Greatest Generation Hero

Without heroic men like Fred Rosenstrauch, there would have been no baby boom generation. A long fascination with the men and women who fought WWII, took me to Shell Point Retirement Community today to meet a remarkable couple who exemplify what made the Greatest Generation great.

As a teenager in Nazi Germany, Fred watched as his peers disappeared, knowing that as Jews, they were not going into the military. He and his dad worked in a box ammunition factory while hoping to find a way out of the inevitable end for their family. Thanks to a friendly teacher who was a top Nazi in the town, Fred and his father were met at the train as they arrived home one night, and given passage out of the country. They had no time to think it over or what it meant to leave other family members behind. Thankfully, Fred’s mother and her parents escaped a year later, and they all eventually settled in St. Louis.

When America entered the war, young Fred tried to enlist in all of the branches of the service, but he was not yet a citizen. Finally after much pleading, the Army accepted him into the infantry, and along with a few others in his basic training, was made an American citizen in a courthouse in San Luis Obispo.

As a member of the Second Infantry Division, Fred fought in 5 major battles including the D-Day invasion of Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge in which he was wounded. All the time, Fred was working on losing his German accent of which there is not a trace today.

I ask him about the movie Saving Private Ryan which so vividly depicts the invasion of Normandy from the sea. He tells me that it was so realistic that it was very difficult to watch even after all these years, and that he would not watch it again.

Fred’s lively speech and expressive face turn to deep sadness also, when I ask him about one of his Division’s assignments – to liberate the concentration camp at Dachau. Realizing how close his family had come to this fate was so shocking to this young man that he can barely talk of it today.

Fred assumed that he would soon be going home to his sweetheart Lore, but he was called up to go to the Allied HQ and assigned to Officer Training School. With his knowledge of Germany, and the German language, he was trained as an interpreter and interrogator. Soon, he found himself in Nuremberg interrogating Nazis and interpreting during the trials. It would seem that this young man’s life had come full circle.

Fred and Lore have a light moment when they tell me that his intense interrogation training served him well throughout life. He has no trouble knowing the signs in a person’s face and demeanor when they are not telling the truth. This, they tell me came in handy in raising their two children.

Within four months of Fred’s return to the states, he and Lore were married. She had faithfully written him and waited and worried like most young women of the time. I asked her about what life with rationing was like, and she smiles and says it wasn’t so bad except for the lack of nylon stockings. She mentions that just about everywhere you went, women were knitting socks and helmet liners for the soldiers from a pattern put out by the Army.

There is not a bit of bitterness in Fred’s still handsome, expressive face when he tells me that he was fired from his first job at a sheet metal company when the owner learned he was Jewish. It says it was a blessing because he was then hired for a much better job in the experimental division of McDonnell aircraft. Later he started his own heating business which is now operated by his son in St. Louis. He and Lore smile when they recall that the business really picked up when air conditioning came into vogue.

After years as snowbirds, Fred and Lore made Florida their permanent home a few years ago, and now reside in a beautiful condo overlooking the Caloosahatchee in Shell Point Retirement Community. They laugh as they remember buying their first home for $7,500 with the help of low interest and a down payment through the GI Bill.

As I leave their home, I stop to look at pictures on their walls, and notice one of Fred in full uniform for a recent veterans parade. He smiles proudly and says, “It still fits.”

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Malt Shop

As I walked into the malt shop, the 1959 instrumental song “Sleepwalk” by Santo and Johnny was playing and all the stainless steel sparkled as the red vinyl stools called out to me.  I ordered a chocolate malt and took in all the nostalgic sights as I waited for my delicious concoction. Round Coke signs, little table-side juke boxes……

I wish I could tell you that this was a real, preserved, original malt shop, but of course it was the commercial reproduction known as “Johnny Rockets” in the Coconut Point mall in Estero. I was there to begin my research on the possibility of the true existence of real malts. Not to be confused with shakes, malts must contain malt powder and have that distinctive taste that gave rise to the places that baby boomers came of age as they ate, danced, listened to rock ‘n roll and flirted, largely away from adult scrutiny.

I’ve been thinking about malts ever since Walgreen’s began running that commercial claiming that they invented the malted milkshake in 1922. I consider myself a connoisseur, as I have sought them out wherever I have traveled in my baby boomer life. I even once found an original preserved soda fountain still operating in Hot Springs, Arkansas when I was a tour guide.

Last week I set out to find out how many ice cream places nearby still served this delectable concoction, and I must say I enjoyed the research to the last noisy sip. Shakes have no place here – nor does anything that isn’t mixed on an authentic stainless steel mixer.

I know I probably missed places that I hope you will tell me about, but here is what I found:

•Johnny Rockets makes a great malt using real Carnation malt powder, and the music is wonderful of course.

•The Ice Cream Club with 2 locations in Cape Coral turns out an excellent malt using TR Toppers malt powder.

•Ice Sssscreamin on Cape Coral Parkway makes a killer malt with the same powder as above.

•Steak ‘N Shake makes a beautiful malt, but it really doesn’t taste malty enough for me. They use a malt syrup that is made with molasses.

Wondering if I was all alone in this peculiar affection, I asked some of my boomer consultants to tell me their stories.

From Joann C. : In the late 1950's and 1960's, I remember a place called "Hermie Hoffmans".  It was a soda shop around the corner from my house in Newburgh, N.Y.  You could get real malt shakes made with hard ice cream.   Hermie Hoffman and his wife owned and ran the soda shop.   It had a long counter with red bar stools and soda fountains so you could sit and watch them make whatever you wanted.  In the back room was a pool table. It was a safe haven for us teenagers and we could hang out in the back pool room, in the soda shop or outside.  

From Gary H:  I grew up in a very small town (pop. 2400) in southern Illinois (Hartford) which had a true malt shop on the corner of the main drag. They served real, hard ice cream with malt powder served at soda shop style tables and you could ask for fresh strawberries in the summer... the best strawberry malts ever! It was a hang out for the local high school and junior high kids, who all knew each other, each others’ families & each others secrets.

From Dave K: It just so happens, when I was a junior in high school (1965) I worked weekends at the local dairy store. It was called Guernsey Dairy. I believe it's still there in Northville, MI. On Saturdays we made ice cream and on Sundays I worked behind the counter dipping cones, making sundaes, shakes and malts. I remember they had a specific recipe for each item on the menu. The owner was very fussy about this and every once in a while he would come to the counter and ask me to make something, then he would watch and coach me to make it just so.....then he would eat it himself.

From Wayne K: Every summer of my young life was spent in the town of Williams Bay, WI.  In the center of this tiny town was the Malt Shop (wish I could remember what it was called.) I think it was also a drugstore.  They made the very best chocolate malts which consisted of 3 scoops of ice cream, some milk and a big scoop of real, powdered malt.  They would put the big aluminum cup onto the light green appliance that whirled that ice cream to the consistency of what I considered heaven. Not only did you get a big glass full but they gave you the aluminum cup to refill your glass with.  I think we paid about 50 cents for this delight back in 1954 and more often than not couldn't finish it all.  My brothers, cousins and I saved every penny, nickel and dime we could get our hands on and headed out on the 5-6 block walk at least once a week.  The shop is long gone now, but the wonderful memories remain just the same.

You see, a whole culture surrounded the malt. Please join me in keeping that fabulous concoction alive. Most menus list shakes, but not malts even though they have the makings. Ask, ask, ask. They can make a comeback, I know it as well as I know what’s coming up tonight on Turner Classic Movies.

By the way:

•My small town of Mt. Morris, MI had 3 pharmacies, all of which had soda fountains as the centerpiece.

•I am the proud owner of an authentic pale green Hamilton Beach maltmaker which still works like a charm.

• Malted milk is a powdered gruel made from a mixture of malted barley, wheat flour, and whole milk, which is evaporated until it forms a powder. It was originally called diastatic.

A soda jerk throws a scoop of ice cream into the mixing cup for a malted milkshake, on the counter behind him a pot of "Borden's Malted Milk" is visible

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Remember 'Pay it Forward?'

I turned the key in my ignition, and instead of the familiar sound of my engine there was just a pathetic little groan. I’ve lived long enough to know the sound of a dead battery and the heart-sinking feeling that goes with it. I was 10 miles from home on a Sunday and without my cell phone.

I had such a fun day planned – out doing research for my chocolate malt column, and I was just getting started. As I sadly slid out of my car to go find a phone, a black mustang pulled in and parked. A young guy jumped out and I ran up to him before he could even close his door and asked, “Do you by any chance have jumper cables?” A broad smile crossed his face and he said, “Sure.” Out came the longest most nuclear-powered set of cables I had even seen. With great expertise he connected them to his battery and something under my hood. I don’t know what you call it, but my battery is under the rear seat. This guy obviously knew what he was doing.

“We’d better give it some time to charge.” He told me, and we began to talk. Turns out he was just on his way to order a pizza and assured me he was in no hurry at all. I told him about my malt research and I learned that he was an Iraq veteran with a closed head injury among other things as the result of a roadside bomb. This young, adorable guy had been through hell, but you’d never know it to look at him or to see the positive energy that he exuded.

After a few minutes we tried my ignition, and it started right up. I was cautioned to go straight to the battery store with no stops in between. It felt good to be so cared for by this stranger. We gave each other a hug, and he said he had something for me as he opened his trunk. Out came a second set of jumper cables that he had never used. “I’d just feel better if you kept these with you.” He said. “”You just never know…..”

We talked about how good it feels to help someone in need, and I assured him that I would pay it forward. If you’ve never seen the 2000 movie with Kevin Spaeey, Helen Hunt and Haley Joel Osment, get it from Netflix, or better yet, buy it. It is one of those movies that stays with you forever.

Osment plays an 11-year-old boy who comes up with the concept of making the world a better place by doing a kindness for someone and asking that in return, they do a kindness for someone else – hence, the “pay it forward.” Spacey, his social studies teacher remarks that this is an extreme act of faith in the goodness of people.

Have you ever noticed that often when you do something kind for someone – like an unexpected gift, they will say, “You didn’t have to do this.”  I’ve always wondered why we use that phrase. Of course no one has to do anything nice for anyone. Thankfully, my mother always taught us to be gracious receivers of gifts and kindnesses.

My story could end here, but it has a much more interesting conclusion. Three days after my battery incident, I was working at my day job when the driver of an airport van came rushing in wild eyed, and frantically asked if I knew anyone who had jumper cables. I calmly reached into my purse and pulled out my keys and handed them to him. “There’s a set on my front seat.” I said, as I pointed out the window to my car which was only about 50 feet away. He couldn’t believe it. I wish I could describe the look on his face.

About 10 minutes later, he came in and handed me my keys and said, “That was a miracle!” I couldn’t imagine anyone in here would have cables.” “You really saved my life!” “Thanks, I’ve got to run.”

I’ve lived a fairly long life, and I don’t remember anyone ever asking me for jumper cables before that day. As I’ve said before in this space, miracles come in all shapes and sizes, and there are exponentially more good people in the world than there are nasty ones. I’m reminded of a Sanskrit greeting I learned many years ago in a yoga class. The greeting is Namaste, and is used widely in India. When loosely translated, it means, “the good in me recognizes the good in you.”

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