The Marshall's Creek Fish and Hunt Club

In 1973 I went camping at Marshall's Creek in Pennsylvania. I went there with Mona O’Brien to do a bit of camping under the stars. It didn’t quite work out as we’d planned. The trip had started easily enough, with my friend  driving Mona and I to Marshalls Creek, somewhere near Stroudsburg, at Otter Creek in Pennsylvania, just outside of New York.

He had a 2 seat green MGB,(it may have been the Triumph TR-7, but you’d have to ask him) and I sat behind the seats, in the little space between them and the rear plastic window of the convertible top. It was not the most comfortable ride, but more of a means to an end. In short, it was the only transportation available to Mona and I, outside of “thumbing it.”

We arrived in the Pocono’s and began to scout for a good spot to camp at, one which Seth would be able to find again when he came back to pick us up on Sunday afternoon, as planned. It was getting dark when my friend left the road in the MGB, dodging trees and looking for a suitable place. We soon found one, just outside of a cabin which sported a sign saying “Welcome to Marshall’s Creek Fish and Hunt Club.” We unpacked our gear and the headlights of his car disappeared into the darkness, presumably towards the road from which we had just come.

The silence, as they say, was deafening in the darkness of the woods. A moon was out, but through the canopy of the trees, offered scant light. We made some soup and rice for our dinner, and after a bit of fooling around, we crawled into our sleeping bag, nestled against one another in anticipation of a cool night.

That’s when we first heard it, a slow droning sound, neither of us could distinguish. It grew in intensity and seemed to be coming towards us. Mona spotted them first, a group of forms, clad in robes, numbering about 20 in all. They were chanting, neither in English, Latin or any other language which we could understand. As they got closer the forms took shape. It was medieval, it was unsettling, it was clearly time to leave.

Gathering some clothes, we dressed as we ran, never stopping to look back at the sound and shapes coming from behind us. We broke out onto the road, not even sure how we got there, and began to run up the road. We very quickly came to Otter Creek Trailer camp, where there was a fire burning outside of the camper pictured above. We pulled close to it, gathering the lone blanket we had grabbed with our clothes around us for warmth.

We must have made some noise, for in a moment there was a man at the door of the camper, shotgun in hand, and none too pleased to have been awakened by 2 straggly looking teenagers. “What’s the problem’, he asked, without lowering the shotgun. When we told him what had happened to us, and where, he lowered his weapon. “Well, that’s not the first time that’s happened up there. You kids best stay here by the fire ‘til morning and I’ll run you back up to see about your stuff.” We thanked him, he went back inside, and Mona and I didn’t quite sleep that night.

Morning came, we used the campground facilities to wash up a bit, and then our benefactor, true to his word, drove us back up to the Marshall's Creek Fish and Hunt Club to retrieve our gear. There wasn’t much left. Our guests had used hatchets to bust up the canned goods, killed some squirrels and left them mutilated and strewn about, and otherwise wrecked our campsite. There was little doubt that we would be enjoying another night under the stars. Our new friend invited us back down to his place, but as my friend would be expecting us to be where he had left us, there was nothing for it but to pass the day, and the following night, camping near the same spot.

I don’t remember the exact time, but I do remember the sound of friend's car as it drove through the woods in search of us. I’ll never know exactly how he managed to find us again, only that we were glad that he did. Wedging myself back behind the 2 seats was a joy as we headed out of the woods towards the highway, and home. It was one of my last camping trips for quite a while.

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

Today my Uncle Irving would be 120 years old if he were physically here. Perhaps because I was denied the opportunity to pay my respects when he passed away 40 years ago, he is still very much alive to me. Anyone who knows me well knows of Uncle “I” and the high regard in which I hold him. He is eternal.

One of the strangest things which happened; and pre ceded his final illness by several years was the time he didn’t die. I was about 17 and was at Mona Obrien’s house when I got a call from my Mom. This in itself was an indicator that something bad had happened.

My Mom had gotten a phone call from one of Uncle I’s circle of old friends; old as in age; who had not seen him at breakfast that morning in the restaurant where they all ate; the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue where Max Asnas reigned supreme as the owner and somewhat of a celebrity. The walls there were covered with autographed photos of everyone of any consequence who had ever eaten there. Legendary comedian Jack E. Leonard once bought me a 12 cent bottle of ginger ale when I was sick on the sidewalk outside. (Note:My upset stomach had nothing to do with the food.)

Anyway, this friend had set about calling everyone who knew my Uncle and told them that he was dead; simply on the basis of having not seen him that morning; setting off a chain of events which ended a friendship that was twice as old as I was at the time. Uncle “I” went on to live several more years until his death in 1975. He was about 80 years old when he passed away.

If you have read the following before please indulge me. I had no Grandfathers, but Uncle “I” filled those 4 shoes and still had several feet left over as far as I’m concerned. He was small in stature but his heart was as expansive as the universe, and he had a mind as deep as space. And as far as his personality was concerned, if you have ever seen William Demarest on screen or TV, then you have known my Uncle. He was that kind of guy. 

This is the post from August 15, 2010. It was as true then, when I wrote it, as it is today.

This is my great Uncle Irving's 115th birthday. We called him Uncle "I" because it was easier than saying Irving when we were so small. But as we got older we took a secret delight in calling him Uncle "I" simply because it sounded like we were saying Uncle "Lie", in deference to some of the tall tales he told.

Irving lived alone in the "city", which meant Manhattan. He also lived in a hotel! This was so strange to me that it was almost shocking. He had lived with my Grandmother Dorothy (his sister) and their father, Max, along with my parents, until they got a place of their own. When Dorothy moved to California after Max passed away, Irving was left with no place to go. So he got a room in a hotel and lived that way for the next 25 years or so, until he passed away. It wasn't until years later, when I was bouncing around the world and staying in a lot of hotels myself, wishing that I were somewhere else, did I come to realize the singular loneliness of Uncle I's existence. He was kind of like a prisoner in a prison with no bars. He could roam at will, all over the city, but where did he will to roam?

Anyone who knows me knows of Uncle "I". Some of my oldest friends actually knew him. He was 68 years old in this photo, which was taken at Idewild (later JFK) Airport in October 1963. In the original photo he is holding both my brother and I. I was 9 at the time. Uncle "I" colored every aspect of my life as a kid. I couldn't wait for him to come over every Friday night. I would pepper him with questions about the old days, and he would regale me with stories, some of which were true, about his youth on the Lower East Side, his exceptional athletic achievements and his wit and cunning in the Garment Industry.

And every Friday night would end the same way. We would walk together on Avenue R to East 16th Street and then to the Quentin Rd. entrance of the Kings Highway Station, where he would catch the BMT back to Manhattan and his little hotel room. Then he would belong to the rest of the world for another week. But each Friday, he always came back, and I was always waiting. Happy Birthday Uncle “I” - and thanks for everything you gave, asking nothing in return.

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

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