The VW Beetle

While the beginnings of the Volkswagen Beetle started in 1939 as the “people’s car” promoted by Adolf Hitler and funded by the Nazi Party using slave (concentration camp) labor it has become an iconic beloved automobile lasting almost 80 years It is scheduled for an end to production in 2019. 

 Starting with some material on the early car which the war curtailed, most production of in favor of war vehicles, until 1949 , when importation to the U.S.began with the “model 1"   the name “Beetle” has been attributed to U.S. advertising , but actually way back in the late 40's the car was known affectionally to German’s as “Käfer “ or “beetle”.

VW did continue production of a car similar to the “Beetle” in 1997 for 1998 model year calling it “The New Beetle”   But it has to relation at all to the original featuring a front engine, front wheel drive, based on the Golf platform.  In 2012 VW revised the car as the VW A5, but it was still referred to as the “New Beetle”  

Early illustration of the "Peoples Car"

Ad for the wartime VW Beetle  in 1939 . Note the Nazi sign

Scandinavian ad for a post wat '45 VW

These two photos are an early Cabriolet model that in production was modified to a fabric sunroof

The post war import VW Model 1  in 1945

The last “concept” styling for the New Beetle was at the 2005 auto show where a vehicle called “Ragster” was shown as a possible production car.  Nothing ever came of it

The last real concept proposal called "Ragster" unveiled at teh Chicago Auto Show 2005

The NY based advertising agency  Doyle Dane Bernbach took the advertising campaign promoting the “Beetle” in the 50's and 60's and was responsible for a tremendous gain in sales with its clever ads. 

Illustrations of these ads follow:

 VW once before “ended” the Beetle in 2003 to much lament with the final car off the Mexico production line in June.

The final VW Beetle type 1 from the Mexico plant 

I had two personal experiences with the “original “ Beetle.  In 1960 a High School upperclass Tom Conner had a ‘59 VW Beetle with sliding fabric sunroof.  He would give me rids home from evening play practice in winter.  The car was woefully underpowered, the heater almost nonexistent, and it had no traction whatsoever.  But it was cozy and “cute”.   
Freshman year College, housemate Pete Tissone (a senior) took me along to a “woodsie” at Argyle State Park near the University.  A woodsie was a event where kegs of beer were brought and word of mouth parties occurred for $5 a person entry.  Illegal as Hell, they got away with it as the park was not regularly patrolled at night making it a great party and romantic date location.  Pete got drunk and on the way home took a curcv too fast and we skidded into a off-road tree.  The whole front of the Beetle was crumpled in .  I was just shaken up but Pete bashed his forehead into the windscreen and had a nasty gash.  So off to the hospital we went.  They had no breathalizers so he was only charged with reckless driving.  I went home scared and shaken.  I found out the car belonged to a friend and had no insurance, so Pete had to be responsible for replacing the car.I don’t know the ending, but Pete left school spring semester and I never saw him again.that is my total experience riding in a Beetle

So many people turned the original “Bug” into their own with personal expressionmodifications, so it seems fitting to show a few examples of the creativity as we bid Auf Wiedersehen to the beloved “Beetle”

Smoked Salmon Cheesecake

Smoked salmon cheesecake

"A smoked salmon cream cheese mixture is baked in a springform pan just like a cheesecake and served at room temperature."

Ingredients:
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
2 tablespoons fine dry bread crumbs (herbed is best)
3 tablespoons butter
1 cup chopped onion
1 cup chopped green bell pepper
28 ounces cream cheese, softened
4  large eggs
1/3 cup heavy cream
1/2 pound smoked salmon, chopped
1/2 cup shredded Swiss cheese
3 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
salt and pepper to taste

Directions:
1.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
2.  Lightly butter an 8 inch springform pan. Mix 2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese with the breadcrumbs. Sprinkle this mixture into the pan; turn and tap pan to coat inside of pan. Wrap a large piece of foil underneath and up the sides of the pan. Be careful not to tear any holes in the foil.
3.  In a medium skillet or frying pan, melt butter over medium heat. Add onions and green peppers and saute until tender, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool slightly.
4.  In a large bowl, beat together cream cheese, eggs and cream until well blended. Fold in onions, peppers, salmon, Swiss cheese, 3 tablespoons Parmesan cheese, salt and pepper. Pour into prepared pan.
5.  Place the wrapped springform pan inside a large roasting pan. Place the pans in the oven and pour enough boiling water into the outside pan to come 2 inches up the side of the springform pan.
6.  Bake until firm to the touch, about 1 hour and 40 minutes. Carefully remove both pans from the oven and turn off the heat. Lift springform pan out of the water and return it to the oven. Let stand in the cooling oven for 1 hour. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool completely.

"This is an impressive main dish that's packed with flavor. You may substitute pureed roasted red pepper for the green bell pepper and Gruyere for the Swiss cheese if you wish. It can also be prepared one day ahead; just cover, refrigerate and bring to room temperature before serving." Perfect for a summer luncheon served with a green salad

A garnish of fresh dill enhances this

The Straight Dope

The Straight Dope
By Cecil Adams 

Here's the story. My wife just got back from Berkeley where she helped a friend give birth--and of course it all happened at home, in some kind of tub, underwater, with violins playing and midwives hovering about. Here's what she says happened next. Out came the afterbirth, which was carefully collected in a pot and put in the fridge to keep cool. Through the day, various vegetarians who dropped by to pay their respects asked about the placenta. My wife inquired, and was told that a certain stripe of high-minded vegetarian eagerly prepares and devours placenta stew, the placenta being the only form of meat that does not involve the slaughter of some innocent animal. Can this be true? And if it is, why isn't some shrewd entrepreneur bagging cow and ewe placenta and selling it at the Jewel?
I want to be told this was a tall story. --Rip Sewell, Chicago 

Cecil-
Love to accommodate you, Ripster, but once again we find ourselves outgunned by reality. Having investigated the matter with my customary thoroughness, no small achievement under the circumstances, I can report the following facts: (1) chowing down on placenta doesn't happen often, but (2) it happens. May God have mercy on our heathen souls. 

My principal source on this is a physician who has attended roughly a thousand births in the San Francisco Bay area over the years, more than two-thirds of them at home. In all this time he has encountered placenta stew exactly once, in Berkeley in the early 1970s. The father was a professional cook who concocted his own tasty recipe for placenta stew, complete with potatoes and onions, which he served to his hard-core veggie friends. 

The doctor, suffering an embarrassing failure of nerve, did not sample the stew himself, but says it smelled something like liver. The veggies munched away gamely but didn't look very happy. One woman, in fact, became nauseated, which the doctor attributes to a lack of exposure to organ meats. Having seen a few miracle-of-childbirth movies in high school, however, I'd say there's a simpler explanation. 

In Hygieia: A Woman's Herbal (Berkeley, 1978), Jeannine Parvati describes her experience with placenta eating: "[It] was after a very powerful birthing. The mother ate some raw first; and then let me take some into the kitchen for fixing. My experience of this slab of meat was amazing. I had never felt such life-force present in meat before. . . . This meat still felt very much alive to me as I began to slice it and saute it in garlic and oil. . . . By the time the placenta was tender, the birthday party members were very hungry, and exhausted. After the supper, eaten in a glowing silence, everyone was energized, very much re-vitalized. . . . 

Notwithstanding, the first time I ate placenta has also been my last time. . . . Guess I just lost [the] taste." I'll bet. She goes on: "When you first encounter the meat, remember to pause--placenta can be sacred food, if you let the meat tell you how to prepare it for the fire. . . . Chew slowly, till the placenta becomes a liquid, ambrosia. Placenta is a rare privilege for most of us."
The rationale for placenta eating, apart from the fact that it doesn't entail snuffing animals, is that since it nurtures the child during pregnancy it must contain all sorts of valuable nutrients. My medical informant knows of no research supporting this view, but it's not implausible. Mama cats and dogs eat their placentas, you know. Of course they eat Gainesburgers, too, so I wouldn't draw any hasty conclusions. Parvati says some American Indian tribes had placenta rituals, although none of them apparently went so far as to eat the stuff. Leave it to the white man to get ridiculous about it.
Although few new mothers realize it, many hospitals save placentas for eventual pharmaceutical use. 

A driver for one placenta-collection firm, Bio-Med-Hu of Louisville, Kentucky, told me his firm ships placentas to Europe for use in cosmetics. A spokesman for Bio-Med-Hu denies this, but says he's heard there are companies that do it. Hot on the trail, I called up the makers of Placentique, a skin potion that's been advertised in the newspapers lately. They claimed to use only cow placentas. I am still pursuing the matter, however. We'll rip the lid off this seamy business yet.

Harriet Salzman

It’s a sedate respectable neighborhood.  Tree lined streets. Upper Westside.  Mostly stone buildings now partitioned into apartments with wide entrance stairs fronting big substantial oak doors with float glass beveled panels.  A small lobby with subway tile and architectural deco fixtures.   Nothing pretentious but presentable in a quiet conservate “old” way that says high rent.  The apartments have high vaulted ceilings with plaster walls, fireplaces and polished wood ornate banisters .  Of course the kitchens are all renovated with the most desirable top end appliances .  Tenants all  have trendy furniture with grand pianos and Persian carpets.  Oh and art.  Notable art.  The words “upscale”and “entitled” come to mind.

But Harriet doesn’t live up there.  Her place is below street ,down  narrow stairs around and below the main building entrance staircase to a dark and mostly musty alcove with a small wired mesh and barred window and a heavy pitted and dented  metal door with a small brass lighting fixture next to it.  It has a perpetually broken away bulb globe. Harriet has to, more often than she would like, maintain the small concrete painted threshold as walk bys are forever throwing flasks, cigarette butts, condoms, and all sorts of trash down into her below grade entry.  If not social flotsam, its always blown leaves, standing storm puddles or ice and snow .  Plus the street dust and chaff is ever present wafting down to her lower level.

Inside Harriet Saltzman’s one bedroom basement apartment is a parlor, sizeable enough, but furnished simply with a 30's nylon frieze sofa she got at St Vincent DePaul for $70, a comfortable, but worn beyond it’s time ,weathered  leather club chair, a couple tables with mid century lamps (St Vincent again- $5 each) and, fronting her modest Pullman kitchen , a dinette with 1950's Chrome Craft chairs and a serviceable pine table with an oilcloth cover.  Bathroom has a florescent lighted vanity and a commodious old clawfoot tub fitted with a hook -on shower fixture, and fussy framed around vinyl shower curtain of printed palm trees.  It never drapes enough to contain the shower stream. The bedroom is barely large enough for a standard bed and one highboy dresser.  No closet.  It has two minuscule windows near the ceiling;, again meshed over and barred.  They don’t get much light as they overlook the alley, but Harriet has managed to nurture a spider plant in a macrame plant sling there.

I know you think at this point you know Harriet Salzman, and you’re thinking; impoverished, unhappy, lonely , and isolated  old lady.  “Hello In There” Bette Midler sang.  Pity her and move on.  She made her life.  And so on.

But you would be wrong, because Harriet Salzman isn’t any of that, just because she is not a conspicuous consumer.  (She doesn’t even own a cell phone) should not invite condescension .  Harriet just isn’t about spending or taking, or any jealousy.  What she is about is giving, and her life is  full with the warmth and kindness in her heart.  She is rich not in monetary wealth, but  in regard of others, and herreputation with them.  She is fulfilled in her life.  A very , very happy woman with the gift of being able to transfer her happiness to others.  Harriet “matters.” She needs no pity.
Harriet retired 3 years ago  as assistant librarian at a Manhattan Library-in manuscripts and antiquities.  So she is a learned woman.  A respected woman,but retired way too early for her to meander about the Jewish Deli at the corner, arguing about fatty corned beef,  or feeding pigeons from a bench in Central Park.

She doesn’t even like Mah Jong. No, Harriet is involved .  Big Time.  Harriet does  work at the neighborhood clinic as a social services volunteer.  Several of the young interns there also work as ushers at Broadway theaters and along with pay, get freebie balcony seats to the big productions, so Harriet has seen all the marquee productions, gifted with theit generosity.  She loves “Les Miserables” so much, she has gone three times.

Given it’s location, the Jewish community Center next to  Aish HaTorah  synagogue Manhattan,  is well endowed by its upscale neighbors and they make a conspicuous contributions to charity events.  They always happen to have a couple extra seats at the function tables they buy.  Harriet uses St Vincent dePaul to shop for old couture gowns and she found a coveted Chanel she favors because it fits as though made for her. Worn with a beautiful Spanish shawl, she gets complemnts whenever she makes fancy charity event appearances.  Her scintillating dinner conversations put her as a  desired guest.

But primarily Harriet is rich because people love her .  Those on the down and out brighten to her kind manner and unjudging demeanor.  She will try to help in anyway she can.  Because she is out and about, her wealthy neighbors know her, and she has endeared herself to them.  At Temple, Sylvia Levy often slips her a package of Kreplach and others invite her to Sabbath dinner because she is a highly educated guest with fascinating stories.  They adore her.

So when Harriet returns to her oilcloth table basement apartment, she is happy to have made a life of accomplishment and is a person who has spawned love all around her.  She has her own refuge of comfort , maybe not in the itchy frieze sofa, but in her redemptive soul. 
Harriet Salzman is a person you would be honored to know, not to feel sorry for , except in not having the pleasure of knowing her sooner.

Because , you see, Harriet Salzman died today .  But not nearly alone, sad or forgotten.  Where you are is never who you are.  Harriet will be missed .
I hope this tale gives small indication of why.

-Jerry Wendt

One Fine Day

When guests Jim and Vikki McConnell with daughters Nicole and Kelly, along with Kelly’s beau Ben Fleischman arrived at England Pines, it was about 84°, but there was a nice breeze coming up the hill and the heritage maple provided a cooling shade for us to sit outside and enjoy Vikki’s appetizers , bruschetta and prosciutto wrapped melon balls- perfect for a summer’s afternoon washed down with a lovely Provencal leTremble’ -Genache/Cinsault rose’ and some craft beer

This was my first meet with Kelly's beau Ben, whom I found a delightful and engaging young man with a bright future.   I’m happy they found one another and that Ben can be a part of our friendship circle

We went inside for some conversation and more wine, now a Washington State rose’ of Sangiovese.  Following, we sat table for a really interesting and zesty salad Vikki had brought using the “Olive Garden Copycat”  recipe.  I made beer bread to accompany and served the main wine, a  S. African Mulderbosch Rose’ of Cabernet. 

Entree was a tropical coconut pineapple rice with sticky honey garlic butter shrimp

We adjourned to the living room for repartee and after an interlude enjoyed Vikki’s ganache and strawberry stuffed brownie with limoncello and “43" liqueur
I got notes from all this morning affirming that it was indeed, 

“One Fine Day”

The Fire Truck

I had a dream. 


I was about 8 years old.  At this age I coveted having a big red metal toy Tonka fire truck.  Hook and Ladder with crank up extending ladders, and a real operating siren.  Articulated with cab and trailer.  Real rubber tires.  It was just beyond cool.

It was just before my birthday and I went to bed.  I couldn’t wait any longer .  There was this box under my bed and I got it and opened it.  Oh gosh ! - It was my Hook and Ladder.  I took it out and started to play right then and there, cranking and wheeling it all around on the floor.  I was ecstatic.  I could have played all day, but then...

Mom woke me up.  Whaaat!  Where was my fire truck?  I threw off covers and looked under my bed.  Nothing.  The whole room revealed no fire truck.  I was crushed.  I asked Mom, “What did you do with my fire truck?”  

“What Fire truck?”  

“The one I just got for my birthday.  I just was playing with it”

“Jerry, honey, your birthday isn’t till next week and there is no fire truck.  You were just dreaming.”

“NO,” I was crushed.  That whole day I kinda sheepishly searched everywhere.  No fire truck.  But it was so REAL !  I was positive it wasn’t a dream.

But it was, and I carry that memory to this day.  I learned two things.  I have a very vivid and creative imagination, and that my dreams often bring much more than some semi conscious shuffling of a sleep-reorganizing brain.

I still wake up with ideas that have formulated in sleep .  I call them “messages from my muse”.  Some of my best writing has come from that “muse.”  If I rise from a dead sleep and go write the thoughts down right then, the next day I find some amazing notes and scribbles that have turned into some of my best poems and stories.  Even descriptions of  visualizations have often become paintings or drawings.  Reality from dreams.
I do not understand it,  but it is real and I have earned to honor it with respect.  If I do not write things down immediately, they will have dissipated into ether in the morning.  Gone forever.  There are never repetitions.

Then, there is my love of reading.  Yes,  I admit to being a movie buff.  I adore visualizations in film and in static art, but it is reading a book where my mind travels to places I otherwise would never see.  Places and people come alive.  When I see a movie adapted from a book I have read, it is but a pale image.  Color never as bright.  Places never as vibrant somber or radiant . People never as interesting or fleshed out.  I really get lost in books, I live in them,  and like that dream, they seem so real to me.  Equal to any reality in my waking hours , and, yes, in full color.

If interrupted out of a deep read, I am surprised and disoriented for a few moments, because my world has been destroyed. I want that image world back.  It was so real to me.  Just like when I played with that fire engine.

I embrace my psyche.  Whatever is generating up in my brain,  I consider a gift .  Even today, when I think about that old dream, I get a warmth, a pleasure, and comfort from remembering that cool Fire Engine, even if it never was real. 

 I have come to realize sometimes the best things in life aren’t .

-Jerry Wendt 2018

...and a small but pertinent note; This very story came from “My Muse” .  I wrote the idea down, out of a deep sleep late Sunday night, and read it this morning, thinking, “This will make a great story”.  So I sat down and wrote this.  What do you think?

BUTT...

With no overt attempt to offend
I wish to address
without needless finesse,
My old droopy poopy rear end.  

What in youth was a bubble,
firm, supple, and round,
as delectable as words make it sound,
now lays in a state of resounding rubble.

Once it was toasted with “Champers,”
now a lunar field of lumps
in dire need of some Botox plumps,
shrouded in adult sized Pampers.

Oh the shame of it all
Regularity has long left presence,
facing no end of penance,
rushing to make it into the stall.

Why did babies first offering gifts
go from proud treasure
to grief in no small measure,
ending in odious sniffs ?

Longing for a good solid turd
without watching my diet,
or facing anular riot-
becoming such concern is absurd.

So I tell you in sincerity
It’s a part of my whole,
and without being too droll
I have to take it with a bit of hilarity

-Jerry Wendt 2018