One of the strangest
things which happened; and pre ceded his final illness by several years was the
time he didn’t die. I was about 17 and was at Mona Obrien’s house when I got a
call from my Mom. This in itself was an indicator that something bad had
happened.
My Mom had gotten a
phone call from one of Uncle I’s circle of old friends; old as in age; who had
not seen him at breakfast that morning in the restaurant where they all ate; the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue where Max Asnas reigned supreme
as the owner and somewhat of a celebrity. The walls there were covered with
autographed photos of everyone of any consequence who had ever eaten there.
Legendary comedian Jack E. Leonard once bought me a 12 cent bottle of ginger
ale when I was sick on the sidewalk outside. (Note:My upset stomach had nothing to do with the food.)
Anyway, this friend had
set about calling everyone who knew my Uncle and told them that he was dead;
simply on the basis of having not seen him that morning; setting off a chain of
events which ended a friendship that was twice as old as I was at the time.
Uncle “I” went on to live several more years until his death in 1975. He was about 80 years old when he passed away.
If you have read the
following before please indulge me. I had no Grandfathers, but Uncle “I” filled
those 4 shoes and still had several feet left over as far as I’m concerned. He
was small in stature but his heart was as expansive as the universe, and he had
a mind as deep as space. And as far as his personality was concerned, if you
have ever seen William Demarest on screen or TV, then you have known my Uncle.
He was that kind of guy.
This is the post from
August 15, 2010. It was as true then, when I wrote it, as it is today.
This is my great Uncle Irving's 115th birthday. We called
him Uncle "I" because it was easier than saying Irving when we were
so small. But as we got older we took a secret delight in calling him Uncle
"I" simply because it sounded like we were saying Uncle
"Lie", in deference to some of the tall tales he told.
Irving lived alone in the "city", which meant
Manhattan. He also lived in a hotel! This was so strange to me that it was
almost shocking. He had lived with my Grandmother Dorothy (his sister) and
their father, Max, along with my parents, until they got a place of their own.
When Dorothy moved to California after Max passed away, Irving was left with no
place to go. So he got a room in a hotel and lived that way for the next 25
years or so, until he passed away. It wasn't until years later, when I was
bouncing around the world and staying in a lot of hotels myself, wishing that I
were somewhere else, did I come to realize the singular loneliness of Uncle I's
existence. He was kind of like a prisoner in a prison with no bars. He could
roam at will, all over the city, but where did he will to roam?
Anyone who knows me knows of Uncle "I". Some of
my oldest friends actually knew him. He was 68 years old in this photo, which
was taken at Idewild (later JFK) Airport in October 1963. In the original photo
he is holding both my brother and I. I was 9 at the time. Uncle "I"
colored every aspect of my life as a kid. I couldn't wait for him to come over
every Friday night. I would pepper him with questions about the old days, and
he would regale me with stories, some of which were true, about his youth on
the Lower East Side, his exceptional athletic achievements and his wit and
cunning in the Garment Industry.
And every Friday night would end the same way. We would
walk together on Avenue R to East 16th Street and then to the Quentin Rd.
entrance of the Kings Highway Station, where he would catch the BMT back to
Manhattan and his little hotel room. Then he would belong to the rest of the
world for another week. But each Friday, he always came back, and I was always
waiting. Happy Birthday Uncle “I” - and thanks for everything you gave, asking
nothing in return.
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