The Mezzuzah's

 

My daughter Sarah went to Halifax on business. She was gone about a week. She lives in a high rise luxury building in Silver Sring, Maryland. They have 24 hour on site Security, cameras and a Concierge. 

When she left, this Mezzuzah, shown above, was hanging on her outside apartment door frame. Sue and I bought it for her when she moved out of our home and married. It has graced the outside door frame of every place she has lived for the last 19 years. Almost half her life. 

She came home to the photo shown below. It is  It is possible, but not very probable, that this was the work of an outsider. More than likely it was done by a custodian, or worse, by a neighbor in the building. Someone she sees each day.

I often wonder about the fate of the many Mezzuzahs which hung outside of my friends apartments when growing up in Brooklyn. My Father and my brother simply left ours when my Mom passed and my Dad moved out. 

I remember that as I left Apartment 2-H that last time, I only had a big scredriver with me and slid it under the edge of the Mezzuzah and pried it loose. I got married 2 years later to Sue, who is Christian, and hung it inside the house on our bedroom door frame. It has hung in that same spot in every home we have lived.

It was a small one, not very sturdily made, or even fancy. Several years ago my daughter bought me a new one,  much larger and more ornate. I took the older, smaller one, and placed the whole thing inside of the new one. And rehung it as one. Somehow that appealed to me. Maybe it represented a sign of continuity. The old one was a part of my life growing up. My Uncle Irving used to kiss his finger tips and then touch it each time he entered our apartment. They are shown, together in the next photo just before I rehung it here at our home on Stonecroft Lane.

No point to this; except that evil will always be around us. It takes many forms. And it is up to us all to report it when it happens, and move to stop it when we see it. And then replace the loss as best we can. It is both the most, and the least, that we can do.

Your'e My Sheina Maidel (for Sarah Ruth)

You're my Sheina Maidel,
moving faster than the dreidel;
sometimes you spin so fast
that I can't see.

My little Sheina Maidel,
I've known it from the cradle;
in your heart there's a part
that's part of me....

November 17, 2019
For Sarah Ruth 

Light

They look so benign
standing by the sink.
Temporarily mine,
they always make me think.

Those these candlesticks
Might soon be gone,
Their light, once lit;
shines on and on.

August 30, 2019
Stonecroft

The duality of all things.The fleeting vs. the permanent.

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?”

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.

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.

Religion on Bumper Stickers

Many people display their religious beliefs on bumper stickers. From the ubiquitous “WWJD”; as if anyone really knows; to the more subtle ones; you can find them all on the bumpers of cars. But of all the ones out there, this is by far the most important one, as it emphasizes respect for one another’s beliefs. And that includes being able to laugh at ourselves, no matter what denomination we hail from. In that spirit I propose to have a bit of fun with this bumper sticker, the message of which I happen to agree with.

Let’s look at the symbols and what they represent, and then surmise what would really transpire if these different religions were to sit down and discuss something important beyond sentiment. To do this we have to look at this as a recap of a scrimmage play in some respects. In other words, what would each player do in this circumstance?

The C in Coexist is meant to represent the Islamic religion, which is why it has a star resting near the horns. That’s the symbol of the Islamic faith. It also dates further back to ancient times and the goddess Diana. The O in Coexist is the international sign for peace. It came about after the Second World War and the beginnings of the Nuclear Disarmament Movement.  It originated in England. The E is a combination of the male and female logos for Venus and Mars. It also is meant to represent the opposite sexes living in harmony. The X is a clever rendering of the Jewish Star of David, which is comprised of two equilateral triangles. The I is a Pagan, or Wiccan, Pentacle which rests upon the letter I.  It also represents the earth elements and beyond that I know very little. The S the Taoist Yin Yang also often associated with Buddhism. Yin and Yang represent the two opposite forces of nature, working in harmony. The T in Coexist is obviously a Christian Cross, which is a symbol representing Jesus Crucifixion.

   

That’s the real scoop; now let’s have some fun. If these different religions were to sit down at the same table, this is my impression of what would ensue.

First off, the Christians will never stand for being the last on the list. The meek may inherit the earth eventually, but the Church owns it now. They would insist on being first, putting them at odds with the Islamics, who are listed first, and would surely not yield that position. This calamity would have the Peace group demonstrating against the attendant violent nature of the confrontation between the first two. The E group of believers would make a good show of it at first, but soon dissolve precisely due to the fact that they are Venus and Mars, and if you've read that book you can see how that will work out.

This leaves the Wiccans and Taoists to battle it out for control. The Wiccans would cast spells using the elements which they worship in the hopes of disrupting the prayers of the Taoists, and probably ending in a stalemate. This leaves the Jews, standing just where they have for ages; in the middle; the place where it all began, with the others radiating outward in opposite directions.

So, what we need is one symbol to bring us all together. Let’s see, what color, shape and size? And who will own it? Even the Coexist bumper sticker is copyrighted, and in an effort to bring about World Peace and Harmony, they just might sue me for using the image. It’s copyrighted, meaning they own it. How can anyone believe that it is even morally possible to copyright everyone’s Gods and World Peace?

The Kingsway Theater - A Love Story (1947)

In early 1947 my father was working as an usher at the Century Kingsway Theater on Kings Highway and Coney Island Avenue. He was just past 16 years old, and I’m not sure what they were paying him, but he was about to come into something more valuable than financial reward. When he went to work that night in early 1947, he had no way of knowing that his life was about to change forever. This was the night he met my Mom; but for whom I would not be telling this story.

My Mom had gone to the movies with her friend Judy; remember, I’m pulling this up from the deep recesses of my mind, so it may have been Doris instead. This was their usual routine on a Saturday night in the late 1940’s, when women wore headscarves and gloves; well, at least my Mom did. Also, she was Jewish, and just shy of her 18^th birthday. She was studying voice and auditioning for parts in the chorus of various  Broadway Shows.

My Dad, on the other hand,  was only 16 and a half, Irish Catholic, and apparently; according to my Mom; a bit lacking in the social graces. He was just ready to graduate from Maritime High School  aboard the SS Brown in Manhattan, and then ship out as a Merchant Marine Seaman; something I would later do myself.  Instead of asking her out on a proper date though,  he told her he’d be working the next weekend if she wanted to see him again! My Mom, of course, went home, and in the only diary entry she ever showed me wrote that “if he thinks I’m going back and pay to see him again, he’s got another think coming!” Strong words, but the next week she was back to see him; albeit still with her friend; and this time my Dad did ask her out for a date. They went to Prospect Park and fed the squirrels. These photos are from their 3rd date, as noted.

My friend John posted the picture of the Kingsway Theater on Facebook the other day, bringing back many memories; all good; of the good old days. And looking back, I don’t think that there was ever a time that I saw a movie at the Kingsway without recalling the story of how my parents met, and I came to be. Thanks, John.

Two Men Come Down the Same Chimney

The following story concerns the Talmud, the book that codifies the meaning of Judaic Law. They are somewhat akin to the Parables used in Christianity when explaining the meaning of some things in the New Testament. I first ran across this tale a few years ago while reading Rabbi Telushkin's "Jewish Humor." I hope you will enjoy the story, but more importantly, the meaning of the story. And the book is terrific, as are all of Rabbi Telushkin's writings.

Two men Come Down The Same Chimney

A young man in his mid-twenties knocks on the door of the noted scholar Rabbi Shwartz. “My name is Sean Goldstein,” he says. “I’ve come to you because I wish to study Talmud.”

“Do you know Aramaic?” the rabbi asks.

“No,” replies the young man.

“Hebrew?” asks the Rabbi.

“No,” replies the young man again.

“Have you studied Torah?” asks the Rabbi, growing a bit irritated.

“No, Rabbi. But don’t worry. I graduated Berkeley summa cum laude in philosophy, and just finished my doctoral dissertation at Harvard on Socratic logic. So now, I would just like to round out my education with a little study of the Talmud.”

“I seriously doubt,” the rabbi says, “that you are ready to study Talmud. It is the deepest book of our people. If you wish, however, I am willing to examine you in logic, and if you pass that test I will teach you Talmud.”

The young man agrees.

Rabbi Shwartz holds up two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

The young man stares at the rabbi. “Is that the test in logic?”

The rabbi nods.

”The one with the dirty face washes his face,“ he answers wearily.

“Wrong. The one with the clean face washes his face. Examine the simple logic.The one with the dirty face looks at the one with the clean face and thinks his face is clean. The one with the clean face looks at the one with the dirty face and thinks his face is dirty. So the one with the clean face washes his face.”

“Very clever,” Goldstein says. “Give me another test.”

The rabbi again holds up two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

“We have already established that. The one with the clean face washes his face.”

“Wrong. Each one washes his face. Examine the simple logic. The one with the dirty face looks at the one with the clean face and thinks his face is clean. The one with the clean face looks at the one with the dirty face and thinks his face is dirty. So the one with the clean face washes his face. When the one with the dirty face sees the one with the clean face wash his face, he also washes his face. So each one washes his face.”

“I didn’t think of that,” says Goldstein. It’s shocking to me that I could make an error in logic. Test me again.”

The rabbi holds up two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

“Each one washes his face.”

“Wrong. Neither one washes his face. Examine the simple logic. The one with the dirty face looks at the one with the clean face and thinks his face is clean. The one with the clean face looks at the one with the dirty face and thinks his face is dirty. But when the one with the clean face sees the one with the dirty face doesn’t wash his face, he also doesn’t wash his face. So neither one washes his face.”

Goldstein is desperate. “I am qualified to study Talmud. Please give me one more test.”

He groans, though, when the rabbi lifts two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

“Neither one washes his face.”

“Wrong. Do you now see, Sean, why Socratic logic is an insufficient basis for studying Talmud? Tell me, how is it possible for two men to come down the same chimney, and for one to come out with a clean face and the other with a dirty face? Don’t you see? The whole question is "narishkeit", foolishness, and if you spend your whole life trying to answer foolish questions, all your answers will be foolish, too.”

The 2nd Annual Lake Norman Shalom Festival

Today Sue and I went to the 2nd Annual Lake Norman Shalom Festival. Our daughter, Sarah, volunteered as a parking director, so we thought we'd go over and see her at work. The Festival featured music and dancing, mostly of the Eastern European variety. The band was comprised of an accordion, upright bass and clarinet. The dancing ranged from a simple Hora to some more complicated Yiddish Square Dances. There was also a conga line.

Ethnic dances have their roots in the social lives of the places in which they originated. Whole towns would turn out for these festivals, usually in the late summer or fall, just before, or after, the hard work of the harvest. The dances all required changing partners, which lent a sense of fraternity to the proceedings. It was also a chance for the young people to meet and express their interest in one another, under the careful eyes of their elders.

Ethnic food, and bagels of all description, were on hand to feed the hungry. The Festival began with the blowing of the Shofar and was immediately followed by dancing and music. There was a bottle dance workshop, in which people were challenged to dance, or even walk, with a bottle atop their heads. The professional dancers, of course, did the best job of this, but there were several young children that gave them a serious run for their money. There was also a magic show and a Shofar blowing lesson for the kids, along with a story teller.

This was the 2nd Shalom Festival sponsored by the area's 5 Congregations, ranging from Conservative to Reform. The whole thing was organized under the banner of The Jewish Federation, whose mission is to promote the traditions, values and goals of the Jewish faith for future generations. And today they more than met that goal.

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.