With a Smile

By Faye Rothstein

This book deals with the ninety-year adventure of an ordinary life filled with strife and love. Riding the rainbow, trusting in God, and making it through. A relationship, a technique, on how to do it and come out on top. It is an easy reading for all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479742905

Faye Rothstein

A senior citizen with a stock pile of memory who has lived a very diverse and interesting life. Miss Rothstein write on many different and vary subject, taken from her own experiences. A very unique author who writes from the heart. A resident of Media Pa, Ms. Rothstein is an accomplish speaker and a prolific fund raiser for her mental health causes. She’s on the board of AJMI-TIKVAH residents, that houses eight mentally affected young men and women; her son among them. She is a count on person.

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Copyright © 2012 by FAYE ROTHSTEIN.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

This book is dedicated to my mother, Irene Shansky, who did the impossible with spirit, perseverance, and alone.

My love, respect, and recognition of what she accomplished.

CHAPTER ONE

W hat a beautiful day. The sun is as it should be on this August day. My birthday is just around the corner, another milestone—the big one. You know, every time there is a zero or a five, it becomes the big one. Well, I guess ninety is a big one. In this day and age, with so many people so health conscious and the miracle drugs, we oldsters live a little longer than our predecessors. Well, let’s get back to the sun. The sun is my coping mechanism. The sun helps me think and plan and work out the problem of living. If the sun is out, I can manage anything.

At this point in time, a slow walk in the park and resting at my favorite bench, basking in the sun, is the joy of my life. I have had many joys and honors, many acquaintances, and many adventures, as I call the trials and tribulations of living. But none so satisfying as the moment I reach my destination.

Hey, look, someone is sitting on my pride and joy, as I call the seat of least resistance—my seat in the park. My, she seems distraught. May I sit down? I ask. May I join you?

She looks at me with a scowl that could kill. I inform her that she was in fact sitting on my bench, that I had occupied this bench for the last forty or fifty years, that this bench is special, and that I had solved all my especially bad problems on this bench.

She looks up at me and says, I want to be alone. No one owns any bench in the park. Get another one and leave me alone.

I say, Guess you’re right, sweetheart. It’s just that I’m sort of attached to this one. When my son was missing and I had no one to talk to, I would leave work with my packed bag lunch, bring my picture albums, and sit here and think about the days my baby boy and I were so happy.

What part of ‘leave me alone’ don’t you understand, you old crow.

"Yup, an old crow I am. But understand, that’s the key word. Why, I understand, sweetheart. I understand everything. I understand how you are feeling now. I know you have problems that seem insurmountable at the moment. I understand young love. I understand disappointments. I was young once and went through the gamut of emotions. I felt rejection and suffered snide remarks. I saw dishonesty and gallantry. I have suffered financial losses, loss of family members and friends over and over through the years. Here, dear girl, have a bit of lunch and let me tell you how I lived my life. Let me help you see the light and maybe put a smile on your face. That beautiful, young face.

"In the year 1929, the year of the big depression, the year the economy failed, I was born to a single mother, or widowed woman as she was called in those days. My mother was three months pregnant with me, when my father passed away. She was left with her four babies—my three older brothers and me. We were raised in a seashore area, next to the bay and the ocean in Brooklyn, New York.

"My earliest recollections are of Ocean Avenue, the main thoroughfare where the trolley ran and the stores were all along the street. Maybe I was three or four years old. We lived in the alley at the back of the stores as did others. The alley was our playground. Our house consisted of two rooms. I remember the big iron beds we slept in—me with Mama and the boys in the other beds. There was a sink, an icebox, and a stove in the other room. I remember Mama scrubbing the wooden floor until it shone like silver. We played outside in the alley with the cats. Thus came the name alley cats. They were after the garbage the vegetable store left outside our door for the trashmen to pick up. I remember the drugstore and the wife of the druggist. She was so nice to me. I was sick one day, and Mama left me with her so she could go to work. I was taken upstairs to their apartment—their beautiful apartment with rugs and nice furniture. I was put on a sofa and immediately began throwing up. She said to me, ‘Oh, you poor baby. You are really sick.’ And gave me some medicine. She wiped my brow and sat with me for a while. She was so kind.

"I remember when the welfare lady came to our house and looked around. She opened the icebox and saw grade-A milk. She reprimanded Mama and told her poor people do not use grade-A milk. She was very fat and loud. She kept hollering and saying, ‘You must drink powdered milk and processed cheese.’ She screamed at Mama that she was to go to the police station and obtain what she needed. I could see my beautiful mama filling with rage herself. I was in the other room, so frightened by the shouting. Mama took the lady by the arm and said, ‘You get out of my house. No one is going to tell me what to feed my children. Get out and don’t come back.’ This little lady had a temper too. Then she came into the room and said, ‘Don’t be afraid, child, she will not come back here again.’ Mama could not write or read everything. She was always sounding words out. She was smart and could add figures in her head, columns and columns of figures. She would mumble in her native tongue until she had the right answer. My mama was smart. She could speak several languages. I also remember the bill collectors coming to the door. My mother always pushed me to answer and say, ‘Mama is not home.’ This left a lasting impression on me. To this day, I will never have a bill I can’t pay immediately.

"I remember when one of the shoemaker’s sons was killed by the trolley. The funeral procession was walking in the street with the casket and people following it on foot. I was so frightened. I ran in the house, shaking violently. My brothers called me a sissy and ran to follow the procession. I do not have any recollection of moving. My next thoughts come from a wonderful apartment on Twenty-Fourth Street. This is where one started school. I was five years old and in kindergarten. I remember wetting my pants. I recall the teacher pulling me to the radiator to stand there and dry, as she said. I can still hear the children laughing and saying, ‘Phew, it stinks.’ Don’t feel bad for me, sweet thing. Tell me what’s troubling you. Not yet? Okay. How much does that mean to me today? Nothing to cry over, just laugh. This incident may have influenced my personality—to be kind to others, not to be hurtful in word or deed. I also remember the nice lady who came to pick up her daughter and who took me by the hand to walk me home. I knew this lady, as my mother cleaned her house and I played with her daughter. Sometimes, they would invite me in to listen to the radio to hear the programs. I remember lying on the carpeted floor and looking at the large piece of furniture with the sound coming out of it. It was grand. This lady was very kind and said, ‘Your mama will be home soon to clean you up.’ I couldn’t wait to get those wet lyle stockings, which we wore in those days, off. My key was around my neck. Yes, at five years of age, I was a latchkey kid.

"Don’t feel sorry for me, as my brothers would soon be home from school themselves. I would soon forget the incident at school. When I told them what happened, they all started laughing and laughing and insisted that I laugh too. They said they didn’t blame the teacher for being mad, as she had to clean up the floor. We all roared with laughter. These brothers were from four years to eleven years older than me. They were my mentors and my friends. They were smart, talented, and extroverted. I learned from them. Their hobbies became my hobbies. I followed them relentlessly. I was introduced to music by