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. ❤

Two Books (2025)

Being housebound these past 6 years has presented some problems I never expected to encounter. One of the most challenging has been how to keep myself supplied with fresh reading material. Sue has, as with most things, made it very easy for me. She simply brings home 6 books at a time for me to choose from, in addition to reserving which I specifically request on line from the 3 different County Libraries near where we live. (Cabarrus, Iredell and Mecklenburg) Those books come from Municipal and County Libraries as far away as Louisiana! 

In addition to that she buys me books from the Discontinued pile. Some branches simply give them away. All in all I read about 2/3 of them. And many of those are out of print. Some real gems, as with Desi Arnaz's autobiography titled "A Book." His friends were always asking him when he was going to write a book, and so he did. 😀 That one sells for about $80 on line in poor condition, and much, much more in new condition. 

Anyway, here are 2 new books (2025) which I never would have picked, and didn't intend on reading, but turned out to be real gems. 

The first, "Concrete Dreamland" by Patrick Dougher, is a wild ride by an independent artist who actually went to my high school, James Madison in Brooklyn, in the early 1980's. It deals with his struggle to find his place in life amid much hardship. But, he prevails. And that's not a spoiler because the story isn't in the end, it's in how he got there. 

The next book, by Barry Diller, is about the author's life as the son of very wealthy and detached parents. If you read the screen credits on many of the films you see you will know his name. He pioneered, actually invented, the TV miniseries in the late 1970's. And he also brought the TV series "Star Trek" to the big screen. His struggles were with himself, trying to find out which "hat" fit him. He eventually became the President of Paramount Pictures. And once again that is not a spoiler because, just as with the first book, the story is in how he got there. 

And, today, in addition to 6 new books, Sue brought home 2 shopping bags filled with memoirs from the discard pile, which will keep me occupied for a few months!

The Moonplant - Ipomoea alba

 Been waiting all day for this one to open. Moon rose at 8:51 PM here tonight. An hour ago the bud was still closed. The Moon is still behind the trees in back of our house. It will continue to rise and this bloom will continue to unfold until about 5:31 AM tomorrow morning when the Moon sets. And then it will begin to droop and die. 

There is poetry to this cycle which never ceases to amaze us. Parts of the Bible read like poetry, particularly Psalms. This has always been one of my favorites. Psalm 103:15-16. "As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more".

Halsey's Typhoon by Bob Drury and Tom Clavin

If someone were to tell you that Admiral Halsey, the great American Naval Hero of World War Two, had almost been Court Martialed at the height of the war, you would not believe it. I know I didn't! And I am a big fan of history- Naval History in particular.

In December of 1944 Douglas MacArthur was due to return to the Phillipines, just as he had promised 3 years earlier. Admirals King and Halsey had made this possible through a series of "island hopping" invasions. They were highly sucessful in their endeavors and so by the time of these events all was in place for that return.

But a seies of lapses, most notably in the weather predictions, led the fleet into one of the worst typhoons in history. Almost 800 men from 4 different ships perished in this storm. Aboard one of the vessels was a young Juinor Officer named Gerald Ford, who would later go on to become President of the United States. He saved several lives that night fighting the fire. A superb athlete in college he was revered by his men.

As an interesting aside, this book describes in great detail, the events that were later captured in the best seller by Herman Wouk, "The Caine Mutiny." Mr. Wouk served in the Pacific during the time of these events. His experience certainly led to the realistic description of that storm. As a matter of fact the chapters describing the mutiny on the ficticous USS Caine are right in line with what actually took place aboard the USS Hull at the height of the real typhoon.

This book is a must read for all Naval History buffs. And also for those looking to see beyond the legend of Admiral Halsey. Written with great energy and style, this book is a page turner.

"Squalls" (1929) with Zaza Pitts, Myrna Loy and Loretta Young

 This film won't be for everyone. The story is not what makes it. It's more the interesting as a window into film making and a bit of history.

The costumes and sets are beautifully done. The kitchen is authentic and the scene where the animals all are herded back home at the end of a day in the field is wonderfully depicted. Also the steam driven machinery in the field is such a great look back in time. I really enjoyed this film, so carefully restored/preserved. 96 years ago! Truly a window into the past! 

The over the top acting is due to the transition from silent to sound films. In silent films "over emoting" was was almost essential. So there was about a 3 year period after the Jazz Singer came out during which time the actors had to relearn the way in which they performed.

Zaza Pitts, Myrna Loy and Loretta Young are all wonderful. You can see how their styles progressed over the years. And any Alexander Korda film is worth watching. 

Happy Birhday Mom!

My Mom,Ruth Marcus Williams, was born 96 years ago today on July 2nd,1929 and passed away 41 years ago this Sunday July 5th, 1984 at age 55. I am now older than was at the time she passed. We had our differences, to be sure, but beneath it all we really loved one another very much. Perhaps it was our similarities which made things so difficult at times. She could be stubborn, like me; obtuse, like me; and at times, unreasonable; like me.

That said, she was the woman who carried me, delivered me, bathed me and all the rest that goes with being “Mom.”

She was the product of a broken marriage- she was born after her parents seperation in 1929, although the divorce did not become final until 1934. There was money to fight over and my Grandmother was a shrewd woman.

My Grandfather, Pincus Max Marcus, was a self made millionaire 3 times- and lost it all each time to the horses and the ladies. This was the reason for the divorce. She caught him, flagrant delecto, in the late spring of 1929- 4 weeks before the birth of my Mom on July 2nd and 3 months short of Black Tuesday when the market crashed, triggering the Great Depression.

Grandma Dorothy, as I said, was a shrewd woman and she exacted quite a price from Pincus for his indiscretion. Here she was, 8 months pregnant and initiating a divorce at a time when Divorce was a whispered word that carried many unwanted conotations. But she was determined to make the break.

While waiting for the divorce proceedings to begin she extracted a settlement from him in the form of $250,000 in Treasury Bonds. Quite a sum in pre Depression 1929 - and a fortune 3 months later when Pincus begged her to lend him some of it back to shore up his losses. She did- at interest.

So my Mom grew up without a father and with a Mother who was often absent, touring the world,socializing and traveling. My Mom had all the privileges of a spoiled child in a 1930’s movie. She learned piano, took voice lessons, horseback riding instruction, went to summer camp every year and never really wanted for anything- except a father.

She was considered a pretty woman, although as her son I would not be the best judge of that, she was just Mom to me. But when she would play the piano and sing inside our Brooklyn apartment, the neighbors would gather outside the door and listen to her, exchanging comments like “Oy, what a voice- she should be on the stage!” And she would have, if she hadn’t met my Dad. She was slated to tour with a road company of "Oklahoma" in 1949 and my Dad was about to join the Mechant Marines (which I would do later) when they came to an impasse. If she toured he would sail and that would be the end of that. Fortunately for me, they both gave in.

So now it is 96 years since my Mom was born on July 2nd and 41 years since she passed on July 5th. Lots of time to think back on things since then. We spoke only a few days before she passed- she had been ill my entire life. This is what she told me in that last conversation by phone from a pier in Norfolk, Virgina- “You know Robert, you can never go on with your life until mine ends- you’ve been a prisoner of my illness for so long.” I replied that I knew that and perhaps it was the reason I went to sea for almost a decade- to get away from the marathon of her dying. We closed out all business and in 41 years I have never had a bad dream about her.

Mexican Injustce - 1996

 This story took place in July 1996 when Sue and I were returning from a second honeymoon in Cancun. The place was now a tourist trap, a far sight from what it had been 10 years previously. At that time it was still under construction after a devastating earthquake had ravaged the economy. 10 years later it was a tourist's Mecca. After 10 days, when we were on our way home, we got a taste of Mexican "injustice."

For some unknown reason I had misplaced, or discarded my Visa. By this time we were at the airport and without the Visa I would not be allowed to board the plane, which was only 40 minutes from its scheduled departure time. To acquire a new Visa would require a Police report in person at the Police station, which was about 20 mintes away. Adding the time it would take to file the report and the 20 minutes it would take to get back to the airport, it was clear I would not be making the flight.

Sue, naturally, was not willing to leave without me. I explained to her that staying would only leave both of us in Cancun, with me, possibly under arrest. It would be best if she were at home to advocate for my release, should that become a necessity

I had already been turned over to the airport's Security Office, where I was told that there was no way to avoid missing my flight. Again I explained to Sue that this was my problem and that under no circumstance was she to stay in Mexico with me. This is where the story really begins.

I now had about 20 minutes in which to resolve the issue of my lost Visa. I went back to Security and asked the officer to issue me a new Visa. He refused stating that without a Police report it was not within his power to do so.

At this point a long legged, stunning Canadian blonde came in and reported that she  had lost her Visa. Smiling, and with the utmost courtesy, the Officer opened his desk drawer, revealing a full pad of blank Visas. He immediately wrote her a new one and leeringly presented it to her.

Now, I did not posess the long, tanned legs of the Canadian woman, but I was determined that I, too, would have my Visa. I gave the Officer $20 to issue me one. No longer able to say it was not possible he pocketed the $20, which I had covertly initialed, and he gave me my Visa. The next step, since I now possessed the coveted document, was revenge.

Then, with only 20 minutes to go before departure I asked to see the Chief of Airport Security. I was directed to his office where I quickly ran through the events, stressing the Canadian woman's success at obtaining her Visa, and my $20 bribe to secure the same result. The Security Chief, bedecked with gold braids and epaulets, was furious. "We do not take bribes, Senor", he said with indignation. He then summoned the officer in question while I watched the clock on the wall nervously.

The officer initially denied having taken any money from me. I informed the Chief that it was in his breast pocket and bore my initials. The Chief had the officer empty his pocket. When the $20 bill was revealed the officer denied that the bill was mine and the Chief threatened me with arrest for making a false accusation. I quickly pointed out my initials on the $20.

The Chief asked me if the officer had demanded the money from me. If so, then the Officer would be charged and I would be held over for his trial for having accepted, or demanded, a bribe. At this point my Tactical Situational Awareness kicked in.

Diplomatically I explained that there may have been a misunderstanding. As the officer did not speak perfect English, and my Spanish was not exactly fluent, I said that I may have misinterpreted him and thought it was a fee. I was released, the officer was neutralized, I got an apology from the Chief, and then ran from the office to the Gate, joining Sue on the boarding line. Case closed.