Possibly because of certain genes still not isolated but clamoring for identification, most Americans somehow seem to love their fathers. Of course, the degree of affection varies considerably. Please read on as I tell you about my sire. My father, Jacob Samuel Propp, was my hero, my pal, my buddy, someone whom I admired, loved, and still sorely miss him so many years after his death.

He came to America as a twelve-year old, and never looked back at his Russian birthplace.

Although we spent countless hours discussing trivia as well as world politics, Poppa never had anything but spoken and implicit praise for America. He respected and totally accepted its laws and institutions, its mores, and especially, its unparalleled opportunities for individual education and eventual personal affluence.

This seeming difference towards our legal system did not extend toward the presidents, judges, police commissioners, and other major office holders enjoying generous salaries and varied perks. Poppa vociferously denigrated, although always with a laugh, folks such as Mayor Jimmy Walker and his girlfriend, President Herbert Hoover and his chicken in every pot, and all local Republicans.

Poppa’s flower shop was a place of refuge for me. Whenever I entered his store, he greeted me with a big smile, a tight hug and a loud deafening kiss right over the eardrum. Strong coffee in a thick white cup, stolen by a local gofer, Tommy Logan, from the Horn and Hardart Cafeteria on 42nd Street and Third Avenue, always followed. Then came jokes and laughter and unspoken affirmation that life was good and our family members all were great. With due respect to Jehovah, someone like Poppa similarly must rave helped build up David’s confidence just before he went out to tackle Goliath.

The Depression years came to Poppa as shock and total denial of his family’s Ordained shining future. In retrospect, it seems that Poppa felt responsible for not having anticipated and taken effective measures to head off the Depression.

Shaken badly, he operated his flower hop for another dozen or so years of blurred horizons, and loss of confidence in himself. He no longer greeted panhandlers with a buck and a word of encouragement. Instead, he’d say, “Keep walking, buddy—there’s nothing here for you.”

What didn’t change at all, however, was the warmth and love for his family. His cute little jig and fast shuffle lingered on, as did the hot coffee he always proffered whenever I visited his shop.

In ultimate review, Poppa builds no towers to the sun; but, he left behind everlasting memories of a splendid man who hoped and tried his utmost to provide for and guide his family members towards happy, and fruitful lives.

Starting at the End

Incredibly, I’m now older than Poppa was when he died. I have a faint sense of guilt about that, more than matched by a stronger sense of regret that so many of his dreams never were fulfilled. Among his dreams that were fulfilled, was making it to America (he arrived here twice, which I’ll explain later), marrying Dina, earning a big buck (he did for more than two decades), and begetting four children whom he adored. However much it might wound Josie and Teddy, though they probably already concede it, there was one child closest to Poppa’s heart. It was Sidney, born on April 21, 1914, a few years after a never-named premature daughter unexpectedly died three days after birth.

Nearly every late November, Momma would remember, and softly cry for her beautiful lost baby, who was “perfect and pretty.” Momma never got a clear or even muddled explanation of why the baby died. Poppa never spoke about it. Momma, who had not been lactating properly, theorized at first, and later came firmly to believe that the nurse somehow carelessly must have poisoned the infant by introducing a deleterious substance into its formula. Perhaps the fact that gestation was a month short of full term played a role... Anyway, after that bitter loss, when Sidney arrived and thrived, Poppa was more ecstatic than Kunta Kinte’s kin were when the black infant wailed for the first time. A special, “above and beyond” love affair blossomed and endured for 44 years until Sidney died in June of 1958.

After a year of steady deterioration, the removal of one lung by a renowned chest surgeon, and finally, experimental oncology by an infamous “last chance” quack, Sidney died of lung cancer. Sid’s siblings shielded his fatal affliction from his elderly parents on the tiny chance that he might beat the long odds against him. Hence his “sudden heart attack” when we had to break the news of his death to Dina and Jake.

Josie, Ted, and I had been worried and afraid that Momma might be crushed totally to learn that Sidney had died of an invented “sudden heart attack”.... But it was Poppa who succumbed. Two weeks after Sidney’s death, Poppa collapsed outside the East End Synagogue where he had just finished saying Kaddish for his son. As a neighbor tried to help him to his feet, thoroughly Americanized Poppa rasped out, “Je-Je Jesus Christ, I can hardly speak.” He died one week later. Momma lived a full, socially active life for more than 22 years after suffering the double loss of both her husband and son a scant three weeks apart.

Leaving the Old Country

I never learned, or else I knew and forgot, whether Poppa’s family emigrated from Russia en masse, or as was most common, in erratically spaced phases that were determined by the availability of pooled family rubles to finance the arduous two stage hegira. Cousin Mary Rose (nee Propp) believes Jake’s oldest brother, Marcus, served as point man for his family. The first leg of the trip to America, the fabulous “Goldene Medina,” usually was via rail to Hamburg, with small bribes en route to any loud-speaking uniformed person who held out his hand. Next, there was a ghastly sea voyage in steerage, where previously unimaginable indignities became accepted as part of the daily routine. It is fascinating to note here that Uncle Yael Cantor, Momma’s oldest brother, left Russia via an entirely different first-leg journey. Yael (Joe) was on the verge of being called up to serve in the Czar’s army... but not as a soldier. In the 1890’s Jews weren’t allowed to become arms-bearing grunts. They were drafted into quasi-military service as servants for officers, as stablemen, or as cobblers. Although subject to military codes and regulations, the sons of Abraham neither earned the honor of wearing a full uniform, nor the meager full pay of a private. But worst of all, they had to eat “trayf.” In effect this meant that they no longer were Jews, understandably a grievous loss to the family. In many households so cursed, Kaddish was said in traditional remembrance of the recently deceased. To avoid Yael’s de facto excommunication and religious death, his parents, Mary and Joseph, gave him the entire contents of every family pushka and knippel, plus whatever they could borrow from nearby relatives. After tearful good-byes and rabbinical blessings, Yael departed his shtetl before sunrise one day, hidden in a wagon under sacks of potatoes. Periodically on empty stretches of the road, the driver would; top to water his horse and call to Yael that it vas safe to emerge to take care of his bodily needs. In late afternoon of the second day came the most perilous part of the journey - crossing the border into eastern Poland. (Yael, who later boasted, “Itch hatt vergonvit der grenetz” (literally, “I stole the border”) was very lucky. Many such would-be escapees were beaten, robbed of their money, and kicked off the wagon. If they could still walk, and not be arrested en route back to their shtetl, typically they would arrive in pitiful shape, only once again to face imminent induction into the army.

At the end of the nineteenth century, Russia had a fairly large naval fleet, but none if the tales I heard ever mentioned forced induction of Jews into the navy. Everyone knows that navy personnel always complain about cramped quarters... and who would want to sleep, dress, and eat side-by-side with a Jew?

Jake at School

Unlike Momma, who regaled her children with wondrous tales about her early years in Byelorussia on farmland near “Minsk in the Gebernya” (mountains), Poppa’s stories rarely dealt with his childhood in Russia. Instead, he focused his anecdotes on life in Manhattan from about 1895 on. Poppa arrived here a little before his twelfth birthday. He was adept at quickly learning languages that included English and really first class cussing. The Propp family took up residence in East Harlem, and little Jake soon was enrolled in the public school on East 125th Street.

Starting out in the fifth grade, after only two days Poppa was promoted to the sixth grade for two reasons. He was older than the other fifth graders, and more important, the combination desk-chairs in the classroom were too small, and his teacher felt sorry that Jake had to sit sidesaddle at his desk. After two months as a sixth grader, Jake was promoted to the seventh. This was a merit promotion. Amazingly, he spoke English with almost no foreign accent. And his grasp of history and geography far exceeded that of any of his classmates. Daily weekday classes began at 8:30 a.m., and at 10:30 a.m. there was a half-hour recess. During this break the faculty sipped coffee, while all students had a choice of reading in the auditorium, or playing various games in the schoolyard. Jake usually had a dozen or so classmates grouped around him in the yard, avidly listening to his on the spot improvised stories of life in the wilds of Borneo, where Jake supposedly was born and raised by his massively strong and quick-witted friend, a ten-foot tall version of today’s Arnie Schwarzenegger. Poppa steadfastly maintained that his giant pal, John Ugon, actually existed. Some of Jake’s less perceptive schoolyard chums occasionally entered into raucous debate as to whether or not John Ugon was real. Shades of, “Is There A Santa Claus?”!!!

Poppa was given to many sly pranks at school, one of which vividly stands out in my Emory. Every so often, kids who took the 10:30 a.m. break outdoors would forget and gave their brown-bagged lunches behind on the pavement. At about 11:15 a.m. a monitor from the eighth grade would make a sweep of the school yard and pick up any lunches or books left behind and bring them to the principal’s office. At 12:30 p.m., the start of the regular lunch period, students who discovered their losses would repair to the principal’s office to claim their lunches and/or books. Frequently, several lunches weren’t claimed. In such instances, the principal would open the bags and divide the contents among the very poor kids whose parents couldn’t afford to provide them lunches. On a whim, early one morning Jake scooped up horse manure from the street, carefully slid it into a brown bag, placed the brown bag into a shoe box, and then secured the package with string. He took the neat package to school. Towards the end of the 10:30 a.m. break, Jake left his present against the wall of the schoolyard and returned to his classroom. Later that afternoon Jake’s imaginative efforts were rewarded. The principal, who obviously had opened the package of turds, summoned Jake to his office and sternly questioned him about his culpability in the prank. Poppa, of course, denied any involvement. Accepting reality, the principal terminated the arraignment with, ‘Propp”, I can’t prove it, but this is your kind of work. I’ll be watching you carefully from now on.” Poppa didn’t laugh until he got home several hours later and recounted his deed to brothers Harry and Dave.

Poppa Goes to Work

After he graduated, exactly what Poppa did, and in what sequence, escapes me. I know that for a while he continued delivering newspapers early each morning to several hundred families resident in the local tenements. Freed of the daily hours devoted to obtaining his brief formal education, Poppa now took on a milk delivery route which he coordinated with his newspaper route. This required his getting up at 4 a.m. to insure that milk at 10 cents a quart, and newspapers at one cent weekdays and five cents on Sunday, were received before the breadwinners among his customers left home for their jobs. During these getting-to-know-you years, America didn’t provide gold in the streets, or full stomachs for the Propp family. Poppa was hungry and undernourished most of the time. In 1897 homogenized milk hadn’t yet been invented. The cream in each quart bottle of Borden’s collected at the narrow neck of the bottle, and extended downwards for about two inches. In cold winter weather the milk in the bottles stacked on the delivery wagon froze and expanded, pushing the cream and the bottle cap up about one or two inches above the top of the glass bottle. Poppa seized on this climatic vagary to steal sweet sustenance. Just before effecting delivery, he’d carefully remove the protruding caps from several bottles, take a large tablespoon from his pocket, cut off an inch of the frozen sweet cream protrusions on each bottle, swallow the treat, and then replace the round cardboard bottle caps. Jake’s arctic thievery never was discovered.

In 1897 many, if not most, of the Jewish families in Western Russia hoped for a chance to emigrate to urban America, the land of the Golden Medina where, rumor had it, the streets were paved with gold. Unfortunately, Sutter’s Mill was on the other side of the continent, gold had been discovered there in 1848, not 1897, and none of the paved streets of nearby San Francisco shone golden yellow unless a diarrheic horse recently had passed by.

The economy in New York City was somewhat out of kilter, and it was difficult for recent immigrants to get even the poorest paying jobs. Jake’s fluency in English helped him somewhat. After suffering some painful dental problems, Jake decided he’d like to become a dentist. He realized that this took a lot of money. He somehow established a friendship with a local politician known as the “Hustler,” who alleged that he had an important role in deciding who was granted the franchise to operate a newsstand under the steps at each side of the city owned Third Avenue Elevated Railway at 125th Street and Third Avenue. To better his chances, Poppa added an incentive: he offered the politician a 15% cut of the profits. The then-current operator was an elderly gentleman who seemed sick most of the time. Poppa figured that while he was in dental school, Harry and Dave would run the newspaper business for him, taking reasonable salaries for themselves, and that sufficient profits would be left over to pay for his dental school expenses. For almost two years, Poppa was a gofer and somewhat abused manservant or the Hustler. When the elderly guy who had been operating the targeted newsstands died suddenly, Jake spoke up to his professed sponsor and asked for the franchise that had been promised to him. Mr. hustler back-pedaled rapidly and told Jake that someone higher up in the Tammany Hall hierarchy previously had pledged the franchise to another guy.

Many of Poppa’s dreams faded away, as he learned that politicians’ promises were made and destined from the start to be broken.

Poppa had cousins in London, England, and he decided to try his luck there. He signed on as cabin boy on an ancient rusty ship that ferried sheep to England. Despite rough weather and his lowly position, the trip Cross the Atlantic was not all unpleasant for Jake. He became a friend of the second mate, and enjoyed the company of the crew who worked, drank, and sang, just as several Warner Brothers films of the 1920’s portrayed them. Although Poppa weighed only 125 pounds, he participated with other members of the crew in wrestling on the deck. Despite being the smallest contestant, Jake evaded being pinned by all except the second mate and the cook.

Job opportunities and the scale of living in London turned out to be even worse than in New York City. After four months, Poppa took a similar job on a similar ship going back to New York. He landed near South Ferry with only his meager pay of fourteen dollars in his pocket. Rather than spend come of the gelt on trolley fare to 125th street, he walked north all the way to 125th street, and bought two oranges for his Chronically sick sister, Rosie.

Shortly after the turn of the century, Jake developed a friendship with Harry Braverman whose family lived on the same block in East Harlem. Harry was a painter, proud of his status as a union member. He urged Jake to become an apprentice because, once in the union, there were many side benefits. Jake agreed to a tryout on the job. The foreman assigned Harry and Jake to work together on a scaffold and paint the brick sides of three nearby tenements. For most of two hot summer days Jake was up on the scaffold, alongside Harry, wielding the brush, and sweating profusely. The third day of his apprenticeship was a scorcher. Jake began painting at eight in the morning, and by eleven, sweat was running into his eyes and down his back. He put the paint brush down for a moment so he could get a cloth out of his pocket to do some mopping. Just then the foreman came by, looked up, and bellowed, “Propp, you’re a bum. You’re not going to make it if you don’t keep working.” Poppa made Harry assist him in lowering the scaffold. When he reached the ground, he strode up to the foreman and hit him in the face with the wet paintbrush. This, of course, terminated Poppa’s brief career as the poor man’s Van Gogh. Years later, by coincidence, Harry Braverman and family took up residence on Boynton Avenue in the Bronx, just one block from the Propp mansion on Elder Avenue. Ted Propp and Harry’s younger son, Saul, became a good friend during their school days. Sidney and Saul’s older brother, Irving also developed a happy friendship, and both shared the summer of 1926 at Camp Kee-yo-no on Fourth Lake of the Fulton chain of twelve lakes in the Adirondacks.

Poppa’s Brothers and Sisters. et al,

From 1908 to 1910, Poppa worked at Goldfarb’s on East 34th Street. Reputedly, this was then the largest retail flower shop in the USA, as it actually was in 1936 when I worked for Goldfarb’s (My Florist, Inc.) at its shop on 83rd Street and Broadway. Poppa’s new vocation was rather unique, considering that almost all Minsk area expatriates, proudly self-described as “Litvaks,” entered into one or another aspect of the garment industry. That certainly was true of Momma’s brothers, Yael, Jake, Abram, and Alex who became either garment cutters or pressers. Come to think of it, atypically, none of Poppa’s brothers found employment in the garment industry. Marcus, 17 years older than Jake, was into some odd-ball aspect of “General Merchandise. “He’s buried in Washington Cemetery in Brooklyn, as is his father... who may or may not be the same person as Jake’s father. In late 19th century Russia, a spouse’s early death often created a widow with children who subsequently would marry a widower with his own children. Then they produced a third crop of half and full brothers and sisters. That’s the situation with Poppa’s parents, and I don’t know exactly who was the offspring of which parent. I’m named “Shimmen,” supposedly after Poppa’s dad. In recent conversation with Cousin Mary Rose, a lovely lady, she confirmed the status of Marcus as the eldest. He was followed by Rosie, whom I never met (she died very young), then Dora, David, Katy, Harry, Jake, Leah, and Anna. I’m a bit confused about one point. If Poppa’s Hebrew name is Yakov ben Shloymo, where does the Shimmen (my name) come in?

Dora married a mid-level executive in the Postal Service, Ben Kantrowitz, and bore two sons who didn’t care to maintain contact with the rest of the Propps. David, a half-brother of Jake, opened a business in 1922 in which he had little prior experience. He did it with a small cash down payment and a plethora of notes. Via a distress sale, he took over a retail coal delivery business that boasted four trucks and five employees. The company’s service area covered most of the Bronx and northern Manhattan. Uncle David worked on low mark-up and minimal expenses. By 1925, he owned, before encumbrances, about 40 trucks conspicuously marked on each side with placards reading, “DAVID PROPP COAL.” Almost without warning, this nascent empire collapsed. Family legend has it that David developed cancer and died shortly after diagnosis was made. The business, loaded with debt, wasn’t salable and only a few months after David’s demise, everything was liquidated. This left his two Orthodox, nubile daughters, Mary and Lillian, with vastly reduced chances of marrying well. Orphaned Jewish daughters, sans even the proverbial pot for a dowry, didn’t have nearly as much mating appeal as the daughters of a coal tycoon with 40 trucks. Nonetheless, Mary married Cantor Abe Rose, who sang at my wedding, and later became an Orthodox rabbi in the wealthy Chicago suburb of Elgin. He officiated at the funeral of Mike Todd, and sired two sons, Emanuel and David, who, “auf tzu lochess”, became Reform rabbis with congregations, one in Oregon, and one in North Carolina.

Lillian married Bernie Weinstein, a genial, hardworking man. For about twenty years he operated a Manhattan luncheonette on 39th Street and Sixth Avenue, before retiring to Florida. During his years on Sixth Avenue, he earned the sobriquet of “The Egg Cream King.” Customers averred that his - concoctions had that certain a “Je ne says quolffl’” element that set his drink above all competition.

Next to last in rank by age, but first when rated by good looks, came Leah, followed by Anna. Neither sister bore any children. Leah, a stunning beauty, married Randolph Baremore, a Protestant advertising executive. Vivacious Anna became a star on the Loew’s and RKO-Keith vaudeville and musical comedy circuits. In 1925, Poppa took the family, sans infant Ted, to Loew’s Miner’s, a vaudeville-only theater on 149th Street, just west of Third Avenue in the Bronx. l was thrilled to read on the marquee, “ANNA PROPP AND HER 16 BEAUTIES.” Many years later when her husband, Frank McNamara (an even bigger musical comedy star than Anna) had passed on, she came to visit us at Josie’s home on Shore Road in Long Beach, New York. Anna was a complete show by herself. All four feet ten inches of her delighted us with her charm, giggles, and reminiscences. Poppa never spoke to me about the double shanda of two girls from one Jewish family marrying Goyim. Evidently, they were ahead of their time in this respect, and both enjoyed long and happy marriages. The Propp brothers apparently accepted the inter-marriages without rancor or prejudice. It seems as though marrying a Christian was less frowned upon than marrying a Galitziana. (Author’s note: I married a Galitz and she’s been generous, gracious and loving all during our years together.)

Now for thumbnails of Harry and Katy

The song goes, “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall...,” and apparently into each family one member must evolve so as to earn the appellation “Black Sheep.” Little Harry - he barely was more than a bantamweight - and never held a full-time job in his life. During the college football season (there was no pro football then), he sold flannel pennants, flags, souvenir pins, and other ”chazerel” at Baker’s Field, Columbia University’s home stadium on the northern tip of Manhattan. I don’t know if Uncle Harry had any other regular or intermittent source of income. For many years Harry, homeless, slept on a shelf attached to the back of the icebox in Jake’s store. He had a key to the premises, and would let himself in after the store was closed for the day. On occasion, Harry would run errands for his brother, or deliver a small floral piece to a nearby address. Poppa, understandably, always paid him several times the going rate for such chores. When by chance I’d meet Harry at the shop, almost invariably he’d comment, hey kid, you don’t know it, but you’re sitting on top of the world.” I found Uncle Harry to be a gentle, forlorn loser, pathetically unable to adapt to the American culture. The last ten years of his life, Uncle Harry upgraded his living quarters from the icebox shelf to a furnished bedroom on Boynton Avenue in the Bronx. Although living only a block from Jake’s residence on Elder Avenue, Harry rarely visited, or made his presence known. When his landlady found him dead in his bed one late spring day in 1955, she immediately phoned Momma. This was after she prudently had searched through Harry’s pockets and dresser drawers; she told Momma that she had found $550 hidden in a sock. she was afraid that the cops, whom she summoned an hour later, would steal the cash cache. It was decided that I’d handle the legal, funeral and financial aspects of Harry’s death. Going by the book, I ascertained I would have to get releases from his next of kin so that the money could be used to provide Harry with a grave, coffin, and funeral. This was accomplished expeditiously, and Harry now rests in a fine New Jersey cemetery in a grave only several hundred feet from the Cantor family plot.

Finally, we get to Poppa’s half-sister, Katy. She already was married to Yael Cantor, Momma’s brother, when Dina at age 18 landed at Ellis Island in 1904. Jake, the by-now suave man-about-New-York-Town, often traveled down to Cherry Street on the lower East Side to visit Katy and Yael. There he encountered Yael’s beautiful greenhorn sister and instantly fell in love. No shodken (professional matchmaker) was needed. The phenomenon of Dina’s brother married to Jake’s sister, and Jake marrying Yael’s sister, created what we called “double first cousins.” Though genetically very similar, Yael and Jake’s offspring didn’t look alike, think alike, or get similar education’s Perhaps Dina’s forceful drive made some difference with respect to her children’s education and world outlook. As far as I know, Momma didn’t tamper with the genes.

Jake the Entrepreneur

Jake and Dina were married on January 8, 1911 at a catering hall on East Broadway. Their honeymoon lasted only a day and a half, because he had to go back to work at Goldfarb’s. Over some 40-plus years, I suppose the couple had a bit more than the usual quota of spousal quarrels. But their love for each other always was there. As a matter of fact, Jake’s last known words were to Dina from his bed in Long Beach Memorial Hospital when he whispered to her a few hours before he died, “Dina, l love you.”

Several months before their wedding, Poppa bought out an established florist, a Mr. Brock, whose shop was located in an almost purely Irish neighborhood on Second Avenue between 36th and 37th Streets. The purchase price was $600. In 1955 Poppa sold his shop, by now relocated three blocks north on Second Avenue, for $1,000. Subsequently, l would tease ever-denigrating Momma by praising Poppa as a very astute businessman who cleverly had managed to sell his business at a whopping net gain of over 66 percent.

When Irish Eves Are Smiling

“May you never forget what is worth remembering or remember what is best forgotten”

(An Old Irish blessing)

From 1910 until 1935, Jacob Samuel Propp (Shloymo Yakov Ben Shimon) operated Propp’s Flower Shop at 697 Second Avenue. Here he prospered, became “The White Jew” to his mostly Irish clientele and was so highly respected and admired, that a friend in Tammany Hall had him appointed Democratic County Committeeman for his election district. Jake used this position to good business advantage. He donated bouquets and appropriate floral pieces to local churches and organizations on special occasions and holidays. Insofar as a source for the purchase of flowers was concerned, Jake figuratively “owned” St. Gabriel’s and its parishioners. The church was headquartered from 1870 until the mid 1930’s on East 35th Street between First and Second avenues. Ever-increasing automobile and truck traffic racing into Manhattan each a.m., and racing out again each p.m. resulted in the demise of St. Gabriel’s. The entire block of buildings was demolished coincident with the construction of the Queens Midtown Tunnel and its approaches. In the 1990’s, vehicles no longer race into, or later in the day, out of Manhattan. Despite Robert Moses’ far fetched” advance planning, cars now creep into and out of the smallest borough in daily near-total gridlock. Tommy Hogan’s wife, Mary, sobbed loudly when she learned that St. Gabriel’s was Thurman as equal partner and shop manager, even though Bernie put up no money. Bernie had a German father and an Irish mother. Her brother was a famous monsignor in the Catholic hierarchy in the Big City. He had heard about Jake’s dealings with St. Gabriel’s, and he thought he could suggest teamwork that would get his sister and unemployed nephew off his ecclesiastical back. Jake bought the deal when he got specific sacerdotal assurances of acceptance into the community. Jake’s partnership role was played down. Bernie signed the lease, and on opening day his uncle graced the shop with his revered presence, augmented with two kegs of beer for free distribution. Over the next decade, the shop prospered and Jake’s role became increasingly evident. The local embargo on “furriners” gradually lifted. The newly relocated Madison Square Garden arena at Eighth Avenue and 50th Street brought people of diverse backgrounds into the area. These newcomers included Italian and Greek restaurateurs whose exotic bills of fare drew many tourists to the area. The taboo on outsiders conclusively was shattered when Mayor Hylan hosted Jack Dempsey at a much-publicized dinner at the grand opening of a posh Italian restaurant on 46th Street just west of Eighth Avenue. scheduled for demolition. “Why don’t they dig the friggin’ tunnel up on 45th Street? Nobody but a couple of Eyetalians and a bunch of lousy atheists live up there....” Each week from about 1918 to 1930 Poppa donated a basket of groceries to a needy family that worshipped at St. Gabriel’s. On Sunday the priest had the unenviable task of selecting the recipient family of the week. Every so often, a really hard-up family that had qualified for Jake’s largesse the previous creek still was desperately hungry. In such stases, the head of the family was counseled quietly to seek out Jake on the chance that another gift for the pantry was possible. poppa usually met the situation with a second, somewhat smaller handout. This beneficence earned him lavish thanks from he families so assisted, along with ever increasing popularity and respect in the community as “one Jew almost as decent as Christ himself.” By 1914 Jake’s business and profits had grown substantially. Spurred on by Dina’s urgings, he opened another flower shop on the East Side of Tenth Avenue, between 48th and 49th Streets. I specify the East Side of the avenue because at the time there existed an unofficial but generally respected proscription against anyone not of Irish ancestry operating a retail business or establishing residency in a sharply defined demesne. This Hibernian enclave, known as Hell’s Kitchen, extended from West 45th Street to and including 49th Street and from the East Side of Tenth Avenue all the way east to Eighth Avenue. Allow me to explain how Jake was permitted to operate in this forbidden territory. He installed Bernie Thurman as equal partner and shop manager, even though Bernie put up no money. Bernie had a German father and an Irish mother. Her brother was a famous monsignor in the Catholic hierarchy in the Big City. He had heard about Jake’s dealings with St. Gabriel’s, and he thought he could suggest teamwork that would get his sister and unemployed nephew off his ecclesiastical back. Jake bought the deal when he got specific sacerdotal assurances of acceptance into the community. Jake’s partnership role was played down. Bernie signed the lease, and on opening day his uncle graced the shop with his revered presence, augmented with two kegs of beer for free distribution. Over the next decade, the shop prospered and Jake’s role became increasingly evident. The local embargo on “furriners” gradually lifted. The newly relocated Madison Square Garden arena at Eighth Avenue and 50th Street brought people of diverse backgrounds into the area. These newcomers included Italian and Greek restaurateurs whose exotic bills of fare drew many tourists to the area. The taboo on outsiders conclusively was shattered when Mayor Hylan hosted Jack Dempsey at a much-publicized dinner at the grand opening of a posh Italian restaurant on 46th Street just west of Eighth Avenue.

Bernie and Jake remained partners and good friends until the advent of the Great Depression. Bernie had been drawing a modest salary before splitting profits with Jake. But when for almost a year there were no profits left to be shared after Bernie’s salary, the partners decided it was time to abandon ship. Subsequently, Bernie drove a Checker cab, and then became a numbers runner. Just in time, as his health began to fail, he inherited a small farm and relocated to upstate New York.

Next door to Poppa’s shop at 697 Second Avenue, was a poolroom owned by a one-of-a-kind eponymous slob I thought was named John de Louis. Only after several years did l learn that John’s appellation was quite different: it was “John the Loose.” John was ugly, foul-mouthed and resembled the late actor Wallace Berry with a major case of Bell’s Palsy. Almost every other word John gravel voiced out was foul, and as he spoke to you, chewing tobacco juice often would dribble from his mouth onto his shirt. Almost unbelievably, many fastidious locals patronized John’s joint, seeming to enjoy a brief descent into a lower world. Once or twice, John the Loose was written up in the pages of the Daily News as entertainingly unique in his grossness and someone to meet and then relish leaving shortly thereafter. John once accidentally did Poppa a favor. In the twenties and thirties there was a tough local cop named Johnny Broderick. Jack Dempsey had called him the best rough-and-tumble fighter in the world.” Broderick had gained considerable fame by scaring the homicidal Two Gun Crowley” into surrendering to him after Crowley had broken out of his jail cell in the old Tombs pokey. Johnny also had beaten up the notorious Jack “Legs” Diamond, and had single handedly destroyed several hoods in a Coney Island Mafia hangout

The New York City Police Department was searching for a fugitive felon named Pasta Pete, who on this day was in John’s poolroom. Pete saw Broderick enter the front door at almost the same time Broderick spied him. Pete dashed out the back door of the poolroom, vaulted a fence and then entered the back room of Poppa’s shop. Here, his feet got entangled in several empty flower pots on the floor, and he toppled, just before Broderick caught up with him, kicked him in the face, and then put on the cuffs. Broderick mistakenly thanked Poppa profusely for tackling Pete and helping nab him. Actually, Poppa was frightened and almost frozen into immobility during the several minutes the action took place. Poppa feared possible retaliation by Pasta Pete’s friends. But nothing untoward happened, and Pasta Pete was remanded to upstate Clinton prison for five to seven years.

The Great Depression

Meanwhile, Jake’s hitherto ever expanding world had collapsed. His Second Avenue daily average “take” that had numbered in the hundreds of dollars, now was reduced to twenty and thirty dollar grosses gleaned from picky posy purchasers. Poppa stopped all donations to all causes. He had weighed 125 pounds when he married Dina (Josie has pictures so attesting), but when things became real tough, somehow he ballooned up to 205 pounds on the same 63 inches tall corpus.

Just before the repeal of prohibition, a still grateful John Broderick offered Poppa a chance to make a lot of money in an enterprise that clearly was illegal. Broderick planned to set up, with Jake as a 25% partner, three “whiskey flats” in mid Manhattan, to sell freshly made bathtub gin” and a two-day-old liquor that masqueraded as imported bootleg Scotch. All Poppa had to do was visit each location once a week, check things out, and then deliver the take to Broderick’s cousin. Jake’s florist business now was off about 75%, due to the maturing of the Depression. At first, Poppa agreed to the proposed set-up, in which he wasn’t required to invest any money. He visited the three sites and met the three retired cops who each would run a shop. After initially accepting the deal, and profusely thanking Broderick, Poppa didn’t sleep for a week. He backed out, and someone else replaced him as the supervisor and collector of weekly receipts. Broderick wasn’t angry. He merely said something to the effect that “Some Jews always want to play it extra safe.”

Wait there’s still another reprise involving Broderick.

About six months after Repeal, a recently retired middleweight Italian professional boxer, known as Bobby Lyons, approached Jake with a legal enterprise. He said Broderick had suggested that he speak to Poppa about opening a saloon next door to the flower shop at 693 Second Avenue. Once again, Jake was to become a partner with no investment required. He would draw no salary until after Bobby Lyons got back his investment, then they’d split, 60% for Bobby and 40% for Jake. Friendly city and state officials quickly granted an operating license for the saloon (now they’re called bars), and within less than three months, poor Poppa was working 18 hours a day, up from the 13 daily hours he averaged in his flower shop. About 8 to 10 times a day, Jake was scheduled to walk next door to the saloon, check things out, listen to the bartender’s complaints and suggestions, mollify loud drunks, cheerfully greet the “regulars,” and occasionally give them a free drink on the house.

Beers were only 5 and 10 cents per glass, and best selling rye whiskey cost 25 cents for a 1 /2-ounce shot. The saloon operated from about 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m., and had several dozen or so regulars. It was usually crowded from 5:30 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. each weekday afternoon with workers who stopped at the spa before going home to Ma, the kids, and supper. Jake’s friendship with the nearby St. Gabriel’s parishioners drew most of the regulars.

After eight months of operations, Jake was euphoric. Soon, Bobby’s investment would be entirely repaid, and he’d start sharing in the profits.

At 10:00 one weekday morning, Poppa got a call from a police sergeant friend directing him not to go next door to the saloon, and that “all hell was about to break loose.” About an hour later, two trucks parked outside the saloon, and burly men armed with hammers and crowbars proceeded to bust apart the mirrors and fixtures in the saloon. Then they carried out all the booze bottles and cuspidors.

At about 4:00 p.m., a local precinct plainclothes cop told Jake the reason for the destruction of the saloon. It seems that Bobby Lyons was a big bettor on the horses and on baseball games. He had had a long losing streak and owed certain Mob connected bookies a large amount of moola. Bobby had made several promises to pay, but had failed to produce or even offer an explanation. This finally resulted in the destruction of the saloon and more of Poppa’s dreams. Bobby Lyons never apologized to Poppa.

Jake learned that a West Side tenement Bobby owned in his wife’s name was used to square things with the bookies. Poppa never again spoke to Bobby, although they’d meet on occasion at funerals and parish parties.

Funeral work always was the principal part of the flower shop’s volume and profits. Although Poppa wasn’t manually adroit (Sidney used to allege that his old man, armed with a four-pound hammer, still couldn’t drive a nail into a cork plank). He was a speed demon at constructing elegant floral wreaths, bleeding hearts, crosses, and every so often, a magnificent blanket designed to be laid across an entire coffin. It’s not reasonable to believe that the neighborhood death rate sharply declined in 1930 and 1931. Nonetheless, Jake’s funeral business declined about 85%. If twenty million people were unemployed nationwide, it seemed to Jake that over half of them lived within a ten block radius from his shop. Murray Hill residents by-and-larye needed whatever money they had to buy, in preference to flowers, groceries and other vital necessities such as tobacco, and/or a pint of bootleg rye.

Expensive sentimental floral farewells to departed kin and friends no longer were in vogue. Of the decently “showy” funerals that did take place, strings frequently were attached. It was the custom to have enough life insurance, not for the education of children and grandchildren as commonly obtains today, but to provide sufficient funds for a respectable wake and send-off to Valhalla. In the 1 930’s there were no such things as unemployment insurance or other entitlements. If a death occurred in a family whose wage earner was unemployed, a seemly funeral followed, nonetheless. Typically, undertakers took charge of everything and provided funeral and all related services “on-the-cuff,” hoping to receive payment when life insurance proceeds actually were received by the beneficiaries. This extension of credit encompassed the florist, the church, and even the gravediggers. Everybody had to wait for the Metropolitan Life or Prudential check to arrive at the home of the recently deceased. The term “recently deceased,” however, often became somewhat inappropriate. Some checks arrived at the beneficiary’s home more than two years after the interment. Perhaps such delays, with Metropolitan and Prudential earning interest on the undistributed funds, in part help explain their phenomenal growth in the early decades of this century. Jake’s best customer, by far, was the undertaking establishment of skeet and Larney, located on 30th Street, just west of Second Avenue. More than a third of all his income during his salad days derived from that establishment. Jake and Larney both suffered when Old Man Skelly died. Jake feared for the hitherto mutually beneficial concord between S & L and himself. Larney suddenly realized that, despite his many years in the business, his knowledge of it was limited in certain key areas. He confided to Jake that he somehow had assumed that Skelly never would die. Larney took over and promptly ran into a financial snag. He extended liberal credit to bereaved families who had asserted there was ample life insurance to cover all funeral costs. Unfortunately, too often there was no insurance at all, or a policy had lapsed. Although Skelly always had verified insurance coverage, hapless Larney didn’t bother to check until mounting unpaid bills forced him to realize the error of his ways. After a year under Larney’s sole ownership, the firm owed Jake the not inconsiderable amount of $2600 for the flowers and potted palms provided for seven funerals where Larney had acted in the role of a general contractor. Jake never learned whether or not Larney received the proceeds of any of the seven putative life insurance policies, nor did he ascertain whether the priest or cemetery workers ever were paid. He, however, did learn that Larney, a childless widower, suddenly had folded the shop and gone back to Ireland to live with a nephew. Some years later, Jake received a letter from Larney advising that he was an appointed representative for the Irish Sweepstakes and was authorized to sell tickets via the mails to Americans. Although such gambling activity was contrary to domestic law, and despite Larney’s tarnished record, Jake bought four tickets each year, one for each of his children, mailing the money to Larney in Limerick, Ireland. Poppa never won anything except the cheers of Sidney and myself, and the jeers of Dina. She felt he was throwing away twenty dollars each year in a quixotic endeavor.

Over the years, Poppa had several assistants in the retail flower business. The most notable and valuable was Katy’s son, Irving. He was tall, fair, and handsome, with a John Barrymore profile. As did his aunt Dora, Irv somehow acquired a William Buckley manner of speech. This served to fascinate and attract customers, particularly on-the-make society ladies of all ages. After learning the basics of the trade at Jake’s, Irving moved on to Goldfarb’s main shop at 57th Street and Third Avenue. A few years later, owner Morty Goldfarb installed Irving, now known as Eddie Canter, as manager of the sparkling new shop at 63rd Street and Madison Avenue. Here, Eddie took up fairly serious drinking at Cerutti’s, a fashionable nearby high-society spa. He proved to be an irresistible magnet for tall, well-educated, affluent women, whether married or single, who eagerly sought his companionship and favor. When Irving married Rosaline Tillman, all this gallivanting abruptly ended, at least insofar as womanizing was concerned. His ongoing affair with booze continued at a somewhat lesser level until his death.

Irving’s younger brother, Morris, succeeded him as Poppa’s aide. Although a quick learner, Morris’ career in the trade ended after three years when he secured a New York City Civil Service position. Poppa’s Sidney, who always had hung out at the shop for years on end, became the proprietor of The Gramercy Park Florist in 1939 and ran it until his induction into the U.S. Army in 1943. Curiously, Momma’s sister, Libba, had two sons who became florists without first working for Poppa. I, Jake’s second son (after graduating from CCNY in 1936), briefly worked at Goldfarb’s shop at Broadway and 83rd Street. l left that employ to sample and quickly reject a profession as a veterinarian.

Of course whoever has read this far most certainly is aware that Jake’s third son, Ted, survived Townsend Harris Hall, City College, the Army Air Force in WW 11, and Harvard Law to become a successful CPA, tax lawyer, estate planner, and grandfather. However, lest Ted become too haughty, let me hereby remind him that Momma often referred to her fourth child as “Potscrebbicull,” which translates into “scrapings of the pot.”

Working with Jake for years was the powerful Roger Noonan. He drove the shop’s light truck delivering his boss’ creations throughout Manhattan. Roger had the largest paws I ever saw on a human. When he squeezed your hand, even your toes felt compressed. It wasn’t his exceptional strength, however, that marked Roger as It one-of-a-kind. The self-starter on automobiles first appeared on Detroit’s products in the early twenties. Up until then, a car was started via a steel crank that was inserted into a notch in the front of the vehicle and then forcefully turned until the motor caught. As the crank was turned, considerable resistance developed; sometimes, if the crank hadn’t been inserted all the way, it would slip out and spin dangerously. In 1919 such a crank slipped its notch and slammed into Roger’s face, horribly disfiguring him. After many surgeries, he still resembled a monster. Behind his back, Roger became known as “No Nose Noonan.” But his name-callers needn’t have feared being caught. Despite his awesome strength and fierce visage, Roger was a gentle soul, whom I never saw angry enough to threaten anyone with physical force. The building housing Poppa’s shop was torn down in 1935 so that a large apartment house could be built on the site. Poppa relocated to 777 Second Avenue between 41st and 42nd Streets.

Visiting Royalty

Poppa closely followed the boxing game. He was thrilled when Jackie Fields, a great Jewish welterweight champion, visited him at his shop. Jackie was in the same army medical unit as 1. We bunked together and became lifelong friends. Jackie, who owned 2% of the Riviera Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, invited Poppa to spend a week there as his guest. Poppa had to decline, but the aura of Jackie’s visit lingered on for many days.

When I was honorably discharged from the Army in 1946, Poppa asked me to visit him wearing my Captain’s uniform. Poppa took me on a tour of several local saloons. He proudly introduced me to his friends and customers, many of whom had served in World War I as members of the Fighting Sixty-ninth” Regiment. You may remember a movie of that name that starred James Cagney and Pat O’Brien.

Not Totally Obliterated Footprints in The

Sands of Time

In the early twenties, Poppa would close his shop early on Sundays and arrive home on Wheeler Avenue in the Bronx at about 3:30 p.m. Sidney and I watched to spot Poppa’s arrival, and then we’d run to greet him. Often we ran into him at top speed, trying to climb up his chest, and often we got hurt. But such shtick delighted Poppa and made his day, if not his week.

More Footprints

Poppa once bet $1,000 on heavyweight boxing champion yet-to-be Jack Dempsey. Jack was fighting with an opponent whose name I can’t recall. Poppa won his bet but the guy who owed him the $1,000 was acutely short of gent. He made Poppa an offer: “Give me $1,000, cancel the $1,0001 owe you, and I’ll transfer to you my White Limousine (valued between a Caddy and a Rolls), plus my ‘colored’ chauffeur, ‘Doc.”’ Poppa bought the deal and it paid him rich dividends for about six years. Every couple of months on a Sunday, Doc would arrive with the limo at our Wheeler Avenue home, and then drive us to visit Momma’s mother who lived with Jacob Cantor, Mom’s brother, in a very poor Bronx neighborhood. Sid and I delighted in picking up the car’s microphone and talking to Doc, whose front area was sealed in heavy glass. En route, we also made sure we enjoyed a soda kept cold in a small icebox in the vehicle.

Epilogue (1996)

Jacob Propp’s name was passed, somewhat modified, to his son Theodore’s second son, the brilliant mathematician James Propp, who is “Jimmy” to his family and friends, not “Jake.”

Jake’s genes now have spread to a fifth generation, where they are diluted (to one sixteenth if I correctly remember my 1935 course in genetics) to a minor role in the Genome (chromosomal complex) of each descendant.

It is hoped, nonetheless, that this narration of Poppa’s life in America, his Victories and losses, will equally serve as a tough philosophic guide to all his descendants.

Implicit in the foregoing tale is Jake’s simple credo, “BEFORE ALL ELSE, THE FAMILY COMES FIRST.”