From Ted Silverberg

The Last of the Kritzer Sisters

November 2008

My Dearest Aunt Helen:

Where does one begin in attempting to reminisce about nearly seventy years of history with you?

Avenue ‘I’ in Brooklyn, NY, as I recall, was a lovely tree shaded street lined with duplex houses. It was here that I have my earliest memories of visiting with you and Uncle Joe. Mustachioed Uncle Joe, your dentist husband with the magical hands who, it seems, could fix almost anything. Uncle Sol, married to your youngest sister Mae, would put off fixing stuff around his house in University Heights, Ohio in anticipation of your occasional visits, knowing that Uncle Joe would do it all. There were the summers during WWII when all the cousins spent a month on Aunt Lilly and Uncle Meyer’s farm near West Salem, Ohio. My brother Dan and I were called the ‘Ingomar’ (the street we lived on at the time) terrors due to our predilection to enter the first floor bathroom through the window. The reason is the land sloped up towards the bathroom window and was only a foot or so below the sill.

Our next activity was to slide down a haystack inside the main barn. Sandra, Dan, Johnny, David (Serxner), Jeff and I would careen down the haystack screaming with unrestrained joy. On the first attempt a piece of hay went up my nose and caused it to bleed. Undaunted, I climbed up a ladder to a ledge over looking the haystack with everyone and went down again, and again until we all tired of it. Next we walked to the railroad tracks that crossed the farm not far from the main barn. We put several pennies on the tracks and waited for a freight train. We were excited by the prospect of watching the pennies get squashed into the size of half dollars while waving to the ever friendly engineer who acknowledged us by waving back. This was war time, and freight trains were frequent interlopers in our otherwise quiet playtimes. Even now I can still hear in the depth of my memory the shrill whistle of locomotives passing in the night.

How prescient of the Kritzer sisters to make sure the cousins were together when ever possible, so that in the future we would be close, like we are today nearly sixty five years later. When you and Uncle Joe visited, your home away from home would be with Aunt Mae and Uncle Sol. Shabbat dinners were a most pleasant affair, with conversation that fairly crackled with politics (Democratic of course!) local happenings and my father and Uncle Sol’s business situations. To say you’re opinionated is a vast understatement. When it came to discussing politics you demonstrated a feisty perspicuousness that could elevate anyone else to the level of a TV pundit. You sometimes shied away from the art of good conversation by interrupting others as they are expressing thoughts. When we were together, I would gently chide you to not complete my sentences before I did. Incredibly, sometimes you were correct in anticipating what I was thinking. You’re incisive mind, it appears, has not been diminished by age.

When I began writing letters nearly twenty eight years ago, you were one of the first to give me encouragement by your beautiful hand written notes (I’ve saved all from day one.) in your signature green ink. One of my first endeavors was a thank you note to a business associate in Boston after visiting him with the possibility of becoming his partner. (We’ve remained close friends ever since, and he is a fan of my essays.) His name is Dave Salett, and he once mused in conversation as to whether I missed my calling by writing instead of selling food. You had (or have) a friend who, after reading one of my letters sent to you, made a similar comment. At the time, I could not flatter myself with that possibility because of the need to make a living. In hindsight, I may have been able to do both. With retirement I mix writing, bridge, reading books, working out and keeping close contact with family and friends from school.



The volunteering I do is to visit a high school classmate who suffers from Parkinson’s and diabetes, and as a result is unable to read newspapers. His name is Carl Roth, and I visit him every other week for about three hours so he can catch up on the latest news, if any, of advances in a cure for the disease. He also likes to know who of our class mates, as reported in the Jewish News, may have recently passed away. He retired from a thirty year career teaching high school American History.

I’ve wanted to tell you about Carl, because in all the time spent with him, and understanding how he lives his life, juggling medications with attendant side effects and when to, or not eat, is supremely challenging, and in spite of this he is always upbeat He tells me that I’m his idol, and I’ve said back to him; “No Carl, you’re my idol, because what I’ve experienced with a spinal cord injury is nothing compared to what you’ve endured for the past fifteen years”. He practices what I call the ‘art of profound humility’. My main objective is to engage him in conversation, and along with the reading, will, I believe stimulate his mind. Carl complains of difficulty in concentrating like watching TV, or when I read him one of my essays, or an interesting article in the Plain Dealer. But when I get him talking, that doesn’t seem to be a problem. Among other things I’ve learned from Carl is that when reading articles in newspapers or magazines, read the first paragraph or two to get the ‘big picture’, and don’t worry about knowing the details. I now read news publications twice as fast as I used to.

There are some similarities, Aunt Helen, between you and Carl. You overcame two serious operations for cancer, and tragically lost your oldest son Johnny in a freak auto accident in his mid twenties. As I recall, John was studying to be a psychiatrist, joined the navy and was assigned to the first nuclear submarine to study the effects of being submerged for extended periods of time on the sailors. Uncle Joe passed away at a relatively young age and being alone you moved to the Bay area of San Francisco, near Walnut Creek, so you could be close to your one surviving son David and his family.

December 3, 2008

Now you’ve gone to your final resting place. You were, as cousin Jeff stated, the last link to his mother Mae Marks, and my mother Selma Silverberg. My eyes mist over as I reflect on your knowledge of, and concern, for all in the family who stayed in contact with you. Many nieces and nephews, including the next generation, would call you for advice and/or opinions on various subjects. Your answers were of the direct no-nonsense variety that left no doubt in the mind of the inquirer where you stood. I cherished your opinions on national as well as California politics. We would engage in many deep philsoliphic discussions where you displayed, sometimes intense, but always concise thoughts on the subject. You always encouraged me to keep writing, and so I shall, where ever it leads. A promise I’ve made to your memory, as long as I’m able, and the music is fresh and available. I’ve read that H.L Mencken was inspired to write while listening to Mozart. Our memories, aspirations, desires, end with us, but the music, always the music, lives on to inspire others to do likewise.