Letters, We've Got Letters

Letter writing is said to be a lost art. As is reading and writing cursive penmanship. 

While I was recovering from a softball game played in blazing hot and humid conditions Sunday morning, Gilda spent the early afternoon reading through a box of mostly handwritten letters from her high school and college years (late 1960s) as well as the first few years of our dating and marriage (early 1970s).

She’s always teased me I secured her hand by default—her other boyfriend, Steve, played amateur hockey and seemed to perpetually have an injury to report. Letter after letter from him detailed a dislocated right shoulder, an unspecified mishap from a “collision in a friendly neighborhood vicious hockey game. It’s imazing (sic) how a cloth sling magically changes to a wooden crutch,”  and “the usual car troubles.” When he wasn’t injured he was inflicting pain, proudly noting “the ribs of a Sutton Place doctor I broke in a hockey fight. I figure I cost him (in 1971 dollars) about $6,000 from his practice.”

I’m a lucky man, and no doubt a wise one as well to not having revealed my penchant for real and imagined ailments until after our “I do’s” were exchanged.

I’m not jealous of Gilda’s romances before me, but I did mention to her that one of the three letters she kept from Steve came but a few weeks before we got engaged; a second arrived just days later. Perhaps she had told him his cause was doomed, as he began the letter saying, “This is the price you pay for incurring my wrath. An eligible (sic) handwritten letter. Be thankful I’ve printed it.” 

It should also be noted that Steve sent his letters to Gilda’s mother’s address, a home Gilda had moved out of months earlier. 

Speaking of addresses, I think I’ve figured out why I have yet to win a big lottery prize. Often I play numbers based on addresses where I have lived, including 5 East Genesee St., Syracuse, during my year up north obtaining a master’s degree in newspaper journalism. 

Turns out I never lived at that address. The real number of my Salt City domicile was 1518. Ach, all those wasted dollars!!!

Gilda kept many of my letters from that year. Some observations:

*My handwriting was a lot neater back then. I’m lucky today to be able to decipher my scrawls a day after I jot them down, but I was able to read without difficulty what I penned 44 years ago.

*I repeatedly noted how many papers I had to write for my courses. Honestly, I remember just two, one on the effect of herd mentality in the press, illustrated by a visit to the White House and interviews with members of the press corps on the seemingly pack-journalism sameness of their reporting, and a second on Birthright, a Syracuse-based home for women with unplanned pregnancies who chose to deliver but not necessarily keep their babies. 

*Gilda and I always thought we became engaged over the 1971 Thanksgiving weekend. Reading my letters revealed our engagement occurred over the Christmas holiday. 

*People, especially our kids, make fun of my taste in music, but here’s a redeeming item from one of my 1971 letters: “I’m listening to a great record now—Carole King’s Tapestry. Buy it—you’ll never regret it. It’s GREAT!!!” (FYI, if you didn’t know, Tapestry was released in 1971.)

*I was not a sentimental or romantic letter writer. Hopefully, I’ve matured in those areas. Of course, it’s up to Gilda to deliver the verdict.

Finally, for those not familiar with the provenance of the headline to this blog post, click on this link to Perry Como, a 20th century baritone for more than 50 years whose television show my mother rarely missed:  https://youtu.be/IC7o7FbUipg

Last Week's World News Close to Home

A cruise. Seemed like just the right way for Gilda and me to celebrate our respective 65th birthdays (mine’s on Thursday, Gilda’s 11 days later). Gilda found a summer cruise that would incorporate a new region of the world for us to explore with the type of land tours that combine history and heritage, in our case, Black Sea ports with Jewish legacies. 

Cities like Odessa. Sevastopol. Yalta. For those not completely familiar with those cities, they are in Ukraine. Yes, that Ukraine, the one dominating most foreign news reports these days. They’re in Crimea, the peninsula of Ukraine where a sizable number of residents have Russian ancestry. Three other stops on the cruise would be in Turkey, another hot spot. We’d also visit Sochi, which by then, with the Russian Olympics long over, presumably would not be high on the Chechen separatists’ hit list. 

Last week our tour operator bit the bullet and cancelled the trip. Ah, well, maybe next year.

Salt of the Earth: The New York metro area mostly dodged a snow bullet Monday, though the streets, no doubt, were treated with salt to prevent icing from the dusting that did manage to trickle down. The availability of salt has been a major storyline this winter as municipalities have exhausted their normal supply and budget lines. 

When I attended graduate school at Syracuse University, I kept hearing the town referred to as Salt City. Until my last week there I assumed the nickname came from the liberal spreading of salt on city streets to clear the average 115.6 inches of snow every year (the year I was there it snowed 133.7 inches.) The nickname actually derived from the nearby salt mines at Onondaga Lake, to which I was oblivious.

The importance of salt as a life-sustaining commodity was impressed on me recently by Big History, a TV mini-series on the History 2 channel. It seems early mankind chose to inhabit locations not just because fresh water was available but also because there was ready access to salt. 

Our family visited a salt mine in Krakow, Poland, in 2008. The Poles have turned part of it into a museum, with salt sculptures depicting religious and national events. It is truly amazing what goes on underground. You might also find this clip from a CBS News broadcast last week enlightening and entertaining: http://www.cbsnews.com/videos/ohio-salt-miners-relishing-harsh-winter-weather/

Deathaholics: Wall Street and banking firms are trying to induce young workers to take weekends off, this after a London-based Bank of America go-getter intern may have died from exhaustion after pulling three all-nighters last summer.  

When our family visited Japan back in 1991, we heard about “karoshi.” The Japanese economy was booming. Workers paid the price. They labored long hours. It was not unusual for workers to die in their tracks, while walking or driving to work. Passersby would simply shake their heads from side to side and whisper knowingly, “Ah, karoshi.” Simply translated it means, death from overwork.

Slave Labor: 12 Years a Slave won the Oscar as the best picture of the last year. The historical drama of Solomon Northup’s tenure as a slave in Louisiana still has bearing today. 

Consider U.S. Senator Mary Landrieu’s re-election campaign in the Bayou State. Though she is given high marks for working in the best interests of her state’s economic vitality, voters are upset the Democrat supported Obamacare. Here’s how one of her constituents explained his position to an NPR reporter:

"I don't vote for black people, lady. No, ma'am. I don't vote for black people. They got their place, I got my place. That's the way I was raised."

Here’s something to ponder about the Trayvon Martin-George Zimmerman confrontation, which commemorated its second anniversary last week: Where was Zimmerman’s gun during their fight?

During a WNYC interview last week, Lisa Bloom, NBC legal analyst and author of Suspicion Nation: The Inside Story of the Trayvon Martin Injustice and Why We Continue to Repeat It, sharply criticized the prosecution for, among many points, not questioning how Martin knew about Zimmerman’s gun.

According to Zimmerman’s testimony, he was lying on his back while Martin pounded away at his face. He said he shot Martin only after the youth allegedly saw the gun and said he was going to kill him. But, said Bloom, Zimmerman’s gun was in a holster tucked inside the back of his pants. Only if Martin had X-ray vision and could see through Zimmerman’s portly body could he have known about the gun, she said. Prosecutors never asked Zimmerman to explain this dilemma, she lamented. 

I assumed the gun was holstered on his hip, in clear view. I never thought Martin was guilty of anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time when an overzealous, possibly bigoted, Zimmerman defied police orders to back off. The more you hear about this case, and others reported by Bloom, the more injustice cries out.

Playing Catchup

Gilda advised me when I woke up Thursday morning that Syracuse, NY, was under two feet of snow. I checked the weather forecast—over the next few days more dandruff from the sky is expected in the city I love to hate.

For those not familiar with my disdain for Syracuse, here’s a link to a blog I wrote last December: http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/12/let-it-snow.html


Name That Feud: Baby Boy Forseter, our grandnephew, has an official name—Jacob Peyton Forseter, to be commonly called Jake.

I won’t weigh you down with the lineage from whom Jake derived his first and second names, but I would like to dwell a moment on Peyton. Though his father, Eric, hopes Jake will find a good playmate in our one-year-old grandson, Finley, I’m not sure he is aware of the challenge he has placed before them.

According to thinkbabynames.com, Peyton is of Old English origin; the meaning of Peyton is "fighting-man's estate". Finley, the Web site says, is of Irish and Gaelic origin; the meaning of Finley is "fair-haired, courageous one". I surely hope these English- and Irish-named Jewish kids get along.

The next Forseter grandchild is due in March. Eric’s sister, Karen, and her husband, David, live in London (he's a real English Jew). I can hardly wait to hear what name they’ll pick for their progeny, the sex of which we have yet to be told.


Dead as a Doornail: The mulcher is officially dead.

The mulcher my brother Bernie gave me last weekend lasted less than a day. It did not help matters that some of the leaves I mulched were slightly damp. Who knew that was a no-no? Nowhere in the instruction booklet—which I thoroughly read before using the mulcher—did it say anything about avoiding wet leaves. But that was the first thing the Black & Decker repairman asked me when I called for help. And it was the first thing Gilda asked about when I told her the mulcher died.

(Since Bernie does not read this blog on a regular basis, perhaps I’ll be spared his commentary.)

Next time, I will hark back to my tried and true method of handling yard work—I’ll pay to have someone else do it!


Yankee Misfortunes: I’m happy Derek Jeter and the Yanks agreed to a new deal, but the big news in baseballdumb (“dumb” because of all the dollars being thrown at players of questionable quality for contracts of too many years) is the vast improvement, on paper at least, posed by the dreaded Boston Red Sox with the signing of Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford.

With their solid starting pitching and the expected return of injured players from last year, the Beantown Boys are the team to beat in the American League, even if the Yankees sign Cliff Lee.

To qualify for the playoffs next year, New York will need rebound performances from A.J. Burnett and Jeter, more well-rounded results from Curtis Granderson, Mark Teixeira, Brett Gardner, Jorge Posada and Joba Chamberlain, and at least comparable statistics from Nick Swisher, Robinson Cano, Alex Rodriguez, Mariano Rivera, Phil Hughes, Andy Pettitte (if he returns) and C.C. Sabathia.


Equal Opportunity Rant: It’s time to vent against Congressional Democrats for saying they won’t go along with the compromise President Obama stitched together with Republicans extending the Bush tax cuts and stimulating the economy, including renewing unemployment compensation for the long term jobless (including many of my former colleagues).

Before the November elections, House and Senate Democrats couldn’t get the job done despite their majorities. The time to push principles has passed. It’s now time to govern; governing often requires compromise. Rare is the person who likes compromise. It means you didn’t get all of what you wanted. But that’s the way it works in government, Democrats. Don’t allow the GOP to turn you into the “party of NO.”

Don’t let the electorate believe it was the Democrats who raised taxes on the lower and middle classes. That’s a sure way to creating even greater Republican victories in 2012.


For Shame: Yesterday, Senate Republicans again scuttled an attempt to fund medical care for 9/11 first responders and others who became ill breathing the toxic air around Ground Zero. To use a phrase made famous by Joseph N. Welch in rebuking Sen. Joseph McCarthy in 1954, “Have you left no sense of decency?”

How shameful is it that the party that professes to be all about patriotism, law and order and American values cannot see the morality of supporting those who put their lives at risk for the sake of their country and fellow citizens? The GOP is balking at spending $7.4 billion in medical benefits but is happy to enthusiastically back tax breaks for the wealthy that would add $60 billion a year to the nation’s deficit.

For shame. For shame.