It's called: The Voice Actor

 

"Amongst Some Special Men"

        Our faces were young and mostly free from hair. We were a team of man-kids who happened to have the skills which grown men would probably not ever reach as adults. We were a high school varsity baseball team who was about to establish a national record of forty-three consecutive wins; right here in our great city of Los Angeles. I was lucky enough to become a successful, physically and mentally endowed, relief pitcher who happened to have a perfect record while participating for our team, Dorsey High School, during the greater parts of 1951 and 1952.

        Just as an immodest point of fact, during those two years of pitching for our varsity baseball team, I never lost a game. What my teammates and I had in common was indeed very special; we had a continuous flow of proud moms and dads finding ways of coming to games each Tuesday and Thursday of the week to yell, scream, and pump their high-fives at one another. Oftentimes, many of the student body, who might never have shown up to root for a baseball team, began to accompany their parents in order to take a noticeable place in what had grown into quite a sizeable cheering brigade of take-no-prisoner type fans.

        It should not come as a shock to hear that many of us began to become a little too enamored with our so-called stardom — especially when some of our fellow students began to show up to watch us practicing or competing with some college guys who were recruited by our coach in order to push us to a higher level than high school athletes might provide. The fans I enjoyed seeing the most at our practices were the coed seniors. Let the dugout kidding begin: “Hello, Harvey” or “Oh look, there’s Harvey”. My buddies were doing what kids do, making fun of one another while staying loose and focused. And make no mistake, we all stayed focused seven days a week, including holidays. What we all had in common were parents and friends who understood how important family, friends, and respectful social habits were to our success and continual motivation.

Note: Our American Legion team, following our high school antics, won the national championship in 1952. At the time I had graduated and was playing for Santa Monica City College, and was in the process of signing a professional contract with the Chicago White Sox. My childhood dreams appeared to be coming true.

“God Puts On The Brakes”

        It was during the year 1952, playing in a semi-pro winter league game while coaching at third base, I was hit in the face by a batted ball. This accomplished two separate things during the one incident of the injury. It ended my childhood dream of becoming a professional baseball player and moved me into joining my new team, the United States Army. I was soon to be off to South Korea.

By Harvey Kalmenson
December 2022

Life Is A Puzzlement...

"Life Is A Puzzlement... Perhaps"

Art by Ellen Kalmenson

Liking
Luring
Lingering
Loving
Lasting
Leaving

And when you grew
To what bearing was amused by you
Was there applause along your way
Was wonderment allowed
Were more breaths in than out
Was your heart freely becoming stout
Whose tears did you cause
Were daily laughs free to rain
Did you grasp love
Without fearing pain
Would you ever try for it again
And if it all happened just one more time
Would your will be there to partake
While having learned from another day's mistake
Of course, by those of others

Do you wish to partake again
If one more hand was dealt
Would you play
Or would you throw your cards away?


By Harvey Kalmenson
December 2022
Christmas has not yet arrived

"What's On A Desk"

Who in this world would have the self-serving dimension of taking a picture of their own desktop? Well… I did, and what did I find?

        There before me was “Slocum the Yocum” — a fine array of da harv’s truths. November 28th, my birthday, has come and gone, and unfortunately, with it a more than a suitable accumulation of deceitful vacuous time periods. “Slocum the Yocum” was a nonexistent accountless nobody, invented by my dad whenever life presented a need for someone to blame. Dad felt it was important to have a deterrent he could use against anything that even remotely got in the way of his hard work. “Harvey”, Dad would say, “It’s only a delay. A temporary stop along your way. Don’t be a Yocum. Use your God-given bloodline! We’re not going to fail! Damn it!”

        There was a day and time when I had no desk to lean upon. There were no things to look at with or within the contemplation of revelry of what the future might bring into my fold. Only the presence of current circumstances languished upon my dreams of better times. Days filled with thoughts of all illnesses being vanquished from this desk of mine. Believing in what I call: “The wild and determined call of the surreptitiously placed items of what may or may not be or become identified or mindfully misplaced in one's lifetime.” This happens to be my desk, and so perhaps if it could speak, it most likely is a compilation of a man's dreams; some left in their original package.

Harvey Kalmenson

Gobble Gobble (2022)

Turkey Time

        Experiencing the service we received in the United States Army during holiday time was a logistical wonderment to behold. It was Thursday, November 26th, 1953. We were part of the 180th Regiment of the Forty-Fifth infantry division and deployed at a place in the Yongyu Valley near the 38th Parallel in North Korea. The temperature was about twenty-five to thirty-five below zero, give or take. The fighting had ceased on the 27th of July in 1953, Monday, at precisely 9:00 PM.

        It was about a week or so before Thanksgiving day; from out of nowhere, in comes a team of engineers with three trucks loaded with building supplies to the point of explosion. Within one day, those guys erected a full and complete mess hall, capable of serving everyone in our company.

The prefabricated structure is known as a Quonset Hut, a building

made of corrugated metal and having a semicircular cross-section.

        On the Monday preceding Thanksgiving, a large quantity of food along with a detail of cooks and bakers began arriving in the wee hours of the morning. The extra cook's helpers had been flown in from Japan. Turkey, ham, shrimp, two or three salads, and all kinds of potatoes, along with lemon meringue, apple, and pecan pies. I honestly can’t recall what they served for hors d’oeuvres, but, I can tell you that none of us were disappointed. And I can’t recall the boxes of chocolate we received, but I do remember all of us had far more than we were able to consume. The only item left out was any form of hard liquor. (We were still considered a high-level combat zone.)

        That next day, we came to find out this was a common practice afforded to all of us serving our country anywhere and everywhere in the world. To this day, I think about it when the traditional holidays are upon us. If it’s at all possible, our American military is made for us to feel as much at home as a combat zone would permit.

        Replacing the freezing cold with the warmth of family and friends at Thanksgiving time serves as a reminder to me of how lucky a man I am today, some sixty-nine years hence. Please join me and mine on the celebration of this wonderful day for giving thanks. And if I may, here’s another heartfelt remembrance that manages to touch my soul, thinking back to what was a very personal day in the life and times of yours truly: Thursday, November 26, 1953.

My short remembrance:

More gently than imagined

Dinner had slowed to a savoring state

Many smiles adorned, pleased faces

Our company chaplain led a prayer

Giving thanks for this joyous meal

A final few words

The chaplain stepped away

Hey Rod, where’s that record player of yours

One of the guys called out

We knew he had it close by

Not a shock to me, it was under his seat

Rod set the “phono” in place

I stood alongside, smiling

Awaiting my favorite song to begin

Hand cranking completed, the needle in place

Never foreign to Rod and me

When he played Roy Hamilton

All around, listened

1953 Thanksgiving was special

At the moment, Rod and da harv were standing

The music began, and I remember

My eyes were closed during this festival

The first bar of music, a gentle call to arms sounding

Without any musical signal

All buddies around me began to stand

Rod and I were deeply enthralled

We began to sway to the sound

Our comrades joined in that Thanksgiving Day

It was November 26, 1953

We all listened as Roy Hamilton musically reminded us:

“We would never walk alone”

One hundred men, not walking alone!

Swaying in place as one

When you walk through the storm

Hold your head up high

And don't be afraid of the dark

At the end of a storm

There's a golden sky

And the sweet silver song of a lark.

Walk on, through the wind

Walk on, through the rain

Though your dreams be tossed and blown

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

And you'll never walk alone

You'll never walk alone.

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

And you'll never walk alone

You'll never walk alone.

-

Oscar Hammerstein II / Richard Rodgers

It was November 26, 1953

It was a very special day.

HK

As Our World Turns

"Abstractions"

The question is, what do you see?

What do you see? What do you feel? Are there any actions or decisions you’re in the process of making? Or do you find yourself flat-out stymied by life’s abstractions?

        Perhaps a gentle spin of your plate either up, down a little, a lot, or in another part of town. Change by itself represents movement. Whether we like it or not, most of the time, backing straight away from any one of life’s abstractions doesn’t clear it or lessen your feeling of the genuine pain actually being experienced.

“If you're going through hell keep going.”

Winston Churchill

Note: If you have the desire to become inspired by something an individual accomplished in their lifetime, even if it wasn’t publicly recognized until after said individuals were long gone, you might enjoy reading about the lives of Margaret Thatcher, Winston Churchill, or an actor named Ronald Reagan.

        A close friend of mine, who happened to also be a very accomplished athlete in his own right, had a charming way of describing women he greatly respected by often using verbal abstractions. As an example, I was having a conversation with him one day, and I enquired about his ninety-year-old mom's health. “Oh, you know, Harv,” he said, “she’s a horse!”

        …And not to my surprise, the reference to strong women as one of my frequently used guidelines for success was picked up by my very own Cathy Kalmenson. Da harv was well on his way to recovering from Covid and Cathy was being asked how I was doing. “Harvey's a horse,” she replied.

        Maybe it has become time for us to turn towards more good use of abstractions in our everyday life. Give the plate a gentle turn. “Wow, that dog's got muscle.”

Harvey Kalmenson

What Kids Can Say

What kids can say

Oftentimes may blow you away

Their words, if or when you let them seep in

Origins

Perhaps amazingly

Soothe

Obstinate problems

Living truth creeps from a beating heart

Always from within

Sorrows from yesterday

Turn into blissful imagination of tomorrow

1943, ten years old

“My big brother ain't coming home anymore”

A hand is placed around his shoulder

They walk the playground schoolyard together

A little boy helping a little boy who weeps

Perhaps ending with a gentle kiss on a cheek

Maybe apologizing for the hurt he caused

They walk home together

There’s a gold star in the window

“My mom put it there”, he says,

“It was there for me to see when I got home

She was in bed crying when I got home”

Little boys offer sympathy

When they become men who speak

Quietly to one another

Paying attention

Maybe taking a knee

Maybe God will help now

If only a modicum

For each other’s welfare

To draw only from their blissful past

Joys remembered

Of what they felt and have learned

From life gone by too fast

Spreading around to all others

Watching a child waving their flag

And then continuing at home

All the neighborhood family’s parading around

Block party’s for all to spread love

WW2 has come to an end

1945

It was coming home time

Back in the United States of America

All arms around one another

Never again to be alone

        Every school kid attending PS 233 was aware of which of their friends had brothers or sisters serving in our country’s military. Often a brother on leave from the service was allowed to stick their head in and visit with a classmate. All the kids stood as one, and clapped and cheered in unison. Some kids were justifiably seen drying a tear or two.

Two of the top songs of the day were:

Les Brown's band playing "Sentimental Journey" with Doris Day as a vocalist

"It's Been A Long, Long Time", Louis Armstrong

        In the years of WW2, every child in every home learned from their mothers and or fathers about patriotism. Each day at school began with a pledge of allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. Every member of the families on our block shared the pride in men and women teaming up for our country in those terrible years of unbelievable grief.

        Harvey Kalmenson became twelve and, accordingly, he was merely one year away from being accepted and recognized for becoming a man by the elders of his tribe. Truth be told, at the time I was more into baseball than studying for my Bar Mitzvah, a little less than one year away.

Harvey Kalmenson

Bubbling Up To Our Brim

        A short while back in time, da harv was getting gas at a neighborhood station—the same one I purchase my lottery (escape) tickets at… There I was, pumping gasoline into my 2002 Ford Expedition. I had completed my purchase of twenty dollars’ worth of what would most likely be the winning numbers that would wondrously change my life forever.

        Known in my biblical trade as "my cup runneth over", please! I was praying simultaneously while placing the ten tickets in my special hiding place behind my special “Get Smart” hidden dashboard compartment. I’m the only one having any idea of how to break into my secret hiding place. If any of you out there in "TV-land" have a picture of Don Adams hiding his special directive order from “The Chief”, please pass it along to me. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the entry code for the dashboard. The bottom line for those who care about the betterment of da harv—not to worry, it will come back to me. It always does…

        …In any event, I was standing there trying to figure out how to avoid this guy who had been sleeping alongside the entry door to the bodega portion of the station—it’s the place where I always buy my lottery tickets. If this guy doesn’t change his sleeping habits, I’ll have to find a different place to shop for my lottery tickets. I suppose I can manage the inconvenience. After all, living on the street can’t really be that sweet.

A leaflet of this or that to share with who or whom…

Moonglow without a shine

There we were

A guy with a Rolls Royce

Comes driving up

With top down and glowing finish

He just had to find someone

To tell his good tidings to

It had to be me I guess

There I stood awaiting his word

He told of how he dreamed hard, as a younger man, of this white convertible

With top down, he began

I just had to, he said

He brimmed with joy

He spoke of the past

How he made a vow

Thirty years since the military had gone by

His joy was real

When his "kid" dreams came true

Then driving away

Get yours now if you can

He saluted me

What fellow veterans sometimes do

On a hillside
In Korea, 1953

We gathered around

Making believe about the things

We were going to do

When we got back to our hometown

Some did, some didn’t make it

It was Christmastime

Every expression imaginable

Did abound

A buddy turned to me

It wasn’t my time to act the clown

He asked

What was the best

Your parents…

Gave to you

When you were a little guy

In your hometown

All became quiet, very quiet

While waiting for me to speak

I wanted to talk to Santa

Complaining to my Mother

She knew I couldn’t write

But I could speak

Father with his big smile allowed

What would you ask for

I want a very big car

That I can drive myself!

        My older sister was the one who got the assignment to take me to the department store's toy department and sit on Santa’s lap. And I relayed the story to the guys, it got a great laugh when I told my buddies how pissed off I got when discovering I wasn’t going to have Santa all to myself. (I think they gave me a toy machine gun that made this horrible rat-tat-tat sound that I awakened the household with every morning until, somehow, it disappeared from the apartment we lived in.

My first car:

1955 Ford convertible…

I’m proud to say I could drive it myself

Around town

That’s exactly the same color as the car

My mom and dad gave me

$500 bucks to put down

        A new day and a new time, yet, there remain many like me who find moments to think back to—another time when they craved a certain toy to play with. When I traveled to a department store's toy department with my sister, my favorite toy was a set of Lionel Trains. I would look at them and she, almost ceremoniously, pronounced: “We can’t afford it”.

        Well, last week, believe it or not, this kid—now eighty-nine years of age—didn’t have his ninety-five-year-old sister along for the ride. I saw it, I grabbed it. Without the approval of anyone telling me what I could or could not afford, there I stood in line at Costco, paying sixty-four bucks for my own set of Lionel Trains. The picture of me which follows resembles me holding tightly to my “Choo Choo” train set.

Obviously filled up to the brim!!!

Too early for Christmas…
Not for this "kid" to abide by
Get your Rolls Royce now
Don’t wait for the pleasure you deserve
Mine happened to be a choo-choo train
What’s yours?

Harvey Kalmenson

Read, Write, and Be Merry!

Suitable for children and kids of all ages.
May be consumed each and every day,
Predicated by the desires of every citizen of the world,
Free of restrictions!

“Never too early, never too late!”

Question: How can we evict uncertainty from a living breathing brain (Especially if you’re the landlord and keeper of the roost.)

Answer: Add knowledge by way of the most simplistic tools, mentally and physically, available to you by way of INFUSION!

CAUTION: YOUR RESULTS MAY BE,

OR BECOME, PROBLEMATICAL

CREDO

        Young, old, or just getting there—it’s never too late to learn. Believe it or not, laughter is one of the greatest salves known to men and women of this world.

        The other evening, I read the first page of a hard-covered book. I had ceremoniously placed it on my nightstand, preparing for a brand-new learning experience. It’s actually my ever-so-humble form of a daily ritual for self-welfare. Free from any unwanted assistance, or insistence, from any elected official telling me what’s for my family's or my well-being!

        This author's statement of fact, above, entered into his ardent quest for knowledge which seriously commenced in 1955 following his military service. My God, I was 22 years old. "I didn’t have the brains God gave a shovel."

        I know more today than I’ve ever known or learned during the course of my eighty-nine years of existence on this planet. Yet my knowledge today, far outweighs any probability of me gaining fulfillment of my desire to satisfy my needs for learning.

        My old reading habits are hard to break, and I categorically refuse to alter them at this stage of the game. I refer to my books as friendly nostalgia; considering writers to be performers, educators, and more often than not, our greatest historians. Writers are also the world’s greatest storytellers.
        The past is for all—like it or not. Some believe being born with a past is immediate. Like birth, our past is not for us to choose, yet, we’re free in our ability to allow it to help each of us to become ingratiated by its remembrance.
        Hear it, smell it, see it, dream about it, and write it down before it vanishes from your brain's storage tank. I guess some folks who might know me well, might consider me a creature from the past. But what they don’t readily think about is recognizing how often the past was just yesterday, or right smack in the wee hours of the morning. If you look and listen, you have the ability to tell (if you choose to).
        What you think you can vocally do as well as anyone in the world, is yours to draw on from your past—albeit from childhood, up and until the end of this day, and perhaps tomorrow. Practice it as a personal routine, treating it as a welcome friendly personage, or sound, from your past.
        Imagine one day you might be called on to perform this special sound and or approach for an upcoming audition. In your heart of hearts, you have an unabashed awareness and confidence: “They have to pick me!”

And then do what a very well-known and successful voice-over actor, Mike Road, always did as his daily ritual:

FORGET ABOUT IT AND RETURN TO YOUR DAILY PRACTICE!

Harvey Kalmenson

Harvey, The Younger Person

My Mother Told Me That I Said, At Three Years Old:

"He No More Good"

        Maybe I did, but there’s a good chance I didn’t. C’mon, give me a break, I was only three years old. My mother was very good at blaming me for everything taking place around our apartment. The fact was, I overheard her having a private conversation with one of my aunts. Mom was specifically describing me as being a troublemaker. My mother was telling Aunt Hannah how I repeated everything I heard on the radio.

        My aunt, upon hearing my mom doing her rant about me, became very indignant. “Your kid is only four years old. None of my kids can do that, and they're all much older than him.” And my mom instantly popped up with, “And none of them have his brain power.” “Come to think of it – neither does your husband”, she blurted. With that, Aunt Hannah stomped out and down the five floors to the street of our Brownsville, Brooklyn tenement building.

Used to be

While a depression was going on

Way back then

Men were men

All standing "on" line

Waiting all day for a job

Very hard to find

Trying to remember when

And then I began listening to our little radio

A favorite of mine was “Uncle Don”

I remember Ticonderoga

About pencils that had the same name

'Cause they had a very cute jingle

No TV, just on radio, they’d all be singing:

Ticonderoga Pencils

Have claimed their name to fame

A fine American pencil

With a fine American name

(Little da harv had everything on Uncle Don's show memorized, including each and every one of the commercials.)

        Deep down in her heart, I truly think my Aunt Hannah really loved me. It was probably my mother who bore responsibility for causing all my aunts and uncles to show dislike for me, her little angel. My mother made it a point to tell the world how strong of a bloodline she had passed on to her little son, the genius. “And he’s only three”, she told anyone and everyone. (By then I might have already become five. My mother figured it was a better story if I remained only three.)

A Mishmash of Babbled Memories

One day I broke the point
Of my father's favorite pencil
No pencil sharpener
My little mind began to rush
What is going to happen to me now
My mother didn’t trust me
Even though I was a little angel,
She still didn’t trust me
I was only 3½, maybe four
I had taken the pencil from my father's drawer
My mom was a whistleblower
“Wait until your father gets home”
She bellowed in my face!
“Uncle Don” came on the radio
“All you kids, learn how to read and write”, he said!
Dad came through the door
Mom blew the whistle with delight!
Instinctively I said, without hesitation, “Uncle Don told me to do it”!!
Dad picked me up
Not to worry, he handed me another pencil.
“Better he learns how to write”, dad said with a big smile.
To that mom replied, “He’s such a little actor”.

What a great beginning to the divinity of Show Biz, don’t you think? Let’s see now; I began waiting "on" line when I was three years old. I guess my mother was right, maybe my aunt Hannah was as well. Perhaps there is a difference between being in line, or standing on one!

        That night, as my dad rubbed my back and sang to me as I fell asleep—he reminded me about it in much later years—he whispered, “Real men don’t cry”. I learned through the years that my dad really didn’t mean it. On the day he dropped me off at the Union Station here in Los Angeles, I saw my father cry for the very first time in my life. I was on my way to basic training and then on to Korea; I had joined the United States Army.

        We were apart for some seventeen months. Upon return, we both shed a tear or two together. The fact is real men do cry. Some even learn to read and write at a very early age. What helps to keep me thinking like a much younger person might endeavor to do, is my daily faculty for reading and writing each day.

        "Uncle Don was a children's radio program that aired on WOR radio from 1928 to 1947. The host was Uncle Don Carney, a former vaudeville performer." His most appreciated listener was a very young actor named Harvey Kalmenson. There were rumors going around Newburgh, New York (a town in upstate New York we had moved to when I was four) that I had changed my name to “da harv”. Not true. I didn’t become “da harv” until I visited Chicago after meeting Cathy, much, much later on in my life.

About Kids In General

        A point from da harv: As a teacher and casting director, I have personally had the pleasure of being in close contact with many children with beginnings from all over this planet of ours. From meager households to the God-gifted environments of those endowed with overwhelming wealth.

        I’ve personally found a pattern towards gaining great responsiveness, whether they be white-collar or blue, from children from all walks of life. Certainly, there are kids who are outright genuinely gifted in learning. In many ways, all children have many things in common, gifted or not.

        Both my mom and dad loved reading to us kids; and along with singing, it managed to help us cultivate a worldly form of responsiveness and learning. Intellect, you might say! The point is, kids can translate being read to, and or being sung to, into receiving love. As clearly stated as I can possibly make it, reading and singing will almost always stimulate the very best a child has to offer.

        Laughter has been and always will be a factor created during any form of cultivation for children and adults as well. Who we are today, where we were yesterday, and what we strive for on the morrow of life is what our Kalmenson & Kalmenson Method is all about. That isn’t to say a past personal experience, of grief or misjudgment, couldn’t also prove to serve you well as your future unfolds, becoming the present life you lead.

        Many of the world’s greatest minds were anointed with scars they carried with great pride of resolve, forever… Each of life’s indifferences towards you is not yours to hold tightly. Only what each individual seeks may ever be grasped, shared, or held…if only momentarily.

Harvey Kalmenson

Around My House

Around My House and Perhaps Yours As Well

Age 28

        Around my house, a while back, I could do it all. As you can imagine, there was actually a time when climbing to my rooftop wasn’t a contest for me. In those days I had a very rickety ladder, I’d press the ladder up against the side of the building, climb to the top rung, and then easily pull myself up the rest of the way. I will admit to having a great deal of fun watching some of my older neighbors standing by and enjoying my display of ego-driven dexterity while providing some entertainment for them.

        Are you kidding me… that was sixty-one years ago. Today, the same feat of cat-like macho would need a helicopter going up, and most likely, my friends at the fire department will be called in to rescue me. My then-wife didn’t think my antics were the least bit funny; truthfully, it scared the living hell out of her!

        I recall one of those days when I was busily showing off to a group of neighbors. I was suddenly gripped by severe pain in the calf of my left leg. I literally made it down the ladder one rung at a time. On this particular day, the fun for me became a thing of the past.

        My regular chores became noticeably harder and harder to manage. Some years had slipped by, seemingly overnight. Along with many physical attributes disappearing without my immediate recognition, taken from my repertoire of skills. I had somehow become:

Age 45

        During the next ten years, it became impossible for me to compete in tournament handball. Truth be told, for a vast number of lifetime athletes, there will be a variety of physical aggravations to suffer through during our allotted span of life. I don’t intend to bore anyone with my personal tales of woe along the way. Honestly, not being able to compete in sports was a personal wake-up call. It brings along a certain annoyance in life, not appreciated by men and women far too young to be forced to suddenly veer away from a singularly important wedge in their lifestyle.

        Wake-up calls aren’t the same for each human being. I’m not even certain that each of us receives individual signals of wake-up calls coming in. I guess many of us are actually oblivious to any form of a wake-up call at all. It’s not like setting an alarm clock. For some people even setting their clock doesn’t do the trick. There are people who place their alarm clock on the other side of a bedroom which forces them to get out of bed in the morning to make the damn thing stop ringing or buzzing in the morning, or whatever time of day or night they may choose.

        The vast number of people who need some sort of device to be awakened is totally different than what I grew up with. Today, most of the younger spirits around town are hooked on their cell phones for almost everything. But the kind of human wake-up call I refer to is that of the human condition. A person may think they have trained themselves to be prepared for any number of the bumps presented in order to supplant ill tidings forced upon us by the unforeseen.

        During this upcoming November, God willing, I will become:

Age 89

        I can’t tell you the number of wake-up calls I’ve received during the course of my lifetime to date. The human condition is so often ignored. The younger we are, the more ignorant we are of our mortality. What is often foisted upon us unceremoniously, whatever the source may be, is most likely a condition we have not been trained to deal with. It has become apparent to me that many of the very most important events in a lifetime are the very things none of us have been trained for.

        Many folks share the time-honored belief that who we are is governed by the environment we are raised. There are psychologists who flatly state: the environment is responsible for seventy-five percent of what we turn out to be, stemming from the neighborhood we grew up in.

        During my lifetime, I’ve experienced a huge variety of personalities from all over the world. I doubt that you can name a nook or cranny that doesn’t have a person or two who desires to be an actor. Anyone, and everyone, is eligible to enter into the world of theatrical gospel. Regardless of what the environment might be, or from whence a future thespian of great promise was raised, stand back and make way. There will always be room for a few more at the top. And while you're looking, please don’t forget the bottom. From the past, present, and in tomorrow’s future, people who derived great prominence from the most meager beginnings have shown up at the highest levels receiving worldwide acclaim.

        And now a minor note from da harv, derived from my earliest environment in Brooklyn, New York:

“If and when you happen to step in shit during life’s travels… 

it’s not always your fault… especially if you take into consideration a simple fact:

You weren’t necessarily trained for it!”

A toast to all the world's firemen!

HK

What You Don't Know...

From My Schoolyard “mit” Love!

        You almost had to be there to fully understand my community of East Flatbush in Brooklyn, New York, and what it was like for any of us kids in our World War II era—still not yet having reached the aristocracy of teenage—what we thought to be "manhood".

“What you don’t know, don’t hurt.

So don’t let anybody tell you, what you don’t know!”

(Cause dat can kill ya)

        The above paragraph probably would have begun with a special kind of Brooklynite lead-in: “listen to me”, “ready to learn”, “get a life”, “I’m your friend”, and “would I lie”. Then, one of my favorites: “That’s (dats) a crock.”

        And if you’re interested, it’s an important thing for you to understand about Brooklyn kids—almost all of us used hand gestures when we talked to one another. I.e., With hands palms up, a strange look at the kid who's trying to explain something to me or us, and my lead-in... Continuing in such conversations there were words along with facial expressions to match like in the TV series decades later such as “Welcome Back Kotter”, the role of Vinnie Barbarino played by John Travolta. Some of the intelligentsia might use referring to our hand movements as gestures.

        Like many of the depictions appearing first and foremost as the driving force for the then sitcoms of the day, what they accomplished was far more than merely mental nourishment—there for no other reason but to make us laugh. Much has been written about the lessons we learned from “Kotter” and his crowd.

        The fact of the matter is really nothing new. Stand-up comedy almost always stems from the hearts and minds of comics stepping back in time with stories about families, friends, neighborhoods, and a vast wealth of nostalgia they’ve all seemed to have accumulated from their lived-in past.

        Stories have always been my personal glory to recall. Thinking about good things never fails to make me feel better. So, without any real effort, please let me share another of my fondest memories. This one is short, sweet, and directly to the point. The words may bend a little as I recall them, but the body of this nostalgia of mine is recalled with my great intent of avoiding exaggeration.

        The year was 1968. My two daughters were eight and ten years old. We lived in a house we had purchased in 1961 (for a grand total of $23,000) in a place called Encino Village in Southern California. It still belongs to our family. Rumor has it that the place has grown in value during the course of the last sixty-one years. Hopefully, so have I.

If you happen to have a kid or two

Make sure to get to them quickly

With a kiss from you

Hopefully, they’ll remember

As have I

There’s beauty in yesterday

Smiles to always recall

Daddy's home, Daddy's home

They’d always shout

As if it was just yesterday

When the two of them were home!

HK

I Beg Your Pardon

        Good, bad, or indifferent, towards my efforts as a communicator during my past forty-seven years of endurance within what many of you wrongly refer to as “show business”. In 1951, I stumbled on a book by Al Hirschfeld entitled “Show Business is No Business”. Admittedly, I didn’t grasp what the well-traveled Mr. Hirschfeld was getting at.

        It was seventy-one years ago. A much younger man about town named Harvey Kalmenson was eighteen and had recently graduated from high school here in Los Angeles. I had two goals—I was going to either become a professional baseball player or become a big-time operator in the magical world of entertainment, or the "attainment" industry.

        Three years passed, and I returned from Korea and the army; “Let the banging of one's head into this new world of "No Business" begin”. And so, now at the magnificent age of nineteen and void of any near great mental eruptions taking place, an uneventful— sometimes successful—lifetime adventure began taking shape. Or so I thought! Age twenty-one. Love, luck, or skill?

da harv, 2021

In testament to transformation

All was right

At age eighty-nine, how divine!

Once more

Too many to recall

I’ve been asked

How I might describe

My pursuits

Those I’ve dared taking

During my life’s travels

Banging my head against the proverbial wall

As a rabid dog might

In search of whatever

Vainly travailing, consistently in wants

Even the smallest morsel

Considered to be success

Even if remotely stumbling upon it

Many are told

Be careful what you ask for

Many don’t ever ask

In fear they might be a receiver

“Sex burns calories, but you gotta move. But that shouldn’t be your only reason for gleaning from the experience! Luck rules the world!”

HK

Crazy Times

These Are Crazy Times...

We’re Living In Today

        Our conversation had begun with two ordinary guys thanking each other for their service to the country. He was an ex-marine, and I was an equally proud ex-army man. We could tell by the monogrammed hats we were wearing, we had both served in Korea. We spoke to each other as if we were past members of the same social club.

        As he spoke I found myself in agreement with almost all he had to say. We found ourselves in a condition of mutual wonderment. “Has it always been this way?” he asked. These are some of the craziest of times neither da harv nor the stranger had ever lived in.

        While not yet at wit's end, it became a chance for a pair of old guys to commiserate. It had started out with the two of us overhearing this gal talking about the drug problems being suffered by many families today… It wasn’t to be a joyful conversation to kick off my day. It seems like, with a little practice, a guy can jam a lot of anguish into just a few minutes.

        “What weird times these are, what with inflation, and crime running rampant in our cities, the war in Ukraine, Covid-19, and so many other things for us to be thinking about. And lest we forget China, Russia, Iran, and our borders being violated on a daily day and night basis.”

        All that came from the minds of total strangers, as part of nothing more than a casual conversation at our neighborhood Costco. If I were to direct a play, about a family living in some very tough times, I might describe what these actors were portraying as they all were living within their daily lives.

—

Director: To the actors at their first table reading
Time: 2022
Scene: Costco, Westlake Village

Two Blue Collar Strangers In Conversation:
Up and Back Comparing Notes

Setting:

        A common laundry list: a family member with a severe drug problem, years of political tumult, turmoil, confusion, disorder, unemployment, neighborhoods in a state of fear caused by crime in their community... Often, too much to think about. Though those who are made to think, find ways to learn from those men and women who write books.

“I cannot teach anybody anything. I can only make them think.”

– Socrates

        Socrates was the guy who taught Plato how to educate himself and a pretty big group of Greek guys who through the years would get together and do a lot of thinking. Rumor has it they invented whatever they happened to need at the time.

        One of the guys, who was really good at math, helped out a buddy of his by discovering angles and how to use them… He was the guy who established the right angle. They called him Pythagoras. He was really good with numbers! (Yah think?)

        But, guess what… your thoughts would be as good or even better than mine. What if it had been decided to call it a “wrong angle” instead? What differences, if any, would have changed the world we know today? Perhaps the famous leaning tower of Pisa would be leaning in a different direction?

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts"

- From “As You Like It” by William Shakespeare

        But if life is a stage—all the world cast with its players, our portrayal taking place within these United States of America, da harv aptly appointed to direct the show—well, then, I would council our cast of actors and we will begin with some fruitful nostalgia. I’ll embark by encouraging all to return to the year 1965.

• In January of 1965, one of the greatest leaders and heroes of perhaps all recorded time died. As encouragement and inspiration to all, I recommend reading the speeches Sir Winston Churchill delivered to his people in 1940. The United States had not yet entered WW2.
• The Watts riots of 1965, Los Angeles — a city afire.
• Immigration Act of 1965
• Martin Luther King Jr.’s 1965 UCLA Speech: On April 27, 1965, in what would come to be known as his “Segregation Must Die” speech, Dr. King acknowledged that it was a fact that some progress had been made.

        The above is nothing more than a scratch to the surface of the unimpregnable skin that Americans have learned that will, and can, ultimately block out the evil vermin who seek to destroy what we have built into the greatest country of all generations to share forever.

        But, in order to justify one's beliefs, each individual must discover for themselves. I've discovered the more I read, the more truth comes to bear as a deterrent to evil. Few writers can manage more than a modicum of exaggeration in what they scribe. Politicians appear to have the most ability to deceive. However deceit doesn’t last forever; in most cases, the falsehoods begin to appear as soon as they’re elected—or defeated, for that matter.

Then in America

Our people were up,

down,

in and out

all around town

known to the world we lived in

Momentary delays

They came with the territory

Life’s ordinary pebbles

To be shaken

loose from the roads

we, the thinking people,

decided on our destiny

Pebbles, always to be swept away

There was far more to 1965 than this missive will reveal!

Many years passed

Then came da harv

No time to cipher

For his theories

To be cast

So he borrowed

From the others

Swiftly he could read and write

His only plight

Paper hadn’t been invented

Tablets of sand notwithstanding

Soon disappeared

Each day when the rains came

Almost any

Who might scribble

Dabble in

Or dribble on

Applauded

His written lyrics

Neither right nor wrong

Straight nor tilted

Leaning or centered

Both sides elated

Much of his dribble

Scorned by some

Receiving many ducats

From princes and lords

The common folk

Never did partake

They had not yet learned to read

Nor were they allowed to vote

For all the commoners

All was at stake

        And two men completed their conversation. Both showing smiles of a time well spent… a partial day in their lives… to be recalled if they choose for as long as they remain on life’s stage.

HK

Gotta Be This Or That

With great aplomb,

And all the satire I can muster at this late date in life,

Just as if he, or she,

Whatever this slanted society decides upon

Which comfort station

Thinking they know is correct

For a person of their supposed gender

May or may not

Contrive

Offering God-given dexterity to make the proper use of!

        ...Somewhere, somehow, it was uttered in the believed year of 652 BC. And yes, yes, yes, they did have some form of a given structure in the year 652 BC. (They had a king, and while it may not have anything to do with a politico movement, they had an established theatre…)
        "The theatre of Ancient Greece flourished between 550 BC and 220 BC. A festival honoring the god Dionysus was held in Athens, out of which three dramatic genres emerged: tragedy, comedy, and the satyr play. Western theatre has its roots in the theatre of Ancient Greece and the plays that originated there."

“Keep Pushing, You Bastards, Keep Pushing”

Note: Some bastards would rather pull than push. And so it was claimed to be the start of the two-party system of government.

        And somewhere, while habituating within the depths of their ignorance, some elected to pull – although it was a strange notion for the times at hand. These, the self-indulgent folks, were from then and ever on identifying themselves as politicians.
        To the general public, this group was also known as "shleppers", the Yiddish word for always just coming along for the ride! They represented forty percent of the population.
        Then arose the other forty percent, who upon considering the desperate plight of the “shleppers” were living quite well on many of our largest big cities' streets.

        When nature bids you the relief of a healthy bodily function, the bidding does not require a politician's approval or consent – regardless of which side you happen to vote for – or even if you happen to be the kind of individual who always must find a way to vote against the person, man or woman, regardless of skin color, whom you happen to hate the most.
        If you happen to be a forty percent member of our United States voting population, you won’t agree with most of what I have to say anyway. So with complete deference to your feelings (not to worry, I promise not to be concerned with your feelings), it’s my way of presenting a lukewarm gesture commonly presented by a more than the vast array of today's politicly elected breed.

        And now time for hip, hip, hurrah – here comes the remaining twenty percent of the public at large; half of whom, ten percent, will cast their ballots at election time in order to select the politicians they feel to be the most honest, or at least those who have existed as public servants up and until they are ridden with old age. These adoringly wonderful individuals have labeled themselves to be forever known as: “Independents”. I have met many during the course of my life who have claimed to be “Independent”. None of them ever became president of the United States during my lifetime.

        There was a song entitled “Gotta Be This Or That”, written way back in 1945. I guess it was a time period, like many others in this great country of ours where people were having some degree of problems with “self-direction”. My God, that was seventy-seven years ago.
        Almost everything we, Americans, were dreaming of was hopefully being prayed for. For many of us, during this year of indecision and misleading decisions simultaneously being heaped upon us, the song lyrics of band leader Benny Goodman’s “Gotta Be This Or That” tolled true by way of his big band jazz musical rendition.

The song Gotta Be This or That was written by Sunny Skylar.

Lyrics by Benny Goodman and His Orchestra in 1945.

Dwindling Breeze

Maybe more rave than there is to go around

Moving more slowly

Laden deep, these swelling waters

Older flags having ragged edges

Yet, humor still displayed

Nature vehemently ever

In charge

We, passengers, deny goals

While seeking mere survival

New horizons no longer being sought

Yet, somehow,

With eyes sparkling

Freshness from a small breeze billowing

Sails struggling

Still willing to move us forward

Have we a momentary reprieve at hand

What manner they be

These passengers of mine

Again, no matter

Nature will decide

Those viewing our ship will never understand

Colleagues, Troopers, Lovers

All past have been mine

All actors, we

Manage to sail forward

Though desperation be our band

One single light remains downstage

As if waiting for an audience

Who will finally understand!

HK, 1983

...It was today.
Awakening from a sleep
I had dreamed of yesteryear
A young lad on his long Saturday morning walk
Hand in hand with a father's protection
Without notice, we arrived
Lincoln Terrace Park, Brooklyn, New York
1944, a war's magnitude still permeating all lives
Dad was a man of forty-two, I, a boy of eleven
Suddenly, as dreams often do, it came to its end…
One man spoke to a group of others: “Did you hear?” he said to no one in particular, “Charlie caught a ball for his kid. It was the other day, the Dodgers were playing the Giants. I think it was off the bat of Pee Wee Reese”.
I smiled, it became reality. It was time to begin my day; this day in 2022, as da harv, now a man of eighty-eight…

So, my friends, “What’s new with almost all of you?”

Part II: Let The Games Continue

ENTERING A NEW SPORT: THEATER

        Many of us, including yours truly, were required to try the same drill the first two students experienced that very first day. Our teacher moved around the room randomly choosing who would have their turn on stage. For no discernible reason, I was last to get up to perform. There I was, center stage. I took a comfortable breath and began to talk to them as if they were a crowd sitting in the stands, watching me pitch.

        “This feels like I’m on a pitching mound, looking in at my catcher, just the way my dad showed me how to do it.” The students began to laugh. I shook off their laughter without anger. “No. He really did teach me. He taught me a lot of things.”

        “I can remember a long time ago. It was one of those Saturday summer days. My dad and I were at Ebbets Field, together, taking in a Dodger game, together. They played their games in Brooklyn in those days. I’m smiling now because that day with my father is one I will remember for the rest of my life.” The students became quiet, they seemed to lean in a little closer. “Tell us the rest of what happened next”, the teacher called out to me.

        I began again: “The Dodgers were up at bat. The game was on the line. My dad told me to stay awake. We were sitting pretty close to where many of the foul balls were often hit. Up to the plate came my favorite Dodger of all time: Pee Wee Reese. “Stay awake”, my dad said again.

        Then, Pee Wee hits one up in the air and it came quickly our way. We all instantly stood up. My dad raised up to his full height of five foot five inches, stuck his left arm up in the air, and lo and behold, made a bare-handed catch of that foul ball off the bat of my favorite dodger, Pee Wee Reese. God, I loved that guy, but I loved my father more.” The students applauded.

        During the course of the semester, our wonderful teacher often repeated the same drill as we all became aware she had, herself, learned as a working actress and student of the great Stanislavski.

INGREDIENTS: STUDY and DISCOVERY

        The word study may not occur to those in the earliest stages of discovery itself. "Study" is imperative as a driving force for anyone and everyone who is held captive by even a modicum of flowing creative juices so presented by nature's indelible will. An absolute necessity in the cultivation of lasting and prominent skills.

        Study and discovery are essentially the same providers, bringing forth both conscience and subconscious enlightenment; without which these two ingredients, creativity becomes nothing more than a burdensome and unrewarding task. That was then, and this is now. I never go a single day without both of those marvelous ingredients entering, and reentering, my treasury.

        When I returned home from Korea, neither study nor any human pertinence allowing for who I really was (at that moment in time) was anything I intended to share from my private thoughts. In other words, looking back, I was quite introspective. Two short years later, what I considered a fixation became a fact of life.

        I take a personal moment to acknowledge a few persons before me. Those who taught me the "how" and "why" systems work, for all or any who fall to the long and often fickle deceptions of creativity.

        Note: My acknowledgments are now complete. I chose to make them introspectively; often it's what I do as I prepare to write my next piece, or am in the process of delivering a verbal discourse in a most intimate flow of words.
        Often, during trying times—the likes of what we are now experiencing during this plague—I can easily conjure at my will the very image of my dad reaching up, catching that ball, then instantly handing it off to his adoring young son as the crowd cheered him on to new heights!

“Dear God, let the games continue!”

HK

Part I: Let The Games Continue

Meeting Stanislavski

        Dorsey High School, here in Los Angeles: At the time, my prime interest was playing baseball, and one day, signing a contract to play for a professional team. Studying and becoming a renowned scholar never entered my mind, at least not initially. My drive consisted of play, play, and more play.

        In the beginning, thoughts about anything other than baseball were nonexistent. I don’t recall ever using the word 'discovery' during those formative early high school years. I doubt if I ever opened a book during my first year of high school.

        So much of what they were teaching here, in the state of California, I had already learned during my grammar school days in New York City. Growing up in my family was a guarantee that we were all going to be good in math, or as my dad referred to it, arithmetic.

        Like many immigrant parents, both my mother and father had very little formal education, but it didn’t keep them from excelling at almost everything they attempted to accomplish. They craved learning, it was their driving force, along with making a living and providing for the upbringing of three children: two sisters and da harv.

        One sister is six years older, and the other is nine years younger than me. Not exactly a well-planned household. The big separation of years between us created an enormous family upheaval on many occasions, mainly between me and my older sister. I never thought about my gift with words. Vocabulary and writing skills just happened to be there. Years later, one of the actresses explained to me – in a past life I probably knew how to speak Latin. My mother claimed my vocabulary skills were derived because she began reading to me from the time she first became pregnant with me.

        Year two brought with it: discovery. I actually began planning what I intended to study. By the end of that year, I began to understand what our California teachers really had going for them, especially the women. Many of the female teachers had come to Los Angeles as aspiring actresses. The one I was lucky enough to have, this teacher, came equipped with degrees having to do with theater. Many of the production skills she picked up were derived from some of the most renowned fine-art-related universities in the country.

The song called out to me:

“Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours, to see

Que Sera, Sera”

Jay Livingston/Ray Evans

Note: My favorite version is sung by one of my most favorite ladies, Doris Day.

DRAMA 1

        Day number one, on my first day ever in a legitimately-taught drama (acting) class: Our teacher had been an aspiring actress who ventured out from the small town environment she had grown up in into the movie mecca of the world. At the time, Los Angeles had many young, beautiful, and extremely-gifted teenage girls, discovering (along with their moms) how overpoweringly competitive becoming a working actor would be.

        Her mother had enrolled her talented daughter at Los Angeles High, at age fourteen. She graduated at age seventeen and went on to earn her graduate and post-graduate master's degree, supporting herself by waiting on tables at a very well-known Beverly Hills restaurant. Her skills as an exponent of the great Stanislavski were far more than scholarly—this lady wasn’t pedestrian in any sense of the word. Concurrently, I was entering a period of my young life when my capacity and aptitude as a receptor began to show itself.

THE FIRST DRILL

Location: Alone on our high school stage, our very first beginning drill.

        Two students were picked randomly — the teacher had assigned us, each in our own way, to free form the recollection of an actual personal (true) experience encountered from any time period we chose from our past.

        The first two students had, in common, an incident they each chose to remember and bring forward during a drill in our first week's drama class. Their story could have been funny, but it wasn’t. It could have been deeply dramatic, but none of us got their gist.

Note: Without exception, none of the students had heard the name “Stanislavski”.

        Not many high school teachers had past exposure to the teaching of the most prominent exponent of the great Stanislavski's method, or system. Not until I began cutting classes and making it over to one of the many little neighborhood theaters, did I have any knowledge of who Stanislavski was. I was about to find out.

To be continued...

HK

Our Field of Dreams

Our Field of Dreams

        The USA has always been my "field of dreams". Yes, they made a great movie with that title, but for me, it’s a very personal thing. I’m not embarrassed to share that fact of my life with any and all who care to hear, see, and perhaps read details of our country’s glorious past.

        It was many years ago when this very active kid (me) thought it was a great deal of fun to be out there with his dad shoveling snow. The year was 1943, and the main New York airport of the time was LaGuardia Airport.

        For this guy (me), my recall of pleasant nostalgia serves far more beneficially than the recall of peoples' complaints about the ineptitudes of deceitful politicians. I have zero memory of my mom or dad discussing politics. My mother was a flag-waving patriotic zealot, while we never heard my father let on which party he favored.

        At age twenty-one, when I returned from military service, I became aware my dad was a lifelong Republican. The kid (me) had not yet decided regarding the road I would be taking during the course of my lifetime. The “no complaints department” was the driving non-political force in our family.

        At that time, it had been twenty-two years since my dad and I had shoveled snow together for our neighbors, who couldn’t handle the chore themselves. Now we talked, man to man, and I still remember what dad had said with a smile of accomplishment on his face: “Did you get anything out of the army experience, Harv?” he asked.

        “The unbelievable accomplishment of knowing I was part of this great team of young guys who were busting their asses together, helping people to regain their dignity”, I replied. And not since the day my dad had taken me to the train station on my way to basic training, had I seen my father become emotional. We agreed there was much more accomplishment in shoveling snow than complaining about it, regardless of what political party you voted for.

        I write this as a thank you to all the men and women who serve the people who have placed their confidence in those committed to the accomplishment of providing for the building and survival of each other’s dignity.

        And thank you, all, for the marvelous reviews you’ve been sending me about my song, “Vote Them Out. It’s what America's All About”! In the event you haven’t heard it as of yet, just give what follows a click, give a listen, and don’t be afraid to let me know what you think.

Harvey Kalmenson

Sports and Families

SPORTS AND FAMILIES

Did you know?
Children 3 and under can enter Dodger Stadium free provided they sit on a parent or guardian’s lap. Should the parent or guardian want a child age 3 and under to have their own seat, a ticket must be purchased.

        Way back to circa 1936, or 1937—long before Dodger’s Stadium or Chavez Ravine was even a gleam in the eyes of the O’Malley family and clan)—in the one and only Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, New York, I would often be located sitting on my father's lap, learning how to cheer for what was eloquently described as “Dem Bums”. By age five, my dad explained to anyone who was close enough to where we were sitting: “My kid knows all of their names and numbers.”
        Dad wasn’t completely accurate; I was able to rattle off almost everyone who had anything to do with the Dodgers—including a lady named Gladys Goodding, who was the team organist. And of course, the gal who sat way out in the left field named Hilda, ringing a large cow bell when before and after the Dodgers did something good. Hilda never missed a Dodgers game for as long as she lived.

        What my Father didn’t realize was that he was the one responsible for his kid's (little da harv's) ability—or as his brothers put it, “Hervey’s got a real gift”—to memorize. In actuality, and unknowingly, because my dad never stopped talking to me while I was there—me comfortably sitting on his lap at the ballpark—he was teaching me how to pay attention to what was going on around me.
        Long before I knew who Vin Scully was, I had my very own private and hands-on announcer for everything going on around us. He was also making comments about anyone we experienced together at the ballpark. Much of what he was saying is not suitable for me to repeat. In retrospect… I had a version of Vince Scully there with me at all times.

        As I grew older, in conjunction with my dad having to pay for my seat, I began really turning into his buddy. Often, dad would answer a question while doing a variety of dialects of the many immigrants seated around us who had also fallen into a deep love affair with our Dodgers.
        It was before television had arrived on the scene, and well before anything vaguely resembling instant replay. When the Dodgers were playing out of town, just about every father, son, and all of my friends were tuned in to the radio and listening to what we all felt to be a close friend named Red Barber.
If we weren’t at the ballpark, we were paying close attention to what Red had to say. I mean to tell you, Red was the gospel for all of us. In my lifetime to date, the only announcer better than Red was to become the greatest of all time and forever a Dodger. The one and only: Vince Scully. In addition, Vince is also known and recognized as having been one of the game's best teachers.

HISTORY NOTE: It was sometime around 1920 when the tradition of the fans being allowed to keep any baseballs that were hit into the stands began, but that wasn’t always the case. During World War II, everything hit into the stands had to be returned to the home team, who then in turn forwarded on to our armed service members to be used in their service games. When WW2 came to an end, the practice of spectators keeping a game ball that went foul, or was hit into a homerun area of the stadium, became the fans to keep. The fans were truly fanatical when it came to catching one of those balls, no matter how hard it was hit.

Ebbets Field 1947 World Series, Photograph by Albert Bolognese

        For what it’s worth, those early days at the games with my dad were all smiles. Even when “Dem Bums” lost, my dad began saying to me, “we’ll get 'em tomorrow, Harvey”. You know, he wasn’t kidding. He wasn’t doing a strange or funny voice. He, in effect, was preparing for being part of the business I’m in; we’ll get 'em tomorrow! Won’t we?

hk

        ...And yesterday [Tuesday, August 2, 2022], as I watched my Dodgers busily doing away with their archrival, the San Francisco Giants team, the outcome of the game became of secondary interest to me. It was announced by the Dodgers broadcast team: Vin Scully had passed away. For sixty-seven seasons, Vin had been the Dodgers announcer. There will never be another man like him. Vince Scully added to my life!

Vin Scully began his big league broadcasting career on April 18, 1950, for the Brooklyn Dodgers. (National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum)

Dodgers announcer Vin Scully, with wife Sandi, waves to the fans after the team’s 10th-inning victory over the Colorado Rockies on Sunday. (Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times)