Coming to America

Dad was an incurable romantic. He loved to tell Evy and me stories of his childhood in Kurenetz, Russia, of his attempts to leave home to come to America, and of his early experiences in his adopted land. Those stories are part of our childhood as well as part of Dad’s being a father and a historian and a story teller. Some of his tales differed between what he told us and what he said later in his oral history. Both version are delightful and worth recounting.

Listen to what he told us about the Gypsy with whom he became friendly on the Prince Oskar, the ship that brought Dad to America. The Gypsy’s family was unaccustomed to sailing and much of the time was plagued with sea-sickness. Their worst trauma was the lingering illness and death of their youngest child. Dad was pained by their loss and did his best to comfort them especially because none of the other passengers in steerage gave any attention to them in their grief.

When the Prince Oskar docked at Philadelphia, Dad was told he could not land unless he had $25 in his possession. It was presumably to prevent his becoming dependent on the social services of his new country. It was actually a ploy of the anti-immigrant feeling brought on by the influx of immigrants from Eastern Europe. Dad told the authorities he was penniless; where could he get $25? The immigration officer warned him that if he didn’t have the money, he would be put on the next ship returning to Hamburg, the port that he had come from. Dad was frantic; how could he, a poor man in a new country, get $25? It was his good friend, the Gypsy, who stepped in and gave him the $25. Dad was overjoyed; he assured his savior he would get the money back to him somehow.

The story did not end there. One morning many years later, when Dad was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the shoe store, he looked up and there, on Franklin Avenue, was the Gypsy and his family traveling along by horse and wagon. Dad hailed them and they talked for a while. I can’t remember for certain, but my guess is that Dad paid him back the $25. It would certainly round out a remarkable tale.

But there is a different version of the $25 in Dad’s oral history. Yes, the authorities did demand that he have $25 on his person before they would allow him to land, but there the story takes a different turn. When he did not have the money, he and several others in similar straits were taken by a small boat to an island in Philadelphia harbor, there to wait until they could produce the money. If not, they would be returned across the Atlantic. As Dad glumly pondered his ill-fate, “a man with a jacket with brass buttons” spoke to him in Yiddish! “Why are you so unhappy,” he asked. Dad explained the money problem. The man gave him the money and told him not to worry. He explained that he was from HIAS—Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society—and he was there to help. Dad had heard about HIAS back in Russia and now knew that his arrival in America was secure.

It wasn’t the Gypsy who had come to his rescue. He was real and kind and friendly but did he rescue Dad in his moment of financial need? Or was it HIAS which was part of the welcoming agencies to help and protect immigrants.

There is another story that we heard Dad tell over and over. When I say that I remember hearing his stories, I am also aware that I could tell when he was about to tell one I had heard before but I never wanted him to stop. I remembered the stories, having heard them so many times but I wanted to hear them again.

The story of the change of Dad’s name from the Russian to the American form was one we heard so often that it seemed like a fairy tale with a highly pleasing ending. When the immigration officer asked Dad his name, he told him “Hillel Yachnovich”. According to Dad, the officer said it wasn’t American enough. Dad then said, “My brother’s name is Louis Jackson.” That caught the officer’s fancy who announced that Dad’s new name was now Harry Jackson.

I have been told, on good authority, that at one time it was legal (and common) for immigration officers to change an immigrant’s name if the officer thought it too hard to understand or pronounce or if it was not “American” enough. It could even be changed if the immigrant so requested. Dad told Evy and me that story so many times; we were fascinated that Dad’s quick thinking had given him his new name and paved his way past the port’s authorities.

Dad’s oral history has a different version which certainly makes more sense. Dad retained his name through the immigration process. When he was permitted to, he went to Munhall, a steel mill town near Pittsburgh to find his brother Louis who was the first Jackson brother to come to America. There, Dad joined other immigrants, men and women who were determined to become American as soon as possible. They formed social groups to learn to speak better English by reading poetry and prose, by putting on plays, by debating, and singing, solo or in groups. On attending his social group one evening, Dad learned that without consulting him the group had decided that he should change his name from Hillel Yachnovich to Harry Jackson. He was crushed that he had lost “Hillel” the name of a famous rabbi and scholar, and “Yachnovich”, the name of his father, whom he venerated and respected. He was heartsick but kept his feelings to himself and gradually accepted the change to his American name. So, if it is true that his social group changed his name for him, then the story about it being changed by an immigration officer, as he told us over and over, was just more evidence of his love of spinning a lively tale with a happy ending.

In his reflections about the new name that had unceremoniously been attached to him by his fellow-immigrants, he confessed that he had submitted to their action without open objection because long since arriving in America, he had been thinking that “Yachnovich” sounded too Russian for someone who wanted to be Americanized as quickly as possible. He knew he needed to make a change. As he turned the matter over and over in his mind, he could not find a sound in English to match the sound of the Russian “ch”; he had thought of “Yachnin” which his friends had trouble pronouncing. He discarded “Yanin” as sounding weak. He scolded himself for being unable to make a choice in the matter, finally gave in to his social group’s summary decision, and adjusted to being “Harry Jackson” for the rest of his life.

Mother and the Glass Ceiling

Dad always wanted to be in business for himself. In May 1925 he took the plunge and bought a bankrupt shoe store in Woodlawn, Pennsylvania and changed its name from Economy Shoe Store to Jackson’s Shoe Store. Uncle Morris became his partner and soon hard work and good business sense turned Jackson’s Shoe Store into the busiest shoe store in town. Dad needed help; he asked Mother to come work at the store. She didn’t have to go with him when he opened the store at 6 a.m. but after she had tended to the maid and Evy and me, she could go down late morning. Mother enjoyed the work, liked waiting on women customers, found the work preferable to being a stay-at-home mom whose other times out of the apartment were for bridge parties, visiting her sister, Mollie, or going to Kaufmann’s in Pittsburgh to shop.

At the end of her first week at work when Uncle Morris handed out pay checks, Mother asked for hers. He snapped, “Family doesn’t get paid.”

Mother let him know how she felt about that; “I work here, you pay me.” She had been so valuable as a saleslady, they knew they couldn’t afford to lose her. They paid her.

That was not the first time Mother had asserted herself. When she and Dad were courting, she decided she wanted to marry him. As she tells it, when the family was together, she gave them the news. They refused to hear of it: no, he was not the one for her. He was a greenhorn—a derogatory term for immigrants who had not become “Americans”—he couldn’t speak good English. He was not good enough for her.

As she tells it, she rose to her feet and made it clear, “I am going to marry him and you are going to give me a wedding!” And she married him and they gave her the wedding.

In the shoe store Mother’s skills blossomed. She connected well with her women customers. They wanted shoes to make their feet look small but that made their feet hurt. She persuaded them to buy stylish shoes in sizes a little longer but a little narrower that would be comfortable and still not look too long. She took correspondence courses from Dr. Scholl to learn how to fit arch supports, the precursor of today’s orthotics. She convinced the store to offer dyeing fabric shoes so young women could have shoes that matched their gowns without the expense of buying new shoes. She contacted dance teachers in town to announce that Jackson’s would order Capezio ballet slippers for their students. And she went with Dad to shoe shows to help him select shoe styles for each coming season’s inventory.

 Mother, the first and maybe the only feminist in the family, knew her worth long before the cry, “Equal pay for equal work.” I don’t think Mother wanted to start a campaign to push for women’s rights; she was just claiming rights for herself. She showed she had skills beyond being a wife and mother and baleboste (an excellent homemaker) and could enter a man’s world and do as well as any of them. She wanted to be recognized for her ability and wanted to be paid as well. True, Aunt Jennie, her sister, worked with Uncle Lou in their variety store, and if the jewelry store Aunt Sarah and Uncle Herman owned was open, Aunt Sarah could always be seen there. I don’t think either wife was on the payroll.

I asked Bea Miler if her mother, Aunt Sarah, was a paid employee. She answered, “Good question. I don't think so, but couldn't swear to it. I never got paid for cleaning the silver, stamping wallets, putting stock away, taking payments at the window (credit jewelers), or taking repairs into Pittsburgh twice a week in the summer, Saturdays in school months. It's one of those questions you don't think of until there's no one left to answer it.”

Mother made her way in a family controlled by men by meeting the challenge head on. She demanded her place in the family and business world and proved she could compete with the best of them. I admire her.

From Zuckerman to Yachnovich to Jackson

Or "How did you get the name Jackson?"

Esther and Hillel Zuckerman were the grandparents of my father, Harry Jackson. In fact, my father was named Hillel Tzvee after his grandfather. They lived in Berezino, a shtetl in Minsk Province (Minska gubernia) in Belarus or “White Russia”. When Hillel died, Esther moved on, fearful that her two children might be snatched up, drafted, for twenty five years by the Russian army. She ended up in Kurenets where she changed her name to Yachnovich, a name that sounded less Jewish and more Russian, a ploy she thought would put the army off the track. Yachna, her mother’s name, was the inspiration for the change.

According to the family tree, Esther’s son, Moishe Zuckerman Yachnovich married Doba and they raised eleven children which included five sons, four of whom will immigrate to America to avoid the Russian draft and to search for a better life. Those four Yachnovich sons, Louis, Joseph, Harry, and Sam will become Jacksons. So, how did that come about?

That’s easy to explain about Joseph and Sam---they simply took the name Jackson that Louis and Harry who preceded them had already changed to. But the changes by Louis and Harry become the stuff of romance and family myths.

Let’s start with Louis. Dad says Louis’s name was changed to Jackson by an immigration officer at Ellis Island who told Louis that Yachnovich was too hard to pronounce or didn’t sound American. That action was legal at that time and there are enough stories by immigrants to believe that that actually happened. However, another family member checked the immigration records and found 1) no evidence of a name change at Ellis Island and 2) after Louis had been in America for a short time, he applied for a name change at an immigration office somewhere in the Pittsburgh area. So much for Dad’s version.

Now Dad explains his name change. He told me and Evy that at the Philadelphia port, the immigration officer told him that Hillel Yachnovich was not American enough. Dad explained that his brother was Louis Jackson. “Well” the officer said, “then your name is Harry Jackson.” But in his oral history Dad says that the social group he joined to help him with becoming an American decided they didn’t like his name and changed it for him. They didn’t consult him, and at first, he resented it. With time he got over the loss of Hillel Tzvee Yachvovich with its connections to his grandfather and the great sage and scholar and became Harry Jackson.

Thus, by the way of history, romance, and family myths the changes from Zuckerman to Jackson entered the family tree.

Medicine and Compassion

I first met Nate in 1944 in Papua New Guinea where I was a GMO(general medical officer with the 102nd Station Hospital. I was never very busy, so, when Nate, the flight surgeon from the nearby air base, invited me to go with him to check for medical problems at the native village, I was ready to go. Nate (Capt. Nathan Shlimovitz, later shortened to Shlim) took penicillin from the base dispensary to give to native children infected with yaws and to men with venereal disease. He had been there before; the natives were glad to see him and readily lined up for their penicillin. He was patient and never displayed any anger; he was always in a good humor. I enjoyed being with him.



When the war moved north, the 102nd closed down and we were absorbed into the 35th General Hospital at Lae. There I became a dermatologist; there was no challenge, so I volunteered for the Alamo Scouts. Now I found myself at the southern tip of Leyte in the Philippines as the medical officer for a unit devoted to gathering intelligence for the 6th Army. There was little to do; the officers and support personnel were in exceptionally good mental and physical shape.

After three months with the Scouts, I was transferred to the 58th Evac Hospital on another Philippine island, Cebu. The commanding officer sent me to the operating area to put the injured to sleep for surgeons to work on. It was all new to me and I enjoyed it immensely. I was never bored.

The next stop was Luzon where I ate, slept, read, and played volleyball; ten days after the armistice we landed by navy cruiser at Yokohama to set up our hospital. Now it was boring again; it helped that I explored bombed out, burned out Tokyo and went part way up Mt. Fuji. The truly exciting event was getting orders to go home. Yvette and 18 month old Fuzz met me at the railroad station in New Orleans on the morning of November 25th, 1945.

 

Back in the States, I began my postgraduate training with a residency in tuberculosis at Cleveland City Hospital in April 1946. I hoped that if my performance were good I would get a recommendation from the chief of the service that would improve my chances of getting a residency in internal medicine at the same hospital. I kept up my interest in internal medicine by attending rounds and lectures on internal medicine. One evening I went to a lecture at the Lakeside Hospital by Harry Goldblatt, a world-famous researcher on hypertension. I was a bit late and had to stand at the top row of the amphitheatre.

When the lecture was over and the crowd began to clear, I was surprised to see Nate across the hall. I went over to greet him and find what he was doing at the lecture. He was glad to see me, but all was not well. He was a resident in surgery and he and his wife, Sylvia, and infant, Harriet, had been renting a house near the hospital. Without warning, the owners had returned and demanded they leave. Nate had been struggling to find another place to live. If he failed, Sylvia and the baby would have to return to Chicago; he would be alone in Cleveland. I told him I would see what I could do. I was not optimistic because Yvette and I had experienced the same scenario—we had rented a home in the middle class section of Cleveland, and when the owners decided to cut their vacation short and wanted the house back, we had had to scramble to find a another place to live; luckily a slum apartment near the hospital opened up—we were glad to get it.

When I returned home after the lecture, I told Yvette of meeting Nate and hearing his awful story. Yvette’s solution was simple: they should move into our apartment with us. They stayed with us for six weeks until they found a place for themselves. Our apartment was small, two bedrooms, a kitchen, part of which was the bathroom, no appliances except an old range with a useless oven. They moved in. When Nate and I went to our work in the morning, Yvette and Sylvia cleaned up, tended to Richard and Harriet, all the while chatting like old friends. During the six weeks that we lived together we got along famously, nary an unkind word or disagreement. It helped that Sylvia was a gourmet cook.

We kept in touch. After the Shlims settled in Portland, Oregon, and we in Houston, we traveled with them to San Francisco and northern California. We visited them when we joined a group that left from Portland to go to China in 1977. And they surprised Yvette by showing up at her 70th birthday party in 1987. Being with them was fun though it was marred by Sylvia’s endless complaining that Nate insisted on buying apartment buildings and turned them over to her to manage. Nate pooh-poohed her complaints and continued to invest in apartment buildings.



Naturally, we asked about their children: Harriet was the infant who had lived with us for six weeks in Cleveland. They never talked about her. The second child was David, a physician. When we asked about him, both Nate and Sylvia mumbled something about a clinic in Katmandu, Nepal. That happened several times; the message was clear that they were not interested in talking about him. It was hard for Yvette and me to believe that the parents of a doctor would not want to talk about him, to boast about him.The youngest child was Larry who had hopes of breaking into the world of professional photography.

In 2009 Rob saw a note in the Smithsonian magazine announcing that David Shlim, M.D. had published a book. That night I phoned David, “David, this is Dr. Dan Jackson.”

There was a pause; then David began to chatter at a great rate. He remembered who I was. He had heard his parents talk about their experience in Cleveland in our apartment. He had given up the clinic at Katmandu and a job as an emergency room physician and had opened a solo practice near Jackson Hole, Wyoming. When I asked about his book, he explained: on one of his trips to Katmandu, a Buddhist priest had approached him and commented on the stress he saw in his face. He convinced David that he could help him. They began a series of conversations that lasted three years during which David learned about the need for compassion in his life. Over time he changed and was now much happier.

He had written a book about his experience, Medicine and Compassion: it was for doctors and their patients. He sent me a copy and a snapshot of the priest who had changed his life. He had inscribed on the title page: “To Dr. Jackson, who showed compassion to my parents in their time of great need.” That was a lovely gesture by David to me and, of course, to Yvette. I was pleased that he had done so much for himself, had turned his life around. My curiosity was tweaked: what had happened to David that had created so much stress in his life? I had the feeling that his stress was a reflection of his anger, anger that he carried within himself and chose to ignore rather than face. There were hints of that in his book but until he had met the Buddhist priest, he had avoided facing the truth.

If I had been able to talk with his siblings, Harriet and Larry, I might have been able to learn something about David as he was growing up. I remembered that Harriet, the infant who had stayed with us in Cleveland, had appeared in Houston out of the blue to visit us. She was having trouble in her marriage. Oddly, Harriet gave no explanation why she had not talked with Sylvia or Nate about her troubles. The youngest of the three children, Larry, had been with us on the trip to China. He kept to himself and as far as we could see, he made no friends; he stuck to taking pictures. When we visited the Shlims in their home, Larry appeared only at meals. Was this the picture of a dysfunctional family?

It would have helped if I had sat Nate and Sylvia down, figuratively shaken them, and demanded, “I want to know about David, tell me about him.” Out of those conversations I might have gleaned enough information to make an informed guess why David had become so angry, so alienated from his parents. Of course, none of that was available to me.

My pop psychology led me to believe that the relationship of David to his parents held the answer to my question about his stress. Of the two I would choose Nate as the one to focus on—he was the more forceful, the more demanding of the two. Sylvia had already told us how he ignored her when she grumbled about his buying the apartment buildings and Nate, a surgeon, was a member of a culture that marked him as one to be obeyed and not questioned.

How did Nate impact David’s life? Did Nate make it known, openly or subtly, that he expected David to be a doctor? Was he disappointed and angry that David refused to go into further training to become a surgeon like himself? Did David feel Nate’s anger and leave home to escape the conflict over his training? We know he had little contact with his parents: he spent six months out of the year on the other side of the world to work pro bono in the clinic in Katmandu, Nepal; when he ran out of money, he came home to Portland to work as an emergency room doctor to replenish his funds to be able to return to Nepal and again work in the clinic. Being at odds with his father and in too much inner turmoil to settle into a stable medical practice, he could see that his life was going nowhere. How could he get out of this pit of despair, not necessarily to please his father, but even please himself? He hated himself; he had disappointed everybody, especially himself.

We cannot be certain that we know why David had became so angry and stressed, but we do know that anger that is not dealt with leads to stress. It was fortunate that the Buddhist priest took it upon himself to point out that he could see on David’s face the reflection of the stress. David then embarked on conversations with him over the period of three years to learn about himself. He now feels better, is happy, likes himself, has learned that if he understands his anger, then he can understand others and be compassionate toward people around him. As a result of what he learned about himself, he spends only a small amount of his time as a physician. He travels, lectures, and talks to doctors and their families about what he has learned about being compassionate, about what it has done for him, and what it can do for them.

David’s learning to be compassionate struck a familiar note with me. When I was in training I began to form an image of how I would conduct myself in the presence of patients. My first contact with a patient would be in my consultation room; there would be a desk between us. I would address patients as Mister and Misses. I probably wouldn’t smile much; it might not be too wise to be too friendly. I would hide my emotions. I wouldn’t let anything upset me; at least I wouldn’t let on if I were upset. It would be important not to let the patient get too close to me: I would not be the patient’s friend, I would be his doctor; I must avoid being both. If a patient invited me to lunch, I’d find an excuse not to accept; that might put him too close with me which would influence my feelings about him.

If a patient were angry, I wouldn’t question his behavior, if he wanted to tell me what was upsetting him, I would wait for him to explain. I wouldn’t try to get any information from him; he’d have to speak without any direction from me. If a patient were to cry, I would provide a tissue; it never occurred to me to say I was sorry that he or she was so unhappy. I would avoid smiling. I would stick to the matter at hand, no small talk. I wanted to be a good, competent physician but not be friends with my patients. I had no idea that patients needed my humanity more than my examination and a prescription.

As time passed I sensed I needed to change. With help I learned that my patients wanted to talk and if I were quiet and were willing to let them talk, that would get me a lot of information. It would let patients know that I would listen to them and not ignore their feelings. I learned how it made a difference for me to see new patients in my examining room instead of my office. There would be no desk between us; they would sit on the examining table and I would sit on a stool and listen. I wanted to listen, to hear, to be a friendly ear as well as a professional one. I learned to care for my patients, I could call them by their first names, it would not hurt me to be close, and that really caring, being compassionate, would be good for both of us.

I don’t think I would be a happy physician in today’s practice; the patient is not allotted much time and my style of sitting and listening takes up a lot of time. If he takes up too much time, other patients will suffer or if they demand more time, I would have to extend my hours long after the usual 5:00 pm deadline. Most of all I would feel uncomfortable, knowing that I was shortchanging the patient, that I wasn’t giving him the time he needed to tell me all that was on his mind. I probably would retire completely from practice or find a desk job which I would hate. I’m lucky I retired before the changes in medical care occurred that would have forced me to make that decision. Now, instead of fighting a system of medical care that emphasizes speed and money, I read, I write, and I watch the squirrels and birds outside my study window. My medical life and my personal life have turned out well; I’m tickled pink.

 

Event on Madison Avenue

We have lithographs by Toulouse-Lautrec, Ronald Searle, and Auguste Renoir. There is a story about how we acquired them.

In November 1968 we returned from a trip to Europe and still had unused traveler's checks, a situation requiring immediate action. We decided on a stroll down Madison Avenue to find art work that might not exceed the value of the checks. (Hah!) We hadn't gone very far when I saw a drawing of a little girl in a shop window; it was love at first sight; I just had to have her. Mom agreed.

Then we noticed the name of the shop: Far Gallery. It was owned by Murray Roth and Herman Wechsler, friends of Paul Levenson, (married to Mom’s sister Anne) when he worked at Macy’s in New York, who had told us to look them up. We introduced ourselves, and the fun began: 1. The little “girl” was Claude Renoir, grandson of the famous artist; 2. The “drawing” was a lithograph by Claude's grandpa; 3. Our new friends brought out the Toulouse-Lautrecs; I almost exploded with excitement, travelers checks out of mind; 4. Mom saw the Searle lithograph (it is in her bedroom) and giggled with joy; 5. One of the owners then gave us a book, a veritable encyclopedia explaining the various ways in which prints are made. He autographed it; 6. We bought the Searle, the Renoir and two Toulouse-Lautrecs, arranged to have them framed and shipped with the book.

In the spring of 1969 the gallery tempted us with several lithographs; we opted for two more Toulouse-Lautrecs.

We have never tired of our selections; we think the frames and artwork are exquisite. They are a great joy; when Mom was more mobile, she would go through the living room during the day just to enjoy our gifts to ourselves. With a photographer’s eye, I marvel at the simplicity of lines and the unusual use of light by the artistes. The lithographs have not increased one whit in value since we bought them; no matter, we love them more and more as time passes.

The Wedding of Amelia and Gabe

I read this story at the wedding reception of Amelia Kahaney and Gabriel Sanders, Dec 27, 2005.

Dramatis personae

• Moishe and Doba—great-great-grandparents of Amelia Moishe and Doba—great-great-grandparents of Amelia
• Hillel Zuckerman/Yachnovich, Harry Jackson/Peepa—great-grandfather of Amelia
• Evelyn—grandmother of Amelia
• Phyllis—mother of Amelia

And it came to pass, Moishe came to the River Berezina. It was quiet and wide. And the birch trees fluttered and it was good. And Moishe said, “Here I shall build a mill and find a mate and we shall raise our family and it will be good.” And Moishe saw Doba and she was comely and Moishe took her as his wife. And they were fruitful. And they begat a bunch of kids from Fruma to Mashka. And they grew and they prospered. And it was good.

And it came to pass that the third son Hillel was alone one evening and a Cossack appeared. And they wrestled and Hillel was strong and defeated him. And the Cossack said, “What is your name?” and Hillel responded, “Hillel Zuckerman.” And the Cossack said, “From henceforth you will be known as Hillel Yachnovich.” And it was good.

And the Yachnovich sons left their home in Karanetz and went to America except Israel who stayed with Moishe and Doba. And the immigration officer said to the third son, “What is your name?” And he replied, “Hillel Yachnovich.” And the officer said, “That is not American enough. Henceforth, your name will be Harry Jackson.” And Hillel, named Harry, later called Peepa, did not like his new name but he bore his pain with dignity.

And every day of his life Harry, called Peepa, read the Forward or the Forvetz, a Yiddish newspaper published in the big city. And Harry, called Peepa, met Rose and she was comely and they wed. And it was good, and they begat Daniel and it was good. And they begat Evelyn, a lovely, sweet child and Harry, called Peepa, was happy. And every day Harry, called Peepa read the Forward or the Forvetz.

And Evelyn grew and she was comely and she met Moss and they wed, and they begat Phyllis and Debra and Mark and David. And they prospered. And Phyllis met Alan, and he was smitten by her beauty. And they wed and begat Amelia Batsheva. And Amelia was a comely child. And she looked at the world. And she wanted to try it all. And she tried tap dance and ballet and Israeli dance and modern dance. But it was not enough. And she tried the violin and the saxophone. But it was not right. And she was a Brownie and a camper and a skier but it was not good. And she tried acting and basketball and biking and teaching and writing but it meant nothing. And Amelia Batsheva said onto Phyllis, “Mother, I am growing and learning but it is empty. What am I missing?” And Phyllis said onto Amelia, “Hush, you must be patient.” And the time passed.

And Amelia became restless. And she said to Alan, “Father, is it time?” And Alan just smiled. And more time passed and Phyllis said onto Amelia, “Now is the time. You must go toward the rising sun to the metropolis called the Large Banana. There is your destiny.” And Amelia Batsheva said to Evy, “Grandma, I am going to the big city called the Large Banana to find happiness. Tell me, Grandma, how will I know how to find it?” And Evy whispered in her ear, “Ask thyself, W.W.P.D. What would Peepa do? Remember - he read the Forward or the Forvetz every day and there is your answer.”

And Phyllis prepared 37 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And she packed them for Amelia Batsheva and blessed her for her trip to the metropolis called the Large Banana. And Amelia Batsheva searched the city called the Large Banana for true happiness. She followed a large cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. And she studied her books and searched. And she did her work and kept her eyes opened. And she played and she kept watch. And she was vigilant.

And she became discouraged. And she called Evy. “Grandma, what can I do? I have looked everywhere in the Large Banana. I cannot find my future.” And Evy said, “W.W.P.D. What Would Peepa DO: every day he read the Forward or the Forvetz published in the Large Banana.”

And Amelia took heart. And she looked in her backpack. And all the peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches were gone. And she looked up and a comely young man was before her. And he said, “I am Gabriel, your angel” and he gave her a newspaper. And it was the Forward, which was once called the Forvetz, which Peepa read every day. And Amelia smiled. “My Grandma said that Peepa knew that you will be my destiny.” And it was good.

L'CHAIM!



I read the above at the wedding reception of Amelia Kahaney and Gabriel Sanders. Gabe was on the staff of the Forward (also known as the Forvetz). Following is a note I received from them upon their return from their honeymoon:

Dear Aunt Yvette and Uncle Dan—many, many thanks for your generous wedding gift. It is safely deposited in our “house fund” and as soon as soon as the housing bubble bursts we’ll be on the road to becoming house owners.

Dan, thanks to you especially for your generosity of spirit and the incredible speech you delivered for us on our wedding day. We have listened to it many times since and look forward to playing it for our children and our children’s children, It meant so much to have you at our wedding and we feel so lucky to have such an incredible family not just for big events like that but all the time. We’ll try to make a trip down to Houston soon so we can express our thanks in person. For now we hope you enjoy the photos of the big day! Yvette, we were so sorry you were not able to join us at the wedding but perhaps soon we can come with the video and it will be like doing it all over again. Thank you both for everything, always.

Much love, Amelia and Gabe

Kvell time!

Bryan sent this email to Grandpa Dan:

Heya guys,
Just thought I'd drop you a line and let you know that Rick Tran who runs the Monologue Blog (http://soliloblog.com/) featured me this month talking about monologues.

This site is an amazing resource for actors.

I'm right on the main page, can't miss me!

It's a pretty cool interview, drop by if you have time.

Bryan Mordechai Jackson

Choice of Professions

When I finished high school, Dad asked me about my plans.

I said, “I want to be a veterinarian.”

He said, “Why not be a real doctor?”

I said, “OK.” I went to college and medical school.

After my internship, I volunteered for the Army medical corps. I served in the South Pacific as a general medical officer with the 102nd Station Hospital, as a dermatologist with the 35th General hospital, and as an anesthetist with the 58th Evac Hospital. When I returned home, I knew I wanted more medical training. The experience as an anesthetist had been so interesting that I applied for a residency in anesthesiology at Charity Hospital in New Orleans, whose chief, John Adriani, mentored the best residency program in the States. It was his books on the chemistry and physiology of anesthesia that I referred to while learning on-the-job as an anesthetist in surgery at the 58th Evac.

I liked Dr. Adriani immediately. We met in the doctors’ dressing room of the surgical suite; he was in scrubs and we sat on benches and chatted. He was in no hurry to end my interview and proceeded to tell me why he had given up his surgical training to become an anesthesiologist: after he had finished his residency in general surgery, he didn’t feel capable of doing more than appendectomies and repairs of hernias. He knew he was better than that which led him to learn about anesthetics and become the medical profession’s leader in that specialty. I left him, excited and ready to learn from him.

When Dad asked me what I was going to do now that I was home from the army, I said I was going to be an anesthesiologist. He said, “You ought to be a heart doctor and take care of people.” I said I would. I canceled the residency in anesthesiology, took residencies in chest and internal medicine, and eventually became an internist.

Now, some fifteen years after I’ve retired from the practice of medicine, I’ve been thinking: What would my life have been as a veterinarian? What would my life have been if I had become an anesthesiologist?

Those are interesting questions. That I still remember the episode after 65 years emphasizes the impact of Dad’s influence on my life. It also points out my failure to have a strong feeling about my right to make my own decisions. I was able to accept the change in my goal; I became an internist with a strong interest in diseases of the lung. I cared for my patients and took good care of them. I was a good role model for my sons; all three became healers, (two physicians and a psychotherapist) and excellent ones, too. I made a “good” living for our family.

How would Dad have reacted if I ignored his wish that I become a “heart doctor” and train to be a vet or an anesthesiologist? He would have been disappointed, I know, but he would have accepted my decision and remained interested and supportive. This recalls my decision to join a reform congregation rather than a conservative or orthodox one that I knew Dad expected when we moved to Houston. To better understand my choice, Dad spoke with Robert Kahn, our rabbi at Temple Emanu El, at a Friday evening service. I don’t know what was said during their brief chat, but whatever it was, it lifted the load from Dad’s heart about my choice. The matter never came up again. Similarly, if I had chosen veterinarian medicine or anesthesiology, I believe Dad would have had a talk with my mentor to gain some insight into my work and, so, would have been more at ease about my future and even actively supported me.

As a vet or as a “passer of gas” as anesthesiologists are accused of being, would I have seen myself as having diminished stature in the medical or professional community? Would I feel I were a slacker, one having less ambition if I were to choose a profession that required less training, less expense, less study, less training than a “heart doctor?” That would be a side issue that I know I would have to confront; it would part of my agenda to be the best of my choice, to explore all new ideas, all frontiers so that I would stand out in my own mind. No matter my choice, I knew Yvette would support me and defend me and make my professional and home life the best for both of us.

If I had chosen to be a vet or an anesthetist, what kind of doctor would I have been? I am drawn to animals and I’m certain I would have loved taking care of them. Loving my patients and wanting them to be well would have been a combination of attitudes that would have made me happy in my work. As to being an anesthetist, I remember, to this day, how much I wanted to be mentored by Adriani. He was thoroughly at ease, had no airs about him, like a good father, a father figure who would never be a tyrant, who would want his house staff to be the best because they respected him, wanted to learn, and wanted to please him. So, I knew that either choice of medicine I had in mind to pursue was really going to be right for me.

I did become an internist though not the cardiologist that Dad aspired for me. With time my practice evolved into seeking out my patients’ inner needs as well as their physical needs. My combination of interest in both physical and emotional matters was deeply satisfying for me; I was successful in learning to take care of the “whole” patient, the goal of a true physician.

Evy's Birthday Story

This story was read at Evy’s 80th birthday party in San Diego.

All of you are familiar with the story of Evy’s coming to California after Jackson’s Shoe Stores went bankrupt in the recession of the 60s. She got a job as a saleslady in a shoe store in Downy and soon after became the top seller among all the clerks. She expected to be made manager but the position went to the boss’s son. That was unfair and a signal that her efforts were not appreciated. She gave 2 weeks notice and turned her interest and skill to playing bridge. Now she was going to have fun.

She played, studied, and dreamed bridge. With her facility with numbers and her competitive spirit she became a top-grade player. She soon became a Life Master and was in demand as a partner at her bridge club. A top male player confided to her that she was the best woman player in southern California. Bridge became her life.

She visited us in Houston and played with us at Fuzz and Sandy’s house and at our bridge club. We caught fire and her enthusiasm to teach us was matched by our wish to learn.

Yes, that is all very interesting, but remember we are celebrating her birthday so now I want to talk about the actual event of her birth on May 20, 1922. To do that I have looked up Dad’s description in his oral history. I am going to read from it:

Saturday, May 20. I opened the store (a general store in Rosston, Pennsylvania) about 7 in the morning. I hung up my post office sack near the railroad to wait for the next Buffalo Flyer to catch it and in exchange, to throw one out for us.

Ann Duff that worked for us at that time suddenly called me to the telephone. I ran up the steps into the store and I answered the call. ‘Mazel Tov, Mazel Tov!’ and I hear my father-in-law’s voice, ‘A beautiful little girl, a dear little baby!’ I stood there listening to his words and I am so excited that I can’t answer and I am thinking, a little girl? Is it possible? Is it really true? Maybe because they knew that all the time we talked and planned and dreamed about the little girl, right off the bat they are telling me there is a little girl.

I am so happy! I am holding back tears of joy and I did not wait to show how happy I feel inside of me but I grabbed the Buick that we had and I am driving to see my vibel. I really do not want to say that I am ‘flying’ but this is the way I was driving to Pittsburgh that Saturday morning. I was drunk from happiness and in this drunken state God knows I will run over somebody! My father-in-law and my mother-in-law meet me at their door and they are kissing me and wishing me Mazel Tov, Mazel Tov! Wow! Is this a little girl, what a baby doll! I grabbed a bouquet of flowers and I am running to the hospital and I find my Raisel in bed, all dolled up and full of happiness and my Vibel says to me, ‘See my dear, we have a little girl, just like we wanted. A beautiful little baby and we are going to call her Eta Hudel, Evelyn Harriet.’ Even the name she planned out, but I am so happy that I do not care that she plans this whole thing out herself and it really does not bother me.

I waited there a little while and a nurse came and said, ‘Mr. Jackson, the doctor would like to see you.’ My heart begins to pound. I haven’t had a chance to see my baby and why does the doctor want to see me? I say to the nurse, ‘Is anything wrong?’ She does not say anything. My mouth is dry. I am feeling faint. Then I see that she takes me to the doctor and he is holding my baby. He is smiling and I feel relieved and I am sure that everything will be for the best.

He puts my Eta Hudel on a little table and I see my sweet baby. He says, ‘Mr. Jackson, I need your help with a little problem. It is nothing to worry about. I want you to hold your baby’s arm while I try to open her hand.’ I am loving to hold my baby’s arm but I do not understand. Then the doctor says, ‘I want to open her hand. It is closed tightly and I must open it.’ I watch him. Very gently he takes one tiny finger and opens it and then another finger and then another finger. The hand is open and there in that little hand, in my baby’s angel hand is---is the tiniest deck of cards I have ever seen!

Danisms

When our sons were in training or in practice, I often met with them over coffee to give them my thoughts on patients and my philosophy about taking care of them. Here is what they called "Danisms:"

1. The doctor is the medicine that gets people well.
2. Ten percent of your patients take up 90% of your time.
3. Don't be in a hurry to give your patient a bad diagnosis.
4. Diseases are easy; people are difficult.
5. Listen to the patient and you will hear the diagnosis and often the treatment.
6. Difficult patients put your kids through college.
7. Sometimes the only satisfaction you will get from patients who aggravate you is when they pay their bills.
8. Your most important diagnostic tool is your ear.
9. When patients love you, they will forgive your mistakes.
10. The patient always knows the truth.
11. Depression is the most common disease in your practice.
12. The most valuable tool in your examining room is your chair--sit in it and listen.