April 2013 News032713 930pm proof

VOLUME TWENTY SEVEN, NUMBER 4

APRIL 2013

Good news for the Pond

By Ann Louise Strong

U.S. District Court Judge Gene E. K. Pratter signed a consent decree March 13 finally making $386,000 available to help restore our Pond to a place where fish can swim, water birds can feed and residents can enjoy the view.

Part of this sum is to be used to reimburse Beaumont for legal and engineering expenses incurred

during unsuccessful negotiations with the Lower Merion School District, culminating in the costs of finally having to file suit in federal court against the school district and several other defendants.

The struggle began in 2007, with the discovery that construction across Ithan Avenue on the grounds of continued on page 2

Getting in the mood for Beaumont’s 25th Guests of honor blow up a storm with party favors at recent Birthday Social put on by Trip Coordinator Louise Hughes, who has become famous not only for popular trips but also for celebratory events. From left are Anna Roberts, flashing her uniquely Anna Roberts smile shortly before her death March 10; Ann Louise Strong, Betty Miller and Mary Yurchenco. Anna would have been 91 March 30.

Photo by Louise Hughes

Licking Mom’s cake beaters; flying lessons from Dad

By Evelyn Rosen When you are 75 memories march, uninvited, like damned floaters before your eyes. If you are lucky you have good memories. If you are luckier you remember details: the rough nubs on your parents’ chenille bedspread catching your fingers as you rub your hand across the surface, the downward curve of your mother’s top-right lip, the yeasty smell of Grandma Jenny’s varnishkes rising from the soup pot, your father teaching you thermodynamics with an 8 x11 piece of typing paper.

“Hold the paper below your lower lip. Blow straight out,” he said. I blew. The paper lifted into the air. “That’s the principle of flight,” he said. I thought him a genius.

I remember running home after school, hoping the

warmth of the oven would greet me at the door, the sweet odor of vanilla float to my nostrils. If luck was with me, Mom had her vanilla cake in the oven and had not yet plunged the Mixmaster bowl and beaters into soapy water. In the days before we learned about the dangers continued on page 2

Calling all readers As Beaumont nears its silver anniversary celebration week April 7 through 11, many of us find our thoughts drifting back to long-gone events, people and places. Although the News has gathered some of those recollections in this issue, we know a rich trove of them is still hidden out there. Readers, please write to us!

Remembering flying lessons from Dad. . . .

continued from page 1

of raw eggs, and even if my tongue and lips stuck to the inside of the beaters, I licked every bit of batter from every utensil surface, no matter how small.

I remember our neighborhood, the calls to play box ball in the afternoons on the chalked street court, the cries after dinner when I stood atop a hill having tumbled my best friend, Bunny, to its bottom during a game of “King of the Mountain.”

I remember stuffing fireflies into Mason jars, punching holes in the tops, clumping bits of grass and dirt inside, and hoping the flies would live till morning.

I remember trying to jump Double-Dutch in the driveway, my feet plopping down, lifting, up down, up down, again and again. Would I ever get it? Would I ever join the coordinated ones, pigtails flying, hands clapping, feet tracing half moons around the rope?

I didn’t.

“You did,” Bunny says. “You jumped Double-Dutch in my driveway.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

Atlantic City: I swing on a glider on the porch at Grandma Jenny’s. The salt air rushes up my pinafore.

Next door the honeysuckles are in bloom. I can touch them. In the evening I will pull the blossoms and suck the juice. The newspaper spreads itself on an adjacent chair. I wish I didn’t know how to read. We have dropped a bomb in Japan, the Japan that sent “poison

balloons” into the California redwood forests just months ago. The balloons my father looked for with his crew while flying over Army bases in Oakland and in Sunnydale.

Fear of the balloons set off alarms, plunged our home into darkness, and triggered classroom drills that bade us fold under our desks instantly when without warning our teacher shouted, “Everyone under the desks!” Immediately I jumped from my seat and slid, holding onto my knees. Closing my eyes, I waited for the ceiling to squash me into the floor. I had nightmares.

“How dare she!” my father said. He was dressed in his uniform with the shiny buttons. Tall, stringy and handsome in his blues, the peak of his hat shadowing his blue eyes, the sleeves of his jacket creeping up his wrists as he hugged me goodbye.

Then one morning the drills disappeared. “Flying reconnaissance is all we are doing,” he said. “There are no balloons, Evelyn. Don’t worry.” Why worry? My handsome father will keep us safe.

We spent a year in California, yet memories scatter.

They are like the fill-in-the-blank tests I hand out to my students, but I have no answer key.

My father died at 86, my mother at 53. They spoke little about their youth, I asked less, and now I wish I had asked more.

Dr. Rosen is Professor of History and English at Philadelphia Community College.

Pond news . . . .

Agency and Judge Pratter. It took until last month, however, for the payment due to Beaumont to be released.

Meantime, since fall, the bulldozers and dredges have been busy at Harriton. We all can see the new long, sloping hill created from the sediment dredged from the two basins opposite our entrance. Much else has been done to keep rainfall on site and soil runoff abated.

The consent decree will remain in force until the Harriton work is finished to the satisfaction of a neutral inspector.

continued from page 1

Harriton High School was sending sediment-laden storm water into our small stream and thence to the Pond. The sediment was rapidly accumulating. Fish were dying off, and water birds were seeking food elsewhere.

As of last November, the consent decree specifying work to be done, payment due to Beaumont, and enforcement steps had just been submitted to the Department of Justice, the Environmental Protection

BEAUMONT NEWS

DEAR EDITOR: With regard to my story about “green” light bulbs in last month’s issue, a research study of CFLs at Stoneybrook University in New York warns us not to sit closer than two to three feet to a CFL, as it may have a crack in its phosphor coating which might allow rays to leak out and harm your skin. Barbara and I are not concerned about this. We have quite a few CFLs in our villa and find no problem, but we will examine any new CFLs closely and return them if they are in any way cracked.

—Isaac H. Clothier IV, Green Committee

The Beaumont News is published by the residents and staff of the Beaumont Retirement Community, 601 N. Ithan Avenue, Bryn Mawr, PA 19010

Managing Editor Production Editor

Christine Johnson-Hall

Editor Emeritus and Historian

Louise Guthrie

Photo Editor

Louise Hughes

Events Manager Proofreader Circulation Manager

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Mary Graff

Kim Norrett Jennie Frankel Barbara O’Brien

Centenarians thrive among us; also proliferate worldwide

By Margie Manlove

California. In all these areas, known as blue zones, where a predominantly vegetable, lowcalorie diet prevails, people not only tend to live longer but do so in active good health. To quote an April 24, 2008 online article, some Okinawans in their 90s “can honestly vouch that they still have an active sex life (without Viagra).”

Although many centenarians have long-lived relatives, genes are variously estimated as contributing only 6 to 35 percent. According to a February 1, 2013 posting on the Internet titled “Scientists discover the longevity gene,” a study at the University of Manlove family photo California, Berkeley, found that mice whose blood cells were infused with SIRT3, a gene, lived longer and better than untreated mice. This has interesting potential although I do not understand the science.

In many countries centenarians receive special recognition from their government. In the United States centenarians receive a letter from the President and also are mentioned on TV. Back here at Beaumont, three of our centenarians are doing well. The oldest, Adeline Gay, was born Sept. 11, 1908. Although she has lost her sight she still lives in her apartment, where she listens to talking books and rides her stationary bicycle. She has never smoked and continues to enjoy a drink before dinner.

She is often found in the dining room with friends.

Evelyn McCracken and Christine Phillips are in Personal Care. Evelyn says she just had a good life and a good family. She, too, has never smoked. She says her father lived to 95. Christine also did not smoke. She attributes her longevity to good luck.

My own Frank Manlove celebrated his 100th birthday earlier this year before he died in the Health Center on March 24. Recently you may have found him in the Grill Room enjoying dinner. He was not a smoker and attributed his longevity to me. I don’t know about that, but it is true that married men live longer than single and divorced men.

How old is old? At what age does a person become old? I do not know the answer to this question but we all know that a person at 100 years is very old indeed.

There is a certain interest in centenarians because they are still quite rare. In the United States there is about one in every 4,400 people. In 2012 it was estimated that there were only 316,000 centenarians in the entire world. Here at Beaumont, until very recently, we had four residents aged 100 or more out of a total of about 310. I think the good living at Beaumont lengthens the life span of many.

The oldest person whose age has been documented by modern Frank Manlove on his 100th birthday methods was a French woman, Jeanne Calment, who died in 1997 at age 122 years and 164 days.

Scientists who study old age believe 122 has always been about the limit of the human life span.

(We all know that some Bible characters are recorded as reaching vastly greater years—Methuselah 969, Adam 930 and Seth 912, for example. Those who interpret the Bible literally believe the world was better in those early days before the flood, thus enabling people to live longer.)

Accurate figures about longevity are difficult to compute and keep changing. Fairly certain, however, is that because of improved sanitation and medical care, among other factors, the average life span has been increasing in the United States and worldwide.

Centenarians are, in fact, the fastest growing demographic group. Other apparently helpful factors include not smoking, a diet low in saturated fats, an outgoing personality, being both mentally and physically active and maintaining a reasonable weight. The current obesity epidemic may reverse the trend toward greater longevity.

There are several places in the world where centenarians are much more common: Okinawa, Sardinia, the Nicoya Peninsula in Costa Rica and the community of Seventh Day Adventists in Loma Linda, 3

Butterflies for remembrance Resident Florence Scott displays some of the butterflies made in Louise Hughes’ crafts class to contribute to the nationwide Butterfly Project honoring the memory of the 1,500,000 children who died during the Holocaust.

Others in the class were residents Norma Fabian, Callie Wheeler, Betty Webb, Frances Etherington, Myra Freudberg and Betty Bole; Patrick Nardizzi from Grounds also pitched in.

Photo by Louise Hughes

Memorial Day, small-town style

By Donna Winsor

Spangled Banner. A well-regarded veteran usually spoke and gave tribute to his fallen comrades. A 21gun salute made all the babies and small children cry.

The local minister offered a prayer. The Boy and Girl Scouts placed American flags on the graves of war veterans. (The graves had flag holders back then, before they were stolen in later years.)

For many families, this was the time to visit the graves of family members and place red and white peonies with blue iris, or plant geraniums, near the headstones.

My father was a member of the American Legion and we always turned out for Memorial Day in Picture Rocks and Hughesville. The towns were so small that they shared a high school and most organizations. In reflecting on this holiday I realized that I never forgot how important this day was to us, and I can’t remember ever having a rainy day on Memorial Day!

Growing up in a small town enables children to learn the town’s history, know the inhabitants and respect their neighbors. Children are taught to respect the American flag and what it represents, to respect cultures other than their own, and to pay tribute to war veterans and those who gave their lives so that others could live and enjoy their freedom.

One way that the town of Picture Rocks, Pennsylvania, population 500, celebrated a very important holiday was to turn out to celebrate Memorial Day either by being in the parade or by watching and cheering the folks who did take part.

The parade was led by a color guard composed of retired military men, some still able to wear their old uniforms. Important people like the mayor would ride in a vintage car, waving at the spectators. Little kids rode bikes and tricycles all decorated in red, white and blue crepe paper; the school band played its best marches, and, of course, the fire truck rolled along, all shined up.

American Legion members followed, all in uniform and sometimes with their Drum and Bugle Corps playing.

The parade formed on Center Street and proceeded about a half mile across the bridge and up a steep hill to the cemetery.

The solemn ceremony was led by the president of the American Legion, who gave a short speech. A high school girl sang “My Buddy,” another student would recite “In Flanders Field the Poppies Grow,” from memory, and then everyone would sing The Star

IN MEMORIAM Robert G. Trout, M.D. - March 4, 2013 Anna Roberts - March 10, 2013 Gladys Monier - March 11, 2013 Francis R. Manlove, M.D. - March 24, 2013 Members of the Beaumont Community extend deepest sympathies to the families and friends.

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Growing up in New York: Lobby Central

By Barbara O’Brien

hot, was it snowing too hard for school, was it a fine day for the park, were the trams running, and the names of the dogs in the building. The hordes of children who met in the lobby every day got all this information from our trusted oracles.

All day long, children, homeowners, guests and various professional visitors (it was still the era of the house call), electricians, plasterers and glaziers came and went in the lobby. Weekends were spent in the park as much as possible, sledding and throwing snowballs in winter and playing hundreds of games in the summer, meeting playmates in the lobby.

Later on, as a teen-ager, I used to sit and read or daydream on the park benches, usually with friends from my building. Some evenings, walking home from the West Side after a movie or a dance (it was considered quite safe then), I would see the lights of my lobby welcoming me home as I reached Fifth Avenue. At night, going to bed, watching the West Side building silhouettes from my window, I could see the light of my lobby fanning out at ground level over the sidewalk, seven stories below.

In my 20s I left the building to live in another part of New York with a college friend, but I returned often to have Sunday lunch with my parents, or for an occasional dinner party. Andrew, Jake and Paddy were all still there, together with a “new” elevator man, Sal, who had been there for only nine years. My mother found him fresh, without the dignified demeanor of the others.

Sal would greet me with “Hiya,” which was okay with me, but Mother frowned at this evidence of the erosion of the old ways. Finally, the day came when I dressed with my bridesmaids in the childhood apartment, and when I went down in the elevator, I realized that Jake was saying, “Good luck, Miss Baker,” for the last time.

Years later, sitting with my small children, I missed my lobby desperately. No one coming and going, no intriguing strangers, no interesting guests, no sweet elevator man to talk to about his adventures on the subway or to check our bruises, no one delivering mysterious packages. And across the street, no huge enticing place for my children to play. My husband’s patience was sorely tried when he urged me to enjoy the beauty of the suburban trees and I responded glumly, “Yes, but once I had 860 acres all my own, right across the street!”

When I was about 5, my parents bought into a new apartment building in New York, where they remained for over 30 years. Unlike the speculative apartments I read about with relish in my New York Times, where millionaires seek to buy ever more elegant addresses, the couples in my apartment building intended to live there and raise their families for years and years, and they did exactly that.

What had made the apartment possible for cashstrapped young professional couples in the early 30s, as they struggled with the changes the Depression had brought to their jobs and their savings, was that this apartment was above 96th Street in Manhattan. While someone from Minnesota might well ask, “So what?” New Yorkers knew that this would put us in relatively uncharted territory, even though millionaires like Carnegie were establishing large houses in what eventually came to be called the Carnegie Hill area.

Except for a large hospital, Mount Sinai, the area was full of modest 19th Century buildings. Central Park above 86th Street was quite neglected. The apartments, on the other hand, were full of windows and light, so the pioneering young couples felt that taking a chance on a relatively undeveloped area was a nobrainer. And so it proved to be.

The lobby, as befit a building north of 96th Street, was decorated modestly in the early rococo style, with a few curlicues and many mirrors. The children were aware that their mothers belonged to some sort of decorating committee, and that this was a topic which did not seem to bring either agreement or amity to the committee. Since discussions of decoration by my mother were always greeted by my father with “Whatever you want dear,” she was frustrated by the fact that the winners in the décor “slug fests,” as she called them, were always the same. Of course to the children, the lobby was our space, not a grown-up area.

The most important people in the building as far as the children were concerned were four: Andrew, the doorman, a magnificent six-foot-four-inch specimen of some unidentified Middle European descent, his uniform gloriously trimmed in gold braid; Jake, the front-elevator man, a Ukrainian immigrant from the Bronx, always happy to explain the difference between his holidays and ours; Bill, the elevator man from the other side of the lobby, and Paddy, the backelevator man, who was always described as “a bit simple,” with a friendly sweetness which all the children valued.

Paddy was always the one who found the lost mittens. All four were expected by the children to know everything worth knowing; was it going to be painfully

CORRECTION:

In last month’s issue, the News misspelled one of the winners of $50 prizes in the count-the-candy-kisses contest sponsored by Human Resources Director Mary Wells. Darren’s last name is Garnett. He works in Security.

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Tales of heroic men, a valiant woman and a bird Joining in widespread activities commemorating the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, April 1861 to April 1865, Carol Allen and her troops began last year to gather stories from residents for a sesquicentennial series, “Exploring Our Civil War Heritage.” The first stories appeared in our March issue last year. Here are excerpts from the second part of the series, which will continue through 2015. A letter from Jeanne Cortner’s great-grandmother appears on the next page.

to Washington to plead for a hospital and soldiers’ home for wounded and ill soldiers suffering from the extreme heat, humidity, malaria and yellow fever prevalent in the southern hospitals.

When Cordelia returned home after the war, she continued her humanitarian efforts and started an orphanage for children of fallen Civil War soldiers.

Jane Lillie also told the story of “Old Abe:” A Chippewa chief captured an adolescent eaglet in 1861 and traded it for corn to a family who sold the bird to the Eau Claire Company of the Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry, where it was named in honor of our then President, “Old Abe.” The Eau Claire Company combined with others to form the 8th Regiment of Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry.

The tame Bald Eagle became a living symbol of the Union at war, traveling with the regiment on a perch atop a shield and becoming famous for spreading his wings and shrieking at appropriate moments. He was

By Carol O. Allen In October, at a meeting of Timely Topics, we heard from residents including Jack Baird and Jane Lillie.

Jack Baird’s book Profile of a Hero tells the stories of his military forebears and their intelligent and stalwart wives. For six generations, from the French and Indian wars to the Court of St. James, the patriotic Baird men served the United States as physicians, teachers and warriors. All served with honor and bravery.

Jack’s great grandfather Absalom was a hero who fought in the Army of the Cumberland and rose in rank for his bravery and valor at the battles of Chickamauga and Chattanooga to Brigadier General. He is the only general from Pennsylvania to have earned the Congressional Medal of Honor.

When news came of the slaughter at the battle of Shiloh in Tennessee, Louis went off to visit the state troops. Tragedy struck again, however—Governor Harvey fell into the Tennessee River while stepping from a pier to a boat at night, and was carried away by the current.

Jane Lillie, a native of Wisconsin, shared with us the story of Wisconsin’s Angel, Cordelia Perrine Harvey. Born in 1824 in upstate New York, she moved with her family in 1843 to Wisconsin, where she met and married Louis P. Harvey, who ran a small private school. A skilled speaker, much involved in local government, he became a state senator, then secretary of state and eventually governor.

During this time their baby daughter died before her first birthday. Cordelia turned from this tragedy and because of her interest in teaching worked to get the fledgling university off the ground. When news came of the slaughter at the battle of Shiloh in Tennessee, Louis went off to visit the state troops. Tragedy struck again, however—Governor Harvey fell into the Tennessee River while stepping from a pier to a boat at night, and was carried away by the current.

With no child and no husband, Cordelia went to work. She became a Wisconsin Sanitary Agent, a job given official status by Congress. The duties of that office were to staff hospitals, raise money, and educate military personnel; also to try to promote clean and healthy conditions in Union camps. She visited camps and hospitals up and down the Mississippi and wrote to the new governor seeking wholesome food, clean supplies and fresh air for the troops. She also traveled

never wounded in any of the 37 engagements in which he participated.

The 8th Regiment donated him to the Governor of Wisconsin, and Old Abe spent his post-war years living at the State Capitol. He attended political rallies and was displayed at charity fundraisers. In 1881, however, a small fire broke out in the basement of the capitol, igniting stored paints and filling Old Abe’s quarters with smoke. He sickened and died within a month.

Only a feather remains at the Wisconsin Historical Society. *

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The committee welcomes input from any and all residents. Members besides Carol are Dr. Elias and Rena Burstein, Dr. John Carson, and staff members Louise Hughes and Kim Norrett.

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At war’s end, suffering and anger; also kindness Husband’s life was so threatened, I persuaded him to go to the mountains. He was out five days and it seems that nothing but a merciful Providence preserved him.

He was often in sight of them.

“The weather was bad and I thought he would get sick and die, so I humbled myself to go to their abominable brute of a general and ask him if he would do anything with him if he would throw up his arms and come in. He said that if he had never shed blood, or caused it to be shed, he would not [harm him]. . . .

“I [had been] so abused and treated . . . that I [had] left home. . .. “When husband came in, we all came home and such a house it was to behold. I had no heart to put it to rights for days to come and by that time the Negroes were all free, poor creatures, poor deluded, mistaken creatures, their freedom is not much. . . . [S]o you see we are free and I may say in some respects were never so happy in our lives.

“I cooked for six weeks and Mary [a daughter] did the housework and milked. . . . For the last two weeks we have changed and I have been milking—I wanted to learn. We are going to take it week about after this. I hire the washing and pay with things out of the house, have bedsteads, mattresses and so forth that I can spare.

“While the Yankees were in the village I gave them milk for crackers, fish and coffee, only got two pounds of coffee though and it is nearly gone. Husband has a few scholars in the p.m. And they may give us some money. One, knowing that we didn’t have a cent, paid $10 in greenbacks in advance. Husband and Hardy [a field hand] work in the field all morning, husband then eats dinner and goes to his school till five and works again till dark. I work in the garden between meals. We want to show the Negroes we were not wholly dependent on them.

“Getting rid of them frees me of a world of care and trouble. I do different kinds of work now, but not a bit more than I did before and then it is such a comfort to be free of the care and expense, for ours were a great responsibility.

“Our friends have been so kind to us, helping us every way they can. Husband sends his love and says he hopes you have been treated better than we have.

Our sons are not yet out of prison and we are so anxious.

Husband talks of them almost constantly and if they never come I do think it will take his life. Oh, I do pray for him, he has already lost so many. My time is so taken up I can’t see my children in the village often and ‘tis so hard, for I want to see them more than I ever did.

Our horses were all taken and we have to walk . . . one poor mule was left in place.

“Oh, how I wish I could see you! May God bless you, my dear child, is the Prayer of your mother.”

Below are excerpts from a letter written by my greatgrandmother who lived near Asheville, North Carolina, to her married daughter, Margaret, who lived about 100 miles away, in June 1865. My great-grandmother’s first husband had died (the father of the woman she is writing to) and she is now married to a teacher, Stephen Lee. He was a Colonel in the Confederate Army. Together they had my grandmother, Carrie (Caroline Lee). She was my mother’s mother and I remember her well. We all called her “Mama.” She died when I was 12 in Black Mountain, North Carolina, where we spent a month every summer. She spent most winters with us in Nashville, Tennessee.

The excerpts begin as she starts to tell of events in “this storm of sorrow and trouble [that] has passed over us all.”

—Jeanne Cortner *

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Dear Margaret, “The last Thursday in April, while we were at breakfast, our house was filled before we knew it with those demons, and we were robbed of everything they could lay their abominable hands upon. . . . Both husband and I were robbed of our pocketbooks and every dollar

“Our friends have been so kind to us, helping us every way they can.

Husband sends his love and says he hopes you have been treated better than we have. Our sons are not yet out of prison and we are so anxious. Husband talks of them almost constantly and if they never come I do think it will take his life.” in the world we had was taken. Every trunk picked open and turned inside out . . . drawers all pulled out onto the floor and every little bundle opened and scattered over the house. My preserves emptied into water buckets and wash basins and taken off, and everything to eat was taken and all the wearing clothes and bedding they fancied. . . .

“They did not search my person, but threatened my life again and again and spoke often of burning the house, said the Negroes living in it kept them from it.

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A day at the Philadelphia Zoo

All-purpose resident Dr. Dean (Doc) Snyder points with pride and some relief to cedar-shingle cupolas he made in our woodshop to replace rotted structures at front entrance. “Very finicky,” he said. Meanwhile, he was tapping maple trees in Wheeler Woods to make syrup which he cooked and bottled for a “Doc and Louise” French Toast picnic last month.

Photo by picnic co-host Louise Hughes

By Carol O. Allen Seventy years later, the day is still vivid in my mind. There was great sunny and breezy spring weather. There was laughter and excitement. My parents and I were at the Philadelphia Zoo! A mahout had a young elephant out of her yard.

Her face was painted and her noble brow was draped with elephantine finery, satiny fabric with metallic braid. She wore bells around all four ankles. A rickety, colorful howdah was precariously perched on her spine, and for 50 cents you could ride in Indian splendor. So my dad paid the fee and I was carefully deposited, seated and strapped into my seat with the other five children.

We held on tight, and with each step rode up and down in concert with her shoulders as well as forward. The ride was short but memorable.

We have no more live elephants in Philadelphia, only a sculpture that our boys loved when they were small. Now it is protected by a fence.

The “Fight of the Century”— and he was there!

By Peter Binzen

always introduced as “Detroit’s Brown Bomber, a credit to his race and his chosen profession.” Schmeling was the pride of Hitler’s Germany. He was not a Nazi, however, and we learned later that he had never favored the Reich. He had defeated Louis in an earlier bout, and the crowd that packed Yankee Stadium was overwhelmingly for the American.

We were all on our feet as the bell sounded to start Round One. At first, the boxers circled each other cautiously. The first punches were tentative. Suddenly, Louis hit Schmeling with a left hook. The crowd went wild as Louis landed a succession of blows. Schmeling went down. He got back on his feet only to be floored again. This time he did not recover. In just over two minutes of Round One, Joe Louis knocked out Max Schmeling. I can still hear the roar of the crowd in my ears.

On our way home, we drove through Harlem.

Crowds jammed the streets and sidewalks hailing their champion. It was the greatest night of Joe Louis’ career, and a night I will always remember.

My Dad was a truly gentle man but he loved to attend prize fights. I did, too. In the 1930s and ‘40s we saw some of the best fighters of the era. . . Max Baer,

The first punches were tentative.

Suddenly, Louis hit Schmeling with a left hook. The crowd went wild as Louis landed a succession of blows. Schmeling went down.

Tony Galento, Tommy Farr, Billy Com, Henry Armstrong . . . and on and on.

In Yankee Stadium on June 22, 1938, we had great seats for a much awaited heavyweight bout: Joe Louis against Max Schmeling. Louis, the champion, was

The deadline for the May 2013 issue of the Beaumont News will be April 8. The News publishes 10 editions a year from October to July. Please sign your story and either turn it in at the front desk or better, if you can, e-mail it to Mary Graff at graffs18@gmail.com and mgraff@BeaumontRetirement.com. Please keep a copy for yourself!

For back issues, please go to our website, www.BeaumontRetirement.com 8