Never Marry A Tall Man

 Never Marry A Tall Man

 

My father, Paul Arthur Winer (nee Vinitsky), was born July 25, 1908 in Duluth, Minnesota.  He was the sixth of eight children born to Abraham and Jenny (nee Ostrov) and the only boy.  As a result he had 5 older sisters who, according to him, behaved as additional mothers and who treated him like gold.  On the other hand, again according to him, his father treated him severely.  Maybe Abraham thought that the attention of all these females would make him weak.  Abraham, as a great number of Jews, was a tailor, but I also have a faint memory of my father telling me that Abraham’s family had something to do with horses and wagons in Odessa.  Until very recently, I considered myself of Russian heritage  Guess what?  Ukraine!

The middle name Arthur was purely an affectation.  In reality, he wasn’t given a middle name, but my guess is that he was the sort of boy who would have found the tales of Arthur and the Round Table much to his liking and, at that time, if you said your middle name was Arthur, who would have asked for proof?  I also think he was probably a kid who liked sports.  The reason he wasn’t accepted into the military is a chest injury suffered at college during a football game.  His voluntary military service during WWII, was to look out for submarines.  This would have taken place conveniently at home, as his parent’s Duluth house looked out over the not very sub-infested waters of Lake Superior. 

 

He attended the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis where his goal was to become a doctor, but that turned out to be much too expensive and so he became a pharmacist. Don’t get the idea that his family had enough money to send him to school.  In order to pay for his education, he spent every summer as a laborer in the wheat fields of Nebraska.  He said it was incredibly hot, dirty and hard work.  When he graduated, the Great Depression would just be starting but as a professional he was in demand and worked behind the pharmacy counter at Snyder’s Pharmacy on Lake Avenue in Duluth for many years.   By the time I showed up in 1949, he and my mother owned their own pharmacy, Paul’s Reliable Drugs, on 1st Street.  The name makes me chuckle.  In my mind, I see him telling a lineup of drug addicts that his drugs are by far the most reliable.

 

Anyway, by a certain age, maybe I was 11 or 12, my mother decided that a new responsibility, should be added to my, truthfully not very many chores, ironing.   In those days permanent press didn’t exist in our house or maybe at all,  but cotton sheets and pillowcases certainly did.  There was no such thing yet as fitted sheets.  It seems likely I would have started there.  But at some point, added to my part of the laundry basket, were my father’s clothes, specifically his cotton pajamas.   And here’s where I decided that - never would I ever - marry a tall man.  You see, my dad, who I called Pop, was 6 feet 5 inches tall.  I’m sure he was a handsome youth,  but now he would have been in his 50’s and bald.  He may still have been handsome but I was standing at the ironing board with his pajamas and – to make matters even more difficult – his cotton boxer shorts.  The boxers were impossible.  There were so many seams and it would take forever to try to avoid wrinkles.  Yet, the torture to me were those pajama legs.  They went on and on and on and just when I thought I must be close to the hem, there was still more.   I truly vowed that I would never marry a tall man! 

 

So the end of the story is that I fell in love with and married a wonderful 5 foot 10 inch man.  In the intervening years, permanent press became a household staple, people slept in t-shirts, and tidy whities were knit.  You might think that I hate ironing to this day.  Many people do.  Not me.  I much prefer woven fabric to knit and love to sit on the edge of the bed, with the ironing board that can now conveniently be positioned to a number of heights, watch something of interest on the iPad and iron to my heart’s content.