THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, November 29, 1994 TAG: 9411290379
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ABE GOLDBLATT
DATELINE: PORTSMOUTH LENGTH: Medium: 70 lines
Abe Goldblatt was buried Monday in Evergreen Memorial Park as more than 400 mourners bid farewell to the man who spent 63 of his 79 years as a sportswriter for The Virginian-Pilot and The Ledger-Star.
Goldblatt died Saturday of complications from open-heart surgery. At the gravesite, Abe was remembered by his oldest son, Dan, in a eulogy that included a recitation of a story Abe wrote many years ago.
Dan told of a conversation Abe had with his 9-year-old grandson, Dylan, only days before Abe was hospitalized. It was the best story he'd ever written, Abe said. And it was one of the few stories he wrote that was not about sports in Hampton Roads and the region. It was about Abe's father, Rofelcq, a Russian immigrant. We want to share it once more, in memory of Abe.
- Abe's editors
The racks were filled with suits - all sizes, colors and prices. I tried one on.
``Nice fit,'' the salesman remarked.
Nice fit.
I remembered Papa. With a note of disdain, Papa would have referred to this garment as ``ready-made.''
Papa was a tailor. And tailors, like the Indian, are a vanishing breed on the American scene.
Tailors, I remember, were a proud lot, skilled craftsmen who took satisfaction in their creations.
They were specialists. There were coat-makers, pants-makers, and vest-makers. Papa could make the whole suit, but in the trade he was known as an expert coat-maker.
With an artistic appraisal, tailors could recognize the works of other tailors.
Papa, I remember, could spot a boulevardier walking down the street and, without the bat of an eye, name the tailor who made the suit. It was uncanny.
Once I was in Papa's little tailor shop when a man walked in to get a button sewn on a finely tailored blue-serge coat. Papa immediately recognized the handiwork. ``I made this coat,'' Papa said, ``but when?''
``Yes, you made it,'' the customer replied. ``Twenty years ago.''
Papa liked the movies, but sometimes I felt he cared little about the plot.
``How'd you like the picture,'' I once asked him.
``Never,'' he replied in the manner of a critic judging a masterpiece, ``never have I seen such beautifully tailored suits as the actors wore.''
Papa's tailor shop was a gathering place for his cronies. They regarded him as something of a philosopher. He had read the Harvard Classics, and his friends would seek his counsel on matters of politics, business, and even romance.
He would listen to their problems while basting a garment. Then, looking up over his specs and in soft tones, he would give his opinion.
Many of Papa's friends became successful businessmen on the advice he had given them.
Papa. Well, Papa struggled for a living. Those were the Depression years, the years that the ``ready-mades'' invaded the market.
But we never went hungry. Papa saw to that. Our bellies were well-filled.
We had no family automobile. My pockets didn't jingle with money.
But I was the only boy in high school who wore tailor-made suits.
No ``ready-mades'' for me.
Not for Papa's son. by CNB