Who's Crying Now?

Mendush

She went back to the room where it happened to check on Edan. He was her first son and the first grandkid of the family. The little guy was resting comfortably, albeit from the induced nirvana of sucking on a cotton plug soaked in sweet Manischewitz wine. That’s standard operating procedure after having a brith milah, the thousands of years old ritual circumcision which all Jewish males experience when eight days old. Edan was not alone in the room peacefully zoning out in artificial bliss,  standing by the window looking out was his grandfather, Mendush. Edan’s chest was rising and falling rhythmically, Mendush’s not so. His was shaking erratically. The family patriarch was crying. Mendush crying? - those two words should not even appear in the same sentence. It’s oxymoronic. But nevertheless, the patriarch was crying.

What elicited this out-of-character behavior? Everyone found Mendush irrepressible, fun loving, and quick with a joke. But crying?, no. As a boy back home in pre-war Poland Mendush was  deemed a gonif, literally a thief, but in the affectionate form, gonif is a lovable rascal, mischievous at times but never with mal intent. That’s the Uncle Mendush I always knew and loved.  

my Uncle Mendush on the far right,

my father at the top center

circa 1930s

His rascal-ness was to prove more than a quirk, it was a life saver. In 1940 after the Wehrmacht goose-stepped into town, Mendush and my father, his older brother, were soon rounded up, subjected to abuse, then deported for forced labor. Having a touch of  gonif-ism helped keep the brothers alive until liberation five years later. Had it not been for Mendush’s periodic ‘organizing’ to find a potato or other food scrap, my father always said he wouldn’t have survived the deprivations of those years. 

But why was Mendush crying? 

Looking back, the euphoria of freedom at war’s end quickly tempered with realization that of his family of five, only he and his brother remained. And of their grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, twenty in total, a mere three lived to see the sun on VE Day. Fortunately three other family members had previously emigrated to the US settling in Brooklyn and the Bronx. With the birth of his new grandson Edan, something unimaginable when first standing in the ashes of the Holocaust, Mendush gazed through the window and was suddenly overwhelmed with pent up emotion. For a few moments as he and Edan joined for some quiet time, he was not the gonif we knew. He was the scarred branch from a tree stump whose other branches had been hacked away. Against all odds, he witnessed emergence of a new green shoot. Call it Edan.  

  

 

 In Nirvana

............................................

Mendush speaking to university students 

in Frankfurt, Germany

2009

Making the motzi blessing on the challah 

at my son's wedding

2004

………………………………………………………

NB: I started composing this post before an unthinkable calamity struck in Israel on the recent holiday of Simchat Torah. Early in the morning of October 7th the world awoke to news of the most lethal attack on Jews since the Holocaust ended seventy five years ago. Never Again became Yet Again. That morning Hamas terrorists emanating from the Gaza Strip breached border barriers in southern Israel and perpetrated an orgy of cold blooded murder, rape, and kidnapping, while capturing the entire assault on camera. The attack shook not only citizens of Israel but sent shock waves of disgust, anger, and fear through Jews everywhere. My parents, uncles, aunts, and relatives of their generation, all Holocaust survivors, are gone now. I can’t fathom how they might have reacted to this gut-wrenching trauma. Given the latent PTSD they all carried from their blackest of days, in a way I’m relieved  they weren’t with us to witness this most heinous Yet Again outrage.

............................................................................

Visit my web site anytime to view other blog-posts, Galleries of photos, and Photo-essays.

Then kindly share on social media. Thank you.

Time to Go

“When … the … moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, … that’s amoré”

‘That’s Amoré’ - lyrics by Harry Warren 1953

In the 50s, aside from his comedic shenanigans partnering with slapstick sidekick Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin was famous for crooning this classic pop hit. So whether it’s Neapolitan, deep dish Chicago, or New York style, pizza is on the short list of everyone’s favorite comfort food. In That’s Amoré, the pie was deemed a lunar projectile delivering a payload of love. Tapping onto pizza’s versatility, I made use of it as modeling a life in transition, mine. 

How so, you ask? Here’s the scenario…..

Once the exit strategy for closing out my forty year career in periodontics was set, I needed a way to break the news to patients. Many of them had faithfully been coming to my office since Day One. Even those with fewer years of allegiance believed my staff and I would be there, like forever, and wondered what’s next for me.  

Maureen, Ana, Me, Deborah, and Rosemary

The answer I gave was to consider my whole persona as a pizza with three slices - one for professional pursuits, i.e., practice and teaching, a slice for expressing artistry, primarily photography, and one devoted to family and community. With career retirement approaching, the size of the practice slice would begin shrinking. But guess what, the other two slices would get bigger. When the practice door eventually closed signaling Time to Go had arrived, the two other slices would then comprise the whole enchilada, or pie in this case. My Chapter II Encore would then officially begin. Of course this new pie would still be divided into more pieces as additional slice options undoubtedly presented. 

  

Sometimes Time to Go arrives in a much shorter, less mathematical fashion. 

Sylvie

Special moments with my granddaughter Sylvie after a weekly pre-school class come to mind. At school, just before the closing bell sounded, kids would sit cross-legged in a circle for a parting song. Then with a “so long for now” to her beloved teacher, we went for lunch at Sylvie’s favorite place, Bertuccio’s, aka Bertucci’s to most folks. No need for a menu, her regular lunch choice - kid’s pizza, chocolate/vanilla Hoodsie & wooden spoon, lemonade (always cut with water to avoid an afternoon sugar buzz), and  crayons for placemat embellishing. You might think that with all cheesy parts of pizza consumed and Hoodsie scraped clean, it was time to call for the check and head home. 

It wasn’t. 

As long as unadorned areas of placemat remained, there was always more coloring to do. And there was still more. With our weekly lunchtime ebbing away, Sylvie pivoted attention to the scattered arcs of now cheese-free pizza crusts. Once all were carefully placed on the pie plate’s perimeter and transformed into a ‘carbohydrate clock with big and little hand crayons', we knew then it was Time to Go.

Arrivederci. 

Twelve ten or two PM? - either way it was Time to Go

***************************************** 

Special thanks to my friend Gail for reminding me of the pizza slice story during a recent dinner get together with other good friends.

Visit my web site anytime to view other blog-posts, Galleries of photos, and Photo-essays.

Then kindly share on social media. Thank you.

Context

 ‘Hello, from the other side’

Although a favorite, this image of mine 

is not among the winners of 2022’s 

World Nature Photography Awards

My friend Ron (the name has been changed to protect the innocent) is an accomplished photographer and sports an impressive collection of high end cameras. He also regularly surfs the web for postings of photographic interest, then sends them to his select list of fellow enthusiasts. Postings include: must see exhibits, write ups about renowned, and some lesser known photographers who are nonetheless masters of the craft, plus images from winners of various major competitions. It’s kinda like a digital clipping service. The most recent ‘clipping’ showcased Winners of the 2022 World Nature Photography Awards. To say the images were beyond stunning is an understatement. In fact many seemed to be CGI (computer-generated imagery) plucked from films like Oscar celebrated Avatar: The Way of Water, and not majestically captured visual micro-snippets of time. 

That said, the winning images didn’t move me, my jaw didn’t drop, nor did they tweak my core! On the other hand, this simple image of a tot’s fire chief pair of boots does reach deep inside me.  

Question: How come?

Answer: Context

My #1 grandson wore these happy yellow boots when he was three. I captured the image over a decade ago from a ‘way down at his level’ position. I remember the time well, while reminiscing the special moments we were about to share working together to clear snow off our deck. But of all the images I’ve ever recorded that really dug deeply inside, regardless of light sensitive media or camera, why did I select this one, and why now? I did so after reading the following words about another pair of kids’ boots wordsmithed by former Boston Globe editor Brain McGrory  (March 10, 2023).

“It’s the image of the boots that’s hardest to shake. There are two adult winter boots, one pink, the other bright yellow and black. They rest haphazardly on a mat just inside a sliding door that leads to the backyard where the kids went to play. To see them now is to know who wore them and to know they’ll never be worn again”. 

The column describes a beyond devastating family tragedy in which two young children are murdered and the fabric of their family is torn asunder. The story rattled the core of every reader. Having that context shined a whole new light on the column’s accompanying ordinary ‘snap shot-genre’ photo. From a photographic perspective, that ‘boots image’ is unremarkable. 

Along my learning curve of artful image capture, mentors constantly stressed guidelines like ‘fill the frame, get clean backgrounds, find interesting shooting angles, and compose by moving your feet’. Do all that before triggering the shutter. The ‘boots image’ Mr. McGrory couldn’t shake doesn’t get checkmarks for any of those criteria. Context, however, changed the perception.   

Consider this photograph of a woman seated in a nondiscrete city room. Perhaps she’s awaiting her appointment, or just sitting and reading in her building’s common area. The image is another example of a just ‘OK’ shot, so you’re forgiven if you don’t sit up and take notice. But what if I provided this context? 

The woman is my wife sitting in a NYC hospital visitor’s room nervously awaiting word on the condition of our grandson, the one who wore the fire chief boots a few years prior. He was in a room nearby on an IV antibiotic drip struggling to tame a raging infection after things went south following a ‘minor’ surgical procedure. 

Has your feeling about the photo changed?

This exercise has origins from an evening course on documentary photography I took back in the 20th C. A question was raised then whether newsy photos were enhanced by captions. During one session the teacher showed the class a newspaper page displaying an ocean liner. Basically it was a big boat mug-shot. Meh! But when context was provided, no one in the class felt the same about it. The ship was the UK registered Lusitania on what turned out to be her final voyage. The Lusitania sunk off the coast of Ireland after being torpedoed by a German U-boat during WWI. Hundreds of passengers drowned, among them US citizens. The tragic incident paved the path for America’s entry into the conflict. 

So, are words essential partners for truly appreciating photographs? There's no right or wrong answer. After all, the next time you visit the Louvre in Paris and view the Mona Lisa, will you wish Leonardo da Vinci had provided a caption? 

all images - David Greenfield

****************************

Visit my web site anytime to view other blog-posts, Galleries of photos, and Photo-essays.

Then kindly share on social media. Thank you.

***************************************************

If you wish to further check your reaction to images after context is provided. I’ve selected a few images to consider. Note your assessment of each. At the end of this post, you’ll find short narratives providing context for each. See if your reaction changes. I welcome your feedback.

    

#1

#2

#3

#4                                                

******************************************************

1. During the rededication of New England’s Holocaust Memorial on the 25th anniversary of it’s installation, one of Boston’s remaining Holocaust survivors recalls her ordeal during the darkest chapter of human history.

2. On a brilliant Sunday morning in Barcelona’s old square, a robust group of seniors dance the Sardona, a traditional Catalonian dance. From the time General Francisco Franco’s and his Nationalist forces overthrew the country’s democratic republic during the Spanish Civil War (1936–39) until 1973, Spanish Catalonians were forbidden to celebrate their culture or speak their language. Now they regularly celebrate their freedom of expression.

3. The man with hands clasped behind his back is taking in all the names and thoughts recorded on a large placard placed at a memorial site of the 2013 Boston Marathon bombing. Two Chechen Kyrgyzstani-American brothers, planted homemade bombs near the finish line of the race, killing three people and injuring hundreds of others, including 17 who lost limbs.

4. The body of water in the distance is the English Channel. Its waves lap onto Omaha Beach at Normandy’s northern border. Fifty seven years to the day earlier, the largest armada ever assembled surreptitiously crossed the Channel from England on D-Day. At great cost the WWII Allies clawed their way onshore to establish a beachhead in Europe in their battle to defeat the Nazis. The ‘soldier’ is actually a young Frenchman who was among the many French citizens donning vintage garb then descending on the D-Day beaches to re-enact the invasion and pay respect to the armies that defeated Hitler and liberated France.

Spring Training

 

During the dark, frozen New England winter months my feet are cold, finger tips perpetually chapped, and as the sun sets days seem to draw to a close at 4 PM. As a counterpoint, I regularly have a conversation with myself in which I repeat this mantra, “but I enjoy the change of seasons, but I enjoy the change of seasons”. 

It’s true, I do enjoy the change. But as the first snowflake of the season flutters down to terra firma, my winter mantra switches to, “OK, been there, done that, on to spring!” Mother Nature of course pays no heed. So I trudge along for the next frosty months through whatever wintry mix she has on tap. By mid-February however, a month still famous for unleashing more than enough winter ‘events’ before and after crocuses pop up, it’s heart-warming news when Red Sox pitchers and catchers report to Fort Myers, FL for the start of spring training. Where I live, spring baseball is the light at the end of winter’s long, dark, frigid tunnel and a harbinger of sunnier, warmer ensuing months. It’s also another reason why baseball is The National Pastime.

It should then come as no surprise that the thought of baseball triggers all sorts of fond memories: going to the stadium as a kid with dad or mom, playing sandlot ball, seeing your team’s slugger hit one out of the park, even munching on Cracker Jack’s sticky mix, etc., etc. To drive this point home, my last Photo-blog post (A Thanksgiving Baseball Story) elicited a slew of comments many of which included writers’ baseball reminisces. I’ll share a few edited snippets from these feel-good stories. Enjoy.

From Marc, my best high school friend - 

What a beautiful Thanksgiving story.  It inspired me to look for my old mitt signed by Wally Moon of the St. Louis Cardinals.  It was the only lefty glove my Uncle Al from Brooklyn could find. I treasured it throughout my Little League days playing for Murray’s Stationary in Oceanside. I might have given it to one of my kids even though they are all right handed. While unpacking in my new residence I found a near brand new Mazuno glove (that's right, Korean made on the label).  I must have bought it years later to play catch with my son Dave. Now Dave's 7 yr old boy Walter enjoys the game. Last summer I played outfield to field balls hit by Walter with Dave pitching from the mound.  It gave me an immense sense of warmth as I could recall my father pitching to me as a kid.

I can't remember the last time I went to a game.  My girls came to enjoy baseball as a result of my stories following the Dodgers as a kid. Lisa went to see the Cards a few times when attending Wash U. Lindsey has seen the Giants at their new stadium in San Fran. 

Thank you Dave for taking me down memory lane. I have a fantasy some of us could gather for a spring training game watching the Dodgers play the Giants in Scottsdale/Phoenix

My very best

Marc

From my West Coast cousin Anne -

I went to all my brother Alan’s Little League games and probably most practices too. I loved baseball right from the start. But sadly it never occurred to my dad, or even to me, to learn how to throw or hit a ball. Such a shame. But this was way before Title IX and enlightenment.

Baseball has always been special to me because of the connection with my dad and Alan. When I was in those horrible teenage years, baseball was the “safe” place where we could always connect and talk. And that happened with both my kids too. Baseball has always been that place of connection for my family. Aren’t sports great! Thanks for sparking the memories!

Best,

Anne

From my friend Nolan - 

As a lifelong Brooklyn Dodger fan I cannot understand how you could even put on a hated NY Yankee (Phil Rizzuto) glove. Mine was a Duke Snider autographed glove and I cleaned and oiled it several times a year for many years. My uncle had a catch with me one year and he was showing off about how fast he could throw and the webbing broke. I hated him after that day. I repaired it and used it for many years after that (Little League, Pony League and my try out for the Martin Van Buren High School team). It survived in our garage until Hynda and I moved to our condo in DC ten years ago. There were certain things I was not allowed to take - the smelly old glove being one.

BTW, my father was an usher at the Polo Grounds and Yankee Stadium. He used to take me to the games when the Giants played the Dodgers. 

Nolan

Lastly, from my friend Steve - 

Loved the blog! I guess I've lost my old baseball glove but certainly appreciate how great you felt when you got yours back. BTW, growing up in Waterbury CT (the dividing line geographically between the Red Sox and the Yankees) and having lots of NY family, I was a big Yankees fan in the 50s and 60s. In fact the only Major League game I attended as a kid was at Yankee Stadium in 1961. Yes, I got to see one of my idols, Roger Maris, hit TWO home-runs that day in his quest for the all time record.

Warmly,

Steve   

Circling back to the present, on the calendar winter has officially only just begun. That means spring training is only ~60 days away. I can’t wait. 

Play ball!

                   

images - David Greenfield

****************************

Visit my web site anytime to view other blog-posts, Galleries of photos, and Photo-essays.

Then kindly share on social media. Thank you.

A Thanksgiving Baseball Story

 

All things considered, it’s merely a blip on the radar screen of what to be thankful for. Nevertheless, I was very grateful for someone’s thoughtful act of kindness. 

It reunited me with a cherished keepsake.

Here’s how it played out.

***************************

“Have you seen my _________ ?” I’ve posed this query to my wife on many occasions. You can fill in the blank with any number of items - keys, phone, wallet, etc. I seem to use that exasperating question more and more these days. Her go-to response: “when was the last time you had it?”, it being any of the aforementioned possessions or others currently MIA. This time it was a very old, well worn genuine leather Phil Rizzuto* autograph baseball glove which has been with me for over 60 years. It’s seen action starting with after school pickup games at the Parade Grounds Park in Brooklyn, summer vacations at a New Jersey bungalow colony, fraternity intramurals, and my Little League play for Blossom Heath Florists in Oceanside, NY.

These days I love slipping it on to ‘have a catch’ with two of my grandsons who are Big Time into baseball. 

 

Matan

Isaac

But where is that prized mitt now? Taking my wife’s cue, I remember last using it for a catch at Waltham’s Lazazzero’s Park when my two nearby grandkids had a Veteran’s Day sleepover two weeks prior. OK, I now know when I last had possession, but after almost turning my house upside down and shaking it, alas, no glove fell to the floor. I was at a loss, and quite upset. You might say, it’s only a glove, get over it, get another. Yeah, but this one with all its imperfections and battle scars, had special memories attached. It hurt to lose it.

At any rate, on Thanksgiving Day, filled with thoughts of all I was thankful for, my wife and I headed out for dinner at my daughter’s home. Our son and his family were already gathered. Suddenly I had a hunch for solving the mystery of the lost glove - is it possible the glove was inadvertently left at Lazazzero’s? It was a highly unlikely long shot, but still worth taking a small detour before our gathering.

Moments later after checking out the field and stands where the glove might be and even scouring the adjacent basketball court where I played a few games of 5-3-1 with my granddaughter, I walked back to the car empty handed and dejected. Nothing.

Suddenly, I noticed it perched on a nearby fence post! Some good soul believing the owner would come back, cared enough to rescue it. As expected, the glove was in rough shape - dirty, weather-beaten, and suffering nasty lacerations and missing parts probably the result of being used as a chew toy by some neighborhood mutt. It was in need of surgery and the ICU - but I had it back!

The webbing was detached, the leather dry & stiff from exposure to a soaking rain, and the strap was chewed/ripped off

Once home I quickly assembled my instruments and supplies - a leather remnant, rawhide, surgical scissors, upholstery needles, conditioner, and ‘leather scalpel’. Surgery was scheduled for the morning.

When all was set and painstakingly done, the glove emerged anew to resume its encore as Papa's prized mitt.

Looking back, I'm reminded of a friend's expression of thankfulness at this holiday time. Most important among her riches was having her husband back home. He had just been released from the hospital after days of intensive care when doctors worked to save his life from the ravages of a life-threatening systemic infection. He left severely weakened and battered, a shell of who he had been, but his wife was so happy to have him back, in any shape.

With family gathered around marking Thanksgiving 2022, I was truly thankful for all I had. In a small but appreciative way I was also grateful for what a thoughtful, caring soul did to help me get a cherished keepsake back home, regardless of the shape it was in.

I also couldn't wait to have the next catch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* Phil Rizzuto, 'The Scooter', spent his entire baseball career playing shortstop for the New York Yankees (1941 - 1956). During that span the team captured ten American League titles and seven World Championships. Many of those victories were against my Brooklyn Dodgers, which makes me wonder why my dad brought a Yankee shortstop autograph glove home for me. After his playing career, Rizzuto had a forty year career as a radio and TV sports announcer for the Yankees. He was known for his idiosyncratic, conversational broadcast style, and for his trademark expression, 'Holy Cow!'

images - David Greenfield

****************************

Visit my web site anytime to view other blog-posts, Galleries of photos, and Photo-essays.

Then kindly share on social media. Thank you.