A Broken Tool and Urinary Tract Infection

So, I bought a set of 25 White Faced Herefords to breed, out of Jackson Hole,Wyoming. Table top backs: wonderful looking animals. I needed a bull to breed them so I bought a purebred Hereford bull from a neighbor (Lesson #1- Beware of farm neighbors/friends offering you "good deals"). I put the bull with the cows in a pasture of a farm I was managing (A Bronx Jew as a farm manager is stuff comedies are made of. One big joke). Charlie Pippert was the farmer's name. Strong as an ox he was...every week I would drive my pickup truck on those gravel, country roads to Charlie's place with the radio blaring (about 40 miles).

One week I showed up and Charlie told me that the bull wasn't doing his thing which absolutely wired me for sound. Naturally the messenger caught my fury and I brought the herd back to the home place. I then bought a purebred Black Angus bull to help the Hereford bull out. Soon after I received a phone call from the hired man who told me that the black bull was stretched out in one end of the pasture while the cows and the Hereford cows were grazing in another part of the pasture. Not natural!!!! So, I called the vet who came out, looked at the black bull and said that he had a urinary tract infection (couldn't piss) that had resulted in one eye being infected and the bull was blind in that eye. The vet said that I should take the bull down to Ames SAP.

While out on the pasture I had the vet look at the Hereford bull. The vet said that in is 15 years of experience he had never examined a bull with a broken tool and that son of a bitch was the vet's first. I went back to the farm house, called a trucker to haul the other bull to Ames. In the meantime the hired man and I went out on a tractor and literally dragged the black bull to the farm yard to await the truck. We finally got the bull to stand up. He took a few steps, stumbled into a well pit (honest) and poke his good eye out. We finally got him down to Ames (120 miles) and as we entered the gates of Iowa State A&M the bull died. The payoffs were that I had to pay the trucker for hauling a dyeing and then dead bull and the White Face Bull was sold for the lowest category price(pennies on prime beef's dollars). Incidentally, I bought the black bull from a very wealthy prominent, church going business man who I thought was my friend.

Beware Faculty Parties and Society Functions With Dancing

So after my first wife threw me out (she had moved from resentment to active dislike and distaste of me...a blessing in disguise) I was invited to what turned out to be my last faculty dinner, thank God. It was a regular gee whiz sit down dinner where the conversation was "scripted" to include...1) Campus real estate values 2) Politics 3) Bigotry and 4) Religion. Now that really was boring, particularly when the Stanford Provost started on the similarities of Catholic confession and psychiatry. Having spent some 23 years (on and off mostly on) going to shrinks. (My first ex-wife felt strongly that there was "something wrong with me" and my "bizarre behavior", her view of me) I resented the Provost's comparison. So I asked him if he was a Catholic. "No" he said. Then asked if he had ever been to confession. "No" he said. I then told him that it was apparent to me that he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. That capped off a pre-dinner conversation with one of the wives who had learned that three of my kids were/are Scientologists and she tried to lecture me starting with quoting a negative magazine article about Scientology. I had responded by asking her if she was one of those damn fools who believed everything she read.....I never was invited to another faculty dinner.

The Great Depression, World Series of Thirties, A Reprise

And as he plunged past the 30th floor after going off the 59th floor roof, he said 'So far so good'.

It cost $1.10 for bleacher seats for World Series games in the 30's. (55¢ during regular games). We loved those seats and thought ourselves so lucky to be there.

The right field bleacher seats were, for so many of us perfect. Babe Ruth played right field and in earlier years would talk to us 'bleacherites'. Those seats were later converted to grandstand seats.

Babe Ruth handing out his candy bars.

Buddy and I would arrive at Yankee Stadium at around 5:00 a.m. We would talk baseball with everyone on the fucking line with us.

Talk isn't quite right. We would scream and argue vehemently, that our favorite ball players were the best at their positions. We were with real fans and all of us knew the complete statistics of our favorites.


They would let us into the ball park at around 11:00 a.m. and at noon, out would come a marching band and a Marine/Sailor/Soldier drill group to entertain us. Right before the ball game started, the so called "Clown Prince of Baseball" would come out and do some stunts with a baseball in right field. He would end up at home plate with another ball player on third and they would start to steam the ball at one another all the while closing the gap between the two. The crowd just roared with every throw.

To get the day's action started, Buddy and I would get up at 4:00 a.m. to take the bus and subway to the ball game. We would bring the sandwiches my Mom had made for us and at least a pound of peanuts. We weren't going to get fucking ripped off in the Stadium and pay a dime for a dinky bag of peanuts when you could buy a whole fucking pound in a store for around 10-15¢.

My Mom would give me $2.00 to cover the whole day with a little to spare. $1.10 to get into the game, 20¢ for the bus and subway carfare and all the treats you could get for 70¢. Hot dogs and cokes were a dime each...although we all complained loudly that a dime for a coke was a total fucking.

We weren't just "making do"; we were having a great time (the term "having a blast" hadn't been invented yet). This was the Great Depression, money was hard to come by but the Feshbach kids barely noticed. My Mom did wallop me, for the one and only time, when I used the 15¢ change from buying a Sunday newspaper to buy candy and then tried lying my way out of it.

In the early 30's, when there were lots of abandoned construction sites we would find 2x4's and attach roller skate wheels to either end making a "skate board", the forerunner of today's store bought skateboards.

We would go into the storage space of an apartment house where they kept old unused baby carriages and would steal one. Then we took the axles and wheels off, attached them to our 2x4 and  had a 'Going Gussie'.

Racial hatred was the order of the day with anti-Semitism and hating blacks in the forefront.

Father Coughlin, in Detroit was on the radio with venomous anti-Semitism. The Germans had the Bund and controlled Yorktown in Manhattan and there was an organization called America First. (Who was it that famously said that "Patriotism is often the last refuge of scoundrels?")

The Irish kids would come into Jewish neighborhoods for the sole purpose of beating the hell out of the Jewish kids. Walking to and from school was an exercise in courage. Not getting the shit knocked out of you was the goal.

But again, we didn't know any better. We just thought that was life. We weren't "making do", we were living life, as we knew it, to the fullest. One of my friends had a brother who was with the Dutch Schultz gang. Dutch Schultz was an infamous gangster, who was, I believe, murdered in a barbershop chair. My friend's brother decided that we should learn how to defend ourselves so he gave us boxing lessons. Didn't help. The Irish kids still beat the shit out of us Jews.

But those lessons stood me in good stead in the Army where I ended up in a Boston Irish outfit from hardnosed, Irish, fucking Scollay Square. Bigots for certain. Couldn't seem to get away from the Irish whose dedication in life, in those days, seemed to be the beat the shit out of Jews.

Wasn't any different in the Army except when overseas but by then I was ready, able and willing to fight and never "lost one". Always, silently thanked Norman's brother who was murdered with Dutch Schultz.

More depression days stuff:  Bear in mind that there was a resurgence of unemployment to 25% around 1936. But my genius immigrant father never seemed to miss a beat. He and my Mom were fabulous parents. We never really knew that there was a depression going on. And our needs, as kids, were simple.

Computer games and that fucking all pervasive, 'smart phone' hadn't been invented. My needs revolved around sports and avoiding bringing my report cards home (talk about a constant fear of fucking impending doom). If they knew what ADD was in those days, I would still be in the third grade.

Between starting school early and skipping a grade, I graduated from high school at 16. All my friends were a few years older than me and a few years better athletically. Any street smart kid knew that if you brought the basketball, football or baseball and bat you were automatically in the game.

My Pop understood that rule, so even in the worst of times he allowed me to buy the equipment. I always had the basketball etc. In turn, I always got to play. A not so subtle form of blackmail. When I showed up all the other kids were fucked because if they wanted to play at all they had to let me in. I was the one with the ball. Not very fucking complicated.


'Those were the days my friend. We thought they'd never end'...Fiddler on The Roof