My longest tale

OH MY PA PA

 

Before I start my memoirs, I want you to know that every word I write is true, still clear in this old gray head of mine-----except----I never called my father Pa Pa but Pa Pa made a better title than Da Da. My father was known to me as Daddy.

 

Back in 1928 when I was barely 3, my Daddy would come almost nightly into the bedroom that I shared with my sister, 6 years older than I. He would make ugly faces and tell me how much his feet hurt from standing all day and ask me to pull his shoes off. I'd pull and pull, never strong enough to budge them so he'd sigh and do it himself. In each shoe I'd find an Indian head penny. He put one in each hand, made fists and when he opened them, the pennies would be gone. I clapped every time. He would hug me, blow me a kiss, tell me to go to sleep and he would go downstairs.

 

The nights when we, including my much older brother, had dinner together and I ate my string beans, Daddy would put me on his shoulders and sing all the way to my bed, turn around, take me down to the kitchen again singing 'Here comes the King's daughter, she wants a glass of water' and he'd give me a little cup of water to drink. Other nights he'd pretend he was a gruff giant and sing, 'Fee fi, fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman,' and he'd throw me on my bed and we'd laugh and laugh. 'Again, Daddy, again, I begged but enough. 'Go to sleep little one.'

 

I remember being almost 5 when Mommy and Daddy took me with them to the Met Movie house at night. It was very hot inside. All the seats were taken. Daddy's strong shoulders were there for me to use. He held me there for the entire movie that was awful. I didn't realize it then but he told me to put this movie in my memory book as it was an important one. I didn't appreciate it but Daddy told me to remember it and so I still can see George Arliss's thin hair, his strange looking clothes, his name, 'Disraeli' and the fact that people talked out loud.

 

My Daddy bought an RCA Victrola, something none of my playmates had. He placed it in the corner of his dental office's waiting room. There were big, black wax records, stored in a large leather book. Daddy said, and meant, 'Don't anybody touch these records. I will be the only one. I have Sunday treats for you, 'The Poet and Peasant Overture, Caruso will sing for us (here my mind wavers. I cannot recall what operatic piece we had). Daddy was very, very stern about his orders, 'Don't touch. If I find a scratch on anything, I will get my barber strop out of the closet and you will feel the sting. Zel, save this in your memory. Someday you'll thank me.' If only I had said those words, 'Thank you, Daddy.' Yes, I was a brat, and I did turn on the Victrola when my father was away–and yes–I did accidentally scratch poor Caruso. Daddy got his strop out of the closet, raised it high and came down hard on the stair rail. 'You disobey me again, Child, you will be my stair rail. That too, I remember and never needed another warning.

 

Each Christmas eve, my birthday, Daddy took me to the Hippodrome. We always sat in the same place, second row on the right of the stage. I had the best seat of anybody there. He let me sit on his lap so I could see over tall people. Jack Benny, Ben Burnie, Constance Bennett, Fred Allen, acrobats, singers, bell ringers, magicians, orchestras, too many to list. They are all gone now. 'Remember this place, Zel, some day it will be torn down and disappear, but not if you glue it inside of you.'
Good advice. I took it.

 

Daddy drove Mommy, me and my sister to N.Y. I was ten. After we got to our hotel and put our clothes in drawers and the one closet, Daddy took just me on a subway train. He wanted to show me Delancey St. and the hundreds of push carts selling everything, clothes, worn out items, foods on both sides of the narrow street. There was hardly room for anyone to walk. Jews spoke many languages. Italians, Irish, Russians were all there. Daddy held my hand very tight and sternly told me to never, ever forget this sad sight. It will be gone soon, street cars will  run down the streets, the many different kinds of people will find other states to live in so store this carefully in your mind. 

 

It was starting to get dark. Where my mother and sister were, I didn't know and didn't care. I was with my Daddy and he bought me a double decker ice cream cone. As it melted, the scene changed. Daddy took me to Chinatown. He bought a small scoop of lichee nuts for me to taste. They came from China. I didn't like them. Daddy ate the whole bag full. He told me not to stare but to look at the Chinese men in the silk outfits, little caps on their heads, something like Daddy wears in synagogue once or twice a year. 'Look, but don't stare. See their long pigtails? I bet the men will cut them off in a few years so look more American.' We kept walking and I was so very tired. 'What next, Daddy?'  'O.K. , Zel. Here's a test for you. Will you look around and find a lady who you can ask, 'Where is a toilet?' 'No, Daddy. I couldn't ask anybody that and besides, I don't see any ladies.' 'Got you, smartee. Ladies are not allowed out of their crowded houses at night. They must stay inside until it is daylight? Aren't you glad you live in Baltimore?
When you get a lot older, remember Chinatown. It won't be here and you may think I made up all these stories for you. Just remember, that's is all.'

 

The next day Daddy & I stood in a long, long line, all around the block. He was taking me, without my mother and sister, to Radio City Music Hall. It was so big inside and so crowded I was afraid I'd get lost. 'File this, Zel.' The orchestra was loud. The curtain opened and out came dozens of beautiful ladies. They all wore Santa Claus outfits and they danced and danced, kicked in a row. Their feet went higher than their heads and nobody fell over. Every body, even Daddy and I clapped and clapped. 'Don't tell me, Daddy, I've filed this already.'

 

Returning to Baltimore we took the same wonderful ferry ride we took getting to NY. I was getting bigger but not to big to sit on Daddy''s shoulders while he held me near the boat railing so I could see how we bumped the big tires hanging on wooden poles. Daddy explained how that stopped us from getting hurt, maybe sinking. 'Someday, Zel, before you get married, ferries will disappear and there'll be strong bridges. ' The ferry ride could have been yesterday. I hear the clank of the chain at the end of the boat, the motors starting up. I see my mother and sister, sitting inside our car, angry because we left them there.

 

In summer Daddy drove us all to Canada to see the Niagara Falls. That gave me a scare and another indelible memory. When we go on a boat called Maid of the Mist and went behind the falls, the roar, the thundering sound could have burst my ear drums. The mist, the cold still chills my bones so that I won't even take cold showers. Older and older I got while learning from my Daddy without books, without paper and pencil.

 

Back to NY for the World's Fair. Daddy took me there on a bus. I watched how nylon dries quickly, saw a man and woman on a fuzzy black and white t.v. screen, went into the Trilon and Perisphere, learned a lot about Russia. Daddy took me into every display.  We never saw my mother or sister as they came with my Uncle Abe, who was not as smart as my Daddy. And pictures, Daddy took pictures, all black and white then, hundreds of them, many still in my drying up old albums.

 

I did disappoint my father, maybe more than once, but the biggest time must have been when he enrolled me in the Maryland Institute of Art. He would call me down from our upstairs apartment to show my drawings to his patients, brag, believing wrongly that my efforts were going to make me into another Rembrandt. I was lucky I could at least spell the artist's name.

 

Dear Readers, you must be bored. I now quote Al Jolson (have you ever heard of him?) Daddy took me to see The Jazz Singer and explained the entire thing when we came out. Quoting Jolson when his audiences were about ready to let him leave the stage, he'd pull himself together, put on that big, wide smile of his, let his eyes sparkle and shout out, 'I'm not going anywhere. You ain't seen nothin' yet.'

 

Well, I'm not a Jolson person and am taking my leave with one more thought. I really remember almost nothing about my mother except she kvetched and argued a lot with my father. I intend trying to find her, maybe hidden in my memory book.