One Moment In Time
Local leaders remember events from their youth that shaped their lives.
ELIZABETH APPLEBAUM
AppleTree Editor
Argentina, then came to New York with
his family. He never made it to high
school: Gus' father died soon after they set-
ne afternoon in 1958, Gus and
tled in New York. Gus went to work to
Freda Bolkosky and their son,
support his mother and three brothers.
Sidney, 14, piled into their 1955
Gus was a scrap-metal dealer and a
Chevy and headed off for New York
great pool player," his son says. He met
City. They were driving from Rochester
his sweetheart in New York. Freda grew up
in the northwest corner of upstate New
near Rochester. When the two married,
York, which meant a good six-hour
they settled there.
drive.
Sidney, the Bolkosky's only child, was 12
when
he discovered a passion for music.
When they arrived in Manhattan, Gus
He
took
piano lessons for one year, which
parked the car. He approached a police-
was
nice
but he wanted more. Then he
man. Could he get a bit of advice? Did
Sidney Bolkosky
made a friend, Gerry Niewood, with
the officer know where might they find
whom he formed a band. Sidney decided
a good store that sold musical instru-
he would be a jazz musician.
ments?
His
favorites
were Dave Brubeck and Milt Jackson,
Yes, the policeman said. Check out this place on
"the
greatest
vibes
player ever." But he didn't just listen
42nd Street, he advised.
—
he
learned
on
the
job, so to speak. Sidney played in
The Bolkoskys returned to their car and headed for
the shop. In no time, Gus found exactly what he want- his band, and continued throughout college and grad-
uate school.
ed: a set of vibes (an aluminum keyboard played with
Though his father never had a keen interest in
mallets). Just the kind of thing someone who aspired
music,
"he would come to hear me play in clubs,"
to be a jazz musician would like.
Sidney says. "All the places we played in were
Gus paid for the vibes and gave them to
black clubs. My friend and I were pretty much
Sidney.
ER the only white guys who played this stuff"
"This really brought music into my life for
When not performing, Sidney liked to drop
the first time," says Sidney Bolkosky, who is
in
Sunday afternoons at a favorite club, where
Or/
now the William Stirton professor of history at
he
might hear Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie or
the University of Michigan-Dearborn.
Sonny
Rollins. Sometimes, he would linger
Music, Bolkosky says, "changes your life. It fills you
late
into
the
night
and play a bit on the piano.
up with happiness. Even when there's all kinds of stuff
It was a lack of discipline that finally stopped him,
happening that's not happy, the music is there and it's
Bolkosky says. He loved music, but love isn't enough to
still the same."
make it as a professional.
But first — a little prelude.
(His friend Gary, determined to become a pharma-
Gus Bolkosky was born in Brest-Litovsk, moved to
Good Vibrations
0
"
Coy
ST
Early Experience Is Crucial
I
t was going to be just another B'nai B'rith Girls
community project. It would be something
they make you go on, then you can tell your
parents and grandparents how wonderful you were
to do something nice for someone else.
Instead, it was one of the most unforgettable after-
noons she would ever know, "a life-changing experi-
ence," says Joyce Keller, executive director of JARC,
a Farmington Hills-based social service agency that
aids the developmentally disabled.
Keller was part of a high school BBG group headed
to Coldwater State Institution in Coldwater, Mich.
Everyone knew it would be a bit odd, a place for those
with mental retardation and other, well, very different,
people. "But none of us really knew what to expect."
Keller walked in the door.
It was, in a word, horror.
"The stench, I remember the stench,
and the metal beds all lined up, one
after the other, all really close," Keller
says. "And hundreds of people doing
absolutely nothing, wearing scant cloth-
ing, just rocking back and forth."
The walls were painted a drab
green color throughout.
Keller was part of a tour with a facil-
ity worker who had done this too
many times. "See that boy over there?"
he nonchalantly told the girls. Inside a
Joyce Keller
metal crib was a small, unmoving fig-
ure, curled up, alone. "He's 21."
Another spot the girls were invited to see: the area
where "toilet-trained" patients stayed, and the living area
cist, instead went on to become a professional saxo-
phone player who has toured with Chuck Mangione,
Paul Simon and Liza Minelli.)
After marrying and settling in Oak Park, Sidney
became father to a son, Gabe, and a daughter, Miriam.
"Our kids never slept; well, maybe they slept all
night once they turned 19," he says. "So my wife and I
would walk with them at night while we listened to
James Taylor, Simon and Garfunkel, Carole King, the
Jazz Messengers. I have a suspicion it was then that
music sort of entered their souls in one way or anoth-
Tradition Continued
Both the children went on to play the vibes, the set
Gus bought for their father. Then the family donated
the instrument to Ferndale High School, from which
their children graduated. "I have no idea what hap-
pened to them since," Sidney says.
Today, Gabe is a professional violinist who lives in
Ann Arbor. He's the artistic director of a musical
group, the Phoenix Ensemble, and also plays in a
klezmer-jazz band. He has arranged music for his
father's favorite, Dave Brubeck ("One day, my son
called and said, 'By the way, I've got a visitor in my
house: Dave Brubeck.' I was driving at the time,"
Bolkosky says. "I almost went off the road."). Gabe has
released a CD, as well, called "Into the Freylich," the
name of his band.
Miriam is a cellist and lives in Boston with her hus-
band, a trumpet player with the Boston Symphony.
Miriam often performs with the Boston Pops and as
part of a chamber-music quartet. Among her most
recent engagements was a reception for Democratic
presidential candidate John Kerry.
❑
of those who were incontinent. As she
entered the latter, Keller found the smell so
overwhelming "it almost knocked me over."
And that was pretty much it,
Coldwater State Institution.
Keller was dumbstruck.
To even talk about it today is almost
more than Keller can bear. How to speak
of this? Sometimes, words seem to fall in
a jumble on the floor because they're just
not good enough to explain anything.
"It was like these people were in a zoo.
The whole thing was dehumanized," she says.
"I was so taken aback that anyone
could be treated like that, that people
could act that way to others, that I left
that day and decided I would do something about it.
"I never looked back." Fl
.
9/17
2004
47