Happy Birhday Mom!

My Mom,Ruth Marcus Williams, was born 96 years ago today on July 2nd,1929 and passed away 41 years ago this Sunday July 5th, 1984 at age 55. I am now older than was at the time she passed. We had our differences, to be sure, but beneath it all we really loved one another very much. Perhaps it was our similarities which made things so difficult at times. She could be stubborn, like me; obtuse, like me; and at times, unreasonable; like me.

That said, she was the woman who carried me, delivered me, bathed me and all the rest that goes with being “Mom.”

She was the product of a broken marriage- she was born after her parents seperation in 1929, although the divorce did not become final until 1934. There was money to fight over and my Grandmother was a shrewd woman.

My Grandfather, Pincus Max Marcus, was a self made millionaire 3 times- and lost it all each time to the horses and the ladies. This was the reason for the divorce. She caught him, flagrant delecto, in the late spring of 1929- 4 weeks before the birth of my Mom on July 2nd and 3 months short of Black Tuesday when the market crashed, triggering the Great Depression.

Grandma Dorothy, as I said, was a shrewd woman and she exacted quite a price from Pincus for his indiscretion. Here she was, 8 months pregnant and initiating a divorce at a time when Divorce was a whispered word that carried many unwanted conotations. But she was determined to make the break.

While waiting for the divorce proceedings to begin she extracted a settlement from him in the form of $250,000 in Treasury Bonds. Quite a sum in pre Depression 1929 - and a fortune 3 months later when Pincus begged her to lend him some of it back to shore up his losses. She did- at interest.

So my Mom grew up without a father and with a Mother who was often absent, touring the world,socializing and traveling. My Mom had all the privileges of a spoiled child in a 1930’s movie. She learned piano, took voice lessons, horseback riding instruction, went to summer camp every year and never really wanted for anything- except a father.

She was considered a pretty woman, although as her son I would not be the best judge of that, she was just Mom to me. But when she would play the piano and sing inside our Brooklyn apartment, the neighbors would gather outside the door and listen to her, exchanging comments like “Oy, what a voice- she should be on the stage!” And she would have, if she hadn’t met my Dad. She was slated to tour with a road company of "Oklahoma" in 1949 and my Dad was about to join the Mechant Marines (which I would do later) when they came to an impasse. If she toured he would sail and that would be the end of that. Fortunately for me, they both gave in.

So now it is 96 years since my Mom was born on July 2nd and 41 years since she passed on July 5th. Lots of time to think back on things since then. We spoke only a few days before she passed- she had been ill my entire life. This is what she told me in that last conversation by phone from a pier in Norfolk, Virgina- “You know Robert, you can never go on with your life until mine ends- you’ve been a prisoner of my illness for so long.” I replied that I knew that and perhaps it was the reason I went to sea for almost a decade- to get away from the marathon of her dying. We closed out all business and in 41 years I have never had a bad dream about her.

Another Birthday!

Looks like another birthday,

another year slipped by.

I'm closer to the end

but not prepared to die.

There's too much left to read and write,

and letters left to send.

I want to stick around awhile

and see how this play ends!

Happy Birthday Ringo Starr!

Happy 74th to Ringo Starr. He has kept that back beat for along time, providing the pulse to our lives along the way. It's down to him and Paul McCartney now to keep the legacy of the Beatles alive. Paul does his thing and Ringo his, but there are always Beatles songs included in both their sets. How could it be otherwise?

Here Ringo performs a very heartfelt tribute to George Harrison, his dear friend and band mate for so many years, who had just passed away from cancer at the all too young age of 55. It was actually George who brought Ringo into the band just in time for their first record, "Love Me Do", in the fall of 1962. The irony was that Ringo never got to play on that record. I believe they used a session drummer named Allan White.

Ringo has always gotten short shrift for his accomplishments with the Beatles. But he's the one responsible for all the malapropisms such as "A Hard Day's Night", "Tomorrow Never Knows", "Eight Day's A Week", and the title for the album "Rubber Soul", along with quite a few others. A very witty man, Ringo is.

His wife, Barbara Bach; along with Olivia, the widow of the late George Harrison; have both been the driving force behind a project in Romania which has been going on since the days after the fall of the communists. They have sponsored orphanages for the children of rape; most of whom had AIDS. Some of those children are now alive and disease free due to the work of these two remarkable women and the support of their husbands.

Ringo Starr is still performing his summer concerts with the ever changing "All Star Band". If you've never been to one of those concerts you're missing out. Happy Birthday Ringo- with a little help from your friends...

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.

Happy Birthday Mom!

This is one of my favorite pictures of my Mom and me. It was taken in July of 1957 on the beach at Jacob Riis Park. Riis Park was located just across the Marine Parkway Bridge at the end of Flatbush Avenue. That was where my parents used to take us on weekends in the summer. It was, and still is, a beautiful, wide beach, with a good amount of surf to challenge the average swimmer. Lying next to us, on the right, are Lee; who is laying down; and her husband Donnie, two friends of my parents who used to accompany us on outings. Their daughter,; I think her name is Janet; is the little girl in between them.

My parents were sticklers about bringing any sand home from the beach. To that end we were required to remove our bathing suits prior to heading back to the car. My Mom would hold up a towel as I changed from my swimsuit to short pants. Apparently my father could not resist taking this picture, which seems to have annoyed my mother.

The years pass quickly; people come and go in our lives; but none remain more firmly fixed in our minds than our mothers. They were alternately loving, annoying, understanding, and intrusive. That was their job. Along the way they gave us memories which have lasted  a lifetime. Although my mother’s later years were marred by illness, she still managed to leave enough of her tenderness behind to last me forever. This photo is one of those moments, captured in time.

Happy 83^rd Mom!

Aunt Gloria - Everyone Should Have One

This is my Aunt Gloria, actually, my favorite Aunt Gloria. Everybody should have one. They play a special role in your life, sometimes without even knowing it! This picture was taken, and this is a guess, on the steps to the brownstone in Manhattan, on the Upper West Side, where the family moved from Brooklyn after my Grandfather passed away. Gloria was only about 4, or 5 at the time, so she must be about 8 years old in this photo. I could be wrong though, and this may have been taken at Aunt Katy's in Park Slope, Brooklyn. She'll let me know. She looks a bit like Judy Garland here, with her nose kind of scrunched up, looking at the camera. Even at that young age you could see the joy inside of her. That inner joy was what made her special to me when I was growing up.

One of my favorite memories of Aunt Gloria involves her sneaking my brother and I into the hospital to see our Mom when she was sick. Back in those days children were not allowed to visit their parents in the hospital. My mother didn't like this rule, and so Aunt Gloria decided to do something about it.

Sneaking into the hospital stairway was easy enough, the hard part always came when we had to exit the stairwell, and then make our way down the hall to my Mom's room. Gloria would usually have my Aunt Gladys with her, so Gladys would go to the nurse's station and distract the head nurse, waving us on behind her back when the time was right. We would then go single file, with Gloria blocking the rear so we wouldn't be seen by the nurse, down the hallway to my Mom's room. They weren't private rooms, so the visits never lasted that long before we were "discovered", and then ejected, by the hospital staff. But those few minutes meant the world to my Mom, and Aunt Gloria knew it.

While re-reading "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" recently, for about the hundrenth time, I was struck by the similarity between those real life visits to my Mom, and the part of the book where Johnny enrolls Francie in a school out of their neighborhood. They both know that it's wrong - but it's done to right a greater wrong. And, in some cases, the ends do justify the means.

Anyway, this is just a very public rambling about my favorite Aunt Gloria. Today is her birthday. She's younger than me, in heart, and spirit. She and her husband, my Uncle Bob, aka the "Fork and Spoon", reside in Florida and sometimes in New York. They can also be found at all points in between. Happy Birthday, Gloria, from your favorite nephew!

Happy Birthday John Lennon!

This is one of my favorite videos of "Imagine" by John Lennon. It shows John, with Phil Spector, and Yoko Ono, as they record the iconic song that would become attached to his name. The recording process, for even such a simple ballad as "Imagine", is fascinating to watch, especially when it involves John Lennon and Phil Spector.

There is an earlier version of this song, recorded by John, on a Sony Walkman, in the "white room" of his apartment at the Dakota in New York City, which was apparently where he first wrote it. But this version, a few weeks later, really captures the creative process of this beautiful ballad. Alan White, a session drummer the Beatles used in 1965, when Ringo had his tonsils removed, and Klaus Voorman, an old friend from the Hamburg days, who played bass with Manfred Mann in 1966, and designed the cover for the Beatles album "Revolver", are also both on hand.

The Party Has Begun!

The partying began at dawn and will continue until after the last ray's of sunshine have left the sky. That's when the fires will be lit.... I wasn't going to post anything today, but when these guys (all old friends) showed up to party, well, I just had to share it.

Today Is My Birthday!

This is me the day I was born. At 3 AM my Mom woke my Dad and they had to get a cab to take them to the hospital. We wouldn't have a car until I was about 3 years old. My Dad, having waited on my older brother's arrival for 12 hours, figured he had enough time to go out and get something to eat and pick up a present for my Mom. He got back and fell asleep in the waiting room, waking up at about 10:30AM and wondering how my Mom was doing.

Approaching a nurse, he asked, in that timid way that only expectant Fathers can,how my Mom was doing. She looked at him as if he were the dumbest thing she had ever laid eyes upon when she informed him that my Mom had given birth to me several hours ago at about 7:47 AM.

I know this story as my Mom told it to me every year for the 30 years of my life that she was here. I never got tired of hearing it and I never get tired of telling it. Hell, I was almost born in the taxi! And to top it off I was a full breech baby- arriving feet first- ready to hit the road. You can see it in the picture, my fists are all balled up and I'm leading with my left, holding back that right until it's needed.

Here I am today, at 55. I don't see much of a difference. However,feel free to draw your own conclusions. I just know that I wouldn't be who I am if it hadn't been for all of the colorful,and not so colorful, people that I have met along the way.

So, from all of me to all of them- Happy Birthday to all of us! And thanks...