First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Memorial at Edna St. Vincent Millay's Steepletop house in Austerlitz
On December 23rd, Seymour, Robert and Michael, Nicole and Debra, Joel and Benjamin, Chloe and Jeremy had a family memorial service at Edna St. Vincent's Millay's Steepletop home in Austerlitz. Earlier that day we had read excerpts from this blog. At Steepletop we read Millay's poem Dirge Without Music aloud and then told of some of our memories of Joyce. We gave a donation to the Millay Society as a memory to Joyce and they will mount a plaque with her name on a wall of donors. Millay was of particular significance to Joyce. The first presents Joyce and Seymour exchanged were books of her poetry: Collected Sonnets and Collected Lyrics. Also there was an exhibit related to Millay's poem about a Czech village Lidice which had been destroyed by the Nazis in WW II. The powerful relation Joyce had with Millay and the Czech people came through clearly. We were all touched and thrilled by the incredible coincidence of Millay's house being so near our house in Copake and so perfect for a memorial to Joyce.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Dirge without Music, Edna St. Vincent Millay
Stephen Orlofsky, (my "sweet" little nephew who used to wake me every morning one summer to ask if I had a "bu bu"--yiddish for a small injury), picked up on a beautiful poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay and I want to show the whole poem below. At the family's memorial service for Joyce on December 23 (Joyce would have been 75 if she had lived), we're going to try to go over to Millay's house (which is in Austerlitz not far from our house in Copake) and read a few of Millay's poems in Joyce's Memory.
Dirge without Music
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Dirge without Music
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Stephen Orlofsky writes of his memories of Joyce
Dear Uncle Symo: I was at your wedding in that little synagogue in the Bronx (Was it on University Avenue?). I remember it clearly. Joyce was laughing, smiling, joking with me. She took me seriously all my life, from the day of your wedding. You, of course, as well as the rest of my family, knew better. Joyce did too, but she pretended there was more to me than there really was. After a while, because Joyce believed in me, I started to believe in me too. Of course, I knew in my heart of hearts that you did too, but you were my Uncle Symo, and we are guys and couldn't admit to something like that publicly. Joyce could and did. She was always supportive, and after Robbie and Michael were born, I was like a third son to her, albeit a much more difficult child than either of those two turkeys.
Sometimes, people would become impatient with Joyce's enthusiasms. I never did, although I never could understand how she rooted for the Knicks. Of course, she would be delighted to know that Patrick Ewing was just inducted into the Hall of Fame. She would also love to know that I too now have a dog named Riley. She made a difference in my life, and I miss her, especially her love and enthusiasms for all the things and the people who mattered to her.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been , time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Dirge Without Music
Edna St. Vincent Millay
I love you Uncle Symo.
Stephen
Sometimes, people would become impatient with Joyce's enthusiasms. I never did, although I never could understand how she rooted for the Knicks. Of course, she would be delighted to know that Patrick Ewing was just inducted into the Hall of Fame. She would also love to know that I too now have a dog named Riley. She made a difference in my life, and I miss her, especially her love and enthusiasms for all the things and the people who mattered to her.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been , time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Dirge Without Music
Edna St. Vincent Millay
I love you Uncle Symo.
Stephen
Larry Rader writes of his memories of Joyce
Seymour
I think about her almost daily. Not so much because I spend my days reflecting on loved ones lost, but because, as you said, her passion was so intense and so inspiring. Of course Joyce’s views and knowledge informed us all during her lifetime, and continue to do so. But that’s not primarily why I think about her so often. Because that could be said for many people we know. What it is, is that her humor and approach to the things that got her fired up was voiced in a way that just continues to resonate. In my life, and I’d venture to say in the lives of most people we know, the things that inspired Joyce to (hmmm, how to put this?) subtly voice her opinion (haha) are the things we still deal with daily. Politics and the Knicks come to mind, but it’s not just that. On the last day that Elisa and I spent with Joyce, as weak as she was, she still became impassioned about both topics! To a point that we all had to try to change the subject because you telling her ‘Joyce save your energy – it’s not worth getting this upset’ wasn’t working. The point is that now, every day, something crosses our paths which leads to a WWJS (what would joyce say) moment. And I’m informed anew, but more importantly, I’m emboldened to never compromise my opinions, just as she wouldn’t. But I’m also amused, because as serious as she was and we all are about these topics, no conversation with Joyce about any of this ever took place without a lot of laughs. Just this morning, over coffee, before I read your email, I had a Joyce moment. I was reading about NBC busting Keith Olberman down to cheerful chimp cheerleader for the left instead of smart but biased commentator which he was during the primaries and conventions. ‘Pussies’, I thought, as I became enraged at the miserable ineffectiveness of the left at advocating its positions, now and always. And then I chuckled and thought of Joyce. How angry and passionate she’d be about this if she were here. How her hair would stand on end in rage at the typical media betrayal. How much we’ll all keep fighting the good fight, because of her passion.
And that’s why I think of her so often.
Much love, Larry
I think about her almost daily. Not so much because I spend my days reflecting on loved ones lost, but because, as you said, her passion was so intense and so inspiring. Of course Joyce’s views and knowledge informed us all during her lifetime, and continue to do so. But that’s not primarily why I think about her so often. Because that could be said for many people we know. What it is, is that her humor and approach to the things that got her fired up was voiced in a way that just continues to resonate. In my life, and I’d venture to say in the lives of most people we know, the things that inspired Joyce to (hmmm, how to put this?) subtly voice her opinion (haha) are the things we still deal with daily. Politics and the Knicks come to mind, but it’s not just that. On the last day that Elisa and I spent with Joyce, as weak as she was, she still became impassioned about both topics! To a point that we all had to try to change the subject because you telling her ‘Joyce save your energy – it’s not worth getting this upset’ wasn’t working. The point is that now, every day, something crosses our paths which leads to a WWJS (what would joyce say) moment. And I’m informed anew, but more importantly, I’m emboldened to never compromise my opinions, just as she wouldn’t. But I’m also amused, because as serious as she was and we all are about these topics, no conversation with Joyce about any of this ever took place without a lot of laughs. Just this morning, over coffee, before I read your email, I had a Joyce moment. I was reading about NBC busting Keith Olberman down to cheerful chimp cheerleader for the left instead of smart but biased commentator which he was during the primaries and conventions. ‘Pussies’, I thought, as I became enraged at the miserable ineffectiveness of the left at advocating its positions, now and always. And then I chuckled and thought of Joyce. How angry and passionate she’d be about this if she were here. How her hair would stand on end in rage at the typical media betrayal. How much we’ll all keep fighting the good fight, because of her passion.
And that’s why I think of her so often.
Much love, Larry
Friday, December 19, 2008
Nicole writes of her mother-in-law
For Joyce’s memorial book.
Joyce was my mother-in-law. She was also my friend, and Joyce was a truly good friend to me. One of the few positive things that came out of her illness was that we got to spend some time together just the two of us in June. I remember during the visit that a famous person passed away. I don’t remember who it was, but I remember Joyce saying, “They did so much good. What have I done?”
I think my jaw literally dropped at this. I didn’t know if her statement reflected some profound humility or confusion brought on by all the drugs she was taking. When I told her how astonished I was that she would say such a thing, she stared blankly for a moment and said, “Well, cats. I guess I did something for cats.”
“Yes, cats,” I said, “but what about people?” After all she had raised two sons, nurtured four grandchildren, and touched the lives of hundreds of others, captivating them with her myriad passions whether politics, art, literature, or sports. This was most evident in the extraordinary relationship she developed with a group of Czech glass artists, providing concrete support and encouragement for their work over almost two decades.
Several years back she decided to organize a gallery show for them on 57th Street. How Joyce was going to pull this off in the cut-throat art world of New York was hard to fathom at first, but watching her work, I discovered a profound truth. Joyce was able to succeed where others would have stumbled because she wanted nothing for herself. The joy she derived from helping the people whose work she loved was truly all she needed.
Nicole Fauteux, September 2007
Joyce was my mother-in-law. She was also my friend, and Joyce was a truly good friend to me. One of the few positive things that came out of her illness was that we got to spend some time together just the two of us in June. I remember during the visit that a famous person passed away. I don’t remember who it was, but I remember Joyce saying, “They did so much good. What have I done?”
I think my jaw literally dropped at this. I didn’t know if her statement reflected some profound humility or confusion brought on by all the drugs she was taking. When I told her how astonished I was that she would say such a thing, she stared blankly for a moment and said, “Well, cats. I guess I did something for cats.”
“Yes, cats,” I said, “but what about people?” After all she had raised two sons, nurtured four grandchildren, and touched the lives of hundreds of others, captivating them with her myriad passions whether politics, art, literature, or sports. This was most evident in the extraordinary relationship she developed with a group of Czech glass artists, providing concrete support and encouragement for their work over almost two decades.
Several years back she decided to organize a gallery show for them on 57th Street. How Joyce was going to pull this off in the cut-throat art world of New York was hard to fathom at first, but watching her work, I discovered a profound truth. Joyce was able to succeed where others would have stumbled because she wanted nothing for herself. The joy she derived from helping the people whose work she loved was truly all she needed.
Nicole Fauteux, September 2007
Benjamin Simon writes of his grandmother
When I think of Grandma Joyce, two words come to mind: writer’s block. I spent several weeks thinking, “What shall I write about her? Her generosity? Her family? Her love of Europe, specifically Prague? The numerous Prague t-shirts which have amounted in my drawers over the past few years, all purchased by her? The numerous teachers which have thought that I have been to Prague several times, due to the fact that I constantly wear hoodies to school about said city? The lingering fear in the back of my mind, that I might one day visit Prague and not actually like it?” By this point, I would be reduced to paranoid idiot, mumbling some gibberish, and forget entirely about writing this passage. So I will start at the beginning.
Everything about Grandma Joyce was routine. Every time she came down, she would instantly sit down on the living room couch. We would talk about things like, “How was the drive?” and, “Do you want a drink?” and, “Do you think Clinton will be impeached?” (remember, this tradition started a long while back.) Then, she would present me and my brother Joel with two gifts: 1) a t-shirt, or other form of clothing from her latest trip, and 2) a souvenir from her latest trip, ranging from chocolate to refrigerator magnets. If she didn’t have anything to get us, then she would apologize for the lack of gifts, in stark contrast to the usual apologizing for the lack of things to make up for her generosity, by us.
Then, we would go on day trips, shopping trips, trips into D.C., etc. And the whole time, she would try to buy us anything that she could see. To this day, I’m not sure if she actually thought we wanted those things, or if she was just being nice. Either way, there was not a kinder soul from here to India, where Mahatma Gandhi once lived.
She always knew how to crack a joke. Whenever some political thing happened, a witty line appeared in her head, which was clever enough to be hilarious, but tame enough to be tasteful. She would always be the toast of the evening during cocktail hour.
If there is one regret I have, it is that we never went to Prague together. In the later years of her life, she would often mention that she was going to take us all on a big trip to the Czech Republic. I remember that one night, I was sitting to dinner, and dad walked in. He said that he had something to tell us, and announced solemnly that Grandma Joyce had a tumor. I asked what a tumor was, and when he told me, it took about five minutes for the truth to sink in. I went upstairs and cried my eyes out. Now, this is sad, but this also shows something. I was not crying over the eventual loss of a grandparent, or a lifetime of gifts, or a big trip to Europe. I was crying over the loss of her. That shows one thing: it was not her relation to us that made us love her, it was her character. And that is worth a million trips to Europe.
Everything about Grandma Joyce was routine. Every time she came down, she would instantly sit down on the living room couch. We would talk about things like, “How was the drive?” and, “Do you want a drink?” and, “Do you think Clinton will be impeached?” (remember, this tradition started a long while back.) Then, she would present me and my brother Joel with two gifts: 1) a t-shirt, or other form of clothing from her latest trip, and 2) a souvenir from her latest trip, ranging from chocolate to refrigerator magnets. If she didn’t have anything to get us, then she would apologize for the lack of gifts, in stark contrast to the usual apologizing for the lack of things to make up for her generosity, by us.
Then, we would go on day trips, shopping trips, trips into D.C., etc. And the whole time, she would try to buy us anything that she could see. To this day, I’m not sure if she actually thought we wanted those things, or if she was just being nice. Either way, there was not a kinder soul from here to India, where Mahatma Gandhi once lived.
She always knew how to crack a joke. Whenever some political thing happened, a witty line appeared in her head, which was clever enough to be hilarious, but tame enough to be tasteful. She would always be the toast of the evening during cocktail hour.
If there is one regret I have, it is that we never went to Prague together. In the later years of her life, she would often mention that she was going to take us all on a big trip to the Czech Republic. I remember that one night, I was sitting to dinner, and dad walked in. He said that he had something to tell us, and announced solemnly that Grandma Joyce had a tumor. I asked what a tumor was, and when he told me, it took about five minutes for the truth to sink in. I went upstairs and cried my eyes out. Now, this is sad, but this also shows something. I was not crying over the eventual loss of a grandparent, or a lifetime of gifts, or a big trip to Europe. I was crying over the loss of her. That shows one thing: it was not her relation to us that made us love her, it was her character. And that is worth a million trips to Europe.
Anna Matoušková writes of her past and of Joyce
Dear Seymour,
of course you can use what I have written.
Please let me send you one old photograph: Pilsen, year 1927, two classmates, young girls of seventeen. Left blond is my grandmother Marie Kucerova, the curly black hair and eyes bauty is Greta Kellner, her best friend. They are in their best years. Future will bring them not more than love, good husbands and next nice ten years. But later Greta, who was Jewish perished in shoa with her family. My grandparents were prisoned by communist and Marie Kucerova lost her husband soon.
Why I am talking abut this? My granny was telling me a lot of stories about her wonderful childhood a youth, she was talking preferably about the sunny side of her life, thus as I remember she never told openly what happened with Greta. Last year in May I was having the call with Joyce about my necessity to know more about the past, about the story of my grandfather, who was actively fighting with communist, who was ten years prissoned and died for cancer as a result of slave works with uranium. I also mentioned to Joyce that I am trying to find out what happened to Greta Kellner. I had not the chance to talk about this with Joyce, she left us so quickly.
But I am going to write it now: at Yad Vashem holocaust victims list was Greta Kellner, her husband Victor, their daughter Tonicka, her parents, her brothers, sisters in law, relatives of her husband... I was expecting it, but it was a shock comparing this short message about perishing the whole family with the joyful photo of the two young girls. But in the end of each report about the Kellner an Koerner familly was written the name of a person who gave this information, each time the same, Tatana Kellner, the niece of Greta and full address in USA. I used Googůe search maybe hoping she has some company or other activities at the internet. How was the surprise she is the fine artist, born in Prague, in aproximately my age, having the own studio workhop near New York. I have find there her email, wrote her and met her during my stay in New York in spring 2008. It was very important meeting, as a bow across the ocean, history and tragedies the two women again met from the families of former friends. Tatana even didn't forget Czech, she is an interesting artist.
I am sure that Greta and Marie would be happy with that and I only regret I couldn't share it with Joyce. She would be the first I wished to talk about this. For sure she would be happy with me, too. So I really belivee she knows it all very well now, although I know, she didn't share my trust in the ethernal life. I hope it is one of the cases she finely changed her mind (as you mentioned: she never was wrong, she only sometimes changed her mind).
Cordially Anna
Anna writes of her past and of Joyce
Dear Seymour,
thank you for all the nice texts written by friends and family about Joyce. I am thinking about her a lot these days and I am working on finishing some short memories dedicated to her, too. I have promised to myself to do it until the end of the year, which is not easy because in a foreign language. What I read really gives me the currage to try to finish it. And once more I have to thank you for the photograph of Joyce as a young lady, I really wanted to ask her to show me how she looked when she was younger, I wanted to ask you also. Each woman as an tree has to change radicaly when going older, but just some of them keep the energy and strenght. Joyce for sure was one from them. She was so beautiful outside and inside, too.
I am reading often some of the books she gave me, and for sure each time I more and more apriciate her taste and undarstand the reasons why she gave me this or that book. She was "the reader" and I really regret I cannot share my new impressions with her. There is so many things I would like to share with her, so many places, some nice people to introduce to her. Sometimes it seems to me that women live in a permanent inner dialogue with somebody or something, for me very often it is Joce that person I am talking with.
Dear Seymour, I hope you will come to Prague with your family, you are cordially welcome and you can stay in flat of my uncle which is in the centre.
Please give my greetings to your family and to friends I know, i wish you the nice Christmass time and good year 2009.
I am happy we are still in touch. And of course I will send the text about Joyce soon with the request to correct it.
Cordially Anna
Joyce in our house in Bayside, Queens circa 1960's
Joyce was so elegant. She loved going to parties but only if the talk was good and the people were interesting. When I first met her, she was a Brooklyn Dodger fan and I was a NY Giant (baseball) fan. The worst argument we ever had in those days was whether Willie Mays or Duke Snider was a better center fielder. She supported Snider. Well you could never get Joyce to admit that she was wrong; she just changed her mind.
Sami Harawi remembers Joyce
Joyce
At the time I was preparing this Catalogue an extraordinary person
passed away, Joyce Simon
I met Joyce close to ten years ago, when I started my Mostly Glass Gallery venture
We hit it off immediately, and it only got better afterwards
Glass Art was the catalyst to the discovery of one the
nicest persons I have known,
and the youngest mind I have encountered
Joyce passed away in her mid seventies
Her mind, however was what you would
hope for a person in their twenties
Excitement, Lust to live, Discover...
Glass, travelling, theatre, poetry, cats, sports, movies…
Her enthusiasm was contagious and energizing
When I asked Ivana Houserova if I could place her Angel sculpture
on this dedication page, her reply was that
Joyce was actually an Angel for the Czech Glass Artists
Joyce leaves a multilevel void
in the persons who got the chance to know her
I miss her immensely
This Catalogue is in her memory
It has Work that she loved and made me see it even more
beautiful than I perceived when I chose it
Sami Harawi
Englewood, NJ, September 23, 2007
At the time I was preparing this Catalogue an extraordinary person
passed away, Joyce Simon
I met Joyce close to ten years ago, when I started my Mostly Glass Gallery venture
We hit it off immediately, and it only got better afterwards
Glass Art was the catalyst to the discovery of one the
nicest persons I have known,
and the youngest mind I have encountered
Joyce passed away in her mid seventies
Her mind, however was what you would
hope for a person in their twenties
Excitement, Lust to live, Discover...
Glass, travelling, theatre, poetry, cats, sports, movies…
Her enthusiasm was contagious and energizing
When I asked Ivana Houserova if I could place her Angel sculpture
on this dedication page, her reply was that
Joyce was actually an Angel for the Czech Glass Artists
Joyce leaves a multilevel void
in the persons who got the chance to know her
I miss her immensely
This Catalogue is in her memory
It has Work that she loved and made me see it even more
beautiful than I perceived when I chose it
Sami Harawi
Englewood, NJ, September 23, 2007
Michael Simon remembers his mom
MOM: Taught me to believe, though she never espoused any belief system I could identify. She taught me to fight, though she was one of the least competitive people I’ve ever known. She showed me through the force of repetition, often in almost absurd quantity, that some thoughts and actions are better than others, more courageous, more generous, nobler.
Bob Dylan asked “How Many Times can a Man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?” Mom never pretended; she saw all the time.
The flood of memories, both trivial and profound drift and fade with time, but an unspoken reservoir of Mom lives in me.
When I hear a song, even a song I’ve heard a thousand times before, I feel lifted because I know Mom is there. Every time I become enraged by another outrage in the world I know Mom is there. When my children, for whom her love knew no boundaries, learn something new, I know Mom is there.
Some Comedy Now Based on a True Story
“Watching the Knicks with Joyce” (I promise no shot descriptions or Director's notes here)
Knicks cannot manage to make a free throw:
Michael: “Goddamn, do they ever practice?!?!, I can make 8 out of 10 f**king Free Throws!!”
Joyce: “Michael…. You have to calm down.”
Michael: “YOU are telling ANYONE to CALM DOWN????!!!”
Tense Silence ensues between us for the 3rd quarter.
Early 4th Quarter: Knicks get called for breathing too close to Larry Bird.
Michael: “F**cking Refs, >>> S)(*)(*)(&(*&^(*)&)&$_#($*&()#&$*(#&$*(&#*($&”
Joyce indignant in tone: “Michael that is disgusting, the Knicks don’t get calls because the league hates NY, Jews and Democrats!”
Michael thinks to himself that he understands.
PS: Knicks lose by 5.
Mom on the songs to be played at her funeral and I quote:
“I would like ‘The Man Who Sold the World’ but the Nirvana version.”
Bob Dylan asked “How Many Times can a Man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?” Mom never pretended; she saw all the time.
The flood of memories, both trivial and profound drift and fade with time, but an unspoken reservoir of Mom lives in me.
When I hear a song, even a song I’ve heard a thousand times before, I feel lifted because I know Mom is there. Every time I become enraged by another outrage in the world I know Mom is there. When my children, for whom her love knew no boundaries, learn something new, I know Mom is there.
Some Comedy Now Based on a True Story
“Watching the Knicks with Joyce” (I promise no shot descriptions or Director's notes here)
Knicks cannot manage to make a free throw:
Michael: “Goddamn, do they ever practice?!?!, I can make 8 out of 10 f**king Free Throws!!”
Joyce: “Michael…. You have to calm down.”
Michael: “YOU are telling ANYONE to CALM DOWN????!!!”
Tense Silence ensues between us for the 3rd quarter.
Early 4th Quarter: Knicks get called for breathing too close to Larry Bird.
Michael: “F**cking Refs, >>> S)(*)(*)(&(*&^(*)&)&$_#($*&()#&$*(#&$*(&#*($&”
Joyce indignant in tone: “Michael that is disgusting, the Knicks don’t get calls because the league hates NY, Jews and Democrats!”
Michael thinks to himself that he understands.
PS: Knicks lose by 5.
Mom on the songs to be played at her funeral and I quote:
“I would like ‘The Man Who Sold the World’ but the Nirvana version.”
Walter Dean Myers writes of Joyce
My mother walked into my room in our Harlem apartment and found me on my knees, praying. When I had finished and came into the kitchen she asked what I had been praying for.
“The Dodgers,” I replied.
What else was there to pray for? As I grew older I found that my allegiance (okay, devotion) to my favorite sports teams made some people uncomfortable. No, they didn’t want to talk about the Knicks and no, they weren’t really worried about them, either.
And then I met Joyce Simon. Joyce was worried about the Knicks and we spent many anguished moments together wondering if they would ever get a point guard who would actually give up the ball on a three on two fast break.
When I thought of basketball I often thought of Joyce so it was natural when Seymour asked me what I was working on one day I mentioned that I was going to Prague to see how they played ball there for an upcoming book. Seymour was stunned and asked me if I had told Joyce. I hadn’t.
Suddenly a whole new side of Joyce Simon was revealed to me, her amazing generosity. It turned out that she was an expert in art glass of which Prague is one of the world’s centers. She was kind enough to call me, advise me as to where to stay, what to see while I was there and, best of all, even arranged an interview with a local Czech artist.
I did go to Prague, stayed where Joyce Simon recommended, and had a delightful lunch with the artist. I used the artist’s background for the mother of the player in my new book.
This kind of generosity comes along rarer than a point guard who gives up the ball on a three on two fast break.
Walter Dean Myers
“The Dodgers,” I replied.
What else was there to pray for? As I grew older I found that my allegiance (okay, devotion) to my favorite sports teams made some people uncomfortable. No, they didn’t want to talk about the Knicks and no, they weren’t really worried about them, either.
And then I met Joyce Simon. Joyce was worried about the Knicks and we spent many anguished moments together wondering if they would ever get a point guard who would actually give up the ball on a three on two fast break.
When I thought of basketball I often thought of Joyce so it was natural when Seymour asked me what I was working on one day I mentioned that I was going to Prague to see how they played ball there for an upcoming book. Seymour was stunned and asked me if I had told Joyce. I hadn’t.
Suddenly a whole new side of Joyce Simon was revealed to me, her amazing generosity. It turned out that she was an expert in art glass of which Prague is one of the world’s centers. She was kind enough to call me, advise me as to where to stay, what to see while I was there and, best of all, even arranged an interview with a local Czech artist.
I did go to Prague, stayed where Joyce Simon recommended, and had a delightful lunch with the artist. I used the artist’s background for the mother of the player in my new book.
This kind of generosity comes along rarer than a point guard who gives up the ball on a three on two fast break.
Walter Dean Myers
from Johanna Hurwitz
Remembering Joyce Simon
Johanna Hurwitz
In the 30+ years that Joyce was my friend, we made up for not knowing each other when we were teenagers. Like teens, we spoke frequently on the telephone, giggled, met for coffee (albeit not the teenage drink of choice), gossiped and shared stories. And as we talked, it was always Joyce’s enthusiasm and passions that made me love her company so much.
Uri and I had cats back before Joyce discovered the mystic of cat ownership. But once Joyce learned about cats, she loved them beyond anyone else. Not only did she have Newty and Mittens inside the house, she fed a whole colony of strays in her back yard. And then when winter approached, she worked out with Seymour a way to protect these poor homeless creatures. What other home in Great Neck had a [dog] house in the back yard, heated by light bulbs to keep the cats warm when the temperature dropped.
“You do love cats, don’t you?” Joyce asked me many times. She was always checking that we were really on the same wave length. And she checked that I didn’t change my mind.
“You don’t own a fur coat, do you? You’d never wear a fur coat, would you?” she wanted to know. And that was not enough. Just to be sure, she asked, “Would your daughter wear a fur coat?” Happily I could honestly give her the answers she wanted to hear. Neither my daughter or I own or hope to someday own a fur coat.
Sometimes Joyce and Seymour and Uri and I went to concerts together. We attended Mostly Mozart at Lincoln Center and a few concerts at the Tiles Center on Long Island. “Do you like Mahler?” Joyce quizzed my husband and me. “Yes,” we both liked Mahler. “Do you really like him?” she asked again. “Yes,” we did.
Uri and I went to Prague and honestly adored the city. That gave us points in Joyce’s estimation. When I went to India a few years back, Joyce asked, “Will you send me a postcard. I’ve never received a postcard from India.” It tickled me that this sophisticated world traveler (and travel agent) still had the capacity to find joy in something so simple as a card send from a country where she had never gone. I mailed many cards from India and only half of them were ever received by the people they were addressed to. I was very, very happy when I heard that at least Joyce received the card I sent to her.
We all enjoyed eating in the same Greek and Turkish restaurants and so at least once a month the four of us dined together. We talked, laughed, moaned over the political situation and ate a meal that neither Joyce or I had to cook or clean up afterwards. Our last meal together was just ten days before Joyce was diagnosed with cancer.
I confess, I’m not a basketball or tennis fan. Joyce forgave me these faults as I forgave her for not sharing my interest in baseball. And that was because there was one thing that we both cared for equally: books. When she went to London she always brought home a new book for me. She searched for a new title by Barbara Pym or Anita Brookner before they were available here in the USA. “You could lend me your copy,” I’d suggest. But Joyce would insist that I must have a copy of my own.
If Joyce was away visiting family in California, or Washington, or accompanying Seymour at a library conference, she always phoned when she returned home. She had to know what had I read while she was away. Had I discovered a new author? Was there something good that she should be reading? On several different occasions over the years we went shopping in second hand bookstores together. Poor Seymour and Uri needed patience when their crazy wives had shelves of books to examine. “What did you find?” Joyce called anxiously from an adjacent stack. “You can have it after me,” I promised. “Good.”
As a book lover and a friend, I took pleasure in lending Joyce a book that made her convalescence from back surgery easier. “I slept with it under my pillow,” she confessed referring to a long out-of-print book from 1953, PENELOPE by Ann Bullingham. After that, how could I ask Joyce to return the book to me. Luckily the Internet solved my problem and I found another copy in England so that once again, Joyce and I could each have our own copy.
And in the summer of 2007, as she grew more and more ill, I made the wonderful discovery of a sequel to this prized book and had it shipped from England. I hope she was well enough to read and enjoy it. I lost a little bit of Joyce each week when I phoned her. But there was one thing she always said when we spoke, “You’ll still be friends with Seymour, won’t you? You’ll call him up, won’t you.” I reassured her over and over again because much as she loved cats and Knicks and Prague and books, she loved and worried about her husband to the very end. She didn’t want Seymour to be sitting home all alone without her.
And now she is gone. Dozens of times in the past year I’ve reached for the phone to tell her about a new book. Then I remember that I can’t call and my pleasure in a new book is diminished because I can’t share it with Joyce. I wonder if they have libraries in Heaven. I wonder if there is a Heaven. It helps to believe that there is and that one can curl up there with a good book. And just as important, I hope Joyce has someone to discuss those books with while she waits there for me.
Johanna Hurwitz
In the 30+ years that Joyce was my friend, we made up for not knowing each other when we were teenagers. Like teens, we spoke frequently on the telephone, giggled, met for coffee (albeit not the teenage drink of choice), gossiped and shared stories. And as we talked, it was always Joyce’s enthusiasm and passions that made me love her company so much.
Uri and I had cats back before Joyce discovered the mystic of cat ownership. But once Joyce learned about cats, she loved them beyond anyone else. Not only did she have Newty and Mittens inside the house, she fed a whole colony of strays in her back yard. And then when winter approached, she worked out with Seymour a way to protect these poor homeless creatures. What other home in Great Neck had a [dog] house in the back yard, heated by light bulbs to keep the cats warm when the temperature dropped.
“You do love cats, don’t you?” Joyce asked me many times. She was always checking that we were really on the same wave length. And she checked that I didn’t change my mind.
“You don’t own a fur coat, do you? You’d never wear a fur coat, would you?” she wanted to know. And that was not enough. Just to be sure, she asked, “Would your daughter wear a fur coat?” Happily I could honestly give her the answers she wanted to hear. Neither my daughter or I own or hope to someday own a fur coat.
Sometimes Joyce and Seymour and Uri and I went to concerts together. We attended Mostly Mozart at Lincoln Center and a few concerts at the Tiles Center on Long Island. “Do you like Mahler?” Joyce quizzed my husband and me. “Yes,” we both liked Mahler. “Do you really like him?” she asked again. “Yes,” we did.
Uri and I went to Prague and honestly adored the city. That gave us points in Joyce’s estimation. When I went to India a few years back, Joyce asked, “Will you send me a postcard. I’ve never received a postcard from India.” It tickled me that this sophisticated world traveler (and travel agent) still had the capacity to find joy in something so simple as a card send from a country where she had never gone. I mailed many cards from India and only half of them were ever received by the people they were addressed to. I was very, very happy when I heard that at least Joyce received the card I sent to her.
We all enjoyed eating in the same Greek and Turkish restaurants and so at least once a month the four of us dined together. We talked, laughed, moaned over the political situation and ate a meal that neither Joyce or I had to cook or clean up afterwards. Our last meal together was just ten days before Joyce was diagnosed with cancer.
I confess, I’m not a basketball or tennis fan. Joyce forgave me these faults as I forgave her for not sharing my interest in baseball. And that was because there was one thing that we both cared for equally: books. When she went to London she always brought home a new book for me. She searched for a new title by Barbara Pym or Anita Brookner before they were available here in the USA. “You could lend me your copy,” I’d suggest. But Joyce would insist that I must have a copy of my own.
If Joyce was away visiting family in California, or Washington, or accompanying Seymour at a library conference, she always phoned when she returned home. She had to know what had I read while she was away. Had I discovered a new author? Was there something good that she should be reading? On several different occasions over the years we went shopping in second hand bookstores together. Poor Seymour and Uri needed patience when their crazy wives had shelves of books to examine. “What did you find?” Joyce called anxiously from an adjacent stack. “You can have it after me,” I promised. “Good.”
As a book lover and a friend, I took pleasure in lending Joyce a book that made her convalescence from back surgery easier. “I slept with it under my pillow,” she confessed referring to a long out-of-print book from 1953, PENELOPE by Ann Bullingham. After that, how could I ask Joyce to return the book to me. Luckily the Internet solved my problem and I found another copy in England so that once again, Joyce and I could each have our own copy.
And in the summer of 2007, as she grew more and more ill, I made the wonderful discovery of a sequel to this prized book and had it shipped from England. I hope she was well enough to read and enjoy it. I lost a little bit of Joyce each week when I phoned her. But there was one thing she always said when we spoke, “You’ll still be friends with Seymour, won’t you? You’ll call him up, won’t you.” I reassured her over and over again because much as she loved cats and Knicks and Prague and books, she loved and worried about her husband to the very end. She didn’t want Seymour to be sitting home all alone without her.
And now she is gone. Dozens of times in the past year I’ve reached for the phone to tell her about a new book. Then I remember that I can’t call and my pleasure in a new book is diminished because I can’t share it with Joyce. I wonder if they have libraries in Heaven. I wonder if there is a Heaven. It helps to believe that there is and that one can curl up there with a good book. And just as important, I hope Joyce has someone to discuss those books with while she waits there for me.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
ABOUT THIS SITE
This site is dedicated to the memory and life of Joyce Shanock Simon (1932-2007). It will feature memories about comments about Joyce and her love of glass art, particularly Czech glass art. It will also have links to artists and their sites as well as links to galleries that feature glass art. The site will be maintained by Seymour Simon and you may write to him at (simon@seymoursimon.com) with comments or suggestions as well as post on this site directly.
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