And now for something completely different

Do you know about the Borscht Belt Historical Marker Project? It does not commemorate the death of the Borscht Belt. It celebrates its life. Our beloved Parksville will gain a marker, and join those other communities previously honored, on October 5, between 2 and 4 in the afternoon.

No one knows what to expect. Who will come? But all of us who remember the town when it was alive and thriving and giving us forever memories of places we loved, and especially people we loved, are proud that our little village, our hamlet, will have a permanent highway marker. Now our descendants will have a destination, a place to create dreams of an important part of their own history, a wonderful location for a photo-op, a place to visit and love, a place known to them from the stories we told to them, and, hopefully, a location for their futures.

The Borscht Belt historical marker project is an ongoing and meaningful effort to bring to life remembrances of that special place. It will celebrate what was and give impetus to what can and will be. It will preserve the legacy and the future of the string of towns that gave sustenance and vacation living to our families in hotels both simple and lavish, in countless bungalow colonies, and in the rooming houses known as kuch aleins.

In the sometimes magical world in which we live, I personally can attest to the power of the place. It was there that my parents met and fell in love. A generation later, it was in that same town that my husband and I were destined to meet. So many, very very many, have similar stories. Who can forget the place where their stars aligned? And our progeny need to know that this was the very place that gave them life!

It was looking at the old photos that brought the memories pouring in. I remember buying the clothes I was wearing in one picture, taken in the mid 1950s. How could it possibly be so long ago?

In that photo I could see that Pop was busy closing up the place, the Bauman House, from the shutters that had already been placed on the windows. Prepared for what? I don’t know! They certainly didn’t succeed in keeping the mice away. Those little creatures, feared by my father, executed by my mother, were always very comfortable and cozy raising their families inside the buildings during those frigid Parksville winters. And they always left us souvenirs of their visits.

The shutters went up at season’s end, Labor Day or the day after, only to be removed in June, a permanent job for Pop.

And burglars, forget about it. The shutters were not an anti-theft program. What could they possibly find worth going to jail for? A few paltry mattresses, some light bulbs, maybe partial rolls of toilet paper, some cheap kitchen chairs. And, oh yes, the rockers that sat on the porch all summer long and then retired to obscurity until the following June, when they were dusted off for more heavy-duty use, until Labor Day came again. The house had no source of heat. I cannot imagine how the original owners managed to endure the endless winters. There was no fireplace or coal stove to stoke. And in those unwelcome frosts, and beyond to the serious blizzards, the toilets were outhouses. Torturous! Only the mice would find such a place a haven.

One photo I love is of my mother, on a breezy summer day, surrounded by flying linens, being blow-dried in a sea of clotheslines; those sheets and pillowcases would soon be on our beds, bringing the fresh and fragrant outdoor scent indoors to our rooms. At home in Newark Mom always sent the linens to the laundry for professional care, but never during the Parksville summers. The air itself was so pristine; the wind would dry our sheets and they would be delectable.

I found another picture and immersed myself in it. So distant but so familiar. There was the beloved porch, exactly as I remembered it. Leon, my same-aged cousin, who died bravely several years ago, was sitting on a rocker. Our mutual grandfather used to call him a buptzik, a word of Pop’s own invention, an onomatopoeic word that sounded lazy, because that boy never wanted to help him in his ceaseless work, all summer long, lighting the stove so we had hot water, fixing whatever it was that was broken, with every job always looking like a patch, never sparkling new. Nah. Leon had other, more intellectual pursuits on his mind, but he showed his grit years later, long after all the grownups in our lives had already left us, when he was dying. He was not a buptzik after all. He was courageous, unbelievably heroic, never sharing his terrible pain and suffering. Only in the picture is he the kid I remember, relaxing on our porch.

When do any of us get invited to someplace special that has no dress code, no membership, no fees at all, and that will be emotional and memorable? Consider yourself invited. Join us as we remember what was and ponder whether anyone out there can bring us back the joy, the love stories, and the beautiful moments that we all embrace? Is there an entrepreneur who can imagine a re-creation, a new hotel to feed and entertain another generation, so they will come? Perhaps the answer is yes!

See you on October 5!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of nine. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

opinion

comments