look what I found!

I found this story I wrote in 1956. It could be my Pulitzer!

"new york magazine" competitions

For many years, "New York Magazine" ran a series of writing competitions which always appeared on the last page. Readers were given a premise, and the entrants had to develop a one to three line piece or short paragraph to satisfy the description. I entered often and always hoped to win. I look back now, and although many of my "Honorable Mentions" now seem corny and dated, they still make me smile. Here are a few of my entries that won and were published in the magazine. I am going to retype as many as my lazy fingers this afternoon will allow.

" Results of Competiton 746, in which you were asked for Epitaphs."

HERE LIES MICHAEL OVITZ

Perpetual Care by I.M. Pei

"Results of Competition 749, in which you were asked for the opening sentence of a tell-all book."

Last night I dreamt I went to Brooklyn again, where the Brobdingnagian man who today holds court from a corner table at Spago was known simply as "little putz."

"Results of Competiton 816, in which you were asked for the opening lines of a badly written best-seller."

Desiree sat in Judge Paul Tyler's courtroom wearing Armani and a smirk. "So he denied me bail," she thought. "It wasn't so long ago that I was denied nothing." She caught a familiar whiff of Dolce and Gabbana and remembered the hazy evening on Royal Street in the Quarter. "The evidence will show..." droned the prosecutor.

"Results of Competition 862, in which you were asked to win the Eastern Division of the American league, or failing that, to provide a few aromatic lines from a Book About Hollywood."

"And the Oscar goes to... Marlene Bartlett for "Raining in New York." Dr. Lucas Braxton watched as Marlene, radiant, stepped up to the podium. Who would accept, he wondered... Darlene? Charlene? ... or Jim?

"Results of Competition 890, in which you were asked to invent a three-line, two person conversation."

A. I've been told I have no empathy.

B. Well, today my therapist diagnosed me with serious borderline personality disorder.

A. Who cares?

"Results of Competiton 905, in which you were asked for three versions of a random sentence."

The apparition danced before her eyes, then vanished into the dark mirror.

She glanced into the mirror and saw a man looking over her shoulder.

BOO

"Results of Competition 852, in which you were asked to describe creative playthings."

THE COMPETITION EDITOR DOLL-- when it winds up, it says, "Hoping you the same."

That last entry paid homage to the editor of the competitions, Mary Ann Madden. She always ended her Competition report with that sign-off. Some readers complained that the same group of writers won every week, but new names popped up frequently and joined the club.

OK, my fingers need to be bathed in epsom salts.

this old house

I love these photos from 1960 and 1961. They both show in the background a very old house that was torn down shortly thereafter. The first is a photo where I am pledging for Theta Sigma Delta Hi-Y, which is similar to a sorority. The second photo shows me standing on our patio. I love old photos because they are really a glimpse into the past and are the closest experience we have to time travel.

shopping uptown

My parents shopped uptown for the bridal registry dinnerware.

a lofty stroll

best toy ever

It was December 26, 1947 and NY was being bombarded with snow from a terrible relentless blizzard. And, it was on this same night that my father had promised to bring home the Mickey and Minnie Mouse dolls I had seen in a toy store. My mother was getting worried because my father was late coming home and she told me not to expect him to be able to go to get the dolls in such terrible weather. Well, darkness fell and still no sight of my father. As I was about to go to sleep for the night, in walked my father covered in huge amounts of snow. And he was holding the precious Minnie and Mickey Mouse dolls for which I had been frantically waiting all day. I still can hear my mother saying as he walked through the door: "In this weather you went to get the dolls? You're crazy." So what's wrong with crazy?

see-saw, marjorie daw

I seem to be trying to make a decision. Whatever choices I have made, there are no do-overs now.

true love

My parents seemed to be happily married.

the true story

But, this photo proves what I always knew! My mother really hated my father and when nobody was looking, she tried to kill him!

lost, but found

It was always something at the Columbia Silver Company.

I found some silver collectors discussing (at an internet message forum) my father's long gone business. I am one of the daughters of one of the brothers who owned Columbia Silver Company. The silver company was located in Brooklyn on McDonald Avenue. It went completely out of business in the 70s. No records remain. By 1994, all the three brothers had passed away. A photo of the three brothers, from 1916, can be found at this blog in the family photo of the side from Minsk.

from the 30s

This is my mother at graduation and my father in formal wear.

when the leaves began to fall

We moved to Long Island in 1952, and when autumn arrived the chilly weather turned the days grey and the views were bleak. These photos show a cold rain and empty vistas. The neighborhood seemed covered in a despondency that was trapped in an endless maze of mirrors.

Who Do You Think You Are?

Ruby Lazarus, waiting to testify during the Grand Jury gambling investigation.


Photo by Frank Scherschel, Time Life Pictures: Getty Images

I always knew that Ruby Lazarus was my father's first cousin. My grandmother was the sister of Ruby's father.

Ruby Lazarus

more about Ruby Lazarus

paternal great-grandmother, goldie

This is my great-grandmother Goldie, from Minsk, who raised my (grandfather) Max who married Bessie.

paternal great-grandfather, abraham

He was a silversmith from Minsk.

this side from minsk

circa 1916?

maternal grandfather

This is my grandfather Morris, taken in about 1936... in Lakewood, NJ.

maternal grandmother

This is my grandmother Lena, from Vilna, who made the best potato latkes in the world.

this side from vilna

circa 1890?

On an old maroon table in my grandmother’s house sat an incandescent pink seashell. I would hold it to my ear and hear the far-away sounds of the ocean. In the foyer, the steady whir and flutter of the slats on off-white Venetian blinds made me sleepy... as chill winds passed through the most haunted and haunting of places: Brooklyn.

"the atomic flyer"

We were almost numb on "The Atomic Flyer" at Coney Island.

amusement park photo

And when the two children find the photo years later, they play with lipstick and rouge.

let's all play

"Scribble That Face." We had no Nintendo, Game Boy, Grand Theft Auto, internet, or cable TV. We had only channels 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 and 13. We were bored. So, we invented activities. This is a photo that clearly shows what fun we had playing a favorite game called: "Scribble That Face."

a swim, a pony ride, and pulling a hitcher

All of these three photos show different kinds of rides. Sometimes we swim dangerously alone and in three inches of water wear a tube. Sometimes we take rides and let a stronger person lead the way. And sometimes we give a ride to a friend who needs a lift. Wherever the ride takes me, at the end of the day memories beckon from behind stained glass windows and I am like a naked amnesiac who struggles to reach some intoxicating elixir of home.

conquering a fear, first try

In the early part of May 1949, I was able to climb the long staircase to the top of the slide, but when I reached the top I was afraid to slide down. I contemplated my options... and I did an "about face" and walked backwards back down. I did not succeed and fear ruled.

conquering a fear, next try

In late May 1949, we went back to the park and this time I was determined to slide down. I climbed the long staircase and sat down. I thought about my options. I looked down the steep slide. I decided to be brave. And I flew down flat on my back. The event was documented in perfect stages by my father. This incident was perhaps a foreshadowing of my issues with playground slides.

a house on 82nd street

This photo was taken in 1941. It is of my cousin, Eileen, and she is standing in front of my grandmother's house. As I grew up, we often visited my grandmother who lived in that house until her death. It's still there and and for many years after the house was sold I would drive to Brooklyn and see the family who bought the house. They would graciously allow me in, and as I walked through the house I was always filled with memories that came flooding back.

THE BOARDER
Long ago...
A child rested on a maroon sofa
In the still musty living room
Of her grandmother’s house.
The house was decorated with gold tassels
And white lace and starched doilies...
And it trapped a scent of burnt potato pancakes.
At night, the ghosts of ancestors sucked the juice
From the peaches of a backyard tree.

A fake fireplace electrically glowed
Orange-yellowish and whispered in
All seasons the child was home.
On a maroon table, sat an
Incandescent pink seashell...
“Hold it to your ear and you can hear
The sounds of the ocean,” ventriloquists urged.

The steady whir and flutter of the slats
Of off-white Venetian blinds lulled her
As chill winds passed through Brooklyn.

At dusk, the front door opened and
A man, wearing gray and gray,
Silently traipsed through the house
To “his room” and he closed “his door.”
He was home, too.

The grandmother called the man
Just “the boarder.”
The child only glanced up as he passed and
He never spoke to her... nor she to him.

On the clearest of days she cannot even recall
His face... yet she stares at him whenever chill
Winds pass through Manhattan.

charlie was here

... and in his day, he was the best ballroom dancer at Roseland.

the mystery of robert's death

Robert was my mother's brother. He died in 1929, at the age of 16. According to police, he died after accidentally drinking a chemical with which he had been experimenting in the basement of his building. He was experimenting with a glass of water and another glass contained a chemical, and upon conclusion of the experiment, he drank the chemical mistaking it for water.
I think about Robert from time to time. He was my uncle, and he tragically died about 20 years before I was born. The house in which this happened still stands on a Brooklyn street, and memories of childhood visits there appear in my poems and other works.

the "shore parkway" years (1947-1949)

This is where I first remember eating shav and honeydew. On rainy days, I can still smell that overripe honeydew. And on cold days, my father banged on the ceiling with a broom to demand more heat.

the "independence avenue" years (1949-1952)

It was here that I attended PS 229, and I have vague memories of my first grade teacher, Miss McGlynn. I would play "count the blue cars, count the black cars" with my grandmother when we sat at the living room window (seen in the picture here) while waiting for my parents to come home from a day out. And at night I would listen to the sound of the whooshing cars and watch their dancing shadows on my wall as they traveled down Bay 8th Street.

the ultimate accessory: the tube

a chic accessory: the beret

buried in sand

an ode to ocd

I catch a subtle whiff of dried lavender
As our director, a wiry-haired widow,
Lights a cigarette and with a simple single
Gesture flicks the ashes into the palm of her
Fashionably tattooed and manicured left hand.
"There is no need to state your full name;
Just speak of the fear, the constant fear," she coaches.

Behind us, the steady swing and flutter of
Gold diaphanous curtains as a clammy, familiar breeze
Passes through the old chartreuse theater.
We describe strange, tormenting, ritualistic behavior:
Washing, checking, hoarding... mental anguish so
Exquisite the weariest sheds mellifluous tears:
"I've shared ambrosia with gods;
At midnight, demons turn my terror to film noir."

That evening, I dream of solitude
And the transmigration of souls...
One lonely soul wishing to return
Washed in amnesia, hypnotized and untainted.
When I awaken, it is still dark-
Down below, the street is eternally bathed
In disconsolate orange moonlight...
Trapped in an endless maze of mirrors. ©


© 2004 Marjorie Levine, in "Naked Amnesiac"