My other uncle was a New Yorker. Born and bred. He was a world traveler because of his job. As a reporter for King Features Syndicate, he covered all kinds of news stories from a Miss Universe Pageant to political news. If I'm not mistaken he may even have covered the major events of WWII. He revealed himself to me through the U.S. Postal Service. That's because he'd meander into the darkroom at work and pick up 8x10 glossy black and white photos that hit the cutting room floor and send them to me. 90% of what he sent were baseball action shots or famous baseball players posing for news stories. He knew I was a Giants fan, thus many photos were of the classic Giants teams of the 1950s.
His manilla envelopes were easy to spot. My name was boldly scrawled in his almost illegible handwriting. One cardboard stay and the words "Do not Bend" accompanied these coveted gifts.
Uncle Murray had one daughter. When he assumed other duties as a purchasing agent, other gifts followed. But the best one of all was a batch of ticket books to Disneyland which was brand new back then. With a letter of introduction, my family was able to enjoy the Magic Kingdom early on. That was definitely something we couldn't afford. I took my Brownie camera and went crazy in Jungleland, mapping pictures of attacking hippos and elephants, giraffes, and other automated wildlife.
I met Uncle Murray once. He'd come to California to cover the Miss Universe Pageant in Long Beach. He appeared in our neighborhood in a taxi and whisked my parents off to a night on the town. He was a most generous person.
When I was about 14, a most uncharacteristic gift came from Uncle Murray. It was a 22 rifle that he thought a teenage boy in the wilds of the San Fernando Valley might covet. My mom thought no. I struck a deal with my folks that I could have the rifle when I was 16.
Some of the older kids in my neighborhood used to go out to the Mojave desert to target shoot and stalk an occasional jackrabbit. Of course, I wanted to go too. That eventually did happen, but after a few trips, I lost the desire to kill rabbits. By age 18 I began to examine violence in my life and my world.
The rifle leaned against a back wall in my closet for about 5 years.
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