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Showing posts with label Milwaukee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Milwaukee. Show all posts

Saturday, April 17, 2021

Noxious Nellie: The Amusing Maze of Street Names and Directions that Could Lead to Trouble...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  
Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!


This Episode:        Noxious Nellie:  The Amusing Maze of Street Names
                             and Directions that Could Lead to Trouble...
                                                  (and often does!!) 


As dedicated and courageous Food Delivery Drivers for...   well, that doesn't really matter.  Suffice to say we are kind of "mostly reluctant road merchants," caught in the web of the Gig Economy, on
the road of necessity to earn a buck or two.  As we pursue our craft, our trade, we follow "The Voice," and go where it commands!

The Voice belongs to Noxious Nellie.  That's what we've dubbed her, she who utters the mechanical words that propel us to the homes or businesses of food delivery customers...  The hungry and most often unseen masses, those whose dancing fingers manipulate "Apps" to summon sustenance from dozens, perhaps hundreds, of purveyors throughout a specific geographical territory.

Unseen masses?  I should explain, that in these perilous times of the "Viral Scourge," the "Damnpenic," as some prefer, deliveries are made to doorways and lobbies, requiring photo evidence that the delivery was actually accomplished successfully.  Smartphones with cameras are a necessity, perhaps needless to add.

We collect food from various shops, stores and restaurants, place sacks of sealed and protected edibles into insulated carry containers, and then follow Nellie's guidance to designated destinations.  It's a reasonably simple process, usually, but sometimes, only if you happen to know where you're going!

We've often pondered, my noble and capable partner, SweetHeart and I, if a driver happens to be new to a certain community or neighborhood, Nellie's sometimes peculiar pronunciations, street names and directions, could drive a newcomer to become utterly confused, if not entirely lost.  The result could be unpleasant -- hot food losing its desired temperature, frozen beverages a puddle of sticky slop, delivery drivers scratching their heads in frustration, getting out of their vehicles, turning, twirling themselves 360 degrees, becoming dizzy and disoriented in the process.  A telephone call to the headquarters company, or the customer, possibly becoming the only remaining option or solution.

"Where am I?  Where am I going?  Where the hell is Bumbuckle Street!!??  NELLIE!!..."

Now then...  I'm sure you'd like to have some examples.  I mean, isn't that what you're hoping for, what you've been impatiently waiting for, longingly, if you've actually read the first six paragraphs??  Well, dear friends and devotees, here they are...  a short list for your further reading enjoyment...  (Comments and Questions always welcome!):

        1.  Clybourn Street in Milwaukee is pronounced, “Cly (accent on the first syllable) born.  Nellie says, “Cli (“i” as in it) burn.”  

2.  Belleview is properly pronounced “Bell” (accent on the first syllable) “view.”  Nellie chooses

instead, “Believe You.”  Is it possible she believes in us, and everything we say, stand for and do?

3.  Emulating Millie, introduced in a previous chapter, Teutonia, according to Nellie also, is “Toy-a-tone-ee-ah.”  Correctly pronounced by most Milwaukeeans, “Two Tone Yah,” accent on the second syllable.  (Apparently, both Nellie and Millie studied under the same electronic computer tutor!)

4.  Meinecke Street is correctly pronounced, “Mine A Key,” accent first syllable.  Nellie prefers “Mean Eck,” accent first syllable.

5.  Then there’s Becher Street, correctly pronounced by most of us, “Beach-Er,” accent first syllable.  We’ve heard, “Becker,” “Beaker” and “Betch-Yer,” among other butchered options!  (Interesting that two syllables can be mis-uttered in so many different ways!)

6.  Consider Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior Drive.   Nellie’s take is, “Drive Martin Luther King Junior Drive.”

7.  A street that contains an outstanding bar and restaurant is Saint Paul Avenue.  Sobelmans is the restaurant, and serves, in the opinion of many burger gourmets, the best hamburger in the City of Milwaukee and surrounding suburbs.  To come to the point, Nellie prefers, “Street Paul Avenue.”  

8.  Another interesting mispronunciation is that of Cramer Street, correctly pronounced “Cra-(“a” as in able) mer.  Nellie seems to prefer “Cra- (“a” as in bam) mer, accent, of course, on the first syllable.        

8.  And lest we ignore our Latino brothers and sisters, Cesar E. Chavez Drive in Milwaukee becomes, in Nellie’s vernacular, “Cesar East Chavez Drive.”  (We suppose some of the Nellie oddities are explainable, given her mechanical persona, and translations programmed into her by a computer with an apparently keen sense of humor!)

9.  We couldn’t let this one pass, and it happened very recently.  We were making a delivery on the south side of Milwaukee, with voice instructions from Nellie to turn left onto a street she announced as “E-Jere-ten,” accent on the second syllable.  The street, to most Milwaukeeans, is correctly pronounced, “Edge-er-ton,” accent on the first syllable.  Once again, Nellie provided us with a short but welcome bit of amusement.


10.  Sometimes Nellie eliminates street names entirely, and simply states, “Turn right,” or “Turn left,” completely ignoring the street name or number.  Perhaps she forgets street names and numbers in the midst of her directional instructions, brain lapses possibly.   Or could she be on a
coffee or lunch break?!  It does get a bit confusing at times.  Luckily we know the city and its surrounding suburbs quite well, and we almost always navigate to the food recipient successfully!   

When absolutely necessary, if truly confused and lost (very rarely!), we telephone the customer and ask, “Where exactly are you?….  Um, excuse me, where…?” 



(Special Note of Dedication:    SweetHeart keeps a mental, often a written log, of amusing "Nellie" and "Millie" pronunciations and unwitting comedic pauses perpetrated by the aforementioned duo.  This writing is dedicated with great thanks, love and more gratitude to SweetHeart for remembering...  when I don't!)  



Humbly Submitted 04-17-21 -- Joel K.




      

 

       

Saturday, August 15, 2020

They Grow Up too fast... Now Even the Grandkids Want the Stories!

Memoirs of a Geezer

  
Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!


This Episode:                    They Grow Up too Fast...   
                    Now Even the Grandkids Want the Stories!!



We're driving along cheerfully, taking the newly-turned teenaged (13) grandson to his soccer camp.  Suddenly he demands, from the back seat, just behind SweetHeart, his "Baba."  "Baba," he begins in a loud and gleeful voice, "tell me how Papa proposed to you."  He, the grandson, is already expecting a 
risible result, beaming in anticipation!

SweetHeart dives into the tale, and with a significant degree of relish.  "At some point, when we were dating, maybe for about 10 months or so into what Papa likes to call our 'courtship,' I can't
Map of Colorado...  Showing Alamosa!
remember exactly when, Papa tells me he's interested in considering the possibility of buying a small, weekly newspaper in Alamosa, Colorado.  'I'd like you to come with me,' he says."

"Well," SweetHeart / Baba continuing the story, feigning indignation as she did at the time of the actual event, "if you think for one moment I'm going to put in for a transfer to Denver (she flew for United Air Lines, and had recently re-located her flight base from Los Angeles to Chicago!), drop everything and follow you all over the country, you're very much mistaken. But then Papa replied, 'I wouldn't expect you to do so out of wedlock.'  That's Papa for you...  Captain Romance!" 

"I mean," SweetHeart / Baba continued, "who uses the word 'wedlock'?!"  

Seany, our grandson, was immediately consumed with laughter.  "Yeah, 'Captain Romance,' " he
Photo of Seany when he was very young, and
Papa was feeding him an ice cream cone.  
One of our favorite pix...  Now he's 13!!
echoed amid peals of laughter.  "Tell me another story about Papa."

"Hmmm," Baba began, "when Papa was first going to meet my entire family, we were all going out for dinner.  Papa had the habit of wearing the same suit, or outfit, for each day of the workweek.  This was a Friday.  His 'Friday suit' was actually pretty decent...  sort of a light-colored suit with brown flecks, dark brown shirt and a nubby tan tie.  His best outfit.  I was happy, anticipating he'd show up in that very outfit.  I went to the door, answering his ring.  'What happened to your Friday suit,' I asked, shocked and disappointed at the way he looked, certain I'd be embarrassed when my family got a load of him.  He was wearing the Friday suit, but his shirt was a pattern of blue, peach  and white stripes, and he was wearing a brown tie with gold lions!  It was awful.  He said his 'Friday shirt' was in the wash."

Seany's laughing, enjoying the tale.  "I should have had 'Garanimals,' " says Papa. 

"What's that?" Seany asks.  "I've never heard of that...  Garanimals?!"  

Baba answers, "It was a kind of kids' clothing from the 70s or 80s.  Shirts and pants had tags that identified which went with which, so that kids could pick out their own outfits, and their moms would know everything would match.  Little kids could dress themselves, choose their own clothes
Wondering if anyone remembers "Garanimals"?
for the day."

"Tell me another funny Papa story," Seany requests.

"Our first date!" Baba begins, remembering in a flash of intuition.  "On one occasion, and it wasn't the first time, I met Papa at a bar.  He came in with no money in his pockets, left with a snoot full and 65 cents...   My friend, Donna -- who liked Papa and had a friendship with him --  told me that I'd probably only ever meet Papa in bars, and he'd never call.  On that occasion, however, Papa said he had to make a trip to Denver, and he'd call me when he got back.  He did.  He called me and asked me on a date, to go to a Marquette Men's basketball game.  We spent the first half of the game with Papa looking for a free parking space. We made it for the second half.   'Captain Cheapskate.'

"Papa's and my friend, Pat, when I told him about that episode, said, 'You better get used to it.' " 

Seany laughed through the telling of the "date story," and as it came to an end, asked, "Who won
the basketball game?"  

Baba answered, "I think Papa did.  He saved five bucks in parking fees."  We arrived at Mount Mary University, site of Seany's soccer camp.  He was still smiling and chuckling as he exited the vehicle, grabbing his soccer sack and water bottle as he did.  "You know, we're picking you up.  See you at three.  We love you." Baba concluded, as she and Papa waved a goodbye.  
  

(Special Note of Dedication:    To Seany, in honor of his 13th Birthday, and a very special occasion that he'll experience in November of 2020.  We love you to bits!!  -- Baba and Papa!)



Humbly Submitted, 08-15-2020 -- Joel  K.







  

 

 

  



 

  

  

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

The Bean that Salvages Morning... Its Coveted Rewards!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!


This Episode:     The Bean that Salvages Morning...  Its Coveted Rewards!


For many humans, those who regard early morning rising as an agony and a curse, heading off to clock in to one or another form of drudgery...  meaning work...  a cup of coffee is or can be a form of adrenaline.  Maybe a necessity, like an injection of life-saving medicine.  A magic potion that jump starts the brain and possibly the heart as well.

For me, my fondness for coffee began sometime in the early 1970s, in Seattle, Washington, when certain now-famous coffee purveyors set up shop in Pike Place Market, one in particular, perhaps needless to add.  Several other coffee houses followed, some better than others in terms of flavor and variety of recipes and concoctions, some lavishly decorated with artistic designs.

In my GeezerHood, my fondness for good coffee has grown into a kind of obsession, as if one addiction has supplanted another...  alcohol for java beans...  and that sweet sense of resurrection sends happiness coursing through the intricate roadmap of arteries to its destination brain! 

Perhaps I should elucidate!  I really like good coffee!!  Currently, SweetHeart and I have two favorite coffee destinations:  Colectivo and Stone Creek, the former either Prospect or Oakland or Lakeside, the latter on Downer and Park.  Naturally we've enjoyed other locations -- including a few in Madison.  I mean, we're explorers...  adventurous to a fault!!   

Sadly, I don't have as much time as I'd like to be a coffee house character these days, as the necessity to earn a living interferes with my social calendar, my love for the bean.  When we do have a moment to lounge and sip the juice of the gorgeous brown elixir, we note that
there is and should be no expectation of privacy in a coffee house.  I overhear young people overusing the word "like" as they discuss boy and girl friends, jobs, varied relationships, parties, hangovers, school, books, hair, lip rouge, fashion, piercings, hair....

Older habitués talk about politics, lots of political stuff, relationships, marriages and divorce, books, careers, social engagements, theatre, opera, children and the challenges that children bring to themselves and their parents, grandchildren... politics.  The holders of public offices that they can and cannot stomach...  "How in the name of all that's sacred did that idiot get elected..."  
Topics of that nature.

The other aspect of, "There's no expectation of privacy in a coffee house..." is something that annoys the hell out of those of us who are "regulars."  Certain patrons tend to stand way back from the coffee clerks' counter, that is, back from the patron currently at the counter, as if in a
There are many outstanding coffee purveyors in
Milwaukee.  Visit Phoenix, for example, on
Fond du Lac Ave. just west of 35th Street!!
healthcare facility, like a hospital registration counter, or a bank!!  I mean, what the hell...  "Is the guy in front of you ordering a caramel machiavelli infused with opium or ecstasy?  Move up, for f-ing sake...  This aint no doctor's office!!  You can actually overhear someone ordering a double-dip latte with a shot of non-fat raspberry syrup, calotropis,  chia seed extract and figwort!!  Everyone know it's not a secret code or a nefarious contract...!!"  (Or is it...  I may have to pay greater attention...??!!)  



Nevermind...  Back to the bean and the coveted rewards it provides.  In my / our long-standing patronage of Colectivo, for example, I've managed to amass 1,000,000 rewards points, probably worth approximately $900.00 in coffee beverages and bags of beans.  Lately, I dropped down to something just fewer than 900,000 points, owing to the children's insistence that "you have to start spending those points!..."  But I'll get the balance back to more than a million!  I's a mission, one I do not take lightly!  


My children have been battling over who gets the coffee card in the will!!  I ask them not to speak of my point balance so loudly as I fear some scofflaw or assassin might overhear, and conspire to bop me in the head and make off with my card!!!  "I mean to say, children, it's worth a small ransom!  I must swear all of you to absolute secrecy!!  Whisper of it among yourselves if you must, however...  If you do not heed my warning, I shall cash in my points and make off to an island with my beans!!"  (In the words of Clouseau: "...That got them thinking...   eh Hercule!") 

Let us give thanks and praise to Ethiopian goat herd, Kaldi who, it is written, first discovered the potential of the BELOVED BEAN.  Kaldi, according to "Legend," discovered coffee after noticing that after eating the berries from a certain tree, his goats became so energized that they roamed the night without sleep!  (That last part's a bit hard to swallow -- if you'll forgive the expression...  I find that I can sleep soundly in almost any circumstance, except after hearing certain politicians speak!!  Thank you...)  

[Special Note of Dedication and Gratitude:    With profound thanks to Beloved Daughter, Bethie, who suggested that a brief treatise on coffee, favorite houses of imbibing and certain rewards for purchasing and consuming great quantities of the stuff, might be an interesting (the word "interesting" is intended merely editorially, based on reactions and opinions of the multitude!) addition to one's canon of Geezer Writings, thus encouraging this edition.  With great praise, Amor and Abrazos to the aforementioned dedicatee, and sincere thanks to potential readers...  the perpetrator remains your humble if not entirely obedient servant...]


Humbly Submitted, 05-08-19 -- Joel K.



          



   

Thursday, January 17, 2019

The Fine Art of Fine Dining...!!??

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!


This Episode:             The Fine Art of Fine Dining...??


(Please Note:    As one advances into another level of consciousness, namely, "advancing maturity," one's tastes in cuisine -- dining establishments as well -- undergo a kind of metamorphosis, hence this dissertation on that specific topic!...  as follows...)


It devastates me to have to admit...   In my Geezerhood, I'm neither a gourmet nor a gourmand (probably never was either, even in my callow youth!).  SweetHeart insists I would savor styrofoam served under the guise of genuine beef, or any sort of ersatz stuff, like tofu or bean curd disguised as meaty dishes....   (Presented under a stainless serving platter?  Maybe on fine china??)  
These are identified as Tofu Tacos!

I will confess this, however, at this point in my life, if offered a choice of a large sack of pistachios or a similarly large portion of salted in the shell peanuts, vs. a fine steak or even chateaubriand, I'd choose the former, that is, the nuts!!  (What's that you said?  We are what we eat??!!...  Keep a civil tongue...!!)

There are some additional "however's" to this admission. On special occasions, such as SweetHeart's birthday or visits from beloved relatives and other dignitaries, we do venture to enjoy the culinary delights of fine local purveyors.  Examples:  Milwaukee Ale House has our favorite chicken pot pie, possibly in the entire hemisphere!  Oh yes, and their pot roast too!  

Traveling to the delightful environs of Kinnickinnic Avenue (the so-called "Heart of Bayview") in beautiful and often unheralded suburban Milwaukee, one might discover Cafe Corazon on the left (south side?) of that fabled and increasingly popular roadway, one suffused with fine restaurants, saloons and other attractions...  bowling, too, I believe! 
An image of Kinnickinnic Ave. We're
reliably told the word means "tobacco"
in a Native American dialect!

I haven't completely warmed to Tapas.  The other evening, our beautiful and talented daughter, Bethie, persuaded SweetHeart and me to plunge bravely into the unexplored territory of Tapas, paella too, I should add.  To me, the food was quite good, if a bit spare.  To SweetHeart, a different opinion.  

On balance, the restaurant was crowded and perhaps "understaffed."  In any case, ordering a couple of tapas at a time, and individually, spaced several minutes apart, is probably not a great idea for the ravenous!!  The paella, purportedly a 40-minute process for the kitchen, arrived in
Why is this image titled in French?  
an hour and a half.  


We were, however, treated to two desserts free of charge, a reward for enduring the overly long wait for each of the tapas and the slow-moving paella (that may have been cooked, packaged and exported directly from Spain while we waited -- eating buns and drinking beverages during said wait -- and then ferried to us aboard a lumbering commercial aircraft with one working propeller)!  (Oh, and the grandchildren both nearly fainted from hunger during our sojourn...  There was grumbling from more than just our table, I noted during my search for a restroom!!)

Moving on to other preferred dining establishments, I particularly enjoy a dish served by Simple Cafe.  It's a kind of breakfast hash affair, complete with glorious Brussel sprouts, adorned with turkey breast and assorted vegetables, topped -- like a crown, denoting a kind of royal feast -- by an egg, its golden orb staring upward, unblinking and majestic as a sunrise!  They have lots of other fine fare for the discerning diner...  breakfast and lunch only!

And then there's Benji's!  Quite possibly, Benji's serves the best breakfast fare in all of the metroplex, at least in this ranter's opinion.  The hash browns are superb.  I tend to ask the server to make them extra crispy.  I like burnt cookies too!  Oh, and the Hoppel Poppel.  You should try it at least once.  The Matzo Ball soup has healing properties!  The Hear-O Israel sandwich was featured on "Man vs. Food..."

Coffee Houses:   They serve food too, don't they?! SweetHeart and I have been devotees of Colectivo (formerly, Alterra) since approximately 1994.  We are fond of all of their coffees with the exception of Velo.  We've amassed more than a million points, at times, now down to more than 900,000.  But we're making a comeback?  They serve some fine sandwiches, and now offer a Bowl.  Stone creek has an excellent breakfast bowl, and the decaf coffee is very good.  There's a new location on Downer and Park.  We've noticed some deserters there, on occasion!  No
names!!  

I can't recall not being fond of various ethnic foods and the restaurants that serve them.  Two of my favorites are Indian -- Maharaja and Bollywood -- both on the east side of Milwaukee, WI, and both excellent.  Mango beef, chicken or port...  Jalfrazie...  naan...
roti...  samosa...  Taste, close you eyes and you're on the bank of the Ganges, sitar music floating along its waters, women in saris, singing while being rowed languorously in colorful vallams...   Something like that! 

More food and restaurant stuff, critiques and the like, perhaps to follow on a future date.  Maybe....  but...  

I'm getting hungry!!!...   "SweetHeart, do we have any nuts around here?..."       


Humbly Submitted 01-17-19 -- Joel K. 







    

Thursday, May 18, 2017

From Russia with Music!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!


This Episode:      From Russia with Music! 

(Introductory Note:    In the mist of Geezerhood, an ancestral reflection, with just a touch of conjecture...  chronicling an extraordinary life and legend!)

The year was, perhaps, 1880 or 1881. A young boy sang as he labored in the fields, toil demanded, of necessity, by his father, an impoverished and struggling farmer. The boy sang and hummed the few tunes he knew, given the brevity of his time on the earth, perhaps 10, at most 11 years of age.  He sang almost without pause, a kind of mantra, a meditation, his manner of coping with the rigors of an endless agrarian routine. Russian-Jewish folk songs, or hymns learned in the synagogue, songs inspired by the Torah, its various passages and teachings.  
Painting depicts Russian-Jewish
peasants...  A scene alive with activity
including a rabbi's passionate
exhortation.  Could that be young
 Samuel running to join his family!?

Each harvest day on the small, barely arable farm, the boy carried a sack into which he gathered the wheat his father scythed, or potatoes, onions and other root vegetables wrenched from a stubborn, reluctant soil.  Always the boy sang or hummed the songs in his limited repertoire.  One day, by pure chance, the shtetl's rabbi was passing and heard the boy singing. Stopping along his journey, the rabbi was transfixed, captivated, as if stumbling upon a rare coin or a gemstone, barely able to believe his senses.  

"Reb Gimpel," said Rabbi Nachum, calling to him, addressing the boy's father, "your child, he sings with such a remarkable voice.  I am most favorably impressed.  The boy has a true gift." Gimpel Rochov merely grunted in reply, apparently heedless of the rabbi's astonished words. "Your boy," the rabbi continued, "he could be a somebody in this world.  He could sing for a famous synagogue of which I know, near Kiev. Such a thing could bring money to your family."  

At this Gimpel Rochov stopped his labors, and stood facing the rabbi. "Money, you say, Honored Rabbi Nachum!"  The elder Rochov had eight children, four of each, sons and daughters. Too many gaping mouths demanding bread and vegetables, meat when it was available, a rare occurrence. "This money you speak of, how is it to be obtained?"

"I don't mean to be indelicate, Reb Gimpel, but you might wish to consider my taking the boy to Synagogue 'Rosha Choral Bolshaya.' There I could, in theory, meet with Rebbe Yakov Moishtovich, the chief and much revered rabbi leader of that fabled place! It is famous throughout Russia for its music, its singing. If things work out, The boy could then be...  well, how shall I put this...  fostered by the synagogue, in exchange for...  how shall I put this most delicately...  consideration! I believe the boy's talent could be nurtured. He might even be taught to play musical instruments. You are not a rich man, Reb Gimpel. I know you love your family, but one less mouth...  You understand? You and your wife could visit the boy on occasion, see how he's getting along."
Probably not the right synagogue...
but, who knows, it could be!...
"Kiev's a long way off, Rabbi," the elder Rochov said. "I shall discuss this with my wife, my Sofia. I mean... Asking a mother to give up a child. It's a big thing!"

"You'll make the right decision, of that I'm certain, Reb Gimpel. Explain to your dear Sofia the need... the boy's possible future, your own...  Meantime, I will have a discussion with Rebbe Yakov. As it happens, I am on my way even now to visit that sacred place. I'll tell him about your boy, the miracle of his gift. I can take the boy myself to the synagogue...  an interview, so to speak, a kind of audition...  I'm back in about a week. I'll come to see you then."

Another day passed. The boy, young Samuel Rochov, was given the news of his possible future. Gimpel and Sofia talked, argued. As head of the family, the father's decision prevailed. "What will become of our beloved child?" Sofia asked, her voice filled with worry and sadness.

"It's not forever, Sofia.  He'll come home for visits.  We can maybe journey to that place and see the boy. He'll make us proud. He'll be a somebody in this world! We'll be known as the parents of a famous cantor, perhaps. And, my dear wife, a bit of money will help a great deal. We have so little. Besides, the boy is slight, like a small twig, not a great deal of labor issues from the child..."
Moscow and Kiev are not that far
from one another.  Look!  A map!

"I don't like this," said Sofia. "I don't want my precious son taken from us. But, as you are the proclaimed 'tsar' of our household, your decision must prevail, and so I must bow to your wishes. I hope you know what you're asking of me, of our child. I worry we'll never see our sweet Samuel again! He doesn't want to leave us. He begs me not to send him away."  

In a short passage of time, Rabbi Nachum took Samuel to Synagogue Rosha Choral Bolshaya, and there the child remained for a decade or so. The boy was treated as chattel, an instrument into which music was fed then extracted, his extraordinary voice trained and cultivated. He was taught to play music as well. He learned flute and violin, having a natural gift for anything in the realm of music and song. There was no mother figure, only the stern Ryfka, who taught Samuel his lessons, and the rebbe, rabbinical students and the teachers of music. Days consisted of lessons, his training, meals, sleep, work and little else. Samuel never again saw his mother and father, his sisters and brothers. He never again returned to the shtetl and the home of his birth and childhood.

The synagogue and its musical traditions were famous throughout European Jewry. When he was 19 years old, then a highly trained musical prodigy, emerging as an established and important component of Rosha Bolshaya's choral ensemble and choir, Samuel accompanied the group on a lengthy tour of major European capitals. Eventually they arrived in Rome, having previously performed in Moscow, Prague, Warsaw, Budapest, Vienna and other great urban synagogues and concert centers.

Samuel had made a decision, one that became a bold plan. He was poised to break free from Rosha Choral Bolshaya and the harsh and impersonal treatment his difficult and tedious life had become as "property" of an endlessly demanding synagogue. While it's true Samuel's gift of music was greatly enhanced in that crucible, its spiritual leaders and teachers had also burned anger and resentment into his young mind, like adding tongue scorching, bitter spice to a boiling stew. He rose from his bed in a Roman hostel in the middle of a moonless night, crept from the room and escaped into an enormous, complex and completely unfamiliar urban landscape.

Finding with time and effort the Jewish quarter in the vast city, he presented himself as a homeless youth, seeking and then finding menial jobs in shops and markets. His fertile mind a hungry vessel of knowledge, Samuel quickly acquired the Italian language as he wandered throughout Rome when opportunities allowed. His dark, curly hair and swarthy complexion allowed him to assimilate.  As he worked in the shops and market stalls, he spoke with native Romans, learned, asked questions of patrons and people in the streets, his ear constantly tuned to accent, inflection, words and idiom. The people for whom he worked provided rude shelter, a place to sleep and bathe, food from their shops, farm carts and markets. He continued to grow and thrive.

A year passed quickly and Samuel's age increased to 20 years. Two remarkable events would change his life and propel him into a future of which he could never have dreamed or thought possible, both unexpected and quite by chance and good fortune. On a rare day in which he was free of shop or market duties and on his own, he walked the streets of Rome, exploring the city's rich history, attractions and landmarks. On this particular day, one that was bathed in warmth and sunshine, he emerged from a park to cross a busy street alive with pedestrian and carriage traffic.  As he dodged and wove his way through the chaos and tangle of people, horses, wheeled carts and buggies, he happened upon a jewelry store that bore the proprietor's name, Harry Raccoli.

Samuel regarded the sighting as a kind of kismet. He decided to adopt the name as his own, perceiving it as a natural "Italianization" of Rochov, and a perfectly effective and useful change of identity. Samuel formally and legally became Harry Raccoli in 1909 in a federal courtroom in Baltimore, Maryland, where both he and his future father-in-law would also become naturalized American citizens.  

The second remarkable event...  While walking the streets of Rome -- not merely a favorite diversion but having become routine as his familiarity with the city increased -- Samuel happened upon a musical competition. He joined the queue to wait his turn, planning to sing an Italian operatic aria he had learned during his sojourn in the country's capital city. The queue was serpentine, and long! And so too was the waiting time. As people do in such circumstances, he struck up a conversation with a woman and her son, the pair waiting just in front of Samuel.

"You are a singer?" the woman asked, as they chatted somewhat aimlessly, his extraordinary speaking voice a clue to his "instrument" of choice.  
"Yes," said Samuel. "I was classically trained," he embellished, having no desire to divulge his full story, his "escape" narrative.  
"Your accent is unusual," the woman noted. "What is your name, please."
He paused before answering, "I am called Harry Raccoli. My family lived in Russia for a long period of time," Samuel responded. "I'm afraid my accent betrays my Russian, how shall I say, my sojourn in the Russian metropole, at times, the countryside as well." The woman made no further inquiry into his history and background.
"Would you, perhaps, sing something for us, that is, for my son and me?"
"You mean," Samuel replied, somewhat taken aback, "right here, right now, standing here in this endless queue?" She nodded. He sang an aria from Donizetti's L'Elisir d'amore in his rich tenor (that in time would deepen to baritone) -- quite possibly Una furtiva lagrima! 

It may have been one of many he had already learned through, or perhaps the only piece that made its way into his musical mind and memory at the time. The woman and her son were astonished, mesmerized, as were many in that queue within earshot!

Able after a long moment to gather her thoughts and words, the woman said,"You are quite magnificent." Many others in the queue were equally affected by Samuel's voice, his talent, and quite stunned over this completely unexpected explosion of operatic singing. 

"I shall make you a bargain," the woman told Samuel, still wide-eyed with excitement and amazement. "I am a woman of some means.  If you should chance to win this competition, should we ever actually arrive at the head of this intolerable queue, I will, if you wish, become your patroness! If my son should win -- although I must confess," she added as a kind of aside, out of her son's hearing, "that your skill seems to eclipse anything, any voice I've ever heard. But if my son should win, I would still take you into my patronage and ask that you tutor my son in voice and music...  I trust you also play certain musical instruments?..." 

Samuel won the competition! The woman kept her bargain. The newly "self-named" Harry Raccoli remained in Rome for a few more years, studying, teaching, learning, with the patronage and unwavering encouragement of Sigorna Marchesi. And her son benefitted as well, in time earning a minor role with an Italian opera company.
Harry Raccoli, formerly Samuel
Rochov, circled.  He taught voice
at a Chicago conservatory of music
at one point in his career!

Ambition and a yearning for financial success eventually led Samuel to leave Rome and Signora Marchesi. She and her son had also provided useful tutoring for young Samuel. Among other skills, he learned to speak English, enabling him to correspond with certain American opera companies. The selfless signora made no objection, no insistence that Samuel remain with her in Rome. He was invited to the United States, to Maryland and the Baltimore Opera Company to audition. Samuel arrived at Ellis Island in the late 1890s, a letter from the opera company facilitating his admission into the United States. His talent won him a place with the company, and an introduction to Slava (Viachislav) Tucker, a Russian emigre, a patron of the opera and the father of Rebecca who would become Samuel's wife.   

Having then permanently adopted the name Harry Raccoli, he traveled to Germany (circa 1903) to study at the Royal Academy of Music in Berlin, returning to Baltimore with a newly acquired catalog of operatic knowledge and arias with which he entertained audiences for many years to follow. He and Rebecca moved to Chicago and then to Milwaukee, Wisconsin where Harry Raccoli and his family lived for most of the balance of his life.   He ultimately fathered four children, Arthur, Theodore, Genevieve (Helen) and Elizabeth. Harry won fame and widespread recognition as a singer and performer of opera, and later as a teacher of voice, violin and piano. Sadly, his career was cut short, his fortunes greatly diminished by the onset of Parkinson's Disease that claimed his life at age 73 following a long and debilitating illness. 

There's no clear evidence as to when, but Harry abandoned any practice of Judaism, probably when he was still quite young and as a by-product of his early life experiences. (Interestingly, his wife, my grandmother, Rebecca, also eventually left the practice of Jewish religious service. She flirted with various spiritual traditions, including Christian Science!) Harry Raccoli's legacy endures, and includes the many students he taught and mentored -- including one of his own sons -- most of whom made performing and teaching music their lifelong careers, sharing their knowledge and talents with successive generations. 

It is, I think, unfortunate that so many, perhaps most of us, learn little or nothing of our ancestors, our family heritage, and sometimes only when advanced age and wonder compel us to explore the lives and times of our antecedents. And then it's often too late to mine the resources of older, surviving relatives who may have little or no recollections, who may be victims of dementia or Alzheimer's, or are among the "dear departed." The dead among our ancestors can tell us little, unless they left accounts of their lives, careers and adventures via writing, journals, annotated photographs... Sadly, such records are rare in most families!

My own mother made 8mm movies of her world travels, thereby documenting at least that portion of her rich life. I believe my sister transferred those films onto DVDs, the existence or whereabouts of which are a mystery. Both women are no longer with us.  

There's little doubt my maternal grandfather's life became the stuff of an "oral tradition" or family history, his legend passed along through the generations, likely because his was such a remarkably colorful and interesting life, a kind of storybook journey from peasantry and poverty in Russia to great success and fame through his gift of music. Given the time in which he lived and worked, unfortunately there are no recordings of his singing or his instrumental performances, at least of which his surviving progeny are aware!

Next time, I'll return to less serious subject matter. But just so this episode is not entirely devoid of amusement and silliness, I've added a photo of myself as "makeshift bench," and Granddaughter, Phia, enabling her to climb a tree! (Half of Grandson, Seany, is at right!...  He's actually an entire person; the photographer was apparently engaged in a form of semi-artistic expression!)  Thank you!

Humbly Submitted, 05-19-17 -- Joel K.