To the editor:
Thinking of Lincoln’s birthday last month reminded me of the town where the family always stopped on Bangor trips, the street in Houlton, and a friend’s Lincoln Town Car I used to drive. Then the Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn popped into my head.
I never saw the school, but I have a little pin with school colors and ALHS on it, which goes back to my freshman year at Houlton High. A magazine for kids had a list of those who wanted pen pals, some with specific requirements. I wrote to many, ending with over 100 correspondents. I also sent in my own request, to hear from those who shared my last name, Porter.
Jerry, a high school junior, who responded, later sent me two workbooks from his Hebrew school classes, to show me the language. Photos of him, the pin and then a silver signet ring, were all very special. The ring took a thick layer of adhesive tape to fit, so I wore it on a chain.
The day after UMaine Orono graduation, I left for a summer job in New Jersey on my way to Penn State. With Jerry’s permission I had shipped him my sewing machine, one of those so-called portables that weighed a ton—okay, half a ton. He met me at the train, with the sewing machine, to take the half-hour bus trip to my destination.
Later on, when I met him in New York City for a day, he said, “See, no one notices if you walk with your arm around someone. Not like in a small town.” Evening concert in Central Park. He is allergic to lipstick, but “No problem kissing. I just pop two of these pills before.” They worked. Fun-ny! His Orthodox parents did not know where he was and he knew they would never accept me. “They will find me a Jewish girl later on.”
In the early ‘70s when I decided to learn Yiddish, I went to Jerry’s workbooks for the alphabet. Then the challenge of Hebrew words in Yiddish led me to study Hebrew in Israel. When a visiting professor saw me writing at the board, he said, “She writes very fast, but where did she learn?” The teacher later said that I did not make my aleph the way they did in Hebrew school: a staid stick figure. Mine was a free spirit kicking up its heels — on a city street.
Byrna Porter Weir
Rochester, N.Y.
