(Each summer, headed home, I vow to collect on tape an oral history of the Kemsmiers. Each fall, headed East, I swear I’ll do it the following summer. Nevertheless, enough is known to relate what follows.)
Many families possess tales of their occasional flirtations with opulence. Ours concerns Great Grandpa Kemsmier. Short of cash, he decided to sell his small matzoh business. The new management expanded into wines and other kosher delicacies — changing the company name to Manischewitz.
In 1933, Grandpa (“Dad”) Kemsmier and Grandma lit out for Silver City, New Mexico, opening Kemsmier’s Cafe. On the continental divide, “Silver” is one of the few western mining towns to retain bits of its early flavor — from when Zebulon Pike, Geronimo, and Billy the Kid roamed what was then Apache country. Not that Silver was without its problems, especially if you were an Hispanic interested in opportunities accorded Anglos, or one of “them troublemakers” concerned with conditions in the huge open-pit copper mine at Santa Rita. But the Kemsmiers were no troublemakers (though “Dad” did punch a guy into his cigar-case once for saying Hitler was doing a “great job with the Jews”).
Kemsmier’s Cafe featured the culinary magic of Grandma Kemsmier. Someone once asked, “When was the last time Grandma sat on your lap, Dad?” “Oh,” Dad pondered, “about ninety pounds ago.” Dad never talked much about Kemsmier’s Cafe. “I heard you played a mean piano, Dad,” my cousin once inquired. “Hell,” he grumbled, “I can’t even play a good TV.”
Dad’s brother, Isadore, also lived in Silver. “The Big Guy,” Uncle Is was the one who held everybody together, whose approval could make you feel like a million bucks. He ran a used car business. He’d let everybody borrow the cars off his lot, and never bothered with records. If you said you’d pay, that was good enough. Never prone to hang onto money, he co-signed a big trucking deal for a “friend” and passed his last fifteen years hopelessly in debt. And, against doctor’s orders, he smoked like crazy until emphysema finally killed him. After the funeral, as bill collectors hounded my widowed Aunt Eleanore, I often wondered why he didn’t declare bankruptcy. But it just wasn’t his way.
My dad, Normie, grew up in Silver. Entering the local New Mexico State Teachers College at age fifteen, he eventually transferred to UCLA — ending up playing third base behind a boy named Jackie Robinson. It was also here, at AEPhi Presents, that he met my mom, asked her to the SMU game that Saturday, and to wed before the year was out.
Pearl Harbor. My dad joined the Navy and flew blood into Corregidor, Guam, and the Solomons. My mom, working outside D.C., censored the mail coming into the States and the Solomons. To hear them tell it, the war was a time when everybody hung together to fight the devil, dreaming all the while of home, new cars, and consumer appliances in the glorious prosperity sure to follow. So, though my folks were parted, they eagerly awaited the war’s end, when they could be together, let Uncle Sam put my dad through Dental School, and maybe even have themselves a few kids.
I was born in December, 1945 at the Good Samaritan Hospital in downtown Los Angeles. My first home was a dilapidated apartment in Highland Park. Ten miles north of downtown along Route 66, Highland Park was typical of small-town America — Clancy’s Shoe Repair, Kresses, the Optimist Club, Saturday afternoon matinees at the Highland Theater, and 60,000 folks from Illinois, Iowa, and Minnesota.
My earliest memory is from age three, when my first sister, Lois was born. My mom, leaving with my dad for the hospital, was wearing her beaver coat. I loved to run my hands through it, as it was soft and full of fluff. My parents were so young and handsome! I was concerned that when they got there the hospital might be out of babies.
The following year my dad graduated from dental school at the University of Southern California. I attended the graduation, and walked up on stage to receive a diploma, too, protesting vigorously when they failed to bestow one upon me. It was fun visiting my dad’s dentist office. He had lots of picture magazines in the waiting room and two nice dental assistants. And he looked so saintly in his white smock. It made his skin very bronze by contrast. He kept referring to his dental “practice.” I often wondered when he was going to quit practicing and get on with the real thing.
During the summer of 1950, my mother began to weaken with each passing week. One night I was awakened by sirens, as the ambulance came to rush her to the hospital. A victim of polio, she was paralyzed from the waist down.
I missed my mother very much, and anxiously awaited the time when she would be well enough for me to visit. When the time came, I tagged along behind my father — so proud of him and full of love, as he asked me what flowers I’d like to buy for her. Trembling with excitement, we went up the elevator. I spotted her immediately, wrapped in white sheets, lying in one of the dark rooms. Seeing her smile, I ran straight into her arms.
The doctors believed she would never walk again. “But I know I will,” she said, and spent many months exercising her legs in steaming whirlpools, slowly restoring them to life. Then, first with crutches, and finally on her own, she began to walk.
She eventually returned to home and daily affairs, but would lie awake many nights with terrible cramps in her legs. Often in the early morning hours my father would carry her to the tub and wrap hot towels around her legs, attempting to relieve the pain.
While my mother was in the hospital, I had become close with Mrs. Helen Jackson, a lady in her late fifties who lived in the cottage next to ours. Since she never had any children, she sort of adopted me. We went everywhere together, often riding the streetcars downtown to eat, to take in a movie, or to visit the big department stores.
I’d also visit her at home. I’d knock on the door and wait until she’d say, “The coast is clear” (meaning her husband was out). Only then would I enter. Mr. Jackson was a religious fanatic and very mean. I’d help Mrs. Jackson cook, and we would have supper together. I also loved to type on Mr. Jackson’s typewriter. Heaven was a place where everybody could have their own typewriter and sit around all day typing.
In 1952, we moved to the Silverlake area, about twelve miles away. Mrs. Jackson would write and say how lonely she was now that we could no longer be together. Then, suddenly, the letters stopped. Almost a year passed. I kept asking my mother where she was. She finally told me she was “in God’s hands.” I didn’t know what that meant, but feared the worst. Then, A Gift from the Sea, a book by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, was returned to us by Mr. Jackson. My parents had sent it to Mrs. Jackson while she was in the hospital, stricken with cancer. I now began to realize she was dead. Such a sweet and gentle lady; a Protestant saint. I knew she was in Heaven, but cried anyway.
At Silverlake, our new neighbors were the Kirkpatricks. They had a daughter, Melanie, ten, and a son, Toddles, five. One morning some kerosene and old rags caught fire in their garage. All the neighborhood kids gathered in our yard to watch the firemen battle the blaze. We saw them carry two stretchers out to the ambulance. The first was a small boy, covered by a white sheet. The other was Mrs. Kirkpatrick.
Toddles was killed by the fire. How handsome he’d been, coming over to our house only last Sunday to show off his new Easter suit! How could God take the life of a five-year-old? It made no sense at all. I asked my grandfather why we were put here, if we were only going to die. He said, “If you were a turkey, David, and you knew you’d end up on the table come Thanksgiving, wouldn’t you choose to be born anyway?” I wasn’t so sure.
Death gave the Kirkpatricks a certain ineffable quality that prompted one to speak of them in hushed tones. It was as if the entire family had perished in the fire. Yet, though they moved away shortly afterwards, my mother continued to see them. To my astonishment, she said they were slowly resuming normal lives.
While in the first grade, I falsely told my mom that my art work had been placed on display at school. When she came down to see my exhibition, I happened to spot her searching the halls. I kept muttering nervously, “I just don’t know what HAPPENED to it!” Finally, turning to me scoldingly, she inquired, “OK, where IS it, David?” I did what may still be the most rapid thinking of my life. “Now I remember,” I exclaimed, “they hung it in the Men’s Room!”
By age eight, I had become an avid sports fan. My favorite team was the L.A. Angels of the Pacific Coast Baseball League. My father and I would drive to Wrigley Field to watch them play their archrivals, the Hollywood Stars. Attending Angels games in south Los Angeles was my first contact with black people. We’d park on their lawns for $.50, and root the Angels home to victory together. Their neighborhood was very different from ours, but they were all so friendly. If somebody was black, I immediately liked them, and would get terribly upset if anybody said anything bad about them. I was sure they all rooted for the Angels.
The kids of the 1940’s could worship statesmen; those of the ’60’s, martyred saints like Kennedy and King. My gods were baseball stars. Mays and Mantle, Thor and Jupiter. Aparicio, God of Swiftness; Kluzsweski, God of Strength. How could one help but be awestruck by someone who could belt a ball 450 feet! And for what better purpose than to power one’s favorite team to victory. I diligently collected all information available about my heroes, and had nearly every baseball card printed between 1953 and 1959.
By January 1957, I was ready to graduate from Ivanhoe Elementary School. Three miles down the road lay King Junior High. Barely eleven years old, and weighing a scant 76 pounds, I was suddenly to be thrown in with the tough inner-city kids. And, rather than being in the same classroom all day, we would have our own complicated schedules to keep. I was sure I’d be spending my junior high years roaming the halls, frantically searching for the right rooms.
It was thus with much reluctance that I made my final rounds at Ivanhoe, having teachers and friends sign my autograph book. “When you get married and get divorced, come to my stable and marry my horse,” wrote Virginia Fong. “2 good + 2 be = 4 gotten,” inscribed Susan Peterson. “Roses are red, violets are black. You’d look better with a knife in your back!” scrawled Gary Leone, the neighborhood brat. We held our graduation party at Steve Olsen’s and vowed to stick together during our years at junior high.
In junior high, my favorite class was social studies, taught by Mr. Finestein. He was a cool Jewish playboy, always with good stories to tell. He once mentioned having been at Stanford when Doodles Weaver announced he was jumping off the Belltower. Doodles had taken a mannequin, smeared catsup on it, and placed it underneath the Belltower before his “leap.” Our class decided to pull this on our English teacher, Mr. Quinn. Before class, we catsuped Paul Morris and stuck him in the garden underneath Mr. Quinn’s second-story window. We then stood over the window, horror-stricken, pointing to the body. “I really liked old Morris,” said Tom Ailsworth. “Yeah, nobody believed him when he said, ‘Life’s a real drag,’ ” added Sandy Wedge. Mr. Quinn, pacing the room, was extremely excited. “You mean that one’s coming back again! It’s been nearly fifteen years since anybody’s tried to pull that!”
On Saturdays, I’d ride the 39G bus downtown. Even though thousands of people worked and shopped there daily, it was my own special place. Downtown L.A. was chatting with long-haired old men on the benches outside the public library about the time the Wobblies bombed the L.A. Times building, lying in wait for the autograph of a visiting Cincinnati Red as he passed through the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel, watching the prices on the big board at the Pacific Stock Exchange being changed by men on very high ladders, talking trade with the stamp and coin dealers, listening to exhortations by withered evangelists at Pershing Square, pausing at shoeshine stands to catch the Dodgers’ scores, and glaring at the maze of red and green lights piercing the night along the deserted tracks near Union Station. And, at Christmas, while walking through the brisk December air, there could be seen bell-ringing Salvation Army Ladies, streetcorner Santas, gayly decorated department store windows, and women, piled high with colorful packages, rushing madly to catch the Outbound 91W to Hollywood.
By the eighth grade, the coolest guys were in a club called the Dukes. They were sponsored by the Northside Presbyterian Church. Their youth director, Don Von Meyer, put out a club newsletter with items like, “It’s rumored that the Dukes are taking TAXIS to their meetings — how cool can you get!!! . . . was that the Spartans’ shy Bobby Ricker giving a ‘snow job’ to some sweet young thing at the Brown Derby last Saturday night? . . . could the look in Bill Brubaker’s eyes while dancing with a cute Beta at the hop last Friday mean he’s discovered other things besides baseball???”
Shortly after the Dukes began, my best friend, Mike Rinka, became a member. Eventually, he got me in. My mom didn’t want me to join, but I did anyway. To refuse would have been unthinkable. I glowed just contemplating being in on the deliberations of the great Dukes! There were parties, athletic competition, and banquets. We also took field trips. Into Hollywood, to stand in a circle, pointing at the sky, until hundreds of people gazed ridiculously into the heavens. To the lobby of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, waging duels with Zorro swords. To the construction site at Dodger Stadium, hot-wiring the tractors and racing them around. Being in the Dukes gave you the feeling of being in a gang, yet we seldom got into fights or indulged in the types of activities which marred you for life.
The best thing about being in the Dukes was getting to wear the club jackets, walking verification of coolness. They were dark blue with “Los Dukes” in light blue, written across the back in Olde English. King Junior High immediately prohibited the wearing of club jackets on campus. So we took the lettering off. But everybody knew they were Duke jackets.
The Dukes were hip, and Ron Davis was the hippest of the Dukes. How far you had to go was measured by how much you differed from Davis. If he said it was cool, then it was OK to get into fights. If he was doing well in school, it was all right to get good grades. Embodying our most fervent aspirations, he was free to do or say anything.
The Dukes disbanded upon entering high school. The coolest Dukes were able to join the now more prestigious high school clubs or gangs. The rest of us would concentrate on sports or getting into college. Davis, last word has it, now pushes heroin. Most of the coolest Dukes now pump gas, serve time at road camp, or other none-too-desirable tasks. Looking back, I suppose one could say they were “culturally deprived.” But at the time, how I wanted to be free like them!
One evening my father brought home a little puppy, a light brown cocker spaniel we named Ginger. She was fun to play with, take on walks, and greet when you entered the house, running up to be patted on the head. Everybody loved her. And Ginger loved everybody. Except Robert, the Japanese gardener. “Perhaps she’s been reading too many World War II novels,” my dad said. I naturally presumed her fate was entwined with my own. She was a pal, always in the right mood. Soulful when you were down, playful when you were happy. We spent many wonderful years together.
During one of my last visits home, my parents informed me that Ginger had had a bad night. And there she was, lying still on the floor. I never knew much about dogs, but I immediately sensed she was dying. I started to cry, hugging and hugging her. But Ginger just lay there. It had been near 100 degrees for the past three days. Probably a stroke, my dad said. The papers said the heat had already killed many animals.
I slept outside with Ginger on the patio that night. The next day was even warmer. And Ginger wouldn’t eat. We’d put some liver, her favorite food, on her tray. Even in her mouth. But she wouldn’t eat. Occasionally she’d sip some water from the pan. But no food. By noon she didn’t move at all. Then, for some reason, she lifted her head, licked my cheek, and struggled up the stairs into my parents’ room. Then she just lay flat. My dad reached over her. “She’s dead,” he said. He wrapped a towel around her and quickly carried her down to the kitchen, where it was a bit cooler. But she was dead. We all just sat in the kitchen, crying helplessly.
The next day was still warm. We decided to go for a drive, to get out of the house. Dogs were playing along the way. Didn’t they know Ginger was gone? A week ago she could have been playing with them. Now she was gone.
In the fall of 1963, I entered UCLA, a mammoth big-city “multi-versity,” with the greatest basketball team and traffic snarls in the world. “Every UCLA student is a liberal — until it comes to parking,” remarked comedian Mort Saul. I had first come here with my uncle in the mid-’50’s. All the college guys looked so manly, with their bermuda shorts and hairy legs. Just a kid, I would never be worldly enough for a place like this.
The early ’60’s were an exhilarating time to begin college. The lethargy of the ’50’s was over, the disruptive late ’60’s still to come. It was the Liberal Era. Debates, discussion, organization. Phony and impersonal, perhaps, but stimulating.
I went out for the freshman baseball team. Though once the Koufax of the Silverlake Little League, I was now in the twilight of my career. I somehow managed to make the team, but never got into a game. My closest call came when Coach Monroe said, “OK, Kemsmier, WARM UP!” I charged out to the bullpen and began firing a few into Jack Starr, the catcher. My first “curve” sailed about 120 feet into the stands — three Bruins fans ducking for their skulls. Now, with no ball, we began climbing into the stands to retrieve it. Monroe, curious, asked what-the-hell we were doing. Starr stood there, mouth agasp, pointing to the stands. “David . . . he . . . I . . . I can’t believe it!” Monroe came over and put his arm around me. “That’s OK, Kemsmier, you can stop warming up now.” That was the last time I got the call to warm up.
During my junior year, I took a course in existential philosophy from Dr. Sigmund Meyer. Balding, white shirt open at the collar, a baby-faced smile, he spoke in a thick German accent with his hands in his pockets (he once put his hand in his right pocket, only to painfully discover he was still holding a lit cigarette). He was intensely committed to the struggle for human justice and dignity, but his interest seemed very personal. He understood that we all had our own values and priorities, as well as differing degrees of physical, intellectual, and moral strength. He was delighted when we did get involved, but his keen sense of the absurd permitted him to maintain perspective about his own and others’ actions.
Meyer was killed in an automobile accident the day of the UCLA-SC football game. It was as if it were his final attempt to convey the meaning of the absurd. He had often talked of death: “Everybody thinks to themselves, ‘I’ll never die, maybe I’ll be the first!’ ” He once said of Camus, “He winked at the world.” He was just here for a moment, and did what he could.
I was one of over 4000 students to graduate the following June in UCLA’s Pauley Pavilion. Our families were there, too, snapping photos of us in cap and gown. The ceremony took forever.
My generation was about to confront the world. We, who had begun with the idealism of the New Frontier, were to leave with hoarse throats. People were going crazy; some wore black armbands in opposition to the Vietnam War, others opposed the wearing of armbands. One speaker would be revolutionary; the next, conservative. The divided audience would cheer and hiss. Only the Chancellor was able to unite the crowd. Trying to please all, he alienated everybody.
I thought about Mr. Chang, my teaching assistant for introductory sociology. On the first day of class, in broken English, he advised: “Now I tell you how pass Docta Stevens’ cose. Get hold of last year’s test, cose I gawantee you 80% be on this year’s test. You say to me, ‘How this prepare me for real world?’ but I say to YOU, who GIVE shit about real world!”
The real world was just going to have to hang on a little while longer. Confused by many things, I still had my own world to piece together. Chang would have made a great commencement speaker, I thought to myself.
©Copyright 1981 Nyle Frank
Some of these pieces originally appeared in the Daily Tar Heel, the student newspaper at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
— Ed.
