It was sometimes late in the year of 1931. A young, first generation, Detroit male, product of middle European parentage, nervously knocks on a door of a house on Hickory Street in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. Does this eighteen year old youth know what faces him? Does he know what his future is? Does he know what will greet him on the other side of that door? He does know that he is a high school dropout, having to leave school from the eleventh grade to support his family. Being the oldest of four children with an unemployed father, he knows that he will, some day, be the breadwinner of the family. In the Depression, everyone helped out the best they could. The family unit was strong, and a high school education was not a must like it is today. He is a strong individual, a fighter, a youth destined to grow to manhood and succeed. He knew that if he made up his mind to do something, nothing would stand in his way. He also knew that others depended upon him: his mother, his father, his two sisters, and his brother a heavy burden for someone of his age to bear. But what he didn't know was what was on the other side of that door?

Why was he there? What would compel a young Detroit boy to venture across the waters to a foreign land and knock on a strange door? Remember, 1931 was not only the Depression era, it was also prohibition. Was he there for an illegal purpose? Was he there for an evil deed? Why was he there? What awaited him on the other side of that door?

His knock was answered by a man in his forties, short, dark hair, who barely spoke English. Behind him stood a woman, a few years younger than the man, much shorter, wearing an apron, with a concerned look on her face. The young man is asked to enter, which he does so nervously. He asks, “Is Eva here?" The couple look at themselves quizzically, and then the old man smiles and calls out, "Chava." From a doorway emerges a very small, petite, pretty woman, barely sixteen years old, with hair as white as snow. she beckons the young man to enter and introduces him to her parents. She speaks not English, but Yiddish to her parents and then in English asks the young man to come sit with them and listen to the radio. From other doorways come two young brothers and two younger sisters, and the family sits and listens to a small LaSalle radio, just purchased that day by the young woman. After a period of listening, drinking of coffee or tea, and eating homemade cookies, the young man starts to leave. As he reaches the door, he asks the young girl if he could come calling again. Bashfully, she nods and very quietly says, "Yes." The young man thanks the parents for the evening, smiles at the four little ones, whose ages range from four to fourteen, and says, "Good bye. "

As he walks down the sidewalk on his way back to the river to take the ferry home, little does he realize what stands in front of him, what his future will be, but he smiles and whistles a happy tune.

Tonight I sit and listen to that same 1931 LaSalle radio, which has been in the family for sixty seven years. Its sound is just as crisp and clear as it was many years ago. It brings back many memories and makes my imagination work overtime. The scenario outlined above is just that: the workings of my imagination, how I imagined the first date of my parents, how they sat in front of that brand-new radio that I listen to tonight. It has been twenty five years since my father passed away and thirteen since my mother joined him. Tonight as I sat and listened to that old LaSalle, I could sense them sitting next to me, holding hands and shyly smiling as they must have done many years ago.

You are dearly missed, Gram and Papa. You are gone, but your memory will live forever.

MEMORIES ARE ALL WE HAVE WHEN SOMEONE IS GONE. LET US HOPE THEY ARE PLEASANT ONES.