Posts Tagged ‘Catskills’


Last month, an internet service technician saw something in our kitchen. “Is that a telephone?” he asked. It was. Still is. My history with telephones goes a long way back and offers interesting memo

We bought our kitchen phone when we moved into our house in 1983. It’s a wall model roughly 12 inches square. Most of the unit consists of a telephone book holder. Remember telephone books? We keep menus in there. The reversible front offers a chalk board and a bulletin board. We use the latter to post photos.

My sister Kay has a conventional wall phone in her kitchen. Once, it rang when my great-nephew Max was there. He asked, “How do you answer that?”

As a kid, we had rotary-dial phones. We also helped pioneer extensions. Our two-bedroom apartment hosted phones in each bedroom plus the foyer and, yes, a wall phone in the kitchen.

We had a plan for unlimited local calls with Bell Telephone—the onlyphone company. Many friends didn’t and paid, I believe, ten cents a call. When a call came in, we waited through the first two rings. One ring and a hang-up came from someone I forget. A two-ring hang-up came from my best friend Marty, who I’d call back. I remember our first phone number: HIckory 6-1585. Area code? Didn’t have them. Our number changed to HAvemeyer 4-6348.

Phone numbers matter: “1-800-273-8255” (featuring Khalid and Alessia Kara) is now the top-selling song with a phone number (suicide hotline) in its title. Check YouTube! It surpassed “876-5309/Jenny” (Tommy Tutone). Elizabeth Taylor won an Oscar in 1961 for BUtterfield 8.

Long-distance calls required an operator. Direct-dial long-distance put the country closer to our fingertips. Overseas calls? Never made. To whom? But when Carolyn and I traveled through Western Europe in 1970, we called “home” twice—once from a post office phone center in Rome, the other time from Madrid.

Around 1950, my family started spending summers at a bungalow colony in the Catskills, Kappy’s Kottages. Making a call required going to the casino—the combination recreation hall (black-and-white TV, ping pong table, pinball machine) and grocery store. Receiving a call meant a loudspeaker announcement by Irving or Rose Kaplan echoing off the mountains: “Blanche Perlstein, telephone call. Telephone call for Blanche Perlstein.” Kappy’s wasn’t noted for privacy. A few years later, my parents got the first phone installed in a bungalow. But my mother wasn’t always a pioneer. It took her decades to switch from rotary phones to push buttons—and only at Kay’s insistence.

Calling from the road? Pay phones. I remember them costing a dime. I’m sure other folks remember a nickel. Pay phones were everywhere. Today, they’re collectors’ items. One of my favorite New Yorkercartoons shows a man drunk, leaning against the inside of a glass booth and peering out to give pick-directions for being picked up. The caption: “I’m at the corner of Telephone and Telephone.”

Yes, I have an iPhone. I call and text from anywhere to anywhere. And no, I don’t think the old days were better—at least with one exception. Except during an emergency, no one stared at an old-fashioned phone through meals or social gatherings let alone walking on the street. The dinosaur days at least offered that advantage.

To all who celebrate Christmas, may the season bring you joy and peace.

To respond, click on “comments” to the right just below the title of this post. Then go to the response space at the bottom of the post.


Last Sunday, Carolyn and I reached a milestone. Aaron became the first Perlstein son to clear his last possessions from our garage. Another important milestone now approaches. This Sunday marks my father Morris’s 112th birthday.

The King—I’ll explain the nickname—died in 1983. But he’s never been gone. It’s not that he had an outsize personality. Rather, his ordinary life offered extraordinary examples of what it means to be loving, honest and kind—to be a mensch.

A little history: My father was born in Warsaw, Poland. He came to America in 1906 with his parents and two sisters. I like to imagine my grandfather holding my father up on the deck of their ship to see the Statue of Liberty. I like to think of my grandmother saying, “In America, you can be anything you want.”

What my father wanted to be was an American. His parents were thirty-four when they arrived at Ellis Island. While they all became Americans—the family was granted citizenship in August 1911 while living on 17th Street in Manhattan—my grandparents had to feel their way into the new culture. Some of America remained alien as it often does to adult immigrants, particularly Jews in a “Christian nation.” My father came here at two-and-a-half. Moishe became Morris. He had no memories of Warsaw. I once asked him what he thought of his parents. His answer: “I thought they were greenhorns.”

As a kid, the King played sports. He also wanted an education and believed that he could get further ahead as a college man at a time when relatively few people went to college. After graduating from the old DeWitt Clinton High School, he worked to help support the family. He also attended night classes at New York University—for eleven years. In 1932, he received his B.S. from NYU’s School of Commerce.

Four years later, following a whirlwind courtship, he married my mother Blanche. He made a good living. After the War, he became a salesman, selling springs to bedding and furniture manufacturers. My mother though he’d never succeed. The King was an introvert. She soon had both a mink stole and a mink coat. Did I mention the lamb’s-wool jacket? My father’s pleasures were modest: family, food, cigars, Broadway musicals, Friday-night gin games and summers at a Catskills bungalow colony—Kappy’s Kottages. He took me to baseball and basketball games. Later he and my mother enjoyed Las Vegas—craps for him, slots for her.

As to the nickname: I started calling my father King after an episode on TV’s The Honeymooners. Ralph Kramden (Jackie Gleason) ranted to his wife Alice (Audrey Meadows) that he was “the king of the castle.” I ran with it and soon referred to my mother as the Queen. For decades, I sent birthday and anniversary cards portraying kings and queens. On the King’s cards, I always drew a cigar.

The only memorials to Morris Perlstein are his descendents. He lived what New York Times columnist David Brooks refers to as “the small, happy life.” There’s a big idea there. The world just might be better off if more people lived lives not of celebrity or wealth accumulation but of peaceful integrity. Happy birthday, King. Your memory is a blessing.

Read the first two chapters of FLIGHT OF THE SPUMONIS here at You can get a signed copy from me—$20 plus $3 postage if required—or order a soft cover or e-book at 

To respond, click on “comments” above then go to the bottom of the article.