Comments on: Rendezvous

By: Jim

Jim — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 23:55:58 +0000

Nice to hear from you Constance and thanks for the comment. Believe me, after all these years I’m over the sad stuff— happy and getting happier.

By: Constance Pohl

Constance Pohl — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 18:41:59 +0000

Another wonderful piece. And I too remember the Texaco Star Theater/Milton Berle. I am sorry your mother left you behind.

By: Jim

Jim — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 00:38:05 +0000

Thank you, Lady Rose. Nice to see you on the blog . . .

By: Rose Struble

Rose Struble — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 21:21:36 +0000

Isn’t it amazing how the human condition, whatever it may be, often makes us stronger. Great story!

By: Jim

Jim — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 18:03:53 +0000

Thank you for the comment, Alvera. As with all things human, you have an empathetic insight into my father’s behavior. He was morally (and, as it turned out mortally), wounded by his drinking problem. I used to call what he did to himself as “slow suicide.” BTW, the word “sot,” as defined by Webster’s, is a “chronic drunkard.” It is also a Middle English word meaning “fool.” Both are perfect descriptions of my father, but I’d add “sad case” to leaven the mix. For many years I hated him, but I finally came pity him.

By: Alvera Winkler

Alvera Winkler — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 17:10:59 +0000

Tears are streaming down my cheeks. Your story isn’t really new to me. This is just a closer look. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you and your brothers. I also feel sad for your father, knowing he must have been hopeful that he would be able to provide a better life for his family.

By: Jim

Jim — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 16:50:28 +0000

What, are you telling me some families actually hug? (Well, I guess it’s a good thing that I can joke about this stuff.) Thanks for the sweet comment, Shirley. You always have something interesting to say, and always say it in an interesting way. I can smell the stale beer and cheap perfume.

By: shirley lupton

shirley lupton — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 15:19:46 +0000

I remember that fight. We did’t have TV but my grandfather, living with us at the time, who was deaf and whose favorite expression was “who’d a thunk it?” went to a bar, I guess, because we stayed up to find out what happened, and he came home smelling like beer and perfume, a smell that stayed on my pajamas for a long time after he hugged me.

By: Jim

Jim — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 20:33:56 +0000

Jake, I think you’ve got the makings of another short essay in the works here. Once more our memories coincide. My older brother Lee, pictured in the “Rendezvous” post, used to shine shoes in South Baltimore bars before he went in the Army and I usually tagged along. While he was working on shoes I’d search for coins under the jukebox and vending machines. “Picked up” some change that way, if you’ll pardon the pun. Thanks again for supporting DoodleMeister.

By: Jake Jakubuwski

Jake Jakubuwski — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 16:30:17 +0000

I never made it down to the Curtis Bay bars with my dad, but have been in dozens of them in South Baltimore, Brooklyn and Pig Town. In fact, one of my first entrepreneurial endeavors was shining shoes in the local bars. Often with my dad drinking (Sometimes I got a Coke) and the guys talking, I would watch the “Shoeshine Boy” come in and collect (I thought at the time) gobs of nickels and dimes shinning shoes. So I constructed a shoeshine box, “borrowed” my grandfather’s shoeshine kit and I was in business! I don’t remember how well I did but I do know that I traded that job off for selling newspapers. I believe the trade had something to do with my grandfather “repossessing” his shoe shine kit and burning my tail for “ruining” his shoe brush . . . among other things.

And I remember watching many early TV programs through a store window. In 1947 or thereabouts, I watched my first television program in my Uncle Will’s home in North Linthicum. He was a radio repairman and had bought a set with a really small screen (Like, 9″). So there are six adults and as many kids trying to see and hear what’s going on on the shows.

One comment you made about how you thought all those crazy things were perfectly normal—I agree . . . I didn’t know there was anything better and thought everyone lived the same way. Those were the days, my friend . . .