He saw the magic in the most ordinary things, and he could awaken you to that magic. My uncle was a bit of a buffoon, but he was also a true magician. They lived in Greenwich Village and paid $60 a month rent. If our income bracket was lower-middle class, theirs was what used to be called "working class." But my uncle wasn't a factory worker like my father, he was an artist. We lived next to a park.įortunately, it was arranged that I would continue to spend my summers at the cottage, living with the family of my mother's younger sister.
Ultimately our family spent the summers in the Bronx. My father chafed at the ambiguous arrangement, feeling neither guest nor owner. For years, my family would spend July at the cottage, and my mother's younger sister and family would spend August. She owned a small cottage that was part of a summer cooperative some forty miles north of New York City. Having no children of her own, she became the extra parent of the children of her younger sisters. One of the great things about my childhood was that I was able to spend my summers with another family. I remember he paid careful attention to how I was doing in school he used to say, "Work now and you won't have to work later." He resented the work and resented what had happened to him. Mostly, it seemed, life was about making a living and supporting a family. My father, for the most part, stopped his political activity. She took care of the house, and ultimately four children. He was married, had two children and was living in the Bronx. When I was growing up everything was different. He was devoted to the "movement" and took jobs just to earn some money. He had never pursued a career, had never even gone to college. He had friends he had relatives he had ideals he had a political movement. Theater (he sometimes performed), there were Yiddish papers (he sometimes wrote). There was a vibrant Jewish socialist movement in New York. He never went back.Īt first, I suppose, the transition was not very difficult. He came wearing hand-tailored suits, and planning to return to his life in Poland. He came to visit his father and mother and sister, all of whom had emigrated. By the time he was twenty-one, he had already been elected to public office and had served time as a political prisoner.Īs a young man, he came to the United States as a tourist on the Isle de France. He was a natural leader and public speaker. As a youth, he rebelled against his religious background and became an ardent socialist. In his little corner of the world, he was something of a prince - always known in his town as the great grandson of Rabbi K. (Years later, he and I would visit the Library of Congress and work through the several inches of card catalogue devoted to his famous ancestor). Sometimes, however, the stories were of another world, the world that he had grown up in.īorn in a small village in Poland, he was the great-grandson of a famous Hassidic rabbi. Often they were the stories about what had happened that day, and inevitably he was a modern knight battling against the utter stupidity of the people around him, his boss, his fellow workers, or officials from the union (of which he was a proud member). Coming home late, he often ate after the rest of the family had finished, and when he had finished eating, he would tell stories. He brought his pay home in a small brown envelope stuffed with tens and twenties. He always worked overtime, and often on Saturdays.
In that factory he worked first as a cutter, then as a marker (the person who figures out how to lay the pattern on the reams of fabric so as to minimize waste) and then as the shop foreman. He was a blue collar worker, working in a small factory that made women's blouses. I now know that when he arrived at work, he would take off the shirt, tie, suit and shoes and change into work clothes. He would then leave our apartment in the Bronx and travel by subway to Brooklyn (in 1956 he learned to drive and bought his first car). With that shirt, he would wear a tie, a suit and polished shoes. He would put on a white shirt, starched rigid at the Chinese laundry. During that time, typically six days a week, my father would wake early in the morning.
They troubled my father and mother, and they confused me.īetween 19, I lived at home with my parents and sisters. Even as a child, I was aware that these were troubling and confusing matters. 8: Graceful Opulence vs Graceful Simplicity 178 7: Graceful Living and Retreating From the World 160Ĭh. PART TWO: Towards a Philosophy of Simple LivingĬh. 1: Two Ways of Thinking About Money 9Ĭh.2: Individualistic Strategies for Simple Living 26 PART ONE: Towards a Politics of SimplicityĬh. "The Hardship of Accounting" by Robert Frost. To remember or invent What he did with every cent Towards a Philosophy and Politics of Simple Living