"The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong." (Ecclesiastes)

.....When I was about 14 year's old, I met a girl from Brighten Beach in Brooklyn whose Aunt and her four cousins lived in the building next  to ours on Kelly St. in the Bronx.  She was a very pretty blonde...the only kind I was ever attracted to.  She was 12 and we became quite close--even kissed a few times; but I think that was a case of cheating on a game of "Spin the Bottle."  At any rate, we did correspond while I was in the Navy and when I returned, we picked up where we left off.  Only by this time, I was 21 and she was 18.  Very significant changes, I believe.  I spent an hour every weekend on the BMT subway just to get to her home in Brighton where she lived with her parents and two older sisters.  We decided to get married, invitations were printed and mailed just about the time I was incarcerated in the VA hospital in 1946 suffering from battle fatigue.

..... (I may get some of my dates wrong, but it's not that important; this examination of my life is primarily for my own satisfaction.  When I was younger, I did not want merely to be "good"--I wanted to be "great"--as I mentioned in a previous blog.  At this time that particular goal seemed dismal and improbable, if not impossible.)

.....Of course our marriage was delayed, to say the least--but we did get married in June, 1947; we were divorced in 1977.  Our marriage after 30 years simply got stagnant.  She ran away to California one day and never returned--she wanted "to find herself"; but  before that stunning decision, we raised four children;   I didn't I fully understand her compulsion, but I thought what she did was courageous...I couldn't do it.  I wanted to find myself also, but I didn't know where to look.  After our marriage I spent the next five years in college, having time only on the subway to study for my courses.  My daughter, Robin Lee was born in December 1950, and my son Joel Michael in 1952--the year I got my MA degree.  The twins, Bobby Lou and Bonny Sue came into this world in 1955.  By that time I had my first job teaching English in Cranford, NJ.  I took to teaching English Lit. like a duck takes to water, like a bird takes to flight, like a hot dog takes to a bun.  

.....I  was in the middle of Life #3.  

.....God! I've had a long life!  How can I finish this?

"Every man's life is a fairy tale..." (Hans Christian Andersen)

.....So to continue: I usually refer to my life from birth to age 21 as Life #1.  You can read all about it in yesterday's blog posting.  My Life #2 began after I was discharged from Naval Air November 19, 1945.  After high school, I worked for awhile in the Public National Bank as a "pageboy"; when  I went back there, they made me a teller.  I learned to count money faster than a speeding bullet, and little did I realize that paper money is like mining coal--your hands become black.  Believe it.  However, I found it impossible to adjust once again to civilian life.  I felt guilty that I survived, and my friends did not. I could not work in a cage, so I became depressed...and even suicidal.  This was not the life that I envisioned for myself.  My mother noted my mood and behavior and insisted that I present myself to the Kingsbridge VA hospital in the Bronx.  It seemed to be the right move to get out of the banking business.  I spent the next six months in that hospital with what my shrink there told me was "battle fatigue"...now known by the fancy name of PTSD--"Post traumatic stress disorder".  


.....While I was serving my time at the VA hospital, I began to write some poetry and shortly a social worker named Lucille Cusick came to see me and began to read my work.  She was impressed by it and demanded that I go to college.  I told her that in high school I did not take any college prep courses--only secretarial stuff.  She said, that it won't matter and that after I was discharged she would accompany me down (or up?) to Columbia University's Admission Office.  I thought she was out of her mind, but I thought, "Why not?"  Actually, Lucille put me on the road to the rest of my life.  At Columbia I was asked to take the admission's test--and I did--and a week or so later I got a letter from Columbia suggesting that the result of the test indicated that I could not do college level work.  This really pissed me off and I vowed that I would get a degree or two there---somehow.


.....But Lady Luck was on my side--Lucille had sent one of my poems to "The Saturday Review of Literature" a very prestigious magazine edited by William Rose Benet.  The poem was published in a section called "The Best Poetry of WWII".  On the cover was a picture of Lenore Speyer, a poet and teacher at Columbia.  Lucille Cusick dragged me and the magazine back to Columbia and on the basis of that publication I was admitted conditionally by taking a few makeup courses and getting no less than a B average before they would allow me to matriculate for a degree.  I spent the next five years there--from 1947 to 1952 for my B.S and Masters degrees.  I graduated "Magna Cum Laude".  So much for their letter saying I could not do college level work.
.....And so ends Life #2   #3 tomorrow if I'm up to it.

"It matters not how long we live, but how."

…..You need not read this particular post on my blog because I am writing it to myself trying to assess what I have accomplished in this long life.  Ever since I was a little waif, I never wished to be merely “good”…my aspiration was to be great.  Well, I don’t know if my aspirations actually reached fruition, but the time has arrived when I need to evaluate the meaning of my life. So, to begin, my first venture into the world of action…apart from just eating candy and playing with girls when I was 9, was to get down to the beach in Long Branch, NJ, and sell newspapers.  It was a lot of fun, and I met some very interesting people…but my feet were burning because of the hot sand.  My most  prolific financial day was the day after the steamship “Morro Castle” burned right off the coast.  So, at the least, that became a “great” day.  

…..After Dad died in 1933, my mother, sister and I moved in to mom’s parents’ apartment in the Bronx.  I graduated there from selling papers to becoming a shoe-shine boy.  I made a shoe-shine contraption out of cheese boxes, bought brown and black shoe wax, and ventured into the streets to shine shoes for for 25 cents.  However, it took all day just to make $1.75… in those days a largess of awesome proportions.  I was now a successful entrepreneur… and I was my own boss; that was also not merely good—but finally something great!  And to think I was only 11 years old.

…..So, Baron, let’s skip ahead a few years to high school.  I wasn’t particulary great in school, although I did manage to get good passing grades in all my subjects…particularly English, steno, and typing.  Mom thought I should become a court stenographer; but I wanted to be a journalist--a sportswriter.  Little did I know that in my 80s I would become a “journalist”…but not the newspaper kind…On my PC I began to keep a “journal” of my life in Florida on a column called a “blog”….so there.  I was a “journalist” after all…one of the vagaries of life...and somewhat of a disappointment.

…..It wasn’t very long after I graduated high school in 1941 that Pearl Harbor was bombed and America went to war again…WWII.  I was 18 when I joined the Navy in November of 1942.  I spent three years as a combat aircrewman, flew 60 combat missions and eventually was awarded two Distinguished Flying Crosses and eleven Air Medals.  However, that accomplishment did not make me a hero…the real heroes were those who didn’t make it back.  Regardez…(I learned a bit of French during the war such as “Voulez vous cigarette? O chocolat?”, and “Voulez vous couche avec moi?”.)  I wasn’t too sure what that meant—but eventually I found out.

…..This blog is now getting too long.  Readers might lose interest, so I will continue this, perhaps tomorrow, and I guarantee it will be exciting reading…good enough for kindles, iPads, iPods…and whatever.