Happy Birthday Uncle "I"

Today, Irving Henkin, my great Uncle, would be 123 years old. But he took the place of 2 absent grandfathers, so I credit him with 2 lifetimes. I have never been to his grave, and though I light the Yahrzeit for him each year, to me it's more akin to a birthday candle. In my heart he's never really passed and I speak with him often.  Here is a bit about him from something i wrote in 2009.

Issac was later known as Irving - due to the tall tales he told we sometimes called him Uncle “Lie”- but he was always Uncle “I” as far as I was concerned. 

He was born, alternately, depending upon whom you asked, in Vineland New Jersey, Philadelphia, or New York City. Everyone agrees that it was on Aug 15th- but the year varies- 1893, 1895 or 1898 - take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back to the "old" country. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as a deportee or a soldier. 

He apparently worked for the American Railway Express Co and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit and even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, and even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth. 

When I was younger, he would take me, and later, when I was older, I would meet him at the furriers where he worked on 7th Ave in the Garment District. The cutters, the tailors and sewing operators all treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncles life. 

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, and ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights. He always regaled me with the stories of all the people he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city. 

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and "talk" a walk with me. By "talk" a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when "magic time" was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Road entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan. They said he had no where to go, but I know better- he came to see me. 

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, Yankee Stadium, to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden, and to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Show. He was Jewish to the core, but the blue lit Nativity scene, complete with real Camels on stage - made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max. 

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people in the audience would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition, as well as to just say hello. He was a shy and gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went. 

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those last 2 dollars for my brother and I. 

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk. 

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game and a peek at the baseball score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke it without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, this bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand, and lonely on the other. 

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to his room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me. His time.

Uncle Irving Meets Bob Dylan

It’s Friday, the day which always brought Uncle Irving; Uncle “I” to me and my brother; to our house. Although I think of him every day, there is still something special about Fridays. This story takes place on one of those days and one of his weekly visits, which are still among my most cherished of memories. I truly loved that man.

The intersection of Uncle Irving and Bob Dylan occurred while I was doing my homework at the round kitchen table and listening to WMCA 560 AM. They played a “double header”, or whatever they called it when they played 2 songs in a row without a commercial break. The 2 songs in this story were both on the charts at about the same time in 1965 and, together, they showcase the diversity in popular music as it was being created at the time, as well as the cultural divide which existed between the younger and older generations.

I was working some multiplication and Uncle “I” was thumbing through the evening’s New York Post; he would lick his finger for traction before turning the page. The radio was doing its job, wailing out Bob Dylan’s nasal rendition of his hit single “Positively 4^th Street”, with its deep and meaningful lyrics. For example;

“No, I do not feel that good when I see the heartbreaks you embrace

 If I was a master thief perhaps I'd rob them

 And now I know you're dissatisfied with your position and your place

 Don't you understand, it's not my problem.”

So, that song ends and the deejay piggybacks that song with the Turtles doing “Happy Together”, which go something like this;

“Me and you and you and me

 No matter how they toss the dice, it has to be

 The only one for me is you, and you for me

 So happy together.

 Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba

 Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba.”

Well, the first song ends and the Turtles are midway through their song when Uncle “I” looks up from the paper and says, “So, they still write a few good songs nowadays!” I swear, there was triumph in his voice and tears of mirth in my eyes. No doubt about it, I really loved that man.

Note: The photo above was taken by my Mom in 1941. She was 12 years old at the time. Irving was already 46 years of age. By the time I was born he was old enough to be retired- but he worked until the day he died when he was about 81 years old.

Uncle "I" - Talking a Walk

Somewhere there is a photo taken of Uncle “I” and me in front of 3619 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn during the fall of 1958 or '59. He was teaching me to box. I was just about  4 years old at the time. The second Sputnik had recently been launched and he’d taken to calling me “Little Sputnik” as a way of showing his affection. I don’t know why; but I loved it from the moment he dubbed me with that strange sobriquet.

Now, fast forward almost exactly 10 years to my Bar Mitzvah in November 1967. That’s Uncle “I” and me in the photo above. I recently acquired the photos from my Bar Mitzvah along with some others, but this is my favorite one of them.

The Bar Mitzvah itself never really meant anything to me at the time. It wasn't until much later in life that I began to realize the richness of my own heritage and beliefs. But there was something which happened on that day which I never really fully grasped until I saw this picture; along with a few others; of my Uncle Irving with me on that special occasion.

Now, if you are at all close to me; or maybe even if you are not; you have heard me speak of Uncle “I”; which is how we addressed him; and know how important he was to me, and still is. I have never been to his grave. I was close to it when I visited my father’s grave in 2002, and it was even strongly suggested that I “pay my respects” while there. I couldn't do it.

You see, if I had seen the grave that day it would have been an affirmation that Uncle “I” had passed away. I’d seen him in the nursing home; a sad sight to be sure. I watched him waste away emotionally after he was betrayed by his sister; who was my grandmother at the time, a position she “lost” after the fact; so I knew he was dying. I was not present for his funeral because I was not told of it until afterward. I was running a bit too “wild” for my family at the time and so I was excluded from it. Inadvertently though, they had done me a favor, since; as a result of that exclusion; to me he has really never died. We still speak; quite often.

Now, let’s get back to the photograph. It was taken on Saturday November 5^th, 1967 in the foyer of my family’s apartment at 1310 Avenue R in Brooklyn just prior to my Bar Mitzvah ceremony. The weather was rainy and a bit raw, typical for Brooklyn in November. Everyone was getting ready to leave for the temple, which was located 2 blocks over and 3 blocks up from our place on Avenue R. I was supposed to ride with my parents, my brother and Uncle in the Pontiac Catalina we owned at the time. But, Irving wanted to walk. Moreover, he wanted me to walk with him. I eagerly acquiesced, as there was nothing I enjoyed more than being in his company.

We walked as Uncle “I” always walked; not fast; not slow. It was just the right speed for talking and I have often described these times with him as “talking a walk.”  And this one was one of the best ever. Uncle “I” told lots of stories; some true, others not so much. This was the reason behind the slightly derisive Uncle “I”; which sounded just like Uncle “Lie”. He knew we took his stories with a grain of non-truth, but he also knew that I loved them all the more, regardless.

But this “talk a walk” was different. Uncle “I” was very moved that evening of my Bar Mitzvah. He had no children of his own to deposit his memories with, and I was the depository that night, and it was a wonderful treat which I have held close for 46 years. He told me about his own Bar Mitzvah in 1908.

Now Uncle “I” rarely spoke of his childhood. His stories were mostly confined to his “glory days” playing ball on the school team, and various other heroics which could never be verified. But this was different. This was real. And there was no need to even stretch the truth slightly, as I was in rapt attention, struggling to hear every word against the sound of the wind as we walked, bent into it.

I was afraid of losing his words as they were carried away on the stiff breeze, and so I watched him as he formed each sentence, fumbling a bit for the words before he began each sentence. He was reaching back in time to a place only he could see but wanted to share and I was intent on capturing this moment.

His Bar Mitzvah was, as he told me, somewhat different than mine would be. His family; a brother named Nathan and a sister named Dorothy; who was my maternal grandmother; were raised by his parents; Max and Rebecca on the lower East Side, where they had settled early in the 1900’s after having lived in Vineland, New Jersey for a while. Originally they had lived in Philadelphia for a short spell after they arrived from the old country.

By 1907 my great grandfather owned his own livery stable and there was enough money for a modest celebration of my Uncle’s entry into manhood. He was ushered into the faith at the old temple, which I believe was on Rivington Street, and afterward the family repaired; with a few friends; back to their apartment for a “nosh” in celebration. He received a $1 watch and a fountain pen as gifts to mark his transition from childhood. That’s it; a watch and a pen. The watch would keep him punctual, and the pen was the first of the many which would be instrumental in his making a living in the garment industry for the rest of his life.

Arriving at the shul, Uncle “I” turned to me and said, “So now I don’t get to call you Little Sputnik anymore, do I?” And then he did something he never did before; or after; that night. He said, “I love you, Robert” and looked away. I looked directly at him and replied, “I love you, too Uncle “I”. We hugged, and then we entered the shul, where people were already waiting.

The Rabbi did his thing; and I did mine; at which point he pronounced me a “man”. That poor misguided creature. Even with all of his wisdom he could not have known that Uncle “I” had performed that function not 15 minutes earlier; right outside of the shul.

Uncle I and the Fat Man (1960)

If you are expecting anything remotely resembling a plot in the following narrative, then you have come to the wrong place. And, if you are expecting any sort of moral preaching, or political correctness, concerning the circus; and the Fat Man in particular; once again you will be disappointed, as this is just a memory from April 1960, when I was not yet 6 years old and Uncle “I” took me to the circus with my brother.

I have no illustration to post with this. Uncle I never had a camera as far as I know, and though he literally spent hundreds of days with my brother and I, there is not a single photo of us from any of these outings. But the mind’s eye is the best camera of them all, and the images of Uncle Irving are still sharp and clear; especially when I think of the story about his encounter with the Fat Man.

If I was 5 and a half, then my brother was 7, and Uncle I was somewhere around 65; his age changed with the document you were looking at. Uncle I was about 160 pounds and maybe 5 foot 7 inches tall at the most. He was no scarecrow; but neither was he a match for the Fat Man.

Now, in those bygone days before the politically correct crowd got going, there was a side show at the circus which was nothing like what you might see today. There were still remnants of the old Freak Show about it and Uncle I simply followed the crowd as we herded into the old Madison Square Garden for the show.

We soon broke away from that horde of crushed humanity and found ourselves in an open area not quite behind the stands, but definitely not an area usually open to the public. Uncle I was particularly adept at this sort of thing. Since he knew just about everybody everywhere we went anyway, we were greeted with friendly hellos wherever we went. I remember this day he introduced us to several people, with my Uncle saying, “These are my niece’s children”, with definite pride in his voice.

There were a few other people milling about, seemingly concentrated in one area. We approached that scene and made our way up front where the Fat Man had his trailer. This area must have been underneath the seating area, and it was arranged with trailers that served as living quarters for the people who comprised the acts which made up the circus. How odd it must have been for these people to live “indoors” as it were, rather than outside, which was the usual way the circus set up outside of the city.

The Fat Man was standing outside of his trailer and; accompanied by a man I assumed to be his manager; was fielding questions. "How much do you eat for breakfast"; "what do you weigh"; and assorted queries of the like, were being hurled at him faster than spitballs. To his credit he answered every one of them with a gentle voice which belied his size.

The crowd was beginning to leave and Uncle I took us right up to the big man and was introducing us when the Fat Man turned around and stepped forward, his foot landing squarely against my Uncle’s shin and then traveling downward until all 750 pounds of him were resting on my Uncle’s foot.

Uncle Irving never screamed; didn't even yell in pain. He just quietly told the Fat Man that he was standing on his foot and could he please remove the extra weight as he was with his nephews. The Fat Man looked terribly pained and apologized profusely to my Uncle for hurting him. Then he did something that has never left my memory; he asked Uncle I how much he weighed; which is probably why I know that figure so well. When my uncle told him, the poor man felt even worse.

We saw the rest of the circus with Uncle I frequently checking his increasingly swelling ankle. By the time we were headed home he was limply noticeably. Still, he refused to show any sign of the pain and discomfort he was surely in. Instead he made repeated jokes about the whole incident and even told strangers on the subway that he had just come from Madison Square Garden, where the Fat Man had stepped on his foot. He even showed off his wound; more than once; to other, admiring passengers. I think he was actually proud of it!

Looking back on the whole thing now makes me smile. But, even if there is no lesson here for you, I learned several lessons that day from both my Uncle and the Fat Man. From the former I learned to accept discomfort, accept your limitations with pride, and even joke about them. From the latter I learned humility, which the Fat Man showed by being truly concerned about what he had accidentally done to a much smaller human being.

Happy Birthday Uncle "I" - (1895-1975)

Today my Uncle Irving would be 120 years old if he were physically here. Perhaps because I was denied the opportunity to pay my respects when he passed away 40 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 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.

And here is the link to the story of Uncle Irving's family and how they arrived from Russia in the early part of the 1890's.

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2011/08/irving-henkin-1893-1975.html

Uncle I and the Navajo Blanket

I usually post something for Good Friday; and also for Passover; which begins this evening. This year they both fall on the same day; leaving me in a conundrum; so I thought I’d do something different. Being the product of a mixed marriage I decided it would be more appropriate to tell a family story. It’s one that doesn’t get told often, and I thought I should be writing it down before it ends up lost to the ages.

This is one of those memories for which I do not have a photograph. Sometimes they are the best kinds of memories to have, as they allow the picture in your mind; which is always better than the photo; to survive intact with its full flavor unaltered by the perception of a photograph. It is also the story of my Uncle Irving; whom we called Uncle “I”; a Jewish man who goes to Los Angeles to visit his sister and on the way home stops in Los Vegas and takes a side trip to Colorado.

In the late 1950’s airline travel was still somewhat of a novelty, and my Uncle Irving; who was something of a novelty himself; took his first trip out west to see my Grandmother Dorothy; his sister; who had deserted Brooklyn along with the Dodgers, in Los Angeles. Neither entity was ever fully forgiven. The trip went well and on the way back Uncle I decided to visit Las Vegas, Nevada to play the slots. This is where the trouble actually began; although the poor man never even knew there was a problem until he got back to Brooklyn and my house.

I can still see the living room furniture clear in my mind’s eye as Uncle I sat on the sofa with a big bundle containing some “things” he had bought back from his trip for my brother and I. Anticipation filled the air around me as he unwrapped the mysterious treasures.

The first things out where 2 beaded Indian belts, supposedly hand crafted by Navajo Indians.  I was thrilled. My mother was not. She had noticed a swastika on the belt’s design. This was only 13 years after the end of the War, and in Brooklyn that was saying something. We had an inordinate amount of people with the telltale blue tattoos of the Concentration Camp on their wrists. But, if the belts weren’t enough to send my Mom into a tailspin, what came next certainly rose to the occasion.

The rug pictured above is probably a bit larger than the blankets my Uncle pulled out next. But it was the way in which he pulled them out that made the whole thing memorable. He unfurled them flat onto the living room floor with a flourish; as if they were the carpet containing Cleopatra.

So, there they were, right on the living room floor in Brooklyn, New York; two swastikas as large as the ones which flew over the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. The silence was; as they say; deafening; but brief. Mom; usually a quiet and reserved woman; went into a rage; proclaiming the offending items to be inappropriate; and how could you think this was okay; what are you, crazy? (The last was more of a statement than a question.)

Uncle I just kind of stood there in silence for a moment before he looked at my Mom with the eyes of someone looking at a fool, and said something like, “Well, you can always go back to Nevada and exchange them.” He wasn’t laughing.

Now, my father; who had been standing off to the side during this whole thing; really loved Uncle I, but he had to sleep with my Mom. Something needed to be done; quickly, and preferably without words.

Accordingly, he gathered the gifts up in his arms and left the living room. I heard the front door to the hallway open and close, and then he was gone. When he came back he looked triumphant. No, make that omniscient; or Solomon like. He had come up with the perfect solution; he threw the stuff down the incinerator.

You know, I have never really understood my mother’s reaction that day. My immediate response was typical for a 4 year old. I looked at my brother; who was barely 6 at the time; and we both exchanged looks of “Holy Cow!” But in retrospect; as both a parent and a grandparent; I think both my parents were nuts. Aside from my brother and me, the only sane one in the room that night was my Uncle Irving.

As a brief aside I should mention that my Uncle was acting in a fairly rational way; buying those blankets, considering he was Jewish. It displayed an acceptance of their culture; and the swastika; beyond the context of Adolph Hitler. The way he figured it, the Nazis almost destroyed the Jews; so why should he now; in defeat no less; get to torpedo the Navajo’s?

My mother; on the other hand; displayed a complete ignorance of what should have been within easy memory for her. The Indian tribes all gave up the use of their religious symbol for the duration of the war. They did this voluntarily and without passage of any laws directing they take such action. As a matter of fact, their conduct would serve as a great lesson in tolerance for both sides in the current Religious Freedom law debates. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. It’s only when you realize you should, that you can.

I’m glad I got somewhere with this story, as I had no idea where I was headed with it when I began. There are lessons to be learned everywhere; particularly in the stories of our own lives.

Thanksgiving - 1965

I always thought this photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day 1963. Recently I realized that it was taken in 1965. or maybe 1965. The proof is in the outline of the love seat in the background, which was my Great Aunt Katherine’s, who had passed away earlier that year. I know it was after her passing, as she was very strict about relatives removing her furniture and would never have allowed us to “borrow” it. 

The photo is a real "keeper"; which I have obviously done. Uncle I is looking a bit fatigued; probably wondering why he can’t afford to spend the winter in Florida like Benny the Good Humor Man. Mom is just happy to be out of the hospital in time for the holiday and you can see how glad I am. My buck teeth are smiling like Bugs Bunny. Even my brother is actually looking happy; which was unusual; so it’s a great photo. My father took the picture.

Thanksgiving is about giving Thanks; but it's also about making memories. So, wherever you are today - make some.

The turkey’s done;

The cider’s poured.

We thank you for this feast

Our Lord.

Hey, that’s not a half bad prayer. I may use it at dinner tonight. Have a great Thanksgiving wherever you are. 

Happy Birthday Uncle Irving!

Uncle Irving was probably one of the most influential people in my life growing up. His Friday night visits were a welcome break from the daily drudgery of living with 2 over controlling parents. Friday nights were a time when I could go for a walk with him without fear of being questioned when I returned home. He was an oasis to me. 

In the summer we used to go to the beach at Rockaway every Sunday. In the winter he used to come over and watch football. I have written about all this before; and posted it here. But I can never let his birthday pass without telling his story again. In many ways his was the only unconditional love I have ever known. So, with apologies to those who have read this before, here’s his story.

Today would have been my Uncle Irving's 119th birthday; maybe. It might be only his 117th birthday. We'll never know for sure. The Henkins’ were rather secretive about most such things, and so we don't know a whole lot about them. The following is his story as best as we can tell; beginning with how his parents; my great grandparents; Max and Rebecca came to America. It is also the story of how that move eventually affected me through my relationship with their son, a  magical man whom I knew as Uncle "I". To leave out the story of his parents would be to leave his own story incomplete; as well as my own.

The Henkins’ never were sticklers for the truth- there was no doubt about that. If it was ten men they’d seen, they told it as a hundred; a 20 car freight train was 200 cars long; a five dollar win at the track was fifty. You know the type - colorful and fun to be around.

Well, it all started with this horse….

The story had been around for years and then died out for a while- and since I may be the only one left to tell it, here goes;

Max “Pops” Henkin (we think that’s the last name- no proof) had a livery stable in the “old" country; a very vague place - somewhere near Kiev in the Ukraine region - some small shetl that, no doubt has long been gone. But it would’ve been nice to know the name. It was there that “Pops”; everyone called him that; met and married Rebecca, and it was there that he operated his livery stable.

One day a man came in with a wonderful looking horse, well bred, fed and easily led. This was a mighty steed - 14 hands high, and with a spirited manor. “Pops” could not afford him and so he tried to turn the man away. But this man was persistent and made Max an offer he could not refuse, and so Max became the owner of this prize animal. Accordingly; and expecting a great profit; he put the horse up for sale, advertising it everywhere within a day’s journey of his shetl outside Kiev.

All hell broke loose soon after when he was charged with being in possession of a horse belonging to the Czar. He was released pending a trial in which he would have surely been convicted, and so he took his family out of Russia, through Italy and then to Spain and on to probably Canada, although no records seem to exist to support that. And they don’t show up as entering America either, but nevertheless, they were here.

“Pops” had 3 children in America with Rebecca. They were Nathan, Isaac and Dora. Isaac was my Grand Uncle through my mom. He and “Pops” had lived with my Mom's family through the World War II years while she was growing up in Brooklyn, NY. He was like a Grandfather to me and no words can express the love I had; and still have; for this man.

Isaac was later known as Irving – Uncle “I” to my brother and me. Due to the tall tales he told we sometimes called him Uncle “Lie”- but he was always Uncle “I” in my heart.

He was born, alternately; depending upon whom you asked; in Vineland, New Jersey; Philadelphia; or New York City. Everyone agrees that it was on Aug 15th- but the year varies- 1893, 1895 or 1898 - take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back to the "old" country. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as either a deportee or a soldier!

He worked for the American Railway Express Company and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit and even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, and even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth.

When I was younger, he would take me to; and later, when I was older I would meet him at; the furriers where he worked on 7th Avenue in Manhattan. The cutters, the tailors and sewing operators all treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncle’s life.

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, and ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights. He always regaled me with the stories of all the people he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city.

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and "talk" a walk with me. By "talk" a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when "magic time" was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Road entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan. They said he had nowhere to go, but I know better- he came to see me.

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, and Yankee Stadium; to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden; and to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Shows. He was Jewish to the core, but the blue lit Nativity scene, complete with real camels on stage - made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max.

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people in the audience would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition, as well as to just say hello. He was a shy and gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went.

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those last 2 dollars for my brother and I.

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk.

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game and a peek at the baseball score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke it without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, this bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand, and lonely on the other.

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to his room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me; his time.

Happy Birthday Again Uncle "I"

Today would have been my Uncle Irving's 124th birthday; maybe. It might be only his 120th birthday. We'll never know for sure. All of the Henkins’ were rather secretive about most such things, and so we don't know a whole lot about them. The following has been presented here before, but just in case you haven't read, or heard about my Uncle, I have reprinted his story today; beginning with how his parents; my great grandparents Max and Rebecca; came to America, and how that move eventually affected me through my relationship with their son, Irving; this magical man whom I knew as Uncle "I". To leave out the story of his parents would be to leave his own story incomplete.

The Henkins never were sticklers for the truth- there was no doubt about that. If it was ten men they’d seen, they told it as a hundred; a 20 car freight train was 200 cars long; a five dollar win at the track was fifty. You know the type - colorful and fun to be around. Here’s their story, and that of my Uncle Irving, at least so far as we can piece it together.

Well, it all started with this horse….

The story had been around for years and then died out for a while- and since I may be the only one left to tell it, here goes;

Max “Pops” Henkin (we think that’s the last name- no proof) had a livery stable in the “old" country. It was a very vague place, somewhere near Kiev in the Ukraine region. Some small shetl; which; no doubt has long been gone. But it would’ve been nice to know the name. It was there that “Pops”; everyone called him that; met and married Rebecca, and it was there that he operated his livery stable.

One day a man came in with a wonderful looking horse, well bred, fed and easily led. This was a mighty steed - 14 hands high, and with a spirited manor. “Pops” could not afford him and he so he turned the man away. But this man was persistent, and made Max an offer he could not refuse, and so he became the owner of this prize animal. Accordingly, and expecting a great profit, he put the horse up for sale, advertising it everywhere within a day’s journey of his shetl outside Kiev.

All hell broke loose soon after when he was charged with being in possession of a horse belonging to the Czar. He was released pending a trial in which he would have surely been convicted, and so he took his family out of Russia, through Italy and then to Spain and on to probably Canada, although no records seem to exist to support that. But they don’t show up as entering America either, but nevertheless, they were here.

“Pops” had 3 children in America with Rebecca. They were Nathan, Issac and Dora. Issac was my Grand Uncle through my mom. He and “Pops” had lived with my Mom's family through the World War II years while she was growing up in Brooklyn, NY. He was like a Grandfather to me and no words can express the love I had, and still have, for this man.

Issac was later known as Irving - due to the tall tales he told we sometimes called him Uncle “Lie”- but he was always Uncle “I” as far as I was concerned.

He was born, alternately, depending upon whom you asked, in Vineland New Jersey, Philadelphia, or New York City. Everyone agrees that it was on Aug 15th- but the year varies- 1893, 1895 or 1898 - take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back to the "old" country. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as a deportee or a soldier.

He apparently worked for the American Railway Express Co and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit and even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, and even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth.

When I was younger, he would take me, and later, when I was older, I would meet him at the furriers where he worked on 7th Ave in the Garment District. The cutters, the tailors and sewing operators all treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncles life.

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, and ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights. He always regaled me with the stories of all the people he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city.

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and "talk" a walk with me. By "talk" a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when "magic time" was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Road entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan. They said he had no where to go, but I know better- he came to see me.

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, Yankee Stadium, to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden, and to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Show. He was Jewish to the core, but the blue lit Nativity scene, complete with real Camels on stage - made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max.

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people in the audience would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition, as well as to just say hello. He was a shy and gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went.

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those last 2 dollars for my brother and me.

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk.

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game and a peek at the baseball score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke it without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, this bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand, and lonely on the other.

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to his room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me; his time.

Happy Birthday Uncle Irving

This is reprinted from last year's post; although I have changed my Uncle’s age, in keeping with the occasion; but the story is the same as it has always been. My Uncle Irving is simply the only person whom I have ever known that gave his love without any conditions attached. He was mercurial, and in many ways odd. But he was my rock as a kid. He was the quintessential New Yorker from the days of the Lower East Side of the 1900’s; as well as the Damon Runyonesque fellow you might find hanging about Times Square; and I loved him very much. So, each year, I write something for his birthday. Only this year, I have nothing new to write about him! So, I suppose I have arrived at the point where each year I will just add to the beginning of the post, until that becomes; as it probably already has; superfluous.  Uncle I; this one’s for you. (2012)

Today would have been my Uncle Irving's 116th birthday. Maybe. But, then again it might be only his 115th birthday. We'll never know for sure. The Henkins’ were rather secretive about most such things, and so we don't know a whole lot about them. The following has been presented here before, but just in case you haven't read, or heard about my Uncle, I have reprinted his story here, beginning with the story of how his parents, my great grandparents Max and Rebecca, came to America, and how that move eventually affected me through my relationship with this magical man whom I knew as Uncle "I". To leave out the story of his parents would leave his own story incomplete. (2011)

The Henkins’ never were sticklers for the truth- there was no doubt about that. If it was ten men they’d seen, they told it as a hundred; a 20 car freight train was 200 cars long; a five dollar win at the track was fifty. You know the type; they may have been full of it; but they were colorful and fun to be around.

Well, it all started with a horse….

This story had been around for years and then died out for a while- and since I may be the only one left to tell it, here goes;

Max “Pops” Henkin (we think that’s the last name- no proof) had a livery stable in the “old" country. It was a very vague place - somewhere near Kiev in the Ukraine region - Some small shetl that, no doubt that has long been gone. But it would’ve been nice to know the name. It was there that “Pops”; everyone called him that; met and married Rebecca, and it was there that he operated his livery stable.

One day a man came in with a wonderful looking horse, well bred, fed and easily led. This was a mighty steed - 14 hands high, and with a spirited manner. “Pops” could not afford him and so he turned the man away. But this man was persistent, and made Max an offer he could not refuse, and in short order Max became the owner of this prized animal. Accordingly, and expecting a great profit, he put the horse up for sale, advertising it everywhere within a day’s journey of his shetl outside Kiev.

All hell broke loose soon after when he was charged with being in possession of a horse belonging to the Czar. He was released pending a trial in which he would have surely been convicted, and so he took his family out of Russia, through Italy and then to Spain and on to probably Canada, although no records seem to exist to support that. But they don’t show up as entering America either, but nevertheless, they were here.

“Pops” had 3 children in America with Rebecca. They were Nathan, Isaac and Dora. Isaac was my Grand Uncle through my mom. He and “Pops” had lived with my Mom's family through the World War II years while she was growing up in Brooklyn, NY. He was like a Grandfather to me and no words can express the love I had, and still have, for this man.

Isaac was later known as Irving - due to the tall tales he told we sometimes called him Uncle “Lie”- but he was always Uncle “I” as far as I was concerned.

He was born, alternately, depending upon whom you asked, in Vineland New Jersey, Philadelphia, or New York City. Everyone agrees that it was on Aug 15th- but the year varies- 1893, 1895 or 1898 - take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back to the "old" country. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as a deportee or a soldier.

He apparently worked for the American Railway Express Co and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit and even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, and even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth.

When I was younger, he would take me, and later, when I was older, I would meet him at the furriers where he worked on 7th Ave in the Garment District. The cutters, the tailors and sewing operators all treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncles life.

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, and ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights. He always regaled me with the stories of all the people he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city.

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and "talk" a walk with me. By "talk" a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when "magic time" was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Road entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan. They said that he had nowhere to go, but I know better- he came to see me.

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, Yankee Stadium, to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden, and to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Show. He was Jewish to the core, but the blue lit Nativity scene, complete with real Camels on stage - made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max.

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people in the audience would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition, as well as to just say hello. He was a shy and gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went.

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those last 2 dollars for my brother and I.

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk.

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game and a peek at the baseball score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke it without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, this bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand, and lonely on the other.

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to his room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me; his time.

Yom Kippur - 5772

For Ruth, and Irving and Max; and all the others who came before, and after...

Irving Henkin 1893-1975

Today would have been my Uncle Irving's 119th birthday. Maybe. It might be only his 114th birthday. We'll never know for sure. The Henkin's were rather secretive about most such things, and so we don't know a whole lot about them. The following has been presented here before, but just in case you haven't read, or heard about my Uncle, I have reprinted his story here, beginning with the story of how his parents, my great grandparents Max and Rebecca, came to America, and how that move eventually affected me through my relationship with this magical man whom I knew as Uncle "I". To leave out the story of his parents would leave his own story incomplete.

The Henkins never were sticklers for the truth- there was no doubt about that. If it was ten men they’d seen, they told it as a hundred; a 20 car freight train was 200 cars long; a five dollar win at the track was fifty. You know the type - colorful and fun to be around.

Well, it all started with this horse….

The story had been around for years and then died out for awhile- and since I may be the only one left to tell it, here goes;

Max “Pops” Henkin (we think that’s the last name- no proof) had a livery stable in the “old" country. A very vague place - somewhere near Kiev in the Ukraine region - Some small shetl that, no doubt has long been gone. But it would’ve been nice to know the name. It was there that “Pops”; everyone called him that; met and married Rebecca, and it was there that he operated his livery stable.

One day a man came in with a wonderful looking horse, well bred, fed and easily led. This was a mighty steed - 14 hands high, and with a spirited manor. “Pops” could not afford him and he so he turned the man away. But this man was persistent, and made Max an offer he could not refuse, and so he became the owner of this prize animal. Accordingly, and expecting a great profit, he put the horse up for sale, advertising it everywhere within a days journey of his shetl outside Kiev.

All hell broke loose soon after when he was charged with being in possession of a horse belonging to the Czar. He was released pending a trial in which he would have surely been convicted, and so he took his family out of Russia, through Italy and then to Spain and on to probably Canada, although no records seem to exist to support that. But they don’t show up as entering America either, but nevertheless, they were here.

“Pops” had 3 children in America with Rebecca. They were Nathan, Issac and Dora. Issac was my Grand Uncle through my mom. He and “Pops” had lived with my Mom's family through the World War II years while she was growing up in Brooklyn, NY. He was like a Grandfather to me and no words can express the love I had, and still have, for this man.

Issac was later known as Irving - due to the tall tales he told we sometimes called him Uncle “Lie”- but he was always Uncle “I” as far as I was concerned.

He was born, alternately, depending upon whom you asked, in Vineland New Jersey, Philadelphia, or New York City. Everyone agrees that it was on Aug 15th- but the year varies- 1893, 1895 or 1898 - take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back to the "old" country. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as a deportee or a soldier.

He apparently worked for the American Railway Express Co and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit and even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, and even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth.

When I was younger, he would take me, and later, when I was older, I would meet him at the furriers where he worked on 7th Ave in the Garment District. The cutters, the tailors and sewing operators all treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncles life.

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, and ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights. He always regaled me with the stories of all the people he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city.

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and "talk" a walk with me. By "talk" a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when "magic time" was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Road entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan. They said he had no where to go, but I know better- he came to see me.

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, Yankee Stadium, to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden, and to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Show. He was Jewish to the core, but the blue lit Nativity scene, complete with real Camels on stage - made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max.

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people in the audience would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition, as well as to just say hello. He was a shy and gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went.

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those last 2 dollars for my brother and I.

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk.

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game and a peek at the baseball score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke it without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, this bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand, and lonely on the other.

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to his room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me. His time.

Happy Birthday Uncle "I"

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 Irving...and thanks for everything you gave, asking nothing in return.

Happy Birthday Irving Henkin

Happy Birthday Uncle "I". I miss you alot- even after all this time. You taught me much while demanding nothing in return. I think of you often and you are always a part of me in everything I do. Thanks for all the good times and though we never said it aloud, I will now- "I love you, too."