tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-184435542024-03-06T22:34:25.767-05:00Arlene's Scratch PaperTHE official website of Arlene Schulman: writer, photographer, author, filmmaker, and podcast hostArlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.comBlogger172125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-52877365570215345862024-02-29T15:01:00.003-05:002024-02-29T15:01:40.312-05:00An Elegy to Plastic Slipcovers<p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: aria-text-g2, serif; font-size: 1.25rem;">A gentle indentation marks the spot where Rosa Peña sat enthralled, clutching the hand of her husband, Leo Sánchez, as they watched the melodrama of telenovelas on a plastic slipcovered loveseat in their New York City apartment.</span></p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: aria-text-g2, serif; font-size: 1.25rem; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; word-break: break-word;">A large rectangular etched mirror reflected them back against chalky white painted walls in their short living room that overlooks the street. A combative window shade lets in sunlight that reflects off the shiny plastic and forces Sánchez to squint. At 90, his sturdy frame and thick white hair make him look 30 years younger.</p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: aria-text-g2, serif; font-size: 1.25rem; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; word-break: break-word;">Sánchez once drove a truck delivering caskets to funeral homes not long after he arrived from Santiago in the Dominican Republic in 1962. His wife died in 2019. They sat cheek to cheek for 32 years on a couch embalmed in vinyl.</p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: aria-text-g2, serif; font-size: 1.25rem; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; word-break: break-word;">"Sometimes," Sánchez said, the plastic creaking as he showed her portrait. "I think she's still here next to me."</p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: aria-text-g2, serif; font-size: 1.25rem; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; word-break: break-word;">Read more by clicking on the link to <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/elegy-to-plastic-slipcovers/">Next Avenue</a>.</p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: aria-text-g2, serif; font-size: 1.25rem; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; word-break: break-word;"> <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/elegy-to-plastic-slipcovers/"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOfHCwoWIInzPvQKkQua40h4MUqwO8Ztar73dDEOoY51ld8oa0-1OxnCDUyPVJnziFlWg11jS633XFDodwQfYzlxnnR3SI5BISGWBD3r-OabYpaVRqfgDuaTJ8HJRwzSkYrBK0RdSXjThuwFOW3B-_hURDQIiThojve9hCsiRTYACvmPkl5Gagkg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOfHCwoWIInzPvQKkQua40h4MUqwO8Ztar73dDEOoY51ld8oa0-1OxnCDUyPVJnziFlWg11jS633XFDodwQfYzlxnnR3SI5BISGWBD3r-OabYpaVRqfgDuaTJ8HJRwzSkYrBK0RdSXjThuwFOW3B-_hURDQIiThojve9hCsiRTYACvmPkl5Gagkg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />.<p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0New York, NY, USA40.7127753 -74.005972812.402541463821152 -109.1622228 69.023009136178842 -38.849722799999995tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-49569378785274497762023-11-16T16:24:00.012-05:002023-11-16T16:35:07.959-05:00How I Learned To Hate First-Class Airline Food, TV Dinners and Can Openers<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When it was 6 p.m. on the dot, not long after man first walked on the moon, our neighbors would sit down to plates of home-cooked meals. Our first-floor hallway in the Linden Houses, a public housing complex in Brooklyn, smelled of suppers of baked and fried chicken, pork chops, meatloaf, cornbread and stuffed cabbage. But my family wasn't like the others. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Schulmans dined on airline food, although the closest we came to flying was waving goodbye to my grandmother as she jetted off to another adventure and watched airplanes take off and land at Kennedy Airport.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">(Click through to <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/how-i-learned-to-hate-first-class-airline-food-tv-dinners-and-can-openers/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">continue reading</a> on Next Avenue).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgWefG34ofUZm9UZfO317D-UNTqLUQm9_kcY3O7HJDcsV507-FGakz6Iml9i6ratxezzJIuYFO6WBzwjVtABBuGMBqCI8HdPOtM1MlOdJVye0JqGaAgrP7SJYgAqXOHV8u7YweGjBqstzeE_IkWHzfcxYhdMlTNF9V8Jb4TSzlMq7NFL672vLCyQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1066" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgWefG34ofUZm9UZfO317D-UNTqLUQm9_kcY3O7HJDcsV507-FGakz6Iml9i6ratxezzJIuYFO6WBzwjVtABBuGMBqCI8HdPOtM1MlOdJVye0JqGaAgrP7SJYgAqXOHV8u7YweGjBqstzeE_IkWHzfcxYhdMlTNF9V8Jb4TSzlMq7NFL672vLCyQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">My cookbooks.</div></span></div>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-63638652217793482112023-10-16T16:00:00.009-04:002023-10-16T17:01:37.796-04:00No cows graze in Columbus, but did you see the unicorn?<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>From a story in The Columbus Dispatch written when I was writer-in-residence at the James Thurber House. During my summer in Ohio and the land of Buckeye donuts, I served as a writing coach at the Dispatch, taught writing as a visiting professor at Ohio State University, and led a class of young writers at the Thurber House's camp for kids. And I can confirm that there were ghosts - and at least one bat - in the attic of the Thurber House. </b> </i></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>I’ve been listening to people complain that Columbus, Ohio is too big.<br />
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Others complain about its reputation as a cow town.<br />
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I haven’t seen any cows.<br />
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But then again, I’m from New York. I’m not sure that I would recognize one.<br />
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I haven’t seen anyone wearing overalls Downtown, except me.<br />
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But Columbus is beginning to sound like New York City.<br />
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Cars head north or south on High Street with every window rolled down for cross-ventilation and the pounding beat of a stereo thundering out into the street. When someone drives by at night, the windows rattle and the walls vibrate.<br />
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In New York, these deafening car stereos are considered a mark of success by arrogant teen-agers, most of whom have never heard the smooth sounds of Frank Sinatra and couldn’t care less about James Thurber.<br />
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Once newly minted musicmobile, piloted by a young man who wouldn’t have heard three firetrucks wailing behind him, was so loud that I swear I saw the unicorn in the garden move.<br />
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Well, it’s not an actual unicorn.<br />
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The unicorn is a bronze statue in a lily garden across the street from Thurber House, 77 Jefferson Avenue, that celebrates one of Thurber’s best-known tales, <i>A Unicorn in the Garden</i>.<br />
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In the story, a man wakes up his wife to tell her that there’s a unicorn in the garden and it’s eating roses.<br />
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“The unicorn is a mythical beast,” she says.<br />
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She calls him a “booby” and tells him she will put him in the “booby hatch.” The wife calls the police and a psychiatrist, and when they enter the house, she says, “My husband saw a unicorn this morning.” They cart <i>her</i> off and ask the husband if he has seen a unicorn.<br />
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“Of course not,” he says. “The unicorn is a mythical beast.”<br />
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The husband lives happily ever after.<br />
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Now if this scenario were repeated in New York, it would take on a different twist altogether.<br />
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For one thing, most people don’t have gardens, so the closest thing would be a terrace. <i>A Unicorn on the Terrace</i> doesn’t quite have the same ring.<br />
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Rose don’t grow on terraces, so the unicorn would be eating a potted plant that couldn’t be identified or a leftover wooden dresser that one was meaning to throw out but couldn’t get out of the apartment.<br />
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When the wife calls the husband a booby, he would probably ask her to repeat it into a video camera so that he would have evidence for their divorce proceedings.<br />
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Psychiatrists don’t make house calls.<br />
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The police, arriving 45 minutes later with their guns drawn, would search the house for unicorn, going through closets and cabinets before filling out a missing-person report.<br />
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Animal-rights activists would complain that because the unicorn couldn’t be found, there must be a police cover-up.<br />
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There are plenty of boobies in New York.<br />
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I’m certain that there are plenty of boobies in Columbus who resemble Thurber’s people.<br />
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But they’re spread out, not packed into skyscraper apartment buildings as in New York. Walls are thin there, hallways and entranceways congested, and more people know your business than you think.<br />
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And they have no patience.<br />
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I’ve crossed streets in Columbus while 25 cars wait to turn. So far, no one has honked the horn, bellowed through the window, cursed at me or given me the finger.<br />
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In Manhattan, my foot wouldn’t even be off the curb before one, if not all, of the above had occurred.<br />
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People walk in New York City. Not necessarily by choice, but because it’s the only way to navigate through streets and around people.<br />
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I stopped at the mall in Columbus (we don’t have malls in New York City) and found at least a half-dozen shoe stores specializing in walking shoes.<br />
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But I rarely see anyone walking.<br />
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I’m looked at strangely as people toot their horns and ask me if I need a ride. Being sensible, I won’t accept a ride from a stranger.<br />
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So the rest of the world drives by with windows rolled up, air conditioning blowing and music going full blast, and I’ve got concrete under my feet.<br />
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I like the exercise, and it helps burn off those Buckeye Donuts.<br />
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People here aren’t as thin as in New York.<br />
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In New York, you pay more to eat less. There are women’s clothing shops that carry only sizes 6, 8, and 10. I figure I’d have to buy two of everything and sew them together.<br />
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In Columbus, however, women have hips, and there are plenty of size 12s on the rack.<br />
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There’s less makeup, too.<br />
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In my neighborhood, a trip to the supermarket to buy dog food necessitates wearing at least mascara, foundation, concealer, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick.<br />
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I haven’t seen too much lipstick on line at Kroger.<br />
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It really comes down to one thing: New Yorkers think vertically, Ohioans horizontally.<br />
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Developers spread out from Columbus, swallowing farms and towns.<br />
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In New York, developers gobble up sun and sky.<br />
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People think differently when they’re stacked on top of each other.<br />
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You can be anonymous in New York, but you really can’t get away from anyone. In Central Park, you can’t really lie under a tree and meditate. You could doze off and find your wallet and shoes missing. Or worse.<br />
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Twenty minutes out of Columbus, you can find some woods that a bulldozer hasn’t touched – yet.<br />
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Even Downtown, you can get away from civilization, if only for a moment.<br />
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I walked through Deaf School Park and looked at the shrubbery. A New Yorker wouldn’t appreciate the topiary garden. I figured that someone must have had a lot of time on his hands.<br />
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Next to these elegantly sculpted Parisian women lay a (real) man sleeping on top of a picnic table, his arms folded over his ample middle, a can of beer lying on its side.<br />
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That’s a familiar sight at home.<br />
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A couple from Columbus described themselves as common folk.<br />
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In New York, you describe yourself as type A or type B, give your astrological sign and generally end the conversation with “I have an appointment with my therapist.”<br />
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I wouldn’t say that things are slow here in Columbus, but one evening I hit a particularly rough spot. So I spent the night reading the telephone directory.<br />
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The Columbus telephone book is a rather unusual one. I’ve never seen so many names that are also nouns and adjectives.<br />
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There are Blues, Greens, Blacks, Whites, Browns, Gray, and a Maroon.<br />
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I found a Yin and a Yang, a Tootles and a Zook, more than one Rambo, Farmers and Holsteins, a Cowman, Lamb, Hogg, and a Steer.<br />
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It’s a book fill of Queens, Princes, Jesters, Bishops, Damsels, a Shah, a Munster, a few Looneys, Cranks and Crooks.<br />
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You can search for a Daft, a Bobo that’s Boffo and go out with a Bang.<br />
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There are Lemons and Limes, a Missouri and a Nebraska, Kings and Kongs, Friend and Foe, a Hobo with a few Hicks, a Ding and a Dong with a few Frisbys tossed around for Good Luck.<br />
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You can Hoot at Fate and Ho and Ha at an Idol.<br />
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Man, Gents, Pop, Daughters, Cousins, Dames, a Bridgegroom and a Groom could be Wedd and then have a Fling with a Heimlich and Gallop with Fickle Fowls.<br />
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You can Yo and Yep, Woo a Tweet and a Twitty, and Zapp a Zag.<br />
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I didn’t find any Cows in Columbus.<br />
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But I found a few Moos.<br />
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But let’s not Dilley Dalley.<br />
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I think there’s a unicorn on my terrace.<br />
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<br />
<i>Originally published in The Columbus Dispatch. Arlene Schulman lived in Columbus, Ohio for a summer as journalist-in-residence at the Thurber House. Originally posted here on December 2010. </i>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-26317297858905616402023-07-10T19:06:00.054-04:002023-07-10T19:31:35.601-04:00The Parable of a Book Collector: Next Avenue <p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Preferring to call himself ‘booklover’ rather than ‘book addict,’ this New York City resident has a collection of 70,000 books. His wife is resigned to its impact on their life.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">For Sandra Núñez, living with her husband means finding packages labeled with strange return addresses outside of their apartment door, and a man returning home with illicit bundles tucked under his tan trench coat. It's been like this for 42 years.</span></span></p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">"He's not accepting that he has a problem, that he has an addiction," she said.</span></p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">She exhaled. "He's addicted to — books."</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"></span></span></p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Julio César Núñez suffers from bibliophilia.</span></p><p class="css-1piv1iz eqy5mnn1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 16px 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Read more</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/the-parable-of-a-book-collector/" target="_blank">here</a>. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjySjRwa2fg6uyLMyOl1MjqcgdrK-z66jpfvKGeMP0JWuSd1xHVyRIu5cbpPzqKFKCD5EkbSeon4tAtPFhAJoWU3JCiz0Qaz3rSQF_RkQ9X9Li63bX_itvIugGyHgstdzwDfr_-3-o5AahxUO-Y6-vgF5JlGK_C1sC_4cVGWcgOL3X85L3dlSQvpA/s1280/book-collector.inside.1280x800.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1280" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjySjRwa2fg6uyLMyOl1MjqcgdrK-z66jpfvKGeMP0JWuSd1xHVyRIu5cbpPzqKFKCD5EkbSeon4tAtPFhAJoWU3JCiz0Qaz3rSQF_RkQ9X9Li63bX_itvIugGyHgstdzwDfr_-3-o5AahxUO-Y6-vgF5JlGK_C1sC_4cVGWcgOL3X85L3dlSQvpA/w381-h238/book-collector.inside.1280x800.jpg" width="381" /></a></span></div><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-84225534601539340132023-07-10T18:56:00.015-04:002023-07-10T19:01:23.305-04:00My Cane is NOT a Decoration: Next Avenue<p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My late friend Edith Prentiss, a disability advocate, led by example when it came to fighting for accessibility. Now I use a cane, and I've learned to channel my inner Edith.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After decades of walking miles around New York City, a herniated disc tickled my sciatic nerve, creating searing pain in my back and leg. It promptly threw me into the category of a person with a disability last fall.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Read more by clicking <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/my-cane-is-not-a-decoration/" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></p><p><span face="pt-sans-pro, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 20px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCveiXGWlJWuIXYdP6n_WRgPiljMXwXROhXGaCG0Krf54CIsd1EC8xM2I8I_PbEqd4wAYI0MdKp15qWxQAekO5EV90RauhLo9kGgNuyIavQAJ7KgErStmXbaL8BQ5s4tzlKkNWOQaAPb1zhaFKZkkpZFnFIjmtYLV5M9CSXG2tpKGaJmtYAg0ZEQ/s800/cane-not-decoration.inside.601x800.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCveiXGWlJWuIXYdP6n_WRgPiljMXwXROhXGaCG0Krf54CIsd1EC8xM2I8I_PbEqd4wAYI0MdKp15qWxQAekO5EV90RauhLo9kGgNuyIavQAJ7KgErStmXbaL8BQ5s4tzlKkNWOQaAPb1zhaFKZkkpZFnFIjmtYLV5M9CSXG2tpKGaJmtYAg0ZEQ/w240-h320/cane-not-decoration.inside.601x800.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Disability advocate Edith Prentiss who died in 2021.</div><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-74930918815148784172022-01-19T15:45:00.008-05:002022-01-19T16:14:28.741-05:00Sunrise over the George Washington Bridge<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A look at a fall sunrise over the George Washington Bridge. Since the sun rises in the east, this vantage point is from the New Jersey side.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My short video can be found on Vimeo by clicking read more and then <a href="https://vimeo.com/666188072" target="_blank">here</a>. Enjoy! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://vimeo.com/666188072" target="_blank"></a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCoq6rKnhxP6qGh0CPbTRJ5XQmVLllkT4Vn0jYndELx5mHutAVsPav0bZXDj8BZ4tXbxF28-bJ437AUOt0EsSHLSeBtC3mqcMypr29XdibMVHKkM_EOUgrz8XcwNKUtkpTl01ttb9be0ZxF9nnULqh_TjRC_K5oyZT9_e_ExP7AhdeEBEq2to=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCoq6rKnhxP6qGh0CPbTRJ5XQmVLllkT4Vn0jYndELx5mHutAVsPav0bZXDj8BZ4tXbxF28-bJ437AUOt0EsSHLSeBtC3mqcMypr29XdibMVHKkM_EOUgrz8XcwNKUtkpTl01ttb9be0ZxF9nnULqh_TjRC_K5oyZT9_e_ExP7AhdeEBEq2to=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></span></div><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-71269680087260567972021-04-04T13:10:00.000-04:002021-04-04T13:10:07.563-04:00A Bronx Music Store Survives Decades of Change — and a Pandemic<h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 20px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Casa Amadeo houses an encyclopedia of Latin music and is listed in the National Register of Historic Places.</span></span></h3><p><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 1.25rem;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When Charlie Montoyo arrives at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx for Opening Day on April 1, he won’t be following his usual routine.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.25rem; hyphens: auto; line-height: 1.5; margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Before the pandemic, Montoyo, the manager of the Blue Jays, would change into running shorts and T-shirt, plug the mambo beats of Tito Puente into his ears and jog along the Grand Concourse to Prospect Avenue.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.25rem; hyphens: auto; line-height: 1.5; margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The two-mile ritual led him through the history of the Bronx where apartments once filled with Jews and Italians aspiring to be middle class had been replaced by mostly Puerto Ricans who moved to the mainland in the 1950s, expecting streets paved with gold.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.25rem; hyphens: auto; line-height: 1.5; margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Read more <a href="https://columbianewsservice.com/2021/03/24/through-decades-of-change-and-a-pandemic-a-bronx-music-store-survives/" target="_blank">here</a>. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.25rem; hyphens: auto; line-height: 1.5; margin: 1em 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9J6utWD_5W8TSJSy9CEjy9q8qdLoUdxfJlFNlkEbjbiues7CulNks9g1uPbIplphxawWhUIxz06mIm0D1ehFOz06Ihywrrl1JCTjKH-CVZMyDFmNEllYGDGVP1w1FdggB9sWkbQ/s2048/3.+CDs+for+Sale+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com..jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9J6utWD_5W8TSJSy9CEjy9q8qdLoUdxfJlFNlkEbjbiues7CulNks9g1uPbIplphxawWhUIxz06mIm0D1ehFOz06Ihywrrl1JCTjKH-CVZMyDFmNEllYGDGVP1w1FdggB9sWkbQ/w640-h480/3.+CDs+for+Sale+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com..jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-74348835755670517042021-04-04T12:44:00.014-04:002021-04-04T13:01:20.693-04:00Edith Prentiss: Hell on Wheels - The New York Times obituary<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Edith Prentiss, Fierce Voice for Disabled New Yorkers, Dies at 69. She was passionate - and relentless - about making the city she loved navigable for everyone. </span></b></p><div class="css-1vkm6nb ehdk2mb0" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: 100%; vertical-align: baseline;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtniWQuWWxAnHuJzgjNJ445qiXfKAThPCpl9HT_HjbbxcFh9Ex0hmu7G4CeRwCQl_T4HldN0Ky5bYwS3x8Yr2zGDsWa1XZ5767HStTW-DYMpDmV141xTG_SXsi579v3U_gtb3ToQ/s2048/Edith+Prentiss+crossing+the+Broadway+Bridge+photo+by+ARlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtniWQuWWxAnHuJzgjNJ445qiXfKAThPCpl9HT_HjbbxcFh9Ex0hmu7G4CeRwCQl_T4HldN0Ky5bYwS3x8Yr2zGDsWa1XZ5767HStTW-DYMpDmV141xTG_SXsi579v3U_gtb3ToQ/w400-h300/Edith+Prentiss+crossing+the+Broadway+Bridge+photo+by+ARlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9a1VC0ObUY4fwIGad-_NEPzIECp81iupkVajW2k-rFDL6l0cqILPrZSB1QupRajywNTvQIcq0bD8B-vqFgmWGdPdbAdfjKTvZfG-S_3IB__FzVMz-uEu5eFisNT1S1vrgwjc5MQ/s2048/Edith+Prentiss+by+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9a1VC0ObUY4fwIGad-_NEPzIECp81iupkVajW2k-rFDL6l0cqILPrZSB1QupRajywNTvQIcq0bD8B-vqFgmWGdPdbAdfjKTvZfG-S_3IB__FzVMz-uEu5eFisNT1S1vrgwjc5MQ/w240-h320/Edith+Prentiss+by+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/28/nyregion/edith-prentiss-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1" rel="" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/28/nyregion/edith-prentiss-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1" style="font-family: nyt-cheltenham, georgia, "times new roman", times, serif; text-align: left;">https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/28/nyregion/edith-prentiss-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1</a></div><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/28/nyregion/edith-prentiss-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1" rel="" target="_blank"></a><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-24736093302308926362021-02-28T14:07:00.000-05:002021-02-28T14:07:18.825-05:00New York Responds: The First Six Months <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My photograph of masks drying over my kitchen sink leads off the section of the exhibit called, appropriately enough, Masks,</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>By the middle of March, an unfamiliar acronym—PPE (Personal Protective Equipment)—had entered into the popular vernacular. Seemingly overnight, selling and wearing masks became ubiquitous in New York. On April 17, 2020, Governor Andrew Cuomo issued an executive order requiring mask-wearing in public wherever social distancing was impossible. For many, wearing a mask outdoors became an opportunity for creativity and personal expression—whether in the form of levity or as a message of protest.</i></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBCF7XDLco39g7plRtTMl8ZyLWOXMXgOPrFumAF3FbNP8jFFQUZyb5AEf8wp4B-HXUMlCfXlr6BJKNsCTSrcRNmkQ-zAVnE3hqBDCjuYFqXCP0itk1fWjMYZwJ5QdqB5tK2APwg/s2048/IMG_4041.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBCF7XDLco39g7plRtTMl8ZyLWOXMXgOPrFumAF3FbNP8jFFQUZyb5AEf8wp4B-HXUMlCfXlr6BJKNsCTSrcRNmkQ-zAVnE3hqBDCjuYFqXCP0itk1fWjMYZwJ5QdqB5tK2APwg/s320/IMG_4041.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> For more information about the exhibit and to visit the photographs on line go to <a href="https://www.mcny.org/nyresponds/images">https://www.mcny.org/nyresponds/images</a><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-28832160839347106152021-02-28T11:30:00.004-05:002021-02-28T11:30:54.731-05:00Pedro Sierra: One of the last Negro League pitchers persisted for the love of the game<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Pedro Sierra poses on a concrete mound facing an imaginary batter. He tucks a baseball into his palm, hands as large as catcher’s mitts, setting up pitches based on physics, syncopation and deception. As his windup begins, his dark 82-year-old eyes fix on his intended victim like a cat ready to ambush a mouse.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hands above his head, the pitch is a mystery to onlookers until it reaches his opponent in a pugilistic style that takes him back to ballfields cluttered with rocks and thorny bushes in Cuba, where he first played the game. Almost every kid played baseball in Havana, including Sierra who was 5 or 6 when he first grabbed a stick and hit a worn ball.</span></p><p><a href="https://www.nj.com/opinion/2021/02/one-of-the-last-negro-league-players-persisted-for-the-love-of-the-game.html" target="_blank"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvb2xUkNZn372QMj0rpFJoYYPDdeRWnOXRWtWkdLrtSFKP9yVYXAEylPr3mI2rCMNAlbuIErIUNJkrk_lsHoSYOkz8IyTHp7_e-2E3RLl7sTaZ7I0nttSZZwI3xxHq4wfV9Y0Lxg/s4032/11.+Portrait+2+of+PEdro+Sierra+by+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvb2xUkNZn372QMj0rpFJoYYPDdeRWnOXRWtWkdLrtSFKP9yVYXAEylPr3mI2rCMNAlbuIErIUNJkrk_lsHoSYOkz8IyTHp7_e-2E3RLl7sTaZ7I0nttSZZwI3xxHq4wfV9Y0Lxg/s320/11.+Portrait+2+of+PEdro+Sierra+by+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>“There were so many people who played baseball,” he recalls, listening to Miles Davis in his two-bedroom, poster-filled home in Mays Landing. “It was in our blood. Rafael Almeida, Armando Marsans. They were the talk of the neighborhood. … I wanted to be like them.”</p><p>His neighborhood in Havana was once saturated with prizefighters, baseball players and musicians, the smell of cigars and beats of son, mambo and rumba. Families like Sierra’s were squished into one-room tenements with toilets and washing stalls outside. A shower was a bucket of water heated up on the stove. Sierra, the son of a welterweight contender named Perico who shined shoes, was too small to box, instead, he found his music in baseball. So, he headed to the United States, where local heroes had gone to play the sport.</p><div>Read more about <a href="https://www.nj.com/opinion/2021/02/one-of-the-last-negro-league-players-persisted-for-the-love-of-the-game.html" target="_blank">Pedro Sierra and the Negro Leagues in my NJ.com story. </a> (Sign up but no fees may be required)</div>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-14598640531747573432020-11-09T19:08:00.003-05:002020-11-10T15:52:24.648-05:00A 17-year-old boy was recently murdered in the Bronx, and his mother is searching for answers. <p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The killer stepped between tightly parked cars and crossed in front of a Jesus Loves You sign to the teenager standing in front of 1705 Hoe Ave. in the Bronx.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Jeanette Spruell Werts replays the surveillance video, released by the NYPD, over and over again, looking for clues into her son’s murder. And each time she presses the play button, two men dressed in black pants, hooded sweatshirts and white masks appear, one stepping away as the killer runs onto the sidewalk in grainy slow motion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Kather Werts, 17, shot in the foot, crawls away. His executioner stands over him, points his gun and fires again, hitting once in the head.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Read more here: <a href="https://columbianewsservice.net/2020/11/05/a-teen-is-murdered-and-his-mother-asks-why/?back-url=https%3A%2F%2Fcolumbianewsservice.net%2F">https://columbianewsservice.net/2020/11/05/a-teen-is-murdered-and-his-mother-asks-why/?back-url=https%3A%2F%2Fcolumbianewsservice.net%2F</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRXXa-VVToz569dX_-RCHaQNQpLGM7rOBpSCeZ6Nzesh1ImsPmpUVvvFfpf3BDRzMNBRlyN92hAbudNVGLWPZSyKvPkIN4SAAyYZMq3q81RvtdW-gHi5eMFQStjA54-YRqQJy9Q/s2048/4.+A+heart+marks+the+spot+where+Kather+Werts+was+killed+Photo+by+Arlene+Schulman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRXXa-VVToz569dX_-RCHaQNQpLGM7rOBpSCeZ6Nzesh1ImsPmpUVvvFfpf3BDRzMNBRlyN92hAbudNVGLWPZSyKvPkIN4SAAyYZMq3q81RvtdW-gHi5eMFQStjA54-YRqQJy9Q/s320/4.+A+heart+marks+the+spot+where+Kather+Werts+was+killed+Photo+by+Arlene+Schulman.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrB3a7-k324jTxc80mOahUvKj7kCt7RowtpjV6FkHY2jrj9j3uRWTlZt_t7dZeCQWdK0EA665poryp36Eio5E-za5XspBaiDwOtemdppVsTVThcK9Oep1UCkeiGAbeDV8lTUgAA/s2048/5.+A+tribute+to+Kather+Werts+at+1705+Hoe+Ave+by+Arlene+Schulman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrB3a7-k324jTxc80mOahUvKj7kCt7RowtpjV6FkHY2jrj9j3uRWTlZt_t7dZeCQWdK0EA665poryp36Eio5E-za5XspBaiDwOtemdppVsTVThcK9Oep1UCkeiGAbeDV8lTUgAA/s320/5.+A+tribute+to+Kather+Werts+at+1705+Hoe+Ave+by+Arlene+Schulman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-62861499167222602732020-11-05T12:32:00.008-05:002020-11-05T12:39:14.096-05:00For Advocate of Voters With Disabilities, Polls Present Obstacles<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Edith Prentiss wheeled across the ramp into her polling site in Washington Heights on Election Day and sighed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://columbianewsservice.net/2020/11/03/for-advocate-of-voters-with-disabilities-polls-present-obstacles/">https://columbianewsservice.net/2020/11/03/for-advocate-of-voters-with-disabilities-polls-present-obstacles/</a></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6okUFcgwrq6JEq-TnfehkELwQBvjWqIln3nueBi-5_k9ulYCmK2WY2euTUUksCPJnY0mcU0WaLqnOyKufDIBNdME2V11m9lWkLN8fJd1IXZRbtLUNZ3pgZMN-M6pfzxfwGO-Lw/s1512/741E9F61-0505-45F5-BD29-E3DE938C8134.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6okUFcgwrq6JEq-TnfehkELwQBvjWqIln3nueBi-5_k9ulYCmK2WY2euTUUksCPJnY0mcU0WaLqnOyKufDIBNdME2V11m9lWkLN8fJd1IXZRbtLUNZ3pgZMN-M6pfzxfwGO-Lw/s320/741E9F61-0505-45F5-BD29-E3DE938C8134.JPG" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-17662543310974779562020-10-20T15:03:00.002-04:002020-10-20T15:03:52.975-04:00Bridge builder’s bust may finally return next year. Does anyone know who he is?<p> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px;">Revered for its modern, elegant design of precisely placed steel, the George Washington Bridge soars above the Hudson River, connecting Manhattan to Fort Lee, New Jersey. At night, its lights twinkle like the diamond necklace worn by Cassie Louise Lightfoot in Faith Ringgold’s book </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px;">Tar Beach.</em><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px;">Read more about the bridge and its builder <a href="https://columbianewsservice.net/2020/10/14/bridge-builders-bust-may-finally-return-next-year-does-anyone-know-who-he-is/?fbclid=IwAR0uDOmTnJHUxNWbX-46lwJy3y0ALomNYyhu9syU6ty_8nm8hDdN5NZawmo">here.</a></span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGWiHAVrD2AKnUurtjx5KdM7koD06JfdnMJ4brxr6und05SPc7eyM4NzZ3_miW9L7iAu3Gz3ymfcm9oKfd7IZIhzWYibghnEZNno7GmVDprVoIT3bVhpL9lD21ZVEhgpbRLdiAw/s2016/5.+View+from+the+top+of+the+GW+Bridge+facing+Manhattan+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGWiHAVrD2AKnUurtjx5KdM7koD06JfdnMJ4brxr6und05SPc7eyM4NzZ3_miW9L7iAu3Gz3ymfcm9oKfd7IZIhzWYibghnEZNno7GmVDprVoIT3bVhpL9lD21ZVEhgpbRLdiAw/s320/5.+View+from+the+top+of+the+GW+Bridge+facing+Manhattan+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-35510124093353673952020-06-21T12:47:00.000-04:002020-06-21T12:47:10.607-04:00The Prizefighters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A selection of my boxing photographs set to Joan Baez's haunting version of Paul Simon's The Boxer. </span></div>
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<br />Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-57809920327060392812020-06-21T12:22:00.001-04:002020-09-18T17:22:17.194-04:00Bomba y Plena (video)<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bomba y Plena was shot in El Barrio/East Harlem/ Spanish Harlem on June 14, 2020 at the end of a protest march. The march began in Washington Heights and ended in this neighborhood, on a day that the Puerto Rican Day parade would have taken place. </span><br />
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<br />Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-79365953023160229772020-05-22T17:17:00.001-04:002020-09-18T17:20:43.630-04:00Sign in the Window (video)<p> <span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-weight: 600;">ONE NEIGHBOR'S STORY:</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;"> Sign in the Window. A handlettered sign appeared in a window in Washington Heights, a poignant reminder of the toll of COVID-19. 'COVID-19 killed my mom last Sunday.' Here's the story behind that sign, the importance of wearing a mask, and one daughter's love for her mother.</span></p><p><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IFyBMlh3fqo" width="320" youtube-src-id="IFyBMlh3fqo"></iframe></div><br /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span><p></p>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-45447122305732105972020-05-21T12:50:00.000-04:002020-05-21T12:50:33.060-04:00An Elegy for an Old Friend. Coogan's.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="gj hc" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; font-weight: 700; letter-spacing: -0.06300000101327896px;">When Coogan’s opened its doors in 1985</span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.06300000101327896px;">, its first customer, or maybe its second, wandered in, took a look around, and never left. Its unpretentious wooden tables and wallpaper of photographs of politicians, police officers, actors, and neighborhood locals; a stalwart menu of Irish fare including French crepes, matzoh ball soup, and the world’s smallest sundae named after Olympic champion runner </span><a class="cl di hd he hf hg" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eamonn_Coghlan" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-image: url("data:image/svg+xml; background-position: 0px calc(1em + 1px); background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; background-size: 1px 1px; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); color: inherit; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; http: //www.w3.org/2000/svg\"><line x1=\"0\" y1=\"0\" x2=\"1\" y2=\"1\" stroke=\"rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84)\" /></svg>"); letter-spacing: -0.06300000101327896px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Eamonn Coughlin</a><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.06300000101327896px;"> who was tall and fast; and three genial owners who, in the grand Irish tradition of never having met a stranger, welcomed him into their household, and he was home. Whether Steve Simon was the first or second customer has been debated for 35 years and will be debated for many more to come. But one thing is certain: he was their final customer, arriving on March 16, 2020 in time to beat the 8 pm citywide mandated restaurant closing, and ate the last supper before the coronavirus ended Coogan’s’ illustrious run.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.06300000101327896px;">Read more on <a href="https://medium.com/@arleneschulman_915/an-elegy-for-an-old-friend-coogans-f4ec2da115ae" target="_blank">Medium</a>. </span>Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-75086029417620077042020-04-19T10:28:00.002-04:002020-04-19T10:50:47.649-04:00Be a Champion: Help Knock Out the Coronavirus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-59316815324894296402020-04-18T14:02:00.001-04:002020-04-18T14:40:13.595-04:00Pastrami a go-go Podcast: A Conversation with Author Eric K. Washington<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="caret-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif;"><b>Welcome to the latest episode of Pastrami a go-go and other rye tales of the city!</b></span></h2>
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<b>Author and historian Eric K. Washington discusses his lastest book, 'James H. Williams: Boss of the Grips,' a newly discovered history of the man who served as boss of the Red Caps and played a pivotal role in the history of New York City. Williams organized a workforce of black men, most based in Harlem, into an essential labor force in New York City's Grand Central Station. Washington chronicles Williams’s life, showing how the enterprising son of freed slaves successfully navigated the segregated world of New York City. Williams promoted civic and cultural projects, organized both a baseball and a basketball team, and an orchestra. </b><br />
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<b>An homage to the Red Caps as sung by Louis Armstrong and his Orchestra in 1937 accompanies the conversation. </b></div>
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<b>You can listen to it by clicking here <a href="https://arlenetheauthor.podbean.com/"><i>https://arlenetheauthor.podbean.com</i></a></b><br />
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<b>Stitcher: </b><i><a href="https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/arlene-schulman/pastrami-a-gogo-and-other-rye-tales-of-the-city">https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/arlene-schulman/pastrami-a-gogo-and-other-rye-tales-of-the-city</a></i><br />
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<b>Spotify: </b><i><a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/4EwVsUUZZNNU2HWZ3FR8dZ" target="_blank">https://open.spotify.com/show/4EwVsUUZZNNU2HWZ3FR8dZ<b> </b></a></i><br />
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<b>Coming soon to Apple.</b><br />
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<b>Enjoy!</b></div>
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Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-87746366146216937812020-02-20T19:04:00.000-05:002020-02-20T19:23:08.195-05:00Podcast: Pastrami a go-go: An Interview with Author Anthony Tucker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Welcome to the second episode of <b>Pastrami a go-go and other rye tales of the city</b>! This latest episode features Anthony Tucker of the Bronx, who talks about his path to teaching and writing and his latest children's book, <b>Tied In</b>. Illustrated by Charlene Mosley.</div>
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Click here to listen to Anthony's story: <a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="async" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Farlenetheauthor.podbean.com%2Fe%2Fpastrami-a-go-go-a-conversation-with-author-anthony-tucker%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR1-0EBNmXLijp8BhFiOi489RsGAtRCSldAcpLAujjvlgrBCR_VRFQ_ZajY&h=AT1W-D6h3nrEWta6mbv5O9URa5D6uJjsP6hT_0nXKugaPpdniBeKv1BFLeQma_-dtOQMqCcp0W3yQIibxEhNbWvOXhZrMnPQ0xgaaXkb8E0kOiwabDNxiZoYtoORJODKyupWdZYQ7XnYstctIlwNu6qNSJ8RorIuNJpywHDeW3U0VUUKd8h2_O1Yexlki6nhWIuKBT7XLZ5T4YfVHUT3RJy4FzmquT7s1J_tn99u4FJThZwpY-iZ2eOThYbGEC-57Gm-breovxV7eqibv8l4VYzDeMSBAIgm09Wq3CvpzT6qQfvt05e5lpg6tECd3MydfgkLK7BbaJD4vmD4oBh-VL76wUVECGUKGxWt7HtPKcoWFnxegL2ZQoxIy6HrS4JdOwblJrC66cfNNL8o8iGBbvhdHJHBeeoPbonOT8kh9HgC90dsCay_773mfuLTvY9WjREOBUT3zJrXwqPg07kmDFDTf_E-wnBZ6UvX7Y5TM4KVXp54fcPkh12aNUPQ1wTaZURB1rwv9_H_H7w8IbuC6-bpBayZ9RUS44S4YWm5-YgvbndzSsRbgWr1MPRgRj40SVxNrmKA7eIhW1Td-pvvHUTu5M6kZMPMN_45W_k0_X1S-Npem3AJ73ejGkrVffGTqQ3s58zPnV4ZrL8" href="https://arlenetheauthor.podbean.com/e/pastrami-a-go-go-a-conversation-with-author-anthony-tucker/?fbclid=IwAR1-0EBNmXLijp8BhFiOi489RsGAtRCSldAcpLAujjvlgrBCR_VRFQ_ZajY" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://arlenetheauthor.podbean.com/e/pastrami-a-go-go-a-c…/</a></div>
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<span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Follow Pastrami a go-go on Facebook for updates and more information at </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pastramiagogo/">https://www.facebook.com/pastramiagogo/</a><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<b><span style="background-color: #f2f3f5; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"> </span><span dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f2f3f5; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span class="_3l3x _1n4g" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">S</span>ara Chapman talks about the importance of wearing a tie. She's the Director of the Education and Career Services Department at the Northern Manhattan Improvement Corporation in Washington Heights. 'Ties are such an antiquated piece of clothing. It's r</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">eally interesting that it's still something that we hang on to. It's one of the few ways I think that men can express themselves at work because otherwise they just have the standard suits and they don't vary all that much," she says. " It's not just a piece of clothing that's in our professional world. It's a way that men are able to identify themselves and express themselves as unique individuals in the professional world.. . . . Even something as simple as a tie can have a huge impact on a young adult.'</span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-20502376426496715562019-09-18T20:38:00.003-04:002019-09-18T20:45:06.980-04:00Edith Prentiss: Hell on Wheels - documentary film <h3>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">IN PROGRESS: For information about my latest project, a documentary about disability advocate Edith Prentiss, please visit the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/edithprentisshellonwheels/" target="_blank">Facebook page at Edith Prentiss: Hell on Wheels</a> for news and updates.</span></h3>
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Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-22230621400571220882019-03-13T04:12:00.000-04:002019-03-13T14:57:57.212-04:00Pastrami a go-go and Other Rye Tales of the City<div style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<b>Welcome to the launch of the podcast, Pastrami a go-go and Other Rye Tales of the City!</b></div>
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Our first episode, <i>T</i><b><i>he Last Days of Lord & Taylor, </i></b>traces the history of the store and features interviews with loyal shoppers, while David Moin of Women's Wear Daily offers his perspective on the closing after almost 200 years in NYC and the future of the retail business in NYC.</div>
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<b>Exclusive!</b> Max Herman, a descendent of Samuel Lord offers his take on the closing AND you’ll hear the final in-store <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">announcement on its last day of business. </span></div>
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You can listen to the podcast by clicking on one of the links below: </div>
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<a href="https://bit.ly/2NIVIf3" target="_blank">Podbean website</a> which is hosting Pastrami a go-go </div>
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Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-70214554894818134862019-01-06T22:52:00.003-05:002019-01-06T23:16:38.407-05:00A Remembrance: Amy Phillipson<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSWDZ6PMRTV4K1S6-zH_m5WK1IYVa1FgNoOkVPszmYHrfI_zQexM6GeLk9XC8l_L9MT1uNjE1T_ut-DJs_0TC4AOtFSv34_zOlf7liJZwDVa3L0O2BmAGDdxIrIoRfJOVkGoj1w/s1600/12043037_10153329387203472_6536357390688146286_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSWDZ6PMRTV4K1S6-zH_m5WK1IYVa1FgNoOkVPszmYHrfI_zQexM6GeLk9XC8l_L9MT1uNjE1T_ut-DJs_0TC4AOtFSv34_zOlf7liJZwDVa3L0O2BmAGDdxIrIoRfJOVkGoj1w/s320/12043037_10153329387203472_6536357390688146286_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amy Phillipson on the left, me on the right</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, friendships were cemented in the classrooms of P.S. 306 and out of doors, from shared sandwiches in the school lunchroom to terraces of the Linden Houses in<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/1998/10/18/nyregion/new-york-on-line-life-as-it-was-in-the-projects.html" target="_blank"> East New York</a>, and to grassy areas where we played dodgeball, ring-aleevio, skelly, and crawled through scratchy bushes in games of hide-and-seek, hopped over sprinklers, and swung from monkey bars. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Amy Phillipson and I met in kindergarten. We were both short and skinny and played the clarinet. She lived on Wortman and I lived on Stanley, in a paradise of childhood where apartment doors were left unlocked and her mother, Frieda, always offered me something to eat because my mother was a terrible cook. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Amy and her sister, Abbie, shared a room with a fan while my sister and I did the same in our apartment two blocks away. The Phillipsons had a dog, maybe a German shepherd, which jumped up on one of their beds during one visit and nipped me in the behind. Amy assured me that I would be fine. And I was. To this day, I never turn my back on a dog. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was Amy who was the perfect dining partner. We weren't teenagers but, if my memory is correct, third or fourth graders. When the school day ended, we ran home to change into our play clothes, scooping coins and bills saved from our allowances and walking two long blocks to the Penn Plaza strip mall for pizza and Chinese food. I never would have gone alone and I don't think she would have, either. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pizza never tasted better than when when we were together. Our slices were served on wax paper and we would hold them up above our heads to catch the bit of cheese dropping from the point at the end. Or we went next door to the Chinese restaurant for rice with gravy. If I think hard enough, I can put myself back there </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">again, just</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> the two of us, chattering and laughing, and then heading home. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But it wasn't to last. Slowly, friends moved away, to the newly built Starrett City or to Canarsie and to other parts of Brooklyn, Long Island, or elsewhere. They disappeared without a trace every summer after the third grade and then another school year would begin again, with new faces. I don't know when Amy moved away. I know she wasn't there for the sixth grade. She had vanished. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I missed her. had no idea where she was. And I had no way of finding out. I always wondered where she was when I sat down at another pizza place in the city. It wasn't the same. A few years ago, we found each other on Facebook. I loved seeing photographs of her squad of women friends and happy happy she looked. We had not forgotten each other and neither had other friends from that era. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Two years ago, I traveled back to the Linden Houses during </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> summer. The buildings seemed smaller and closer together. The sprinklers and monkey bars were gone. I took that walk alone back to Penn Plaza. The pizza place was still standing. I thought of Amy again. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not long ago, we talked about a reunion. I thought maybe after the first of the year, a few of us from the old days of the Linden Houses and P.S. 306 would meet again. I thought we would all grow old together. But then Amy disappeared again. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the Saturday before the new year, Amy's life ended when she was </span><a href="https://nypost.com/2018/12/31/police-identify-woman-killed-in-fiery-lower-manhattan-crash/" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">killed by a speeding driver in the morning hours. </a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No one can answer the question. Why? </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Amy's family includes her sister, Abbie, and Abbie and her husband's daughters, many cousins, friends from work, and neighbors she doted on in her Brooklyn building. I was there for only a small part of her life and she for mine. But what a time it was. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After I left the funeral services, I stopped for a slice of pizza as a tribute to my old friend. It wasn't very good. My tears added too much salt and I had to throw it out. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank you, Amy, for the short time we had together.</span></span><br />
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Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-30197529667443085562018-12-02T10:35:00.000-05:002018-12-02T10:56:16.068-05:00The Tie Project #thetieproject<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Because a tie can mean the difference between job and going hungry. This essential component of fashion attire is so important to job seekers, some who may not have a tie or could use an extra few for a life changing job interview or career move. Thanks to so many in our community and beyond, close to 950 ties have been raised to support the Northern Manhattan Improvement Corporation's job training and career services programs. And more are coming in! Thank you for your support!</div>
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For more information, about The Tie Project, visit the Facebook page, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/The-Tie-Project-thetieproject-2048072941883557/?jazoest=26510012010081728453526988537789107100979510653115781009876118105519778115831191088510369711031001107210957811195865100119114117951065411851108100977169114701218410611156888210983761011026945975382737971671061001091041135010865" target="_blank">The Tie Project</a>. Scroll down for photographs. </div>
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<br />Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18443554.post-49060403953104242412018-06-19T00:30:00.000-04:002018-06-26T07:09:10.180-04:00The Solitary Shopper (An Ode to Lord & Taylor, RIP)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Say it ain't so!</b><br />
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<i>Lord & Taylor's Fifth Avenue store, the sanest place to shop in New York City, is closing its doors in early 2019, thanks to a sluggish sales, an online economy that it cannot compete with, and an $850 million purchase of its landmarked building. It's been around for more than 100 years. </i><i>The lack of crowds led to its demise. Perhaps in another 20 years, when someone has the brilliant idea that we should shop in department stores, will we see it again.</i><br />
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<i>Three generations of my family shopped there. My grandmother, my mother, and me. We traveled into </i><br />
<i>"the city" for school clothes where we each picked out a few outfits. I remember eating at the Bird Cage restaurant which has seen a few incarnations as a place for a bite for the weary shopper. We would wait for my father to bring the car around as we waited at the front, on the inside, where the Clinique displays are now set up. In the beginnings of my career as a sportswriter, I was in dire need of professional clothing for an awards ceremony and with some prodding from my old friend, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVHO73puXes" target="_blank">Stephanie Arcel, who never traveled without a scarf around her neck, jewelry, and the axiom "Always cover your ass," </a>suggested using a Personal Shopper, which I did. I wound up with an Katherine Hepburnish ensemble with sleek pants and a jacket and a couple of suits which set me back the better of $1,000. The jacket, in a lovely shade of grass green, had the fabric rubbed through on the right side where I carried my pocketbook. The beautiful wool gray pants became itchy and scratchy and wound up at the bottom of my closets. If I had moths, they would have had a feast. The two suits, impeccably tailored and adjusted, became out of style with too long jackets and too tight pants. But I loved the personal experience and would recommend this to everyone. Since then, I've been back without professional counsel to purchase items from every department. Once I even scored Dylan's Candy on sale, chocolate covered graham crackers at 15% off. Woo! </i><br />
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<i>The shoe department has expanded to almost three fourths of a floor and now there are racks of workout gear. I think the lady who still measures for bras is still there. But not for long. Now, there are two televisions in the men's department tuned to sports and soft comfortable chairs to sit down and text on your phone. I suspect that there will be those coming into town for the next few years looking for the holiday displays in the windows. </i><br />
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<i>Shopping at Lord & Taylor, for me, is always a quirky experience. is like shopping with your college friends: there was and is always someone around for advice, a friendly, intimate camaraderie among loyal shoppers. Just two weeks ago, I assisted an Italian tourist in selecting a pair of designer sunglasses and just last week I stocked up on Clinique with an almost unheard of 15% discount.</i><br />
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<i>Sales were on and even with 30% off on almost everything, the aisles were filled with just a few customers on a weekday evening. It was like walking through a warehouse filled to the brim with clothing, floor after floor, rack after rack, but not many sales. Sometimes I rode the elevator by myself, Only the shoe department seemed to be busy and sometimes, not too busy. Two friends of mine said they loved shopping there because "It's never crowded!"</i><br />
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<i>I wish there were some sort of compromise. At one point, the first floor was going to remain. But word came out recently that no, that was going to. I'd like to see at least one floor open, maybe two, with the shoes and seasonal items and perhaps kiosks so that people can order online and still have the experience of walking in the store. </i><br />
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<i>This story was originally published on December 27, 2010. With a few slight tweaks, a new introduction, and a few photos, this seems like a good time to resurrect it. Almost like an obituary. Flowers may be left on the site after it closes, like mourning an old friend.</i><br />
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<b>RIP Lord & Taylor. I will miss you. And so will so many other New Yorkers.</b><br />
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So, here I am, the solitary shopper, armed with coupons and credit cards, a bottle of tap water, toothbrush, and toothpaste (always in my bag) as I make my descent into Lord & Taylor on a foraging mission to supplement my collection of blue jeans and t-shirts with a few snappy skirts and tops. Doors swing open at ten sharp at the Fifth Avenue flagship store. <b>Like a prizefighter prepared for swift punches, dubious ones, and a knockout blow, I have trained for the markdown, the misplaced belt, the search for the right size, and the dedication to come out a champion with more than a few dollars saved. </b>Down for the count means nothing fits and I’m waved out of the store with no shopping bags. For the record, this has only happened once and only because I sailed through the shoe department to check on winter boots which hadn’t yet arrived.<br />
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Three minutes into my adventure, I am spotted, much like Brad or Angelina attempting to blend with the crowd.<br />
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I am one of those people to whom many stories are told.<br />
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From dusty tales of laundromat folders who drink too much on Saturday nights to one very nervous cop aiming his gun at me as I exited my apartment to dispose of recyclables, to my traveling companions on overstuffed M100 buses, to under appreciated and aggravated secretaries, public school teachers with unruly students, to Wall Street workers coming off an exhilarating trade, the shopping bag of disclosure is open and ready for unpacking.<br />
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It happens most often while I shop. From tomatoes to turtlenecks, the hordes corner me like some sort of exalted celebrity when I’m preoccupied with finding the right size, shape, or shoe. Dapper shoe salesmen complain about women who spend their weekends being waited on hand and well, feet, and who send these hard working men scurrying to the storeroom; chubby cashiers at Target, Saks and Duane Reade point out their swollen ankles; and the chic who shop at the Gap and Henri Bendel invite me into the operating room as they describe gallbladder and appendix removals. I’ve listened to tales of cheating boyfriends, sloppy husbands, and dirty landlords from the minions who purchase and pander at Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s; epic reveals about painful shoes, poor diet, bad bosses, and better days ahead as my bunions and I stand on line to pay in the world’s most remote shop or tugging on a too small skirt in a dressing room separated from the sales floor by a curtain. I keep thinking that if I set up a series of couches near cash registers I can get the chats and complaints over all at once.<br />
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Move over, Dr. Phil. I’m hanging out my shingle for retail therapy.<br />
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So here I am, the queen of sound bite confessions. The fascination of speaking with me is no more evident than alongside of sales racks from Manhattan to Minneapolis, and in front of cash registers from 7-Eleven to Saks Fifth Avenue. And nowhere is my expertise more in evidence and my patience tested than when I shop at Lord & Taylor, a calm and soothing shopping experience without the hordes and gaggles of gigglers, fluorescent lights, and the hamster mazes of aisles of its more flamboyant sister, Macy’s.<br />
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The lineage of women among the sales racks can be traced back, I’m convinced, to the early days of hunters and gathers. Women waved goodbye while their mates went after dinner, and this communal commiserating, companionship, and co-parenting kept the community alive. And thus began the origins of the group shop. I know there’s a shopping bag from the Ice Age hidden deep in the core of our planet just waiting to be carbon dated.<br />
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In the evolution of women, torched bras and nylon stockings have been replaced by Spanx, spandex, and credit cards. Women still gather but they also hunt; two or three women in a department store with big game in sight, from Manolos to sequins to sassy skirts and scarves, descend on department and specialty stores everywhere in the world. This portion of Darwin’s evolutionary theory is still with us. A few women, like myself, mutate from this genetic claim and strike out on our own to go shopping. Others require my validation. <br />
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<i>How do I look? <br />
</i>Fabulous!<i><br />
How does this make me look?<br />
</i>Fabulous!<i><br />
I’m a size 14 and this dress is a size 6. Do I look good or what?<br />
</i>Fabulous! <br />
<br />
My intersection with the shopping sisterhood creates a Venn diagram of dialogue to the point where I’ve considered wearing a wig and glasses and hiring a bodyguard. Let me serve up a taste of my shopping life.<br />
<br />
Shopping can be divided into several categories: in the name of bargains, camaraderie, the boredom pack, the curiosity group, “<i>I wonder what size I am now</i>” collection, the triage trio, the demanding duo, or let’s get it over with, I can’t stand the crowds for another minute – and let’s face it, shopping with friends can be a frightening phenomenon. When I shop with friends, I buy clothing I would never, in my wildest dreams, consider bringing home, like the plaid linen dirndl skirt or grape poncho with tassels. A straight line can be drawn from the manufacturer, to the shop, to my wallet and to my closet and then slam dunked into the thrift store donation bin. <br />
<br />
It begins on the escalator, next to the sign indicating that we have ascended to the third floor.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OxODBQtJ1eSjK9LrVWU85ntQ4gf3P4Y2K4dEJnnRjZfCoxpXW3bhFyldGQt8vYX0I3iHqBKyPC3ShdKjjR47gjHMU6g6nOz6m7kKUFQ_GaCz-toGnS7iEbbA1K1wxct4KSCyXQ/s1600/IMG_1247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OxODBQtJ1eSjK9LrVWU85ntQ4gf3P4Y2K4dEJnnRjZfCoxpXW3bhFyldGQt8vYX0I3iHqBKyPC3ShdKjjR47gjHMU6g6nOz6m7kKUFQ_GaCz-toGnS7iEbbA1K1wxct4KSCyXQ/s200/IMG_1247.jpg" width="150" /></a>“Is this the fifth floor?” Two woman with over processed blond hair and Bermuda shorts inquire. <br />
<br />
I give this some thought. <br />
<br />
“Could be,” an answer designed to throw them off my trail and to discourage any lingering conversation. I rappelled to the fifth floor and spotted a familiar sign, 40% off, which means that swiping the bar code on my coupons would net me an additional 20% off. I’m cookin’. <br />
<br />
Racks overflow with marked down Ralph Lauren, Tommy Bahama, Eileen Fisher, Lord & Taylor’s house brand, Kate Hill, Liz Claiborne, Kate Spade, and the labels of others who cloak and cover our bodies from a size 0 to a size 24 plus, from extra small to three times as large. A number of women like me envision themselves a lot smaller, holding up what should fit and then being disappointed. You can blame it on the manufacturer for poor sizing but a three way mirrors holds no illusions.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlgTtGradbOS1wR9N_afN_KGZOzqsNqTUyoFPYYb_4aaOftE9GfWh2hcnZO1lfpTxAAv5Xk9z2opH6m9vWsD0_V_OSJiHxaUlAAK0DZo72bHWReI2kX9Tdk6ULmA8j5TBA3_ZeA/s1600/Lord+%2526+Taylor+3+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlgTtGradbOS1wR9N_afN_KGZOzqsNqTUyoFPYYb_4aaOftE9GfWh2hcnZO1lfpTxAAv5Xk9z2opH6m9vWsD0_V_OSJiHxaUlAAK0DZo72bHWReI2kX9Tdk6ULmA8j5TBA3_ZeA/s320/Lord+%2526+Taylor+3+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
My shopping companions poked through the racks and a few poked me with their purses. Now, mind you, the floor was loaded with idle saleswomen. I was hoping to leave via early decision but not today.<br />
<br />
“What do you think of this color?,” asked one woman who looks like a model, holding up a yellowish-brown sweater with orange stripes.<br />
<br />
“I’ve never seen this shade before,” I admitted. <br />
<br />
“How much is this with markdown? Is this too much for me to pay?” a woman carrying a briefcase checks in, holding up a Ralph Lauren skirt with the priced mowed down from $200 to $119.<br />
<br />
“I think it’s worth it,” I replied. Well, not really, but a little encouragement can go a long way.<br />
<br />
“What do you think my husband would say?” asked another woman, already wielding enough shopping bags to incite a hernia, and armed with a vertical valance attached to a denim skirt.<br />
<br />
“I think he’d love it,” I offered with conviction. Although I’d never met the man, I was convinced he would be overwhelmed.<br />
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“I just had a tummy tuck. Do you think I can fit into this?,” inquired an older woman with a flat stomach but enormous hips, thrusting a pair of hip huggers at me.I had to think about this one.<br />
<br />
“Why not give it a try?” I suggested diplomatically.<br />
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“Do you think this sweater will match my skirt that’s hanging in my closet at home?” demanded one woman with a large perm and even larger purse.<br />
<br />
“Absolutely.” <br />
<br />
The floor seemed to close in on me.<br />
<br />
“Where’s the ladies room?” demanded a woman in a pink tracksuit (they seem to be everywhere).<br />
<br />
“By the elevator but not on the 6th floor,” I answered mechanically, digging into my purse for my water.<br />
<br />
“Can you zip me up?” asks one gray haired woman with her back hanging out of a white blouse.<br />
<br />
I put down my water.<br />
<br />
“You may want to inhale,” I noted. “And go back into the dressing room.”<br />
<br />
After inching my way toward the center aisle, I was almost free.<br />
<br />
“I’m going to a wedding. Do you think the bride’s mother will like this? She’s really quite particular,” wonders one woman holding up a black and white dotted dress.<br />
<br />
“She’ll love it,” I yelled, waving my water.<br />
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Two women stopped me, looking at my denim blouse with disdain. “Why are you wearing that?” They may have noticed that it’s wrinkled and has white stain from toothpaste.<br />
<br />
“When a gun is pointed, I’ll put on anything,” I snarled.<br />
<br />
I slip into an empty dressing room and lock myself in. I grunt and groan getting in and out of too tight blouse that gets stuck under my armpits and cuts off my circulation. It’s a bit like wrestling with a bear until it finally pops off and I pop out, able to catch my breath again. I look around. There I am, at all angles. My hair appears to be windswept in the airless cubicle and, is my behind really that large? A suspicious mole comes off in my hands; it’s just an M&M from an earlier snack. I tune in to the sisterhood.<br />
<br />
<i>These shorts are gorgeous</i>, comes from the room to my right.<br />
<i>Mom, why are you buying that? cries a embarrassed teenage voice that could have been my own from years ago. <br />
Because I want to.<br />
I don’t want to be seen with you wearing that.<br />
Fine. Don’t look then.</i><br />
<br />
There’s a rap on my white shutter-like door. Doorbells and a peephole, anyone?<br />
<br />
“Do you think this costs too much?” inquires an older woman with glasses holding a poodle and a v-neck t-shirt with a $49 price stag. <br />
<br />
“Yes,” I said. “If you have to ask.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYhLZbY01mFllF7n43k4dsE2INvbL-oz_iP5GwRuiEw6N_quERsRIUEZH3u1syEf6pbpGWydIQVFbP5NwknLAhurdHuzDQL9yzxNNiUvr4zfZpR4SnzTN56Ux7Cl1oDbebjoTCw/s1600/IMG_1251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYhLZbY01mFllF7n43k4dsE2INvbL-oz_iP5GwRuiEw6N_quERsRIUEZH3u1syEf6pbpGWydIQVFbP5NwknLAhurdHuzDQL9yzxNNiUvr4zfZpR4SnzTN56Ux7Cl1oDbebjoTCw/s200/IMG_1251.jpg" width="150" /></a>“Does this make me look fat?,” demands a woman who says she’s a nurse. She turns around twice in a pleated skirt that makes it look like there’s air under her skirt. But those are her hips.<br />
<br />
“What about my hips?” She smoothed down the pleats but they don’t move. <br />
<br />
“What about them?” I raised my eyebrows.<br />
<br />
The petites are one floor up and I quickly ducked behind three slinky mannequins. A couple of women haven’t discovered me - yet. Both petite, with white hair, overdressed for a day out shopping, and smelling of mothballs and musky perfume, they push their way through jumbled racks of marked down clothing.<br />
<br />
“It isn’t beautiful?” cooed the taller of the two, holding up a dirt colored sweater. “It was made just for you.”<br />
<br />
After following them for about 20 minutes, I hit the lottery. A black skirt made of silk and wool carried a price tag of $86 down to $49.97. I quickly did the math – 40% off would be close to $25 minus an additional 20% off would be about $20. Or so I thought. The friendly saleswomen looked at me over her glasses and scanned in the tag. The skirt was reduced to $9.56 not counting the 40% off and 20% discount coupon. My grand purchase accumulated to $3.99. The saleswomen said that her son just graduated from college and that someone must have coded the tag improperly in the computer. This<b> never</b> happens to me.<br />
<br />
A woman carrying four bags stopped me. <br />
<br />
“How do I look in this?” she demanded<br />
<br />
I looked her over and asked her to turn around. And turn around the other way. And the other way. She started to topple, her black and white polka dot dressed swirling in a hypnotic pattern. <br />
<br />
“I’ve never seen you look better,” I gushed. “I would buy two.”<br />
<br />
Time to move on.<br />
<br />
A shopper came my way on the third floor.<br />
<br />
“What’s that thing?” she asked, pointing to the scanner near the sale priced Dana Buchman outfits.<br />
<br />
“It checks radioactivity," I replied, moving on.<br />
<br />
I hustled into another dressing to try on a very expensive skirt by Ellen Tracy. The dressing room was larger than my living room. I tossed my jeans onto the upholstered chair, dropped my handbag on the floor, draped my blouse on the table, and examined my cellulite from all angles.<br />
<br />
Perfect. I bought the skirt with my coupons. <br />
<br />
I have yet to wear it. <br />
<br />
My day is almost over. The few men I’ve seen shop early and leave furtively even when they are in the men’s department. I decided to check out the handbags. I wasn’t in the world of purses, clutches, and carryalls more than five minutes when three saleswomen asked me if I needed help. I began to get annoyed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqk-jLXtC-bXaSAymI7uXVwHsMA8j8pJuq6KTitrNZhNWsIy2RuIbNHYjiPvQjcna1N8m_ynPmnLT2UIsIFeo_iMtQlL5yJkQEt6MLkoouBTDzgQaMwR0wYk-ziFoHaJ0bplaew/s1600/Lord+%2526+Taylor+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqk-jLXtC-bXaSAymI7uXVwHsMA8j8pJuq6KTitrNZhNWsIy2RuIbNHYjiPvQjcna1N8m_ynPmnLT2UIsIFeo_iMtQlL5yJkQEt6MLkoouBTDzgQaMwR0wYk-ziFoHaJ0bplaew/s320/Lord+%2526+Taylor+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
My friend, Ruth, told me that I should go shopping in dark glasses or with an entourage to throw off the scent from the sisterhood. On my next visit, I wore my hair in a ponytail and a t-shirt with hood. It didn’t help.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Qf33J4S95vSwkZhBlTqxbRfL8JSVRPl9JPi7OpeKR8QxcUS-w3C9CMc_Es2lrylr5NPiCBunDLae-6RtxL5aiLzp0V7zOTLrBNXPL0SDhRzdvdOhe_Wu8f6iS0yu8uTcybyP7g/s1600/Lord+%2526+Taylor+6+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Qf33J4S95vSwkZhBlTqxbRfL8JSVRPl9JPi7OpeKR8QxcUS-w3C9CMc_Es2lrylr5NPiCBunDLae-6RtxL5aiLzp0V7zOTLrBNXPL0SDhRzdvdOhe_Wu8f6iS0yu8uTcybyP7g/s200/Lord+%2526+Taylor+6+Arlene+Schulman+arlenetheauthor%2540gmail.com.jpg" width="200" /></a>One woman confronted me.<br />
<br />
“How do I find the sizes?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Look for S-M-L-XL,” I growled. “Those are clues.”<br />
<br />
An older woman leaned against the racks. I gently tilted her so that she stood upright with her cane. <br />
<br />
I prepared myself for the rest, as they waved clothes at me from one end of the store to the other.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKI7sA8TP40zHHAF2n8ErZB6yhn6j_RvpUZV_psycJOi4KoJevIIEGdVcq_b9AV3g_6Ikp_XNSax0pdtWXzK0XHK-qWHBxWc2T74r2d_T-2wJYPgzbPV-zIV8eWPL3rW2mNj6K9Q/s1600/IMG_1242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKI7sA8TP40zHHAF2n8ErZB6yhn6j_RvpUZV_psycJOi4KoJevIIEGdVcq_b9AV3g_6Ikp_XNSax0pdtWXzK0XHK-qWHBxWc2T74r2d_T-2wJYPgzbPV-zIV8eWPL3rW2mNj6K9Q/s200/IMG_1242.jpg" width="150" /></a><i>How does this look on me?<br />
</i>This is the most fabulous thing I’ve even seen you in. Run to the register before someone else picks it up.<i><br />
Does emerald green go with red?<br />
A</i>bsolutely! Go stand next to the elves.<br />
<i>
Does this make me look young?</i><br />
By at least 30 years.<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
Ms. Jones, one of the saleswomen on the 5th floor, spotted me in my disguise. My ruse was up. <br />
<br />
“What do you think of this jacket?” I held up a blue Eileen Fisher cotton jacket.<br />
<br />
“Fabulous.” she whispered. “You couldn’t have made a better choice.”<br />
<br />
<br />Arlene Schulmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06857173046431917511noreply@blogger.com0