Today my Uncle Irving would be 127 years old; if he were physically here. Perhaps because I was denied the opportunity to pay my respects when he passed away 47 years ago, he is still very much alive to me. Anyone who knows me well knows of Uncle “I” and the high regard in which I hold him. He is eternal.
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 a house when I got a call from my Mom. This in itself was an indicator that something bad had happened.
She 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 was somewhat of a celebrity himself. 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 1978. He was about 80 years old when he passed away. I have never visited his grave. And, consequently, he is still very much with 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, but with a Yiddish accent. He worked in the Garment District as a Furrier, from 1921 until about 1976 when he became ill.
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 reference 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, in 1957 he got a room in a hotel and lived that way for the next 21 years, 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, and 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? Our apartment in Brooklyn to see me.
Uncle "I" colored every aspect of my life as a kid. I couldn't wait for him to come over every Friday night, and we'd go to Rockaway every Sunday. 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 later; politics. He was a Socialist.
Every visit 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 until next week's visit.
Happy Birthday Uncle "I" from your "Little Sputnik." You gave so much, and asked nothing in return. ❤
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