My trusted editors have both read the novel thus far. There is a split decision about the Prologue, 1 for and 1 against. Both agree that Chapter 1 simply will not do. One good suggestion is that I should be much less cute hinting about the main conflict. I have decided to get right to Abraham’s and Ophelia’s main conflict right off the bat in Chapter 1. This will carry forward the gravity established in the Prologue and will allow the elimination of the hints about the future.
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Another suggestion is that Abraham’s anxiety about Ophelia’s name is not realistic. I must agree and will tone that down, perhaps by discussing biblical context for the importance of naming rather than Abraham’s individual anxiety. ?? More dialog was suggested as was faster plot development. I am considering these suggestions. The novel is envisioned as largely psychological, i.e. the effects of small town life on minority beliefs and traditions. This isn’t simply a Jewish minority question as it really applies to the pressure to conform felt by all. So, I will be working on a rewrite for awhile. There may not be a posting on the novel for a few days.
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Your thoughts on these matters, if any, are appreciated. It may be of interest to note that readers of the “Let’s Write a Novel” blogsite have checked in from the following domain addresses:
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Dubai, Dubayy Little Rock, Arkansas (Unknown Country) Spanish Irvine, California Wendelstein, Bayern, Germany Windsor, Ontario, Canada Portland, Maine Contagem, Minas Gerais, Brazil Long Island City, New York Milwaukee, Wisconsin (Unknown Country) English Perth, Perth and Kinross, United Kingdom (Unknown Country) German So Paulo, Sao Paulo, Brazil Morristown, New Jersey (Unknown Country) Spanish (Argentina) France Somerville, Massachusetts Singapore Milton Keynes, United Kingdom Cambridge, Massachusetts Riga, Latvia Fort Worth, Texas Eureka, Montana Fort Smith, Arkansas Amsterdam, Noord-Holland Vancouver, British Columbia Amsterdam, Noord-Holland Leland, Mississippi Pakistan Temperance, Michigan Germany Badajoz, Extremadura, Spain Bardolph, Illinois Grovertown, Indiana Fort Wayne, Indiana Leesburg, Indiana Eureka, Montana Bourbon, Indiana Sellersville, Pennsylvania Plymouth, Indiana Knox, Indiana Thanks for your interest.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Prologue - 101 North Washington Street
101 North Washington Street
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Prologue
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Prologue
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Landscape is too kind of a word. Most likely there is no word. It was an ocean of ice, a mile deep, uninterrupted over 100 miles to the south and a seeming infinity to the north. On 11 occasions the ice sheet, this ocean of ice, advanced and retreated over what was to become the town that is the subject of our attentions. The last retreat was a mere 10,000 years ago. That is equal to about an hour in this young planet’s history. (Oh my, that does beg the question of the appropriateness of planet “hours” being compared to advanced middle-age woman hours. However, this is a question that I mean to leave hanging for eternity).
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Regarding that first paragraph. My intentions were honorable, I meant to emulate, not copy that grandiose vision of nature that my sister Jane used to open her saga of the northern prairies of Iowa. Emulation is fair enough, certainly commonplace and often quite fruitful. After all, she won the Pulitzer and wasn’t a bit shy about ripping off the Bard himself. I clearly have failed. Ah, but the story still needs to be told.
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So going back a planet hour…As one might expect, the thawing edge of the Wisconsin Glacier retreated to the north in the summer and advanced to the south in the winter. 2 steps back and 1 forward, thus was the ground that would become Starke Center revealed. The disappearing ice was filled with all manner of detritus carried all the way from Hudson Bay. We only need concern ourselves with the sand, windblown sand say the geologists. (Evidently there was considerable wind on the edge of a mile high sheet of ice.)
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This windblown sand is the foundation of Starke Center. And upon the sand Abraham Weiss built his magnificent house. That was just a planetary 30 seconds ago, the year: 1907. And no more mention need be made of planet time.
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Regarding that first paragraph. My intentions were honorable, I meant to emulate, not copy that grandiose vision of nature that my sister Jane used to open her saga of the northern prairies of Iowa. Emulation is fair enough, certainly commonplace and often quite fruitful. After all, she won the Pulitzer and wasn’t a bit shy about ripping off the Bard himself. I clearly have failed. Ah, but the story still needs to be told.
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So going back a planet hour…As one might expect, the thawing edge of the Wisconsin Glacier retreated to the north in the summer and advanced to the south in the winter. 2 steps back and 1 forward, thus was the ground that would become Starke Center revealed. The disappearing ice was filled with all manner of detritus carried all the way from Hudson Bay. We only need concern ourselves with the sand, windblown sand say the geologists. (Evidently there was considerable wind on the edge of a mile high sheet of ice.)
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This windblown sand is the foundation of Starke Center. And upon the sand Abraham Weiss built his magnificent house. That was just a planetary 30 seconds ago, the year: 1907. And no more mention need be made of planet time.
Chapter 1 - 101 North Washington Street
101 North Washington Street.
Chapter 1
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100 years ago there were Jews in Starke Center, Indiana. There certainly weren’t very many members of the tribe of Israel but there were more then than at present. Today the only Jewish citizens of Starke Center are those few that intermarried with a son of the community. This invariably happened during their hot-bloodied and weak-headed college years. The offspring of these intermarriages certainly don’t worry much about any sort of religious or cultural Jewish tradition. They don’t stand out from the crowd of raucous or sullen children on the public school grounds. More likely than not they end up going to church on Sundays. The 1907 census of Jews was brief. The scrap metal and junk dealer, David, nurtured his business and family, just where the 2 rail lines crossed at the edge of town. A few miles out of town on one of those same rail lines Israel, the potato, onion, asparagus, and pickle packer, nurtured his business and abused his family.
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To finish this short list of Jewish citizens we will add our main interest, Abraham the owner of the Weiss Department Store. He was just starting a family in his quite splendid and very fashionable new home on 101 North Washington Street, a respectable and sensible city block from the rails. Always carefully considering the dangers of exciting envy, David the junkman and Israel the pickle broker each maintained a shabby lifestyle, living well below their means. Of course this care to be modest and unobtrusive about their wealth backfired, as it always has, even since the enslavement in Egypt. Because they hid their wealth they were naturally branded penny-pinching, greedy Jews, the ugly killers of Christ. Somewhat ironically and entirely typically, David and Israel were always first to donate generously to the victims of fire and flood. Was this due to their natural compassion, the commandments of their religion, or the hope to throw off the Curse of Cain, the murder of Christ? The answer is no doubt a bit of all the forgoing.
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Abraham Weiss was far less worried than his two brethren. The new home on Washington Street was the finest in Starke Center. Abraham’s wife Sara (Honest to God, he married a gal named Sara!) was artistic, educated and cultured. (Today we would call her artsy. Abraham’s family had been in America for 2 generations and Sara’s for 3. David and Israel and their wives were all immigrants. Of course there was the social gulf but the important distinction between the Weiss family and the other Jewish families was their lack of fear. Abraham and Sara hadn’t had the experience of an old fashioned, ass-kicking, Russian pogrom.
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This talk of pogroms isn’t some foreshadowing of terrible things to come in Starke Center. In fact the future was bright. The three Jewish families, merchant, junk dealer, and pickle packer, would all thrive. In this regard our story is commonplace; describing the thriving Jewish experience in small towns all across America.
Chapter 2 - 101 North Washington Street
101 North Washington Street
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Chapter 2
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It was a short and pleasant walk home after closing the store. The fine spring weather coincided beautifully with a very nice take in the till. Easter was the second most important selling season at the Weiss Department Store. Good weather in the weeks leading up to Easter always inspired the shopper to dig a bit deeper in her purse. The millinery department was booming; hats were big this year, figuratively and literally. Open only 5 years and Abe was so optimistic about business that he felt financially comfortable building the finest home in town.
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Sara had made most of the decisions about the house. Although Abe had vetoed the Chicago architect in favor of a South Bend firm, Sara got pretty much what she was after: sun rooms downstairs and upstairs, a fine library, and grand staircase in an impressive entry hall, 2 parlors, and a dining room with fireplace and leaded glass windows. It is what we would call “Prairie Style Influenced” if we wanted to project a certain affected sophistication. We might even go on about the Art Nouveau or the Frank Lloyd Wright influence. But that is pretty much ridiculous. In fact the place was a big square house just like the few other grand big square houses in town. It had the bric-a-brac fine touches in the sconces and chandeliers and the tile around the hearth where today a realtor would discover the Prairie School influence for the benefit of a sale. A overly chummy real estate sales lady might even insinuate in a stage whisper, “Who knows, I don’t think anybody has really researched it, but this could be a genuine Frank Lloyd Wright house!”
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As Abe turned the corner onto Washington Street he could see his stucco upper story and his slate roof rising above the intervening modest clapboard dwellings of his neighbors. He thought, “It’s kind of a shame we don’t have a street or section of fine homes in Starke Center. There just isn’t enough wealth in town.” Of course that wasn’t the first time he had that thought. Those exact words were proclaimed upon several private and social occasions in the past and he was destined to repeat those exact words again, so often in fact, as to become quite a bore on that point.
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Abe’s reasoning about the lack of wealth was only partially correct. The geography of Starke Center was also to blame for lack of a street or section of fine homes. The glaciers left the windblown sand foundations of Starke Center awfully flat. The later half of her name indicates the main reason for the location of the town (crisscrossing railroad tracks another). A vast swamp, now drained by a series of muddy ditches, flowed into the Yellow River. River actually is an overly generous word to describe this man-dug, arrow straight, turbid ditch but there was a generous flow of water. Starke Center sat on a low, flat sandy ridge overlooking the river and the Knox Country Club on the floodplain. This might have been the best location for a row of finer homes, as there was no other geographic attraction to compete. Unfortunately, one of the railroad lines plowed right through the length of the ridge on its way through town depriving Abraham the realization of his rather bourgeois daydream.
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Chapter 2
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It was a short and pleasant walk home after closing the store. The fine spring weather coincided beautifully with a very nice take in the till. Easter was the second most important selling season at the Weiss Department Store. Good weather in the weeks leading up to Easter always inspired the shopper to dig a bit deeper in her purse. The millinery department was booming; hats were big this year, figuratively and literally. Open only 5 years and Abe was so optimistic about business that he felt financially comfortable building the finest home in town.
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Sara had made most of the decisions about the house. Although Abe had vetoed the Chicago architect in favor of a South Bend firm, Sara got pretty much what she was after: sun rooms downstairs and upstairs, a fine library, and grand staircase in an impressive entry hall, 2 parlors, and a dining room with fireplace and leaded glass windows. It is what we would call “Prairie Style Influenced” if we wanted to project a certain affected sophistication. We might even go on about the Art Nouveau or the Frank Lloyd Wright influence. But that is pretty much ridiculous. In fact the place was a big square house just like the few other grand big square houses in town. It had the bric-a-brac fine touches in the sconces and chandeliers and the tile around the hearth where today a realtor would discover the Prairie School influence for the benefit of a sale. A overly chummy real estate sales lady might even insinuate in a stage whisper, “Who knows, I don’t think anybody has really researched it, but this could be a genuine Frank Lloyd Wright house!”
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As Abe turned the corner onto Washington Street he could see his stucco upper story and his slate roof rising above the intervening modest clapboard dwellings of his neighbors. He thought, “It’s kind of a shame we don’t have a street or section of fine homes in Starke Center. There just isn’t enough wealth in town.” Of course that wasn’t the first time he had that thought. Those exact words were proclaimed upon several private and social occasions in the past and he was destined to repeat those exact words again, so often in fact, as to become quite a bore on that point.
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Abe’s reasoning about the lack of wealth was only partially correct. The geography of Starke Center was also to blame for lack of a street or section of fine homes. The glaciers left the windblown sand foundations of Starke Center awfully flat. The later half of her name indicates the main reason for the location of the town (crisscrossing railroad tracks another). A vast swamp, now drained by a series of muddy ditches, flowed into the Yellow River. River actually is an overly generous word to describe this man-dug, arrow straight, turbid ditch but there was a generous flow of water. Starke Center sat on a low, flat sandy ridge overlooking the river and the Knox Country Club on the floodplain. This might have been the best location for a row of finer homes, as there was no other geographic attraction to compete. Unfortunately, one of the railroad lines plowed right through the length of the ridge on its way through town depriving Abraham the realization of his rather bourgeois daydream.
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Am I being a little too hard on Abraham? Perhaps. I guess now is the right time to disclose, if not “a conflict of interest”, a material fact. I’m Abraham and Sara’s granddaughter. Matter of fact, I’m their only descendent. Of course this fact inspired my ironic “Honest to God” outburst a little while back. My heart has been hardened towards Abe by the bitter story of my Mother. Of course we must let this story unfold in its due course. Our story should flow in the beautiful manner of a sensuous and sinuous river, as there’s little beauty in a straight line.
Chapter 3 - 101 North Washington Street
101 North Washington Street
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 3
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It was going to be a wonderful evening! Sara floated around the dining room double checking the table setting. Tonight they would have 4 guests, 2 couples, Marge Warner and her husband Tom and, the terribly exciting and interesting guests, Fritz Leiber the great Shakespearean actor from Chicago and his charming and talented companion, Miss Ethel Drew. Tomorrow night Mr. Leiber and Miss Drew were presenting “Impressions from the Bard” at the Weiss and Warner Opera House. The production, sponsored by the Starke Center Woman’s Arts Council, Mrs. Weiss Chairwoman and Mrs. Werner Vice-Chair, promised to be the highlight of the entertainment season. It certainly was a moment to savor.
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Abe strolled into the room wearing his new and handsome lounge suit. Sara was quite pleased that she had convinced Abraham to acquire this bit of fine tailoring, perfect for “less formal gatherings of just a few couples”, a little quote right off the pages of “Town and Country Magazine”. Mr. Leiber certainly would see that they weren’t all bumpkins in Starke Center. Sara had on finery equal to her husband’s, a lovely silk taffeta dress, not too formal of course. Still, this wasn’t going to be equal to an evening in New York’s Club at Tuxedo Park. Sara was pretty certain that Marge and Tom would be attired in something a wee bit old fashioned.
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It would be a safe bet that Abe was the only man in Starke Center possessing a Tuxedo. Here there was no occasion for formal wear much less the fine gradations that would later become known as white tie and black tie. These distinctions of fine living that were so carefully recorded in the aforementioned T & C magazine were completely irrelevant to life in the Center. It is true that Abe and Sara were prone to feeling and acting superior to their neighbors. From our vantage point we find it odd that they were not accused by their friends and neighbors of “putting on airs”. But it was well understood that Mr. and Mrs. Weiss were, indeed, superior. They had been to Europe (more than once). Abraham Weiss had money and handled it with the ease displayed by a 2nd generation of wealth. Sara Weiss was educated, artistic, beautiful and very stylish. Anyway, the people who might care, Mrs. Werner and the other members of the Woman’s Arts Council, admired the mantel of culture worn so gracefully. Envy isn’t possible when the gap is a bit too wide. The lower class doesn’t envy the middle class; the middle class doesn’t envy the upper class.
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It was going to be a wonderful evening! Sara floated around the dining room double checking the table setting. Tonight they would have 4 guests, 2 couples, Marge Warner and her husband Tom and, the terribly exciting and interesting guests, Fritz Leiber the great Shakespearean actor from Chicago and his charming and talented companion, Miss Ethel Drew. Tomorrow night Mr. Leiber and Miss Drew were presenting “Impressions from the Bard” at the Weiss and Warner Opera House. The production, sponsored by the Starke Center Woman’s Arts Council, Mrs. Weiss Chairwoman and Mrs. Werner Vice-Chair, promised to be the highlight of the entertainment season. It certainly was a moment to savor.
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Abe strolled into the room wearing his new and handsome lounge suit. Sara was quite pleased that she had convinced Abraham to acquire this bit of fine tailoring, perfect for “less formal gatherings of just a few couples”, a little quote right off the pages of “Town and Country Magazine”. Mr. Leiber certainly would see that they weren’t all bumpkins in Starke Center. Sara had on finery equal to her husband’s, a lovely silk taffeta dress, not too formal of course. Still, this wasn’t going to be equal to an evening in New York’s Club at Tuxedo Park. Sara was pretty certain that Marge and Tom would be attired in something a wee bit old fashioned.
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It would be a safe bet that Abe was the only man in Starke Center possessing a Tuxedo. Here there was no occasion for formal wear much less the fine gradations that would later become known as white tie and black tie. These distinctions of fine living that were so carefully recorded in the aforementioned T & C magazine were completely irrelevant to life in the Center. It is true that Abe and Sara were prone to feeling and acting superior to their neighbors. From our vantage point we find it odd that they were not accused by their friends and neighbors of “putting on airs”. But it was well understood that Mr. and Mrs. Weiss were, indeed, superior. They had been to Europe (more than once). Abraham Weiss had money and handled it with the ease displayed by a 2nd generation of wealth. Sara Weiss was educated, artistic, beautiful and very stylish. Anyway, the people who might care, Mrs. Werner and the other members of the Woman’s Arts Council, admired the mantel of culture worn so gracefully. Envy isn’t possible when the gap is a bit too wide. The lower class doesn’t envy the middle class; the middle class doesn’t envy the upper class.
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I think we can skip a detailed description of dinner. Suffice it to say that Fritz and Ethel, our Shakespearean duo, were both in the early stages of what would become good careers. They were sincerely grateful for the patronage of the Woman’s Arts Council and, of course, the free meal. Before dinner the guests admired Sara’s painting and poetry. After dinner, at the piano Mrs. Werner accompanied the beautiful Miss Drew, sweetly singing some popular melodies. Mr. Leiber was adroit socially with a large repertoire from parlor magic to vaudeville. It seems so inviting and utterly pleasant doesn’t it? At least it seems so in comparison to an evening at my house, watching “American Idol” on the television.
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The Weiss and Warner Opera House was located above the Weiss Department Store. Abraham Weiss and Tom Werner erected the building, the grandest on Main Street, fully intending the dual use. The Opera House, on the 2nd floor and its balcony, was well booked. There were regular dances and many traveling troupes providing a fair range of entertainments. The downtown Starke Center railroad station with service from Chicago to Fort Wayne and beyond was only a short walk from the opera house and the Nickel Plate Hotel and Restaurant. It was a logical stop for entertainment ventures with a free day on their hands, either coming out of Chicago or on their way to the country’s 2nd city..
The Weiss and Warner Opera House was located above the Weiss Department Store. Abraham Weiss and Tom Werner erected the building, the grandest on Main Street, fully intending the dual use. The Opera House, on the 2nd floor and its balcony, was well booked. There were regular dances and many traveling troupes providing a fair range of entertainments. The downtown Starke Center railroad station with service from Chicago to Fort Wayne and beyond was only a short walk from the opera house and the Nickel Plate Hotel and Restaurant. It was a logical stop for entertainment ventures with a free day on their hands, either coming out of Chicago or on their way to the country’s 2nd city..
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The next evening, the weather having turned a bit blustery, Abe and Sara accepted the short ride to “Impressions from the Bard” in the Werner’s carriage. The crowd settled in expecting to be well entertained. In those days the enchantment of the theater was more easily attainable. Entrancing the audience didn’t require elaborate sets, costumes, or ultra realistic effects. Reasonably talented acting and presentation did the trick. The audience was quite familiar with Shakespeare. The “Complete Works” were in many households and the book wasn’t being wasn’t just a decorative accessory on the coffee table. It was read; read in school and at home; and enjoyed, (which I understand is quite hard to believe in this day and age). This audience, that unsettled spring evening in Starke Center, expected and knew that they would receive a familiar meditation on life’s frailty from a handsome young Prince Hamlet, perched on a fresh grave, with poor Yorick’s rotted skull in hand. They were speculating aloud as to what else might be in store when the house lights dimmed, a thunder sheet rumbled, and they quickly schussed or were schussed as soon as they realized that it wasn't thundering outside.
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Today, in 2007, Starke Center’s finest knows how many pickles Peter Piper picked, however knowing what a peck actually is proves more elusive. In 1907 Starke Center’s finest not only knew how many pickles were picked, but even what a peck was. More impressively they knew a little about Plutarch, Petrarch, Plato, Pliny, Pindar, and perhaps (the perverse) even knew Petronius. There is a cultural gulf or chasm between us and them, difficult for us to fathom. Then Chautaqua was all the rage. Especially in rural communities there was a hunger for learning and culture. Classics and Great Books with 10-year study guides were marketed to the Lady’s (even some men’s) Reading Societies. Concerts and lectures were widely appreciated and attended. So it was considered agreeable, even good, that Mr. Fritz Leiber did a bit of lecturing to supplement the acting. It made the scenes that much more enjoyable. Fritz did 3 different takes on “Alas, poor Yorick!”; Hamlet growing more mad with each rendition. Thus the audience’s expectations were trebly gratified.
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Mr. Leiber and Miss Drew cleverly adapted Queen Gertrude’s description of Ophelia’s tragic drowning. Ethel, as an abstracted, forlorn Ophelia, wandered dance like across the stage. Ophelia’s impossibly long and curly blond tresses were a Pre-Raphaelite daydream. Cascades of flowers and ivies were entwined in her hair and trailed down her beautifully full (10 yards of seeded batiste), luxuriant nightgown. Leiber, still attired as Hamlet, stood just on stage left and in melodious voice began,
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“There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples….”
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Onstage was a simple set. A willow with flowering vine overhanging a mirrored brook. Ophelia stretched over the brook grasping the slim willow bough as the voice continued…
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“There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide.”
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The audience gasped in sympathy as poor Ophelia fell into the clutches of the brook. Her hair spread gloriously over the mirror as she the began to quietly sing traces of folk songs.
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“And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.”
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It might be stated with some hyperbole that, “there wasn’t a dry eye in the house”. In any case, Sara Weiss was quite touched, as we shall soon see.
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Later that evening, upstairs at 101 North Washington Street as Mr. And Mrs. Weiss prepared for bed, Sara jolted poor unsuspecting Abraham as she quietly said, “If it’s a girl, I shall name her Ophelia.” And that, my dear reader, is how my poor mother, received her rather sad name.
Chapter 4 - 101 North Washington Street
וַיִּצֶר יְהוָה אֱלֹהִים מִן-הָאֲדָמָה, כָּל-חַיַּת הַשָּׂדֶה וְאֵת כָּל-עוֹף הַשָּׁמַיִם, וַיָּבֵא אֶל-הָאָדָם, לִרְאוֹת מַה-יִּקְרָא-לוֹ; ְכֹל אֲשֶׁר יִקְרָא-לוֹ הָאָדָם נֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה, הוּא שְׁמוֹ.
.Genesis 2:19:
And the LORD God formed out of the Earth all the wild beasts and all the birds of the sky, and brought them to the man to see what he would call them; and whatever the man called each creature, that would be its name.
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Shortly after my Grandfather Abraham was born he was given the name of the father of Judaism (and Christianity and Islam). And Sara’s name, of course, was from Sarah, the wife of the original Abraham and the mother of Judaism and Christianity. (FYI, Hagar is the mother of Islam.) Jews are the people of the book. Words, and most especially names, are filled with ancient history and meanings, special meanings, complex, hidden, superstitious, poetic, allegoric. Children ponder their names, teasing out their parent’s secret expectations, the special destiny or fate connected with the name. It probably was not entirely coincidental that Sara married Abraham and that their parents were pleased with both the physical union and the special significance of the joining of these two names.
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According to the Book, the first man gave the name woman to his fitting helper created by God from man’s rib. Most all the people of the Book understand that their Book’s stories and names and words are rich with many meanings and great significances. The idea of a plain reading, a literal interpretation, of the book would be exceedingly ignorant. It simply doesn’t make sense that way. After all, man hasn’t one less rib than woman. (Odd that many of their Christian cousins believe as such, despite x-rays to the contrary). What then is the meaning of the naming of woman and her creation from the rib? Ah, of course, that has been debated with passion for thousands of years. And there is a rough sort of consensus. An elegant interpretation is that the essential difference of man from beast, the essence of being human, is the power to name. The man’s first act (thus symbolically the most important) was to name the beasts. The meaning of the rib? Ah, that’s a tricky one. Is it that the male is superior to the woman? Although that interpretation isn’t really possible from a close reading of the text, that is how men (not) man have chosen.
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Abraham wasn’t a particularly religious man. Sara and he observed an informal and low-keyed religious ritual as compared to the other Jewish families in and about Starke Center. Then and now the Weiss family would be called assimilated. Nevertheless Abe was fully a member of that ancient people for whom the Book with words and names of importance beyond significance. That Book was the river that flowed though his veins, through the veins of his ancestors, and would flow, perhaps not forever, but at least through the blood of his offspring.
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Ophelia wasn’t a name in that river of meanings, myth and symbols. When his little girl pondered her name, trying to figure out who she was and meant to be, what was she to think? My God, perhaps that she should drown herself? So that is why Abraham Weiss forever held a grudge. It was in his people’s Book and blood. To name his child was a man’s and a father’s right; it was a man’s and a father’s delight. Of course he was delighted, delighted and proud beyond words. After 10 years of marriage, he and his beloved were to be blest with a child. He hoped (in vain as it turned out) that it would be a son so that little knot in his gut, that slight twist of fear, resentment, and anger could be forgotten.
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I suppose I shouldn’t make such a fuss about Abe’s little grudge. Of course it would have been much nicer for everybody in the family if he had a clean emotional slate. Ah, but who among us has an emotional tabla rasa? I nurture a grudge towards my Grandfather Abraham because he held a grudge towards my Grandmother Sara. And then his grudge crippled my mother, Ophelia’s happiness, because of that she carried a grudge in her gut as if she had swallowed a blacked brick from a tragic house fire. And me? I am perhaps telling this story to get even with Abraham. I know it’s the nature of tragedy, all this grudging nonsense. Why don’t I just get over it and get on with my life? Abraham and Sara and Ophelia are long gone. But yet, I want that Starke Center, the little townspeople, with their own little problems, not one among them who even remember Abe or Sara but for the old cornerstone on the dilapidated downtown building, these little people who have almost entirely forgotten Ophelia who once was a shining young woman, then later a rich and influential matron, that these village folks, only a few who even vaguely remember me, should remember our story. I’m not certain I even care about Starke Center. I often am not even certain that I care about Abe or Sara. Perhaps it is just my tight, dark, little grudge, echoing down 3 generations that I care about.
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This talk of grudges has my head spinning. What I need to do is just tell the story, the story of Ophelia Weiss. I would like you, my old and new Starke Center acquaintances, to get to know her better.
Chapter 5, Paragraphs 1 to 11 - 101 North Washington Street
"Princess Alice", 1902.
101 North Washington Street.
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Chapter 5, Paragraphs 1 -7
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Chapter 5, Paragraphs 1 -7
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I could easily use a rather weak metaphor, but I would just as soon not implicate the innocent flatware. Let’s just say Ophelia was raised atypically. Take a look at her nursery at age 5. It wouldn’t be common for a child to have this abundance of space and goods until 100 years later. There were many confluent factors; an only child, 12 room house, wealthy parents, and a mother terribly happy to have a little girl to mold to her ideal of girlhood. She had three full rooms. Abraham’s “den” was removed to the downstairs library to give her three adjoining rooms, facing east, overlooking Washington Street. Sara was most excited about the corner room, now called Ophelia’s Studio. Side by side easels, one for the master, Sara, and a tiny replica for the apprentice, Ophelia, took full advantage of the Northern exposure. The middle room was the playroom fully stocked with hobbyhorse and fancy dollhouse and most certainly Teddy Bears. The suite was completed by a quite frilly bedroom done in the shade of blue made so popular by “Princess Alice”, the very popular and lovely daughter of the President.
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Sara admired Alice Roosevelt tremendously. What a marvelous modern woman! Alice damn well did what she pleased: smoking cigarettes, zooming about in automobiles alone with men, and partying all night long, all this while living in the White House. Alice was not just a party animal. She was a skilled diplomat as well, helping end the Russo-Japanese War that won her father the Nobel peace Prize. The repressed wives of America loved Alice. Their husbands were less enthusiastic. Sara Weiss wanted Ophelia to be just like Alice but with an added artistic bent. It would be wonderful to have such a daughter. Abraham “guessed” he agreed.
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That isn’t to say that Abraham didn’t love his daughter. He adored her. Some afternoons Abraham would take Ophelia to the store. His wonderful 5-year old would happily skip along the sidewalk. She had to stare awhile at the fascinating barber’s pole and say hello to the men in the barbershop, where they knew her well enough to consider her a sort of mascot. Just a few steps from the Weiss Department Store, her daddy had to pick her up for a sip of water at the public fountain on the corner of Main Street. Ophelia loved the store. She could explore the mysteries of her daddy’s office, spinning the dial on the safe and then jumping on his chair making it swing wildly on its springs. Out on the sales floor, the sales ladies would let her try on hats and crank the cash register when they rang up a sale for an indulgent customer. Sometimes her daddy took her upstairs to explore the Opera House or downstairs to explore the dark corners of the stock room. Abraham took good care of her.
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Abe worried a little about the lack of Jewish influence in her life. Occasional visits from her Grandparents weren’t really sufficient. It was about this time that Abe suggested that Sara and Ophelia should make some visits to the other two Jewish families and invite them over to the house more often. Abraham thought that getting to know the Weinstein and Moszkowski children would be good for Ophelia’s “Jewishness”. It is a cause for concern for Jews living in small towns. It easily could happen that their children won’t grow up to be Jewish, that they won’t absorb their ancient and holy traditions, that they will perhaps convert and marry a Christian. This is something that Abraham most sincerely did not want to happen to Ophelia. It troubled him that Sara seemed more interested in introducing Ophelia to art, music and Alice Roosevelt. But Sara seemed quite good-natured about his suggestion and said that she and Ophelia could certainly make some social calls in the near future.
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Sara understood Abe’s concern but didn’t fully share it. She did feel a little guilty because she hadn’t been properly looking after Ophelia’s religious upbringing as was expected of a Jewish mother. But thus far that little feeling of guilt hadn’t caused her act. So Sara sighed. Israel and Esther Moszkowski lived in the village of Rye, 7 miles out of town. Their youngest, Naftali, was Sara’s age. A quick round of letters resulted in a warn invitation for Sara and Ophelia to lunch with Esther and Naftali.
The Weisses and Moszkowskies had traveled together on the train to religious services in Valparaiso. On one occasion the Mr. and Mrs. Moszkowski stayed overnight in the Weiss home after arriving back in Knox after sunset. Sara thought Israel rough and ill mannered and Esther seemed rather downtrodden. They both spoke with heavy accents and Esther, especially, seemed more comfortable speaking Yiddish than English. As Sara was not fluent in Yiddish it made conversation difficult. Although she was apprehensive about lunch, Sara enjoyed the adventure of driving out to Rye. It was the furthest she had ever gone afield at the helm of the Oldsmobile. (Abe’s store janitor rode in the back seat in case of breakdown).
The Weisses and Moszkowskies had traveled together on the train to religious services in Valparaiso. On one occasion the Mr. and Mrs. Moszkowski stayed overnight in the Weiss home after arriving back in Knox after sunset. Sara thought Israel rough and ill mannered and Esther seemed rather downtrodden. They both spoke with heavy accents and Esther, especially, seemed more comfortable speaking Yiddish than English. As Sara was not fluent in Yiddish it made conversation difficult. Although she was apprehensive about lunch, Sara enjoyed the adventure of driving out to Rye. It was the furthest she had ever gone afield at the helm of the Oldsmobile. (Abe’s store janitor rode in the back seat in case of breakdown).
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The lunch was surprisingly pleasant. Esther had already fed her husband and 5 boys and shooed them out of the modest house. Naftali and Ophelia played grown-up and managed a tea party with some Teddy bears. After lunch the four ladies strolled past the busy packinghouse along the tracks. There was the not entirely unpleasant smell of pickles being soaked in huge oak vats. Cartloads of potatoes pulled by horses or mules were lined up waiting to be weighed, graded, and unloaded. Just past the packinghouse they stopped at the tiny post office where Esther checked for mail and introduced Sara to the postmaster. Behind the building, next to the railroad tracks, grew wild plums. There Naftali introduced Ophelia to that little wonder of nature.
The lunch was surprisingly pleasant. Esther had already fed her husband and 5 boys and shooed them out of the modest house. Naftali and Ophelia played grown-up and managed a tea party with some Teddy bears. After lunch the four ladies strolled past the busy packinghouse along the tracks. There was the not entirely unpleasant smell of pickles being soaked in huge oak vats. Cartloads of potatoes pulled by horses or mules were lined up waiting to be weighed, graded, and unloaded. Just past the packinghouse they stopped at the tiny post office where Esther checked for mail and introduced Sara to the postmaster. Behind the building, next to the railroad tracks, grew wild plums. There Naftali introduced Ophelia to that little wonder of nature.
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The two girls became friends and were happy spend some time together that summer, including an overnighter at each others house. Ophelia was shocked to learn that all fathers weren’t so gentle as her own. Israel Moszkowski was the lord of his household. He was 50, fat, slovenly and arrogant. There were 4 boys living at home ages 9 to 17. Israel more or less ignored Naphtali, preferring to browbeat the boys. That is how Ophelia learned some Yiddish: putz, shlemiel, eisl, nebbish, faygeleh, pisher, meshuggina. So Abraham’s plan was certainly a success.
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---------Pardon me. Excuse me. Remember me, Ophelia’s daughter, the hard soul narrating this story. Well I’ve noticed that something odd is happening. As I extract from my memory these fragments of my family’s history and commit them to paper the story that I thought I knew is changing. Every family has private happy tales, sort of inside jokes, where all that needs to be said is a key word or phrase. Then the mind of the family is one, is communal. These are the stories that, although entirely true, are now myths, more true than truth. Do you need an example? Probably not. Your family, I’m sure has their own stories that have come to define you, you in the plural. At least for your sake I hope so. In our family the stories are what you are reading. The glorious department store, the opera house, the strange family in Rye, these are the family myths handed down to me.
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Also included in these myths are the other family stories. The ones not told at the dinner table: the grievances, the hurts, the grudges. These are told in confidentially, secretly. A mother may recruit a daughter to share a grudge. A mother may nurse a wound for many years, just waiting for a daughter to be old enough. These family tales, I also have begun to share with you.
---------Pardon me. Excuse me. Remember me, Ophelia’s daughter, the hard soul narrating this story. Well I’ve noticed that something odd is happening. As I extract from my memory these fragments of my family’s history and commit them to paper the story that I thought I knew is changing. Every family has private happy tales, sort of inside jokes, where all that needs to be said is a key word or phrase. Then the mind of the family is one, is communal. These are the stories that, although entirely true, are now myths, more true than truth. Do you need an example? Probably not. Your family, I’m sure has their own stories that have come to define you, you in the plural. At least for your sake I hope so. In our family the stories are what you are reading. The glorious department store, the opera house, the strange family in Rye, these are the family myths handed down to me.
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Also included in these myths are the other family stories. The ones not told at the dinner table: the grievances, the hurts, the grudges. These are told in confidentially, secretly. A mother may recruit a daughter to share a grudge. A mother may nurse a wound for many years, just waiting for a daughter to be old enough. These family tales, I also have begun to share with you.
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As I just said, I’ve noticed that something odd is happening. I thought I knew the story I was to tell. The memories are coming together in an unexpected way. It is like gluing together the shattered pottery shards dug from the sands of Illium. The pieces are all there, spread out on the archeologist’s table, but you can’t be sure what the thing will look like until you get it put together. Well I’m starting to put the pieces together and, for now, Abraham seems like a pretty good father. This is not exactly the story I expected. I, the archeologist of my family’s myths, am surprised at the emerging shape of the urn.
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Again, sorry for the interruption. Just keeping you up on things.---------
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