A traumatic event happened when I was nine years old. I was dawdling in the shop during a cold winter, and I found myself staring out through the plate- glass front windows. My eye caught our neighbor’s daughter trying to cross the street. She must have been only six years old. I had a direct view of her as she peeked out from between some parked cars looking for a break in the traffic. She was alone. She tried and tried, each time sulking back behind the cars where driv- ers could not see her. Cars were coming along our street fairly often in those days. Impatiently, she darted across the street, only to be immediately struck by a driver that could not react in time. In that instance, she was knocked down and killed. I witnessed the death of Hinda Boobly. It was the 21st of September, 1933.
My Father earned a great reputation. He had golden hands. I literally worshipped him. We all did. - Herman Shooster
Herman Shooster Age 7 Clothing by Frank Shooster
When I visit my parents’ graves at the Ohev Shalom Cemetery near Chester, in Brookhaven, [320 E Brookhaven Rd, Brookhaven, PA 19015] I ponder that tragic day. Talking about the cemetery mother would say, “Ganz Chester,” meaning, ‘All of Chester.’ Notably, the cemetary land was donated by, The Shooster Family. When I was 12 years old, my father sat me down by the iron safe. We spoke for a minute; then he taught me the combination. I’ll never forget him saying, ‘I want you should know the combination to the safe just in case there is an emergency, and you might need a few dollars.’ He spoke in English with a Yiddish accent. At first, I rejected such an awesome responsi- bility, not that there was ever an appreciable sum of money in the safe. What a wonderful lesson of trust he taught me. Of course, I never took a dollar. Mother was a marvelous housekeeper. She loved to bake and cook. Our home was kept immaculate. She sang Jewish melodies while she worked. Her beautiful voice resonated with pride through each of us.
Over time, our house was furnished. Each piece was considered precious. Mother was so protective of her furni- ture that I wasn’t even allowed to sit on the parlor chairs or the sofa, which left nowhere to sit in the living room where the main entertainment of the house stood - our radio. Regardless, I often sneaked onto the couch hanging my legs over an arm to assuage my mother while listening to my evening shows for hours at a time. Those were the days before television. Laying there with my eyes unfocused, my imagination soared with thoughts of Jack Armstrong, The All-American Boy; Buck Rogers in The Twenty-First Century; The Lone Ranger; Amos and Andy; and more on the radio. Night after night I listened, riveted as those stories unfolded.
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