Writers Tricks of the Trade Vol. 5, Issue 4 | Page 17

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Life Stories

"IT COULDN’T GET MUCH
CRAZIER THAN THIS"
ROSETTA AND MORGAN IN
1940

DENNIS PONCHER

Rosetta Schwartz (1909-2006)
EDITOR’S NOTE: With many of the articles in this issue devoted to memoirs, it was
appropriate to include a funny Life Story from my own mother’s memoir, “Can We Come In
and Laugh, Too?” written 1989 when she was 80 years old and published in 2012. With ten
zany children, life was never dull in my grandmother’s house. Rosetta was 95 years old in
the cover photo. It’s never too late to write about your life.

The year was 1918 and I was nine years old. That was the year World War I was
declared. We were still living in the same apartment on Ogden Avenue. My brother
Meyer was drafted into the army and was sent to France. He was an M.P. and was
there about three years. He got really lonesome for home and wanted to get a
furlough, so he invented an excuse and said that my mother was very sick and he
wanted to see her before anything serious took place. He hinted that she could die.
It was a luxury to have a telephone back then and we knew they would send an
inspector to check out his story in person. We didn't know when the inspector
would come so we had to be ready to react at a moment’s notice to make sure our
mother looked very sick.

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One day the doorbell rang and sure enough it was the inspector. Thank God for the
three flights of steps to climb. In the time it took him to make it to the top, we had
enough time to prepare the scene.
My mother was in the kitchen cleaning a chicken. In my day when someone bought
a chicken, it had to be cleaned from scratch, feathers and all, before you cut it up to
cook. Now-a-days you go into the market and purchase a chicken, or parts of a
chicken, and it's all ready for use. That’s progress.

ROSE TTA AND FRIENDS AT
THE BEACH CIRCA 1929
(SHE’S THE ONE
WITH THE BANJO)

The boys grabbed her just as she was, dress, apron, shoes and all, and dusted some
flour on her face. Then they each grabbed one of her arms and hurried her down
the hall to the bedroom. They practically threw her in the bed, clothes, shoes and
all, and told her to groan and moan—above all they prompted her to act like she
was on Death’s doorway. There was no electricity at that time and all of the
fixtures were the gas light type. They turned the gas lights up and covered her right
up to her neck so the inspector couldn't see she was fully dressed. The light from
the fixtures cast a sickly greenish glow all over the whole room and between the
flour and the green light she looked ghastly.
My brothers led the inspector into the room and said in hushed voices, “I hope
Meyer can come home soon.” Hearing that, my mother took the cue and began to

JULY-AUGUST 2015

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WRITERS’ TRICKS OF THE TRADE