Memoir and Essay
The Wonders of Cleveland
By Judah Leblang/2003
My mother steered our brown Pontiac through suburban Beachwood-our
upper middle class town--toward Nanny's house, on the edge of
working-class Cleveland. I fidgeted on the vinyl seat, my body
an unspoken, Are we there yet? Finally, we passed into
the city and my mother stopped in front of the tall maple that
dominated my grandmother's postage-stamp sized front lawn. Nanny's
tiny bungalow sat in a row of identical white houses thrown up
just after World War II when Cleveland was booming, years before
my birth. continued
What a Fellowship
By Judah Leblang/2003
In August 1997, I made a special visit back to Cleveland to
represent my family at a memorial service for my godmother Donna's
son Lonnie, who had died two years earlier. Since Lonnie had
been a member of the little church where Donna was a 'mother'
and senior member, the service was doubling as an afternoon fundraiser.
The goal of the congregation-one they were moving toward in
tiny increments, year by year--was to connect their modest sanctuary
with the warehouse-like building next door, tearing down the
wall between them. The second building, which served as a reception
hall, was really just a large concrete-floored room, looking
desperate for paint and a makeover, like the ugly duckling at
a high school dance. continued
The Pierogi-eating Contest
By Judah Leblang/2004
Slavic Village, Cleveland
Summer 2003
"We got 24 people signed up for the Peeerogi eating contest,"
announces the emcee, a heavyset man with a florid face and full,
rounded nose. "We're gonna have everyone introduce themselves
and then they'll be ready to start eating these delicious perogi."
He jumps around with a microphone and the crowd is quiet as contestants
give their names, ages and hometowns. Most of the last names
are Polish, and many are from the neighborhood. A crowd of a
150 people-maybe more-swarms around to watch the contestants,
who sit at long tables joined together in an inverted 'U.' Soon
teenagers pass around plastic plates of doughy pierogi, and the
entrants are off-gobbling the pale white triangles with their
thick potato and cheese filling. continued
Judah does a great job capturing the wistful spirit of places where hopes have not been realized, where the mood is expectant yet melancholy. Humor plays at the edges of his writing, which is rich with visual and emotional details. He also has an ability to convey subtle shadings to readers, and he does so without being trite or obvious.
-- Kathryn DeLong, editor, Northern Ohio Live magazine
A friend recommended Judah's writing to me. His keen observing eye, lyrical prose, and kind humor craft a warm thoughtful encounter. My enjoyment of his writing moved me to seek him as a teacher. I look forward to starting as one of his students next week.
--W.F. McCartin
National Account Executive, Winchester, MA
Non-fiction pieces
Papa's Place
by Judah Leblang ~ click to hear Judah read some of Papa's Place (mp3)
1975, CLEVELAND'S SOUTHEAST SIDE
My mother often said, "Your grandfather's gonna die in that store," and now it appears she may have been right. I press the accelerator hard and careen down Harvard Avenue, propelled by the scribbled note left on the kitchen counter.
"Papa rushed to St. Alexis collapsed at store. Hurry!" she wrote, and I do, a nervous 18-year-old steering Papa's rusted out Chevy Bel-Air through Mt. Pleasant toward Slavic Village. I inhale the smell of tobacco that clings to anything he touches, his special scent of Camels mixed with musk.
The Road Not Taken
Judah Leblang
The school looks the same as I remember it, from 20 years ago. It's a slit-faced red brick structure with tall narrow windows that don't open, giving the place a fortress-like feel. The building folds inward, modern and stale at once, mired in 1971, a silent witness to white flight and the slow steady march of poverty, joblessness, and loss of hope. --continued
Small Dreams --read here, or click to hear Judah read Small Dreams (mp3)
First Day
University Heights/Beachwood, September 1962-1963
On my first day of school, my mother sat in the stuffy classroom with the other parents. The teacher, a prune-faced woman with cat's-eye glasses, named Mrs. Ulberg, went over a list of dos and don'ts while I nervously scoped out my peers. -- continued
With a sharp eye, a wry sense of humor and endearingly offbeat
sensibility, Judah serves up no-nonsense stories that touch the
soul. They make great reading. And listening to him perform them
is a delight, too.
--Barney Stein, Massage Therapist, Jamaica Plain, MA
Judah Leblang is a marvelous writer whose work --both in fiction
and memoir -- is sharply observed, often contemporary in its
setting, but honest, healing and wise, in the great old storytelling
tradition. It will also make you laugh.
--Andrew Szanton, Writer, Newton, MA