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always seemed old. He was short and a bit portly. Totally
bald, yet sporting a stylish moustache. This made watching
him shave more fascinating. My father used a common safety
razor that was a matter-of-fact affair.
He used a straight
razor which he sharpened and honed each time he shaved,
using a whetstone, then the strop. It looked dangerous and
it was, especially for an old man whose hands shook with
the early signs of perhaps Parkinson's Disease or Lord knows
what. He managed to get the shot glass to his lips without
spilling a drop, but when in later years he could not, I
as a young boy watched with dismay and fear. I know something
was up when he grudgingly switched to a safety razor.
He immigrated to this country in 1905, from a small village in the Ukraine section of Soviet Russia, a town or shtetle called Ternovker. He came as a young man, the first of his large family to come to America, making him a pioneer of sorts. He was always laying some change on us kids. A quarter in those days was a big deal.
I, a youngster of five or six first ran into him when he moved into our house. He generally couldn't pay board. He was chronically unemployed. On the day that flashed into my memory recently, he was taking me to the Radio City Music Hall in New York.
From our home in Brooklyn this was no small trip, not an ocean crossing, but in my mind's eye a major journey. Since he never owned or drove a car this meant taking the bus to the subway and then a long subway ride into Manhattan. We never called it Manhattan in those days, it was New York.
He took me to McGuinesse's Bar on the west
side, probably in the upper 40s. He sat me down on a stool
in what appeared to me to be the most lavish and beautiful
place I had ever seen. Up above the bar Esquire cartoons
rotated round so you could read each panel as it passed.
Some of the cartoons were of a risqué nature and not
suitable for an impressionable seven-year-old boy.
In retrospect
I doubt whether he could read them himself. All the regulars
and the bartenders seemed to know him quite well and he
introduced me to a few of the people that were close by.
After a soda for me, the usual libation for him and some
time for shmoozing with his cronies, we said our goodbyes
and went on our way. I think I had some sort of soda, with
some coloring in it but the details escape me.
I had never been anyplace like the lobby of the Radio City Music Hall and I was impressed. It was so lush and enormous. I remember looking up, always up. Oh the carpeting was nice but the crystal chandeliers, glittering and flashing; the light made my eyes hurt from their brightness. He took me downstairs to the bathroom.
To this day, when I go there memory returns and I am again intimidated by the vastness of the place ... Imagine how I felt at my young age. It was a sight to behold. Those hot air hand dryers were great. I could have spent the entire afternoon at them, but there was a show to see.
The movie was Lassie Come Home starring Claude Jarmon Jr., one of the early child actors and of course, the dog Lassie. I cried and laughed and cried again and thoroughly enjoyed it. The stage show came on and I was totally dazzled. The sound of the live orchestra was both deafening and alluring. I can still hear the crash of cymbals and drum and the brass section roaring in me. To this day the sight and sound of a live orchestra thrills me and lifts my spirit. The Rockettes performed magic and I was beside myself in joy and awe at the spectacle. Clowns, magicians, the sets and scenes changed and suddenly it was over.
He took me home by the same route, but I don't recall the ride. It was a special day for me and he was a special man in my life. His English wasn't very good, he never earned much money, but he lived a way that is with us no more. He had his schnopps, not the twelve-year old aged stuff, WILSON THAT'S ALL; his Camel cigarettes (no filters please); his friends (he was totally faithful to them all) and me, his grandson. I never knew what I had until he was gone.
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