Helping mom - hello Norman Jordan - latop arrives from au Canada

My front porch railing after our ten inches of snow

Don't you love the silence after a snow storm? We have very good neighbors who take c/o each other. Patrick shoveled me out and I emailed him a thank-you. Hey, the next time I go to the Giant supermarket I can get him and "the wife" a bottle of vino.

Nothing makes my mom happier than when I drive over and "go through her papers" with her. For many years I resisted doing this; I think neither of us were really ready for the finality of acknowledging precious papers from mom's past and then tossing them out for good. Mom is 88.

After the snowfall, the roads were clear enuf to drive 10 minutes up Byberry Road to her house.

My father was a prolific letter writer. Several years ago I had one of his typewritten letters framed and it's hanging on my stairwell, along with a pencil stilllife - garlic press, stand-up box grater, can opener -Sarah did in high school. Who knew that she'd grow up to be a superb chef? Not to mention, oy veh, her mother's potential kidney donor.

Here's my dad when he served in Cuba. He made friends with a Jewish family named the Ojalvos. I told mom to throw out their letters, sight unseen. Goodbye Susana Ojalvo! She became another man's wife.

And apparently lives in FL, where we used to visit yearly when we were growing up. She is now Susana Ojalvo Bleckman.

Ole!

When last I went to mom's she was in fine form. Telling her I forgot my reading glasses, she selected one of half a dozen pairs lying around the kitchen. She insisted on washing them for me.

I began to silently go nuts. All I wanted to do was give her an hour of paper-sorting, not go thru her Jewish cleansing rituals. Laboriously, she puts a drop of Dawn on each friggin lens - patience, Ruthie, patience - and sterilizes them while I'm pacing back and forth in the vestibule, looking at her family photos such as the one of herself and her late brother Uncle Donny.

Finally we go up into her bedroom. She tells me where to sit. It's in a horridly uncomfortable chair next to her bed, the same location of chair where I used to sit when visiting my dying father for 9 months till he expired at 59 of a brain tumor. I did not like sitting in this chair and quickly moved to the foot of her bed. She tried to tell me what position to put my legs in but I told her I was comfortable the way they were.

Now comes the meaty part: her sharing papers she had already gone thru but wanted my 'okay' to either throw them away or take home w/me.

First there were the pages from the Cleveland Jewish News she's been saving for me since the Spanish Inquisition.She showed me an article from 2002 where the daughter of Leonard Bernstein was interviewed. Lenny would come home from a concert in the middle of the nite and meet his daughter in the kitchen. He was starving and would open up his favorite snack food: a jar of baby food. Veal was his favorite.

Mom and I got a kick outa that. Neither of my parents went to college but they were smart enuf to take their family to some great cultural events such as:

Van Cliburn tickling the ivories
The Bolshoi Ballet
The King and I with Yul Brynner

Going thru mom's papers makes mom feel important and that her life has been meaningful. They are sacred to her. Her own special Torah. And ya know what? I feel exactly the same way.

During WW2 my dad, who would be 89 today were he alive, served at Guantanamo Bay. A Marine staff sgt, his motto later in life was "I'm tough as nails." He also told us kids Never point a gun at someone unless you plan to kill them. (We had play cowboy pistols in those days.)

He was trained to be a Paymaster since he was a fast typist. Mom pulled out an inch-thick sheaf of instructions on how to do the job. It had a silver clip on top, slightly rusted. I sadly gave the okay to 'toss it' but tore out a spelling test he took. Here's the first column:

In upper corner he wrote his rank: Private.

Dad's handwriting in later years was illegible but for the test he carefully printed each word.

Here are some poems by Norman, said mom.

Norman? I asked. You mean Bunny's husband, Norman?

No, said mom, I suppose he's dead. You know who I mean, the other Norman.

I had no idea who she meant.

Oh! I exclaimed looking at an article from a black newspaper. Norman Jordan!

A very long time ago, back in the mists of our memories, Dad took us to the all-black Karamu theater in Cleveland. Norman Jordan, who was in his twenties at the time, had written a play that was produced at the Karamu.

He came out onstage before the play and thanked my father for his encouragement.

I told mom I'd find Norman and send him the papers.

Sure enuf, the Internet quickly divulged his presence and I sent him an email.

Norman had worked at Majestic Specialties, Inc., where my dad was general manager. On his management team - which included Morty Shesol, Alan Schonberg, Harold Wittes, Shelly White, Harvey Siegelman, Gene Hexter - he hired blacks like Beryl Pinckney and Paige Sumpter Jr. Beryl, in particular, had a terrific personality. Wonder where they are today.

Norman Jordan today

"His Pen is a Sword - Writing his Armor" - article about Norman Jordan in one of Cleveland's black newspapers

Ad for a go-go bar on reverse side. Hmm, I wonder if that apartment is still for rent. If you wanna call, be sure to dial the 216 area code.

Norman's ms. for Sound Transactions and Other Poems, c. 1965

DHL delivery of my new laptop from Toronto

And that's it for now, kids!