Sylvia Waltzer, my mother, was born on November 5, 1923 in Scranton, Pennsylvania. I always thought that Scranton made my mother more distinct than most other mothers and I will always mention that fact about her, even though she only spent the first four years of her life there. I seldom mention that she was the youngest of eight children born to Fanny and Morris Waltzer, one of two daughters and six sons, even though that is unique, too. I also rarely tell that the doctor who delivered her was Dr. Milkman and supposedly he did deliver milk while attending medical school. My aunt, Dorothy, who was seven at the time, even said that the baby looked like Dr. Milkman. This always reminded me of the old joke, the baby looks nothing like the father, better ask the wife about the milkman. That fact about my mother is a bit implausible, although true.
I remember the first time my family traveled to Scranton, my mother’s place of birth, to attend the bar mitzvah of her cousin Ruthie’s son. We visited the house at 816 Marion Street, where my mother was born, the house she spent the first four years of her life. She stood in front of it for a picture. That picture is somewhere amidst hundreds of other disorganized photos stored in one of numerous boxes and sometimes I come across it when we dig through those boxes.
My mother, the lady who has a thousand stories to tell about her life- the kinds of stories I can hear over and over again. And then, when I think I’ve heard them all, there’s always another story I’ve never heard before that she surprises me with. One of my favorites is when she lived in Scranton and my aunt, Dorothy and her friend, Gertie Schleis, decided they wanted to run away from home to make movies in Hollywood. At that time, there were only silent films made, but apparently, the lure of Hollywood was as appealing as it is now. My mother was a baby, maybe three or two and my aunt, who was nine or ten at the time, packed her clothes and my mother’s, too, because she used to watch her all day while my grandma was very busy with other chores. She figured she had to take her baby sister along. I consider that very noble and unselfish of my aunt, who even though was pursuing an acting career, would continue to be responsible as a big sister.
So, the plan was that they were all taking the freight train, which ran a couple of blocks from Marion Street. They figured they could hop the freight train just like all the hobos who would come off of it from time to time whom my grandmother would feed; maybe that’s why she was too busy to take care of my mother. Of course, my mother had no say in the matter– she was just the extra baggage. Anyway, my grandmother became suspicious when she went to look for a dress to iron for my mother and found that all the dresses were mysteriously gone and that her iron was ruined. Dorothy had evidently ironed all my mother’s dresses to pack and left the iron plugged in. It was Mrs. Schleis, Gertie’s mother, who found out about the great escape and called my grandma, thus revealing the mystery of the dresses and the iron. Gertie, Dorothy and Sylvia didn’t get very far. Mrs. Schleis was very angry, but my grandma laughed it off; however, she wasn’t too happy about her iron.
So, the plan was that they were all taking the freight train, which ran a couple of blocks from Marion Street. They figured they could hop the freight train just like all the hobos who would come off of it from time to time whom my grandmother would feed; maybe that’s why she was too busy to take care of my mother. Of course, my mother had no say in the matter– she was just the extra baggage. Anyway, my grandmother became suspicious when she went to look for a dress to iron for my mother and found that all the dresses were mysteriously gone and that her iron was ruined. Dorothy had evidently ironed all my mother’s dresses to pack and left the iron plugged in. It was Mrs. Schleis, Gertie’s mother, who found out about the great escape and called my grandma, thus revealing the mystery of the dresses and the iron. Gertie, Dorothy and Sylvia didn’t get very far. Mrs. Schleis was very angry, but my grandma laughed it off; however, she wasn’t too happy about her iron.
Even though my mother didn’t get to Tinseltown; her small-town girl days ended when the Waltzer family moved to New York when she was four. All my uncles were musicians and my grandparents figured the best place to be was New York City, where their sons often worked. My grandfather, who had a window cleaning business, concluded he could clean windows in New York just as easily as in Scranton. They moved to East 92nd Street in Brooklyn, first, renting in a two-family house owned by a Mrs. Fader, probably the first person my mother knew didn’t like her. Mrs. Fader kept insisting that when my mother would go down the stairs, she would touch and soil the curtains on the window of the door and complain to my grandmother. My mother swears to this day that she never touched those curtains and that her hands weren’t even dirty.
Sylvia missed Scranton terribly. She didn’t have any friends, the streets were too big and too noisy, she was just not happy. Soon after, my grandfather bought a house on East 52nd Street, between Tilden Avenue and Beverly Road. That would be the house that Sylvia grew up in. That’s also the house where many of my cousins lived in, where there were always relatives and friends visiting. There were even a few weddings there. It was a very busy house. There was always room for anybody. Legend has it that even the famous playwright, Arthur Miller, came once, a friend of my mother’s cousin, Oscar Saul, who was also a writer.
Sylvia missed Scranton terribly. She didn’t have any friends, the streets were too big and too noisy, she was just not happy. Soon after, my grandfather bought a house on East 52nd Street, between Tilden Avenue and Beverly Road. That would be the house that Sylvia grew up in. That’s also the house where many of my cousins lived in, where there were always relatives and friends visiting. There were even a few weddings there. It was a very busy house. There was always room for anybody. Legend has it that even the famous playwright, Arthur Miller, came once, a friend of my mother’s cousin, Oscar Saul, who was also a writer.
East 52nd Street, the Waltzer home- the setting where many of my mother’s famous stories took place. There is a black and white picture of me in the backyard, when I was very little, 2 perhaps. That’s the only proof I have that I was once there, although, I do not remember at all.
My mother grew from little girl to teenager to a young woman in that house on East 52nd Street. That’s where she played with her dolls, all of which she named Alice. My grandfather’s partner and cousin, Joe White, had a daughter named Alice. She had jet black hair and was beautiful; my mother was in awe of her and so she named all her dolls after her. My middle name is Alice. I always think of my mother’s dolls when I think of my middle name.
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