We're Just Passing Through, Kid...

I recently attended the funeral of an uncle. It was sad, but Irv lived to be ninety five and led a remarkably full life.

He was the youngest of nine children, born in November, 1917. The exact date of his birth was never truly known since records were poorly kept back then. He always celebrated his birthday on Thanksgiving, which was a telling measure of the man.

He grew up in a lower middle-class neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. At nine years of age, he ran away and tried to get to Vero Beach, Florida, the spring training camp location of the Brooklyn Dodgers. An avid (and excellent) baseball player, he wanted to try out for the team. He got as far as Philadelphia, was picked up by the Children’s Aid Society, and returned home. He left school after the 8th grade to help support his family.

He worked hard and in his twenties, was drafted into the army because of World War II. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge.

After discharge, he told his wife Ruth, “I never want to have another boss.” So he opened his own business manufacturing corrugated boxes. He was immensely successful and those who worked with him loved his gregariously jovial nature.

One of my fond memories of Irv was visiting him and Ruth when they lived in the Bronx. I was about 7 years old. We passed a schoolyard where some teen-agers were playing baseball. Irv joined in and began hitting balls to them; they soared high in the air and I saw with my own eyes how far a baseball could be clobbered in an asphalt-covered Bronx schoolyard. The joy he felt in slamming the ball was evident on his face.

At age 57, he had to retire because of a heart condition. But he maintained his optimistic view of the world and his wish to live every moment to it fullest.

Thanks to modern medicine, he enjoyed his life for another 38 years beyond the onset of his illness and forced retirement. He and his wife Ruth often hosted large family gatherings at restaurants, and he frequently booked all-expense paid junkets to Las Vegas where family members were his guests. He still loved baseball (and most all sports), loved going to Las Vegas, playing poker, and loved most of all being with his wife, daughter and grandchildren.

I talked with Irv many times over the years, and if I expressed a negative thought about something in life, he’d say, “Just remember, we’re only passing through, kid…so enjoy it and make the most of everything."

That’s what he did: he made the most of everything, no matter what he faced. He was a joyous presence, and a force of life, always emphasizing that life is filled with chances and you must grab them while you can.

So, after 40 years in psychiatry, I finally grabbed onto a dream and became a full-time writer…because we’re only passing through.

Mark Rubinstein,
Author,” Mad Dog House”