The Early Days

My father, Jack Schaefer, installment collector, gunslinger, Jewish tough-guy, was almost fifty when I was born. He was simply the best. No human on earth could touch the tips of his two-toned wingtips. Somewhere along the way, he met my mother, Emma, a full-figured, robust woman. I was told she was vivacious by the standards of the forties and her photos reveal a warmth and sensuality that sizzle. I grew up in a neighborhood called Stawberry Mansion in Philadelphia, moving at age 7 to Mt. Airy. Childhood was truly a mixed blessing. My mom suffered what was then undiagnosed post-partum depression, leaving her virtually unprepared to deal with the most simple tasks in life. This was not easy for a small child to comprehend, so home life was often fraught with pain and anxiety for me. But my father did his best to shield both me and my mother from her illnesses. And outside the home, growing up in Philadelphia's crowded neighborhoods, meant a childhood filled with friends and their protective parents. We spent much time visiting my father's large family and many, many hours with Aunt Ada and my cousin, Hannah. In reality, I had a network of parents and an extended family of friends. My childhood, in fact, was remarkable.