The Jewish Santa of Philadelphia

This is apparently an oxymoron; it is also a true tale of a very unusual man. He was my mother's second husband, after the death of my father. I need to go back a bit -- I'll make every attempt to keep it brief.

My maternal grandmother, Jennie, (you met her in earlier blogs) had an extensive family in various parts of Europe. The Mednicki part of the family that came to Philadelphia changed their surname to Mednick. Boris Mednick was a photographer; Boris's brother lived in Belgium where he and his family were when the Nazi's arrived on the scene. Bernard, Boris's nephew, had a son and daughter; he and his wife took the children and ran for it. Bernard joined the resistance and hid his family in the countryside. That journey is a book on its own. Suffice it to say that they survived the war, losing too many close relatives. The Philadelphia family located him and brought Bernard, his wife and children (three at this juncture) to the States. They put them up in an apartment, and there they were. We lived in Brooklyn. My dad's parents had a great old house in Rockaway Beach where folks from the city would come for weekends or weeks in the summers. Under the house was a shop, a "candy store" as it was called back in the day. (Dad had worked the shop to send himself to college.) Word reached my parents that Bernard and his family were struggling. So he helped them come out to Rockaway for a summer, promising them a lot of hard work, cramped quarters behind the store, but a profit in cash and goods that would get through the winter.

And so it was. Dad even helped Bernard locate his nephew and two nieces whose parents were killed in the war, and they brought the youngsters to Rockaway. And Dad helped in the shop on weekends. My dad kept his promise. And Bernard, whom the family called "Frenchy," did pretty well, and remained a fond cousin of our family.

Four years after my father's death at fifty years old, and the death of Bernard's wife, Bernard came to visit my mom and subsequently they were married. They lived a number of years in the Brooklyn house and then sold it and moved to Philadelphia. Bernard was not very tall, but he was broad and had grown a full white beard. I don't know how it exactly happened, but he was asked by a local school I think to play Santa for the children. Now, why would an aging Jew decide to be Santa? I believe that, in great part, it was because he loved being the center of attention. He actually was an extra in some movies and did some print work as well. Well, playing Santa turned into an annual event, with other organizations joining in. He was given his very own Santa outfit, and soon was riding in parades.

We called him Bonpapa. He was my children's grandpa -- my kids never knew my dad. All the children thought it a hoot that he was Santa Claus. One summer, while he and mom were visiting with us in Beverly, Massachusetts, we went to spend some time on the beach at Lynch Park. Mom sat under an umbrella. Bonpapa had my sons dig a hole in the sand, large enough for him to sit at the edge with his feet in the hole which the boys filled with water to keep him cool. Bonpapa was reading a book; just sitting there with his feet in his little water well, wearing his bathing suit and sun glasses. Mom and I looked up to see a long queue of children very quietly and patiently waiting for "Santa" to see them. I called to him. Discovering the eager flock, he took a pencil from behind his ear and began to write down their Christmas lists as they one at a time related their wishes to him. I regret to say none of us had a camera. He was, as you see from included pictures, very convincing -- even in August, without any costume at all.

He was then the age I am now, which simply doesn't seem possible. He was not a religious man, but his Jewish identity was as important to him as his Belgian/French heritage. But being able to impress the kids at Christmas, to listen to their secret desires, to hear the cheers when he rode into town, to visit the hospitals where he personified all of their Christmas celebration -- well, this was not a contradiction.

When my mom passed away, Bonpapa walked out of our lives and stopped being Santa as well. But I dare say that there are several generations of Philadelphians who will not forget the "real" Santa who had a French accent and sang songs to them in Yiddish. Gotta love it!!

Enjoy the festive season and let your memories keep you warm.

Notes from the Ice Floe

I rather expect that the repugnant custom in times of distress of putting old folks out on a sheet of ice to die is no longer practiced. (Given the atrocities human beings still commit upon each other in greed and rage, it wouldn't be so much a surprise if senicide still exists.) Of course I'm using it as a metaphor. Because people of a certain age (a changeable number for sure, depending on who's talking) are often put on ice as it were. I've experienced it in the job (or jobless) market. Here, one can doctor one's resume and leave off all numbers. In the interview, one needs also to avoid discussing the ages of one's kids or mention grandkids. One also has to spend a good deal of energy to avoid looking anything over sixty. None of this easy. Wear gloves!

So where does it not matter, one's age? In the Arts, you say. Actors of a certain age, especially women, will tell you that unless you're already a star the rare role will be reserved for that performer who is a star. Directors, writers, musicians, visual artists -- if you have made it you're set. No one doubts your talents or your mental powers or your creative prowess. If, however, you're still striving or starting out be prepared to be perceived as old. With all the negative attributes relegated to old age. A number of years ago there was a foundation that gave fellowships to women over 55 years of age for proposals of creative projects. It was very competitive, of course. I entered often. And although I never won, it was a possibility. A great many artistic competitions are designated for "early career" artists. Why can't an "early career" begin a bit late? I went to the film festival when my screenplay was a finalist. It would have been difficult there to find a participant or staff member over the age of thirty. I was the anomaly.

I suppose there is a judgment factor: if you haven't made it by now you never will! So what does this made it mean? New York Times best seller list? Broadway production? Symphony Hall? Paintings selling for over-the-top prices? Universal name recognition? And why is it ever too late? Oh, and the other weird situation I've experienced: if I were, for example, a Broadway director and offered to direct at a community theater, it would be a coup. If I come in with a solid resume of experience in regionals, it is scary. If my plays were published by a traditional publisher, that's something. If published by an unknown quantity: not so much. HOWEVER, if you can find my books on Amazon -- aha! that's something else!

I am probably ranting which wasn't my intention. I am finding it difficult to find even folks of my own age who believe in limitless possibilities. And I know that time is indeed a factor. More so than ever. But in my silly head I keep hearing Stephen Sondheim in that fabulous radio interview on his 80th birthday: "In my mind I am sixteen and I have promise." Me, too.