Uncle Bill Rubin was not a blood relative. He was an old Russian Jew my father sort of adopted. He was the closest thing to a grandfather that I had. He was married to Aunt Anne — a New England Wasp related to the Phyfe's, as in Duncan Phyfe. They were an odd couple in the '50s — like my parents were — a Jew and a shiksa.
They never had children but they had Lassie, an elderly, smelly Collie who had her own room and bed (which smelled). My sister wouldn't go into that room or even pet Lassie, but I loved her. They lived in a sweet older house in a section of Po'town which was in decline. They kept their home clean and orderly. Uncle Bill owned an ancient, huge brown car, which he kept in his garage, covered with blankets. Inside it smelled of mothballs. He drove slowly up Main Street, cars honking; he'd curse in Yiddish. The back seat where I sat was huge and Aunt Anne would let me chew orange Aspergum from her purse.
Uncle Bill was the cook. He made wonderful meatballs and chicken soup. Sometimes dog hair would find its way into the food, which was served on colorful Fiesta plates —orange and cobalt blue. They had a complete set, which years later would be declared hazardous due to lead in the glaze. Everything about their house was old, the furniture, the antique rugs, the fake glowing logs in the unused fireplace in a spare room. I used to love to turn the switch on and watch the red/orange glow. Uncle Bill always told me to turn it off.
Uncle Bill spoke Yiddish with my father when they didn't want us kids to know what they were talking about. He also spoke Russian, Polish, German, and wonderfully accented English. Aunt Anne, who had a long, thin Waspy nose, was quiet and demure, always very sweet and a little dim.
He was a tailor. He made beautiful handmade suits for my father. They would go together to pick out the fabric in New York City. When my brother was Bar Mitzvahed, Uncle Bill made Daddy a gorgeous suit. It was December, and cold out. We had a gathering at our home afterwards and for some reason Daddy went out to check the swimming pool cover. Maybe a strap had come loose. At any rate, somehow he fell into the pool. He yelled and we all came to help him out. Uncle Bill just stood by the pool screaming, "Da Suit, Da Suit!! You are ruining Da Suit!" Later we all laughed.
