A Letter to My Sister Linda Ann Friedman Berman

23 August 1940 - 13 March 2010
Family History +
Obituary Notes for Linda Berman & for Irwin Berman

• POST a QUESTION or COMMENT about this article topic.

To: Linda Ann Friedman Berman 17 January 2010

From: your brother Daniel (Danny Pupsie Boy) Friedman

On : the suggestion of your marvelous daughter Laura that you’d enjoy hearing from some of your admirers.

Note: my sister Linda passed away on 13 March 2010, and was laid to rest in Brunswick, GA, close to her long time home at St. Simons Is. GA.

Page top photo: Linda and Danny Friedman in Florida and below, as children at Lindan in Dunnsville, Virginia on the Rappahannock River.

To My Loving Sister Linda,

Do you remember how you teased me that “Lindan” contained all five of the letters in your name and just one, the “n” from mine?

   “It’s Linda-N” you said.

Did you know that even as you teased me I loved you more? – Humor.

Below: there I was sitting on the front steps of Lindan - just before the first time I ever spoke words intelligible to an adult " Alberta please open the door". But everyone said you understood my baby talk way before that.

Do you remember suggesting that I pee out the bathroom window to see what would happen? - Science & Experimentation.

Yellow pee ran down the white-painted clapboards of the house (that second floor window to the left of the tree in the photo at right).

We couldn't understand how our parents knew, immediately, what had happened? We had fun, didn't’t we? – Sharp aim, daring.

Do you remember telling me to “stop breathing” because my raspy wheezing was keeping you awake? – Wit.

Mom heard and, in character, exploded into our shared bedroom shouting at you “Stop trying to kill your little brother.” After all, you had wanted a little sister. When I was born you announced that I'd be your little boysister.

I knew you weren’t really trying to kill me. I was and remain your boy-sister. – Excitement. – Gender equality.

I remember our plays on the stage, with me cast as the fairy elf, your or Eve-Lynn as the princess. Into the story plot Dad fed us a few lines to amuse the adults. That's you on the left, me in the middle, and our cousin Eve Lynn on the right.

Dad told us to emphasize the ess in princess.

You and our cousin Eve-Lynn dressed me in a tutu, or other times in a fig leaf. Wasn't I cute?

We were nuts, but just little nuts. It was the adults who, even then, we knew were the big nuts.

They screamed with laugher when at the end of our play I explained that I couldn’t marry you because I was a fairy. What was so funny about that? – Drama.

I remember playing cards, war, old maid, in the window alcove at Lindan. At big group meals we ate there at the kids’ table. Comparing notes on the latest crazy thing one or both of our parents did, how many times did we say to one another: "Thank god I wasn't an only child - no one else would believe this!" - Solidarity.

We both remember swimming in the warm Rappahannock, and walking with excitement to the upstream point where we were almost out of view of the adults.

Or to the downstream point – as far away as we could get. Often hand in hand, sometimes, we went running on the hot sand, dodging the prickly weeds. – How to Get Away.

I remember our play house, jumping off the roof down onto a sand pile, holding a beach umbrella to see if it would serve as a parachute – it didn’t – and I remember that you let me go first (and last). – Adventure. – Brains.

Above: mom thought nothing of handing down your old bathing suit bottom: when you outgrew it I was then suited up for a swim.

Do you remember walking over to the McMann’s to sit in their field, eating their hot strawberries, both us and the fruit heated by the sun? – Warmth.

I don’t really remember when I graduated from diapers to swimming trunks.

You kindly donated the use of your swim suit bottom. (At left).

At the time they fit me pretty well, and as you can see, I was pleased. – Sharing.

Do you remember sitting on the front porch at Lindan, watching intense rain storms come up the river, a solid roaring wall of water moving north across the water.

We would watch the storm from our safe place – the porch, as wind blew tiny drops of rain through the screens onto us and lightning sometimes exploded trees in the yard near the house.

The porch was our safe place, and it has remained my mental refuge for a lifetime. We can go there, any time. – Safety.

Mom and Dad were so much more social than we were. Parties, boozing, crowds. At Lindan they loved shucking oysters and drinking beer, from right after "the war" when you were new and I was a mere dot.

Above & below: Photos of Lindan from the 1940s, grilling oysters on a street grate hung over a fire built on the sand at the edge of the Rapphannock.

Below: raw oysters in wooden bushel baskets

and Daniel Friedman Sr. with a drinking buddy at Lindan ca. 1940.

The Rappahannock river continues to provide oysters, available still from the Rappahannock Oyster Co., in Topping, VA.

When we were little, we liked to play with the same toys. Below: back in Richmond.

Do you remember, at 7104 University Drive, how you would read to me?

You would sit on the edge of your bed facing the door to your room, book on your knees, reading aloud.

I would kneel on the bed behind you and brush your hair. If the brush stopped, the reading stopped.

That was the beginning of my love of reading, and certainly of my desire to learn to read. I already loved you, of course. – Reading. – Love.

Your early and long time admirer John Viner saved this photo of you as a little girl - and sent it to you when you were an old girl. John never stopped loving you either.

Do you remember being angry with me and sneaking into my bedroom where I was sound asleep? You whacked me in the head with one of those books? 

I thought I was dead.

My head had been blown up. – Always be ready for anything.

Do you remember at the dinner table in Richmond when, under duress, you finally said "I don't like milk. If you make me drink this milk, I'll throw up."? They did, and you did. It was marvelous. Thank-you for throwing up on cue. How did you do that? – Mystery – Diversionary tactics.

Above: Dan Friedman Sr. was also known as Danelli the Magician. He and mom (Teal) traveled the USO club circuit entertaining the troops during WWII.

Daddy loved you best, but you were generous in sharing his attention. – Sharing.

You won’t remember, because you weren’t there, but when you were a little older, we all, mom, dad, and I, took you to the train station for you to go off to Camp Severance or to Queen Lake camp - I forget which it was.

After you got on the train and we had waved to you from the platform, we all got back into the car to drive home. The car was very quiet. In his cheery voice Dad said “Well, that’s one bird flown from the nest.” Mom burst out sobbing. – Show emotion.

I bet you remember later, when we came home from our respective summer camps (I hated baseball camp), being picked up by the parents, and driven … where?

To a new home? Yep. They moved while we were away – Surprise.

Do you remember that it happened again? When I came to visit you and Irwin on my getting out of the Army – I came to your townhouse in Maryland. I didn’t know where mom and dad had moved.

It was marvelous. That feeling of having some control - by not trying to find out too soon. – Loyalty.

Do you remember when our family was visiting Poppa in Manhattan, Dad was at the office, and you and I were dragged along by Mom to a lunch date with “the mysterious man”?

We were two little anchors, dead-weight, increasingly upset with the flirtation and an agenda obvious, even to kids, though you were less mystified than I was.

We started acting up, or I did, until our  restaurant scene became unbearable to the adults. Mom was rather drunk. It was scary. As we walked from the table to the door, you held my hand. – Comfort.

Somehow we got our wobbly mother out of the restaurant and into a taxi, and back to Poppa’s apartment, 1070 Park Avenue. Dad must have been called home, I don’t remember exactly, but we were saucer eyed when he gently pushed Mom, fully dressed, into the cold shower with all her clothes on. Wasn’t that wonderful? – Zen calmness in adversity.

I was thrilled when you showed me the lonely hearts book to which you and Evie Key had sent in personal descriptions and photos – purely as a naive lark. You showed me the crazy letters you got, some of them anyway, from hungry men who prowled those pages.

You and Evie laughed hysterically, from the safe position of your bedroom. It was exciting when Mom, during one of her regular searches into our “stuff”, found those letters and became hysterical, certain that the two of you were teen age prostitutes. Well maybe not certain. Just fearful. – Innocence.

I absolutely loved it when you were the one in trouble, since I was usually the trouble maker. That was when, maybe around thirteen for you and ten for me, we started saying to one another, thank god I wasn’t an only child. No one else would believe this shit. We knew then, and we’ve always known, that we could believe one another. – Sisterhood.

Do you remember “Hell Pit”? I loved hell pit, with its horse that bit you, two cats, Sam the stupid beagle, and 52 Mexican burros that our (probably tipsy) parents bought (they only intended to order two but later changed that story to avoid embarrassment at being tan-borracho in Mexico) for their new Vinita “farm” outside of Richmond.

I loved the burros who hee hawed waking us up at the crack of dawn. Dad loved the publicity – notice the tuba in the photo at left?

You hated hell pit – every minute of it. Sometimes you let me read about it in your diary. Then you saw articles about our family burro farm in the Richmond Times Dispatch and cried, Oh my GOD, I live in an ASS FARM, and it’s in all the newspapers! – Expression.

Do you remember taking me along, riding in the back seat on one of your dates? The boy didn’t exactly like the idea, but he offered me a cigarette – which I loved.

It was my first smoke, or try at smoking, and in the dark, do you remember the stink in the car when I lit the filter end of the cigarette? – Youth.

Do you remember driving me to my guitar lessons? I do.

I crouched hiding down on the floor in the  back of the car (I think it was that black ’56 Chevy) while you and Evie danced in the middle of the intersection in your baby-doll shortie pajamas.

It was fun seeing if you could embarrass your baby brother. It was big fun. – Fun.

How about the way you taught me to deal with self consciousness, and about looking too much in the mirror. I didn’t like the two moles on my left cheek. I told you about it.

You named them for me, Jim and Joe.

And you persisted in asking me for many mornings, “So how are Jim and Joe?” “Hey, let’s count all of your moles, moley boy.”

See them at left? It was my birthday. You look so bored! – Laugh at yourself.

Do you remember our parents insisting that you stop dating that “ne’r do well vacuum cleaner salesman”? A week later his song hit the top of the charts across the U.S. “She wore an itsy bitsy, teenie weenie, yellow polka dot bikini.”

She was afraid to come out of the water, she was afraid that somebody would see.

She wore an itsy bitsy, teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini, and in the water, she wanted to stay.

Ya missed your chance to be super-rich, Sis. That’s ok. Irwin isn’t so bad. – Chance.

At Hell Pit you invited your girlfriends over for skinny dipping in the pool.

Quickly I called David Hoff. “You’ve got to get over here, immediately!”

Having never actually seen naked girls, we thought we had died and gone to heaven.

Heaven was on the metal roof over-looking the swimming pool – you can see that roof (rear right) in the photo at left along with your 1960 Valiant and Dad’s Triumph.

We had some difficulty maintaining our position up there, but we kept pretty quiet for a while. Then I crept down into the basement to turn on the under-water pool lights, giving David the fifteen seconds of best view of his life.

Amid the screaming girls, you stomped stark naked out of the pool, socked me in the shoulder, and turned off the lights. –  Naked girls.

I was worried when you went off to Goucher College. Maybe you would return home sophisticated, educated, changed, and distant. It was so reassuring when you next came back for a visit – you were giggling and acting goofy with your friends, and I realized you would be my Linda, my sister, forever. – Trust.

I remember how much you loved visiting the family at Virginia Beach. Just look at the expression on your face (photo at left)! Irwin has that pre-gerbil biting face, and baby Jennifer had had enough already.  –  Endurance.

Above and below: Linda and Irwin and Jennifer Berman at Virginia Beach. Irwin was enjoying Jennifer Berman, unable to see into the future and how much trouble she could cause. Linda's expression shows with her own usual candor that she was not loving being even temporarily back in the buffeting windstorm of our parents Teal and Dan Sr.

Wasn’t it exciting when the Hogan’s dog Margaret tried to eat Jennifer? No wonder she looked worried in her photos. –  Courage. – Always carry a stick.

What about those adventures with Bobby Hoffman sneaking around outside our house in the dark? Sniffing around like a mangy dog and peering in our windows. –  Whispering.

Bobby Hoffheimer was replaced by the two Boca Raton electricians, (one of them is also named Bob) but it’s still been an adventure worth remarking on. Well you did most of the visiting. Thank you. – Generosity.

Sometimes, you used veiled expressions (above in the center of the photo) to show me how to deal with having to be someplace that we’d rather not be. – Secret Power. – Loyalty.

Below: Berman family visiting Friedman/Waterman family in Poughkeepsie in 1985.

You were loyal and supportive to me through all my wives and girl friends, never calling them funny names like “Bitch” or “Woody”.

Above: Daniel and Jennifer on Steward Island, New Zealand, in 2014.

And we sometimes talked about where we would rather be, and about being there. – Perspective, priority, wisdom.

Below: Linda and Danny Friedman in Richmond in 1943.

For the sixty-six years I’ve known you, Linda, you have taught me honesty, directness, adventure, intelligence, respect, humility, humor, and trust.

Not that I have necessarily learned these, but … I’m working on it.

Linda, from childhood you were my anchor to sanity and safety in a scary crazy world. Thank you.

Without you I would have blown away, dissolved, drowned, or jumped off of the Lindan barn roof, but without an umbrella.

I would not have walked in the hot sand, worn a tutu, smoked the filter end a cigarette in the back of a ’56 Chevrolet, peed down the wall of our house, see Evie Key naked, nor enjoyed a thousand other moments of our lives.

We still love comparing notes about you-know-who, and saying “thank god neither of us was an only child.”

– We’ll keep it up, together, forever.

Love, your brother,

P.B.

Above: Teal and Dan Friedman with Danny and Linda Friedman.

Florida & Georgia Public News Obituary Notice for Linda F. Berman 13 March 2010

Linda F. Berman, Wife to Irwin of 48 YEARS, the epitome of joy and grace, died at home on March 13th, 2010. In accordance with Linda's wishes, a family burial with graveside service was held on March 16th, 2010, in Brunswick Georgia.

In addition to Irwin, Linda is survived by her mother Teal Friedman, brother Daniel, Daughters Laura and Jennifer, and five grandchildren.

Prior to her demise, Linda established the Berman Family Rabinnate, to support the salary of a full-time rabbi at Brunswick's Temple Beth Tefilloh (TBT). The family requests that remembrances be sent to TBT, PO Box 602, Brunswick GA 31521.

Palmetto Cemetery Directions

Linda Ann Friedman Berman's remains rest at the Palmetto cemetery, Brunswick Georgia where the burial took place on 16 March 2010. Directions: From Rte 17N in Brunswick, Left (East) on Parkwood R. passing a hospital on the right. Continue east until Parkwood ends in a Tee at Newcastle. Right on Newcastle Street, noting the Arco Baptist Church on the right, continue to Left on 7th Street to the first Left on Ross Road - noting an antique barn on the right.

From Ross Road, take the first left into the cemetery through a brick gate, to the left rear area of the cemetery past 28th street. Or contact the Edo Miller & Sons funeral home www.edomilleandsonsfuneralhome.com in Brunswick GA for directions. 912-265-3636.

Eulogies to Linda F. Berman

• IRWIN BERMAN'S BEAUTIFUL EULOGY to his wife and partner Linda Berman, 3/16/2010.
  
  
• "THANATOPSIS", William Cullen Bryant (1794 - 1878) edited and modified from the original, by her brother for a eulogy at Linda's funeral. Linda Berman found this poem comforting in life and hoped that it would give some comfort to her friends and family who remain at the time of her death.

Family-Placed Obituary

LINDA F. BERMAN Linda F. Berman, wife to Irwin of 48 years, the epitome of joy and grace, died at home on March 13. In accordance with her wishes, there will be a family burial in Brunswick, GA. In addition to Irwin, Linda is survived by her mother, Teal; brother, Daniel; daughters, Laura and Jennifer and five grandchildren.

Prior to her demise, Linda established the Berman Family Rabinnate, to support the salary of a full-time rabbi at Brunswick's Temple Beth Tefilloh (TBT). The family requests that rembrances be sent to TBT, P.O. Box 602, Brunswick, GA 31521. To express condolences and/or make donations Visit PalmBeachPost.com/obituaries

Published in The Palm Beach Post on March 16, 2010

Two Arias at the Moment of Passing

At the moment of Linda's Passing her brother was attending Cantantes Camino al Estrellata, an opera recital in San Miguel de Allende Mexico where ten young opera singers, chosen from among more than 100, each sang two operas in a competition.

Below is the text, in translation, of what was being sung at 9:15 PM EST on 03/13/2010. The first aria, was begun at that moment - from her first note, soprano, Gizelxanth Rodriguez's voice brought a surge of deep tears. The second aria, sung by soprano Aaira Soria Tinoco, fit.

“In quelle trine morbide”, from Puccini’s Manon Lescaut

In these soft silken drapes and gilded alcove,
There’s a cold and deadly silence,
A coldness that freezes me!

Then I had fervent caresses and sensuous
Kisses from ardent lips, but now I have
Something totally different!

I again think about my humble dwelling,
Happy, secluded, and white;
Like a gentle dream of peace and of love!

“Song of the Moon” from Dvorak’s Rusalka

O moon high up in the deep, deep sky,
Your light sees far away regions,
You travel round the wide,
Wide world peering into human dwellings

O, moon, stand still for a moment,
Tell me, ah, tell me where is my lover!
Tell him. please, silvery moon in the sky,
That I am hugging him firmly,
That he should for at least a while
Remember his dreams!

Light up his far away place,
Tell him, ah, tell him who is here waiting!
If he is dreaming about me,
May this remembrance waken him!
O, moon, don't disappear, disappear!

Reader Comments

(Sept 21, 2012) Lynne Dintiman said:

Mr. Friedman, I happily happened upon your writings online while researching information on a relative, Newton Ancarrow, of my beloved junior high and high school coach, E. Granger Ancarrow, of Richmond, Va.

I read with delight your humorous account of the Camp Virginia outhouse, and found myself moved beyond measure upon reading your memoriam for your dear sister. I send you best wishes, peace & blessings from Richmond, VA. I would love to connect with you by letter and look forward to reading more of your prose. pgato888@yahoo.com

(Oct 26, 2012) MALCOLM (MAL) R. KALLMAN said:

I worked for Friedman-Marks Clothing Co. in the late 1940's as "assistant to the vice-president" - Dan J Friedman. My father-in-law, Abe Cohn was purchasing agent for the firm.

I have fond memories of Louis Friedman and Ed Friedman. I enjoyed seeing them when they come to visit from new york for a day or two.

They were gentlemen who treated their employees with respect. Your father on occasion drove me home and I remember he had a telephone in his car. That was a rarity. Through harvey hudson I heard about your mother, but since he has passed away, I lost contact.

I knew of you by name only. Is your mother, teal, still living. If so, please send her my regards. Kindest regards, malcolm kallman

I can be reached at 29snug@gmail.Com

---

Dear Mr. Kallman

On re-reading notes to my sister online (at inspectapedia.com/hog/A_Letter_to_My_Sister.htm)

I found your thoughtful note from, goodness, back in 2012.

I certainly hope that this note finds you in good health and enjoying the holidays

I recall you myself, though indeed I was just a kid in the days of Friedman Marks Clothing and the factory.

My mother Teal Friedman is indeed alive, in her late 90's, and living in her condominium, though with in-home care, in Florida. I'll be sure to pass on your greetings to her.

Respectfully,

Daniel Friedman, Jr. - 12/25/2014

[Note: Teal Evelyn (Mathilde) Germann Friedman died at home in Boca Raton Florida on 9 July 2015.]

Below:

The Danny F, immediately below - a one-ton rowboat, and under construction in the second photo, our 8 ft. pram plywood sailboat that promptly sank when a visitor jumped down into it from the dock, sending his foot through the hull.

Obituary Notice for Irwin R. Berman, Surrealist Artist, Died on Sea Island, Georgia 19 August 2019

My sister Linda's husband and my remarkable brother-in-law Irwin Ralph Berman died at Sea Island, Georgia on 19 August 2019 - as his daughter Laura Berman put it on Facebook, ... after a series of prolonged medical challenges.

Above: Irwin R. Berman in front of their Maryland condominium in 1967.

Decades ago Irwin and I walked together, just the two of us, through an old cemetery on St. Simons Island, Georgia. The cemetery was shaded and silent except for the crunching sound our feet made as we stepped on dried leaves.

We stopped in front of the tomb of a friend of Irwin and Linda. There we read the inscription on the tombstone that was sufficiently nondescript that I cannot recall it today.

Unlike that inscription, Irwin Berman was a unique and un-forgettable man.

Early in his surgical career while interning at Bellvue Hospital in New York City, Irwin's creativeness showed up as pairs of stainless steel snakes (shown below) that became a patented invention he designed to ease and speed the suture of bowels.

As a surgeon Irwin served first at Walter Reed hospital researching treatment of trauma, then in Vietnam, sewing up the horribly wounded men and women brought to him by the carload.

Meanwhile and as an early example of the surreal, nearly 100 monkeys, reserved for Irwin's research back in the U.S. languished in cages not unlike those cages used to display captured POWs in Viet Nam.

Irwin telegraphed back to the research hospital: "Let my monkeys go."

Back in medical practice after returning from Vietnam, Dr. Berman was a talented surgeon specializing in colon and rectal surgery. Suddenly in the OR a nick through a glove while operating on a patient who was in turn infected with hepatitis put an end to Irwin's surgical career.

That sea change launched a life-long pursuit of surrealistic art and similarly surprising conversation.

Irwin was a self-described surrealist - an eccentric and creative artist whose works included semi-abstract paintings backlit by X-ray review panels and casts of genitalia ensconced in brass cages that I once made to his specifications.

Once in the dark of night Irwin recruited me and my Dodge Ramcharger.

In pitch black darkness we drove down the Taconic State Parkway from Poughkeepsie and onwards to a warehouse where Irwin had discovered the stored remains of the now famous Normandy glass panels removed from that luxury cruise ship just before it burned to the waterline while undergoing a retrofit for wartime service.

Irwin had already negotiated the purchase of the panels from their owner and paid for them, but the owner was having second thoughts.

We needed to snag a few examples of the panels for Irwin to show to the museum where they'd ultimately be hung.

The owner, somewhat mad, had already smashed three of the large Normandy glass panels. We picked up those fragments and took them along.

We broke in, snagged, and left with Normandy panels safe on the carpet-padded back of my terrible Dodge.

One Normandy Panel fragment, now squared, remains on my desk in New York while the others were cut into salvageable pieces- but only after finding an old Poughkeepsie glass cutter who was unafraid to work with the heavy and irregular glass.

The Bermans donated these wonderful art deco panels to the Metropolitan Museum in New York City.

 

Irwin was among the first who experimented with modeling Polaroid color prints to produce surrealist-like images from "normal" people's faces and bodies.

Photo below: Irwin R. Berman, self portrait titled "Teeth" illustrated his Surrealistic bent.

After re-shaping people into images that he preferred, Irwin projected the result onto a large canvas for painting on a huge scale. The results could be shocking - which was among his goals.

Polaroid was, we discovered, so disturbed by the large scale production of some of these images that the company put a stop to the fun by changing the formula for their color film to make modeling of the inks impossible.

He enjoyed challenging people's excessive comfort in the mundane by a direct, often unexpected candor. In a restaurant or other public spaces heads sometimes whipped around when Irwin said what he really thought.

Irwin had his warts and wobbles, errors and triumphs.

Irwin Berman was at the bottom, a good man, and I will miss him as will his daughters Laura and Jennifer and his hundreds of grandchildren.

When we stopped in the shade of the St. Simons Island cemetery Irwin turned to me with a request that I am hereby fulfilling.

When I die, Irwin said, pointing to himself, then to the shaded tombstone and its inscription,

When I die, I'd like people to note (on my gravestone or in my obituary) simply the following:

Irwin Berman, Surrealist.

...

Continue reading at POETRY & SHORT FICTION, Daniel Friedman or select a topic from the closely-related articles below, or see the complete ARTICLE INDEX.

Or see these

Recommended Articles

• BURMA SHAVE - life along the Rappahannock
• CREOSOTE HAZARDS
• CREOSOTE ODOR CURE / REMOVAL
• LIGHTNING STRIKES SMALL BOAT
• LIGHTNING, AVOID BEING STRUCK BY

Suggested citation for this web page

A LETTER to MY SISTER at InspectApedia.com - online encyclopedia of building & environmental inspection, testing, diagnosis, repair, & problem prevention advice.

Or see this

INDEX to RELATED ARTICLES: POETRY & SHORT FICTION, Daniel Friedman

Or use the SEARCH BOX found below to Ask a Question or Search InspectApedia

Ask a Question or Search InspectApedia

Try the search box just below, or if you prefer, post a question or comment in the Comments box below and we will respond promptly.

Note: appearance of your Comment below may be delayed: if your comment contains an image, photograph, web link, or text that looks to the software as if it might be a web link, your posting will appear after it has been approved by a moderator. Apologies for the delay.

Only one image can be added per comment but you can post as many comments, and therefore images, as you like.
You will not receive a notification when a response to your question has been posted.
Please bookmark this page to make it easy for you to check back for our response.
Our Comment Box is provided by Countable Web Productions countable.ca

Citations & References

In addition to any citations in the article above, a full list is available on request.

---

ADVERTISEMENT

---