From Brooklyn to Burbank

By Shelly Cohen

From Brooklyn to Burbank is the story of a man born during the great depression of the 1930s. His thirst for knowledge and his tenacity took him from his birthplace to the pinnacles of success in television production in Hollywood.
Although his main focus was music, he found that he could do many other creative works as well. Hes written several books and many short stories. Also, hes become a much sought after lecturer/
His latest book From Brooklyn to Burbank, is an autobiography which will allow the reader to share in many of the authors personal experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543419085

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Sheldon Cohen.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017906538

ISBN:      Hardcover           978-1-5434-1906-1

                Softcover            978-1-5434-1907-8

                eBook                 978-1-5434-1908-5

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/03/2017

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Contents

Introduction

Hit by a Car

My Passion (Baseball)

Street Life

Sex Education 101

My Dad

My Mom

My Brother, Lawrence

My Sister Eleanor

Jobs

Food

The Clarinet

The Violin

Leona Levy and Her Fourteenth Birthday

Happy Times

Love Is in the Air

And Then Came Leona

Disappointment and Promise

Student to Professional

On the Brink

Singing Praises

The Golden Years (Part 1)

The Golden Years (Part 2)

Years of Love and Friendship

Death and Rebirth

More to Come

Introduction

I was slightly hesitant when my cousin Arlene Doris suggested I write my autobiography. My reason was simple: Who was Shelly Cohen, and did anyone really have an interest in his story?

Of course, there’s no way of knowing the answer to those questions, so I took another tack—that is, to write my story and trust that someone out there will find it interesting and perhaps propel himself or herself to think of his or her own place in history. Also, as I had learned from my writing instructor: Keep on writing and don’t be afraid of writing about personal events in your life. Consider every writing experience a learning experience.

So here I am, writing about Shelly Cohen, an American. It is my hope that you, the reader, will enjoy the journey into my history.

I was born on November 8, 1933, in New York City, in the borough of Brooklyn, in an area called Williamsburg. This section of New York is located at the eastern end of the Williamsburg Bridge. On the western side of the bridge is what has been called by historians the Lower Eastside of Manhattan. It was an area where many immigrants got their start in America. Each group had its own street location, and when things improved for them economically, they moved to the Bronx, or Upper Manhattan. Many others settled a short distance away across the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn.

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Hit by a Car

My earliest recollection of events took place when I was six years old. We were living on the third floor of my maternal grandmother’s house on Rutledge Street.

As I recall, I was playing in front of my house with an older boy from a nearby street. We were playing a game with cards from bubble gum packages. My collection was stored in a wooden box, which I carried with me all the time. The idea of the game was for one person to flip his card onto the pavement, and then the other person would flip his card. If it was a match (heads or tails), then that person would win the other person’s card. I guess it was similar to a game the older children would play with matching pennies.

At some point in my game, though, my opponent grabbed my card box and ran away with it across Marcy Avenue. I foolishly ran after him and, having reached the other side of the street, remembered what my mother had told me about crossing the street: I was never to cross alone but always with an adult. So being a naïve six-year-old, I ran back across Marcy Avenue and was immediately struck by a car. I have no remembrance of anything following the accident except when I regained consciousness in the emergency room at St. Catherine’s Hospital. I was lying on an examination table while a nun was busy sewing up my torn ear.

It was many years later when I learned the full story of my accident. While lying in the street that day, my brother, Lawrence, came running from our apartment to help me. He was accompanied by my mother, who, right before the accident, was bringing me a glass of milk. On hearing the screech of tires, she dropped the milk and came to my aid. Eventually, I was put in the back of the car that hit me and was transported to St. Catherine’s Hospital. Our personal physician was not able to take part in treating me there, so I was transferred to Beth Moses Hospital. I do remember the ambulance ride there and the treatment I received at the new hospital. My leg was broken and was put in a cast.

But, for some reason, my leg wasn’t healing properly and had to be broken for a second time. After several weeks of recuperation and therapy, I regained the use of my left leg. It was a little shorter than my right leg, but the accident never affected my running ability or my athletic endeavors. A year after my accident, I recall going before a judge, who would rule on some insurance payment to me. He asked me to walk toward where he was seated and to then walk back to my seat. I guess he wanted to make sure I was well. We received $650 from the insurance company, which was put into a bank account in my name. Years later, I was handed the bank book and was told the full story of my broken leg.

Report Card

My Passion (Baseball)

The activities of my childhood took place during the Great Depression. It was, for most people, a very difficult time. Money was in short supply, and being frugal surely was the order of the day. As for me and my friends, we knew very little of our parents’ struggles. There was usually enough food on the table, good schools nearby, and lots of interactions