1937 Baltimore Orioles and History

It has often been said that history repeats itself. What has happened will happen again.

The 1937 Baltimore Orioles played in the Triple A International League consisting of eight teams. The cream of the league, the Newark Bears, the top farm club of the New York Yankees (who else), won the championship year after year by an overwhelming margin. There was a good reason for this. During this period, players were permitted to be kept in the minor leagues indefinitely as opposed to today when they must be advanced to the major leagues within a definite period or be lost to the parent club. How could the Newark Bears’ catchers, Buddy Rosar and Willard Hershberger, oust a future Hall of Famer like Bill Dickey? So they remained with the Newark Bears whose roster contained many such players.

On July 4, 1937, the Baltimore Orioles languished in last place. The manager, Guy Sturdy was fired and Bucky Crouse, the catcher, was appointed manager. The Orioles caught fire! By the end of the season, they had risen to fourth place. The post season in the International league consisted of seven game series between the first place and fourth place teams, and between the second place and third place teams. The winners of these series would play a seven game series for the championship. The Orioles played the Bears.

I wish that I could write a Cinderella ending, but it didn’t happen. The Bears beat the Orioles, four games to three and went on to win the championship.

In 2010, the Baltimore Orioles are in last place. They have just fired their manager and installed Juan Samuels as their new manager. Suddenly they have caught fire, winning five out of the last seven games. Could history repeat itself seventy-three years later? Scary, isn’t it?

Ken Golberg, Master Chef

Until five years ago, I did not cook; no if, and or buts: I did not cook. There was no reason for me to cook inasmuch as there were seven children and a wife in the home who cooked and who, I believe, liked to cook. But some five years ago, Momma (Grandma) fell and became a semi-invalid. If I wanted to eat, I had to cook. And Golbergs must eat and eat well; it is in their genes. For Golbergs, every occasion is an excuse to eat.

Cooking is not difficult; in fact, I find it easy. Other than the ingredients, the three elements of cooking are seasonings, heat and imagination. I do not awaken in the morning and decide that I will have fish for dinner and then go out and purchase the various foods needed for dinner. I look in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry and find what I will cook. And what I find, I have previously purchased on sale or with a coupon. That’s the law in Florida; on sale or with a coupon.

On this morning, I have found some tilapia fillets, some potatoes, frozen okra, celery, onions and a can of diced tomatoes. I can do many things with these ingredients by varying the spices used. I can put a small amount of olive oil in a ceramic dish, add a pat of butter and some dill weed and parsley flakes. Shmoosh the fish around in the mixture until coated on both sides and bake for about ten minutes. Done and delicious! Or instead of dill weed and parsley flakes, I can use Chinese mustard. Same shmooshing, same results, different taste. Or I can sautee some onion and celery, add the diced tomatoes and Italian seasoning, shmooshing the fish around in it and bake for ten minutes. Want to kick it up a notch? Add a dash of cayenne pepper. Imagine how many different ways the fish can be seasoned! And if you find boneless chicken breasts instead of fish, just vary the seasonings (perhaps poultry seasoning) and heat.

I have decided on mashed potatoes. I can bake two potatoes, take off the skin, (it comes right off) and mash them. Or I can peel them and boil them in water until done and then mash them. And when I mash them, I can fold in some sour cream and/or garlic, parsley flakes or any of a dozen different spices. I could even use the stuff that the fish cooked in and add it to the mashed potatoes.

I do not like peas or string beans, but I do love okra so I add some to a can of diced tomatoes, add some spices like rosemary and thyme, heat and I have my vegetable.

There is no end to the variety simply by varying the spices and developing a healthy imagination. And think how much you will save on cookbooks. I must give credit to Emeril and Rachael Ray. They gave me the basics.

Snowballs

Snowballs are uniquely Baltimorean. I have never seen them in any part of the United States. Along with the arrival of warm weather came hundreds of snowball stands, many of them in the basements of row houses.

Basements had windows which opened up to the sidewalk about two or three feet above the sidewalk level and voila, there was a business location. The capital requirements were minimal; for less than $25.00 you were in business.

A metal box about 3x3x6 with a hinged lid on the top and a blade in the bottom was the device used to shave the ice. The bottom was scraped across a block of ice and the shaved ice was deposited in the device. The hinged lid was opened and the shaved ice was deposited into a paper boat. Flavored syrup was shaken into the shaved ice, a flat wooden paddle-like spoon was added and a five cent snowball was ready.

Syrup was made by mixing a five pound bag of granulated sugar with five gallons of hot water. This made twenty quarts of simple syrup. A tablespoon of concentrated flavor extract was added to each quart to complete the process. A tablespoon of concentrated citric acid was added to the fruit flavor. Chocolate flavor was made with half chocolate syrup and half simple syrup.

Sugar cost about fifty cents for a five pound bag and flavor extract was thirty-five cents for an eight ounce bottle. I don’t remember what the paper boats and spoons cost, but it was minimal. The total cost of the snowball was less than two cents.

We began selling snowballs in the store about 1965. I bought a snowball machine for $250.00. This was basically a large blender about three feet tall with a circumference of about a foot with an electric motor to turn the blades. Ice chunks were deposited into the top and a six ounce cup was held under the spout. A lever started the motor and shave ice was deposited into the cup. Flavor and the flat spoon were added and the five cent snowball was ready. Chocolate flavor, ice cream, and marshmallow were each five cents extra. The snowball machine paid for itself in about two months.

We doubled the amount of sugar and flavor extract used which made for a much better snowball. The profit was still there. One summer, David ran the snowball business. He purchased the supplies, kept records, sold the snowballs and retained the profits. As I recall, he ended up with six or seven hundred dollars at the end of the summer; and that was 1965 dollars.

Today there are very few snowball outlets, all with a minimum price of a dollar for a ten ounce cup of shaved ice and a sprinkle of flavor. My, my!

Hebrew School

During the early 1930’s, when the time arrived when I was to go to Hebrew School, there were no Hebrew Schools per se in the Pimlico area. The closest was Isaac Davidson on Shirley Avenue. There were only individual Hebrew teachers, rebbes, and this is where I went. Mr. Rudnitzky was a Shochet, a ritual killer who slaughtered chickens and other fowls in the prescribed Kosher manner. He lived in a row house at the end of a street off Garrison Avenue about three blocks west of Park Heights Avenue. He had five other students, all boys about eight years old. We only learned to read Hebrew. We learned about holidays and other Jewish rituals and customs at home where they were practiced throughout the year. We also learned Jewish values from our parents and other family members. We students sat around his dining room table and read Hebrew from a Siddur, a prayer book. When a housewife appeared with a live chicken to be slaughtered, Mr. Rudnitzky donned a large rubber apron, waved his arms and said, “Lez, lez,” (read, read) and disappeared through the back door into the yard. We would hear a loud screech and Mr. Rudnitzky would reappear with blood and feathers clinging to his rubber apron.

When the time arrived for my Bar Mitzvah, I was sent to a Rabbi who taught the Haftorah. He lived on Classen Avenue, the street off Park Heights Avenue just before the Avalon movie theater. I was first taught the notes; the little sqiggles and lines and dots around the Hebrew letters. Once the notes were learned, any Haftorah could be chanted. The Bar Mitzvah boy (there was no such thing as a Bat Mitzvah for girls) was taught only the Haftorah, not the Torah portion or the prayers. I cannot remember a “lavish Kiddush” after the service; probably herring, kichlas and whiskey for the men.

My Father insisted that I go to Hebrew College located on Eutaw Place and Preston Street in a converted mansion. I hated it. I did not have the basic background knowledge; I could translate very few Hebrew words. It was frustrating, and when my grades were very poor (as opposed to A’s at Poly) my father realized that Kenny would never become a Talmud Chochon (wise student of the Talmud). I lasted less than a year.

My father realized the lack of a Hebrew School in the Pimlico area and he was later instrumental in the establishment of a Hebrew School affiliated with the Petach Tikvah Congregation.

Toys

I had very few bought toys. Plastics were in the future so toys were made of wood or metal or soft goods. Parents fashioned toys from what was at hand. String was passed between two holes in a large button and the two ends were tied together. The button was pushed to the center of the string and twirled several times. When the ends of the string were pulled, the button spun. Match boxes became containers to store valuables. Matches came in small cardboard boxes. Kitchen matches were larger and came in larger boxes. By sewing a small button on the front of each box and fastening the boxes together with a paste made of flour and water, you had a miniature bureau. There were marbles and baseball cards. For a penny, you got five baseball cards and a piece of bubble gum. I collected hundreds of baseball cards in cigar boxes. The last I saw of them was under the back porch at 3326 Ingleside Avenue.

I loved to read and as a reward, I would be given a book. My father worked several doors from Pippen’s Used Bookstore and would purchase books for twenty-five cents each. This was a lot of money when you consider that the first minimum wage in 1935 was twenty-five cents per hour. During the summer I would take a book and a pitcher of ice water and lie under a tree on the lawn and read. There were the Rover Boys, the Ranger Boys and Tom Swift series. I am certain that there were others but I can’t remember them.

As I grew older, there were other “toys.” A rusty skate was a treasure. We would separate the two ends of the skate and nail each piece to the two ends of a three foot piece of board. There were always pieces of board and nails lying about. An orange crate and a piece of wood nailed to the board provided guidance. Voila! We had a vehicle to ride.

A softball, a bat and an empty lot provided hours of exercise and entertainment. I lived in a new neighborhood; our house was built in 1924. There was an empty lot between houses. The ball cost twenty-five cents; I don’t remember the cost of the bat. We used a softball because gloves were needed with a hardball and we did not have money to buy gloves. Ingleside Avenue had just been paved and when the ball went down into the sewer, several of us lifted the grate (it was heavy cast iron) and the smallest one scooted down into the sewer and retrieved the ball. I can remember travelling under the street to the manhole and up and out onto the middle of the street. We had no problem with traffic; there was none.

My parents had no debts other that the house mortgage. If you did not have the cash on hand, you did not buy. We did not consider ourselves poor; there was enough to eat, clothes to wear and a house to live in. For us, that was enough.

Letter to Grandchildren

February 12, 2010

Dear Dan:

We miss many opportunities during our lives. Living eleven hundred miles from you during the last twelve years resulted in my missing the opportunity to be with you during your formative years. Not that we haven’t kept in touch or that your Dad hasn’t, during every conversation, told me about you. He is very proud of you, your values, of the person who you have become.

Eventually I will die; no getting around it; I will die. Every living thing eventually dies. I am not afraid of death. I am, however, afraid of being forgotten; of not being remembered.

I was never one for collecting things. I do not have many items which are exclusively mine. I never liked jewelry. I wear a watch because I want to know what the time is and I wear a wedding band because Grandma wants me to wear a wedding band.

A half century ago, every Sunday afternoon, Grandma and I would pack the children in the car and we would drive to places about two hours from Baltimore; usually historical places like Gettysburg, Frederick and Antietam. Occasionally we would drive to York, Pennsylvania and shop in the outlets. On one such Sunday afternoon we discovered the Paltzgraff Outlet. Paltzgraff was a Penn Dutch manufacturer of dinnerware. I found a coffee mug there and used that coffee mug almost every morning for fifty years.

Some day I hope that you will show that coffee mug to your children and grandchildren and say,  “This coffee mug belonged to my Zaide, my Grandfather. He was your great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather. He drank coffee from it almost every morning. Let me tell you about him.”

Love and hugs and kisses,

ZZZZZZZZZ    

Deck the Walls

We recently had the inside of the house painted. The furniture was moved away from the walls and the pictures removed. After the painters completed their work, the furniture was restored to their original places and the pictures replaced on the walls. As this was being done, I thought, “We hang our lives on the walls.” There is my parents’ wedding picture (1924). There is the picture of me on a tricycle at five years of age. In the foyer, there is a picture of an angel embroidered in beads which has an interesting history. Mr. Galperin was an old cabinet make and upholsterer who did work for the ultra wealthy German Jews who lived between North Avenue and Druid Park Drive on Eutaw Place, Madison Avenue and Auchentoroly Terrace.

His shop was three doors from where my father worked. My father picked him up and took him home each day. Of course, my father refused any payment. So Mr. Galperin would make him an occasional piece of furniture. The corner bookcase in Larry’s hall is an example of Mr. Galperin’s work. Mr. Galperin had a wing chair to reupholster and when he stripped the chair, he found this tapestry beneath the upholstery. He fashioned a frame and gave it to my father. It now hangs in my foyer. It was probably hidden there by German Jews who managed to forsee the future and escaped from Hitler’s Germany with their possessions before the Holocaust.

When we first married, we would go to the Peabody Bookstore on Charles Street. From the bookstore, one walked down a hall to a Beer Stube. On the walls of the hall were paintings by budding painters for sale. I fell in love with “Lombard Street.” But Jacob Glushakow wanted $100.00, a princely sum. During the next several months, Momma managed to gather together $100.00 and “Lombard Street” has hung in our living rooms since McHenry Street. “Fremont Avenue,” a painting of an abandoned church also hung at the Peabody and now hangs next to “Lombard Street.”

My diplomas from Johns Hopkins and the University of Baltimore hang in the office along with the certificates admitting me to the Maryland and Baltimore Bars. There are also four group pictures of the family there. Along the front hall hang five family collages which Larry put together. There are also many pictures of children and grandchildren at different ages.

Each time we traveled, we brought back a remembrance, frequently a picture. There is Sloppy Joe’s Bar in Key West, Preservation Hall and Al Hurt’s Club in New Orleans as well as houses in Savannah, Georgia. In a special place, there are pictures of Alex’s Bar Mitzvah at the Wall in Jerusalem where I was privileged to lead the services wearing the T’fillin which belonged to my paternal grandfather, who died in Russia in the early 1900’s.

One wall, at the entrance to the office, holds our civil marriage license, our Ketubah and a 50th Anniversary remembrance. The table behind the sofa is home to several dozen pictures of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Truly, our lives are hung on our walls.