My father was a taxi driver, not his choice, but a depression was on. I think he was more comfortable as an artist (adding gold to gold-rim glasses, sign painting, and even painting in the finer arts). Sometimes he came home from work with just a dollar after working all night. He would leave the house around 1pm and return the following 2am.

The fourth son, uncle Pinky (his name was Paul), was an insurance salesman for Metropolitan Life. But he was more than that as all people are more than their jobs. He was one of the most sociable and accomplished people I ever met. Could sing, play the guitar, dance, and make all kinds of conversation with all kinds of people. He was married to Ray (a woman) who always struck me as a tough woman; didn't have soft ways. They had a daughter, Judy, and a son, Harvey, and lived in the Parkchester housing of the Bronx. Each person I mention has a story, and "all about me" is really all about him or her. Judy eventually married a milk executive and moved to another state, and Harvey married Freddie (no typo there), and also moved to another state. What can I say; we're not close but it's an interesting family.

There's another version of this grandpa history (which sounds more likely), which is that he was married to a woman in Rumania who bore him twelve children. Then he left her, got divorced, because he wanted more children and she refused. He believed that Jewish men should have as many children as possible. After he divorced this first wife (her children were old enough to go out on their own), these children came to the United States and settled in Texas. Maybe she went with them; I don't know. David, age 60, eventually married a woman, Anna, thirty years his junior, can't help smiling here, and she gave birth to his second batch of children. The oldest (uncle Jerome) was born in Paris, France, and the rest here in the states. My father was born here, third of four sons; and as I said, the daughter died in 1918, victim of the influenza plague epidemic.

Some people who are into that genealogy hobby have contacted me with family information. Seems there are people who love to see their roots and that's most admirable; I'm happy to go back one or two generations and that's it. Anyway, they tell me that his real name was Alvin (aka Leibu in Romanian or Beryl Leib in Hebrew or Yiddish) was born on 9/4/1838 in Romania, and his roots go back to Spain when his ancestors were exiled (nice word for expulsion) in 1492 ... same time three little ships were setting sail to discover a land that was to become a home to a Jewish population second only to the population in Israel. Most interesting is that that makes me half Sephardic ... that's too much and I'll never fully digest it.

Grandpa David wasn't exactly a man who took his responsibility to raise children too seriously. He sired children, and that was it; once "out" they were on their own. If mamma could manage them, they were lucky. This uncle Jerome told the story that when he was a baby in the hospital having his tonsils removed, his father left him in the hospital forgetting to pick him up. Not until the hospital called the father insisting he do what is proper did David move himself to be a father. By the way, this man prayed three times a day as a Jewish man is supposed to do. No sarcasm meant here; it just goes to show how complicated people can be.

What's ironical is that although I criticize this man for his selfishness in leaving his Texas lady (or Rumanian lady), had he not done so, I would not be in this world today. His third son here in New York was my father. I can only say that we struggle, we make plans, we judge, and the hand of G-d (yad HaShem) runs this world in His way. However, and this is one of the great mysteries of life, we still take full responsibility for our actions. Free Will is a gift that is probably second to the gift of life ... whoa now, that's a big subject.

It is His world, you know; you don't even own your own life, no less the world. You were given a gift with some instructions on how to use it. Now what you do with it is your business, but eventually you will give it back. Now comes the serious part; we are taught that we will be judged by what we did with this gift. Gets you kinda thinking, doesn't it. So what did I do with my life? Not too much if I think about it, not compared to some people I know. I did a lot, and most of my life was doing things I wanted to do, and I succeeded at it; but how about doing things I was supposed to do (we have obligations, you know; someone gives you a gift, there are ways to say "thank you"). That brings us to another sphere of thinking and I'll pass on that.

And now a few words about my parents: Writing about parents (or any family members who should be close to you, but especially parents) can be a most difficult task. There can be too many emotional ties that make objectivity impossible and in my case, it was my cousin, Sandra, who knew details that I was not privy to. This is easy to understand knowing that her mother was married to my mother's brother, and events that were known to her father were shared with his wife (Sandra's mother) and finally the information percolated down to Sandra. It always helped that Sandra also had what is known as a "yenta" personality along with a charming sense of humor.

Now listen to this; I mean it’s the latest on this cousin Sandra. Drum roll please … she’s a fan of what’s that guy’s name? Oh yeah, Elvis Presley. I told you about it on page 7 of this “bio” (whatever you want to call it) but I think when she got hit by that bat (up in the Catskills, you know), it must have left some lasting effect. I just found out about it but Elvis Presley? C’mon Sandra; get real. However, she still has a most charming sense of humor so we’ll say all is forgiven and I’m sure she’ll never fall for the Gracelands “Elvis Lives” nonsense.

All I remember is that my mother was very organized, would make a great bookkeeper, was an excellent homemaker (worked hard doing the domestic chores at home; didn't have the modern appliances then), cooked delicious meals, loved to play cards and mahjong, smoked, and cried easily when my father would yell at her. I know she had some piano skills and even taught some piano before she got married. There was a child (Alvin) born one year after me who died when he was one year old of the many childhood diseases prevalent in the early 1930's.

I would say she even worked hard at home; most women did in those years. No dishwasher, no washing machine, no drier, and the refrigerators then were rather primitive. They were so primitive that freezing was mostly done in a window box and therefore only during the winter. Clothes washing was done with a scrub board in one of those deep laundry tubs next to the kitchen sink, and drying was done by hanging clothes on a clothes line that hung from the back bedroom window to a pole in the back of the yard with a rolling wheel on both ends. Seems all the women were very skilled in making that rolled up knot in the clothesline where the two ends were connected. I also remember that during the winter the clothes would be brought in frozen.

My father had excellent instincts about people but not the strength and skills to deal with these same people. This lack kept him on the fringes of social groups but his sensitivity made it more tragic in that he knew he had some better traits than these peers but not the strength to show them. He spent much time as a child in a home for children where I would say his "social awkwardness" only added to his discomfort. His soul was artistic (excellent sign painter and earlier skilled in placing gold trim around glassware), but during the depression (early 1930's) was forced to go into the taxi business (became a cab driver and never had enough initiative to buy his own cab, meaning never purchased a medallion even when the prices were most reasonable). He didn't extend his working to improve himself in any way, and had set habits regarding timing and working hours.

I remember some experiences shared with my dad: going to the Turkish baths where he had a good reputation helping in the Russian room (wet steam from heated rocks) where the guests would be soaped down on different levels of benches. We would stay overnight and then enjoy a good breakfast in the Automat. I also remember the many times he would return from work 2am and I would wake up to share some snacks with him in the kitchen.

And now some added information from cousin Sandra not put together in any logical order necessarily but the total picture should suffice: My mother (Nettie) and father (Nathan) never really were what modern America would call, "in love" but they got married after my mother came out of another relationship. She had this earlier relationship with someone who came from a mixed marriage (one of the parents was not Jewish) and her mother (Grandma Lena) successfully broke up this relationship. With all this having been said, I'll always remember what Dr. Premisler, my dentist, said when I must have been complaining that there was nobody guiding me through the college years. He said, "Your parents did the best they were able to do" ... and I suppose he's right.

My grandfather, the one who lived to be 101, was always against the idea of my father marrying my mother. He knew religion played a small part in my mother's family and was against that. His complaint, as it was told to me, was that my mother's family was only concerned with smoking cigarettes and playing cards. He may have been partially right but I'm not about to complain as here I am, the result of that union. What was that line in Shakespeare about reasons, heaven, earth, and something being dreamt in your philosophy? Well, this was an example.

My father always showed a degree of anger at his situation (reason for this can only be conjectured; I'd say he was angry with his job which required none of his real artistic talents) and early in their marriage they once had to separate. According to Sandra (and her family) my mother and father never really got along that well; it was more of a friendship with frequent disagreements. Dad didn't earn much and gave the excuse that he didn't want to pay more income taxes. There were times during summers that he would leave her and go to the Catskills (staying at the Glory Hotel). This was all news to me; Sandra must have been all ears during those conversations in her house.

Dad had a good sense of humor, and he used to fight with his father-in-law (Grandpa Max). Max hated my father for reasons I do not know. Max slept in our apartment when we finally moved to my grandmother's house (after she died) but ate and virtually lived with his son (Sandra's father) on the floor below. We suspect that his son was the favorite child. Sandra always wondered why when Grandma Lena had an available apartment in her Canarsie house, why we had to live in the project in the Lower East Side. I know that Grandpa Max loved the "good life" but couldn't afford it... Jack was able to some degree help Max enjoy some of that "good life."

Max was no lover of little children; not sure if he loved anyone other than his own comforts. The kids were virtually afraid of him and he would always be chasing them from the front of the house. Sandra says he was also a devout atheist always negative toward any religious institution. Sandra reminds me that my mother's family was particularly attracted to dogs as pets. Aunt Anne tells the story of how my mother would sit with a dog in her arms feeding it with a bottle. Possibly they loved animals more than they loved people, certainly they showed more affection to animals than to people.