Remembrances of Poppy

By Reb Meir of Essex Street

He was Poppy. Some would say his claim to fame was that he lived to be 100 years old. The rabbi at the funeral talked about his life spanning the century, living before the automobile, electric light or the airplane became part of our lives. Yet his age was not what made my grandfather’s life special.

Poppy always had a smile or a joke. He always found time to make a baby laugh or entertain a child. He was less self-possessed and more fun than anyone else in the family. When I was very young and was staying at my grandparent’s apartment, Poppy would come home from work, and the entertainment would begin. Grandma was working in the kitchen, pretending she was too busy to be bothered with what was going on in the rest of the house. Poppy would motion for me to follow him into another part of the apartment. He’d put his finger to his lips and say “Shhhh,” and we’d go to one of his many hiding places where he had squirreled away candy or cashew nuts. Grandma didn’t want us to eat too much candy because she said it would ruin our appetites. Poppy had a way of making an adventure out of sneaking a snack. He’d laugh like a child and we’d savor the forbidden fruit, only to hear the voice of Grandma coming from the seemingly distant kitchen, “Is it good Issy? Are you having a party?” Poppy was always having a party.

He loved to tell us stories about his youth, growing up on the Lower East Side of New York, where he was born. He was born in an apartment on Willet Street, near Houston Street. His parents were immigrants from Poland, who met in America. They had to move every few months, because they were poor. They would go some place where they gave the first three months rent free, and after that, they’d move to another place with the same deal. He told us about having gaslights in the apartments, and you put a nickel in the meter to buy gas to power the lamps. People used to break the meters, to get the nickels back before they moved.

He was the middle child of seven, the one who caused the most aggravation to his parents. As a child, he always had a cop chasing him down the street for one reason or another. Once he dared a cop to chase him over the rooftops of the tenements. When his father died, Poppy was only 11, yet he went to shul every morning to say Kaddish for his father. He quit school after the 8th grade because he had to work to help the family. He regretted the grief he caused his father. Until the day he died, it was Poppy alone who took care of his father’s grave.

He told us stories of being a boyhood friend of Meir Lansky, Bugsy Siegal and other Jewish gangsters of that era, yet he himself chose the more honest work of the newspaper business. The reason he was a friend of Lansky was that Lansky was a smart kid, but not a strong one. My grandfather was strong. He never let anyone beat up another Jewish kid. “That’s what it meant to be a friend in those days,” he would say. When he was offered a “job” by his friends from time to time, he’d always say, “No thanks, I like what I do. He was a peaceful man, yet loved to watch a good fight. He had a lot of friends on the police force too. He got along with everyone.

When he started delivering papers to help support the family, it was in the horse and buggy days. Once when he was delivering papers, the horse went out of control, and finally stopped short, hurling him through a plate glass window. He had them call his uncle to take care of him, so as not to trouble his mother, who was working a pushcart to make extra money. His grandmother stayed home to take care of the younger children. In those days, widows with seven children had to stay one step ahead of the Children’s Welfare Agency, because they would have taken the children away. They made it a priority to keep the family together, and he and his siblings remained close throughout their lives.

Poppy loved to eat all the wrong foods, and loved it prepared in the least healthy way. He loved blood rare steaks, ice cream, and all cheeses, including Limburger. He liked Limburger for the taste, but he liked the reaction he received from people even more. He’d get a twinkle in his eye when people held their noses and ran from the room. He wasn’t really a drinker, but he smoked cigars until he was 90 (only quitting because he didn’t want to argue with Grandma anymore, because she said it stunk up the apartment).

When he met my grandmother, he wanted to get married right away, but she was afraid he would stop treating her so well after they were married, so she made him wait three and a half years. Years later, she said she regretted waiting so long, because he treated her even better than before. They were married 70 years.

Poppy wasn’t the most religious man, but I have warm memories of walking home from shul with him on the High Holy Days. He knew all the short cuts through the apartment buildings so we wouldn’t have to walk all the way around the block. Even though he wasn’t in shul all the time, he supported it. He was generous and never let someone who needed a few bucks walk away empty-handed. He taught us this was what religion is all about.

Poppy’s life was full of contradictions. He was a frustration growing up, yet spent his life honoring his parents; a peaceful man, yet the friend of gangsters. His uncle Abe once remarked about Poppy, “This one will die with his shoes on,” because of the kinds of friends he kept, Uncle Abe thought Poppy would probably not live long. Poppy proved him wrong. He outlived everyone in the family.

Poppy was a man who beat the odds. His life was one of dignity, kindness and gentleness. He did what he had to do in every situation, and exceeded everyone’s expectations. To the very end, he was making jokes, trying to entertain and lighten our hearts from the sadness we were feeling. People remark that it is a special thing that he lived one hundred years. It was not just the years. He was our pride, and our joy. He was and will always be my hero. His life was not only one that was lived long, it was lived magnificently.