My grandparents in New Haven, CT in 1948, when Harold was a student at Yale Art School.
In
one of my earliest memories of my grandpa Harold, we celebrated Hanukkah with a
menorah shaped like a Christmas tree.
He
wasn’t strictly religious, but he had a love for certain traditions. He didn’t
follow them as prescribed, though. He had a way of making everything his own.
Passover
meant sitting around my grandparents’ table with all my cousins while Harold
told the story of Moses, passing candy around to demonstrate the ten plagues.
The chocolate chips he gave us represented boils, and there were gummy frogs.
The grand finale came when he’d bring out a big bowl of red Jell-O and “part”
it by spraying a line of whipped cream down the center. Then he’d drop a
handful of little plastic soldiers into the bowl, and we’d all dig in.
One
year he told the Passover story by putting on a shadow play with my aunts and
uncles. They set up a big screen and a light in the living room. Harold
narrated while they acted it out with shadows of puppets. My grandma Kiki had
made a witch puppet for the Angel of Death. She flew it across the screen on a
cardboard broomstick, making it cackle with glee. Aunt Abbie’s hair was the
burning bush. She crouched behind the sofa, revealing the silhouette of her
wild curls as she shook her head around, mimicking fire.
Harold
was an incredible storyteller. He didn’t write, but his inventive and
articulate style met perfectly with his theatrical flair. He came up with
thrilling sagas to tell his kids and then his grandchildren. He brought stories
from the Torah to pulsating life. He invented epics about dragons and monsters.
His sound effects were flawless. He knew when to whisper and when to shout. His
eyes would pop wide as the momentum built. These adventures left us gripping
our seats or shrieking with laughter. His everyday manner was as animated as
his stories and art.
Harold
did everything to maximum capacity, sucking the last bit of air from every
experience yet leaving more for everyone else. He danced on tables. He rolled
in the autumn leaves. He watched sad movies with tears streaming down his face.
He smacked his lips in appreciation while he ate. I used to try to correct his
table manners as a toddler. When I was two years old, I’d shake a finger at him
and say, “Grandpa, you’re not
supposed to chew with your mouth open. You’re supposed to chew like this!” I’d
stuff my face and chew exaggeratedly, mouth closed, cheeks puffed out like a
chipmunk. My whole family would laugh hysterically and I wouldn’t know why.
Harold ate just as he was supposed to, though. He consumed, and he gave, with
unrestrained joy.
It
seems so appropriate that his middle name was Wolf. He always reminded me of a
canine with his exuberant manner and love of people and food. With his
exploratory nature and endless curiosity, he always seemed to
gather a following that became his lifelong pack. Even his physical features
were embracing and full. His round face, broad nose, and full lips conveyed generosity.
I’ve never known someone so financially thrifty who gave so much.
The
frugality had a lot to do with his upbringing. He grew up during the Great
Depression in a family where he had to vie with his brothers for food. But this
seemed to only feed his resourcefulness. When my mother and her siblings were
little, he’d take them on family trips to the Bethany dump. They’d explore the
junkyard to look for materials they could use in art projects. This became a
time honored Rabinowitz tradition.
I can’t
think of Harold without remembering that, or without thinking of Kiki. He and
my grandma are forever linked in my mind. I’ve always said them as one word:
“HaroldandKiki.” One of my favorite stories was the memory of how they got
together. They knew each other from the time they were children. They went to
junior high and high school together, but were only distant acquaintances back
then. In their class photo, they’re seated next to each other. On the last day
of high school, Harold signed Kiki’s yearbook with, “I’ll be seeing you! Ha ha
ha.” Neither of them had any idea they’d see each other every day for seventy
years.
They
reconnected three years later on the day World War II ended. They found
themselves at a mutual friend’s party to celebrate. They sensed an interest in
each other they hadn’t felt before, and started dating. Kiki told me they went
to a carnival for their first date. At one point during the night, they got
stuck at the top of the ferris wheel. Harold smiled at her and asked, “Can I
kiss you?” She laughed and said, “Well, I guess I can’t run away.”
They were married a year later and rode their bicycles cross country for their honeymoon. And then, in the early ‘50s,
they built their tall, gorgeously chaotic, ramshackle stone house. Kiki built
it while she was pregnant. That’s how badass she is. They made friends wherever
they went with their playful antics. After Kiki gave birth to their sixth
child, they gifted the nurse with a watermelon wrapped in a baby blanket. Kiki
told her, “We’re returning the baby. It leaks.”
Over
the years, their house became a haven. It was a community in itself. They took
in family friends. Many of their kids knew someone who, at least briefly, had
lived at their home. They started their family business there, Rabinowitz
Design Workshop (later renamed Witz End Workshop). Creative Arts Workshop also
began at their house when they gave art lessons to kids from the area. They
used to come over, and Kiki would make them all a big pot of spaghetti and hot
dogs.
For
two people who seemed like one entity, Kiki and Harold butted heads a lot. They
had some pretty hilarious arguments. I’ll always remember them fighting over
directions in the car. They’d be equally insistent about which way to turn.
Finally Kiki would shout, “Goddammit,
Harold, I’m not going to listen to you anymore!” and pointedly veer off in the
opposite direction, even if it got them briefly lost. He’d do the same when he
was the one driving. Despite this, I’ve never met two people more wildly in
love.
They
loved to dance together. Any time I visited, I’d see him grab Kiki and twirl
her around in the kitchen while they laughed. If there was no music, they’d
invent their own. They were constantly ad libbing silly songs and rhymes
together. Harold was a master of words. He invented a game to play with his
children, and later his grandkids, called Stinky Pinky. In the game, people
took turns coming up with a pair of words that rhymed and then gave a short
description. Everyone else had to guess what it was. For example, someone would
say, “A wet puppy.” Others would guess what they had in mind until somebody
said, “Soggy doggy.” If you guessed it, you won that round.
Harold
could speak in iambic pentameter off the top of his head and improvise limericks
and poetry. This made him really popular at parties. At one event he donned
Kiki’s purple muumuu, held a pineapple in his outstretched hand, and began
to recite Hamlet. At another he stood under the balcony in his living room and
extended his wine glass, shouting “My cup runneth over!” At that exact moment,
a guest tried to pour wine over the balcony into his glass, but it ended up spilling
on his head.
And, of course, there was the time his son had Show and Tell back
in first grade and decided to stand up in front of the class and announce, “Last weekend my dad was at a
party and had a lot to drink and fell into a big bucket of popcorn!” My uncle
hadn’t been there to see it, but he’d heard the story. Harold wrote legends
just by living.
This
is why it was so sad when Harold had a stroke back in 2000 and lost a lot of
his verbal abilities. He went from someone who could keep a whole room in
stitches to having trouble articulating basic thoughts. I remember the look of
anguish on his face as he once said, “I can’t say what I mean to say.” And, for
a short time, he referred to everyone he spoke to as Kiki. It was because of
the stroke, but it made sense. He loved Kiki so much that he saw a part of her
in everyone.
Even
so, he never stopped enjoying life. He still drew beautifully. He still saw
friends and rejoiced in family. He laughed until the end and died surrounded by
everyone who loved him; all the lives he had changed. In the end, I can only
regret that he won’t be a part of the memorial celebration, because it would be
just like him to surprise everyone by showing up in a jester hat or a purple
dress, ad libbing satirical poetry. But he’ll be there regardless, because he is
everywhere he’s painted and joked and sang.
Harold is the world he created.
