Happy Birthday Uncle Irving

Today my Uncle Irving would be 127 years old; if he were physically here. Perhaps because I was denied the opportunity to pay my respects when he passed away 47 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 a house when I got a call from my Mom. This in itself was an indicator that something bad had happened.

She 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 was somewhat of a celebrity himself. 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 1978. He was about 80 years old when he passed away. I have never visited his grave. And, consequently, he is still very much with 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, but with a Yiddish accent. He worked in the Garment District as a Furrier, from 1921 until about 1976 when he became ill. 

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 reference 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, in 1957 he got a room in a hotel and lived that way for the next 21 years, 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, and 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? Our apartment in Brooklyn to see me.

Uncle "I" colored every aspect of my life as a kid. I couldn't wait for him to come over every Friday night, and we'd go to Rockaway every Sunday. 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 later; politics. He was a Socialist.

Every visit 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 until next week's visit.

Happy Birthday Uncle "I" from your "Little Sputnik." You gave so much, and asked nothing in return. ❤

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 

"The Great Give Away" by Ruth Marcus Williams

The following story was written by my mother and published in The Jewish Daily Forward on January 18th, 1981. I have posted this here before, on January 18, 2012.  I have always suspected that, if my Mom were alive today, she would have a blog of her own. 

I rarely look through the batch of papers I happened upon that night, and so I can't help but wonder about the timely coincidence of finding it on the eve of the date on which it was first published. The Old Clothes Men are long gone now. We still had them in the 1950's when I was growing up, and that's a part of my own story. But this one is my Mom's;

When I was growing up in Brooklyn in the forties, old clothes men were a common sight, standing under windows and in alleys, shouting “I cash clothes,” in a wailing voice I can still hear. To my Grandfather, haggling with the old clothes man was a sport he mastered and indulged in with a passion resembling an opera.

I was 12 years old when my Grandfather, the old clothes man and I became emeshed in a drama I refer to as “The Great Give Away”, and like many dramas, this one began on a note of hysteria. Mine.

One day I entered my mother’s room and asked her in desperation where my coat was.
“It’s in the closet, where it belongs,” my mother said.

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “Why is it that things are always disappearing around here? Especially mine?”

“Stop being a Sarah Bernhardt. Nothing’s disappearing around here except the things you misplace. If you look hard enough you’ll find it.”

“I’ve already looked hard,” I whined, “but it’s not here.”

I adored the coat in question because it reversed from a wool herringbone tweed on one side to a beige poplin raincoat on the other. I never expected to own another one as beautiful, or as unusual.

“You’re so careless that you probably left it at a friend’s house,” my mother said. “If not, then it’s here. Just keep looking for it. I’m sure you’ll find it by the time I get back.”

I was annoyed with my mother for thinking me careless. Nonetheless, I took her advice, and as soon as she left I resumed my quest. While doing so, my grandfather arrived with an old man. The two of them, conducting a heated conversation half in Yiddish and half in English, barely glanced at me.

Some minutes later (after I had once again searched the closets in vain), it dawned on me that the one closet I hadn’t searched was my brother’s. And so, with high hopes, I entered his room. There, my grandfather was showing the old man my brother’s windbreaker.
“So, how do you like this?” my Grandfather asked the old man.
“It’s dreck,” the old man said, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Dreck!” my grandfather said in a fury. “The jacket’s almost brand new!”

“Humph, your eyes are getting worse every time I see you. The jacket’s old.”

“Phooey,” my Grandfather spat out. “It’s your eyes that can’t see. A garment like this is worth at least four dollars.”

“Look at the seams,” the old man said, tugging at them, “they’re splitting. The jacket’s not worth more than a dollar fifty.”

“You don’t know shmatas, you don’t know a treasure when you see one,” my Grandfather said indignantly.

The old man ignored him. “I shouldn’t give you more than a dollar fifty. I just noticed that the elbows are worn. But, I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll give you a dollar seventy -five.”

“I’ll throw it in the gutter first,” replied my Grandfather.

“Two dollars,” the old man said.

“Two fifty,” my Grandfather continued.

“Two twenty-five. Not one penny more,” the old man said.

“I’ll take it,” my Grandfather said. “But you’re a thief!”

As the old started giving my Grandfather the money I said, "Grandpa, you can't sell Walter's jacket! He Needs it!"

“No he doesn’t. It’s old,” was his reply.

“Grandpa, you know that’s not true.” Then, realizing something else, I said, “You sold my coat, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know anything about your coat. And why aren’t you outside playing? A beautiful day like today you shouldn’t be in the house.”

Tuning him out, I said, “Mister, did you buy a girls coat from my grandfather?” The old man became agitated and replied in a torrent of Yiddish I scarcely understood. In counterpoint to his outburst, my Grandfather kept telling me that he hadn’t sold my coat.

Meanwhile, in the midst of the commotion, the old man opened a sack that had been strapped to his back and began adding the jacket to it.

“Mister, would you please give me back the jacket?” I said.

“Thief,” my grandfather shouted, “you didn’t give me my money!”

“Grandpa, I told you, you can’t sell the jacket.” Then, turning to the old man I said, “Mister, the jacket’s not for sale. I want it back.”

“Here,” he said, tossing it to me. “And as for you,” he said to my Grandfather,“ I don’t want any more business from you!”

"Don’t worry,” my grandfather said. “I don’t give my business to thieves!”

A few weeks later, contradicting themselves, they were once again dickering. But I never found my coat. Until this day, whenever I see pictures of myself wearing it, I sigh with longing. And although my grandfather always denied selling it, I know better.

For another story about my mother, based on the story she told me but never wrote down, see the following;

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2011/12/lucky.html