THANKS A BUNCH

Upon hearing about our robbery, W.S.’s entire family was so thankful we weren’t murdered in our beds, that they decided to exorcize all bad vibes by having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I would cook the turkey, and they would provide everything else.

Our kitchen was very small, so when the oven door was completely open, I was pinned against the wall. I had never used the oven nor roasted a turkey, but how hard could that be? I jammed a 25 pound bird into the oven, closed the oven door and proceeded to set card tables with my best wedding gift dishes and glassware. W.S. said, “It’s going to be cramped,” and I yelled, “Cozy! The word is cozy.”

My in-laws arrived first, and my mother-in-law pulled sweet potatoes and stuffing out of a suitcase. Their car hadn’t started, so they had to take a commuter train and taxi. She said, “We had the best smelling suitcase on the train.”

Soon, aunts, uncles, cousins, and a few people I had never seen before, began to arrive. The men mumbled their hellos, and headed for our diminutive television set, which usually provided more snow than God, but anything would do for football. And, to my horror, the women all descended upon my kitchen. It was wall-to-wall bosoms, and I could barely move. When I shouted, “Help! They all thought it meant, “help.”  Happily, W.S. herded them into the living-dining-bedroom areas and gave them orders to stay there until the turkey came out of the oven.

Braced against the wall, I opened the oven door, and was greeted by a blast of hot air. It was then, that I realized, that jamming a cold turkey into a small space was very different from trying to wrestle one out of an iron box that is hotter than blazes, and if I used potholders, there was no wiggle room. “Everything, okay in here?” asked W.S. Seeing tears streaming down my face, he said, “I guess not. What’s the problem?”

“Can’t get the fowl out of the oven,” I sniffled. Seeing my dilemma, he said, “Not to worry. I can handle this. Where do you have the big forks?” I handed him the big forks, and he said, “Stand back.” Whereupon my dear husband stabbed the bird, yelled, “Ouch! That’s hot!” And proceeded to toss it over his left shoulder and onto the floor.  At that, Aunt Blossom started to open the door, pushing the turkey into the corner.

“Don’t ruin the surprise,” shouted W.S. as he began a door pulling contest with hefty Aunt Blossom who shrieked, “I used to diaper you.” I don’t know what that had to do with anything, but think it was s cry for respect. She finally stopped pushing on the door, and we placed the turkey on a platter---dusty side down. W.S. and I ignored the, “”Delicious but unusual taste” comments, and felt that our dinner was an unqualified success. But now came cleanup time. Not being used to washing dishes in a sink, Aunt Blossom snapped six stems off my crystal glasses. Uncle Meyer knocked over a lamp, but no one fell out of a window, so I considered myself lucky. 

While the women were yakking in the kitchen and the men were shouting at the television set, the phone rang.  “Hello,” I said. The only reply was heavy breathing. “Hello,” I repeated.

“What are you wearing, Baby?” was the reply. I looked at my dirty apron and yelled, “You schmuck! I have a house full of glass-breaking relatives, had to pick a turkey off the floor, and my mother-in-law arrived with sweet potatoes in her suitcase. I’m not wearing a smile.” Before I slammed down the receiver, I bellowed, “Call back later!” I think I ruined his Thanksgiving, because I never heard from him again.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

WHOSE JOINT IS THIS ANYWAY? (Part Two)

“We’ve been robbed!” The first thing we noticed missing was our television set. The next thing was our wedding recording. They had stolen our entire vinyl record collection, and among the records was a recording of our wedding. “Well,” said W.S. trying to cheer me up, “I certainly hope that one of those crooks understands Hebrew or they’re going to miss the best parts.”

They obviously didn’t want our old furniture. Hell, I didn’t want our old furniture, but one of the criminals had taken a fancy to the clothes in W.S.’s closet, which was completely empty except for one jacket and one pair of trousers that didn’t match. My clothes hadn’t been touched, but the drawers had been ransacked. The police reckoned that they were probably kids and only took things they could use themselves. That made me feel a whole lot better, because I didn’t think my taste in clothes was all that bad.

Two tired looking policemen had arrived several hours after we called and reported the robbery.  I asked them, “Who do you suppose did this?” Looking around our little dingy apartment, one of them replied, “Haven’t got a clue, Lady.” “Aren’t you going to take fingerprints?” I asked, as they were about to leave. “Don’t think so,” was the answer. “Nobody died here.”

“What do we do now?” said W.S. “Take inventory,” was the best advice the policeman could give. He also told us that for insurance purposes we had to report the crime at the police station, and that the closest station to our home was the Halsted Street precinct. So the next day, we drove there to report the dastardly deed. Neither one of us had ever been in a police station, let alone a station like this one. The building was foreboding, and the activity inside made the French Revolution look like a Sunday school picnic.

People were shouting and pushing and cursing and running and bleeding, and we couldn’t tell which ones were the cops and which were the criminals. I suggested, “Let’s look for a uniform---preferably not the skinhead over there dressed like a Nazi.” We finally found a detective who took pity on us, gave us the proper paperwork, and sent us on our way.

The next day we read in the newspaper that a ring of dishonest cops had been exposed. They had besmirched the good name of the entire hardworking police force when caught burglarizing apartments along the Outer Drive. Our buddies at the Halsted precinct were not involved, but from that day on, whenever W.S. wore his mismatched outfit, he proudly claimed that he was wearing his “police rejects.”

I began browsing apartment ads. As soon as this lease was up, I had decided, we were going to move---one more time.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

WHOSE JOINT IS THIS ANYWAY? (Part One)

There was a very large federal prison on the outskirts of my hometown, and my father felt it humane to occasionally visit with the three incarcerated Jewish inmates. Usually, he would drag a few reluctant men from his congregation along with him, but it was difficult to find volunteers, as most people want to stay out of prison rather than to go in.

Two of the inmates were brothers, who, when they were nineteen and twenty years old, decided to hold up a bank in a small town on the commuter railway line. Since they didn’t have a car, they got off the train, held up the bank, caught the next train back, and were picked up by the police at the other end. Proving that no matter what their mothers think---all Jewish children are not gifted. The other inmate, “Boom, Boom Julius,” was a reputed bagman for the mob.

Before we became engaged, W.S. thought it would be a nice gesture to ask my father for my hand in marriage. I was a bit concerned when he didn’t show up at the appointed time, but found out later that he had been home throwing up. The thought of marrying me obviously wasn’t as daunting as facing my father.

When he rang the bell, Dad answered the door, grabbed W.S., yanked him inside, and yelled, “Congratulations, Son! Do you want to go to prison?” That took some explaining, but W.S. did agree to accompany his future father-in-law. It was, as the boys inside would say, “an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

The three prisoners congratulated W.S. on our engagement and asked if they could come to the wedding. Dad said, “If you can get out, you can come.” I was later told that they had placed an announcement of our forthcoming nuptials in the prison newspaper; an honor not afforded most brides.

When Boom, Boom discovered that he and W.S. came from the same hometown, he asked, “Do you know Morty Ross?” W.S. came from a very small, industrial town in Indiana. Everyone knew everyone else. His uncle had gone to high school with Morty Ross, but how should W.S. answer this question?

This posed a dilemma. If W.S. answered, “Yes,” would Boom, Boom kiss him on both cheeks or on the lips? Boom, Boom was a scary guy. The tip of his nose touched his cheek. Someone must have put it there. And how did Boom, Boom get his nickname? Did he play the drums as a child---or was it something much worse? W.S. didn’t want to know, nor did he want to find out, so he said, “No, I never heard of Morty Ross.” Losing interest, Boom, Boom Julius shrugged, smiled and said, “Well, maybe the son-of-a-bitch is dead,” as he walked away.

I don’t know if the bank-robbing brothers ever got out of prison, but I heard years later that Boom, Boom had been released and returned to his home town. I never did find out what he did in his retirement. Thanks to my Dad, that was W.S.’s first brush with criminals. His second encounter was the botched break-in of the trunk of our car. But obviously not just good things come in threes. Soon we would experience one of the perks of big city living---an honest to God, Chicago burglary. Bad things don’t just happen to other people.

Returning home from a weekend in the country, we walked into our apartment. I switched on the light, and W.S. growled, “We’ve been robbed!” It was hard to tell at first, because my husband wasn’t the neatest kid on the block, but he recognized immediately that this mess wasn’t his.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006.

THE STRAIGHT POOP (Part Two)

Hank grabbed a bottle of champagne and said to W.S. and me, “Let’s the four of us have a private toast before the wedding.” “But, you’re not supposed to see the bride are you?” I said. “Don’t worry. We can do this without me seeing her,” he replied. “Follow me!”

He led us up the stairs into a bedroom and then into the adjoining bathroom. “Shut the door,” he whispered. Then Hank stepped into the oversized bathtub and knocked on the wall. It was then that I noticed the hinges and the secret door on the other side of the tub. “Get in,” he said. “There’s plenty of room.” So, W.S. in his tuxedo and I in my chiffon dress, climbed into the tub.

“What is this?” asked W.S. Hank replied, “Elsa had a nanny when she was growing up. The nanny’s room was on the other side of the bathtub, so Elsa’s Dad had this secret door cut into the wall in case Elsa needed her nanny in the middle of the night. That way nanny could get to Elsa without disturbing anyone else.” “And arrive clean,” W.S. added, but Hank ignored him as the door opened, and Elsa stuck her head into the bathroom.

“What do you want?” she asked. Hank said, “I thought we’d have one toast before the big event.” “Okay,” she replied, “But you can’t see me. Just hand me the glass.” Well, it was extremely good champagne, and who can drink just one glass of extremely good champagne? True to his word, Hank didn’t peek around the door, but kept filling the glass of the extended gloved hand from the other side.

Thirty minutes had passed and by this time, Hank, W.S. and I were comfortably getting pickled in the tub, when Elsa’s mother barged into the bathroom and shouted, “What is going on here? Over one-hundred people are sitting in my living room waiting for a wedding, and you are---you are—What are the three of you doing sitting in the bathtub?” Then she spied the door above the tub slowly closing, and wailed, “Elsa are you getting married or what?”

From the other side of the door we heard a muffled, “Yes, Mama. I am definitely getting married.” Elsa’s mother left the bathroom as we clambered out of the tub, and Hank tapped on the door, “Are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine,” Elsa giggled. “This is going to be one hell of a wedding. I love you, Hank. I love you W.S. and I love you too, Kiddo---dog shit and all!”

It turned out to be a pretty nice wedding. The bride was reasonably sober, the groom was happy, and the parents were relieved. However, when I got home, I threw out those shoes before I entered our apartment. The best man made me do it.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

THE STRAIGHT POOP (Part One)

Sitting on a hillside, eating fried chicken and drinking beer, on a sunny day sounds like a lot of fun, until you add auto racing into the mix. Once the chicken and beer have been consumed, it is really boring to wait for the next gaggle of cars to zoom around the bend. If you are slapping a mosquito, you might miss them, and then you have to wait until those autos come around again---and again---and again.

Hank was a new friend W.S. had met at work. He was a former racecar driver, and thought it about time we become exposed to his favorite sport. I was surprised that W.S. had succumbed to this invitation, but we liked Hank and his fiancée Elsa, and W.S. was to be the best man at their wedding, so how could we refuse.

Their formal wedding was to be held at Elsa’s parent’s home in Kenilworth, a very exclusive suburb in Chicago. Mother-in-law, Fannie came through again. She gave me the peach colored chiffon dress she had worn to her niece’s wedding in Los Angeles. With minor alterations, it fit perfectly, and all I had to buy were some peach colored shoes.

Six weeks later, we arrived at Elsa’s parent’s home in Kenilworth. We parked on the street, not realizing that we’d have to hike a half-mile to the house. Also, there were no lights along the driveway, which kept it very private and exclusive. Taking my hand, W.S. kept saying, “We’re almost there.” “How do you know?” I whined, “I can’t see a thing.”

“Well, there has to be a house in here somewhere,” he replied. “Do you want me to go back and get the car?” “No,” I moaned, “I’m not going to stand here in the dark by myself.” Finally, we spied the glimmering lights of the house, and W.S. groaned when he saw the parking attendants. The driveway looked like a Mercedes dealership. “Now aren’t you glad we walked,” he said. “Right,” I replied. “We saved a bundle on tips.”

Elsa’s father opened the door and greeted us warmly. As I limped into the house, I was dazzled by the opulence. Everything was white---white sofas, white chairs; glass tables decorated with white accessories, and magnificent white, lush carpeting. It was like walking into a blizzard. As Elsa’s father took my wrap, he looked down at my feet and froze. Then everyone in the room looked at my feet and froze. Did I miss something here? Were we playing, Simon Says? Then I looked down.

There on the white, lush carpeting were my petite, but extremely brown, footsteps. With a little scream of greeting, Elsa’s mother entered the room, but composing herself, she said, “I told the gardener to pick up after those damn dogs! Take off your shoes. Hiram will clean them for you.”

I wasn’t sure who Hiram was, but I was relieved to step out of my shoes, which were both pinching and smelling bad by this time. I gingerly handed my semi-peach shoes to Elsa’s father, and he invited us to step into the adjoining white room. I hesitated, but was relieved when he added, “You too.” In thirty minutes, not only were my shoes returned unscathed, but also the carpeting was miraculously restored to its undefiled state.

Hank grabbed a bottle of champagne and said to W.S. and me, “Let’s the four of us have a private toast before the wedding.”

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006