* Due to the current state of economy, the Condo News is published every other week until further notice. 

Essays by 

Tina Chippas

V-J Day

September 2nd

I can never forget the magnificent pealing of the church bells as they echoed through the neighborhood — Brooklyn was a borough of churches and in Bedford-Stuyvesant, we had one on each corner of our block and they were all tolling victory. I pressed my forehead against the window pane, flattening the little flag hanging there, the one with one gold and two blue stars. I watched as neighbors leaned precariously from their windows, banging wooden spoons on pots and ringing dinner bells, school bells or blowing on horns and whistles.

It was September 2, 1945, V-J Day, a day which should have been a happy one but for my family, it was filled with a numbness, a feeling that this day came too late for us. Only five months ago, I had run home from school for lunch. I pressed the button in the marbled vestibule and waited impatiently for the answering buzz. It never came. A neighbor, on his way out, opened the door. He avoided my thanks by ducking out quickly. A knot of neighbors were congregated on the second landing — truly an unusual sight — apartment dwellers nodded and smiled, but rarely spoke to each other.

I was stopped by one of them. "Is it true that your brother was killed?" "No, only wounded; he’ll be home soon," I responded, thinking of my second oldest brother recently wounded in Germany. "She doesn’t know," I heard one of them whisper. "She thinks you’re talking about the middle one."

I took the next flight, two steps at a time, premonition making my heard thump anxiously. "Please, God," I prayed silently, "let everything be all right." I knocked on the stained-glass door of our apartment; my aunt from New Jersey opened the door. Why was she here? It wasn’t a holiday. A second look at her swollen eyes heightened my fears: a terror seized me and I felt rooted to the spot.

Somehow, I entered and was drawn to the unnatural silence in the living room. My mother’s closest friend, Mrs. C., stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, a wadded handkerchief pressed to her nose.

Finally, my eyes rested on what I knew was my mother, but one I didn’t recognize as the same vivacious, impeccably groomed, pretty woman that she was. Collapsed on the overstuffed chair, she was still in her housedress at twelve noon. Head laid back, hair awry, face swollen and drained of all color, she lay motionless — dry sobs coming from somewhere deep within her. My brother John’s photo lay on her lap, his handsome, young face smiled up at her. On the table, next to the chair, was a shot glass filled with brandy and the crumbled telegram.

"What’s wrong?" a voice not at all like mine whispered. I hoped I was in the midst of a nightmare, that this wasn’t really happening. My father gently drew me into the dining room. "John has died," he said quietly. "No!" I cried. I turned and flung my arms around him. He smoothed my hair — the braids he loved. "She’ll be all right," he said, looking at my mother. "She’ll be all right."

So that was five months ago and now it was all over. Now, Peter and James would be coming home like all the other sons and brothers of our cousins and friends. Things would change for sure. My brothers would go into the family business; marriages and babies would brighten our lives. But that was in the future — I didn’t know, at nine years old, that life could be better or worse than it is on any one day that we are feeling joy or sorrow.

I turned away from the window in search of my mother, a newly acquired, anxious habit.

"Let’s go to Mrs. C.’s," she said, avoiding my troubled eyes. She still didn’t look like herself. We walked the short block to the trolley. It was a sunny day, still warm enough for summer, but with the crispness of fall in the air. We walked without talking, aware of the joy around us but not a part of it. Trolleys clanged, cars honked, total strangers embraced, and the bells continued to peal. We boarded an open-sided Nostrand Avenue trolley and sat quietly, looking straight ahead. Other passengers boarded, smiles on their faces, and looked at us expecting similar reactions. Seeing my mother’s black, mourning clothes, their gazes slid uncomfortably away, unwilling to allow their joy to be diminished by another’s pain.

We got off the trolley and walked up St. John’s Place. Scents and aromas floated out store doorways: freshly roasted coffee beans, Italian spices. We didn’t comment on how good they smelled, as we usually did. We climbed the steep flight to Mrs. C.’s apartment. She opened the door — although her son would be coming home, she felt the pain in her friend’s heart. She opened wide her arms and welcomed us in.

The church bells toll slowly

A joyous day, a grey day,

A day of hope and sorrow.

Dong, dong

A life over,

Yet hardly begun.

A mother’s soul rent in two.

A first-born, so young, so pure

Deep in foreign soil.

Dong, dong

One gold star and two of blue.

So much to give a country

That counts its dead by

Tens of thousands.

Dong, dong

Comforting arms—

Another mother’s love

Salves the wound.

The pain passes.

A scar remains.

Though now silent,

The bells still peal in the child’s memories.

Reality — Really?

I admit it — I’m a Reality Show Junkie. I am fascinated by the competition to excel and survive contrived situations, by the excesses/deficiencies of the real-life cast members and I wonder why. It’s not as if I’m removed from world affairs — I worry about the oil spill and the disastrous effects of a company’s negligence on our environment and wildlife. I’m concerned about the economic crisis in our country and how our children and grandchildren, our country, will survive it. I don’t live vicariously through TV land’s scenes and schemes. I do have other interesting and worthwhile pursuits in life and I live in a condominium building! Why then, do some of these "reality" shows pique my curiosity enough for more than one minute of viewing?

I was mulling this over when a memory from the ’70s surfaced — that of a diminutive, eighty-nine-year-old woman hurrying though N.Y.C.’s Port Authority Terminal. I thought I saw Edna on the bus as we plowed our way through traffic into Manhattan but it wasn’t until I saw her determined progress through the crowded terminal I was sure it was she.

At eighty-nine, Edna, a retired lawyer, still didn’t know what "retired" meant. She advised women’s organizations and supported their progress toward the proverbial "glass ceiling." Edna wasn’t a bra-burning feminist. She believed for women to evolve and compete for good jobs with good pay, creditable educations were pre-requisites and career plans essential. Edna was a role model, as well, for those of us who’d abdicated our careers for motherhood. Widowed in her thirties, with three small children, Edna returned to college and earned her law degree from Columbia University. Retiring at sixty-five, she turned to teaching law and devoting time to women’s shelters helping victims of domestic abuse plan lives outside their scope of what they could become instead of what they had become. That day, she was on her way to the U.N. Building to work for women’s rights on an international basis. Her humanitarian and selfless determination to help others help themselves was exemplary.

On the reality show "Real Housewives of — (city of your choice)," misnomered "housewives" exemplify everything Edna was not. They epitomize self-indulgence with extravagant pursuits extraordinary to our difficult economic times and engineer problematic situations for which they must apologize to aggrieved friends and family. Hardly "housewives" as I knew/know them and certainly not role models for their children or anyone else’s. Qualities once thought as basic and essential to our society — honesty, modesty, discretion, loyalty, to name a few — are ignored. The machinations of their world barely seem plausible let alone "real" and the dichotomy between Edna’s goal to make the world a better place and the housewives’ frenetic ambition to buy more, show more is immeasurable.

Fortunately, there are "real" reality shows. On "Top Chef," products requiring skill and labor are judged by experts, and who can deny the teamwork and love Carlo’s "familia" shares on "Cake Boss." And don’t I wish I had one iota of "Project Runway’s" designers’ creativity as they fashion shapeless material into trendy garments — such talent and determination to excel.

"It’s Me or the Dog" — now that’s a show with positive messages. The spunky Victoria Stillwell tackles unruly canines and their owners. She teaches understanding, patience, and positive reinforcement.

A Furry Tale

I was swept away the first time I visited a dog park. Literally—off my feet, on my back. A new dog park had opened. I thought my daughter’s deranged Min-Pin, Lukie, nee Lucifer, would love the freedom of a park. I have a Princess Poodle. You won’t find this breed listed under A.K.C. Chelsea simply was born into the wrong species—she was meant to be a Princess Human. This red-haired, canine noblewoman likes to be bathed, groomed and walked in landscaped parks. In a flood, it’ll be Lukie, on the roof, barking for the boat to pick him up while Chelsea gracefully poses on the sofa, waiting for a rescuer’s knock on the door.

I knew Chelsea wouldn’t appreciate mingling with the canine commoners, but I was convinced animated Lukie would. The second we entered the parking lot, Chelsea looked at me with dismay. Eight large dogs roamed the enclosure. "You brought me here?" her eyes reproached me. Lukie’s eyes lit up. "Lemme outta here!" he panted. "I gotta get out with them big guys!" (I’ve come to read dog language well.) I could barely restrain him as he tugged to get past the double gates into the grassed pen.

I unleashed him and he tore off, racing toward his new buddies who outsized and outweighed him five times over. Chelsea looked at the mob of bulky creatures as they sniffed Lukie and primly sat down beside me. "Let me know when you want to leave, Lady," she muttered under her breath as she examined her buffed nails. "Not my milieu here." I shrugged. Her choice to mingle or not.

Lukie

Chelsea

At least Lukie was enjoying himself. He was dancing around the big dogs, Gene Kelly without the umbrella or rain. Teasing them—darting away and returning to the posse. "C’mon, ya big sissies. Whatsamatta, can’t run, huh?" His small, muscular body and stubby tail wriggled in anticipation. I thought I saw the German Shepherd raise his brows and nod his head at his comrades. "Voss is das?" he asked. "It’s a Miniature Pinscher, Otto, you know, like a small Doberman," a yellow Lab answered deferentially. "Doberman?" Otto scoffed. "He iss a joke. Ve don’t play mit him. Tell him to go avay." The Lab turned to Lukie who smiled, white teeth glistening. "NAAA NAAA, can’t get me," Lukie taunted. "Big sissies scared?" "Dot’s itt," Otto shook his fur. "Ve go. Men, follow me!"

Lukie got a headstart. He circled, serpentined, streaked, zigzagged across the field leading the furry ribbon of dogs. The pack gained on him. Realizing his tiny stride was no match for his pursuers, he looked for help. Grandma! At full tilt, Lukie ran toward and between my legs. So did Otto. I remember how white and fluffy the clouds seemed as I lay on my back. Owners came to reclaim their giants. We had provided them with a great show.

I limped into my daughter’s house in search of ice for my bruised body. "Did Mommy’s baby have a good time in the doggy park?" Daughter cooed to her dog who bore no evidence of his earlier escapade and seemed eager for his next. "He looks tired," she reproached me as I tied icepacks to my leg and arm. "Maybe the dog park was too much for him. He’s such a timid little guy." Lukie smirked at me. Barely moving his lips he murmured, "It was a blast, Gram—what are we doin’ tomorrow?"

Tina Chippas is a resident of SeaMark Condominiums in North Palm Beach, FL. She has authored an unpublished novel, Affair in Athens, that narrates her grandfather’s heroic sheltering of Salonika Jews during WWII.

For Love or Money — 

but Not For Muscles

Quiz: What relationship does the new Health Care Law have to the type of fellow your daughter, grand daughter or great–grand daughter might choose to love and/or marry?

The answer, if you believe in such things, lies in the studies done by professors, psychologists and social scientists. Their research shows that women in developed countries with generous government health care, like Belgium and Sweden, are changing the prehistoric Paleolithic preference for he-men and now choose to marry the more gentle and understanding "metro-sexuals."

The same research shows that women in less-developed nations like Mexico and Bulgaria still prefer the strength and masculinity that cave men needed in order to attract cave women.

The scientists tested young women in thirty countries and asked which face in photographs they preferred. (Actually, the two photos were of the same man, but had been changed slightly by computer software, either to "masculinize" the face, or "feminize" it.) Presto! The women’s preference for either kind of man is revealed.

Another victory for evolutionary psychology – another reason why a girl in Mombasa may prefer a gold miner and a model in Paris marries a ballet dancer. They each want the best for their children.

The women in both camps want healthy children, but the women in the poor countries know that health care is primitive or non-existent and pestilence is likely. So they may prefer a hunk, even though in all groups such bruisers are believed to be less interested in child-rearing and more likely to be uncooperative, unsympathetic and more likely to beat them or their children.

The tests did not include economic questions, but it seems reasonable to assume income is a factor. As girls in advanced countries are now likely to have college degrees and high-paying jobs, they no longer need to marry for money – or for at least a livelihood.

Men are more likely than women to have lost jobs in the current recession. That leaves the wife/mother of the family often the sole breadwinner, and the husband at home caring for the children.

Is it possible to find a strong, sexy man, a good earner but also gentle and sympathetic in the same person? The Wall Street Journal quotes Zsa Zsa Gabor on the subject: "I want a man who’s kind and understanding. Is that too much to ask of a millionaire?"

Road Rest Stops — Unneeded or a "Necessary"

The state of Arizona has closed 13 out of 18 of its highway rest stops to save the $300,000 a year it costs to run each one.

Of all the cost-cutting and fee-raising steps that Arizona has taken to close its huge budget gap, this one has raised the most ferocious hue and cry from the citizenry. My guess is that the loudest protest of this deprivation of a facility necessary to everyone — toilets — has come from its many elderly retiree-citizens.

We South Florida retirees know all too well that with every passing year our need for the "necessaries" grow. I notice that here the homes are more likely to have multiple bathrooms than elsewhere.

The problems of scarce facilities in public places is not new, especially in crowded buildings such as theaters. In New York City, with its many legitimate theaters, there are controversies over the fact that men’s and women’s rest rooms are equal in availability, while women need them more. What with tight pantyhose and possibly other unmentionables, women can make a claim for more facilities than men. Various patchwork solutions are now used, such as unisex rest rooms.

The closing of rest stops is not the only restriction on motorists and roads that legislatures have mandated. How about strict driving-while-impaired (drugs and alcohol) laws, the ban on use by drivers of cell phones, computers and televisions? How about being required to wear a seat belt – especially where we live – Florida?

Most driving laws have the purpose of saving lives. What does the rest-stop closings do – require us to wear diapers?

And if this should come to pass, would the late night comedians have, in addition to their usual aged Florida driver jokes, additional fodder, such as this. "Have you been following the story of this female astro-nut? She drove 900 miles from Houston, Texas, to Orlando, Fla., to confront the woman who was her romantic rival. She drove the whole time wearing a diaper so she didn’t have to make a rest stop. She went to court yesterday and was released in her own incontinence."

First Lady Weighs in on Fat Children

After a year as a mere White House hostess and stay-at-home mom, Michelle Obama has chosen her field of "celebrity advocacy."

It is childhood obesity.

Not that she is merely a celebrity, such as a show-biz luminary. She has semi-official clout. When she calls a conference with people who can help her with her cause, the message is not thrown into important waste baskets. The invitation, after all, it is not just to her house, but to the White House – the people’s house.

Ms. Obama did not choose an easy or non-controversial cause, such as Laura Bush’s campaign for literacy (a natural for a former librarian) or Lady Bird Johnson’s beautification of our landscape. Alas, opponents are already hollering "nanny state" and corporations and huge food industry associations are hiring lobbyists.

Parents may also be a source of loud resistance. Some have already complained about notices from school that their children are overweight. Who likes criticism? Especially not overburdened moms and dads.

Happily, the "stamp out child obesity" cause has many supporters and even a happy fiscal ending, according to a Wall Street Journal editorial. This rare Journal approval of Michelle Obama’s program notes that, if successful, this would greatly lower medical costs in the United States. The editorial notes that federal spending due to obesity increases our tax burden by 36 percent for Medicare and 47 percent for Medicaid.

Another mostly non-debatable initiative featured in the First Lady’s plan is her call for increased physical activity by children. Ms. Obama cites the health value of walking or biking to and from school and more playtime and facilities for outside activity both at home and in schools. She advocates safe walkways and crosswalks at intersections so that students can use them safely.

Surely President Obama, tall and lean, sets a good example for his wife’s goals. When President William Howard Taft was inaugurated in 1909 he was 6 feet tall and weighed more than 300 pounds, the largest man to ever serve as president. His First Lady, Helen Herron Taft, did not need to choose a pet project to tout publicly; it was not the custom then.

So Michelle Obama starts off with an advantage, a thin spouse. Could she fight fat as Mrs. Taft? Hardly likely.

For the Love of Pasta

Dear reader, do you remember family mealtimes before 1965 when spaghetti was on the menu?

Those were the dark days when kids in highchairs tried to eat the much-loved Italian delicacy but most of it landed on the child, the chair or the walls.

In 1965 a parent-liberator invented a new toddler-friendly shape of pasta: Spaghetti Os. Donald Goerke, the inventor of the doughnut-shaped version intended for children, died recently at 83. He was a retired marketing manager at Franco-American, a division of the Campbell’s Soup Company.

Goerke’s mission was to design an incarnation of spaghetti that would withstand canning and reheating, and that children could eat without creating a battlefield-like scene in American homes. The shapes that were rejected included baseballs, cowboys, spacemen and stars.

Since 1965 Spaghetti Os have become a standard item in American pantries. More than 150 million cans are sold each year. My guess is that a few million cans are sold to adults who could never learn to twist the original limp strands on a fork, as gourmets do. (Some restaurants give diners who order spaghetti a bib to wear.)

Now that Spaghetti Os and their competitors have saved many a kitchen and dining room, we can go back to thinking of pasta as a food – equally esteemed by both gourmands and nutritionists.

Just as cheese is consecrated as "milk’s leap to immortality," so pasta represents the apotheosis of flour and water. Gourmets and prize-winning chefs will argue eternally about which shape goes with which sauce, but both agree on its adaptability and infinite ability to combine with a thousand other foods to delight eaters.

There are enough shapes and sizes of pasta to fill a small dictionary. Most of the names are in Italian, and describe the shape of the objects outside the kitchen that they resemble. Some examples are macaroni (tubes or cylinders), fusilli (swirls), and lasagna (sheets).

The names may be Italian, but some form of pasta is served worldwide, from Brazil to Hong Kong. In Italian, all pasta names are plural, so let’s get together and tie on our spaghetti bibs. Buon appetito!

Class of 2013 Attire: A Barrel

What will current college freshman (class of 2013) wear? If the recession and business losses continue, quite possibly a barrel held up by suspenders.

According to a recent survey of 297 campuses, this year’s freshmen saw dollar signs in every facet of college choice, career goals and life on campus. Concern for the financial side of a college education was the highest it has been since the Nixon Administration.

Those of us who remember the role of higher education in America before World War II should not be shocked by the survey numbers. In the 1920s college students appeared to be less interested in quantum physics than in football games that they attended wearing raccoon coats and packing flat flacons of bootleg liquor and waving banners touting their college team.

Of course a few "have-nots" managed to earn a degree without a raccoon coat or even a decent roof over their heads. The teenage Ronald Reagan arrived at his college with no money and presented himself to the school’s president, who was impressed by the tall, strapping youth. He arranged for Reagan to sleep in a college out-building and work to pay for his tuition and other expenses.

My impression of the 1930s was of the subway commuters in New York City who were privileged to attend City College or Hunter College with tuition free. Since I lived in the New Jersey boondocks (as my New York relatives called the area), those schools were not available to me.

My route to college was unlike Ronald Reagan’s. I took the statewide exam for high school graduates and did well. This gave me tuition at a state school ($200 for a college year). For room and board, I lived with a family as a babysitter and dishwasher. There was also some salary: one dollar a week for a bus pass.

Reagan and I date from the days of a rough road to college for un-rich kids. Before the GI Bill, before federal grants and many other scholarships – and before college loans that are easy to accept but hell to pay back.

How about some federal aid for repayment of college loans – similar to mortgages?

Politically Correct White House Dining

The White House state dinner for the Prime Minister of India and his wife was a first for the Obama presidency.

It was also remarkable for its size (320 guests), which necessitated that it be held on the White House lawn in a tent.

The menu, which encompassed varied religious, ethnic, political, gastronomic and environmental restrictions and celebrations, can be studied like an ancient parchment.

First, the guests of honor are religious vegetarians. So, although the dinner was meatless, it did include a dish derived from animals: prawns. Prawns are similar to shrimp; both are shellfish.

The Hindu religion forbids the eating of animals. Are shellfish not animals? This religious "definition" reminds me of definitions of foods in the Jewish religion. The eating of shellfish is forbidden in strict Judaism, but fish with fins are permitted.

Another nod to tradition in Jewish food rules is honey. The land of "milk and honey" had few available sweeteners in Biblical times and the science of food chemistry was, of course, unknown. So, assuming that honey was only "housed" by the bees who brought it to the hive from their source in blossoms, the Ancients assumed they were of plant origin.

As a nod to the current rage for kitchen gardens and local farmers’ markets, there was White House arugula and honey at the state dinner. The culinary heritage of the hosts was indicated by chick peas, okra and collard greens.

So, considering the complexity of selecting the foods, the Obama White House cannot be criticized for a few minor slips. While the hosts were concentrating on the religious, bipartisan, diversity and health restrictions of the menu, they can be forgiven for a security boo-boo: allowing a couple of party-crashers in.

Archie Bunker vs 'Sex and the City'

When I heard that Archie Bunker’s armchair had been given the honor of placement in the Smithsonian Institution, my eyes were opened to the importance of popular culture.

Here was Archie, who worked on a loading platform and personified American blue-collar workmen in the television sit-com "All in the Family" raised to historic stature. His chair, which he wouldn’t let anyone else sit on, became a revered icon, because that is what it symbolized to him.

However, appropriate as it was to consecrate Archie’s chair to signify Archie’s status as king of his castle, choosing Carrie Bradshaw’s laptop computer for the Smithsonian seems to me less suitable.

The impression I take away from "Sex and the City" is that of recreational sex in a glittering city, namely New York City’s suave reaches of Manhattan where no one needs to look at price tags or the right side of a menu.

The Smithsonian curator who selected Carrie’s laptop for the museum says, "The laptop is an iconic prop symbolizing Carrie as a chronicler of contemporary society." He justifies Carrie’s historic role by adding, "She represents the latest stage in the progression from Lucy Ricardo and Mary Tyler Moore — and more broadly, the evolution of the role of women in America."

Archie’s chair, dark and threadbare, seems at home in a museum of history. It bears the patina of dust and long use, comfortable in the same repository with the desk on which Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence and Abraham Lincoln’s top hat.

And to represent "Sex and the City," I nominate a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes.

How did depression kids manage to get along during those "good old days?" Few are around today to tell of some of their experiences of 75 years ago. They were the years from about 1930 and into 1940 that brought changes into almost every home in our town. For most people, there was the need to move into different homes and acquire different life-styles from what we had become accustomed to as youngsters. I, for one, moved with my mother and older brother to a small apartment from a 3 bedroom house. My little sister moved in with our grandmother a few blocks away.

During the afternoon, I delivered a paper route six days a week. The evenings were taken up with homework, and it was Friday nights and Saturdays that gave me the freedom to hang out with the guys.

Our "hangout headquarters" was in front of the corner candy store just next door from our place. If you were lucky, you could earn a few nickels by going to someone’s home nearby when they were called to answer a call on the public phone in the store. They had to give you a tip or they wouldn’t be called in the future if they were stingy and left you empty handed. It could rain, sleet and snow, but we were there to make small talk and resolve all the problems facing the world. The owner of the store was always hoping that we would come in and spend a few cents. For that reason, we were seldom chased away, and then too, the person called to the phone might buy some small item while in the store, to show their appreciation for getting called.

Saturday night was something special for us poor kids on the corner, for we would be huddled in the cold weather, stomping our feet, but too lonely to just go home. This was before the days of TV. At the next corner was a missionary store. It was just a regular 2 story house with store front windows that were covered with curtains. The family lived in the back of the house and on the second floor. The first floor area had rows of wooden folding chairs arranged with a center aisle.

As I recall, there was seating for about 30 people. At the furthest end of the store was an elevated platform and rostrum. In the rear of the place was a kitchen with stove and sink. Hanging on the wall behind the platform was a wooden cross and a large picture of Jesus.

About 8 PM on Saturday night, some of the poor in the neighborhood drifted in along with the bunch of fellows that I was hanging out with on the next corner. We all sat and got warm during the one hour sermon. It was a relief to get into a place that was heated and provided a bathroom and refreshments. Finally, prayer and eventually the singing portion for the service ended. On a table at the side of the podium was a large table and on it a plate with donuts piled on it. All through the service I stared at the donuts for they represented the only delicacy that I would have all week. The smell of hot coffee began to permeate the room and we became restless as the hour seemed to drag on and on.

Finally, the preacher’s wife would enter the room carrying a large pot of hot coffee. It seemed like forever that we finally came to the closing prayer. The minister talked on and on, while we sat and stared at the donuts on the table. We finally were able to rush to the table in the room and we all reached out to grab the day-old donuts that was the reward for our listening to the Gospel. The minister each week was able to get those stale donuts from the local bakery at little or no cost. The fact that they were a little harder than fresh and all the same type did not lessen their appeal to us kids and adults alike.

The coffee was strong, no milk and no sugar was served, but that donut was a gift from heaven for those of us that had the patience to wait. It made no difference to many of us who were of different religions. The donut and warmth of the room were ample compensation for the hour of listening. I returned week after week, for the donut.

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