lgmwriting

2) Part 1

One summer, when Michael was still in either college or grad school — I forget which–he took on a “mission” for the United Nations in central Europe. I can’t remember what that “mission” was but I do remember that it wasn’t one that scared us very much. While he was away he decided to take some courses at the University of Prague; while there he decided to try to track down the Reidbord family’s roots. My mother had said that the Reidbords came from a small town called Merich, in Poland.

Louis Reidbord, the grandfather I never knew because he died so young, was an immigrant, as were his four brothers. All the young men were supremely talented in building and making things. When they made their way to Pittsburgh they formed a business of their own–Reidbord Brothers–which is still in existence.

Being the young girl that I was–endlessly curious–I asked my beloved grandmother many questions about her husband. Well, she told me, he had golden hands. He could make or fix anything.

Back to Michael. On a Saturday Michael found Merich and he told us that the biggest building in this very small town is the Jewish synagogue. He took pictures of it. He found his way into the synagogue but there appeared to be nobody there. He looked around and eventually found the rabbi, sitting at his desk, quietly reading some commentaries of the Talmud. This is an honorable way to pass Shabbos, other than visit relatives or have a snooze. Michael was able to describe this scene so well that I keep thinking I was actually there. Books everywhere, on shelves, tables, even on the floor…

The rabbi didn’t speak English but was fluent in French. What a relief that Michael is fluent in French also–he has taught medical courses in that language–so they easily communicated. The rabbi was sweet and full of praise for this good Jewish son who was searching for his mother’s relatives. He told Michael that the synagogue’s record book was on a very high shelf of his office; the act of standing on a ladder to retrieve a book would be considered “work.” He felt awful, though and Michael did too! As he was exiting, Michael heard a clunking noise. He turned around to find the rabbi smiling happily and clutching the record book in his arms.

He shrugged. “It fell on my head,” he said.

1)
Everything I write about Trump’s election has been said, written, and recorded. What would anything I write here make any difference to anything?
I will say that I fell asleep on election night, confident that when I woke up, Hillary Clinton would be our President. Instead, upon awakening my stomach fell to the ground and my heart exploded into pieces–heartbreak, that’s what it was.

Just like millions of Americans, the three of us–me, Peter, and Michael–wanted to DO SOMETHING…anything that would make the pain go away. Listening to various podcasts I heard a psychologist say in an interview that we should all go out into our communities and volunteer some time. For most of us, that’s all we can do. So my son Michael, already working at Temple University, put some time into working with the Congressional Black Caucus. He speeds up and down the eastern seaboard on Amtrak, working on his laptop, getting ready for the next meeting after the one he’s headed for. My husband has many talents; he’s great at making things. So he made up buttons that have “Proud Child of Immigrants;” “Proud Grandchild of Immigrants;” and “Proud Descendant of Immigrants” on them. That’s the one I wear.
Also Peter has approached Bloomsburg University about putting together a symposium; it would be a source of information where hopeful entrepreneurs could learn some invaluable skills and ultimately succeed. He has a lifetime of experience to share.

The Goldings and the Reidbords (my mother’s family)–both came here in one of the big waves of immigration from Europe.

For myself, I’ve volunteered to work in our Women’s Center. I fear for the battered women and teenage girls needing birth control–I want them to keep the protection that the Women’s Center provides.

Finally, take a look at Jonas Salk, who was able to produce the first polio vaccine. He was considered a hero for those times, almost God-like. Many millions of parents could breathe a sigh of relief. (Salk wanted the vaccine to be free to everybody.) And where did he come from? His parents were Jewish immigrants who came here and worked unbelievable hard to give their brilliant son an education. What geniuses would we bar from our country if Trump had his way?

While growing up we accept the world in which we live, usually without questioning. Questioning comes later in life.

While I was reading books on Pittsburgh’s history and architecture I learned that Pittsburgh has the rare blessing of having two huge city parks within the actual city limits.. they are Frick Park and Schenley Park. This never occurred to me early in life; they were just “there.”

My mother loved nature so as a family and usually as an extended family, we had picnics in the summer. Also, a lot of our neighbors would come along. I did not realize, however, how big these parks are. I don’t have the exact figure available right now, but in terms of acreage, both are massive.

Schenley Park seemed to be different than Frick. Schenley had no mountains and ravines and woodland; it was mostly smoothed-out, had good roads running through it, was more leafy. It was also famous as a “lovers’ lane” location, where, on Friday and Saturday nights, cars were parked nose to tail. Police cars cruised up and down, checking on things.

Frick Park was our favorite place for cookouts. Entering from the Regent Square side, the steps go way, way down into a giant ravine. It was easy to imagine what had taken place geographically, ages and ages ago. A glacier, moving right through, plowing the land apart.

It’s possible to get a good perspective of Frick Park while taking the 61B bus to Swissvale/Braddock from Squirrel Hill. Many times, after school, I wanted to hang out with my friends and didn’t feel like racing to catch the “Commercial Road” bus. The 61B roared down Forbes Avenue where it ended at Braddock Avenue. There was a right turn at that point and along there on the right was an entrance to Frick Park. That kind of freaked me out. I always thought Frick Park was in Squirrel Hill!! I think that was when I was able to get an idea, a kind of mental map of Pittsburgh. Those bus trips were always happy. When I got off the bus in Swissvale my mother would meet me at the corner drugstore so I didn’t have to take that long walk home.

Finally, when my mother was beginning to be ill and constantly longed to go outdoors, I took her to the Squirrel Hill end of Frick Park. I’ll never, ever forget how my mother looked as we walked one of the trails. A caged bird let out for a brief respite…

I was just reading about the bridges of Pittsburgh. There are over 400 of them. There are bridges named after Roberto Clemente and Andy Warhol.

Another of my favorite bridges is the Murray Avenue Bridge. I think I’m attached to it someway because when I was little, we would walk from Shady Ave. Ext–my sister was in a stroller then–down the Lilac Street Hill, then onto Murray Avenue. When we crossed the bridge we’d be at the Morrowfield where my grandmother lived. When I looked down, the Parkway was visible. And I always loved my grandmother who lived in the Morrowfield.

Also, and this was much, much later, I would be driving to Pittsburgh to see my mother, coming along Route 28, and at that time, the way to get to the Fort Pitt Bridge–a bridge I didn’t like–was to get off 28 at the 40th Street Bridge.
When I made that trip alone for the first time I have to admit I was scared. But it was just so nice to turn left onto 40th Street and wind up at the entrance to Bloomfield. A couple more blocks and there’s the Strip District. I wanted to park the car somewhere and go shopping for delicious foods–the kind we never get where we live now–but I knew my mother was waiting for me impatiently so I kept going.

Here’s a funny thought. Part of the fun of this particular trip was getting lost. It sometimes took me a while to find the Fort Pitt Bridge but I was still enough of a Pittsburgher to basically know where I was going. I never liked the Fort Pitt Bridge because it’s really very frightening, driving across it and making sure you’re in the right lane! Every time I changed lanes I was preparing my soul to die because people drive so fast. If you missed the lane that went through the Fort Pitt tunnels you ended up in a place that I think was the beginning of Mt. Washington. Then being lost wasn’t any fun anymore!!!

The empty lot and beyond…
There was one empty lot on our street. The last time I looked, it was still empty. As young children we didn’t pay any attention to it. We were told to not play there and this is a mystery that will never be solved; we were, after turning six years old, allowed to play in the street, but not in the empty lot? I still don’t get it.

Upon reaching the age of 11, we were taller, stronger and also more adventurous. Our curiosity overwhelmed us; what was behind the empty lot? As little children we probably thought like Shel Silverstein and his “Where The Sidewalk Ends.” Did Pittsburgh end there? Could you fall off the world there?
So in the summer of 1961 we escaped from our mothers’ watchful eyes and squeezed through an opening in the fence. Hedges, grown tall, had been planted there so between the fence and these hedges we ended up with a lot of scratches and scrapes. It was worth it, though, when we finally made it through the gap.

The land sloped almost straight down to a house on Beechwood Blvd., below. We could tell that it was Beechwood Blvd. because: 1) there were a lot of cars speeding along; 2) we used our heads and figured it out. Down that terrifying slope a few weedy patches grew. There were also, however, huge, HUGE boulders that leaned against each other. “Just like when dinosaurs were here,” we told each other.
The three of us sat down at the top of the slope. It should be added here that we were not particularly obedient children so we asked each other: Could we dare each other to slide down the hill to where the “dinosaur rocks” were sitting? It’s funny but I can still see this so clearly. In the end we did take the plunge and really did it. But it was so dangerous! I still can’t believe it. We used to start fires and I don’t know for sure which horrible thing was the worst. Probably the fires we started were the worst thing because other people and their homes could be hurt and damaged and killed. If the dinosaur rocks moved out of their places and the three of us bounced down to Beechwood Blvd., well, we would probably die but nobody and nothing else would be damaged or dead.
The three of us, now in our sixties, agree that forcing our way through the fence and perilously sliding down the hill to the dinosaur rocks corresponded with our coming of age.

Two facts emerge. One, the three of us talked about

Route 28 connects Route 80 with Pittsburgh. Route 80 is all major highway with nothing to look at, nothing much of interest.

But once you exit and turn onto 28 it’s a winding country road that goes through many small towns. There are lots of places to stop and eat and buy things and fill your tank with gas.

When the three of us would make this trip we went through a tiny place called “Ohl.” This provided us with endless jokes, puns, rhymes…

I stole your stole in Ohl/ROhl on the grass in Ohl/Life’s just a bOhl of cherries/In England people don’t go on welfare, they call it the “dOhl.”/ I love CreOhl cooking.

It’s the same thing as singing 100 bottles of beer on the wall and a family competition game as well. Friendly competition because we all ended up laughing.

Then, the best part would come. Eventually you make a turn and you win the prize; one of the best views of Pittsburgh, ever. Because of the PPG Building it really does look like a storybook illustration.

I’ve taken this trip many times, both with family and by myself. Being alone and seeing the view of my home town is–I have to admit–more pleasurable. It’s a kind of pilgrimage. Now I feel guilty for saying that because it would hurt Peter and Michael to hear this. But I do not think they would mind too much.

We have lots of bridges in Pittsburgh.

If you continue down Brown’s Hill Road you then get onto the Homestead High-Level Bridge. Always, always–I connect this ride with Kennywood because once you reach the other side you turn left and eventually reach our beloved amusement park.

When the families on my street got together in the summertime for picnics we crossed this bridge. The children had this superstition about not breathing while crossing; so we stopped singing and held our breath. One time, when Naomi and I were 11 or 12 years old, we persuaded our mothers to let us walk down to Beechwood Blvd., then over to Brown’s Hill Road, then all the way down to the bridge. Sometimes I think I must have dreamed this but in those days we were allowed to run free.

It’s really quite a ride, whizzing across the Monongahela and listening to the bridge producing a singing, vibrating sound.

I think most Pittsburgh people love the Smithfield Street Bridge. One time when Michael was about 12 we took a kind of exploratory trip of Pittsburgh, and I have a photo of him standing, with a big smile on his face, on the bridge. People are always walking back and forth because this bridge connects downtown Pittsburgh with Station Square, the inclines, and the place where you can get on one of the boats for tourists.

But I have a personal favorite of all the bridges. My favorite is the Birmingham Bridge that connects the Hill District/Fifth Avenue–I think–with the South Side. Why do I love this bridge? The setting for my book, Sitting Shiva For Terry, is nearby on the Fifth Avenue side. Also–when you cross the Birmingham Bridge you end up close to the South Side branch of the Carnegie Library. It’s a wonderful walk when the sun’s out. The main character in my novel actually takes that walk and visits the library.

I grew up hearing about the Golden Triangle which I was told meant down town Pittsburgh where the “point” was. In early Pittsburgh history that’s all there was of Pittsburgh.

However, where I grew up we had our own golden triangle. There were three streets that formed an oddly shaped triangle: Shady Ave. Ext., Ludwick Street, and Landview Street. That was our world.

Halfway down Ludwick Street was a tiny walkway; this little path had no name and it connected Ludwick Street to Saline Street. Right there, where the nameless walkway ended at Saline Street, was the “black spooky church” and it’s ancient small cemetery.

Being a child of eternal questions, I asked my poor mother, over and over–why is that little path there? Why did people put it where it is? It was mysterious to me and it drove me crazy in a nice sort of way.

If you walked along the path you would see bleeding hearts growing on the edges. My mother first pointed them out and showed me the red, heart-shaped flowers. Oh boy…my curious nature and natural sense of wonder regarding the world around me went wild. I took Naomi, my best friend, there to see it but she didn’t flip out like I did. We did look at the headstones in the neglected cemetery and they were very old, most of them unreadable.

When I went through a phase of reading Pittsburgh history I learned that the church there was the oldest in Pittsburgh, as was the cemetery. And it all made sense because if you went straight from the church, down Brown’s Hill Road, there was the Monongahela River. So it was a place of transport.

Anyway, I got mad because fairly recently a sign was put up at the path’s entrance that read “Federal Hill Street” or something like that. I thought at the time that the mysterious quality of the place was gone. But it’s not; it’s easy to remember, go back in time, and still be that sensitive, questioning young girl. Our whole world was a source of amazement to me….but my poor mother would have been happy to have a daughter a little less curious! She told me, much, much later that at times I exhausted her.

“There are places I remember…” It’s Beatles’ Day, it seems.

I’m sitting here with the oddest thought; what would you think your brain looks like? I got an immediate answer–my brain’s lasagna. Many layers, different ingredients, and it tastes better if you let it stand around a day or two. According to my mother-in-law, lasagna isn’t a success unless it can be cut in pieces like bricks. A lasagna that slides apart messily when cut–and you experience Italian shame. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. So what does this have anything to do with my brain? This brain, my brain, is happiest when there is good timing, correct amounts of ingredients, and lots of patience.

When I write about what I remember I’m visually oriented. I can see these things in my mind. That’s what makes it easy for me. Not all writing is easy for me but writing about what’s already happened is the most fun.

I’ve written so, so much about growing up in Pittsburgh–the details of Squirrel Hill and Oakland–that I’m almost afraid to start this. But I think there’s still enough “stuff” left that I haven’t written about. In a really good lasagna–and my mother-in-law would agree–there are so many different ingredients present that you never would think it would taste so good.

What comes to mind is Forbes Field. What a sweet, lovely place. And the first word that comes to mind? Accessible. Everything seemed easy there. Many bus routes existed that would take you from home to Forbes Field, then back again, so no nightmare parking. My grandfather, who was not a workaholic, would frequently take afternoons off from his law practice downtown and take the bus to watch the Pirates at Forbes Field.

It was crowded there but not outstandingly so. Little children weren’t fearful of being overwhelmed. Our father took my sister and me to a baseball game once and I can still remember the smell of that place–roasted peanuts, hot dogs, and popcorn.

I know for sure that I’m not alone in thinking tenderly about our Pirates baseball home; and since I can’t shut up about the World Series of 1960, Forbes Field was the place where Maz hit his home run, making that game “the greatest baseball game ever.” This is true because a friend gave me a book with that title!

I was ignoring my piano and not taking it very seriously. This isn’t good. I went through a lot of struggles to have my lovely console piano. I bought it with a small inheritance I received, then it made the journey to Bloomsburg. For a long time it was ignored and it was shoved into a corner of a messy room. How could I play it, surrounded by piles of loose paper? At a certain point the decision was made to move it to the place of honor it deserves–in the living room. The floor in there is made of a rich and beautifully-colored wood; my piano looks as if it grew right there, out of the floor.To get myself into the frame of mind needed to practice a lot I ordered, through Amazon, a huge, “easy piano” collection of songs; included are show music, early rock, and a lot of other great music. So now I’m playing again.

There’s a song that means a lot to me. It’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” written and recorded by Roberta Flack. It always makes me think of the first weeks when I met Peter–very tender. This song’s in the new piano book I bought.

Also: I like a lot of show music, especially from Guys and Dolls and The King and I. I’m getting the feeling that I’ve written about “Hello, Young Lovers” before. Oh well. It’s a beautiful song that reflects the character of Anna who comes to Siam to be a tutor to the king’s children. She lost her husband–but she’s not bitter–she’s doing a good job, raising her son–and is a strong female presence in the play/movie. In all of the movies and TV shows I’ve watched, Anna is one of my most respected figures.

Also in the new book is “Yesterday.” Again, I’m getting deja vu. So I’ll just say that it marked a time when my mother was recovering from the loss of my father. As she was feeling better, it made me feel better also.

I have a piano book that has all the Eagles’ music and I bought this book because one of Peter’s favorite songs is “Desperado.” It refers back to the time when Peter was very young, growing up in Philadelphia, and found the most incredibly zany and creative group of friends to hang out with. One of these guys, named Tony, was Peter’s best friend, died from alcoholism, and fits the description of the desperado.