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.

Uncle "I" and the Christmas Tree (1953)

This is one of those stories which I manage to work in every Christmas season. It speaks of tolerance and the only person I have ever known who loved me without condition. This day also has special significance, as it was always December 15^th when we put up the Christmas tree each year. There was never any variation to this rule. The tree arrived on the 15^th and was down before New Year’s.

I have always had a Christmas tree. My parents were a "mixed" marriage- my Dad was Irish Catholic and my Mom was Russian Jewish. I was raised in a home that had both a Christmas tree and Chanukah candles. Each year we would light the candles and place our spare change in a dish before it. On the eighth day we would count it up and write a check to the WOR Children’s Christmas Fund. This didn't seem strange to us- money from a Jewish holiday going to the Christmas Fund. Actually it made a lot of sense. It exemplified what the season is all about.

We also exchanged gifts on Christmas Day. And in our house there was no bigger fan of Christmas than my Uncle Irving.

Each year he took my brother and I to Radio City Music Hall to see the Christmas Show. If you have never seen it you have been cheated. It is completely religious in its scope with the Three Wise Men crossing the stage following a star to Bethlehem, including real Camels and Donkeys on the stage! And the Manger- bathed in blue light-was always sure to make my Uncle cry. It was that beautiful. But it wasn't always like that with him.

My parents were married in 1950. They lived with my Grandma Marcus and her brother Irving, my Uncle I, in an apartment on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn until 1952. That’s when they got their first apartment together. It was in the same building on the 4th floor.

My Dad had always had a Christmas tree except for the last 2 years while living with my Mom and Grandma. This was going to be my Mom's first Christmas tree. Naturally, she was very excited and went downstairs to Apartment 3-B to invite Grandma, Uncle Irving and their maid, Mary, up to apartment 4-A to see it.

Irving wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t even budge. One flight up was one too many for him to stand before that “symbol of goyim idolatry.”

The following year saw the birth of my brother Mark. This was going to be his first Christmas and the excitement my parents felt was enormous. And; it turns out contagious.

As Christmas Eve approached Uncle Irving had still not come up to see the tree. That night Grandma and Mary went up to my parents to exchange gifts. Uncle Irving went reluctantly and at the insistence of my Grandmother.

The door opened and there stood the tree. There it was- the “goyim symbol” in all of its splendor. With big outdoor lights and a star at the top, dripping with tinsel and beckoning with its beauty, it mesmerized him. He drew near and felt the warmth and love of my parents coming from that tree. He saw the joy on my brother’s infant face. He turned away and walked out!

An hour or so later he came back, arms laden with toys for my brother and gifts for everyone. After that year- and for every year after until the end of his life- he was the first to ask, “When are we putting up the tree?”

"Lucky"

In the last few years of my mother’s life she began to write. She even took a creative writing class which resulted in her submitting stories to several publications, including the Jewish Daily Forward. I have re-printed one of her stories here before. But I never recall her writing about “Lucky”, the inaptly named pet duck she had when she was about 6 years old. I used to love hearing the story as it reminded me so much of the tumult in “You Can’t Take It With You”, the Kaufman-Hart play which was turned into a classic movie starring Lionel Barrymore. My mother’s home was just like that.

My mother was raised by her mother and a woman named Mary, a delightful Irish lady who worked as their maid and nanny. She became part of the family, with my grandmother and Mary living together even after Mary married and had children of her own. Added to this mélange were my Great Grandfather Max Henkin, from Russia, and his son, my Grand Uncle Irving.

My grandmother had caught her own husband with one of his lingerie models, flagrante delecto, at the time she was pregnant with my Mom, and so, she divorced my grandfather and became a single mother. This was in 1929 and very unusual for the times. She worked, though she didn’t need to, and the care of the children; my mother Ruth and her brother, my Uncle Walter; was largely left to Mary.

I’m a bit unclear as to how “Lucky” got into the picture. I seem to remember part of the story involving Miller’s Meats on Kings Highway, and he may have come from there. Anyway, “Lucky” ended up taking up residence in the bathtub of apartment 3-C at 3619 Bedford Avenue, on the corner of Kings Highway in Brooklyn, quickly becoming my mother's pet. If you live there now this may be of interest to you.

“Lucky” seemed very content with this arrangement, though again, on this point I am unsure just how long the arrangement lasted before disaster set in. In this case the disaster was initiated by my Uncle Irving, who had a desire to take a bath. This was not at all unusual for Uncle “I”, as he was a fastidious person in all aspects of his living.

Reaching past the shower curtain, he started the warm flow of water, waited a few moments and then stepped behind the curtain. That’s when he screamed. It was, reportedly, a scream of epic proportions, echoing throughout the apartment, sailing from the windows into the courtyard and throughout the neighborhood. It came very close to being the "scream heard ‘round the world."

“Lucky”, initially happy to have company in what he perceived to be a spring shower, reacted to the scream by nipping at my Uncle’s legs while flapping his wings and quacking. The quacking and flapping soon ceased, and although it is unclear just who wrung “Lucky’s” neck, wrung it was, and the quacking ceased.

My mom was downstairs playing at the time and, with no foreknowledge of the incident, returned home in time for supper, ready to eat. Mary was finished cooking and my Grandmother had just laid the table when my mother arrived. The family sat down to dinner and my mother started in with relish, as she had been out all afternoon. She had just swallowed her first bite of dinner when Uncle Walter asked her if she was “feeling lucky tonight?” My mother had no idea what he meant by this question and went on eating.

That’s when Uncle “I” spilled the beans. Gently, he asked my mother how she liked the taste of duck. My mother stopped eating, and for the first time noticed that the whole table was staring at her. Quickly she put two and two together, and then, running from the table she entered the bathroom, with it’s now dry, and empty, bathtub. “Where’s ‘Lucky’?” she asked in all innocence. “You just ate her”, came the amused reply from her brother.

Sobbing hysterically, and feeling very much betrayed, she ran to her room, where she remained for the rest of the evening, not to be seen again until breakfast. There is no moral here, no lesson to be learned. Not many people keep ducks in their bathtubs nowadays anyhow. It’s just a warm memory of my mother telling me a story while she was preparing dinner one night. Although the story sounds a bit cruel, it apparently left no emotional scars on her. How do I know this? She told me the story while preparing dinner. We were having duck that night.

Ticket to Ride - A Story (1965)

This song was the backdrop to a summer adventure I had at the age of 10 and a half years old. I was on the roof of 1310 Avenue R., in Brooklyn, New York, where my family lived in an apartment on the 2^nd floor. It was not unusual to go up and sit on the roof; or “tar beach”, as it was known back then; to get some sun without going actually going to the beach, which was less than 1 mile from our apartment. But there was something about the roof that drew me. Maybe it was the privacy, or the smell of the roof itself, with its tar seams emanating that special odor familiar to all who have lived in large apartment buildings.

The radio reception, 7 stories above ground, was excellent; as was the view. You could look North and see the skyline of Manhattan, or Southwest to see Coney Island. It was a fantastic place to be young on a hot summer day; and with the music from my 6 transistor radio; life was complete. And, that’s when I noticed the planes.

We lived a bit less than 20 miles from JFK airport in Queens. As I lay there I noticed; seemingly for the first time; that all the planes were headed towards one place to the Southeast of us. And that place was JFK. This caused my 10 and a half year old brain light up like one of those idea bulbs in the cartoons! So, with the Beatles singing "Ticket To Ride" playing on my radio, I knew what my mission was. I would ride my bicycle to the airport.

My bicycle, at that time, was an old single speed, foot braked Huffy with balloon tires. Not the best conveyance for the journey I was about to undertake;  but as the sailor said, “Any port in a storm.” And so, with that bit of reasoning in my head I gathered up my things, radio included, and headed down to the first floor where my bicycle was stored in what was called the “carriage room.” The carriage room was a place where the building’s residents stored their baby buggies, bicycles, and just about anything else that you didn’t want to lug up and down to your apartment.

Unchaining my bicycle I wheeled it out into the bright sunlit day, hopped aboard, and pedaled South down East 14^th Street towards Sheepshead Bay. From there I knew that could access the Belt Parkway and head towards the airport. When I got to the Parkway I realized, seemingly for the first time, that I would have to ride on the thin shoulder of the Parkway to accomplish my goal. It seemed a bit risky, with cars flying past me at 60 miles an hour; several even honked; but I was determined. More than that; I was committed; as only a10 and a half year old can be, to ride that bike to the airport. It would be a major component of my summer vacation. This would be the subject for the ubiquitous “What I Did with My Summer” composition required of all students each year when school resumed in September. In short;  I was on a mission.

Getting to the Parkway was easy enough; I knew the streets of my neighborhood like the back of my hand. It was only when I had ridden a few miles on the Parkway that I began to realize the journey which lay ahead  of me was not going to be as easy as I thought. There were actually parts of the road which had no shoulder at all;  and I found myself dangerously squeezed between the high speed traffic and a chain link fence! At other points I was forced to ride my bike in the grassy, and aloso sandy, strips which ran alongside of the highway. This was hard going on a bicycle with balloon tires and no gears. But I pushed on.

By the time I got to Plum Beach; where my family used to go for cookouts in the summer; I knew I was going to make it. And, within about 45 more minutes I was there! The planes were coming in low and loud as I arrived. The noise was deafening, but my pulse was pounding with excitement at what I had accomplished. In my mind, not even Marco Polo had ever faced the challenges which I had overcome on my journey, and I wanted to share that joy. So, I called home, using the  dime which my parents always insisted my brother and I carry in case of emergency. It was taped to the back of one of my Dad’s business cards and only to be removed for that one important phone call; presumably to be made only if I had been kidnapped or killed.

But this was big; and I mean big! I had traveled almost 20 miles on a balloon tired, one speed Huffy, with only a transistor radio for company, and no money, except for that dime. I could have bought a soda, or a candy bar. But I didn’t. I called home to share my accomplishment with my folks. As they were both home, I assume this was on a weekend.

I dialed our home number with the greatest of expectations. Surely my journey would be lauded as the greatest achievement since Columbus had discovered America. My Mom answered the phone, and unable to contain myself I blurted out, “Guess where I am?” Mom didn’t want to play this game, instead insisting that I tell her where I was,  and what all that noise was. I told her, with great pride, that I was at the airport, and moreover, that I had made the journey by bicycle on the Belt Parkway. I think she shrieked. At any rate, the next voice I heard was that of my father. He was furious with me, taking me to task for going further than I was allowed to go on my bicycle. He then proceeded to dress me down as being the most stupid human being alive for taking such a dangerous journey, fraught, as it was with peril. It was "a miracle that I had not been killed" making the journey.

I was then instructed to "get back on my bicycle and come home immediately." And to make matters worse, I now owed my parents the dime, which I had misused by calling them for a non-emergency. That dime would be taken out of my next week's allowance and replaced. It was years before I realized the idiocy of their reaction.  But, I’m still real proud of that bike ride.

"Rascal" by Sterling North (1964 Newberry Honor Book)

I have reviewed this book here before. I read it for the first time in 5^th grade, and many times since. Mrs. Denslow, the most saintly woman who ever taught a class, was my teacher at the time. She wore her hair in a halo braid around her head, with white blouses that buttoned up to her neck. I only mention it because she reminded me so much of the era in which this book takes place. Mrs. Denslow was born about 1904, and would have been the same age as the author, and so I must have felt like I was getting a peek into her world.

“Rascal” is the story of author Sterling North’s 18 months caring for a raccoon whom he named “Rascal” for all of the mischief he got into. He was abandoned by his mother and adopted by the author, who lived with his father in a Victorian house on the edge of a lake in Wisconsin. His father having been widowed when the author was a boy, made for an adventurous childhood, one which included building a canoe in the parlor, much to the chagrin of Mr. North’s older sister Theo. Although she did not live at home any longer, she felt the need to come and visit, criticizing all that she could.

Mr. North bonds with his new friend and they spend the next year and a half getting to know one another. Eventually, as Rascal matures, he hears the call of another, female raccoon and the author is confronted with a dilemma – should he keep the pet that he loves, or love the pet that needs to be set free?

The story takes place in the closing days of the First World War, which is probably another reason this book has endeared itself to me. Along with classics such as “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”, “Penrod-His Complete Story”, and many others, this book really takes the reader back to a much simpler time, one which you will want to re-visit again and again.

Peacekeeper

The small waste can bounced off of my brother’s head and he slammed into the picture frame, shattering the glass and cutting his wrist as he fell to the ground. The old man stood over him, yelling, “That’s your mother- she’s MY girlfriend and that’s who I care about!” He was about to strike another blow, he was like that, given to seemingly out of control rages, though I had often suspected he was, at all times, by virtue of his outbursts, in perfect control. My slender, but firm, hand reached out to stay his arm as he arched it backwards. “That’s enough!” I yelled. “He’s bleeding!”

The old man stood back and surveyed the damage he had done. His eyes took in the form of his crumpled older boy on the floor, weeping; and the broken frame and glass which sprinkled the black and white tiles of the foyer, the blood on the wall, and he stared in disbelief.

I began to clean up the mess as the two former combatants, who had only moments before been so bold and loud toward one another, slunk away, as if by doing so they could undo what had just happened.

The glass was cleaned up, and the frame removed to some long forgotten corner of a closet. The old man finished cleaning and dressing my brother's wound, and then we all went to the hospital to see Mom.

It was Valentine’s Day 1969. My brother was 16 that day and wanted to see his girlfriend, whom he would later marry. My father wanted to have a little birthday/Valentine’s Day party in the day room at the hospital for my Mom. I just wanted to see her. And she just wanted to see us.

Why am I writing this story now, after so many years? What point am I trying to make? Only that the simplest of emotions, and the best of intentions, can sometimes both backfire and blow up in your face. There is no explanation for our emotions, sometimes there is only damage control.

Note: The photograph was taken in July of 1969 on a trip to Florida. The flag, at St. Augustine, is flying at half staff. I have always remembered this as being in honor of Senator Everett Dirksen, who had just passed away. Evidently my memory fails me, as Senator Dirksen did not pass away until September.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Just when you think you have seen all of the photos in your collection, another, unremembered one pops up. This is my Mom in 1969, at age 40.

The date on the photo says October, but the picture was taken in July of that year for her birthday. I know that this picture was taken in the summer due to the fact that my Mom would never wear white after Labor Day. It just wasn't done! At least not in New York. Memorial Day to Labor Day was the accepted time to wear white, for men and women alike. Back then, and this will come as a surprise to many younger people, you had to wait to finish taking the whole roll of film before you got to see the pictures. And it was always a surprise to see the photos you had taken months before.

My Mom was a very sweet person, and in spite of some rough years we had when I was a teenager, I always enjoyed her ability to take me back to her childhood with stories about the Depression and World War Two. She gave me so much in the way of love for literature, movies and poetry. She would be pleased with my blog, and that thought pleases me in return. That she would have had a blog of her own is without question, as she wrote short stories towards the end of her too short life. It amazes me to realize that I am now older than she was when she passed away, just a few days after her 55th birthday in 1984. Her death was in many ways the beginning of my life, which had been overshadowed by her illnesses for 25 years, starting when I was about 5 years old. We discusssed this very thing only a few weeks before she passed away.

I understand her so much more today than even 2 years ago. Saddled now with my own infirmities, I appreciate her wit, and charm, more than I ever have before. She was in great pain for so long, but if there was somewhere to go, or someone to meet, she swallowed that pain, put on her makeup and necklaces, broke out her smile, and went.

When I was 8 years old she gave me a book of poetry, which I still have, and have even reviewed here before. It still gives me pleasure to leaf through those 85 childhood poems. So, Happy Birthday Mom. Here's one of the poems you gave me so long ago;

"The Little Turtle" by Vachel Lindsay

There was a little turtle.
He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle.
He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito.
He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow.
And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito.
He caught the flea.
He even caught the minnow.
But he didn't catch me!

Smiley's People?

These guys were in our mailbox Saturday. They were sent by some agency that got our name from another agency, who got our name from some other agency to whom we may have contributed to a very long time ago. And that is why we have scads and scads of return address labels and flag stickers, etc. I'm sure most of you are acquainted with these items, having received them in your own mailboxes.

But these guys have me stumped. What are they supposed to represent? Why is one row composed of stripped Smiley's? Why are the third and fourth rows winking at me? Are the guy Smiley's Gay? Are the female Smiley's on the make? And the last row- what did he just get away with? He looks like a winning politician the morning after the election.

When I was a kid we got stuff from the Indians out in Arizona. Beaded stuff, and Plastic Crosses along with statues of the Virgin Mary. And we even got little stamped coins from the Indians which carried wise old Indian proverbs and were supposed to be lucky. We even got thermometers in the shape of Totem Poles. I can't believe my folks were annoyed with that stuff. It only cost a nickel and was really exotic to me as an 8 year old.

Hey, I'll trade you these Smiley stickers for one of those old plastic Indian thermometers. But, just tell me one thing, how did they ever get them through the mail without breaking?

Losing Everything by David Lozell Martin

This book has opened up more insights into my own past than even I could have imagined.

The author was raised in West Virginia by a mother who is mentally ill and a father who is abusive enough to have at least contributed to that illness.

This is the story of one mans battle with his own inner demons while acknowledging the demons that stalk us all.

A compelling read, Mr. Martin takes you on a journey of his own life up to and including the point where past meets present and he finds himself in, and reacting in the same way to, all the things that happened in his family as a child.

Together with his brother and sister he retraces the events and the shadows that hung over him while growing up. While reading it I became aware that I had not addressed some of my own childhood demons in my writing.

An accomplished author of fiction, Mr. Martin has written a very telling book, one that must have taken some courage to write. That he faces his demons and takes from them some very valuable insights make this book the gem that it is.

No Book Today

We are in the midst of moving- not far- about 11 miles to the East and over the County line. I started 4 or 5 books this week- from Mike Wallace's memoirs to a deep philosophical tome on Descarte and a couple of light things in between. But with all the packing etc I just couldn't get into any of them enough to do them justice.

So I turned, as I often do, to rereading some of my favorite books. Like old friends they provide comfort in the familiarity of the characters I have come to know and love over the years. They, in turn, remind me of some of life’s lessons learned from some of the reading I have done.

Nowadays I read almost exclusively Non Fiction. But until about 20 years ago I was an avid fan of fiction by Clive Cussler, John McDonald, Herman Wouk and many others. But my real love was always with the so called "classics"- Dickens, Melville (is there anything more perfect than Moby Dick?) Twain, etc.

But one book that keeps coming around to provide me with solace is "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" by Betty Smith. Although not a prolific writer (aside from "Tree" she has written only one other major book- Majorie Morningstar) Ms Smith writes with a charm and elegance that will make you weep in joy or sadness and have you laughing at descriptions of people you have known in your own life. But most of all, her book rings true in relation to the human spirit.

In telling the story of an Irish immigrant family in 1912 Brooklyn, Ms Smith creates a true and compelling portrait of social issues as well as the human dramas we all face in life. This is not the story of just one girl coming of age- but the tale of an evolving immigrant society and their desire to assimilate and become something more. Even Johnny Nolan, with his character flaws and short comings, has dreams of something better coming down the pike. The book is bristling with optimism and even as the characters face some devastating events there is always the belief- not hope- but belief- that better days are just ahead.

The principal character, Francie, has an overworked mother, an alcoholic father and a pesky brother. But she also has an Aunt Sissy, as flamboyant a person ever introduced into a novel. The book draws a realistic picture of a long gone era when horses pulled milk wagons, cops walked a beat, kids were free to indulge their childhood passions and allowances were made for those that followed the beat of a different drummer. (It is interesting to note that the book was originally written as an autobiography and then rewritten at the suggestion of an editor.)

Life doesn't change that much over the years- just the "window dressing" of style and taste- but the core issues of morality, education and hard work never change.

And that is the great thing about this book- the challanges faced by the Nolan family in 1912 are largely the same as those faced by later groups of immigrants as they struggle to make a new life.

This is one of my all time favorite "comfort books" and alongside of "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee (an even less prolific author than Ms Smith!)stands the test of time and can be revisited now and again to reinforce or even to rethink some of my own positions on the issues that confront us all as humans.

So, onward with the packing and hopefully the reading will resume as usual once I settle in at the new house.