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