Going Sideways

On my way to deliver a Meals on Wheels package in Yonkers Wednesday, I entered an elevator with a woman already inside. When the elevator went down instead of up, she said down and up were the only directions you could go in an elevator. I respectfully disagreed.

About 25 years ago, on a rainy work day, I decided not to venture outside to secure my lunch. Instead, as I had done on numerous occasions, I chose to fop my way off as one of the lawyers of Finley Kumble, a large legal firm with multiple floors in our building with a short-order staff cafeteria on the 14th floor. I descended from my sixth floor office to the lobby and entered the elevator bank that would take me to the 14th floor. Sandwich and soda in bag in hand, I re-entered the elevator with two Finley Kumble associates, one man, one woman, no wiser to their fellow traveler’s interloper status.

The doors closed. We started our controlled descent. Suddenly, we stopped. Between floors. No panic. Building security quickly contacted us through the elevator telephone. They’d have us out in no time, they said.

“No time” dragged on for more than half an hour. It was now close to 1 pm. I was hungry. I had my lunch with me, but reasoned if I broke out the goodies I’d be obligated to share with my stuck elevator companions. I’m embarrassed to say I was not in favor of that option, at least not then. Perhaps if hours went by and everyone had expressed hunger pains I’d be more forthcoming with my food. I opted to hold out. 

Almost an hour after our interrupted journey, building security advised the elevator could not be restarted. To extract us from our vertical shell, they’d would have to line up another elevator next to ours, remove the side panels of both transports and have us gingerly walk across the exposed elevator shaft to the working elevator. 

Trepidation, not yet panic, set in. We joked it would be like walking across a log over a stream. Of course, the stream would be about 10 or more stories below. When the technicians entered our car, they cautioned us not to look down, to just walk naturally across the chasm into the adjacent elevator. 

In truth, the distance was probably no wider than two feet, a regular stride, for me, at least. Still, I was sufficiently repentant to believe someone was sending me a message my not-so-legal use of the Finley Kumble cafeteria was not kosher, if you get my drift. I never returned to the Finley Kumble cafeteria.

Remembering Pearl Harbor Day

Most of us can recall September 11, 2001. But where were you December 7, 1941, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, prompting U.S. entry into World War II?

Okay. You probably weren’t alive 70 years ago, and those who were likely were too young to remember anything meaningful about the day President Franklin Delano Roosevelt said “will live in infamy.” But as I pondered how to commemorate the 70th anniversary of Pearl Harbor Day yesterday, I realized my regular Wednesday chore of delivering Meals on Wheels in Yonkers would bring me face to face with women who were in the prime of their lives when our nation’s security and relative tranquility ended one Sunday seven decades ago. There wasn’t time for long interviews, just a few questions about how they experienced the war years.

With her marriage scheduled exactly one week later at a synagogue in the Bronx where she lived at the time, Sally picked up her wedding gown December 7. Her marriage to Sol went on without a hitch, but within six months her husband entered the army. She was 20 years old. Like many brides of servicemen of that era, Sally followed her husband around the country as he underwent basic training, first in Hattiesburg, MS, then in Baltimore. After Sol shipped overseas to fight in Italy, Sally moved back in with her parents. She worked as a clerical assistant to an army lieutenant at 55 Beaver Street in Manhattan. Her husband returned safely after the war, as did her two younger brothers who served in the Pacific theater.

Another 20-year-old, Shirley, lived in the Midwood section of Brooklyn, with her widowed mother and 10-year-old brother. Shortly after the war began, her mother developed viral pneumonia. Her doctor recommended an extended stay in Florida, so the family trained down, no small feat in those days when travel was largely restricted to moving military personnel. They stayed in Miami Beach for six months. After returning to Brooklyn, Shirley’s friend got her a job as a clerical assistant in a costume jewelry company. A short while later she was promoted to showroom saleswoman dealing with resident buyers for stores throughout the country.

The youngster of the trio I interviewed, Gertrude was 19 when she listened to the radio reports of the Pearl Harbor bombings. A high school graduate who eventually became a full charge bookkeeper, she hadn’t been able to secure a job before the war, but shortly thereafter obtained one at the Wright Aeronautical plant in Woodridge, NJ. Each morning another worker would pick her up at her home in Inwood in upper Manhattan. They’d drive across the George Washington Bridge to work. Because of her mathematical bent she was chosen to be a precision inspector for assembled impeller shafts, a critical part of the engine of B-29 Superfortress bombers.

After several B-29s crashed, the cause was determined to be faulty impeller shafts. Assembly of the plane engines halted until re-inspection of all impeller shafts could be conducted. As each impeller shaft bore the mark of the inspector who processed it, it was not difficult to pinpoint who had approved faulty production. Over the loudspeaker of the plant, Gertrude was summoned to the manager’s office high above the assembly plant. While she climbed the steps to his office, co-workers whispered she was the guilty inspector. Not a comfortable moment for a young woman not yet 20. Gertrude was told that of all the impeller shafts re-inspected, hers alone were perfect. Henceforth, only she would inspect impeller shafts. The other precision inspectors would be reassigned. She would work six days a week. When she wasn’t there, production would stop.

It was that way for about 18 months, until the Japanese surrendered. That day, Gertrude recalled, Wright Aeronautical announced that the 17,000 employees who had worked three shifts at the Woodridge plant need not come back anymore. Their jobs, the nation’s job of defeating Japan, and before that Germany and Italy, had ended.

Look in the Mirror of Reality

Late last year Sylvia landed in the hospital, followed by a rehab center stay. By the time she was discharged and went back to her apartment, she had missed the cutoff date to renew her registration for the Meals on Wheels I deliver in Yonkers each week. Her slot was assigned to another. A government cutback in funding denies program administrators any leeway in adding to their roster of subsidized recipients, so near 90-year-old Sylvia will have to arrange her own meals while she waits to reclaim a spot on the food distribution list. You can easily imagine how the next vacancy might occur.

Sylvia’s plight, and the juggling act social service providers must play given extreme reductions in funding for safety net programs, begs the question: What type of America do we want our parents and grandparents to live in during their sunset years? Alternately, what type of America do we want to leave to our children and grandchildren?

Will it be an America of opportunity or an America in retreat? An America that cares for its vulnerable citizens or an America that shuns collective responsibility?

Matt Bai of the NY Times framed the debate in terms of gluttony vs. neglect (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/17/us/politics/17bai.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=matt%20bai&st=cse). Democrats would lead us to decline by a spend, spend, spend mentality. Republicans would cut, cut, cut our way to second tier, or lower, status by failing to invest in infrastructure needs.

Are there any statesmen left in America to bridge the gap between these two philosophies?

Sadly, it’s not really the politicians’ fault. Their job is to get elected and re-elected. As the conspirator/patriot? Cassius said in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” Or, as Walt Kelly’s comic strip possum character Pogo related three decades ago, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

We are blinded by imaginary realities. We create mystical memories of politicians, sans warts. The victorious current candidate is the one who can channel his or her own image more strongly with those of heralded predecessors. Democrats fawn over FDR. And JFK. Republicans lionize Ronald Reagan. FDR and JFK created and extended the safety net and universal freedoms. They were not embraced by most wealthy Americans; their constituents came mainly from the working poor and the growing middle class. Reagan, on the other hand, managed to convince common citizens he served their best interests, a legacy Republicans have pounded into the electorate’s head over and over again. Every Republican swears allegiance to Reagan, hoping the public remembers the image, not the reality of his political arc.

When will the Democratic Party start broadcasting reality reports? When will they de-claw the GOP lion by pointing out he raised taxes in seven of his eight years as president, that he nearly tripled the federal budget deficit, that government grew under his tenure, that his adoption of trickle down economic theories hurt the working class and the middle class? Are the Democrats so cowed by the specter of Ronald Reagan they cringe at the prospect of running against his record?

In the play, Man of La Mancha, based on the book Don Quixote, the hero is brought back to reality by the Knight of the Mirrors. “Look in the mirror of reality and behold things as they truly are...thy dream is a nightmare of a disordered mind,” Don Quixote is told.

It is laudable to have a quest, a vision of greatness. But government based on falsehood would be catastrophic. Better to face reality.

Tax and spend is not the way to go, either. We need a reasoned, compromised approach to ensure America’s prosperous future. We cannot strip away funding for education, for social services, for health care, for infrastructure and expect our country will remain great. The other day an alarming report informed that many foreign students opt to return to their native lands, albeit countries where personal freedoms are limited, because they believe opportunities for wealth generation are greater overseas. Some might say, good riddance, but that would be turning our back on America’s history, a past built on the contributions of immigrants.

I want our country to respect the service and value the Sylvias of her generation contributed to American society. We should not force safety net providers to limit their administration of benefits while we dole out tax relief to wealthy individuals and corporations. I want America to challenge the next generations to think not just of themselves but also of the collective good of all. Societies that allow their citizens’ fortunes to bifurcate may survive for an indefinite period, but they invariably rot from within and topple, often in violent seizures. Our greatest threat is not from China, India, Russia or Iran, et al, it is from our failure to learn the lessons of history.

Murray-Go-Round

I met another Murray the other day. Of course, he’s older than I am. We met at the senior citizens center in the Free Synagogue of Mt. Vernon where I picked up food to be delivered as part of the kosher Meals on Wheels program.

We chatted a few minutes about the “joys” of having a name rarely conferred onto any newborns these days, or for the last five or more decades, for that matter. I told him I wrote a blog about the lack of respect our name generates (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/whats-in-name.html).

I can think of only one Murray I ever met who was my younger.

Gilda and I were traveling by train from Florence to Venice. It was the summer of 1976. Our first trip to Venice. We were not aware that only the first two cars of the train would be uncoupled for the journey onto the island city. When the conductor eventually made this known to us in the fourth car, we hurriedly assembled our overpacked luggage and jostled our way forward.

I kept hearing my name; Gilda kept denying she was calling me. We finally made it to the second car, Gilda standing next to me. “Murray, wait for me” rang in both our ears. The dulcimer sound came from an attractive blonde. Sure, I’ll wait for you, I thought. Only, she wasn’t talking to me. She was attaching herself to a young gent standing next to me.

Naturally, we introduced ourselves. (Murrays have a certain bond, like Masons or Elks who meet in strange lands. No secret handshake, just a bond. More about that magical bond in another posting next week.) They were on their honeymoon, having married right after graduating from Queens College. His aunt, a travel agent, had gifted them a six-week honeymoon. They were booked into Excelsior hotels throughout Europe. Everything had been pre-planned and pre-paid. All they had to do was show up at their hotels and their respective city tours. They even had the time of their gondola ride scheduled—8 pm that evening.

It was already four weeks into their extensive tour. They were clearly exhausted but couldn’t take the time to rest. Pre-paid hotel reservations could not be changed, so they trekked on.

I asked how they liked Rome. They did. I asked what they thought of the Vatican. They sheepishly said they hadn’t seen it. Huh? Explain yourselves, Murray.

Seems his aunt did not book that tour. Before they realized the Vatican was in Rome they were in Florence. And they couldn’t go back!

My confidence that the exalted name of Murray was bestowed only on the intelligent vanished that instant.

Not all was lost, however. They realized they would not be able to use their passes to the Lido Beach across the channel before having to leave Venice, so they generously gave them to us. That way, at least, the Lido would not go Murrayless. We enjoyed a beautiful day at the beach.