PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF - PART XIX

Things were quickly falling into place.  Betsy and I were working and very happy in our respective jobs.  Wedding plans were moving along, nicely.  It’s good to be
the groom, as it is the bride’s family’s chief responsibility to plan the wedding.  The guy gets to remain focused on his job and building a new career. All that is expected of him is to get a blood test; sign the marriage license; get fitted for the tux; show up for the wedding and say, “I do.” 

There was about a ten month lag between college graduation and our wedding day.  Our days were filled with work and thinking about our future, together.  Part of that future would be choosing a place to live. Not as easy to gain agreement on as one might think!  It seems that everyone outside of the couple
feels they have something to say about that.  My future mother-in-law was not very bashful about voicing her opinion on this and a few other marital issues.

On two separate occasions, Betsy’s mother sat me down and boldly told me that we would live in New York - nearby - and that any money Betsy would inherit from her late grandfather’s estate would never be on our joint names as husband and wife.  This was way before the age of pre-nuptial agreements and Marvin Mitchelson. Was I some sort of low-life that couldn’t be trusted in marriage, I wondered?  What could have been in that woman’s head to think that such intimate and important decisions were out of Betsy’s and my own control? After all, we were a few years beyond the liberated ages of 18 and 21.

These were decisions made by husbands and wives, not parents and in-laws. Some introduction to being part of my wife’s family, huh?   Making matters worse, my sister and mother-in-law were like fire and water.  My mother defended my sister and it often got ugly.  Oye!

Over the years, my parents and I came to realize that my mother-in-law could be bold, abrupt and often very hurtful. She had no social or emotional controls, whatsoever.  Whatever entered her mouth was let out, no matter what the effect. My father-in-law, on the other hand, was a gentleman at all times. 
Often, he put her in her place. “Dear, you father (also bold and abrupt)
would be very proud of you, now be quiet,” he would often tell her.  Sadly, he died suddenly and very young at 64; only about seven years into our marriage.

Those of you following my story may be wondering - by now - the status of my two grandmothers.  For several chapters I have not mentioned my father’s mother, Grandma Sara.  Grandpa Max (dad’s father) passed away in the
spring of 1968, shortly after Grandpa Ben (mom’s dad).  For awhile, Grandma Sara continued to live alone in her own in her Grand Concourse, Bronx apartment.  When she could no longer properly care for herself, she chose the Kingsbridge Adult Home in the Bronx for her long-term care.  For years, she lived with one kidney – a diseased one – after her health kidney was removed in error back in her younger years.  Her Doctors were amazed that she survived for decades, but most of those years in horrible pain. Grandpa Max was devoted to her care and had little focus on anything else until the day he died. He was a door-to-door custom-peddler and every dime he made went to her ongoing care.

During college, I stayed in touch with Grandma Sara through the mail.  Our letters to one another usually centered on (my) questions about my father’s growing up and why she and her family treated my dad like the loser he certainly was NOT.  They favored my uncle, the dentist and playwright. I never got a clear answer as to why a hardworking son with good values and a nice family was discounted by them. With her gone now, I’ll never understand it.  But, I will continue to honor my father for the good man he was.

In any case, while at Kingsbridge Home, Grandma Sara distinguished herself by earning an Associate’s Degree from Bronx Community College.  She was about 79 at the time.  I have to admire her for that. She was a bright woman, just not a very warm one. 

In any case, word came to us in the fall of 1978 that Grandma Sara had passed away.  By then she was 82.  I don’t remember what was the cause of her death.  I just know it had nothing to do with her kidneys. That of itself was pretty amazing.

Betsy and her mom attended Grandma Sara’s small funeral at a New York City funeral home. Grandma Sara was now gone.  I wish I had known her better. Then again, I wish she respected my dad and his family more.  Oh well, that was her choice and her loss, I suppose.  It was also a fact that she would miss my
wedding by only a few months.  Grandma Pearl would make it to our wedding, though.  There was some poetic justice in that being the case.  For her loving ways, she deserved it more.

Growing up, Betsy always wanted to live in the “country.”  Her parents were your typical “brain-washed” New York residents; convinced that living in the suburbs was barbaric and devoid of cultural opportunities.  If you remember, back then Mayor Ed Koch publicly verbalized those same thoughts and received much flack for it.  I suppose – in those years – if you lived in the “cement jungle,” this was how you dealt with all the congestion, crime and general filth running fairly rampant in four of the five boroughs of the city.  I had many aunts and uncles, who also lived in denial in some very scary parts of the city.

In any case, Betsy and I began looking around for apartments along the bus corridors (mainly Rt. 9) between the Freehold Area and Sayreville.  One of the first places we looked at was the “Nieuw Amsterdam Apartments” on Route 9 in Sayreville.  There was a bus stop right outside of the apartments and the units
themselves were quite nice.  We applied for an apartment there and were denied for no apparent reason.  We were then tipped off by a friendly resident that those apartments openly discriminated against Jews among others.

My sister, Desly knew the rental agent through a friend and called him out on the discrimination, over the phone.  “You don’t want my brother to live there
because he is Jewish.”  My sister tells me that this guy did all but confirm this during the phone call.  Instead of making a federal case of this, Betsy and I simply decided not to live in a place where we weren’t wanted and agreed to look elsewhere.

In our travels, we decided to consider the Stonehurst Apartments in Freehold Township. We really didn’t want to add extra time to our city commute and had earlier decided not to rent there.  On closer inspection and with more thought
given to what the apartment had to offer, we decided that Stonehurst was very
appealing and might be a great place to live.  The apartments were laid out very nicely and were spacious. The rent was an affordable $235 per month (imagine that compared with rentals, today). It didn’t take very long before we decided to rent apartment 81-C, an end unit and the last in the complex before one comes upon the beautiful, larger homes on Stonehurst Blvd.

Betsy and I couldn’t wait to get married and move into our new apartment in Freehold. We didn’t have much money, but we decided to furnish the apartment nicely with what we could afford. We spent a few months looking around for the things we needed to buy.  There were those staples that couldn’t be avoided such as a mattress and box spring, a dinette set, some basic living room furniture and other things.  A family friend donated to us the ugliest crushed velvet couch we ever saw in coin gold and we found a great, used Mediterranean bedroom set at a house-sale in Freehold Township.

Actually, the one thing we bought new and we were both excited with was a wrought iron baker’s rack from Huffman-Koos Furniture, nearby.  You know, that baker’s rack remain in our house as the only piece of furniture we still have from our Stonehurst Apartment.  It still looks great in the corner of our living room.

March 25, 1979 came quickly – our wedding day.  We were to be married in the chapel of the Great Neck Synagogue in Long Island.  The reception would follow in their magnificent ballroom.  My in-laws spared no expense in putting on a
wonderful affair with a full orchestra and soup to nuts banquet. There were no
complaints about the way they were sending their daughter out to married life.

For those of you living in the Freehold Area, Allan Goldberg of Coachman Studios in Freehold was our wedding photographer. Allan goes way back with my family, having taken the photos at Desly’s wedding back in 1972.  To this day, it is very comforting to be in Allan and Carol’s company at Freehold events, they are like family.

More on the wedding, our honeymoon and first days in our
apartment as a married couple as we continue…