Prophet River…by Leora Freedman

Prophet River by Leora FreedmanIn 1959, when Evan and Joannie went up to homestead in the Prophet River country—more than one thousand miles north of the US-Canadian border—they almost immediately met an outgoing member of the Dane-zaa tribe named Jerry.  That day, Evan and Joannie were busy backpacking their supplies from their cache at Mile 210 on the Alaska Highway.  They carried their packs down over seven miles of muskeg to the spot on the Prophet River where they’d already built a lean-to.  Their plans were to build a cabin and, eventually, a utopian community.

“I see one people-pack walking!” a voice called to them from farther down the trail.  The muskeg sucked at their boots and made it hard to keep walking toward the first person they’d met in the Prophet River Valley.  Since they were each carrying about sixty pounds, they felt as if they might be sucked completely into the swamp with every step.  “I see two people-packs walking!” Jerry observed as they got closer.  Finally they met in the middle of the trail.  “You lost?” he asked.

When they told Jerry that they had come from New York City to find a better life in the northern wilderness, he said:  “My trapping cabin over there—stay in my cabin!  Trap on my land!  You want a dog?”  So even though they always had trouble convincing anyone from the south to remain at the community with them, Evan and Joannie were never really alone in the wilderness because the Dane-zaa people were not far away.

This proved important in the matter of getting enough to eat.  Although Joannie was an experienced gardener, she had never tried to grow vegetables in a place where the temperature dropped to freezing on a July night and eleven-day rainstorms came regularly every other week.  They’d brought along a supply of rice, beans, peas, and peanut butter, but meat was an essential part of the local diet, as few other foods were available.  The Dunne-za at that time lived on meat, fish, and a few items of “white man’s food” like flour, black tea, and sugar.

Evan consulted the thousand-page book he and Joannie had compiled by researching at the anthropological library of the Museum of Natural History.  Along with information about tanning leather, dyeing cloth, delivering babies, and hundreds of other things members of a subsistence community would need to do or make for themselves, there were a dozen or so pages about making hunting snares.  Evan carefully constructed his snares with small branches and pieces of wire.  He placed a large number of them around their camp, figuring a rabbit would jump into at least one of his snares by suppertime each day.

But the days and weeks passed and the snares remained empty.  Evan and Joannie, along with some friends who came to visit, felled small spruce trees, peeled and notched them, and built a cabin according to the sketches in their thousand-page manual.  At the end of the day they were hungry, and their food stores were getting lower.  Evan couldn’t figure out why the little Arctic hares, which were brown in summer and white in winter, were so plentiful in the area but so difficult to catch.  Jerry and other Dane-zaa visited from time to time, and one day they arrived when Evan had just finished building some bookshelves for the many books they had packed in over the muskeg from Mile 210.  “Everything you know in those books?” Jerry asked.

One day Evan was out walking with Jerry, who pointed casually to a spot where the faintest path showed, just an extra glimmer from slightly trampled blades of grass.  “Rabbit run here,” Jerry commented.  Then Evan realized that there were little animal highways leading from place to place, and if you wanted to catch an animal you had to put the snare in its path.  These animal trails were invisible until someone showed them to you, and then you saw them everywhere.

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2016

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Cold Water….by Leora Freedman

Cold Water...by Leora Freedman
One day in the winter of 1958 Flora decided to visit her son Evan and his girlfriend Joannie, who were living in a cold water flat in “Hell’s Kitchen” in New York. They had dropped out of college and were planning to start a utopian community in northern British Columbia. First they needed to save up enough money for a truck, tools, and supplies for one full year. Worrying how Evan, who had been ill as a child, would fare living in the wilderness with no doctor nearby, Flora left her apartment filled with art on Central Park West and traveled down to West 45th Street and Tenth Avenue.

Flora had never seen Evan and Joannie’s apartment before, though she’d heard descriptions of apartments like this when she was a girl and her father worked in HIAS to help new immigrants. The young couple paid $16.10 per month, and there was only a cold water tap—no hot. It was also a railroad flat, with several, mostly windowless rooms laid out in a straight line. Flora, Joannie, and Evan sat in the front room on what had once been chairs, though they now had no backs. Evan had painted them in bright splotchy designs. He was enthusiastic about how he had set off a bomb that finally got rid of the bedbugs. Flora said that was a good thing.

Joannie was a Quaker, though even if she’d been a Jewish girl, she would not have been type of person Flora wanted her son to marry. She sat on her splotchy backless chair wearing dungarees and a plaid men’s shirt. Flora felt effete in her knit skirt and sweater. How had this unattractive young woman seduced her son into a possibly fatal adventure? Joannie told her how a friend from college had arrived unexpectedly in New York and came to their address, though he didn’t know which apartment was theirs. When he asked around, all the neighbors swore they’d never seen anyone like Evan and Joannie. “Around here, if someone in a nice suit and tie is looking for you it means trouble. They were just protecting us!” Joannie seemed delighted.

Flora was a socialist and a Whitman scholar, and she was not unschooled in progressive thought. Yet she was left feeling as cold as the water that ran in the dingy kitchen’s pipes. Evan’s grandfather and father had worked hard for decades precisely so Evan would never have to live like this. Something calamitous had happened to the Feuerstein family, Flora felt. Thousands of years of history had been diverted and its streams were rushing in another direction to fill Evan and Joannie’s utopia.

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2016

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Listening to the Still, Small Voice…by Leora Freedman

Listening to the Still Small Voice by Leora FreedmanWhen Evan was a little boy, his parents sent him to Quaker school because he was small for his age and the public school was rough.  During rest period in the Quaker school, the children lay on the padded benches in the Meeting room.  Evan looked up at the ornamented vent in the center of the domed ceiling and felt that the Holy One of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob rested there, looking down on him and his classmates.

Evan didn’t understand why he was in this strange place.  Later on, he found out about the quotas on admission of Jewish students to the universities and how he would appear less Jewish if he came from a Quaker school.  He liked the school and the silent Meeting.  People would get up to speak when the spirit moved them, which was not so often.   Evan also liked the idea of listening to the still, small voice within oneself.  His mother told him this idea came from their own Elijah the Prophet.

After he grew up, Evan was sent to a Quaker college, where he found a Quaker girlfriend.  Joannie was from a family of seven children and knew how to make soap from scratch, milk a goat, plant a garden to feed a family, and many other things one didn’t learn in a Jewish family in Brooklyn.  Although Joannie originally planned to practice nursing in the Amazon after graduation, Evan convinced her they would have a better chance of changing the world if they formed an intentional community in the far north of Canada.  So the two of them left the Quaker college, moved into a cheap apartment in New York City, and started preparing to go one thousand miles north of the US-Canadian border.

Evan and Joannie approached their journey north like a research project.  They spent hours reading anthropological accounts in the Museum of Natural History library, taking notes and making detailed sketches of how to build a shelter in the forest, hunt, fish, weave cloth, dry meat, make furniture, and deliver babies.  Eventually they had more than 1000 pages of instructions for their new life, and they bound it all together to make their own book.

In the meantime they tried to save money to finance their intentional community.  Evan took a job in a button factory, building up his strength by moving heavy boxes of buttons.  His coworkers were interested in this young man with so many plans.  But when Evan tried to persuade them that a better society was possible, they said they never wanted to leave the button factory.  One of them argued that even after the revolution, people would still need buttons.  They didn’t hear the same still, small voice that Evan and Joannie heard.

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2016

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The Daughter Who Got Away is now available as an ebook!

Daughter-Ebook-Web-240htThe ebook for The Daughter Who Got Away is up and live! It’s available for Kindle, Kobo, iBooks, and other e-readers.  To buy the e-book, visit:

https://yotzeretpublishing.com/shop/new-releases/the-daughter-who-got-away-ebook/

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Silkie…by Leora Freedman

Silkie..by Leora FreedmanEvan Feuerstein thought he was going to college to find out the meaning of life.  His father Morris thought he was sending Evan to college so he’d become a dentist.  Then he could join Morris in his West 23rd Street dental practice, which had just expanded to take up two apartments instead of only one.

At first Evan was delighted with college.  Instantly he found a circle of friends who’d also been misfits until now.  These friends liked to play guitars and banjos and sing songs like “Silkie,” a sad and mysterious ballad about a sea-creature with the body of a fish and the head of a man.  The Silkie could leave the sea for dry land and become a man on only one day each year, after which he had to return to his natural element.  The students also liked other songs Evan enjoyed singing, like “Don’t Fence Me In.”  Morris was not delighted when Evan went on a song-collecting trip in Appalachia and failed pre-med chemistry.

The course Evan liked best was the seminar on Utopian communities, which he did not fail.  To his parents’ consternation, he took up with a non-Jewish girl who played the banjo and planned to become a nurse in the Amazon jungle.  He also grew a beard, which caused the Dean to write a letter to his parents about grades and beards.  Evan then shaved off his beard, glued it onto an enlarged photograph of himself which he’d printed in the college darkroom, and mailed it to his parents in New York.  But it was too late for calming measures:  He had flunked out.

Even when he wasn’t a student anymore, Evan lived on campus.  During the day, he read hundreds of books in the college library, looking for the meaning of life.  At night, he worked in a barbecue grill factory.  The college had removed his bed from the dorm room, but Evan’s roommate didn’t mind if he slept on the floor in a sleeping bag.  When he got back from the night shift, one of his eccentric friends would usually still be awake, reading.  This friend studied Classics, but his father wanted him to become a “real” man and was disappointed that he didn’t like hunting and fishing.

Each night Evan got on his bicycle and rode off to assemble barbecue grills.  As he pedaled past the lighted windows of the big Victorian houses on the outskirts of campus he saw people moving around their kitchens, watching TV, going upstairs and downstairs.  He realized that his life was meant to be lived in a different element, like the Silkie’s.

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2016

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How Our Ancestors Learned to Drive…by Leora Freedman

How Our Ancestors Learned to Drive..by Leora FreedmanFor our ancestors, learning to drive meant that they were American, not hungry, and they had places to travel to rather than places to escape.  Joseph Baum imagined himself gliding on a country road in upstate New York, the wind teasing his wife Charlotte’s hair and his children, Flora and Edwin, in the back seat with a large picnic basket between them.  Although there were no drivers’ licenses back then, Joseph took driving lessons from the man who sold him the second-hand Model T.  He also bought a big book about engines and learned every detail about the combustion process.

The first time Joseph backed the car down the driveway next to their Brooklyn house, he smashed into the large maple tree at the edge of the lawn.  Horrified, he never again got behind the wheel of a car.  The Model T sat in the driveway until one summer morning when his sister Irene—who had never driven or taken a driving lesson—decided she would be the one to drive.  Irene piled the children into the back seat, a large picnic basket between them, backed down the driveway, and drove everyone out to Coney Island.

When they grew up, Edwin learned to drive very well, and Flora also learned with some misgivings.  She used to drive her family out to the country in summer, where they fixed up a ramshackle house on a winding road in Connecticut.  Flora always inched around the turns, beeping constantly to warn oncoming cars.  In between listening to the Green Hornet on the radio, her sons laughed at her in the back seat.

Flora’s husband Morris almost never drove except for early Sunday mornings in Connecticut.  He would get up before anyone else was awake and drive down the winding road to the town deli to buy fresh rolls for breakfast.  It seemed like only a few years ago he and his friends in dental school had made ends meet by eating the free–but terribly salty–food in the New York bars and then rushing out to drink water.  Now, Morris was delighted to leave his own house, drive his own car, and buy food for breakfast.  The Connecticut deli owner saw Morris’ delight and offered him a job in the deli so he wouldn’t have to return to work in his dental practice in New York during the week.  To the deli owner, all that traveling looked like a hard life.

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2016

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The Daughter Who Got Away…News!

The Daughter Who Got Away-by Leora Freedman-coverAn article about both my forthcoming book and its publisher just appeared in the Edmonton Jewish News.

http://www.edmontonjewishnews.com/3403-2/

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Miracle at Konotop…by Leora Freedman

Miracle at Konotop...by Leora FreedmanThis is a story that’s embedded in my forthcoming novel, The Daughter Who Got Away.  The novel will be published in March 2016 and can be pre-ordered from Amazon.  Please forward this link to someone you know!

Miracle at Konotop

 “We do have a tendency toward miracles,” Celia began. The room got quieter. Her guests knew that she did not offer them homemade gefilte fish chopped in a big wooden bowl, but she would offer them well-seasoned stories. She considered that the duty of a hostess, something she’d learned in her parents’ home.          

“We had an ancestor who was a tzaddik, a type of saint,” Celia said. “He wasn’t the showy sort of tzaddik, with a court and a following, but a simple sort of person, an artisan, perhaps. And he lived in a town called Konotop, which means, ‘the-place-where-horses-sink,’ because the main street of this town had the reputation of being so muddy when it rained that horses could hardly walk through.

“One very rainy afternoon, it was time for our ancestor to go and pray in the synagogue. However, he had no shoes to wear that day because he’d given them to some poor soul who needed them more than he did. So he had to walk to the synagogue in his white woolen stockings, through Konotop. And the miracle was this: When he arrived, there was no mud on his feet at all. His stockings were as white as when he’d left his house.” Celia paused, thinking of Sharon alone in the woods, facing a landscape harsh as the steppes. She saw her daughter walking barefoot beneath the huge Canadian pine trees, the snow not chilling her feet at all; then Sharon flew across the crust of snow, buoyed by angels.

“That’s marvelous,” said Maxine.

“He must have been an extraordinary personality,” said Bernard. “I imagine that’s a type of repeating folk tale, told about each great man through the generations.”

“I like it because it’s not about anything flashy,” Celia remarked. “Just a nice, homey, unpretentious little miracle.”

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2016

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Perfection and Good…by Leora Freedman

Perfection and Good...by Leora FreedmanMenachem Goodman was descended from a long line of rabbis whose dearest goal was a personal and spiritual perfection they knew they would never reach.  From the day of Menachem’s birth, his family planned that he too would become a rabbi, immersed in religious scholarship, ethical debates, and spiritual growth.  But when Menachem was a young man in 1890, the “enlightenment” was overturning tradition in the Jewish villages of Eastern Europe.   It was exhilarating to be freed from the obligation to attend meticulously to the religious commandments.  Menachem also loved to read secular books, and he decided that becoming a rabbi was not in his essential nature.

Menachem then quit his yeshivah studies and immigrated to America.  He worked many odd jobs in New York, along with other immigrants who couldn’t always pronounce Menachem and nicknamed him Good—which stuck.  After some time, Good established himself in the dry-cleaning business.  Good’s Dry Cleaners became known throughout several neighborhoods for the meticulousness with which stains were removed, rips were mended, and dresses, shirts, and pants were pressed.

Good married Liza, and they had five sons.  Good’s dearest goal for all of his sons was for them to study in a university and earn a PhD.  He imagined himself as the proud father of a PhD in History; a PhD in Literature; a PhD in Exotic Languages, and so on.  But when his sons became young men, they were captivated by the entrepreneurial spirit in America.  It was exhilarating for them to be freed from the confines of school, and they realized they could be successful without spending years attending meticulously to thousands of footnotes.  They decided that PhDs were not for them. Instead, Good’s sons expanded Good’s Dry Cleaners into multiple neighborhoods in New York.

Although he wasn’t a rabbi, Good had a great deal of patience and an intuitive wisdom.  Many people in the neighborhood, as well as his own extended family, flocked to him for advice on personal, business, and even spiritual matters.  He was disappointed in his own sons so he could sympathize with anguished parents; he had struggled to establish his dry cleaning business, so he tried to help other immigrants with advice and whatever money he could spare.

As he aged, Good became physically weaker but still had enormous influence on his family, friends, and business associates.  Even after he retired from the dry cleaning business, he took great pleasure in meticulously ironing his little granddaughter’s dresses so that the skirts stood out in the style of that time. Due to her grandfather’s efforts, her collars always lay perfectly flat.

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2016

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Herman Goodman & Company, Inc…..by Leora Freedman

Herman Goodman & Company...by Leora FreedmanDebby was not a “soft” person, but she was not bitter, either.  Her mother had died in 1912 when Debby was a baby, and her fairy-tale stepmother, whom she and her brother referred to as “Horse-face,” beat her and forced her to iron clothing three to four hours a day.  Her father was a charismatic “ne’er-do-well” who could always get the best herring by mimicking the regional Yiddish of any shopkeeper.  During this time, he was out pursuing other women.

Debby’s biological mother was a Charlop, descended from King David and the Exilarchs of Babylonia, and Debby was tall, with unusually deep-set brown eyes.  The relatives she was later sent to live with considered her an attractive addition to their households and taught her to weave Yiddish into her conversation.  She often said, “I’m good at living in other people’s houses.”  Her older brother Morris became a successful dentist and wanted Debby to go to university, but she went to a business college instead and fell in love with Herman Goodman, a traveling hardware salesman.

After Debby felt ill for several weeks without realizing she was pregnant, Herman was called into the office of Debby’s doctor, a forthright woman who campaigned with Margaret Sanger for women’s access to birth control.  This doctor ordered Herman to marry Debby.  Yet neither Herman nor Debby ever regretted the marriage, and they made a good team.  During the Great Depression his salary dropped from $200 a week to $20; she wore, without complaint, cotton housedresses that cost $1 each.  He continued his sales rounds in the New York winter even though he didn’t own a coat, telling his family he was warm enough in his sweater.

In the 1940’s Herman went into business for himself as a wholesale hardware concern, travelling the Eastern and Midwestern states and putting 100,000 miles a year on a succession of Packards.  To make his life easier, Debby decided they should publish a mail-order catalogue—an innovation in that era.  Unlike Debby, Herman was “soft” or sensitive, so she wove her suggestion into a discussion in such a way that he was always convinced the catalogue was his own brilliant idea.

Herman Goodman & Company occupied a large loft on Chambers Street in lower Manhattan.  At the front were two desks, but the rest of the loft had floor-to-ceiling shelves holding boxes of hammers, screwdrivers, hoses, files, drills, drill bits, clamps, and many other items.  Debby’s innovation, the mail-order catalogue, meant that no one had to travel or meet clients in person.  To create the catalogue, she sat for hours rubber-cementing tiny pictures of drills and saws, along with their specifications, looking down at the page through the half-glasses she wore on a necklace.  Cuttings would be spread over the desk, and her self-imposed deadlines were sacred and pressing.

Debby also had a gift for getting along with people, which was good for business.  After Herman died of a heart attack, she managed Herman Goodman & Company alone.  She’d talk on the telephone to the owners of midwestern hardware stores and tell them that Herman was away on a trip, never revealing that Herman was dead and the business was run by a woman.  Occasionally a travelling salesman appeared unexpectedly at the door of the loft on Chambers Street, and she’d say that Herman was out at a meeting.  The salesmen joked with her and gave her samples for her grandchildren:  a pen that wrote in twelve different colors, or keychains with dangling compasses.

Debby never retired, as she wanted to continue the business that she and Herman had started.  She did not re-marry, but instead worked full time and spent her leisure hours with her friend Marion, who had also lost her husband.  She and Marion went to dinner, theatre, or museums in New York; took cruises in the Caribbean in winter, and traveled together to Europe and Israel.   Debby retained her aristocratic beauty and elegance.  She and Marion were spoken of as a unit:  “Debby and Marion saw a new musical last week,” or “Marion and Debby are in Amsterdam.”  At one time, Debby’s close friend Milton, whose wife had been killed in a car accident, proposed that she marry him.  The proposal was giggled over by Debby and Marion, discussed seriously, but ultimately refused.  Debby said that no one could replace Herman Goodman.

Copyright © Leora Freedman 2015

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