The Crack of Dawn

Volume #186

12/12/22

Newsletter #186

The Crack of Dawn

About 20 years ago when iPods were new, my buddy John and I each got one.  We then fed each other songs that we wanted, but didn’t have.  All of the Girl Group songs I have are from John, like Chains by the Cookies, or Easier Said Than Done by The Essex.  So, one day I’m over at John’s and I put forth the idea that the Apple engineers installed strange algorithms in the iPod to get it to play certain kinds of songs more often than others.  John asked, “Like what, for example?”  I said, “Well, it plays The Beatles more often than anyone else.”  John thought for a moment, then asked, “Which band do you have the most songs of?”  Unhesitantly, I said, “The Beatles.”  John raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Between the ages of 2-9 I lived in a suburb called Huntington Woods, which was sort of lower middle-class [but has since been gentrified and has become upper class].  It was twelve little houses per block, with maybe 25-feet between them.  Our next door neighbors were the Kratons.  Chuck Kraton was a year older than me, a self-proclaimed “greaser,” and a juvenile delinquent.  He taught me much of what I know.  Mrs. Kraton was a sweet lady who always called me Jossie.  Dr. Kraton was a grumpy son of a bitch.  The guy would come home from work so pissed off that he’d go inside, remove his sportcoat, then come out into his backyard with a .38 Special.  He would then shoot the crows off the telephone lines, while mumbling snippets of the Bible that included references to “jackals,” which are black birds or crows.  A .38 bullet basically causes crows to explode.  He would get three or four of them before the rest of the crows got the idea and flew away.  Refreshed, he’d then go in to eat his dinner.

I distinctly remember being over at the Kraton’s house on November 25, 1963.  That was the day that President John Kennedy was buried.  We all watched the black and white TV in silent reverence. I recall Walter Kronkite pointing out the backward stirrups of the horse in the cortege.  I remember John Jr., who was two years younger than me, saluting.

Anytime Walter Kronkite’s name was mentioned in front of my Hungarian Grandma Olga she would burst out laughing.  Apparently, Kronkite in Hungarian means pain.

My sister and I would beg Grandma Olga to say the Hungarian name for a wooden spoon.  Every time she seemed surprised and confused as to why on earth we’d want to hear that.  Then she’d say, “Fuckenal,” and my sister and I would die laughing.

In Yiddish a Kuchlechel is a spoon that stirs up trouble. My father’s second wife was a first-class kuchlechel.

Grandma Olga, the beloved matriarch of our family, who lived to be 96 years old, was a very downbeat lady.  Late in her life, as I drove her to the doctor, she blurted out in her thick Hungarian accent, “I’ve had good times, I’ve had bad times, but mainly bad times.”  I asked, “How about right now?  Is this a good time or a bad time?”  Her answer for all things stupid was a wave of the hand accompanied by a disgusted, “Feh.”

May you all have a lovely day.