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Uncle Bradley and Aunt Melina

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Uncle Bradley was incarcerated most of his life. His deep umber complexation was as dark as his mood, which reflected the hardness that accompanied prison life. No one knew what jail cells looked like, but the layout of his tiny apartment mirrored the style of prison cells seen on television. Bald, stumpy, and at least ten years my father’s elder, he didn’t favor Aunt Melina or Dad.

Melina reminded me of Jackie Onassis or Coco Chanel—a proper lady. She had a penchant for positioning things in their appropriate place. Flawless make-up and flowing auburn hair proffered a suitable introduction to her impeccable sense of style. Wonderfully fit, she lived in front of a vanity mirror in a mid-century, modern penthouse apartment. She possessed beautiful pieces of expensive jewelry coupled with an exquisite collection of heirloom jewelry. Her home, littered with Hollywood and French memorabilia, often made me wonder if she had traveled abroad. Our infrequent visits prevented us from building a relationship with her. And like Father, the windows of her soul veiled a deep sadness.

Father's Early Years

Soft taps like the skilled hand of a carpenter working wood resounded from the front porch.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Garrett from the grocers.”

Hinges squealed as the Jewish woman pushed the jarred door open wide.”

“Shalom, Garrett,” she said. “Put them over there.”

Stepping inside, Garrett placed the bags in the space she designated.

“Here’s a little something extra,” she said, flipping him two coins.”

Mr. Howard's Grocery Story

Nestled in the sprawling urban community of Gastone stood Mr. Howard’s Grocery Store, where Father worked as a delivery boy. The delivery job was his sole source of income. Honest and hard-working, my father always stressed the importance of having a good name. Entrusted with delivering grocery items unsullied, his care often netted him a little extra coin from the store’s predominantly Jewish customer base.

Outside the dinky brownstone, the vein of ivy stretched almost to the second floor where the Howards lived. The sweet aroma coming from that little brownstone assailed the senses daily.

“She’s at it again,” father said. “I could smell ’em down the street.”

Father had a knack for always showing up in time to sample Mrs. Howard’s biscuits hot out of the big oven and dripping with butter. He often arrived home with yesterday’s batch from scratch neatly tucked under his arm. Most days, it was all that kept them from starving.

Growing up, I wasn’t aware of family history, but later learned a bit of it from a cousin. Not much of a talker, my father never shared the details of his youth except to say, “Life is not meant to be fair.

At 18, he was drafted into the armed forces where he met my mother.