Being There

Being Here

Being Now

My daughters from an early age would often riposte, “Whatever you say goes back to you!” True, that. I will take that to heart. "I'm rubber, you're glue; whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you. Nya, nya!" 

On recollection, however, I think that by saying it "goes back to you", there's no take away for any onus upon the listener to consider personal application.

If you haven’t seen the movie Being There by Jerzy Kosinski starring Peter Sellers, Shirley MacLaine, and Melvin Douglas, please do. It’s a well told tale. It also will stir some thinking on the politics of our experience. And, read R. D. Laing’s Politics of Experience as a good companion piece if you care to expand all this into an autodidactic project. In fact, get into all Dr. Laing’s writings and have your world view tuned up, good and proper.

We all live in the same world. Yet, because of the unique filters we have ground into the lenses of our perception, we also live in our own separate worlds. Relationships are formed and perpetuated based on how nearly our personal world may match that of others. Children enter the family drama at birth and are from that first moment rigorously brainwashed into the common cant. They aim to please, and they capitulate. They become good little boys and girls. Relationships also strain and break when a party to the common consensus changes course or is found out to be other on some important pass-not-enter point. “You don’t like mom’s apple pie, who are you?” “You want to be a hairdresser?! You’re no son of mine!” “You won’t be there for Christmas???, then don’t bother to ever come back at all!”

In some very real way you get to be included in the family romance as long as you play along. Not that there's anything wrong with playing along. For sure. Just that, when you see something that no one else sees, or that no one else may want to see, letting them know may not be good for your status in the group. So it depends on where you stand, one man's act of courage is another's act of cowardice. There's nothing wrong with family. (One quip is that the definition of disfunctional is "family.") But, just like in the world at large, how much of your own truth are you willing to subvert or deny in order to belong.

Breakups are particularly difficult when one leaves the so-called family nexus, sometimes called the family romance. While the rules of inclusion are always not explicitly stated, breaking those rules exacts often harsh and final results.

Someone I know, her aunt had been divorced. The ex-husband was not included in any physical way, but he occupied a very clear and present niche in the family story. He was the one who everyone got to look down on. He was the family loser. There was never any overt maligning, but the subtext was clear: that bastard done her wrong, he’s bad. There was even a grief stricken, young ingénue daughter, forever moping about and nursing her hurt over her father’s presumed misdeed. It also seemed to me that the place he occupied in the family story required him to be shunned forever. Stripped in certain minds of his natural and necessary prerogatives as a father. Like there was a niche to fill, and he did the trick. No forgiveness for that poor SOB from that upstanding Christian family. If he were to be included in the fold, there would have to have been some earnest soul searching and courageous forgiveness. Not likely, however. That family, true to their Wasp heritage, did not deal in any interior investigation. Keep it on the surface, nice and polite. The unexamined life.

I just have to say that if anyone is harboring resentments toward anyone, I strongly urge them to let it go, completely and forever. Otherwise, they are only hurting themselves. Putting such things aside in denial and out of sight, doesn’t really take the unresolved problem out of the picture. If you don’t have a portion of your heart open because of withholding over someone or something, you don’t have that portion of your heart to share with anyone. You are then being false and not wholehearted with your loved ones. Children, particularly, sense these things and develop strategies of coping that we often then see as problematic. The story continues. Someone else will get to wear the trouble hat.

There is hope. The past is over and the future is not yet arrived. “Be Here Now’ is a contemporary buzz phrase. But, it is also a standard to live by. Everyone wants to be in the moment. The question is just how much of the past fits into the present? Don’t let the question slide because you may have the illusion that the future will take care of it. Don’t start digging the well only after the house is on fire. Even to get into heaven, you have to let go. Don’t be like so many others, showing up at the Pearly Gates kicking and screaming. It’s not nice.

x

May 21, 2011

The Kibbee Shack

A while ago when I lived in Detroit I worked at FoMoCo in Highland Park. Lunch options were scarce. But, the ones that were there were prrretty, prrretty good.

As you know, Detroit is a car town. No. Make that, THE car town. Detroit, Motown, Michigan: "During the day we make the cars; at night, we make the bars." I was there before Eminem; and I was the shiznit, before there even was a shiznit. You down with that?

I joined Ford right out of college just to have income while I went to graduate school. I applied for a job on the assembly line at a time when HF I's (Henry Ford the 1st) original assembly line factory was making tractors—the Highland Park plant was the first automobile assembly line in the world, turning out those Model T's. The assembly line I believe is Henry’s contribution to the succesful quest to amass a fortune at the expense of the working man. Think of those archival images of Model T’s coming off the line. There's a nice bit of historic video on that plant at the end of this, so stay tuned.

By the time I arrived the place was so old and so dark. Lit with incandescent bulbs and every surface brown/black with oil and the whole place a noisy racket and smelling of dirt, oil, smoke, and perspiration. Once you take a whiff, you know...I don't know what, but you know. A multi-sensory time travel. If the dehumanizing setting weren’t enough, the story goes that Ol’ Henry was such a hump that if you were on the commode he could drop in to see what you were making. Better have something to show the MAN. Later, of course, there were the unions and I am a proud former member of the UAW. When later I worked in the FoMoCo Surface Coatings Division R&D lab, in homage to Henry, the bunch of us crammed into the lavatory stall to get the boss’s signature on an important document. Boys will be...

Paydays, feeling a little flush, the boys would make the bars. Once I tagged along and got introduced to the joys of gin (as in a shot of gin) with a Coke chaser. Tough boys, those car guys. Maybe there's a new trendy drink to try out. Hey, bartender, Gin & Coke, please.

Later, I opted for a salaried post in the quality control lab. There were two sections; one for physical testing, the other for chemistry. I went to the chemistry side and got to do things like carbon content analysis (refractory furnace, ultra-sensitive balance scale), salt corrosion testing (huge salt steam chamber), and monitoring the production line chemical gear plating station. The transmission gears were all phosphate coated for corrosion resistance and lubricity. Then the gear faces were ground (for your pleasure and enjoyment). The test upstairs in the lab was to monitor the various chemical baths to determine that the required chemical concentrations were up to spec. Since the plant was so big I got to ride to my stop at the phosphate station on my very own company bicycle. It was like riding through the Diego Rivera mural at the Detroit Art Institute.

If you are not familiar with the realities of industrial plant production and sometimes wonder how what you get is so different from what it should be, let me tell you. In the lab the tests for chemical concentrations are very precise. Very tidy and determined. On the production line floor, however, with huge, maybe 5,000 gallon chemical baths, it's a bit more free swinging. Next to the station were large bins of loose granulated chemical compounds. Based on calculations from the lab tests I would go down and tell the attendant how many shovels full of this or that to toss into each vat. I would evaluate the outcome of the plating process with a test strip that came back to the lab after processing to measure thickness. Let's say I erred on the generous side. Not better, necessarily, mind you. The system was goldilocks, not too much not too little; they wanted it just right.

Anyway, at the lab on Thursday's it was Hot Dog Day. Each of us would take turns springing for all the fixin's. Hot Dogs, buns, condiments, and—if you were feeling generous and sporting—homemade chili. Since it was a chemistry lab, we had heat and these almost gallon sized glass beakers to cook the hot dogs. Exquisite.(When in Detroit go to Lafayette Street, Downtown Detroit, for the definitive Coney Island Hot Dog. As a lad my record was five —5!)

I was laid off from Ford Tractor and landed at the Industrial Coatings Division. At the time it was located in the front office building to the plant on Woodward Avenue.

That's where we formulated and tested car and truck paints and base resins for the foundry. I got to wear a lab coat and conduct experiments testing paint formulae against an arm's length of variables.

Lunchtime is a highpoint, if not the highpoint, of a working man's work day. One fellow and I shared a very rare gourmet taste. Bologna sandwiches on Wonder bread with yellow mustard. Accompanied by pickled hot yellow peppers and a large glass of milk. Still, quite excellent. I fancied myself quite the cook and every so often I would treat the guys to a pot of homemade New England clam chowder. Is there any other kind? On paydays occasionally we would pile into cars and head off for an "extended" lunch at Buddy's Rendevous (since 1946) on 6 Mile Road and Conant. Since those days, Buddy's has expanded with multiple locations all round town. It is famous for really delicious square pan pizza. And huge goblets of draft beer, we called "shupers". Be sure to add a good slug of tomato juice to the beer. Tastes good, goes down easy. Buddy's is where I was served beer for the first time while I was still under age. The waitress just looked at all of us boys and said, "You're all 21, right?" Naturally, you know what we said. She winked—she was hip to us—so I didn't have to go to confession for telling a lie.

We also had a line on a bakery that made hot pasties ("pass-tees"). Not pastries. Certainly not "paste...ies" (that's the Gaiety Burlesque on Woodward Avenue, and for another write). [But I will say that we had to stop at the Gaiety Burlesque on the scavenger hunt the night of my college fraternity initiation weekend. A G-string was on our list of things we had to bring back; or else. The nice lady at the Gaiety not only gave us her G-string, she autographed it. I don't remember the name exactly, "Lili St. ..."? Blaze Star? Another item on our must get list was a bra. That one wasn't gonna happen. The loveliest cheerleader on the squad, Ms. Vera B., slammed the phone on me when I called her for that favor at 2 in the morning. Sorry, Vera.]

Back to the baked goods. It's pronounced "past'... ies. The little pastie seems to go back in history to the early 16th Century, can you believe it. Filled with lamb, onions, potatoes, and swedes. Wow! It's a item that the miners in Devon, England would take to work. The sturdy bread crust keeps things warm by the time lunch rolls around down deep in the cold mines. [When I was dating the future wife she asked me to suggest something I'd like her to to cook for me. Pasties, please? She left the room crying after I gave her the verdict. (But, she evened the score some time later, and left me crying. Literally, left me. Some dish.)]

But what about the Kibbee Shack, you ask? I know the writing is excellent, but you signed on for some information, not a literary tour de force. (But, thank you for the compliment, anyway. Tell everyone you know.)

Not far from the Ford Highland Park plant on Woodward Avenue going eastward toward downtown, was a small little restaurant with a sign "Hamburgers" in front. Inside there was this old married couple serving the customers. Open the menu and, sure there were hamburgers, but a long list of Middle Eastern specialties as well. Those two old folks were immigrants from Syria, tough and craggy like the very hills they came from. But, order the Baba Ganoush, and mama would waddle back to the kitchen and roast an eggplant over the flame of the stove. Soon after you could hear her pounding it into a purée in her wooden mortar. It would come out still warm, drizzled with fragrant olive oil and maybe some fresh pomegranate seeds.

That stuff was so far from what you get in the salad bar today that you would need a rocket ship to travel the distance. One of the few things that still can bring tears to my eyes is remembering the birth of my two little angel daughters; and, of course the Kibbee Shack. In no particular order of importance. Just kidding. The Kibbee Shack. Nah!

The Middle East is known for its hospitality and the epitome was the long gone Sheik Café in downtown Detroit. They welcomed you like family and I even once got a tour of the kitchen. The food, never equaled again. Once, when I wanted to treat my parents and brother to an excellent meal, it was The Sheik Café. My dad was smacking his lips with enjoyment.

Well, there was something that did go one notch better. A Lebanese Catholic church on the east side of Detroit that on Thursdays had a lunch in the church basement. For $2.00 you could have all you could eat of the very most lovingly prepared Lebanese dishes made with care by the ladies of the church. When they made kibbeh nayyeh, it was like you were there at the dawn of civilization. (Hey, Mark Bittman, ever had anything that good?)

I'm not going to give a recipe for kibbeh nayyeh. The Internet is chocked full. But, if you want kibbeh nayyeh, first sample the real deal. Find a Middle Eastern restaurant that is reputed to be of the highest caliber. The dish is made with raw lean lamb and you want to have some confidence that the chef is first cut, quality wise. Don't be put off with that "raw" part. It is absolutely the BEST! A desert island dish. If I could ululate, I would.

Here is some dessert. But, can she cook?

The following video has historic footage of the working assembly line at the Highland Park Ford Model T factory.

Johnny Carson Saw To It I Was Shushed

     In 1968, the year of its 100th Anniversary, I joined the J. Walter Thompson Advertising agency in New York City. My very first assignment was as account executive on the Singer account.

     In that role I was also involved with all the advertising that was produced and placed to promote the TV specials. Mr. Al diScipio was the President of the Singer Consumer Goods Division (sewing machines and other home appliances.) He was into show business and was the prime mover in prime time TV specials showcasing Singer’s advertising, such as Singer Presents Tony Bennett and Singer Presents Elvis. You can read about my Elvis sighting in another post.

     One such promotional event tied in with the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson on New Year’s Eve. That night Singer had all the network commercial spots for its commercials. A big promotional deal, for sure. There was also multi-media tune in advertising and full merchandizing “synergies” (big buzz word in the Ad Biz) in all the stores.

     Singer had already been a regular weekly advertiser on the Tonight Show; that was during the time when Ed McMahon would do the commercials live. I once attended a rehearsal for one of those spots. Ed seemed to be a bit of a prima donna; only just one quick read and only a special ad agency copywriter to deal directly with the talent. Egg shells everywhere. Careers on the line. Do not approach the talent yourself!

     My reason for being there that New Year’s Eve was to be sure that upon arrival at the ground floor entrance to NBC studio 6-B at 30 Rock Mr. di Scipio and his entourage would be seamlessly whisked up by elevator to the stage floor and seated promptly, no waiting; chop, chop. Star treatment. Any hitch and it would be my very life. Or, so I held it. I was the designated facilitator and NBC provided a small coterie of staff on their side.

     It did go well, in fact. Big Al was gracious enough to invite me and my lovely companion after the show to a night club to see Ella Fitzgerald. After the show he spoke privately with Ms. Fitzgerald. Maybe a potential deal for another Singer Presents.

     Remembering my one other time at the Tonight Show in NYC sometime in around 1969 - 1970. My then fiancé and I were sharing a little private moment together during the show, when this little old lady turns around and quite sternly shushes us.

     Well, what an honor! It was none other than Miss Miller herself!

     I do believe that second time was the best time. A charm.

The Michigan State Fair

I got the idea for this essay from the video for the song inserted at the end. So I will spare you the verbiage and get to it as soon as I can get there.

Yet, some words are indicated. "Bare" with me.

You know how as a grade school kid you probably looked forward to the summer recess? For me it was a time of exquisite longing. Just thinking about the coming THREE WHOLE MONTHS OFF! from classes filled me with giddy delight. And an aching longing of the most unendurable kind; when will it ever get here?

    

Capping the summers of fun was the State Fair. The Michigan State Fair is claimed to have been the first in the country, going back to 1849. In 1905 the State Fair got its permanent location in Detroit thanks to a group of citizens led by Mr. Joseph L. Hudson, the founder of that great and, alas, now disappeared eponymous J.L. Hudson Department Store. Hudson's rivaled Macy’s for size and was a wonderland for me. They had EVERYTHING. I could go on and on about my times in that store, but will save that for later. [Just a sneak peak... I had a big crush on Christmas Carol. I loved her from afar. She would arrive with Santa at the end of the Thanksgiving parade and climb onto the overhang platform at the store's main entrance. She was my Lady Gaga: the brightest red coat, white stockings, patent leather shoes and hair to match (the shoes, that is). Also, as pretty a thing that I had ever seen. She swept me off my feet. I had the experience one year after that parade of being swept along by a crowd. Not off my feet, thankfully. But close. Escaped, though.] Sadly, the flagship location in Downtown Detroit on Woodward Avenue was demolished in 1998.

    

The Michigan State Fair also ended, in 2009, due to spending cuts. But by then it was no longer the spectacle that I remember from my youth.

    

Being Michigan, and Detroit, the State Fair always saw a big show from the auto manufacturers. In my youth, that would be Ford, Chrysler, and General Motors. Any others, and imports, were strictly side shows. The difference from the annual Downtown Cobo Hall car show was that at the State Fair, it was a people’s show. The car models were all there to touch and sit it in. Hands on was the rule.

    

Of course, there was a lot of food. The two items that seemed to be regular staples for me were the French fries sprinkled with malt vinegar and the frozen custard. The fries were thin cut, crisp and the only time that I ever ate them with vinegar as a condiment. Delicious, but it didn’t fly in my parents’ home, so only once a year. The frozen custard is still something that I am always on the lookout for. Light and airy, rich and creamy; it was there before Dairy Queen and never equaled since; though DQ is still, as ever, a nice treat.

    

Also, there was the opportunity to look at all the farm animals up close and the farm equipment and all the displays of amazing new products. The slice it dice it Veg-O-Matic guy was always guaranteed to drop jaws at his speed and finesse. That, there, was a pitchman.

    

The State Fair was an important window on the world. I felt like some hick kid being exposed to the world of things outside the boundaries of my small town mentality. Not just the kind of exposure you get from books or watching television. At the State Fair you got hands on, direct contact. Up close with no adults hovering over to keep you in check. We crawled around the Michigan State Fair like the true explorers that we were.

    

If summer was the jewel of the year and the State Fair was the capstone of that season, then the midway was the ultimate experience, and a most indelible one. Besides the usual rides—no biggie, since we had the real deals all summer long at Jefferson Beach Park and Eastwood Park—there were the so-called attractions. Those money rakers each featuring a wise mouth barker on stage in front of hand painted signs promising the excellences and live oddities on view just on the other side of the curtain. Step right up, step right up! Tickets, please. But, as you may recall yourself, the reality never met up with the hype.

   

And, in the center of it all was the Girly Show. Live beautiful sexy ladies who will reveal for you all their secret charms. Also, just behind the curtain. For a price. For many years all’s I could do was stand there and listen to the barker and his tempting spiel and be filled with fantasy and nervous wonderment. Simultaneously full of Catholic-boy conflict between the fear that what would be just behind that curtain would guarantee me a swift trip straight to hell and the impossible to ignore delicious feelings of…of… all sorts. Sweaty palms. Does my nervous fidgeting show?

Well here it is. The Girly Show. The song, just wonderful. Step right up. Step right up! (It’s not over ‘til the fat lady smiles. Then, it ends unceremoniously. Let's go, folks. Make way for the next bunch (of suckers). Move along. That's right.)

xxx
Ad Biggies

And One Surprising Character

    
I was an Ad Biggie around the same time in which the Mad Men television series is set. 
     
It was the late 1960s, a little bit later than depicted in the show. By that later time people in the business were adjusting their lunch time drinking habits down to wine spritzers. My beverage of choice was a Campari and tall soda, squeeze of lemon wedge. Even so, there were still some pretty hard drinkers among us. I once had a lunch with one of those dyed-in-the-wool ad guys to celebrate an upward career move. Lunch at his club, and three generous martinis. I walked back to the office stiff as a zombie after the meal. Never again. Ouch. That sort of thing takes years of practice.
    
As you must know from Mad Men there was a terrific amount of cigarette smoking in the office. I was a cigar aficionado. The Nat Sherman No. 86 Panatela, natural wrapper, was my nail of choice. When you’re into smoking at the office as a more or less continuous feature of your work day, in that cloud of self-absorption it does seem to be an enjoyable experience. Until, however, when you decide to quit and have to live through the physical process of purging the built up tars and the taste of an ash tray from your system. At such a time you also get some appreciation for the suffering your smoke had on your co-workers. The former Mrs. Wronski used to tolerate my smoking at home. Never complained; that must have been a sign of true love. Although, I doubt that her complaints would have made any difference. She threw me out, finally. That made quite a difference. We sometimes have to learn the hard way.
    
The third wheel of the Ad Biz trilogy of decadence was, as they put it these days, “hooking up” with someone of the opposite gender at work. Correction, "from" work. "At" work; holly cow, you got to be crazy. Though I'm sure it has happened. Rich fodder for office gossip. I had my temptations as well. Human nature being what it is, I’m sure that is still out there, yet as they say… “Don’t dip your pen in the company ink well.” That’s always the best advice. Be strong, all you sexy beasts; keep strapped to those desks. Keep eyes on the screen at all times.
    
The advertising business, contrary to how it’s presented in the media, does in fact exact hard work and discipline. It’s not just some clever people lounging around drinking and smoking and copping feels dreaming up some clever little morsels to toss to the hoi polloi. That is, it wasn’t like that in the full service shops that I worked in. Creativity, to be sure, is an inspired art and needs some freedom to manifest. But in the commercial field, the professionals judge their product on results and formulate messages based on a clearly defined and researched communications strategy.
    
Even though the advertising industry is a fully professional enterprise, working with clients can bring out anyone’s self-promotion genes. There were more than a few such self-serving types in my time. Donald Trump comes to mind for no apparent reason since he was never in the game. But, he is a good (maybe too easy) prototype for the kind of person I am thinking about. Most of them we could see coming a mile away and they were the subject of not a little sniggering and put downs from their peers. Others play at getting ahead with good hard work. I fell into that latter aspirational group; but there are politics and you have to do your time in the barrel with the client from time to time. One reason for me to leave. Can you imagine having your livelihood on a daily bais at the mercy of whether or not your client is pleased? Most clients are professionals themselves, but in human relations, the demand to go along and kiss up does come along in every career. It is a very gradual process to arrive someday to the shocking realization that you have sold your soul for a bowl of soup.
    
I am remembering a fellow from my days assigned to the Singer Consumer Products (sewing machines and household appliances) account at JWT. We had both the advertising and publicity accounts with Singer. I once put my foot completely in my mouth by referring to publicity as “free advertising”. Not something your employer wants to hear you say to the client, since he is billing the client for hours as a publicist. In fact, publicity is not free advertising. Sure, the placement of a product or some information related to a product in the media is not paid for, as such (if it is, then shame on you); but, the leg work to get that publicity in print or on television does take a lot of professional doing.
    
The fellow I am recalling would usually be there when we had a big everybody to the table type meeting. He was ostensibly on retainer with the President of Singer as some sort of consultant. The basis for that relationship I never knew and you can speculate on what that might have been after you get to know the man yourself from the documentary that follows.
    
He was the kind of person I mentioned before. Clearly, a big talker and shameless self-promoter. He was a rather garrulous presence at meetings; assertive, full of confidence, and never at a loss for words and some clever comment. He gave me the impression that he was a getter and fixer with shadowy connections in high places. He was an intellectual and a bit of a philosopher.
    
It was he who submitted that the reason women were so involved with sewing was its metaphorical symbolism to the good old in-and-out: picture that sewing needle... thrusting, thrusting, thrusting; penetrating assertively, deeply, sliding into the folds of soft, yielding… Alright! Alright! We get it! We get it!
    
One other feature of the advertising business—probably any business for that matter—is that most of the people you work with you never see other than at the office. It was always quite a revelation and often surprising to meet your associate’s better half at some company function. Friendships are forged. I am still in touch with some of my old pals. But mainly, relationships stayed intra-mural and narrow. Probably one factor why I decided to leave the industry after I chose to live the holistic life and a path with heart. When you reflect on the amount of time you spend at a job, you begin to look at how much time that choice may be keeping you from a fuller life. I did. And, soon after, I was out of it. What followed is another story entirely. As the Pythons’ would say, “And now for something completely different.” Enough to say I became a Rolfer® A what?
    
So anyway, very recently here I am looking up some folks from my past Ad Daze. Speak about only having a narrow sense of your co-workers lives. The video you are about to see is an award winning documentary by the daughter of the fellow I mention.
    
 Who knew? And, if they did, what was in it for them?
    
As I said, you generally don’t get to really know the people you meet in business. In this one case, what has come to light is both intriguing but definitely shocking: Strong stuff. Be advised. (One of my colleagues from that era reported feeling very upset.)

The Marina Experiment…

Mature subject matter viewer discretion advised

The Marina Experiment from Marina Lutz on Vimeo.

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Nuts and Ducks and Caps and Scraps

I recently heard the great Tom Waits singing Coney Island Baby. It brought back some memories of the time I once lived in Brooklyn with two little baby girls who I called my own. They are all growed up now with little girls (and a boy) of their own.

When we were young together in that best of all boroughs, sometimes the ladies would go with Dad in the trusty Land Rover for excursions to explore new territories. "City safaris," as it were.

One such trip was to gather horse chestnuts. [When I was a boy there was a huge horse chestnut tree on our block. Each fall I would search the ground under that tree daily for fallen bounty. After peeling off the spiked shells, inside were the most beautiful deep chestnut brown fruits (“conkers”). I would polish them and stash them away in an old cigar box that I kept with all my other collected small treasures. Jewels to this young lad.]

In Brooklyn, so many years away from that chestnut tree on my block, I knew of a chestnut tree in the historic Greenwood Cemetery. It is a national landmark site planted with a vast collection of various species of trees. It’s dotted with a profusion of 19th century monuments and is the resting place of many of the rich and famous.

It was a brisk and somewhat overcast day. Perfect conditions to add a touch of a spooky vibe to the experience. What was truly spooky, terrifying really, was our encounter with a pack of dogs that was ranging through the grounds. They didn’t want anything to do with us, but they did pause to consider us there for a nervous moment.

We found that horse chestnut tree on a hill. After we had collected a good share of the mahogany brown nuts we took a little stroll down to the pond. When we got there we came across a lame duck. No, not a politician; but, a duck… that was lame. Our hearts went out and we gathered the frightened creature and brought it home to nurse it back to health. Time is the great healer and in a few days we came home to find that our little friend had flown the coop. Happy trails.

On another trip we drove all the way out to Coney Island for a walk on the beach. It was off season and none of the rides were operating. [One summer we had a 10th birthday party at Coney Island and the brave among us rode the fabled Cyclone. I remember seeing my younger daughter and two other girls sitting as cool as cucumbers in the seat in front of me; and me with two little girls in back, one screaming “DAVID, MAKE IT STOP!!!” All I could do was to be as reassuring as possible, since I was pretty shaken myself. "There, there; it'll be OK." A comment came from the front seat… “You two sounded like a soap opera!” And, EXCUSE ME! for not stopping the Cyclone just as it started dropping off the crest of that first big rise. Props to Claire. I hope you haven't been scared too seriously by our little adventure.]

Back on the cold beach. My daughters were [“Were,” hah! Still are.] silly and sassy little ladies. They each got into a competition to see who could comb the beach for precious presents for dear Daddy. But, typically, and gleefully, in reverse. The crummier and less significant the found object, the more fitting for their beloved Old Man. I didn’t know if they really thought they were giving me special treats or they were imbued with a wicked sense of irony. They never let on. I know the truth on that, but I will keep mum. Some mysteries are best left that way. “Why, thank you my little darlings, that is so wonderful of you.” Bottle caps, chips of driftwood, soft drink can tabs, green bits of glass rounded and polished dull by the sand and the waves. [One day when I met a living saint, I offered those shards of green glass. I wrapped them in a piece of lavender paper which was hand made from banana leaves. It was my way of asking God to look after my girls. And so it is.]

"All the stars make their wishes on her eyes..."

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My Coach

In the early 1960s during my undergraduate years I had the good fortune to go to college on an athletic scholarship. As a varsity fencer on the University of Detroit Fencing team. Go Titans! The épée was my weapon of battle. Mr. Richard Perry was my coach. 

As a fencer I was a middling performer. I did, however, win a gold medal in an individual tournament for unclassified fencers sponsored by the AFLA, Amateur Fencing League of America. There was also a tournament where my performance was the tie breaker. And I was the big winner at a restaurant at supper with my team mates once upon a time. More on my storied past later. But, all in all, not too shabby.

Below is a photo of me from the U of D 1964 Tower yearbook. Also, my good buddy Tom Kostecke. More about our exploits further along in this article.

Looking around in my history to find singular subjects to write about, I realize that Coach Perry was a very important figure in my education as an athlete and as a man.

Coach Perry was not just about training us to be successful competitive fencers (at which, by the way, he was a master teacher). But also, he held it equally his responsibility to us to build good character and to inculcate lessons on the enduring life values; things like sportsmanship, teamwork, integrity, optimism, good cheer, loyalty, confidence, self-respect, dependability, work ethic, and even how to eat like a gentleman at a fancy restaurant. I remember his inscription on my graduation year team photo, ever encouraging and reassuring that I could do anything I set out to do if I put my mind and heart to it. Thank you, Coach Perry. I’m getting there.

We even had some training in everyday diplomacy and tact in the face of adversity. On the many weekend trips for matches away from home turf, those who got to ride in the coach’s drafty station wagon were treated to the continuous production of richly scented smoke from his never ending supply of Brindley’s Mixture pipe tobacco. It’s a classic, still sold today. If you want to share the team’s experience driving through the cold night in the coach’s drafty car, get some Brindley’s Mixture and smoke a big bowl full in a small room seated next to an open window in the dead of winter. If you have one, a small fan blowing into the room will complete the experience.

Oh, and I think I remember that he had a preference for classical music. I’m sure he was completely convinced that he was doing a good deed and exposing his boys to the cultural refinements of life. Boys, however, will be boys. Suffice it to say, it was a combination of variables that tested a young man’s tact to the limit. But, youth is resilient. No one let on or complained. The team was too large to fit into one car, so we usually borrowed a dad’s vehicle or got a rental. There was a rather definite, if nuanced and tactful competition to ride in the second car. There, the rule was rock and roll and permission to speak freely. I remember once even interrupting the festivities for everybody to hear the latest new sensation on the car radio, The Beatles, coming in loud and clear in the night ethers from WBZ Boston.

Coach Perry was a rather tweedy fellow, professorially so. Besides the Brindley’s Mixture and the classical music on his car radio, a singular memory is the loden green Tyrolean felt hat, the kind with the cord band and the ornate panache with assorted feathers and boar bristle brush. The Coach I think prided himself in being resourceful, and I wonder if he in fact didn’t use that bristle brush to work up his shaving lather. I haven’t seen the old guy in a while and I wonder if he still sports that trademark fedora. I’ll bet, if he does, there are more than a few medals festooned on it.

I want to certainly credit the Coach for establishing the Fencing Team as enduring presence in the college athletic program. Football had been dropped from the athletic department and basketball ruled. [Dave Debusshere and Charley North were amazing in the early 1960s.] At the time in the early years of the fencing program the Athletic Department may not have been all that supportive, particularly financially. The coach I suspect did his battle with the higher ups and shielded us from the harsh realities of keeping fencing alive. Today the university is proud of its successful and dynamic fencing program. Thank you, Mr. Perry.

As I mentioned, we travelled to away competitions. Setting off on Friday afternoon, fighting the matches on Saturdays and back home by Sunday evening. From Detroit we travelled as far south as Duke University in Durham, North Carolina. West to Indiana, Iowa, and even up to Madison, Wisconsin. East to Oberlin and Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburg. North, not that far to go to meet Michigan State.

We arrived at Duke late one Friday evening. What a beautiful campus. Like the grounds of some medieval village it seemed to me. My buddy Tom Kostecke and I managed to get an after-hours tour of the chapel there. In fact, the organist who opened the locked door for us even played a little for us. It was like a dream being in that rare and exotic place. I believe they call it a chapel; it’s a cathedral really.

In one weekend we managed to have matches with the University of Iowa in Iowa City and Iowa State in Ames. One thing I remember about that trip was the breakfast at a truck stop. Words to the wise from the coach, “If you want a good meal, go were the truckers go.” All for something like $2.50 I had orange juice, coffee, a big glass of milk, oatmeal, eggs, hash browns, bacon and toast. Maybe even a slice of pie. I don’t recall exactly. Kids in college have bottomless stomachs.

In Indiana we once competed with Notre Dame. That may be a good school, but they are my most loathed of athletic opponents. They were arrogant and cocky coming onto the floor, during the match, and leaving. They were good and beat us handily. But keeping that game face on all the time. As hosts they were the worst. When you compete in sports, you get to know one another’s character. Notre Dame, not so much. I’m sure that some good souls must have matriculated from there, but then I think of Regis Philbin. (I kid.)

At the University of Wisconsin in Madison in my senior year I had my moment of crowning glory. In a collegiate team there are three weapons: saber, foil, and épée. They differ in weapon design, style of play, and body target areas. For each weapon there are three team members competing, a total of nine players on each team. Each competitor fights all three from the opposing team. That means there are 27 bouts, and the team that gets at least 14 wins the match.

At that match in Madison I remember having finished two of my three bouts with our team score on the cusp of victory at 13 to 8 or 9. Naturally, with only one bout needed to win the match I felt confident we would win and felt no pressure coming into my own last match. Well, as I sat there watching the play, the score kept changing, but on Wisconsin’s side only. Finally, and to my shock, we were at 13 to 13 with one match to clinch the tournament. And guess who that honor fell to: C'est moi. You have to know that I was not all that top a performer and my senior year was rather sketchy up until that point. But, remember I did hint that this would be my pinochle [or is it “pineapple,” Mr. Gorsey? This is an obscure cinematic reference which you either get or you don’t].

So here’s how it went. The épée is a weapon with an electrically actuated tip. A touche can be scored anywhere on the body. [Coach Perry insisted that the main target in épée is the wrist. It’s the closest vulnerable spot. Points can be scored anywhere else on the body; but if, for example, you are able to hit the chest, you’re just too close defensively.] The one place that a point can’t be registered is on the weapon itself. An epee has a large round guard (to protect that wrist, remember) and it gets a lot of hits there. So, before the start of the match the competitors have to check each other’s weapon to verify that the guard is grounded, won’t register if hit. During this transaction, my competitor—who I recall went to the NCAA fencing finals—gets real close and whispers, “I feel sorry for you.” My reposte, “Let’s fence.” He lost the bout right there and then. Trash talk is for pussies.

Because the match went down to the proverbial wire, with mine being the deciding bout, there was a good bit of jubilation with the win and after all the suspense. Coach Perry and I were carried off the floor into the locker room on the shoulders of the team. Nice, huh? In the locker room we enjoyed champagne. Tom Kostecke and I, buddies in crime, had secreted a bottle of the bubbly for just such an occasion. Speaking of crime, Tom went on to be a G-Man and is currently a Private Eye. I asked him why he wanted to get into that field and he said that he liked to get to carry a gun and wear a badge. Well, OK!

My weapon throughout my competitive carreer was the épée. But Coach Perry had the idea that because I was a big guy, the saber would also be a good fit. During one summer he gave me private lessons in the saber. A cardinal point in defense with the saber is to always come back to en garde with the guard of the weapon facing outward to your side. In that position any attack to that side is by default protected. I say that is a cardinal rule because the coach drilled on it on every move. Since it was summer and very warm, I wore a t-shirt not the typical thick protective canvas jacket. The other thing about the saber you should also know is that the blade is very flexible. Think, metal whip. So every time I would go back to the en garde position the Coach would come back with a solid whack to my defended side. I mostly got it about the importance of the ready position; but that flexible blade made it around more than a few times and I went home with a nice collection of welts as tangible reminders to, as they say, keep my guard up.

Saber of the three weapons most resembles a fight. To be good at it you have to be an aggressive fighter. I am quite sure that, without having said so directly, Coach Perry was also attempting in those taps on the shoulder to get my boil up. It takes a lot to unleash the monster that lurks in the heart of this good boy. I always say that my downfall was that I was a good boy. Now I realize that all of it, what in you is both good and bad, is there to be used. Appropriately so, to be sure; but all of it nonetheless.

It seems that in reminiscing about my days as a varsity fencer and Coach Perry, the road trips are prominent in my recall. As I said, the Coach was into the making of the whole man and we had our training in the social graces on every trip.

Each of us got a small stipend for expenses on each road trip. The Coach appreciated the good life and so we sought out the best restaurant in each town to have our team big night out. In Indianapolis we dined at the King Cole Restaurant and I remember enjoying a most decadent Strawberries Romanoff. Whenever we could we would stop at Win Schuler’s Restaurant in Marshall, Michigan. At Win Schuler’s you sat down to house appetizers of Swedish meat balls in gravy, a big celery/radish/olive plate, and that crock of spicy cheddar cheese spread. Lots of different kinds of breads. Some rolls got tossed around and the Coach was a good sport about that. College guys eat big. At the time at Win Shuler’s they had a deal that if you could polish off their generous cut of roast prime rib of beef, you could have another for free. I did. A champ at last.

One time in an unexpected and rather personal moment Coach Perry got me aside and made me promise that if I saw that as he aged he was becoming senile, I would say something.

Well, Coach… Keep on goin’, you’re lookin’ good.

PS
After attempting to get in touch with Mr. Perry through the Athletic Department at the University of Detroit Mercy I learned from the Athletic Director there that he had passed away in 2005. "...he is still remembered dearly by many and even has the Olympic Sports Hall of Fame area in Calihan Hall named in his honor."

I'm thinking again of his private lessons with me to make me into a saber man. And those whacks to the arm. As a teacher now myself I understand that there are lessons that are given, more in the doing than in the saying. I don't know what Coach Perry saw in me at the time, but his actions were, and still are, powerfully instructive to me in the broad life context.

Even then I knew that somehow those whacks to the arm to confirm my defense in the en garde position in saber had more in them than just drilling in correct form into muscle memory. I realize those slaps were attempts to open me to my inner strengths. In terms of saber, to tap into my aggressive and assertive power. In me, those strengths were held in check, bottled up, kept there from days of being a good boy, going along sometimes to the disregard of my inner message, and living under the rule of "children should be seen and not heard." As children we all have to learn to conform to the prevailing conditions. Hopefully, along the way, we have the fortune to learn from wise teachers how to live not only appropriately to the times and circumstances, but also authentically, true to our inner voice and true to the situation, clearly seen.

There is a quote from the Gnostic Gospels attributed to Jesus: "If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you." Not to make too much of a point about his excellence as a teacher, but the point has not been lost on me even after all these years.

In gratitude, Mr. Perry.


From Todd Dressell, Head Coach Men's & Woman's Fencing, University of Detroit Mercy:

David,

Thanks for your note. Your memories of Maestro Perry are very similar to my own.

When I started Fencing at Oakland University, I knew him as the “Old Man” from UDM. He comforted me during a competition when a strip accident resulted in my broken sabre going into my opponent’s leg. He was a very kind man. Later when I opened a fencing club, Maestro was the first man I called to get his advice and input. He taught me how to lead a team of fencers, how to be patient and wiley. He was a very clever man. I have a photo in our practice room it is a fencer Terrell Reber fencing at a home meet. In the foreground, there is Terrell, the coach at the time Roz Boghikian refereeing with several bouts going on up and down the arena floor. In the background, out of focus but unmistakable, is Maestro Perry; sitting on the bleachers with a fencer, hands in front showing/explaining something or another. In my fencing room he is always there, in the background. He always enjoyed the background, and watching the result of his teaching, guidance or engineered situations. He was a very wise man.

Me To Coach Dressell:

Yes, I remember, he liked "Maestro."

His arch rival during my time on the team was the coach at Wayne State University, Isvan Danosi. (He also passed away in 2005.) He was also called “maestro” by his fencers. A very flamboyant Hungarian gentleman who held himself with a kind of 19th Century noble bearing, thick accent. And, the exotic name to back it up. Maestro Danosi seemed to relate to Coach Perry as if on some higher plane. Maybe it was just his demeanor only. Even so, Mr. Perry surely must have felt his equal having that title “maestro” for himself.



Matzo Brei That Fits

Matzo Brie is a Passover dish that you shouldn’t pass over for anytime of the year. Literally, Matzo Brie means fried matzo.

I learned to make this excellent dish from the source. On Rivington Street, in lower Manhattan, from the ladies at Streit’s. Since 1925, so they should know from matzo, brei and otherwise. Not the ladies from 1925; the operation, Streit’s. But, come to think about it, I got my lesson from those old birds sometime around 1975, so maybe they were in fact originals from the beginning of the company itself.

If you ever want to see something that you will never see under any other circumstances, get a bunch of old Jewish women and ask them how to make a signature Jewish food. As with any group of culturally proud people, the ladies at Streit’s waged a subtle but obvious competition for who would be the one whose recipe would emerge as the one I would take away. Mind you, I had no entre there other than coming in to buy a box of matzos (or, is it “motzoi”?). Meantime, my then wife, the former Mrs. Wronski and my two little lovely daughters waited patiently outside in the trusty Land Rover 88. I think all they ever knew was that hubby/daddy was going into some store to buy some crackers. (The former Mrs. Wronski was from down South—DAR in fact—and I think of her every time I come within a five foot radius of a Saltine. That’s one salty cracker.) So now the full story will be known and, hopefully, passed on down to the grand kiddies.

I lived for a short time in South Miami Beach at the old Chesterfield Hotel. It’s still there, but not so old. In my time the hotel catered to Brazilian tourists, a crack whore and her pimped boyfriend, and Snow Birds from Canada. The latter were mostly Jewish folks, and the ladies (I don’t know if it’s a Jewish thing?), they also got into a competition over winning my heart with little bubulas (sweeties) of all sorts. But it was the dear Rose Edelman next door to my apartment in recalling whom as I write this brings heart shaped tears to my eyes. She invited me over to share her Passover Seder. No competition, just friends. She told me she had once lived in a Catholic convent in Brooklyn and made those hand crocheted borders surrounding holy pictures. I had her make me one for a small picture of my Guru. She also knitted me a meditation asana. I used it for some time then sent it back to her with the wish that it would be a comfort to her in her last days. God bless my dear Jewish Rose.

I also learned a fair amount of Yiddish apropos. Even a little bit of the Jewish soul may have rubbed off. Mostly, when someone says “how’r ya doin’?” the standard social grease is to say “fine.” But my Jewish soul cries out for something more human of an encounter, not just ships in the night. So now, when I hear “How are you doing?” you’ll hear me say “Ehh?” Or, if I’m in a particularly feisty mood, the truly soulful, “How should I be doing?” So call me pisher? I do try to be a mensch.

Matzo Brie, oh yes. I won’t go into the whole spiel. Ms. Martha Stewart has done the definitive coverage and it is appended to this recipe. (You call this a recipe, you are probably saying impatiently banging your spoon on the mixing bowl?)

Matzo Brei That Fits

I got that from the idea of kosher itself; i.e., fit to eat. Yes, a Jewish punster, I am.

Matzo Brei is made with matzo, water, whole chicken eggs (we are so foodish these days that you have to specify the kind of egg you be talkin’ ‘bout.), and a pinch of salt. That’s it.

Just be advised that there are as many variations on Matzo Brei as there are cooks, and the topic is as heated as a bowl of Chile at Terlingua. But definitely not so spicy. (Note to self, write the recipe for Polecat Chile I got from my Houston buddy John Geddie and served it at a block party in Park Slope, Brooklyn.)

So let me deconstruct Matzo Brei a bit. There’s the basic recipe that I’ve outlined above. From that you have to choose direction, sweet or savory. If sweet, then the key step would be—duh? (Winning!) some sweetener. A small dose of sugar for starters. If you want to go savory, then we add some ground pepper if you like (How many different kinds of pepper do you have in your pantry?) at least, and maybe some caramelized (formerly known as “browned”) thin sliced onion.

Those are the platforms for either the sweet or the savory kinds of Matzo Brei. I will defer to Ms. Stewart or that boychick Mr. Mark Bittman for the full elaboration of the many evolutions after that. (See appended videos below.)

But really keep it Jewish, keep it simple. We are all crossing the desert in a very real sense, but not maybe literally as in the Old Testament. Travel light.

Matzo Brei That (Finally!) Fits

Ingredients

Matzo… 2 whole square pieces per serving

Crush matzo into bowl by hand (Irregular size pieces are expected, to your liking. But not so small as a schtickle.)

Add ½ - 1 C hot water to moisten the matzo. Very important, not too mushy, not too dry. Think Goldilocks; just right. Practice makes perfect.

Eggs beaten… 1 jumbo egg per serving

Pinch of salt*

Preparation

Combine well

A shallow wide sided sauté pan

Frying

Use a pan sized appropriately for the serving size. The resulting “pancake” should be ½ to ¾ inch thick. (Single serving: 8”diameter pan, 2-4 servings: 10”, larger: 14”.)

Melt butter to active bubbling stage (About 6-7 mischigauss points on the butter bubblogaussometer, metric; ok, bubula? If you need a bubblogaussometer I sell them for $495 plus S&H in white, and off white, and off off white. $795 full tilt stainless. You won’t be disappointed.)

Pour the mixture into fry pan (It should go in as a loose heap that needs a little nudge to spread into a circular pancake/frittata kind of thing.)

Let it cook for a few minutes until the bottom is set and there’s a nice browning developed. Then, toyne** it over and finish the other side. Toyne it over: Here’s the trick. Be sure you have a hot pad and long sleeves in case there is some hot oil spill. Place a kitchen plate face down into the pan. Then invert so the half cooked Matzo Brei is now uncooked side down on the plate. Slide it back into the pan to finish the other side. It’s very easy, just do cover your arm when flipping half way through the cooking process.

Slide out the Matzo Brei onto a plate and serve immediately, if not sooner. Serve side B or side A; depends which looks better for serving. (Hey, let’s keep those kitchen secrets.***)

Enjoy! Eat! So you won’t be hungry.

Disclaimer: There seems to be also a divide about what your Matzo Brei should look like on the plate. We prefer the whole pancake treatment. Some do a scramble. The pancake is in our opinion the more elegant version. So, do as you will; but, boychick, you could make the effort.

*Just what the heck is a pinch of salt? I had a very prudish Aunty who would never conscience a “pinch” of anything, not even salt. Her husband was a seafaring man, an old salt, and he stayed out to sea for long periods of time. Always a smile to leave, very sober to return. No pinches at home, probably. But, for you sinners, a “pinch of” in kitchen parlance is what fits between your two fingers. About the same equivalent amount of sand that accumulates between your toes at the beach.

**There’s the story of Mr. Willigstein who at 85 wants to go to visit his long lost sweetheart in Miami. So he should have the peace of mind, he makes an appointment with Dr. Berger for a complete, state of the art check up. “Vell, Mr. Willigstein, we have completed all your tests and I am happy to tell you that you, you are a poyfect specimen. Go to your haneybunch in Miami. Mozel tov. No sooner does the ecstatic man leave when the nurse frantically barges into the doctor’s office, “Dr. Berger, Dr. Berger. That Mr. Willigstien who just had his check up. He, he, dropped dead right outside your office door. What should we do?” “Oy vey! It's 'Stein, Stein', not 'Stien!'” Then a little pause and some chin rubbing… The good doctor solemnly pronounces his prescription, “Vell, foyst we toyne him a-r-r-round, so he looks like he’s comin’ in!”

***A fine lady who I once knew, Geraldine by name, told the story of one Thanksgiving dinner when the maid, to much excited anticipation, brought the beautiful big turkey out of the kitchen into the dining room. As soon as she cleared the door she slipped and the golden fowl fell right on the floor. Flags were down for that foul. Without skipping a beat, Gerry said “It’s ok, just pick it up and take it back to the kitchen. And, then bring out the other bird.” (Kitchen secrets.)