A Quiet Lesson

Four syllables, none euphonious, but to those who inhabited there in those magical years, we were embraced by love, adventure and comfort. Then one day, the warm winds of life whisked us away to other places and other adventures. Yet the memory of those times has lingered with many of us for a lifetime.

Hell’s Kitchen held the security of a village, and the comfort of three generations sharing the same name. It had boundaries, none dared to invade. It embraced The Church, where no one dared not to attend. It also held a thousand stories, one which follows.

The Holiday season has ended once again, and as I sit in my comfortable Massapequa home, my thoughts stray back to the Uncles and the Christmas days we once shared.

There were five of them; John, Huey, Dan, Pat and Frank. While John and Frank touched our lives; the others were a major part of everyday living, and in different ways, I guess I loved them all. Probably, the most loveable was Dan with his quixotic smile and gentle nature. My sister felt he was slow. I disagreed, and who was right and who was wrong, we will never know. He led a solitary life working daily in the New Yorker Hotel, drinking somewhere on 9th Avenue in the evening, and virtually ignored by the family he lived with until his mysterious death. He was gentle, kind, and when he smiled at me, I knew I had a friend. I have always hoped the angels watched over you, dear Uncle Dan.

Uncle Huey was the worldliest, and also, the most moneyed. He was a lather and a bon vivant in the evening. In his youth he had many adventures, or so our Mother always told us And there was no need for her to embellish the truth. Uncle Huey probably spoke less than 100 words to me in my lifetime, but he was generous beyond belief and never expected or wanted thanks. Every time I see a fine box of chocolates, I remember how each holiday Uncle Huey would send down five 5 lb. purple tins of Louis Sherry chocolates to our family. He never entered our apartment, and seldom spoke to the neighbors beyond Good Afternoon or Good Evening to whomever he passed in the hallway. He spent the weekend with “friends,” but remained a part of the household until his death at 69.

Uncle Pat was closest to our family, and to his sister, our Mother. He had been gassed in WWI, and his skin remained scarred for the remainder of his life. Recluse does and doesn’t quite describe him. Kind and generous, yet also sarcastic to the point of drawing tears especially from my younger sister. He visited the library nightly, and attended daily Mass. Mom said he had hoped to enter the religious life until his Mother became ill, and his income was needed. I am certain each of these brothers had a sad and similar story to tell. Uncle Pat on occasion would meet me in the street, and invite me to the local confectionery for ice cream. Invariably, he would order maple walnut, “Because it was my Mother’s favorite.” And that indeed tells a story, doesn’t it.

Occasionally, the term “unknown benefactor” is mentioned in a news story or book I am reading. Immediately my thoughts return to the three uncles who were so inordinately kind to my sister and me in our childhood, and truly never wanted recognition or gratitude. Rather I believe they wished to give something they had never known to another. They remained in the family household after the Patriarch, my Grandfather, died. All three brothers then departed this world within a year of each other before their 70th birthdays.

And quietly, they gave me a lesson on the need to allow those you love their wings because theirs were clipped so early in their lives.