Gave away a “Bob.” Sold an “Outlaws, Rebels…”
Just when I thought the economy was going to need Trump in order to recover.
The sale was to a thirtyish film maker from LA. He had glasses and a ponytail and was wearing a torn camo t-shirt and shorts. He was originally from Toronto and had come up with a hometown buddy for an A’s – Blue Jays game.
“Bet you didn’t have trouble getting seats,” I said.
“And so cheap we stayed an extra night to see another game.”
I charged him $20, but when I opened it to sign it, I saw the price “$10.95″ penciled in, so I gave him $5 back. Then I figured I had to pay postage, so I explained that and took the $5 back, only to then figure I had probably got this copy from Moe’s with no postage involved.
Still, we parted on good terms.
And the Jays won both.
The gift was to the director of the Alliance Heritage Center, which may require some back story for those of you who aren’t my cousins.
If I have the story right, in the late 19th century, a wealthy German Jew, Baron Hirsch acquired land in America for Jews residing in the Pale of Settlement to emigrate to. My great-
grandparents were among those who took the opportunity. Two choices were offered: Wyoming (or was it Montana? Or Idaho?) and South Jersey. All the Jews knew about the first option was that Indians lived there and eagles swooped down and bore off your children, so they selected New Jersey.
Hirsch’s plan called for the settlers to form farming communities ordered along socialist principles. This was a little difficult to implement since the tsar hadn’t permitted Jews to own land, let alone farm. But they settled in and struggled and thrived. My father’s father ran away while still a teenager and eventually became a doctor in South Philly, but his two brothers remained and owned farms we would visit while I was growing up. In the last half-century, the community has become of interest to historians, and now there is this virtual museum centered at Stockton University.
My oldest first cousin, who was visiting the cemetery where our parents are interred, also visited Stockton and met the director, who turned out to have been to 10 times as many Dylan concerts me. She wanted to buy him my book, but not being as venal as the first half of this “Adventure” makes me seem, I sent him one.
So many Bob Levins on the Internet; I'm the Bob Levin who writes.