The icing on the cake

By Darrell Laurant

Published: July 5, 2008

Columnist’s note: I rarely do this — in fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever done this. But because this is Fourth of July weekend, and because we in the media are always so conscientious about pointing out everything that is wrong with our country these days, I’m going to turn this space over to another writer for the occasion. This essay by Lila Rosenthal, a resident of The Summit, came to me from a fellow member of her Lynchburg writers’ group. It so beautifully describes what has always been right about America that I thought I’d pass it along in its entirety. Enjoy.

The Icing on the Cake

My Dad was a Russian immigrant to America at the age of 7. His parents, whom we lovingly called Bube and Zede — Hebrew for grandmother and grandfather — escaped the Russian pogroms with their eight children. In 1896, the family arrived by ship at Ellis Island after enduring the difficulties of traveling steerage (the very bottom of the ship) across the Atlantic Ocean, through turbulent and dangerous high seas.

The youngest baby sister died en route from the hardships experienced throughout the many weeks of passage, packed in the suffocating, starving conditions the poor immigrants were made to endure.

Upon arriving on American soil, my Zede lined up his weary family, then had their weak, frail bodies kneel down to kiss the “land of the free.” Zede spoke: “We are Americans now, and will never speak another word of Russian again. Thank you dear God for bringing us safely to this hallowed ground.”

My uncles Israel, Louis, Max, Irving and my Dad, along with aunts Bessie and Ida and their parents, were on their way to becoming proud, productive American citizens. They settled in Paterson, N.J., the “silk center of America.” Bube and Zede, with their seven growing children, lived by faith in God and love and respect to all people. The family suffered through many years of poverty and prejudice in America, but they were free to think and speak in their new beautiful world. They became Americans with God’s hand to freedom.

This was the patriotic background in which my Dad grew up as the youngest sibling of the family. Living in Paterson, he naturally entered the silk business. Throughout many difficult years, it was Daddy who established a chain of silk mills from Fall River, Mass., to Scranton, Pa. — a mill for each of his brothers. With his artistic, intelligent mind, in spite of no formal education, he became a successful leader of the community. As long as he had his health, his God, his loving family and his free country, his early struggles for survival were so worthwhile.

Every day, we were awakened before sunrise, dressed, made to clean up our rooms, and all would meet on the front porch for a flag raising, along with the singing of Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” Berlin was an immigrant along with my Dad.

Throughout Daddy’s life, his community and national involvements were so numerous that two months before he died (the same day as Bobby Kennedy), he was awarded the national “Americanism” award, presented by the Governor of New Jersey. It was his proudest day.

Following the presentation ceremony, a gigantic sheet cake was rolled out on a flatbed wagon directed by a proud chef. The cake was lifted ever so carefully on the stage in front of the audience. I was there with my camera, and asked my parents to pose with the cake for a picture.

The beautiful pastry was at too high a level for the top inscription to be seen, so I told my folks to each take an end and lift it at a slanted angle. As I peered through the lens, I directed them to lift it higher and higher. I was ready to snap the camera when suddenly the cake began a slow descent from its foundation, like a thick flow of lava rolling down the side of a volcano. It made a direct hit on Daddy’s thick black hair and horned rimmed glasses, coating his entire upper body. His head and face became a foamy sea of sweet whipped cream, along with the red, white and blue patriotic decorations.

What a chance for a photographer! I grabbed the little black Brownie to begin the memorable photos, but to my dismay, the camera shut down. Bu the time I repaired it, Daddy had gracefully and humorously wiped the whipped cream from his glasses like a human windshield wiper and was almost seeing again.

Daddy had a delightful sense of humor, and he set the tone for laughter throughout the entire audience as he stood dripping in whipped cream, laughing heartily along with 500 other proud Americans. Everybody laughed, except for the pastry chef who had given three days of his life baking this amazing cake in Daddy’s honor.

My Dad’s America, the home of the brave and the land of the free, whether smeared in whipped cream or saluting the American flag, is my proud heritage. Such a loving, joyous, gooey celebration.

(Monday: Why can’t we compromise on immigration?)