The Marigold

I did not smell a marigold this summer.
When I was a boy, marigolds filled my summers.
They were my friends, they were everywhere.
Their scent made my head spin.

I did not smell the lavender this summer.
Lavender was my favorite smell,
when I was a boy.
The scent made me feel safe and full.

I did not hear a robin this year.
None at all.
The robin's call was sweet,
and reminded me of the sweetness of life.

Time is a bully, a rascally demon.
He will play you for the fool,
that you are,  thinking that,
The world is right and you right, in it.

I know better, now, though.
The churning years have taught me.
And the great message of Time,
Rings in my ears.

My world has disappeared,
And I am no longer right with it.
The lost marigolds and lavender
proves that much.

Moolie

The Lower East Side, 1960

I took a soft, woolen glove and put it on my hand to pet the neighborhood cat with.   It would surely feel so nice to him, as it seemed to do, because the cat rubbed up against my hand with great vigor.   His head, then his back, then head and face again.   He was really enjoying it.

"You know," said Moolie, "because of the cat's thick fur, he can't really feel the glove you're wearing. To him, it's just like your hand, or sandpaper, even,  It doesn't matter what you stroke him with.   It all feels the same to him."

I was stunned.   But the logic of what he was saying was undeniable.  This cat felt everything through his fur.  I could have been petting it with Brillo soap pads, and it wouldn't have mattered.

"That's good!" I said, not knowing really why.

***

Mr. Max Edelmann was my upstairs neighbor back in the tenement where I grew up on the Lower East Side.   The Edelmann family,  Mr. Edelmann, his wife, Esther, and their two children, Rachel and Miriam (yes, very Biblical, like everyone always says when I tell them)  escaped Nazi Germany in the late 1930's and came to Fifth Street after living for a short time on Hester Street.   Mr. Edelmann was a baker and the whole family worked in the bakery they had on Grand Street.   He would often bring fresh bagels and bialys that were so delicious, better than anything I've had since, that's for sure.  You can't compare those bagels to anything around today.

Anyway, Moolie, the son of Mr. Edelmann's brother, arrived in New York, alone, many years later, around 1946.   He came to America alone.   He never spoke about the rest of his family or what happened to his father and mother.

* * * 

Moolie was a good friend to the children of the neighborhood on Lower East Side where I grew up. He lived just across the street from me, next to Alex Fiegler, the tailor, and above the bar, which didn't seem to have a name, where all the cops hung out, which was in turn, next to the precinct. Moolie's real name was Morris.  Or Moses. Or was it Moe?  Or were those names all the same?   Anyway, "Moolie" is the name given to him soon after his arrival in New York City by the kids of the neighborhood, as was the custom on the Lower East Side of the first half of the 20th century.   For example, my nickname, was, "Fingers", after because I played the piano,   Mitchell Cohen's nickname was "Flash," for his blinding running speed.  Kids could be named in so many ways after so many things.   Jack Pesalano was nicknamed, "Bo" because he saw "Beau Geste," about twenty times.  Dick "The Schmuck," was called that because he was a Dodger fan while everyone in the Universe was a Yankees fan.    I have no idea what the origin of the name, "Moolie," is.   But it seem to fit and it stuck.   No one called him Moe or Morris, just as no one called Jack, "Jack" or Mitchell, "Mitchell."    They were Bo and Flash.  Even later in life, their nieces and nephews called them, "Uncle Bo," and, "Uncle Flash."   ."   But those days, the days of innocent nicknames, of thousands of children playing on the streets of the Lower East Side, of candied apples sold on pushcarts, all the things that made city life bearable, are long gone.    As are so many of us, and the people we loved.    

So, Moolie eased into life as an American, more specifically, as a New Yorker from the Lower East Side, which was, let's face it, distinctly different from being simply, an "American."   And the nick-name seemed to help.  But Moolie was never really totally comfortable in this world.   I wonder now, if he would have been comfortable in any world after what he had been through.   It took years before I was able to put the pieces together and figure out what happened him, those numbers on his arm, etc, and realize what he had actually seen and survived.  I'm sorry I didn't know it sooner.

Moolie never married, had no children and was barely able to hold a job despite being, by far, the most intelligent and likable person I've ever known.    He received checks from the government and helped out at his cousin's bakery now and then.    He got by.   He survived.   He survived and to us was always a pleasant and courteous, even "giving," man.    He always helped people out, and never asked for anything in exchange.   If he could have gotten paid for all the good he did in the neighborhood he would have been rich man.  

* * *

One day I got into a fist fight with. .. wait.   Which one of my friends was it?     I can't remember. Anyway, he clipped me good on the forehead, and I lay there, on the hot sidewalk, bleeding profusely.

Moolie wrapped my wound with his handkerchief (he always had one) and told me to hurry home and have it washed with peroxide.  I  did.   The scar is still there.   I'm glad.  It reminds me of that day, happier times, of playing on the hot cement sidewalks, running, yelling, playing all manner of childish games.   And it reminds me of Moolie, of course.

***

"Boredom has been and continues to be the most potent destructive force in the Universe.  I don't care what you say about chemical additives, genetically modified organisms, or radiated fish.   Boredom kills, quickly, and with certainty.   Boredom is from hell.  It is what true hell consists of, not burning souls, tortured or suffering in some way.  No.  When one goes to hell, one is subjected to unending boredom.  It is pain like no other; it will destroy your brain chemistry, your ability to think, your overall health.   Everything."   So said Moolie.

"If you find yourself bored, get out, right away, change it, fix it!" Moolie said, to our young and attentive ears. "To be bored is a sin against God.  You must fight it, and overcome it, he said, more than once, and rather sternly.    To be sure, Moolie never seemed to be bored, even when he did "nothing," sitting on the park bench in the playground.   He read a newspaper, talked to people, children, sang, whistled, or short of those things, just looked as if he were in deep thought.  He always smiled.   He always smiled except when asked about the numbers on his arm.   Then he just made an excuse to leave.   But pleasantly, he was never rude or angry.   I think I became a lot of Moolie as I aged.  I like to be pleasant and calm and serene to others. I think  Moolie would have liked that.

* * *

A conversation between me (Me) and Moolie (M), circa 1961.

M: "What are you doing?"
Me:  "I'm trying to give this ant a piece of bread crumb."
M:  "I see.  Is he taking it?"
Me: "He doesn't seem interested.  I put it right in front of him and he walks around it.   Over and over.  I don't get it."
M:  "Maybe he's not hungry."
Me:  "Hungry?  Do ants get hungry?   I thought they just carry stuff into their nest."
M:  "Well, why would they do that, if they weren't going to eat it?"
Me:  "It's for the Queen.  They have to feed the Queen Ant."
M:  "So then, what do they themselves eat?"
Me:  "I don't think they eat."
M: "Ants don't eat?   Is this what you're saying?"
Me:  "Yes.  I think so.  They don't eat.  I've never seen an ant eat.  Never."
M:  "How many animals have you seen eat?  I mean, have you seen a whale eat?"
Me:  "No."
M:  "A rhinoceros?"
Me:  "He looks like he wants to take it, but then he leaves it.  It's like he's not sure.  See?"
M:  "So, you've never seen a rhinoceros eat?  Does that mean it never eats?"
Me:  "Actually, it might not."
M:  "What?"
Me:  "Well, who knows?  I don't know."
M:  "I see.  Okay.   How's the ant doing?"
Me:   "There he goes again.  He picks it up, carries it and leaves it.   What's going on?"
M: "Maybe he's confused."
Me:  "A confused ant?"
M:   "Why not?  You've never seen a rhinoceros eat.   Maybe this is a confused ant."
Me:  "But an ant can't get confused.   He's an ant.   He does everything on instinct."
M:  "So his instinct is telling him to pick up the bread crumb then put it back down and walk in a circle over and over?"
Me:  "Oh, he's gone."
M:  "Did he take the bread crumb?"
Me:  "No."
M:  "I'm telling you, that was a confused ant."
Me:  "I guess so, Moolie."    And we both laughed.

***

Another conversation between me and Moolie.

Moolie was dressed in his black suit.   It wasn't a holiday, but he was wearing it anyway.

"Where are you going, Moolie?"
"To Mrs. Biaggi's Uncle's funeral."
"Oh. How old was he?"
"Oh, very old.  Ninety-seven."
"Wow.  That means he was born in. . . in. . .when was he born?"
"Well, this is 1962 so. . . subtract ninety-seven, you get. . . what?"
"1962 minus ninety-seven. . . seven minus two. . .no. . ."  I was drawing in the air.  Twelve minus seven is five. . .then. . .uh. . .1865!  The year Lincoln was shot.  Wow.   That's something, eh?"
"Yes, that's something."
"Think he was there?"
"No, no, no. . .he was in Italy.  He was born in Italy.  Didn't come over here till 1908."
"Wow.  1908.  Wow."   To me, 1908 was a million years ago.

"What year will it be when you are ninety-seven, Joey?"
"Oh, wow. . .1954 plus 97. . ." I started writing in the air again.  "It will be the year 2051!  Think they'll have flying cars by then, Moolie?"
"May be, Joey.   May be!"
"Flying cars," I thought, as Moolie turned and walked away.


* * *

One day Moolie decided to take the whole gang to the movies.   Uptown!   Wow.   We went to the old Loew's Capitol in the heart of Times Square.   What an amazing theater.   Huge?   Please.   But also ornately decorated, out of what they called the "Golden Age" of movie palaces.   And it was like a palace.   The entire lower section was surrounded by a rock garden.   Real rocks, real plants, real garden.   Extraordinary.   And the interior of the theater. . . wow, like a Cathedral.   And the film we saw?    Nothing less than the greatest "movie" ever made, "Gone With The Wind."   It was being re-released for some anniversary.   None of us boys cared about the anniversary only about seeing this film that we had heard so much about for so many years.   And Clark Gable.   And the film, and Gable didn't disappoint.  I can so clearly remember Gable telling Scarlet, "If I want to come in, no locks will keep me out," and kicked down the door to her  bedroom and the whole theater went nuts, screaming and cheering and clapping.   What a moment.   Only Gable to could make that happen like that.    Never the same on TV.   Which is why I make sure to take my grandchildren to see it in revival houses.  No comparison.

* * *

"Hey!  Moolie!  What are you carrying?"
"Come here, boys," he shouted at the group of us.   He opened his package to reveal a picture of a man throwing seeds on a field, with a bright, yellow sun in the distance.  It was beautiful.
"Like it?"
"Wow.  It's bee-oo-ti-ful," said, Terry La Duca, usually not so eloquent.
"Is it real?" I asked.
"Yes, well, no it's not the original painting, it's a reprint.  A copy.  I'm going to hang it up in my apartment over the sofa.
"What's it called?"
"The Sower.   Come by anytime to look at it.   It takes time to appreciate great art, boys."
"Okay, Moolie.  We will."
And we did.

***

I was playing the piano when Moolie dropped by.
"Hello, Moolie."
"Keep playing."
I continued to play but was distracted by a conversation Moolie was having with my mother.  It was pretty serious.  So I stopped.
"What happened?" Moolie asked. "I like to hear you play.  Keep playing."
It was obvious now that he wanted to keep my out of the conversation.   I played again, but my focus was on what was being said in the other room.   I heard little snippets of what was said.
Suddenly my mom called out to me, "Joey, you have to go to Aunt Mary's for a little while.   Take your homework."
"Okay." is dutifully said.

That is how I found out that my other Aunt Carlotta,  was beaten up by her husband, my Uncle Pete.  My mother was going to visit her in the hospital.   Everyone had a job to do.   My Uncle John was sent to get my mother to stay with my grandmother to keep her busy, so she wouldn't find out.   But it was my grandfather that everyone feared.   If he found out, he would surely have killed Pete as easily as turning a light switch.   He already hated the man's guts for so much less.  This was my father's task.   Moolie's task was to bring me home if it got too late and stay with me.

Which is what happened.

We sat in the kitchen and talked till after my usual bedtime of nine o'clock.  Moolie told me what happened. And why not? I was old enough, I was ten.

"Moolie, are they going to put him in jail?"

"I don't know.  Depends on your Aunt.   So far, she doesn't want them to press charges. We'll see."

"Why doesn't she want to?  She must hate him now.   Why wouldn't she want him to go to jail."

"Well, Joey, it's very complicated what happens between people.   People get all mixed up in their heads when they fall in love, get married, sometimes, it makes them a little crazy.   I don't know."

I was glad he said, "I don't know," because I didn't understand anything he said.   But Moolie was smart and I expected him to know.   That he didn't know, made me realize something.   Something important.

* * *

Moolie began to grow old.  That's a funny thing to say because we all did, but because he was older than all my friends it was much more noticeable.  Plus, he was always sick, or so it seemed, and began to leave the house less often..  I'm not sure why.   At first we missed him, and went to see him in his little apartment.   Then, I don't know what happened.   I think we just got older and distracted by life -- some of went to college, we started to have girlfriends, then our own families.   Many of our gang just moved away and were never heard from again.   I left the neighborhood but tried to keep in touch with as many people as could, I mean, how hard is it to send a card at Christmas?

***

Death became more and more familiar to me.  So many people from the neighborhood began to die off.   And relatives, too.   It was hard to keep track of who was alive and who wasn't!  Sometimes, I'd hear that someone had died and I could not place the name with a face.   That was kind of unsettling.

* * *

When Moolie died it was like someone out of my distant past, someone from a different life and world.  I know now that I didn't want to acknowledge the pain of it.  It was stupid of me.   None of us "boys" from the old neighborhood even went to the service for him.  I didn't even learn of his passing till over a month after his passing.   So it was easy to deny that he really wasn't there, sitting on the park bench, reading his newspaper, or talking to some kid who was trying to give a bread crumb to an ant.    In my mind Moolie is still there.    And always will be.  

***

At Christmas, the world is transformed.  In the summer, too.  But as drastic as those changes are, one to the other, Winter, Christmas, Spring, Summer, none of it compares to the changes brought by the awesome passage of time.   Same place, same buildings, same weather, but no, not the same.   In fact, everything is different.  Everything.

Of course, now, so many years later, visiting the old 'hood is like visiting a different planet.  And I don't like it.

And so, I and my old friends live in a strange and indifferent world, one without Moolie in it,  And I although I know he's long passed on, I still cannot imagine it.


***