The Dolly Diaries: The Tide Comes In, the Tide Goes out the Story of My Life

By Dolly Friedman

The "Dolly Diaries" is a history of a woman's life, written for her children and grandchildren in a clear, simple style, with incidents aptly and candidly described. The book is an easy, enjoyable and exciting read. A fearless approach to life, and hard won victories are inspiring and can serve as a timeless guide to readers of all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456725556

Dolly Friedman

From The Husband's Point of View I am writing this in tribute to my wife, Dolly Friedman. For the past three years she has worked countless hours and diligently pursued the collection of facts, figures, pictures and information to compile this book about her life. She is an accomplished, organized, out-going person who is determined to succeed (and usually does) at everything she undertakes. She is the Matriarch of our family, kind of like the Mother Hen watching over her chicks. Dolly is my mentor ( and at times my tormentor) always striving to do the right thing and always striving to be considerate of others. We are married 56 years. Back in our early days there was a restaurant called H&H (Horn & Hardarts). Their Motto was "The Public Appreciates Quality"; and Dolly is Quality. From my point of view that says it all. Joe Friedman

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1 – My Name

Chapter 2 – My Dad – Albert Samovich Lieberman

Chapter 3 – My Mom – Ethel Small Lieberman

Chapter 4 – My Early Years

Chapter 5 – My Intermediate Years

Chapter 6 – Becoming An Adult

Chapter 7 – Joe

Chapter 8 – Married Life – The Early Years

Chapter 9 – Our Children – Growing Up And Learning How to Live With The Good and the Bad

Chapter 10 – Work/My 30 Year Career

Chapter 11 – Catastrophic Happenings

Chapter 12 – Happenings

Chapter 12 – Engagements and Weddings

Chapter 13 – Florida

Chapter 14 – Medical Problems and Ultimately Insurance Problems Because of Pre-Existing Conditions

Chapter 15 – Problems With My Mother-in-Law

Chapter 16 – Problems Within Our Family

Chapter 17 – Our Past and Future

Conclusion

I dedicate this book to my children Karen, David, Michael, Shirlee and Jordan and to my grandchildren, Brett, Ashley, Alec and Blake. Special appreciation to my husband Joe and daughter Karen. Without their support, these three years, I might not have completed this book. And a special Thank You to my son-in-law David, whose help with computer problems was invaluable.

Today is Labor Day, September 3, 2007. I have been thinking about this project for a long time. Why? Mainly, because, I know so little about my father’s family and only some things about my mother’s family. This is some fault of theirs and more fault of mine. I was always too busy to listen and don’t remember all the things they did tell me. I was too busy, growing up. I didn’t ask enough questions. For that, I will always be sorry.

I want my offspring to know about my life. How do I start? Do I and will I remember enough? I don’t know. Will my history be in the right chronological order – I hope so. Several years ago, driving to the doctor with my mother (Nana), the radio on, the announcer said it was May 28th. That day was my first child, Karen’s birthday. I said to my mother I can’t believe that I have a daughter who is 43 years old. At first, my mother said nothing. And then, she said – what should I say?" I started to think about all of the situations life has dealt me – good and not so good. Since then, it has been in my mind that I have a lifetime of memories – all of us do, but few of us tell about them.

This year, my friend Naomi Zaslow wrote a book called "Memories. One evening when we were together, and I had just told a story from my past, Naomi said, Dolly, you should write a book. When I laughed and said, I could never remember things in my past like you did and who would care? Naomi said, You will see that if you start writing, things will come back to you. Write it for your family, they will care. My grandson, Blake, age 11, when I asked him, in June, should I write a book about my life said, Yes, you have enough stories and it will be at least 178 pages". 178 pages – I don’t know. I doubt it. But, what I do know, is that if this book ever gets completed, it will be for my grandchildren, Brett, Ashley, Alec and Blake – a record about our background and history of our family, for them to know and hopefully show their children and grandchildren.

Chapter 1 – My Name

I was born on May 19, 1934, a Saturday evening at 7:03 p.m., at Mt. Sinai Hospital, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to Ethel and Albert Lieberman. I was born on the first night of the Jewish Holiday called Shuvuot. On Sunday or Monday, my father went with my maternal grandfather, Jacob Small, to Rabbi Twersky, the Chief Rabbi, to name me. My parents had decided in advance that if my mother gave birth to a son, he would be named Jacob, after my father’s father, who had died when my dad was six years old. His Hebrew name was Jacov. If my mother gave birth to a daughter, her name would be Jacqueline. As you know, in the Jewish religion, it is a Mitzvah (blessing) to name a newborn after someone deceased. But, my maternal grandfather’s Hebrew name was Yacov (Jacob in English). My mother had previously discussed this with her father, because you cannot name a newborn child after someone who is living. My grandfather, even though he was an Orthodox Jew and a Cantor at his synagogue, was very modern thinking and told my mother that the child would be named after someone other than him, so it was okay. When they told Rabbi Twersky what my name would be and who I would be named after, the Rabbi said NO. He could not accept that name, because my living grandfather had the same name. My dad returned to Mt. Sinai hospital, to tell my mother and pick another name. My grandfather stayed with Rabbi Twersky.

My grandfather’s mother, Chia, had died two years before, in 1932, at the great age of 96 years and did not have anyone named for her. My great grandmother had been a very religious woman, who ministered to the sick and constantly helped the poor. She was so highly respected in the Jewish community, that when she died, her funeral service was held in an Orthodox Synagogue. From then to the present time this honor is rarely given to an Orthodox woman.

Several months before my great grandmother’s death, my mother and great grandmother were talking. In conversation, my great grandmother told my mother that when she had a child, Don’t name your child after me. My mother told her, that her first child would be named after it’s paternal grandfather, who did not have a name. But, she asked her grandmother why. My great grandmother said she did not believe in changing the Hebrew name to English. Her name in Hebrew was "Chiadinia) and she would want her wishes respected and any child named for her to be called by the Hebrew name.

Well my maternal grandfather didn’t know of this conversation between his mother and his daughter, my mother. He, without conferring with either of my parents, felt it would be a great honor for me to be named after his mother, Chiadinia. He returned to the hospital and informed my parents he named me for his mother. My mother told him of the conversation between her grandmother and her and refused to call me Chiadinia. Rabbi Twersky, refused to change my name – saying that it would be a curse on me to change my name – that I would live a short life – that I would have a hard life. All superstitions. At the time, my mother had been reading a novel that had something about gardenias in the book. Not wanting to call me Chiadinia she named me Gardenia, as close as she could come to my Hebrew name.

I was born with a head full of blond ringlets. The nurses would tie ribbons in my hair and bring me into my mother saying, Here’s Dolly. And, Dolly became my name. Never in their lives, did my parents ever call me anything other than Dolly. In truth, through the years, my mother wanted to legally change my name to Dena. She said that if she had been thinking rationally at the time, she would have dropped the first part of my name and named me Dena or Dina. But, I liked being different (which I still do) and would not let her change my name. Not many people have a story like this one.

Chapter 2 – My Dad – Albert Samovich Lieberman

My Dad was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in the section called The Tenderloin District – 3rd and Vine Streets on May 12, 1904. We had always been told that my Dad had been born on June 8, 1905 and we always celebrated his birthday on June 8th. But, when the 2nd World War was declared, my Dad was called up for the draft. He did not have a birth certificate, because the Customs House had burned down and he never found his birth certificate in his mother’s papers. The new Customs House did a search and issued him a new birth certificate, saying he was born on April 26, 1904. This made him too old for the draft by one year. Years later, when I was a teenager, he received a letter from the State of Pennsylvania telling him a mistake had been made, due to a mix-up with someone else born on April 26 and he had been born on May 12, 1904. He was issued a new Birth Certificate. We had always known that my Dad’s name was Albert, but many years after I was married, I found out that he had been named Alleck at birth. He never liked his name, so when he was a teenager he changed it to Albert.

His parents were Nettie and Jacob Samovitch. His mother was born in England. Her maiden name was Sapiro. His father was born in Russia and on my Dad’s Birth Certificate, it states that my paternal grandfather was a Huckster. My dad had one brother, my uncle Abe, who I adored. Their father died at the age of 36 from pneumonia. I was told that he was shoveling snow and had a cold. His cold got worse and became pneumonia, and unfortunately there was no treatment. In those days there were no antibiotics like we have today. My grandmother remarried. I do not know how old my Dad and Uncle were when she married again, but I do know that they were young. The man she married was much older than she and quite wealthy. He was in the Liquor Distributing business and was a widower. He had been married before and had grown children, who lived in New York. I have never met them and don’t know their names. This gentleman adopted my Dad and my Uncle. Their name became Lieberman. Over the years, relatives (cousins) of my father’s from my grandfather Lieberman, visited us and we visited them. I remember three female cousins of my Dad’s, Elsie and Molly Lebow and one other sister (I cannot remember her name) had a millinery shop on Walnut Street in Philadelphia. Many a Saturday I spent in their shop learning how to make ribbons into bows and stitching them onto hats. Their hats were expensive and they had many customers – many who custom ordered what they wanted. Little did they know that a kid of 11 was helping make their beautiful hats. I used to love to try them on. I used to love to go out to lunch in Center City with one of these lovely women. They never married or had children. I felt their love and I truly loved all three of them. They were all older than my Dad. These three women left an impression on me that hard work pays off. Unfortunately, as I have said before, we lost all touch with any remaining cousins of my father’s and I was too young and immature to ask questions.

I was 11 months old when my paternal grandmother died. She was 51 years old. So unfortunately, I don’t remember her. We had been at her house, my mom, dad and me for the first night of Passover and Seder. Shortly after we left, she collapsed and my uncle rushed her to the hospital. By the time we arrived home, and my parents were notified and reached the hospital, she had died of a cerebral hemorrhage. She probably had high blood pressure, but that wasn’t something they knew about in those days. From what my parents told me, she was a lovely person, full of pep and vigor. She painted the inside of her house by herself, the week before Passover. My mother was very fond of her and always had good things to say about her. I was her only grandchild and I understand she doted on me.

Her second husband died before my parents met and her husband left her fairly wealthy. I understand she had lots of jewelry as well as money. She married again, either shortly before my parents married or shortly after their marriage. She had told my parents that if she died before there were other grandchildren, all of her jewelry was to be left to me. I understand she had a very large diamond engagement ring, given to her by my grandfather Lieberman. At the hospital, after her death, the doctor gave my parents a small diamond ring that she was wearing when admitted. After the funeral and shiva, my Dad and Uncle went to the bank to get her papers and money. They found out that everything had been removed by her present husband. In those days, husbands names were on bank accounts with their wives, whether it was their money or not. Well, the third husband disappeared – flew the coop – as the saying goes. When my father and uncle searched the house, all of her jewelry was gone as well. They hired a private detective to look for the third husband – but after two years of looking, they stopped searching. The only thing left was the diamond ring that she had on her finger when she died. I had the diamond made into a drop that I wear. That is all I have of her other than the knowledge of what a nice person she was and how much I would have liked her, if I had had the chance to know her.

I remember hearing the story many times of my Dad and his monkey. He was about 17 years old and came home one day with a monkey. His mother said get that thing out of my house. After heated discussions with his mother, my father promised to take it back to the Pet Store the next day. He also promised to keep it in his room during the night. Well, somehow the monkey opened the door of my father’s room during the night, went downstairs into the kitchen, got a glass and placed it over the drain in the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. In the morning, when my grandmother came downstairs, the monkey was swinging from the dining room chandelier and the kitchen, dining room, hall and living room were flooded with water. My father awoke to my grandmothers’ screams, grabbed his clothes and came running downstairs. What he said he saw, was water everywhere, his monkey jumping up and down on the dining room table and my grandmother coming after both my father and the monkey with a broom. My father and the monkey fled the house. When my apologetic father returned three days later it was without the monkey.

One of my Dad’s friends was Lou Tendler, restauranteur and Manager of a Boxer. When Mom and Dad met, Dad had a Boxer he managed. My father’s cousin was Battling Barney Levinsky, Light Heavyweight Champion of the World. So, he came by his interest in Boxing from both friends and relatives. My Dad did not have a college degree; in fact he did not finish High School. In those days, 1920, he left school at age 16, as many boys did when they reached that age to work. He dabbled in many kinds of business, until he found his place in life. He was a partner in a Jelly and Jam factory when he and my mother met in 1930.

My Dad will always have a special place in my heart. He was the most giving and kind person in the world. He would help anyone and everyone. But, cross