Page 282 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Reminiscences

moths. He was sort of a self-taught scientist—he didn’t get all of it
right, because he had very out-of-date books, even at that time.
I remember him waking me up one day when I was five or six years
old. I was sleeping in bed—an afternoon nap, I guess—and nobody
else was at home. I was frightened by my bed shaking: he had stuck a
broom through the open window and was poking the bed to wake
me up. And I remember around that time going with him to Knott’s
Berry Farm: the berry juice was always watered way down; you could
never get the undiluted juice. Abe took us there before they put
down the concrete and asphalt and ruined the place.
Whenever Abe came over during the week, my father and Mema
would play gin rummy while he took us into the breakfast room with
his books and tried to teach us Hebrew. A few words stuck with me
from that time. His method was to show us the words, say them, and
try to get some enthusiasm from us. I don’t think he got very far with
any of us. And he would give us a coin after sitting in there with him
for half an hour or forty-five minutes—it seemed longer.
My bar mitzvah was at a little storefront orthodox shul back in the
old neighborhood. Abe was there, and he was impressed by how
orthodox it was. He told me that he probably knew more about the
prayers and the Hebrew language than anyone else in the shul, with
the possible exception of the rabbi. He also told me at another time
that he was too old to go to Israel, that it was for young people.
He used to listen to me practicing the violin, and would say that
he liked the melody of the pieces, but that everything else—the
development sections—was straw or hay, and he would make
disparaging remarks about certain composers. He was very interested
in medicine; he had some old physiology books, and he talked to me
about being a doctor. I remember he said that he didn’t know if I
could do it, because doctors had to do things like remove fecal
impactions, and I might not have the stomach for it. But his interest
probably did have a positive effect on me.
I remember once—I must have been thirteen or fourteen— when
my father and I were trying to fix the worn-out vinyl top on the old
"woody" station wagon we had. We were having trouble with it, and
my grandfather, who was there, had some good advice. I realized it,
but my father wouldn’t listen, and it didn’t come out right. He used
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