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feet - die Füße
Over the years, I have shared some of the stories and memories of my childhood. Overall, I had a good childhood. I had parents that loved me, a home, adventures, security, friends and a dog named Chava.
My parents did what they thought was best and tried their hardest - even with mistakes (as a parent, I understand those now more than I ever did). Like all, there were traumas, maybe less than many, more than some. I understand that, and it has always been my responsibility and choice how and when to share those, as I see fit.
As an American Jew growing up in predominantly non-Jewish communities, even that had its consequences. For the first ten years of my life and the first 13 of my parent's marriage, we lived in a small town all the way out in the Eastern part of Long Island. At school, there was a handful of kids who quietly had a portion of their family that was Jewish. I was the only child that was practicing. In addition, my father was the only Jewish school teacher to get tenure (at the time) in our town of Southold.
He got tenure because they did not realize he was Jewish. He had worked there for many years and it wasn’t until he had married my mother and a few years into their marriage that the local ladies asked my mother what her family thought of her being married to a man that wasn’t Jewish. My mother, who wore her very Jewish Bronx life on her sleeve, looked at them and asked, “What makes you think that he is not Jewish?” They all looked at her and said, “Because we don’t have any Jewish teachers. We get them out.”
My mother owned a store in the small seaport town adjacent to Southold. Picture the town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. That was the quaint town that Norman Rockwell made the center of his canvas and brought small town New England to life for the rest of the country. Greenport, Long Island would have looked like that, but the seaport version.
For New Yorkers now, it is a weekend escape. It is the “other Hamptons.”
However, growing up - only potato farmers and fishermen strolled these streets and entered the small stores. Several of the stores were owned by Jewish merchants. My mother owned, “The Clothes Locker for children and eventually a ladies lingerie store; Rosemary owned the ladies clothing store called Rosemary's Baby (yes, there was a family connection to the book/movie) and then there was the Arcade.
The Arcade was what would have been called a 5 and dime. Basically, you could get shoes (or you could walk to the corner and to a larger selection from Mr. Brandy’s shoe store), coloring books, hot plates, fishing rods, candy… you get the idea. If I close my eyes, I can still see the dusty wooden floors, the shelves flowing over with tchotchkes and other items needed or not. Mr. and Mrs. Brown owned that store. As a young child, they seemed old, my guess - they were probably in their late 50s at the time. (Which for the record is not feeling old anymore - at all!!!!) My paternal grandmother lived with us and worked at the children store, while my mom ran the lingerie store. The Arcade was in the middle. And the sleepy port town meant - many afternoon chats at any of the above mentioned stores.
I distinctly remember, one story my mother repeated. It was by Mr. Brown as he would recall the years prior. In those years, the KKK would march down the main street. No one stopped them as they marched for all their hatred. (The large African American and the small Jewish community were the main target.)
He would describe the experience of standing there as they took to the streets. He would also mention that the next day he would pass his neighbors and ask them how they enjoyed marching. They would be shocked and ask him how he would know or deny it. He never said anything to them, but he knew.
He knew because of the denials of tenure to the Jewish teachers in the local towns. He knew because of the refusal of the local pharmacist to serve my father when I was a baby and needed a special formula. (Eventually, it was agreed that my father’s friend would order and pick up the required formula.) He knew because if you got really sick, you hoped you still had a relative elsewhere that would host you while you needed medical treatment. (My mother refused to give birth there and moved back to the Bronx until after I was born. And we also transported my grandmother away from town, when she required brain surgery). He knew because often the kids were beat up because they didn’t celebrate Christmas.
But mostly, he knew because of the shoes. Since there were only two stores in the town that sold shoes, he knew every foot that bought a pair of shoes in his store and which foot bought the shoes in Mr. Brandy's shoe store window. He knew by the way the various shoes showed signs of wear and which soles were worn down and on which foot.
And so as they marched their terrible march, he looked at their feet. He knew what their eyes and their signs said. It was the feet that he measured and found the perfect color and size for them days prior - that mattered.
That way, he knew who to never step foot near after a town celebration that served alcohol and their inhibitions were lessened. He knew which repairman to ask to his house or the synagogue. He knew whose child would not ask his daughter to celebrate their birthday. He knew which doctor was safe. He knew which police officer would take the correct report if there was damage after a hurricane. He knew which funeral home would be used by the synagogue.
He knew…
And 40 years later, we know too.
The current presidency has allowed one difference.
The hoods are off.
They march proudly on the streets.
With less than two weeks left, I hope we all vote like our lives and those of our neighbors lives are at stake.
Because they are...