Lenny Ackerman

A Letter to Ukraine

My Dear Beloved Mother and Father,

As I write to you from my well-lighted and warm home in America, I see images on the nightly news of our hometown, Kherson, being brutalized and bombed by the Russians. In February, when the invasion of our country started, you made the decision to wait out the war, but by April it was no longer safe to drive the streets of Kherson with the Russian soldiers terrorizing the residents who were trying to survive, simply looking for food and shelter. When you made the journey west to Lviv to find safe harbor I knew it would be dangerous but you made the right choice to go. Though it is under Martial Law, at least Lviv is not occupied by the aggressors.

We know how fortunate we are to be here in the U.S. and think of you constantly. When I look back on it, winning the green card lottery to emigrate to the United States in 2007 was a miracle. I remember telling you both that Viktoryia and I were moving to America. You were gracious and did not guilt us for leaving our home and country even though it was heartbreaking for you and us. I know Vasyl leaving in 2019 to practice medicine in Slovakia was another blow to our nuclear family but you supported his decision as well. Our lives outside of Ukraine are bright and promising. I am attending law school to build on my education in Ukraine and hopefully someday I will be a practicing lawyer in New York. My daughters were born here. How fortunate we are here. We can only be so happy though, knowing you are still suffering through this war with its many atrocities which you have described to me over the last several months—so much worse than what we see here in the U.S. news. We do everything we can from here, focusing on raising monies through our non-profit organization, Help UA Inc., for purchasing, packing and shipping clothing, medical supplies, uniforms, safety equipment, hygiene products and other essentials to Ukraine.

We pray for your safety and health in your temporary home in Lviv and we look forward to the day when we can all be together again in a peaceful world.

Your loving son,

Simon

Simon Andriychuk is a 39-year-old Ukrainian American who has lived in the U.S. since 2007 with his wife and children. An attorney in Ukraine, Simon has worked at my law firm since 2016 as a paralegal and is now studying for the New York Bar. His extended family remain in Ukraine. This letter was edited.

Dinner at Mar-a-Lago

Driving out of Mar-a-Lago was a bit disorienting in the dark. The Secret Service agent, dressed in black, directed us past several government vans through an exit onto Ocean Road, leading to Southern Bridge. I soon realized we were using the private driveway of the former President as it was far off the main road where most of the traffic went in and out of the Mar-a-Lago compound–otherwise known as the “Southern White House” when Trump was in office. Patti and I had been invited to a gala event there as guests of the Major of the local Salvation Army, to celebrate the 100^th Anniversary of the organization. The Salvation Army is a faith-based charitable foundation which Patti and I support through their scholarship program.

When I first received the invitation, I was uncertain whether we should attend. It had only been two weeks since Trump broke bread with the white nationalist Nick Fuentes and the rap artist Ye, both notorious antisemites. That was on the heels of the subpoena raid by the FBI in August searching for government documents which Trump allegedly illegally removed from the White House. Then an article in the Palm Beach Post reinforced how Trump sympathizers use Mar-a-Lago as a venue to curry favor with him. All of this made me uncomfortable about attending the event. But my friend Bill, who is head of the Board of Trustees at Salvation Army, assured me that the Salvation Army gala would not turn into a political affair. The landlord would not be there to promote his recently announced candidacy.

Mar-a-Lago, as most readers may know, was originally the estate of the late Marjorie Merriweather Post, built in 1927. The exterior architecture is in the style of a Mediterranean villa, while the extravagant interiors could be described as Trump’s version of Versailles. The Salvation Army event was men in white tie and women in long ball gowns. It felt like something from a bygone era. I found myself standing aside most of the evening observing the grandiose furnishings and architecture. I kept looking for signs of the owner, but the only evidence were secret service agents milling about, identifiable by their earpieces and the official-looking badges hanging from their belts. I must presume if Trump intended to make a surprise appearance the metal scanners would have been present, no cell phones would have been allowed and the women’s purses would have been searched. The only telltale signs of Trump in the house was his name on the wifi and a single framed award at the entrance to the women’s bathroom, honoring his restoration of Mar-a-Lago. I never made it into the men’s room, but having been to his golf club in the past, the walls there are filled with his pictures and awards.

My takeaway is that Mar-a-Lago will return to its historical significance as Marjorie Merriweather Post’s once magnificent home and not Trump’s preferred venue for favor seekers, once his political career ends. Going by the comments overhead around the pool before dinner, the Salvation Army event was the beginning of the end of Mar-a-Lago as a club to “meet and greet” Trump. Notwithstanding the fact that this was a Florida crowd, the attention to Trump will fade and membership to the club will not be Trump driven. In my view, if Trump had shown that night, there would have been a “fire drill” – some would have headed over to shake his hand, but most would’ve headed for the door. But he didn’t show up fortunately, and Patti and I got a few dances in before we left.

At the Counter

At Greens, my go-to lunch counter after exercise, I overheard the guy at the next counter seat ordering for himself and his “best friend.” Green’s is a homey, old-fashioned pharmacy that has been serving the north end of Palm Beach since 1942. The waitresses at the breakfast-lunch counter know many of the patrons by name, most of whom are year-round locals. The fire rescue gang are always there – a good place to be if you need emergency help. The local Palm Beach police are also regulars– not an ideal place to be disruptive, or a criminal. All in all, it is a warm, nostalgic environment, just down the road from the famous Mar-a-Lago. Back to my neighbor at the counter.

“Grilled cheese and tomato,” he said to the waitress.

“And for your best friend?” she responded.

“Oh a hamburger will do,” he said.

“Lettuce and tomato with french fries?” she asked.

“No I can’t give my buddy that stuff,” he said.

“Your friend ill?’ she asked.

“Nope, he isn’t a person, he’s a dog,” he answered. “He is my only friend,” he said laughing.

Well, why not. Friends come in all shapes and sizes – humans and pets. I have best friends going back to my grammar and high school years as well as college and beyond –not to mention several four-legged “best” friends throughout my life. My friends from Rochester, probably my oldest friendships from childhood, have a connection through our shared history together, of our families, early education, careers, heartbreaks and love lives. My good friend Bobby recently told me: “Lenny, I like you more as an adult than I did as a little guy!” Now that’s love if I didn’t know better.

I find there are always opportunities to meet new people who eventually become regular acquaintances, friends, maybe best friends. I make an effort because I believe those connections are tantamount to a happy life, and science is showing that they can even lead to a longer life.

Friendship means opening up, to admit someone new into one’s world. In the long run it is always worth the risk. I cherish the shared experiences with friends – outdoors, fishing and camping, dining, traveling, talking about books and business and the state of the world. Friendship also requires forgiveness–overlooking the immature remark or even the breach of trust.

I consider this column an important part of maintaining my friendships because it is a way of staying in touch. Friends who read it often respond with some kind of feedback and depending on what I’ve written about, share similar experiences of their own. I am often delighted to learn new things about old friends through this column.

I feel fortunate to have as many friends as I do. On Thanksgiving, I received notes and emails from all over —Tennessee, Colorado, California, Wales and Iceland. I embrace my friends, literally and figuratively – I am one of those huggers. I am grateful for all those who I call and who would call me friend—including the latest four-legged one, Patti’s dog Wally.

Thanksgiving

This is my 83^rd Thanksgiving. I don’t remember the first one. It was probably snowing. The early years are a blur, but I do recall sitting around the large, otherwise unused dining room table with the crisp, white holiday tablecloth which had been properly stored, washed and ironed for the occasion. My mother’s special china, brought out for Thanksgiving and the High Holidays, was carefully laid out at each place. My dad always sat at the head of the table and was served first. Mom never seemed to sit down. She was always jumping up to respond to dad’s commands. She ate while preparing the meal and snacked her way through our dinner. The menu was a blend of old world and new – the traditional turkey, stuffing and pumpkin pie was served alongside beef brisket, matzoh ball soup, gefilte fish and kugel. Everything was kosher. The early holidays were special in that all five of us were together –my parents, me, my brother Marty and sister Ruby. In later years my sister brought her new husband, but my brother was a no-show after 1951, once he left for college and then his life beyond, dealmaking in New York City. Thanksgiving holidays for me represent different parts of my life. Early childhood, brother and sister at home, the years I returned for the holiday from college followed by marriage, and then returning to my childhood home with my late wife and our young children. After my parents retired to Florida, our family Thanksgivings were on our own in East Hampton.

Thanksgiving is one of those holidays that is fixed in the calendar, always the fourth Thursday of November. These holiday milestone markers remain the same, while the participants and locations change, dictated by where one sets down a home. Looking back over 83 years of Thanksgivings, reflecting on memorable times with parents, siblings, loved ones past and children, I realize it is a holiday about looking to the past, not the future. Unlike New Year’s celebrations when we look ahead, Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for all we have and have had, and for simply sitting at a table to share a meal with those close to us — being in the room where it happens, so to speak. I look forward to this year’s Thanksgiving, despite the fact that we are not all at the table. Each Thanksgiving is a short, shining moment in life’s story – enjoy it while you can.

The Magic of Hurricanes

Hurricanes can be terrifying as Ian recently demonstrated on the west coast of Florida. Last week, a category 1 called Hurricane Nicole threatened the east coast. It was a major disruption coming soon after a minor one — the clock change from daylight savings time. Adjusting to sunup and the hour setback was always distressing when I wintered up north. Yet the threat of a category 1 did not raise my blood pressure. I believe when you live waterside you assume the risk. That is a choice one makes—perhaps it is a lifestyle or even a sense of adventure. I choose to wait out hurricanes. This time I was lucky.

The streets looked like a modern-day ghost town. Restaurants and shops closed early once the alerts started to spike between cell phones and the tv weather reports. An evacuation order was in effect in Palm Beach so roads emptied of cars and trucks as the trade parade started crossing west over the bridges that serve Palm Beach. As the transient working population left together with many of the island residents, many headed for hotels inland in West Palm Beach, everything quieted down except for the wind, which steadily picked up momentum. The periodic rain droplet fell yet many sidewalks and streets remained dry despite the scattered precipitation and wind gusts. The stormy, tropical air was refreshing. The temperature was a steady 75 degrees. It was a Caribbean Island feel. The waves along Ocean Road topped the hard revetment structures. Waves as high as 20 feet crashed onto the waterfront roads, where locals out walking recorded the wave action on their cell phones. It was a dangerous walk since a rogue wave could easily overwhelm anyone in its path.

The social life of this new Caribbean-like island continued on, with a few storm-influenced modifications. As restaurants were closed, friends took to each other’s homes and apartments for cocktails and quickly thrown together dinners planned in anticipation of the storm touching down later on. Locals are always prepared for a hurricane party. Extra umbrellas and flip flops are always on hand. Even the recent memory of Hurricane Ian didn’t scare off everyone from enjoying the evening. With storm shutters fastened down, candles and flashlights were standard hardware should the power go out. In preparation of full electric failure, ice was stacked in buckets and cold food was the fare on offer. The phrase “house buttoned up” was heard frequently. Cars were parked in covered areas to avoid falling trees. Patio furniture was brought indoors. “Why not” was the common response to an invite from the neighbor downstairs whom one never met in five years of residency in the same apartment building. We all watched the weather reports on tv, with its repetitive charts and projections. After nothing but midterms news the change was a relief. The counterclockwise spin of the hurricane drove the action northeast. On the tv screen, the white swirling mass moved two inches to the left and up. Those two little inches meant our Category 1 hurricane was just downgraded. The next morning, I awoke and thought I was still dreaming. Just like that a category 1 hurricane became a tropical rainstorm. That relief felt something like magic.

Showing Up

Recently one of Patti’s tennis teammates was heard complaining about the fact that she was not selected for a particular match simply because she had not been present at the beginning of league play. Notwithstanding a valid excuse, the players that showed up ready and fit to play at the start of the season competed for slots in the lineup. Those that drifted in after several weeks found all the competition slots filled. Good reasons aside, showing up on time is Rule One on the competitive playgrounds of life.

The incident brought to mind my experience with the Kodak Park Athletic League during the summer of 1951; I was 11 years old. After tryouts for the softball team, I was selected for second base. I felt up to the task of defending my piece of the field. My confidence was further boosted because our neighbor, the wealthy owner of the local Ford Dealership, had gifted me my own softball bat for the season. Before the first game, there I was, bike ready to travel to the field off the Memorial Bridge and inside Kodak Park, the largest employer and possibly landowner in all of Rochester. The ten of us from diverse parts of Rochester all showed up well in advance of the opening pitch. That game was the highlight of my summer. However, the stars were not all in alignment. My softball career was interrupted abruptly and with very little warning and I had the uncomfortable task of telling my coach I was going to miss the next game. The trouble started because my older brother, Marty, a senior in high school, graduated a semester early and headed to Alfred College to enter midterm in December–he was fearful of being drafted into the Korean War conflict and had hedged his bets by applying early for college. This would be the last summer my dad could count on Marty to run the parking lot in his absence. For some reason my parents decided to take their one and only vacation of their lifetimes in the summer of 1951. Marty did not want to babysit me. He planned to work the parking lot during business hours and then party in the evenings with the cash he made during the day. How did Marty get away with this? Well he was the oldest son and the prince. I had no option but to join my folks, my sister and her husband on the vacation trip to Atlantic City. I am certain my sister did not want to go either, but without her my dad could not read the maps provided by Triple A. So there I was, crunched between my sister and her husband for the non-stop drive from upstate New York to southern New Jersey. I should have stayed when I got there– in l958 I went back for college at Rutgers in nearby New Brunswick. But that’s another story. At the missed game, the coach handed out t-shirts printed with our team’s name in bold lettering: RUBY (coincidentally that was also my sister’s name). Because I missed that game, I never got my t-shirt. All for not showing up.

No matter the excuse there no substitute for being prompt and in place when your name is called. I learned a good lesson and it has stayed with me. Kodak is gone and I no longer play softball, and these days, as an attorney, it is usually others showing up to meet with me. On time.

“Billy – yu wanna go fishin’?”

…I texted my grandson. I am always asking him, but never get the response I want. I would like Billy to come down to Florida by himself, for some freshwater fishing on a river I discovered off Jupiter inlet. During the summers, I have coaxed him to fish with me in Maine at our camp, but only if his father or mother were in the canoe with him. I can understand that at age 12 he may be too young to travel by himself from New York to Florida or Maine, but I keep asking and hoping for at least a “maybe.” Instead, I get a definitive “no.” I know Billy enjoys our Maine excursions with Andy our fishing guide. Andy always puts Billy into small mouth bass (that’s fisherman talk) and in fact, Billy boasts to friends and family about how much he catches. Last summer with his mom, he caught more fish than I did. But my dream of having my grandson fish and hike in the woods with me, just the two of us, won’t be a reality until Billy is a little older.

In the past, my girls would not want to go on my fishing trips, whether in the U.S. or abroad. Even the promise of international travel was not enough to tempt them. They were teenagers, more comfortable at home with their mother and their peers, none of whom were of learning how to flyfish. I always imagined that someday I would have a grandson to accompany me, and that’s why I am a little impatient waiting for Billy to grow up enough to wave goodbye to his parents and go along with Grandpa’s plans. I know he will eventually – Billy is a terrific, adventuresome kid. Of late, I suspect there may be another factor making him hesitant about leaving home, even for a short time: his sister is away at her first year of college. Billy may be enjoying all the undivided attention from his mom and dad, and at the same time, may not want them to feel lonely without any of their children around. I am no substitute for his parents, whom he adores.

As a child I had no qualms about taking adventurous trips without my parents. I joined my friends and their parents on trips to the Thousand Islands in the St. Lawrence River and I attended Camp Seneca, which was sleepaway, every summer growing up. I went to basketball games with my Uncle Sam, getting home long after dark, and went on weekend excursions to the farm of one of our neighbors. I was always up for getting out of the house and being somewhat on my own at Billy’s age. When I received an Indian Racer bicycle I was off every day after school, exploring. During the summers I was out on my bike from after breakfast until sundown. Back then, being at home just wasn’t as entertaining as it is for kids these days with television and computers and video chatting with friends. I didn’t even have books at home –I had to go to the library for those and read them there, my bike parked outside. When Billy hits his teen years, I won’t take “no” for an answer. And my wifi is working just fine for video games, computer, all of it–AFTER we get back from a day on the lake.

Bagel Shop

I was up from Florida this past week for a brief stay in East Hampton and then into New York for a rainy weekend. OMG do I miss Florida on a cold rainy day. On Saturday the skies cleared enough to go ahead with the usual routine – haircut and shave at York barbershop, breakfast at Neil’s on the corner of Lexington and 70^th Street, and finally “happy hour” at Shakespeare & Co. bookstore to browse for works by Elizabeth Hardwick. I have been reading Robert Lowell, the poet, and now have expanded to the other writers in his circle; Hardwick was his second wife and an acclaimed novelist and essayist. Lunch with my pal Jay was scheduled for early afternoon at The Mansion diner on the corner of 86^th and York Avenue, near to Jay’s apartment. We arrived to find the restaurant closed, the front entrance obstructed with equipment for a movie being filmed on the block. Only in New York! Jay recommended we go across the street to Tal Bagels. A traditional New York bagel shop is a unique restaurant experience. If you’ve never been to one, basically it is an “appetizing” takeout with all kinds of fish—smoked salmon (“nova” or “lox”), whitefish, gefilte fish (not really a fish), smoked herring, pickled herring and pickled herring in cream sauce. There are all kinds of salads, such as tuna salad, whitefish salad, egg salad, fruit salad. Then the cream cheeses: plain, or with vegetable, or with nova, or cinnamon raisin and even tofu non-dairy. And deli galore, from corned beef to roast beef to tongue. Everything to go on a bagel. Aside from the bagels there are flagels – flattened bagels, and bialys, a type of roll with onion or poppy seed, and rugelach – a sweet roll with nuts and chocolate.

The line to the counter at Tal’s ran out to the sidewalk but it was moving quickly. There were a few tables inside for those like us who came to “dine.” Jay took a seat to hold a table while I took to the line. You must be fast and ready to respond to “Whata ya want mista?” I was studying the menu and lost my place in line. Quick to recover I ordered, paid, and awaited the omelet with a toasted sesame bagel on the side for me and the lox and bagel for Jay. Back in my seat, I felt someone brush past me. It was an older man walking carefully toward the counter. He held a long white stick with a red tip. At first glance I did not realize that he was blind because he was wearing reading glasses. He turned to face me and said, “Pardon me.” “No problem,” I responded. I watched as the man behind the counter handed the blind fellow his order and took two five-dollar bills for payment, no change. Apparently, he was a regular. As he managed to make his way out of the deli I got up from my seat and touched his elbow. “Can I help you to the door?” I asked him. He nodded and I gently held his elbow, guiding him. We walked together to the exit, and I offer to assist him down the stairs to the street. “No thank you, young man,” he said. My youthful voice obviously misled him into thinking I was not an 83-year-old bagel eater. I took it as a compliment. I went back in to finish lunch with Jay as it started to rain again.

“Keep the Thorn to Keep the Rose”

My smart watch showed “snow showers in Danforth.” It is the time of year when Greg and Katie scramble to open the storage garage and sort out where all the “stuff” accumulated over the summer and summers before will be stacked away for the next year’s adventures. This year not only do we need a bed for the canoe and my old power boat, but I recently shipped up to camp my complete library of books accumulated since the mid-1970s. Greg is to build, over the winter, a new set of shelves to house my beloved, mostly-read books in my man cave-office-studio. I always feel comforted surrounded by books, as I am by the small fireplace in the studio. Next spring, I will organize the books, and figure out where my fly-tying apparatus goes, as well as my painting easel and other assorted tchotchkes. But now things are winding down. The closing up of camp in the fall coincides with my birthday in October and is always a time of reflection for me.

A recent article in the New York Times, “Fall Can Be a Season for Building Resilience” by Erick Vance, describes the melancholy one feels at the loss of sunlight and greenery at the end of summer. Yet those who “lean in” to the discomfort can gain from it, as it enables them to build up a tolerance to other fears and uncertainties in life. “Mindfulness” is another way to simply observe and accept life as it is rather than thinking about change as a source of distress. Useful advice, as this autumn is a bit scarier than most given what is happening in the world: important mid-term elections at a time when our democratic system is at risk, an escalating war in Ukraine and the threat of nuclear confrontation, plus the economic turmoil of inflation—and we cannot forget about the damage caused by Hurricane Ian on the west coast of Florida. It is getting harder for me to read and accept the front-page news. I know I must keep abreast of what is happening in the world, but it is becoming burdensome. I find the obituaries and wedding announcements more enjoyable than the current events being reported. Personally, I am fortunate to be healthy, to have a life filled with adventure, love and career success. Yet there is an unsettling feeling of uncontrollable events on the horizon. My form of mindfulness is to delve into a good book to take me to another place. Mysteries, biography, classics, as well as a new project—research on a historical novel I plan to write about my father’s escape from Ukraine during the First World War in 1918, and his journey across Europe to Argentina and eventually to upstate New York. Now there was someone with resilience.

Vance also talks about autumn as a time of year for “harvesting” memories, looking back and collecting the moments, good and bad, without judgment: “Keep the thorn to keep the rose.” At my age, I have plenty of thorns, but even more roses, for which I am grateful. The months ahead will be filled with various adventures and other ways to cope with the blues the changing seasons can bring, and of course my professional work is always a constant source of fresh challenges and excitement. And camp opening in May is only eight months away. In the meantime, stay warm, Katie and Greg.

How About a Podcast?

I have been thinking about technology in the digital age and how it has affected the way I work, as well as its impact on communication – newspapers specifically–compared to what things were like just a few years ago. Today I have the means to practice law from anywhere. Not only from Maine but this year so far I have worked remotely from Florida, Dallas, Downieville, Reno, Wyoming and New York City. I have been video conferencing with my office for years using Skype and GoTo meetings, but Covid was the catalyst to a new and revolutionary workspace environment. The advent of Zoom, an enhanced version of the video conference technology, combined with the years-long isolation period, has had a lasting impact on how business is conducted now in these post Covid times. I do not necessarily need the in-person setting to do my job and can make a legal case through Zoom as if I were in the courtroom. Of course, I am not able to make the direct one-on-one eye contact I usually try to do but I make up for it with other powers of persuasion. Our local hearings have been held remotely since 2020 and are just now returning to in-person events as well as hybrid proceedings, allowing for both in-person and Zoom for those unable to attend, particularly the disabled. For our office meetings with outside experts and clients, I prefer zoom to conference calls so that I can make certain I have everyone’s attention. It also enables me to share drawings, plans and surveys on the screen. The pressure to have everyone physically in the same room no longer exists.

The digital age has brought about improvements in the office, but it has impacted the newspaper industry dramatically. So many local print newspapers have folded and the larger ones face cuts and struggle on. I have thought about how the Mountain Messenger can survive and grow in this environment. Carl Butz and I met in Downieville in June and discussed ways to add digital subscribers as well as increase circulation to areas around Downieville that are no longer served by a local paper. We have many ideas but would like to hear from you, the readers of the Mountain Messenger – those of you who subscribe, or pick it up at the local newsstand, or find it online. We would like to do a podcast discussing some ideas and ask those of you who are willing, to join in with your suggestions and comments. There will be plenty of advance notice of the podcast date in the paper as well as on the website. Carl and I trust many of you will respond and we thank you in advance for helping to grow the Mountain Messenger.