Snapshots of a Life

By Ken Libertoff

We all have a story to tell but rarely does someone craft such an expansive and varied memoir, full of life, love, travels, disappointments, and achievements. Told by first-time author Ken Libertoff, Snapshots of a Life shares universal truths in a conversational tone exhibiting resiliency, family pathos, insight, and humor. From the bleachers at old Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, Boggiano's Bar and Grill in Rockaway, and NYC basketball courts, to a full career as a mental health advocate in New England with work and travel to South Africa, Botswana, and Swaziland, the stories here capture his life in various settings while never losing sight of home. Libertoff's sense of humor and wit pervades, even in dark moments, providing rays of sunshine that give hope, meaning, and perspective to a life well lived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rootstock Publishing
• Release date: Jan 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781578691593

Book preview

Praise for Snapshots of a Life

"This memoir by first-time author Ken Libertoff is a gem. It’s beautifully written with engaging, absorbing stories presented in a pleasing authentic voice. The essays are insightful and laced with sharp humor, a sense of poignancy, and a zest for life in all its complexities. Snapshots of a Life takes the reader on a journey through his life’s adventures, challenges, triumphs, and trials, while inviting readers to reflect on their own narratives. This memoir will captivate and delight readers of all ages."

—Howard Dean, former Governor of Vermont (1991-2003)

Ken Libertoff’s poignant glimpses of a life reveal a writer of insight and humor. Whether it’s his first job at a Queens bar and grill, bonding with his grandmother over the Brooklyn Dodgers, or a chance encounter in a New Mexico diner, these vignettes give the reader a renewed appreciation of the small moments in our lives that take on significance with the passage of time.

—Rick Winston, author of Save Me a Seat! A Life With Movies

"Libertoff’s book takes the reader back to his childhood in Queens, the work he did in South Africa to reform their mental health system, and all kinds of escapades in the intervening years. (Including his insistence on taking real maple syrup, from Vermont, when he makes his way to a diner anywhere in the world!) It’s a delightful read about a life well-lived."

—Mark Redmond, director of Spectrum Youth and Family in Burlington, Vermont

Ken Libertoff has led a life of diverse experiences and adventures. In this book, he invites you to join him on his travels through settings as varied as Coney Island, rural Vermont, and South Africa. Along the way, he shares his insights, observations, and encounters. With a combination of optimism and irony, Ken addresses topics as diverse as sports, politics, and home improvement. Collectively, his stories underscore the themes of creativity, resilience, and redemption.

—David Fassler, MD, clinical professor of psychiatry at Larner College of Medicine, University of Vermont

Ken Libertoff is at the tail end of his seventies, and he is reflecting back on his life. The short essays in this volume are windows illuminating episodes from his childhood in Queens to his present life on a backroad in East Montpelier, Vermont. They are beautifully written, poignant, sometimes nostalgic, and often humorous.

—Bernie Lambek, attorney and author of Uncivil Liberties and An Intent to Commit

These are stories about neighbors and friends, loves and lovers, and they brim with empathy and humor. Come follow one life well lived, and get just a tiny bit closer to making sense of what it is to be human.

—Erika Heilman, Peabody Award winner, reporter, and producer of the Rumble Strip podcast

Snapshots of a Life

Snapshots of a Life

Essays by Ken Libertoff

Montpelier, VT

Snapshots of a Life copyright ©2023 Ken Libertoff

Release Date: January 16, 2024

All Rights Reserved.

Printed in the USA.

Published by Rootstock Publishing,

an imprint of Ziggy Media LLC

[e-mail]

www.rootstockpublishing.com

Softcover ISBN: 978-1-57869-157-9

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-57869-158-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-57869-159-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023917849

Cover and book design by Eddie Vincent, ENC Graphics Services.

Cover photos provided by the author.

Author photo credit: Jerry Swope.

For permissions or to schedule a reading, contact the author at [e-mail].

To Sarah Hofmann

My friend, partner, and wife

Author’s Note

As I anticipate the publication of this book, it feels like a curtain is about to rise, exposing a stage filled with characters, actors, props, and voices, both loud and muted. As I push the button that raises this stage curtain, it is important to state that my intent is to share my life and life experiences with an authentic voice by crafting, weaving, and sharing original stories and essays that are varied in time, place, and subject matter.

For some, a memoir is best told in chronological order, but following convention is not my goal or style. Rather, it is my desire to craft a meaningful, perhaps powerful, patchwork quilt of essays that results in a compelling mosaic, full of life with all its complexities, wondrous moments, and humbling shortcomings, while capturing experiences that shape and define us.

It goes without saying that memory and recall are subject to confusion, forgetfulness, or misconception. I take full responsibility for any errors in detail or characterization.

On occasion, I have omitted or changed names when they add little to the meaning or content of an essay.

Publishing a book was not something I thought about for the first three-quarters of my life. Yet here I am, ready to share with you, the reader, essays that capture universal truths that should resonate, challenge, and hopefully entertain.

I am humbled with gratitude and honored to learn that everyone has a valued story to tell. I trust that I found and captured my authentic voice in Snapshots of A Life.

—Ken Libertoff, Montpelier, Vermont

Contents

Finding Power and Control in Humor 1

Coming of Age at Boggiano’s Bar and Grill 8

Atticus 16

From Ebbets Field to the Montpelier Recreation Ball Field 20

Confronting Challenges and Failure 27

Flying Above the Clouds in Central Vermont 34

It Could Have Been Me 42

A Secret Love Affair Revealed 54

Truth or Consequences 57

First Impression 62

Bastille Day in Aigues-Mortes 68

March Madness and Basketball 80

The Bush Plane in Botswana 84

I Remember Mama 93

Small World Connections 98

Memories and Life Lessons with Rodrigo 103

My Hawaiian Shirt 112

A Bucksaw, a Scythe, and Silvia 117

The Big Picture on Big Pharma 130

A Challenging Special Birthday 134

Circus Dreams 141

A Good Eater 148

Adventures in Packwood, Washington 151

Thinking about Ralph Geer 168

Playing Out the Clock 171

Ode to Jim Jeffords 183

A Booth in the Corner 189

A Boy and His Bike 194

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 203

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 207

Finding Power and Control in Humor

I approach my house on a gloomy, cold January day, a little before six in the evening. Although I have had a relatively uneventful day at Far Rockaway High School, a large New York City high school in the borough of Queens, I am hungry and tired. I am also, however, consumed with feelings of worry and dread, for dinner at our house is, at best, unpredictable.

My late return home is typical, resulting from another long and exhausting high school basketball practice. The truth is that I am absolutely thrilled to be part of an exclusive club: the varsity basketball team. I am the youngest player on the roster. As such, I don’t lack skills, but I am short on muscle and weight. Having just turned fourteen, I am taller than most, topping off at six feet three inches, but my weight is south of one hundred and seventy pounds, and that would be with my clothes soaking wet. In recognition of my slight frame, our assistant coach who, during a recent scrimmage game, threatened to publicly come out on the court and kick my ass if I didn’t show more aggressive play, has gotten into the habit of slipping me a dollar a week and ordering me, in a jocular way, to have a milkshake at the local candy store on 129th Street near my house. His suggestion has indeed been my command. His proposal is his way of being supportive, while hopefully adding bulk and perhaps muscle to my frame.

On this day, as practice ends, Coach blows his whistle and the team gathers around. His eyes are bloodshot. Although we pretend not to notice, he seems to not only stash small bottles of liquor in the bottom of his third drawer but to rely on his refreshments before most games. His usual ruddy complexion is undoubtedly not from exercise or a suntan from last summer, but he does care about his boys. With eyebrows raised and with an intense look, he reminds us that a key game with powerhouse Franklin K. Lane High is just around the corner. Coach is not a philosopher, but he assumes a serious demeanor when he admonishes us to be dedicated and to leave it on the floor.

I already know that this call, a demand, is for total devotion to hard play even if it means an unruly elbow or an undetected push here or there. I incorporate this message like I would a large chocolate milkshake: with vigor and youthful pleasure. Coach is not a warm person, but he takes the time to remind me to crack open my books when I get home. Since he is also my guidance counselor, he knows I am not breaking any records in my early high school academic career.

Basketball gives shape, form, and meaning to my young life, providing recognition and attention. It is a real and imagined companion with hours spent shooting, dribbling, and dreaming. The ball itself is so familiar and user-friendly—especially when it swishes through the hoop. And the very sound of the ball bouncing and thumping is a familiar call to arms. Best of all is the idealized dream of taking the last shot in a close game and making it as the imaginary buzzer sounds with the clock ticking down . . . 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!

With practice over, we all head out the door. Several of us walk to the bus stop down the street and wait in the cold for the often-unreliable city bus to appear. Finally, it shows up, and as it pulls to the curb, it almost groans as it slows to a stop. It is a good twenty-minute ride home with traffic and frequent stops along the way. With my familiar street in sight, I descend, turn, and walk slowly to my house. Lights are already on in most homes, and I imagine the possibility of a pleasant dinner time with family, and if truth be told, I can see folks gathered in living rooms or around tables. I am jealous.

But as I approach my house, a chill descends. It is not simply the winter breezes but the anticipation of strife, pain, and not knowing how to cope.

Entering the front door, I notice that only a dim light is on downstairs, but a glance up the stairs reveals thin streams of light peeping out from around the edges of my younger sister’s closed bedroom door. Karen is nearly four years younger and also carries the burden of trying to cope with a complex and troubled mother. With abandon, I throw my coat over a chair in the living room and drop my backpack and cherished sports bag in a heap. I announce my presence with a loud I’m home, bound upstairs, and check in on my sister. I can tell from the look in her eyes that things are not okay.

For better or worse, my attention is devoted to my very troubled and disturbed mother.

As I anticipated, my mother is not in her darkened bedroom. She responds not at all to my greeting. I can detect movement behind the closed bathroom door down the hall, and based on recent experience, I presume she is sequestered behind this door. As I have done several times before, I silently approach and try to slowly turn the doorknob, hoping that my maneuver won’t be detected. With the gentlest of attempts, I can confirm that the door is indeed locked, which bodes poorly. Standing in the hallway, I feel ever so lonely and afraid.

After a minute passes, I step back from the door and call out, Mom! I hear my mother’s voice, but it is garbled and shaky, a mixture of groaning, crying, and whimpering. I am going to kill myself, she shrieks, I have razor blades, and I am going to slit my wrists! While this is not the first time I’ve heard this claim, it never fails to elicit a painful sense of desperation and despair in me. After a minute of silence, she adds more threats and ends by saying mournfully, I don’t care anymore. I just don’t give a shit.

I am just fourteen, standing outside the bathroom door, the locked bathroom door, dealing with a crisis, coping with trauma, and dealing with no immediate help or support from anyone. As I stand there, fear and terror engulf me. As if this is not enough, I can feel hunger pangs since it is almost past the dinner hour and I am famished.

This vignette is one of many very painful and harrowing episodes of my childhood but is reflective of conditions that were both crushing and overwhelming at the time. Well into my seventh decade, I look back at my life, especially those formative years, and still wonder how I survived them and how I managed to move forward in life. We all try to make sense of our story, and simplistic as it is, my strength comes from facing overwhelming and, at times, crushing adversity. My quest to survive ultimately evolved from constantly coping with the crippling darkness and despair that comes from being the only son and eldest child of a mother who suffered much of her life from mental illness. I would either be greatly damaged, crushed, and even ruined or learn to cope, be resilient, and persevere.

Two years earlier, in 1957, two events occurred that would impact my life forever. The first is too easily dismissed by those who turn a blind eye to the joys and wonders of baseball. They might not understand how the brutal decision by the Brooklyn Dodgers baseball team to abandon Brooklyn and head west to Los Angeles impacted loyal fans like me. The Dodgers represented the best of Brooklyn and New York, and I was among the millions of kids who worshipped the team. These heroes included the likes of Duke Snider, whose left-handed swing was a thing of beauty; the famous trailblazer Jackie Robinson; Pee Wee Reese, a native of Kentucky, our shortstop who, in a remarkable moment, put his arm around Jackie Robinson before a raucous sold-out crowd in a sign of acceptance of professional baseball’s first Black player; and pitchers like left-handed Preacher Roe. Preacher was from some distant place called Arkansas and entertained me and perhaps thousands of other kids with his ever-present mouthful of tobacco and frequent squirts of tobacco juice that occasionally landed on an umpire’s shoe.

A much greater tragedy unfolded in November of that year, creating an imprint and shadow over the rest of my life. My father, Bill, a man of thirty-seven, died unexpectedly on an operating table in a Philadelphia hospital. He had suffered from chronic and severe colitis, but a blood clot proved fatal during surgery. His sudden death was an overwhelming trauma for me, my sister, and my mother.

This life-changing event left my mother a young widow with two children, with no employment, and with a neglected disease that years later would be identified as manic depression. The night my father died, my mother returned home from Philadelphia with her brother, my uncle, while several other relatives gathered at our house. My mother was devastated by my father’s death. She seemed both traumatized and paralyzed. At the small family gathering at our home, no one seemed to be able to cope with this completely unexpected turn of events, and I recall little or no conversation. The one exception was my Uncle Dave, who lived in Connecticut. He pledged to always be there for me. My uncle was my base of support for several important years although our relationship painfully unraveled by the time I was a young adult in what I considered a brutal betrayal. That is a saga for another day.

I am sure that I did not process all that was happening upon my father’s death, and indeed, I had little or no capacity to deal with my feelings of sadness and loss. I suddenly incorporated a new identity: a twelve-year-old boy without a father. The funeral was awful, and my mother was out of control with grief and despair, sobbing and frantically hanging on me.

My younger sister, who was shuffled off to stay with family friends before the fateful trip to Philadelphia commenced, now came home, and being together in Rockaway was a step towards normalcy. But neither of us seemed capable of communicating our grief and feelings or providing any real comfort to one another. Those days of late November and December were excruciating and wrenching. To this day, I confess that my greatest embarrassment or source of anguish or bewilderment came when I was finally forced to return to school; no one, not another friend or student or teacher, said a word about my father’s death. This silence was deafening. No one had the tools to deal with such a shocking turn of events.

But at this moment, here I am, standing alone outside our upstairs bathroom door with my mother moaning and crying and saying crazy things. While this scenario is not new, it seems different in intensity. As in the recent past, I offer well-meant but probably meaningless platitudes, telling her that things will be all right and that she will feel better soon. Within minutes and out of frustration, however, I tell her in an unsympathetic voice to pull herself together or I will call someone. But I know, and probably she knows too, that no one nearby can help. Her mother, my dear grandmother, lives in Brooklyn but is unknowing and unprepared to deal with this crisis. Besides, she would have no idea how to travel to Rockaway on her own since she rarely ventures beyond the confines of her Bensonhurst Brooklyn neighborhood. I dismiss the fleeting notion of calling the police if for no other reason than because I would feel like a traitor to my mother. I am handcuffed with indecision. I am not sure what is worse: being scared and overwhelmed by my mother’s threats to slit her wrists or my inability to know what to do or the fact that I am starved and exhausted.

Then, in one of those defining moments, I happen upon, perhaps stumble upon, a new approach. Rather than try to offer meaningless platitudes or move to a more aggressive or threatening posture, I turn to humor even if it might be dark humor. I don’t know it yet, but relying on humor, funny humor, dark humor, self-deprecating humor, and perhaps humor of the absurd, would become part of my psyche and my persona in the decades to come.

Leaning up against the door, I say the following words to my mother. Mom, I am really starved. Can’t you come down and make dinner and then kill yourself?

As horrible as the situation is, I must admit that after I speak, I feel a certain sense of control or at least comfort in the fact that I’ve tried a new tactic. There is silence on the other side of the door. A minute or two passes before I could hear my mother undoing the bathroom lock and she takes several steps into the hallway. She looks disheveled, distraught, and slightly crazed, but thankfully, I see no sign of damage to either of her wrists. And I think I detect a wry smile on her face.

Despite all this trauma, she looks at me in a caring and loving way and says some fateful words that contain a jumbled sense of uncertainty, confusion, and assurance. Sounding composed for the moment, she says with a reaffirming hint of affection, What do you want?

Coming of Age at

Boggiano’s Bar and Grill

On many a warm summer afternoon in 1959, I rolled out my trustworthy one-speed bicycle and pedaled to my first job. With each turn of the bicycle wheels, I was moving forward, transitioning from being just a kid of fourteen years to a young man entering the real world, sort of like dipping my toe into the world of commerce, employment, and some unique social engagements. Back then, I was a city kid, and this job brought new exposure to the joys and challenges of city life.

Perhaps this job offered a