for days at a time.   While busy courting his sweetheart,  he neglected the chickens who all died!

Then there was the sad tale of the two farm horses Joe and Jack.  When Jack took sick and died,  Joe was heard kicking the side of his stall all night long,  surely mourning his dead friend.

A happier memory was my dad as a boy milking one of the cows while a barn cat,  attracted by the sweet smell,  meowed at his feet.   Aiming the cow’s teat at the cat,  he’d shoot the milk right into its mouth!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

It promised to be a busy weekend.  Sally had invited her dad to Oakland for Fleet Week and the dance card was full with things a veteran from the greatest-generation might like: a visit to Alameda Naval Station, the Blue Angels flyovers, a Bay cruise.
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I just KNEW that the idea would have pleased her no end
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Ethel and the Turkey Leg 

Since my friend Ethel died recently at the age of 85,  I’ve been thinking about what made her such a special soul.

Ethel and I met in the 1980s at Jane Addams,  the South Bronx vocational high school where she taught cosmetology and I ran the school library.   Like so many of us at Addams,  Ethel and I loved the school,  were dedicated to our students,  and forged a life-long friendship.   (See Mr October,  The Diary of a Young Girl,  Magazines for the Principal – for David,   Educator of the Year –  Remembering Milton,  The Parking Lot Seniority List,  A Favor for the Coach,  and Early Session Commute)

We both lived on Manhattan’s upper eastside,  and for years we carpooled to school together.  Every morning,  reverse commuting against the traffic that was heading down to Manhattan,  Ethel drove us the six miles up to the Bronx and to Addams.

Originally there were five of us in the carpool,  each usually holding a paper cup of tea or coffee that sloshed around whenever Ethel hit a pothole.

Over the years two of our colleagues moved out of Manhattan and a third opted to drive himself,  and then there was just Ethel and me in the car, and we began to think of ourselves as Thelma and Louise,

I remember one morning waiting for Ethel on the appointed corner when I saw her car approaching.  I stepped off the curb expecting her to slow down and stop as usual,  but as I watched,  she drive right past me and sped up Third Avenue.

Bewildered I trekked to the subway,  and later at school I went to Ethel’s classroom to ask what had happened.

“I played bridge last night”  she explained,  “and this morning as I was driving to school I was replaying every hand in my head.  Sorry I forgot to pick you up!”

Ethel,  as I said was a cosmetologist,  and because I wore little makeup she was always itching to get me into her chair and make me over.  I always demurred,  but on one very special occasion she had her way.

It was the morning of our son’s bar mitzvah and my husband and I had arranged to pick up Ethel on our way to the synagogue.  As she sat beside me in the back seat,  she opened her purse and took out comb and brush, lipstick, foundation,  mascara and rogue.

”No arguments this time,”  she said,  ”when you’re up on the bimah I want you to shine.”    And when Ethel got finished with me,  I think I did!

And it was Ethel’s turn to shine at the surprise retirement party we threw for her on City Island.  The planning,  the elaborate scheme to get her to the restaurant,  and the look on her face when we all yelled Surprise! where almost as much fun as the party!

And then there were the strays.

Ethel was a real animal lover who badly spoiled her own,  rather plump dog Bambi who she fed ice cream.   Once my husband was sitting on Ethel’s livingroom couch when the dog planted herself at his feet – it was then he dubbed her Bambi,  The Coffee Table.

And it seemed Ethel felt responsible for every stray dog in the city.   One morning when she picked me up,  she was driving with one hand on the wheel and clutching the biggest turkey leg I’d ever seen in the other.

I was used to Ethel binging leftovers from home and stopping the car to feed any dog who crossed our path –  and what a lucky mutt who hit the jackpot that day!

And so if dogs go to heaven,  I’m sure they won’t go hungry.   I know one slightly dizzy blonde who’s waiting up there with a turkey leg.

Rest in peace Ethel,  my dear unforgettable friend.

– Dana Susan Lehrman