Some people are born to royalty, even though they may never quite achieve it. My father was one such. It’s probably his fault that I grew up assuming I was really a princess who was blessed by guardian angels despite much evidence to the contrary. My father started life in a tenement in the Bronx, surrounded by brothers and sisters surviving on milk watered down with coffee because coffee was cheaper than milk. His father made good money as a master housepainter. Unfortunately, most of the money fell out of his pocket on his way home when he stopped off at a bar to get drunk. In those days, you couldn’t go to Home Depot and buy a can of paint and a brush to go with it. Housepainters had to be apprenticed and work their way up the journeyman ladder until they could mix their own paint to match the color of faded curtains. Only then could they achieve master status. In Grandpa’s case, it enabled him to have plenty of customers, dress well, drink to his heart’s content, and sire numerous offspring who didn’t have enough to eat. As a result of too many children and not enough food, Daddy’s mother died when he was nine. Not knowing what else to do, his father deposited those of his brood who were too young to be out on their own into an orphanage. My father told me the girls and boys were separated into different campuses, or jail cells, depending upon who was telling the story. They were, however, able to chat between the chain link fence separating them whenever class was out and outdoor recreation was in. Aunt Gerry said she had a blast at the orphanage. She made lots of friends, got enough to eat, and turned punishment into comedy acts. But then that’s the kind of gal Aunt Gerry was. Dad, on the other hand, was supposed to be the King in charge of his own destiny. Unfortunately, his Headmaster had other ideas. For example, lights out at night meant it’s dark now and go to sleep. My father didn’t approve of that rule. He wasn’t ready to stop reading, so he found a dim flashlight and continued to read under his bedcovers. He did this every night until he woke up blind. Seriously, blind as in could not see a thing. He was taken to a doctor who determined his blindness was the result of too much eyestrain from reading in the dark. The remedy was an eyewash that Dad said felt like dripping acid into his eyes. He was forced to do this several times a day until his vision returned, which it did after three days of torture. Three days of blindness and acid eyewash made a convert of him and he never again read under dim light, nor did he allow me to duplicate his error. He was forever coming into whatever room I was hiding in with my book, turning on all the lights, and saying, “Don’t read in the dark! You’ll strain your eyes and go blind!” This is a diversion from the main point, which is that my father always knew he was His Majesty despite others’ attempts to prove otherwise. He later tried to explain the dynamics between the Headmaster and himself by saying the man was simply trying to establish his authority, which Dad was always resisting. The other children were watching, so the Headmaster’s reputation was at stake. It became a battle of wills. For example, my father won a prize for having the highest grades in the school. The reward was a seat at a parade honoring General Pershing, but the Headmaster barred him from attending as a punishment. Naturally, he found a way to sneak out, take his place in the bleachers, watch the parade, and then walk back in through the front door where the Headmaster was waiting with his belt strap. Dad got whacked but emerged victorious. After enough beatings, he decided he’d had his fill of the orphanage so he ran away. The police found and returned him; he got another beating; then he ran away again. This pattern continued until the Headmaster got tired of the fight and told the police to keep him. The judge overseeing the case asked my father what would happen if he was returned to the orphanage. Would he run away again? My father answered honestly “Yes, Sir,” so the judge decided he was a hopeless case and assigned him to a foster home. Where was Grandpa all this while, you might ask? I think he paid the orphanage a little whenever he could. I’ve heard there was a second wife, so the young ones went back home, and then when that didn’t work out they were sent back to the orphanage. Daddy may have missed out on all that fun because by now he was living with a nice family who fed him better. Before I tell you about his foster family years and beyond, you should know another thing that happened to my father at the orphanage, something that affected his life more than blindness and beatings. This was a home for orphaned Jewish children, so every Saturday they were allowed to march whatever distance it took them to reach the nearest Temple where they stood silently in the back during services. They weren’t allowed to actually sit down because they were too poor to pay for Temple membership, therefore they weren’t entitled to a seat. But the Rabbi was a kind man and said they could come in anyway and stand behind the pews. (I know, it’s appalling, but at least there were no Cossacks cutting them down on the way to services.) My father really loved going to Temple. I think under the right circumstances he would have made a scholarly Rabbi. He certainly could memorize all the commentaries and would have an answer for every question. I know he was definitely drawn to the moral precepts. Yet this was not to be. Before he could consider further studies, a new Rabbi took over, a rotten man who said if the orphans couldn’t pay membership they couldn’t walk in the door. Can you imagine that? I think maybe there was a misunderstanding. On the other hand, when my father died aboard a cruise ship and was buried at sea, the Captain asked if there was a Rabbi aboard who could lead the services. No Rabbi appeared, but there was a Cantor who certainly could have led the service, and should have, except he, too, was a rotten human being who refused because of what he believed to be the rules that governed his religious duties. So I guess if there are sorry excuses of mankind pretending to be Cantors, there could also be persons who disgraced the name of Rabbi. In any event, those poor little motherless children were refused admittance. Aunt Gerry didn’t care, but my father was so hurt he decided then and there that anything having to do with religious practice was the result of human error and ignorance. That was the end of my father the Rabbinical Scholar. It also ended any wish I had of attending Temple. That’s not to say he didn’t still have a secret place in his heart where religion worked. One of the books on his shelf that I periodically tried to read without success was titled “When the Jewish People Was Young.” (Yes, the title is grammatically correct from a certain perspective. I looked it up. Amazon had one used copy printed in 1934. I just bought it.) My father also hid a copy of the Old Testament on the bookshelf, knowing my mother would never dust it, see it, and throw it out. He never really, entirely, gave up his inner belief in G-d. He just gave up hope for the human race in regard to religion, all the while teaching my sister and me to strive for higher principals of behavior. People are complicated. So, religion was out, the orphanage was out, foster care was in, and the police were happy. The connecting thread so far throughout this young boy’s life was the continual failure on other peoples’ part to see the Prince instead of the Pauper standing before them. How that changed is another whole story. Before we get to My Father the King - Part 2, you can honor him by making yourself a nice sandwich of butter and jelly on white bread and then sop it up with milk-and-sugar-filled coffee. He would like that.