What is Love

By Pauli Rose Libsohn

For the first time, to my knowledge, my mother was able to put into English, the components of what is love. It was her uncommon brilliance that produced "Immortal Kisses - Confessions Of a Poet," and its companion "Songs Of You - A Postscript," books of poetic jewels that I refer to as "written gold." Penned by her loving hand, she wrote with passion, and a depth of emotion that could only have evolved from my mother's extraordinary thought process, naturally evolving from her inordinate intellect into an accomplished work of art. Sparked by her imagination, and fueled by her unquenchable desire to write, my mother's creative powers advanced to extraordinary heights. But not only did she write, she was also telling the story of her love affair with my father from the moment they met, until the day of the inevitable. Throughout the years, my mother never once divulged the meanings behind her poems - and I always believed them to be "just" gorgeous and romantic - poetry that swept me away. I never realized that there were stories behind them and meanings beneath them. Eventually in her own way, my mother revealed to me the various people in her life who left indelible marks, and about some of whom she wrote. Additionally, her wondrous romance with nature developed and grew into a finely tuned visual tapestry at our extraordinary home in Brookville, Long Island. It was here, along with my father, she considered to be the center of her heart - reminiscent of "The Weirs," - my parents' famed, fairytale cottage on New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee, where they spent the first week of their sixty year marriage. And so this, our magical and resplendent home, became my mother's "Paradise," having a life-time effect on her psyche - identical to that oft-mentioned and fabled honeymoon, producing her love affair with all of nature's bounty. In view of all of this, I knew I had to sit down and write a memoir about my mother's life, as I recall her telling me, so that her poetry would be explained, along with her motivation behind her writing - that was love, and that love was my father David. He was her "raison d'etre."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641387019

Book preview

The Green Bracelet

One day when my mother and I were together at our kitchen table, she recounted to me, a remarkable story about herself that occurred when she was a little girl of about five years old.

My mother’s parents being far from wealthy, were unable to look after her and her two older sisters during the day when school was not in session, having to work long hours in their dry goods store to support their family. She and her sisters, were left to fend for themselves. As my mother described them, they were ragamuffins – little street urchins. They lived in Forest Hills, which, at that time back in the 1920’s, was still surrounded by trees and forests. It was nothing like today, bustling with people and traffic. She and her sisters often played in those woods, which they also used as a pathway to walk to and from school. Even though she was so young, she was sent off to school each day by herself, with no one to hold her hand, and in all kinds of weather. My mother always told me that she was amazed that she had never been accosted, kidnapped, or robbed, by the many hobos, as she would describe them, who traversed those very same woods. However, for she and her sisters, the woods also provided a valued playground.

On one particular day, my mother and her middle sister were planning to run through those woods, to see who would be the fastest. Before she began the race, she announced to her sister that that day was going to be special. The reason being, she said, that she was going to find a green bracelet. My mother had no idea as to how or why she made that statement, but felt that something out of the ordinary was about to occur. Her sister paid no attention. At that point, their competition began to see who would win. As my mother was running, she had the strange feeling to stop beside a giant tree. It was at that moment that she looked down, and to her amazement, saw something green glistening up at her in between the leaves. Becoming overwhelmed with excitement and disbelief she immediately bent down to brush them away. As she did so, she let out a little scream. Excited and giggling, she could not believe what had happened. Almost hidden beneath the leaves, was a sparkling green bracelet twinkling up at her! How, she wondered to herself, did she know that this would occur? It was then, at that very moment, my mother said to me, that she realized that there was nothing common or usual about herself, and looked down at her miraculous discovery and whispered – I know I am special. She said she then turned her face to the sky, and in a soft spoken voice, said thank you. She bent down and picked up the bracelet which had been covered by those leaves, and now, with purpose, was running to show her sister, who was in utter disbelief. Her family could not get over what had occurred, telling the story over and over.

My mother wore that bracelet every day, until it no longer would fit around her tiny wrist. She kept it throughout her life, and one day when I was a little girl going through her jewelry box, I came across a little green bracelet that sparkled as if it were emeralds. In a loving manner, my mother told me not to touch. I closed the jewelry box, and never thought about it again, until my mother told me about her miraculous day. However, I do not know what became of that bracelet. That mystery forever belongs to my mother

Because of that incredulous day, my mother went through life knowing that she was special – and she was. She had a commanding presence, and according to her a sixth sense!

Mitzi and her commanding presence

The Grey Shop

The Grey Shop

When my mother was a young girl growing up in the wilds of Forest Hills in the 1920’s, her family had a dry goods store, The Grey Shop. The Grey Shop consisted of two rooms – the front being the store itself, and the back, where my mother and her family called home. There was only one bed, occupied by her parents, while she and her two sisters slept on the floor. A coal stove was used for warmth during the winter months, but was in use year round to cook their meals. Life was often difficult, with her parents having to work long hours to support the family. My mother always recounted how awful it was to have to have slept on that hard floor every night with a patch quilt as a mattress. She told of the room being unbearably hot in the summer, with no air to breathe, while having a constant and uncomfortable chill during the winter months. She remembered those summers as being impossible, forcing the family to sit outside on the front stoop of their shop, so they could get some air, regardless of how hot the temperature, for it enabled them to breathe. Additionally, my mother recanted vivid memories of the entire neighborhood outside trying to get precious breaths of air, always relaying that those early years of her life as she recalled, were agonizing.

Having hardly any monetary means to get by, she and her sisters were instructed daily by their parents to scour their neighborhood in search of extra food, usually to be found in various garbage cans, or from off the street itself, usually in the form of potatoes or cabbages. Sometimes they would be lucky enough to meet a kind soul, who would actually give them a penny or two. With the treasured pennies in hand, they would often race to the candy store to see old Mr. Starke, as my mother told me, to make a much beloved purchase, neglecting their original undertaking of coming home with a piece of this or a piece of that. My mother and her sisters would actually look forward to this time on the street, since it gave them the opportunity to see their friends and play. They turned this chore into a game, which actually became a challenge between all the children of the neighborhood, who were engaged in the same search, to see who could come up with the most food and from where. As my mother relayed it, they eventually were known as the little street beggars, by all the shopkeepers. However, the children nicknamed themselves Our Gang, after the Little Rascals! It was quite unimaginable at that juncture for my mother to ever ascertain that she and her family would ever be able to escape to a better life.

When describing how hard her father had to work, she would inevitably become overcome with emotion, remembering how his strength was slowly being stripped away – so tired in the evenings that he was unable to speak at any length with his daughters who adored him – he ate whatever dinner there was, retiring to their one bed, for greatly needed sleep. Her mother also worked hard to survive and to keep the family together, therefore she was unable to provide the proper adult supervision to my mother and her two sisters. As my mother tells it, they were always running up and down the streets, out all day until evening, with no one ever knowing where they were. She recoiled in horror at the thought that anything could have happened to her as such a little girl, and was amazed that she survived, since no one ever knew where she was or whom she was with.

Later, my mother would tell me that she never forgot the dirt on those potatoes, nor the small black insects on the cabbages. It was because of this chapter in her early life, that I never saw her eat a potato, nor have any part of cabbage!

The neighborhood in which the Grey Shop was located, was one of the immigrant experience. Everyone was crowded together, all trying to earn a living, hoping to eventually better themselves by education, which they knew could afford them the achievement of a profession and the possibility of achieving the American Dream. My mother said that everyone was either Jewish or Italian. The families who lived on her block, as she remembers, were always friendly and happy, laughing and having a good time, with everyone caring about one another’s welfare, sharing whatever they could between them if needed, but most of all being there to help one another. However, there was one thing she always said, and that was, that none of these families would ever accept any hand-outs – they were all very proud, wanting very much to work and advance themselves – and work they did.

My mother’s father was a loving, kind and sweet man. He wanted his daughters to be happy. And so one day he came home with a little Chow puppy. Everyone was ecstatic with excitement. My mother said he was so cute. His color was brown, but they named him Whitey. The happiness that Whitey provided was immeasurable – he gave them unconditional pleasure. Then, as my mother told it, one Sunday she was sitting on the stoop of her family’s dry goods store with her dear father and Whitey, when Whitey suddenly ran into the street to chase a ball. As quickly as he ran into the street, he was hit by a Trolley Car. My mother said everyone was screaming, however somehow Whitey managed to run back to my grandfather. He jumped into his lap and died. My mother never forgot Whitey, talking about him, and the never-ending fun and happiness he brought her, her sisters, and her parents. They never again were to have a pet.

A bright light in my mother’s life at The Grey Shop, was when her grandfather on her father’s side came to visit. She never forgot the fanfare surrounding this occasion. Preparations began a week in advance for the ceremonious meal which ultimately would be served this elder statesman! My mother’s memories of him were surrounded with happiness, describing him as a jovial man with a big smile, and a large gold pocket watch! Arriving for lunch, he would be seated at the head of the table – set with their finest china and tablecloth – surrounded by the rest of the family. My mother recalled that she and her middle sister gleefully jumped all over him with questions, requests for stories, and news from the outside, for which he was never at a loss. Laughter and conversation abounded for hours, and when it came time for him to end his visit, he would always manage to give my mother and her sisters three cents each, which they used to buy a toy or some highly prized candy.

Another corner of happiness in my mother’s life, was her little friend – Tommy, a wonderful boy about whom she always spoke. However, Tommy was in love with the circus, so much so, that he was always threatening his parents that he would run away to become