Ramblings

By Milton Pashcow

I separate the true book Sally from the short story section due to the heavy “Sally” theme; the novel Sally is a concise entry of the US into spying through a novel means never before attempted but with a novel finish in Sally’s life. – the authors keen practice of life’s many variations and challenges and his approach to his solution that should challenge the readers various methods of surviving the vicissitudes of the benefits of each portrayal of so many variations to challenges of each portrayal of so many variations to challenges to the many different results that make life a great experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781984573124

Milton Pashcow

Milton Pashcow was lucky not through previous qualifications as an accountant but by military necessity, a basic dogma. He attended Franklin Technical Institute in Boston, which took credit for his conversion to a draftsman. After a short basic training, he was shipped directly overseas to Casablanca. He was born in Brooklyn in November 1918. He attended Erasmus Hall high school, Brooklyn College, and St. Johns University with a degree in business accounting. A two-year deferment from military service in WWII was due to his employment in a critical war production factory. A hardworking father, fugitive from Czarist Russia in 1903, a successful home builder, and a strong moral teacher of his four sons. We basically followed in his footsteps.

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Copyright © 2019 by Milton Pashcow.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2018914953

ISBN:                Hardcover                            978-1-9845-7314-8

                          Softcover                              978-1-9845-7313-1

                          eBook                                   978-1-9845-7312-4

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.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/25/2019

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Preface

My rambling into short stories began one afternoon when my book writing took a turn into a dead end street. Sometimes completely irrational thoughts corrupted me or brought to mind incidents involving friends and relatives in bizarre situations, long forgotten.

Reminiscences of long lost recurrences that once filled my life rebounded – early school days, or as a youngster hard pressed relatives seeking comfort and advice from my dad, who had weathered the financial storm of 1929; salesmen, with no market for unwanted or unaffordable gadgets. The unemployed had never before faced the withering effects of an unsupportable family; a blow to ego as well as to the pocketbook. Short story subjects vary from hard hit seniors to pilot, a redeemed street walker; love affairs requited and not requited; to murder mystery and to a heart rendering forgivable infraction of the law committed by a hapless offender.

I hope these stories will strike a respondent chord in the back log of your fading memories, as they did for me.

they deserve additional dedication credits are earned by those special ramblers who gladly singed their fingers on the smoldering coals of stoked memories.

My own abbreviated autobiography, as far as I can recall, begins with me, as a ten-year-old leading a motivated gang of neighboring youngsters, who eagerly risked the fun life and broken bones following my roller skate jumping antics; the smoke bombing of apartment building entrances, for which I take full credit, or blame. One such experiment brought me to my senses. After the complete evacuation by the fire department from a smoke filled building got out hand. That disaster, and a family voyage to Eastern Europe, age 14 in 1932, and the poverty I saw there, brought a different teenager home. No longer the leader: now a distinct sympathetic conversion to a suffering humanity.

My life took on new reflections of adversity and at the same time the brilliance of advance thinking brought on by the wonders of the industrial revolution. My life goals had changed and were not set.

My special thanks to Brian Bergado my personal nurse and Cathy Nicholson at Xlibris for both of their unstinting attention to bring this final work to fruition. Special love to my son, my granddaughters and daughter-in-law for their constant efforts in maintaining this often demanding 101 year-old grateful for every inch of their efforts on my behalf.

My numerous friends to whom I owe many unanswered greeting cards, my sincere thanks for all your remembrances.

Table of Contents

Preface

I.          Why We Write

II.         Branighan Shinanighans & More

III.        Kansas City Kitty

IV.        Freefall

V.         Some Things Never Change

VI.       It Happened by Chance

VII.      Rx for the Doctor

VIII.     Flyboy

IX.       Like Father Like Sons

X.         The Latent Virtuoso

XI.       The Indomitable Salesman

XII.      You Be the Judge

XIII.     Eternal Fire

XIV.     Sally

XV.      Come Back, Gatsby!

XVI.     In Dubious Battle

XVII.   Author’s commentary on the 1789

French Revolution

Why We Write

Why do we write? A fair question; for that matter, why do we pursue any idea, why do we pursue any idea or goal? Answers from colleagues are never definitive and when pressed, they are evasive. Their simple question, ‘why does anyone do it’, or ‘we do it simply because we like it’, only begs the question. I believe there is much more to it. How to satisfy the reader is obviously important. Provocative, self-questioning was a good start for me. The aroma of fresh print on the pages of a new book invigorated my senses to pursue new themes.

I believed that my lack of experience in the few short years since my entry into this new form, was insufficient to fathom such pithy questions. I was haunted by the challenge, and could not put it aside.

An unexpected, unrelated, incident came to my aid while reading ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ I found myself being propelled through her looking glass into the chaotic and delightful topsy-turvy world that laid bare man’s foolish follies in deceptively simplistic children’s overtones. Lewis Carroll helped on my approach to self-reflection and effective critique.

While rummaging through my WWII mementos one lazy afternoon, there, packed neatly away in the attic for the last sixty-six years, I found family war-time letters, an address book of long since lost buddies. Among them was a ribboned package of twelve writing pads in which I had kept a daily diary, beginning on the day my troopship sailed to Casablanca until I returned almost three years later. The pages were faded and the handwriting hardly legible. They portrayed the relative safety of a soldier’s life just behind the front battle lines, and the variety of clever ways he avoided its pitfalls and how he reaped some of its benefits.

My daughter-in-law, Louise, insisted that I have it typed, so we could easily read it. In spite of my ninety–five years at the time, I was fascinated by the idea. Her insistence pressed the starter button on an engine that is still running today and which produced my first novel, Sicilian Escapade, in 2013.

In the process of re-typing, I relived the past, factually, and emotionally to the core. I could feel my heart throbbing with each line of recall. Such experiences punctuated the memories of the wonderful, happy meetings with my lovely future wife, as she travelled up the peninsula trailing me as the enemy retreated. I recalled every separation and reunion with emotional intensity.

‘Why do we write? I repeat that question to myself, hoping for heavenly guidance. Like all hopeful wanna-bes, we yearned for fame and immortality. While I didn’t expect to displace Dickens, Hemingway, or Steinbeck, I took pleasure in rubbing shoulders with the likes of such greats, hoping that, if not welcomed, I would at least be forgiven. There is also some truth that the author wants to inject, even a small bit of himself, into his ‘production’ as his recognizable trademark.

‘Was recalling the past a creative incentive in itself to write? It’s certainly was!

Upon editing the drafts, I realized the difficulty and importance of transferring to the reader the reality of the character’s experiences.

I thought I was finally approaching the answer to my opening question, but fate continued to tease my efforts.

Writers I have informally interviewed have given reasons for creation of their works in as many different ways as there are authors. The true camaraderie among us. It is one of the few efforts in which we praise each other’s work and truly wish him luck. It is the reason for my affinity for all art forms; so set apart from the humdrum rattle trap, dog-eat-dog world of our commercial lives.

My final response to the opening title question may answer some of the queries of ‘why we write’. For some, these explanations may lead to further questions. For myself, the question has no neatly ribbon wrapped package of the answer.

It may be a response to a reader’s search to be emotionally moved and a writer’s ability to fill that need with such passion as to join them inseparably together.

Wherever such book lovers meet to select the book of their choice, their literary marriage will be blessed by the unseen presence of its author.

Branighan Shinanighans & More

The tall many storied shaded window apartment building stood silently, silhouetted in the sunset, providing motherly shelter to the hundreds of her tenant cubs, yawning for attention. That common domicile sometimes brought together divergent personalities, in a cacophony of arguments or the sweet symphony of harmonious togetherness, like their counterparts who were fortunate enough to enjoy separate home ownership, in other neighborhoods.

That is not to degrade many of the benefits of apartment living. For example, no taxes, oil heating bills, and free maintenance of appliances and stuffed plumbing are some advantages. However, tolerance of freedom of lifestyles or their excesses must be treated as pluses and requiring the judgment of a King Solomon. Behind those shaded windows and locked doors, tranquility or internal family strife may prevail; or sounds of boisterous partying may tax a neighbor’s patience. Most tenants though, live quietly and comfortably, their various lifestyles being respected. A management’s sense of humor blended with strength and empathy confront the few who stray from normal conduct.

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One morning, the door to the Acme Realty office suddenly burst open and an over excited disheveled old man ran past the receptionist and came to a sudden halt before Carlotta, in our manager’s office.

What kind of a person would send me a letter like this? he shouted, throwing a wrinkled paper on her desk; his eyes blazing.

Carlotta, a veteran buffer between tenant and management, easily had the skill of a boxing referee and was psychologically prepared to separate truth from fiction, or anything in between.

A soft answer turneth away wrath. She would rebuff her critics; whether it would work this time, she wasn’t sure.

Please have a seat, Mr. Bender.

I’m mad as hell, was his answer to her several attempts.

It can’t be all that bad. Why don’t you tell me all about it?

Her compassionate manner soothed him somewhat more than she expected, much to their mutual surprise.

Excuse my language, he said squinting angrily, but that insulting bitch upstairs has no pity on my old bones. I’m partly deaf, and have got to play my T.V. loud, while she bangs on the ceiling with her broom. She has wild loud parties, but that’s okay with her. In her own words, ‘she wants that old bastard thrown out’, he said pointing to the letter.

Mr. Bender, answered Carlotta, we are aware of past complaints from both parties. We have threatened her with non-renewal of her next lease. The only suggestion I have is for you to use an earphone attachment to your T.V. Try it and let me know, it may solve your problem.

I don’t like wearing earphones, but I’ll try. She doesn’t deserve my cooperation.

Carlotta became serious, Please remember, that when there’s trouble between two tenants with no solution, our policy is not to renew the leases of either party. It is the only practical way to promote peace and quiet among their neighbors. We take no pleasure in asking a tenant to leave. It is regrettable, but necessary. We will continue to monitor the situation and hope you first try my suggestion. Mr. Bender, I hope you don’t find it necessary to come up here again. But if you do, please announce yourself first to the receptionist.

He apologized and left, still grumbling.

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Eddie, the superintendent, was busy early that day. An unusual number of leaky faucets and running toilets hit him all at once, and they were driving him and his helper crazy.

Harry go up to 3G and 4F, I’ll take 1A, in the other building. Eddie was very handy and liked his work. The lady in 1A opened the door and stood there like a posed model. Her peek-a-boo negligee and neatly coiffed hairdo added to the mirage. Most tenants that early in the morning usually wore hair curlers, frumpy bed clothes and hidden sleepy faces.

Where is the problem Ms. Castro? asked Eddie, warily, but business like, trying to ignore her come-hither appearance. Oh, it’s right in the bathroom, she answered coyly.

Eddie walked through her neatly appointed rooms as she followed behind. He entered the bathroom and searched everywhere all around. No leak or running toilet here, Ma’am.

Oh, it was leaking before, she whimpered. I’m so sorry, can I offer you a cup of coffee for your trouble?

Eddie hesitated, If that’s all you have in mind, I accept.

She faked a pouting expression; angered at his rebuff. I’m sorry I bothered you, she shouted, in sudden change of mood, just get out of here.

I’ll leave, but first hear me out. Ms. Castro, there are about a hundred young women in this complex. They easily make a cadre of volunteers to form an in-house harem. I need this job, but in no time I would be out of work because work and this kind of play don’t mix. It could easily destroy me. It is one of the hidden drawbacks of this kind of job; not what most people might suspect. I hope you understand.

Suit yourself, She spat at him furious over his rejection. She was a girl who always burned her bridges behind her, and planned her next move.

The following day, things were quieter, until a tenant called the office, and spoke to Sally, the receptionist.

"I don’t know where it’s coming from laddie, but