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.

Uncle Irving and the Tree

I have always had a Christmas tree. My parents were a "mixed" marraige- 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 Childrens Christmas Fund. This didn't seem strange to us- money from a Jewish hoilday 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 Christmmas Show. If you have never seen it you have been cheated. It is completely religous in it's 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. Wouldn’t 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 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?”

Pieces of My Past

My favorite Aunt Gloria has once again provided me with some of the missing pieces from my family history. She got a bunch of old photos, some dating back to the 1920's, from my cousin Mary Ellen, and then sent them on to me. This photo is the "missing" one from my Dad's Confirmation Day. It shows all the brothers and sisters, along with my grandmother, in the backyard of their house in Brooklyn. I'm really glad to have this picture, as I've said, it was the one missing photo from the set taken that day. The lineup is my Uncle Roy, my Grandmother "Nana", and Aunt Mary in the rear, with my Uncle Richie, Aunt Gladys and my Dad up front. Gloria is not in the photo, and I will have to ask her why. She was either not born yet, or too young to be in the photo. I'm guessing that this photo is from 1938, a few years before her birth. Also, it appears that Nana is smoking a cigarette! I had no idea....

This is my Great Grandmother Katherine, whom everyone called "Nanny". I have never had a picture of her until now, and it I love the way she is looking with such affection at the flowers on the stoop. Until I messed around with the settings while scanning, I hadn't noticed the boy in the upper right hand portion of the photo. I think it may be my Uncle Roy, and he looks as pleased with the flowers as his grandmother does. This picture was taken in front of the family brownstone in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Her pleasure with the flowers is so evident that it is infectious, and even endearing. I never knew this woman, but she seems like someone I would loved to have known. The stories, and history, which she could impart to me are both things I will never be privy to. Her eyes hold all those secrets in this photo.

There were 24 more photos in the envelope which arrived today, and I lost no time in scanning them, placing them on disc, in zip files and on flash drives. I don't ever want to lose these pieces of my past. Without my favorite Aunt Gloria I would have never seen these photos, along with the scores of others which she has provided me over the past few years.

It's a good deal, she sends them, I scan them, and then send the originals back with a DVD of the scans. I also forward the zip drive by e-mail so that the photos can now make the rounds of the entire family. Even the ones that don't speak to one another will have access to them. And that's a good thing, because only when you assemble all the pieces of your past can you see yourself as whole. Thanks, Aunt Gloria, for helping me to see myself more fully.