My Father During WW II

THE BUMPS IN THE ROAD with images

For most of her childhood, Marjorie J. Levine experienced a life that moved along set, stationary tracks. There were years of relentless bullying, cruelty, and rejection. She grew up in a state of profound unhappiness.

Marjorie was a child convinced she was a magnet for misery. Even her relationship with her mother reinforced that belief. Sadness had become the road she expected to travel for the rest of her life.

One morning, Marjorie passed a mirror. In its reflection, she saw a completely different face: a remarkable and beautiful image. From that moment forward, there was an unexpected bend in the road of her life. Perhaps it was magical thinking or something psychological that unfolded that day. Whatever it was, her life no longer seemed destined to continue in the same unhappy direction.

Marjorie had stepped through an invisible doorway into a colorful world, and the second part of the book unfolds like a series of mysterious lucid dreams. The black-and-white anguish of her childhood gives way to something altogether different: a life that developed into a version of her own independent arthouse film. She wandered through bizarre bends in the road that blurred the boundaries between reality, coincidence, and imagination.

There was a sleepover with photographer Margaret Bourke-White, an affair with her therapist, a friendship with Al Goldstein, and a time-travel experience in which she had lunch in a New York City brownstone straight out of the Gilded Age. She drove a notorious criminal to an AOL party, was later catfished, convinced a resident in her building that she was a ghost, and writes that a few of her baby teeth never fell out, somehow helping to keep her young.

The Bumps in the Road is not a comedy, yet it is filled with dark, often surreal humor. It is the story of a childhood marked by relentless suffering and an adulthood filled with strange encounters and bizarre rabbit holes. The book provides no easy answers. Instead, it blends illusion with stark reality before arriving at a quiet reflection on a life unlike any other. As Marjorie looks back from nearly eighty years of age, time may have passed, but the memories remain vivid. There is no conventional happy ending, but it is difficult to imagine she would have chosen a different road.

About the Author

Marjorie J. Levine is a New York City author whose memoir, The Bumps in the Road, explores childhood bullying, emotional hardship, and an adult life shaped by extraordinary and often surreal experiences. Through deeply personal storytelling, Levine invites readers to consider the unexpected turns that can redefine a life. She has spent decades in New York, where she continues to write and reflect on the remarkable journey that inspired her memoir.

Here are some pieces from THE BUMPS IN THE ROAD with AI images to enhance each vignette.

A Ghost Story

I was down in the basement doing laundry. As I was loading

a washing machine, a young, friendly woman named Darlene

(who lives on the second floor) came down. As she moved her

clothes into a dryer, she hummed a soft tune. She told me she

just moved in, and we started talking. I have lived here for de-

cades, and she asked me about the building. I told her many sto-

ries, and she seemed fascinated by the history of the place. I said

that some residents believe the building is haunted. She laughed

and groaned, “Shuttt uppppppp.”

I told her that in 1969, a man who lived next door to me

committed suicide. He played creepy music every night, and on a

stormy night, I heard screams mixed with strong howling winds.

The next day, his body was found in the back of the building in a

pile of wet snow. He had jumped out of the window.

Since then, many residents who have lived in that apart-

ment say they sometimes see a man covered in snow behind

their shoulder when they are looking into the bathroom mirror.

In the 1970s, on Sunday mornings, a group of fun guys

used to dance in the back courtyard to the soundtracks of differ-

ent Broadway shows. Sometimes they presented entire scenes

while dressed in elaborate costumes. West Side Story was their

favorite. Every so often, we hear theater music back there, and

nobody knows from where that music is coming.

Darlene and I continued to have a conversation, and soon it

was time for her to go back upstairs. I asked her to wait a minute

before she left, and then my expression became serene, and my

eyes must have appeared unfocused and glazed. Darlene stared

at me. I told her that tomorrow, when she tells people that the

night before she spoke in the laundry room to a woman named

Marjorie who lives in apartment 8S... they are going to tell her

that Marjorie died ten years ago. She screamed, and goose-

bumps appeared on her skin. She backed away and declared,

“Now THAT is not funny!” I never saw her again.

I Used to Live Here as a Kid

I took that special ride today, back to the street and house where

I grew up. I parked my car and walked up the same driveway I

had walked up thousands of times so many years ago when that

house belonged to my family. I climbed the three front porch

steps and peeked in through the glass front door, but the interior

was barely visible: all dark and muted. It was a different house,

not my house. I rang the bell, and nobody answered. I gathered

nobody was home because the mailbox was stuffed and full.

So, I turned around and walked down the three front porch

steps and then turned around and looked back. It was almost

dusk and chilly under a cloudy, grey sky, and the wind rustled

some long, tall plants in front of the living room’s bay window.

They swayed back and forth, back and forth. I was overwhelmed

with a great and almost unbearable sadness.

Nobody was home, and nobody would ever be back home

there for me. The street was bleak, depressing, and unrecogniz-

able... the houses seemed forlorn and like shadows of their for-

mer selves. The streets where children once played and rode their

bikes were empty. The stream where we once caught tadpoles

and watched them change to frogs was dry. There was silence

where once there was noise. Going back that day was personally

like visiting a cemetery. There was so much emptiness, and a

great feeling of loss. The wind kept rustling the front shrubbery,

rustling the shrubbery, and as I stood all alone on that sidewalk,

for a minute it felt like nobody even lived on that street. Every-

body was gone. The street was a gloomy ghost town.

I thought of my bedroom in that house where I would look

out of my window and see the lights from the back of the houses

behind our house. I could still hear the neighbors talking from

a time long gone, as they had dinner on their patio and played

music from long ago.

I got back into my car and drove away, consumed with

strange, heavy emotions. I will always think of that street. Al-

ways. I knew I would never go back there again... but as the view

of that street disappeared in the rear view mirror, I remembered

the time so many years ago when I drove away from that street

into the city and moved into the apartment where I still live.

Memories of the Stylers

It wass in 1968 that I first met the lovely and kind Mrs. Fran-

ces Styler. We were both teachers at PS 41, on West 11th Street

in New York City’s Greenwich Village. I was in my first year

of teaching, and I was assigned a K-1 class. Mrs. Styler was

there to help. We became fast friends, and she seemed to want

to cultivate an out-of-school friendship with me. Mrs. Styler

was married to a highly respected physician, and they lived in a

brownstone on a leafy, quiet street not far from the school. Mrs.

Styler invited me to lunch at her home on a school holiday, and

I accepted. This experience is another that sticks with me, and

today... on this unusually warm winter Saturday, memories are

flooding back to me.

I remember it was on a Tuesday afternoon when I walked

down from Chelsea to visit the Stylers for lunch. I rang the bell,

and the door was answered by a member of her staff. I had never

been to a home with a butler before, but he took my coat and

showed me to the parlor, where I waited for Mrs. Styler. She

entered, wearing exquisite formal attire. 

She greeted me, and then Dr. Styler entered to be introduced. 

He shook my hand and apologized that he would not be joining us 

for lunch because he had an emergency with a patient.

Mrs. Styler asked me if I needed to use the washroom, and

she told me it was on the third floor to the left. I climbed the two

long, steep flights of stairs and entered an elegant bathroom that

appeared to be her personal boudoir. There was a chaise lounge

and dressing tables filled with creams, perfumes, and dusting

powders. Feathered robes and dressing gowns hung on the back

of the door. And next to the sink were pink guest soaps in the

shape of seashells.

I descended those long stairs and was escorted to the din-

ing room table that could easily have seated twenty people. Mrs.

Styler rang a bell, and her cook (in retrospect, she was straight

out of Downton Abbey) entered to serve the appetizer. We dined

on some fancy, prepared gourmet meal, and I had “paté.” Mrs.

Styler was very attentive to my level of comfort, and every time

I made a request, she would ring the little soft bell, and her cook

would appear and handle all the needs.

We discussed teaching and life. Mrs. Styler spoke about

her daughter, who was about my age and whom she adored. We

talked about many things. It was the first time I had been sur-

rounded by such elegance. 

It has been over fifty years since that day. I Googled around trying 

to find out where some of the many people I’ve crossed paths with 

during my long career are today.

In my search, I sadly learned Mrs. Styler passed away in 1999,

and her husband passed away in 2004.

Manhattan was a quieter city forty years ago. There was a

less rushed and congested atmosphere. People were less angry

and not as confrontational. There was less noise. People seemed

to treat each other more kindly. 

And everybody took time… to just breathe.

from: the marjorie cartoons

 

WHAT WAY TO GO TODAY

 from: 

BLUR

a book existing only at this blog:

There are some old photos that are out of focus. They are like aging, when memories can become blurred and all fades into the grey lens of the past. 

Serendipity

Grey at the flesh starting gate

A cipher through time. 

Marjorie J. Levine © July 2026

Dedication

for Willoughby

"Willoughby? Maybe it's wishful thinking nestled in a hidden part of a man's mind, or maybe it's the last stop in the vast design of things... Willoughby? Whatever it is, it comes with sunlight and serenity..." --- Rod Serling

The photos are for now in random order and may be changed with regard to position at a later date.

This audio tape is from about 1941, and it was created by my father as he traveled in the Army from Brooklyn, NY, to the Aleutian Islands, Alaska, during WW II.

Rest in peace, uncle Robert. (Robert was my mother's brother) 

This was in the NYTimes in 1930 I think. Nobody in the family ever spoke about this. Not until 1991.