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?”