GROWING UP IN KINGS PARK
by
Henrietta Friedberg
Growing
up in Kings Park, Heaven help us, and Heaven did, was a blessing and a
disaster. When our family arrived in the l92Os, Kings Park was a small rural
community with a population of about 2,000. My parents came with five school
children. The eldest, Murray, was in his teens, next Jake, then myself, a
younger brother, Al, and the baby, Ester.
We left New York because papa obtained a position as
rabbi for the local synagogue. He was also chaplain at the Kings Park State
Hospital for the Mentally Ill. This hospital was the focal point of the town.
Much of the business, employment and even entertainment emanated from this
hospital. Another reason that papa chose Kings Park was because mamma hated to
live in the big city and longed for the country. Now, while papa was an
unswerving male chauvinist and was convinced that all decisions rested with the
man of the house, he allowed himself to be swayed by mamma’s wishes. After all,
since the man was the dominant figure in the home, it behooved him to gallantly
defer to the needs of the little woman, the weaker vessel, It also didn’t hurt
that mamma was a pretty blonde with lovely blue eyes.
The
congregation welcomed the family cordially, but Ester, the baby, with her
enormous sky blue eyes, was the star.
Papa
could have made a comfortable living in Kings Park. However, when the gossip
reached the ears of the president of the synagogue and other such notables that
their rabbi considered them all ignoramuses, his income dwindled noticeably. He
lost all the perks and gratuities that usually came with the job. It didn’t
swell his income, either, when he officiated at functions such as weddings, Bar
Mitzvahs, etc., for he had one fee:
"As
much as you are able," Do I need to say more? However, you will soon enjoy
papa as we all did, despite his old world idealism, his impossible
inconsistencies, and scrupulous honesty. Papa was of that school that didn’t
believe in written contracts. A handshake was all that was required with honest
men. So papa shook hands and papa got the boot. However, we all looked up to
papa because he was an ardent scholar. Before going to high school each day, we
would collect our textbooks on the swing, where papa usually left them.
Now,
about the population of Kings Park: •there was an overwhelming majority of
first generation Irish. These were the hardy souls who were courageous enough
to leave an impoverished Ireland and seek better opportunities in the new
World. The hospital was the magnet. There were always jobs available, even for
the unskilled. Hence, the town had no unemployment problems and, it follows, no
idlers, drunks nor ne’er-do-wells. These were an industrious people--colorful,
high-spirited and imbued with an ever present sense of good humor. They were
happy that they had work, and were able to give their children a good life.
They lived in comfortable rented houses which were eventually bought by these
same people.
The
townspeople felt at home in Kings Park because they had migrated from small
country villages in the old country and therefore were comfortable in a rural
setting.
Kings
Park had one main drag--Maine Street, what else. Maine Street was one city
block long. It contained all the necessary stores on both sides of the street,
besides a restaurant and pharmacy. There was also a dry goods store that sold
clothing, shoes, and everything you couldn’t buy elsewhere in town. There was a
hotel near the railroad station, a post office, and a small library. We
collected our mail at the P.O., as there was no Rural Free Delivery.
The
elementary school was situated a mile from town. As there was not enough space
for all eight grades, two classes occupied one room at the same time. One was
called the "study period" while the other was in session. There was
never any serious discipline problem at school. For unruly boys there was the
threat of the rubber hose (which was never used, to my knowledge). As for the
girls, they were ultra-refined, especially in the lunch room, where they
nibbled on dainty Schrafft-like sandwiches, with their pinkies poised properly
in the air, "comme il faut". I was always fascinated by the way
sandwiches slid noiselessly down their throats without any visible chewing. I
don’t know how it happened, but mamma’s hearty pumpernickel sandwiches were
soon supplanted by thinly sliced well-bred sandwiches which didn’t require much
chewing.
The
financial status of the town was such that a legitimate excuse for absence was
to say, "My shoes were at the shoemaker." And you didn’t have to
bring a note from the shoemaker, either.
In
those years, the town did not have a high school, bank, nor--worst of all--a
movie house. For these facilities we had to travel to the next town. However,
we could proudly boast a real V.I.P. That was State Senator Thompson, with a
proper white moustache and goatee. He was a Republican, which was the
predominant party in town. On Election Day the Party sent a limousine to convey
mamma and papa to the polling booth.
Although
we were only 43½ miles from New York City, I suspect that this thumbnail sketch
of a New York State rural community was not too dissimilar from any backwoods
village in many other states, such as Nebraska, Iowa, Montana, etc., around the
turn of the century. Could Kings Park have been typical of rural America in the
l920s?
The
essential difference between the states would probably have been in the
ethnicity of the people, whether it be German, Swedish, Norwegian, or, as in
our case, Irish; The Irish appealed to us as an interesting, vibrant people.
Unfortunately, there was one serious flaw in their character. Many were
fanatically religious and intolerant of other religions. They were especially
prejudiced against the Jews, namely, us. It didn’t take us long to find out
about this characteristic! The first victim was three year old Ester. She,
innocently enough, went to play with the next door neighbor, a child of her own
age. The girl looked at Ester scornfully and, with undisguised contempt, spit
out, "Rabbi!" With her arms akimbo, Ester shot back, "You Wabbi
yoshelf!"
Next
on the list was the rabbi, himself. What a beautiful target he made! As he was
returning home from the synagogue, a group of mischievous boys would follow him
and taunt in a sing-song voice, "Mr. Murphy." Now, I don’t know
what’s wrong with the name "Murphy," but it raised papa’s hackles. He
responded exactly as the tormentors anticipated. To their huge delight, he
would stop in his tracks, and angrily chase them as they gleefully scattered in
all directions. Another ploy was to pass the house slowly in a full car and
sing out, "Mr. Murphy."
And
now the third on the list. That turned out to be complete disaster, but not for
us. The Irish boys made a mistake when they tackled our two boys--the family
warriors, our own Maccabees. There were constant fist fights between them and
the enemy. I have to admit that the Irish lads fought clean and fair. The
onlookers would form a circle around the two combatants, no-one interfering,
even when our side was winning. I remember one of the adults exclaiming,
"Look at that little one [Foxy] fight!" Finally papa got tired of the
boys coming home with tattered shirts and bruised faces. He complained to the
priest and asked him to stop John Cassidy from picking on the boys. "What
are you complaining about?" responded the priest. "In the last
fight with your son Jake, Johnny landed in the hospital." However, that
visit turned out to be our salvation. The Irish boys and our family were at
long last at peace, and we even won their admiration. Naturally, when we were
no longer newcomers, the hostilities simmered down and we became "their
Jews." Jake was even nominated for the town council when he became a
fledgling lawyer. He lost a vote when our friend, Mr. Donovan, apologized that
he would like to vote for "Chakie Friedberg," but that "he
couldn’t vote against his religion." Later, when we sold the farm which we
had bought, and the acreage was carved up into streets, the town wanted to name
one of the streets "Friedberg Street," but papa said that was a
"no, no" in the Bible, and refused.
Now,
you heard me say "our farm." How did we manage to buy a farm?
Certainly not on papa’s salary, since he had lost all of the extras, in heaven’s
name. Well, that’s where we got it, from heaven. It happened this way. One day
my Oldest sister, who was spending the summer with us, took a pail and went
into the woods to pick huckleberries. In no time at all she returned exultant,
with a full pail of beautiful berries. The next day two of us went picking and
brought back two pails full to the brim. The woods were covered with
berries! It was raining huckleberries. It seemed as if the heavens opened up
and poured forth huckleberries, huckleberries, and more huckleberries. Soon the
whole family, including mamma, emerged from the house at dawn and, like a horde
of hungry locusts, attacked those luscious berries. Even baby Ester was put to
work, sorting out the green berries from the ripe ones. Mamma packed a picnic
lunch and out we trooped to the woods with pails, a large boiler, and a huge
washtub. We chatted away; we picnicked; we sang. One song was particularly
popular with the boys. I had made the mistake of saying, innocently, that to my
knowledge, I hadn’t told a lie since I was eight years old. That was all the
boys had to hear. From that emerged a song, "Oh, she hasn’t told a lie
since she’s eight years old."
There
was a very good market for berries that year and we soon earned enough for a
stake to buy the farm.
What
farm? On the outskirts of town, situated on the Fort Salonga Road, was a
beautiful farm and, heaven be praised, there was a sign on the front lawn in
bold, beckoning print, "For Sale." Now papa had had an eye on that
farm for a long tine. He was imbued with the dream of one day becoming a
successful Jewish farmer like in days of old in Biblical times. And now at last
papa’s dream could be realized. What did it matter that the real farmer was
mamma. There was nothing that mamma couldn’t raise. Outside of a brood of
children, she raised chickens, ducks, geese, and even turkeys--a difficult feat
for an amateur farmer.
But
don’t think for one moment that papa wasn’t allotted his tasks. His role
was to provide for the livestock, namely, horses and dogs. He was constantly
bringing home a new horse or dog.
The
first horse he brought home was a thoroughbred, a retired race horse. Did you
ever try to hitch a race horse to a plow? He almost wrecked the farm. He bolted
out of the gate and flew down the road in a mad frenzy. We never saw him again.
It was his last race and he won.
The
second horse was a solid domestic nag--a plug--sway back and all. He had one
interesting feature. He was very gaseous! While he was standing in the barn he
was O.K., but just hitch him to a wagon! At the command, "Giddap,"
the music instantly peeled forth. And with what musicianship! A precise 4/4
rhythm in exact cadence with his trotting.
Now
the dogs. Since we had accumulated so much livestock on the farm, we needed a
watchdog. That was papa’s responsibility. So papa regularly came home with
different specimens. They made affectionate pets, but watchdogs? They were even
afraid of us. We soon became experienced animal trainers. I remember one black
and tan who would scramble to safety the minute anyone drew near. I undertook
to tame him. I would throw a hunk of juicy meat in his direction, and, without
even looking at him, I would nonchalantly walk away. In no time at all he was
eating out of my hand. Brother Jake, who wanted a dog of his own, couldn’t
understand this phenomenon. He didn’t, know it, but this was the first time he
had encountered the feminine mystique.
Next
came "Spotty." He was a Dalmatian. Spotty was a watchdog alright, and
a good one, but he watched only mamma. If mamma was resting in an armchair,
Spotty would lie quietly at her feet. But if papa so much as approached in her
direction, he would bare his teeth and growl menacingly. Papa ceased to
approach when Spotty was around, and soon Spotty wasn’t around.
Finally,
papa triumphantly came home with a Boston Bull Terrier. He was the real thing,
a mean, ugly looking specimen. One look at him and a marauder would be miles
away immediately. If a neighbor visited, we had to hold onto Bobby, or else no
more visitors. What nobody knew was that fierce looking Bobby was a fraud.
Actually he wouldn’t hurt a fly. We fixed that. As Jake said, "If papa
brought home a lion, we would all be riding on his back in one week. However,
Bobby had a low, rumbling growl, and that snarl of his earned him a redoubtable
reputation far and wide. The chickens were safe and so were the cows.
Incidentally,
don’t let me ignore the cows, Did you know that, contrary to popular belief,
cows can be quite sensitive animals? If you placed a garland of flowers around
Bossi’s• neck, she would delicately prance forth and act the dignified dowager.
The rest of the herd would follow her submissively.
We
also had a cow who was too modest to allow a male to milk her. What to do when
mamma was away? Solution: One of the boys donned a dress and, sure enough,
Madame graciously permitted him to do the honors.
As
I mentioned before, we were eventually accepted by the community, and even with
affection. When mamma returned from wintering in Florida, the neighbors greeted
her with flowers. When sister Ann needed a ride to the station, Mr. Donovan
insisted on driving her in his "one horse shay." Also, we certainly
gained real status and the town’s wholehearted acceptance when the new priest,
a liberal man, came to the farm for mamma’s delicious heavy sweet cream.
I
often look back nostalgically to my childhood in Kings Park. Some day I would
love to saunter along one of the streets, especially one named "Friedberg
St." And I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the houses was inhabited by a
family named "Murphy."
To
this day, I have a soft spot in my heart for the Irish. After all, they were my
"Luntsmen," or, as they say in all languages, "my hometown
people."
Ó Henrietta Friedberg