The Father

Chicago, Illinois

1946

In 1925, when Walter Lipensky was seventeen years old, he’d discovered that he had two loves: one, an outlet for his type of adventure, and the other an outlet for his creativity. Sailing and photography.

Throughout his younger years, even through the great depression and right up to the time he’d met and married Myra, he was able to participate, if not wholly then passively, in both of these activities.

When you’re in love and have a beautiful new wife, even if money is not as scarce as during a depression, old loves are usually abandoned… if not with a backward glance than certainly with a warm remembrance.

Walking the shore in spring or the beach in summer. Driving the Outer Drive in sight of Lake Michigan in the fall. A soft breeze or a gust of wind would bring pangs of quiet longing to Walter and he would desperately crave the feel of a small boat heeling in the wind and the touch of spray on his face.

Colored kites with necktie tails floating above the trees.

Children huddled in a circle shooting marbles.

A lonely, gnarled tree silhouetted before ominous gray clouds.

These sights would register upon the mind of Walter Lipensky and he would hunger for the satisfaction of being able to show these things to others, as he saw them.

But… a wife cost money. A child costs money.

What was needed took precedence: rent, food, medicine and clothing.

What was wanted was put on the back burner beneath a growing list of priorities.

Sailing? Photography? Sailing and photography were way, way down, at the bottom of the list.

At the end of the war, when defense plants began the process of retooling for the produce of peace, the massive work forces were being cut back and, knowing he’d be out of a job shortly, Walter decided that then might be the best time to combine business with pleasure and began to think of looking for work in the field of photography… Sailing he forgot—temporarily.

The Park Studio was on Kedize and Fifteenth Place, about a mile from the Lipensky apartment. In the waning days of the war, its owner, Mister Myron Pincus, was in his late sixties when he’d received the telegram informing him that his son, Elmer, had been seriously wounded and Pincus suffered a heart attack. Morris Barrish and Mister Pincus attended the same synagogue. One Friday evening after the Shabbes service, Pincus mentioned that he was looking for an assistant and, putting a good word in for his son-in-law, Morris called Walter when he returned home.

On Monday evening Walter brought samples of his photographic work to his job interview and was hired immediately… Well, immediately after an hour of haggling over a livable wage for a family man with two children.

Walter worked at the Park Studio for less than six months when, early in 1946, Pincus suffered another, more debilitating heart attack and was told by his doctor to retire or die.

Having to sell the studio, Pincus made a proposal to Walter. Walter made a counteroffer. Pincus made a counter-counteroffer, and they settled for seven hundred dollars down, five percent of the gross for five years, then a two-thousand-dollar buyout.

Walter and Myra Lipensky became the owners of the Park Studio on March 11, 1946.

The husband and wife worked together with Walter doing the shooting, darkroom work and retouching, while Myra handled the bookkeeping, the reception of customers and, after discovering that she had a steady hand, for those customers willing to pay, Myra hand-colored portraits in oil.

Mitchell was old enough to care for himself after school and on Saturdays so Walter and Myra brought the baby, Lawrence, to the studio with them each day.

 The Son   

He was the tallest boy in his class, and with the exception of only one other boy in the eighth grade, the tallest in school.

Still a nosher [one that eats between meals] he remained on the heavy side, but due to his bone structure carried the weight well. His face had turned from round to oval, giving him a slightly more masculine appearance. Going on twelve, Mitchell Lipensky was considered the best looking boy at Holland School.

He liked the way he looked, and did whatever he could to enhance his appearance even further. Using one of Myra’s nylon stockings, he’d made a cap and slept with it on, hoping to train his straight hair to fall into a wave, which in time it did. In summer he would spend as much time as possible in the sun to ensure a dark tan. Mitchell was always meticulously clean, although, much to the annoyance of his mother, he allowed his bedroom to become messy and the clothing that she so carefully ironed and hung in closet to go awry.

For all his good looks, however, Mitchell Lipensky did have a balance…

He was bashful, very bashful, and in the presence of strangers—particularly girls—his heart would quicken, his palms would become moist and minuscule droplets of perspiration would break out along his hairline. Believing people were looking at him made him feel clumsy, as if he were about to trip over his own feet… But, even though he did become nervous when being looked at, or when he thought he was being looked at, oddly enough, Mitchell enjoyed the attention.

Prone to daydreaming, unless the subject matter completely held his interest, Mitchell’s mind would wander and often, even when trying to concentrate, it was as if a barricade of gauze lay across his brain, keeping whatever the subject from sinking in.

Even though he’d had the “male/female” conversation with his father, Mitchell still hadn’t the slightest idea of what “it’s” all about, and had absolutely no idea of what to expect when, and if, it ever happened.

When thinking “dirty,” he could only fantasize breasts because breasts were something he knew, for sure, girls had and guys hadn’t, and even though hardly any of the girls in his class had even the budding of a breast, in his sexually charged, over-active imagination, beneath each flat-fronted blouse or sweater there sprouted two dark pink—as the lady on the train—or brown—as Louise Ann—nippled breasts. Whatever girls had between their legs, was still an absolute void. As far as still he knew, girls still had nothin’!

When in the presence of an unknown girl, or girls, he’d taught himself, even at that age, to hide his shyness by appearing to be aloof, and to those that did not know him, this sham, combined with his good looks, became the image of conceit. But Mitchell’s vanity was truly focused inward.

Most pretty girls, being pretty and being girls, usually do not want to be seen with a boy that is better looking then themselves, or with a boy that may, for whatever reason, project more conceit than themselves.

It was for this reason that, for most of his life, the girls that he wanted to know better usually backed away from him leaving him feeling inferior, confused and wondering, What’s wrong with me?