Cool Beans Uncle
by Arlene Mandell, Newland, NC
Uncle Al Levine could have been a character in a Damon Runyon story bringing the inhabitants of Broadway and mid-Manhattan to life. A bohemian, artistic soul, his dramatic paintings of crashing waves hung above the organ he loved to play, in the apartment where I visited his daughters (my cousins) as a youngster. His predilection for the arts led to a career in photography and a job in the 1960s as society photographer for the New York Times. "Cool Beans!" He had made it in the mainstream world -- that meant there was hope for me. As a wild and long-haired hippie with hippie friends, I was an embarrassment to my exasperated parents in our suburban neighborhood.
Uncle Al's office was located in the swank Delmonico Hotel on Park Avenue in Manhattan; however, when you entered his office suite, you were taken aback by its starkness. Walls completely bare, no furniture, no decorative aspect whatsoever -- odd for a photographer of his stature. He would go out on a job hobnobbing with "swells" and celebrities, then return to his barebone set of rooms. This was an ascetic statement meant to emphasize that only the quality of his work mattered, not mere materialistic trappings. I understood.
When I visited his office during my college years, he'd greet me with a hearty bear hug. Then off we'd go for a stroll on the sidewalks of New York to meet his friends: cabbies waiting for fares, cops on the beat, hot dog vendors, local proprietors -- all were happy to see him. He was colorful and charismatic; and, had a penchant for playing the horses. When he had a windfall at the racetrack, he'd share his winnings with everyone on the street. If they were down on their luck, he couldn't resist helping them out (probably to the exasperation of his own family).
Uncle Al also prided himself as a wine and food connoisseur, describing in detail his latest recipe as a chef par excellence. When it came time for goodbye, he always pressed vanilla beans into my hands. I never knew what to do with them; I just liked to smell them.
In Newland, North Carolina, where I now live, at 8 a.m. this morning -- the designated "social-distancing" time for seniors -- I cautiously pushed my cart around with other masked-and-gloved shoppers in the currently surreal world of the supermarket, wondering if I should write about Uncle Al. As I picked my way through the produce, my eye caught something at the end of the fruit aisle: vanilla beans. I have shopped in that supermarket ten years and could swear I never saw them there! It had to be Uncle Al telling me: "Yes, write the story."
I bought those vanilla beans. I still don't know what do with them; but, really, it doesn't matter. I open a pod, close my eyes, and in the sweet scent of vanilla I'm back in the comforting bear hug of my cool beans Uncle Al.
Copyright 2020, Arlene Mandell