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<\/a>...my cup runneth over<\/p><\/div>\n
A few weeks ago, my friend Julian Stein, Jr. died in Baltimore.\u00a0 At 93, I\u2019m certain many will say he had a full life, but I am willing to bet that his family and many others including me, wish that the Great Filler of the Pyrex Cup in the Sky would have allowed him just a few more ounces above the red markings.<\/p>\n
There are many who miss him so, so much already.<\/p>\n
When I first met Julian\u2019s daughter Denny, she drew a mini Stein family tree for me so that I knew where she and her father fit in as cousins of Gertrude.\u00a0 Here it is:<\/p>\n
Daniel, Gertrude\u2019s father and Samuel, Julian Jr.\u2019s grandfather, were brothers, making\u00a0 Julian\u2019s father, Julian Sr., Gertrude\u2019s first cousin\u2014and as she often said her favorite cousin!<\/p>\n In Julian\u2019s obituary in the Baltimore Sun <\/em>many of\u00a0the facts of his life were recounted along with excerpts from his two self-published books, You Never Know Where You\u2019re Going To Have A Good Time <\/strong>\u00a0and A Camp in<\/strong> Maine.<\/strong> The excerpts\u00a0capture the exuberance of the man and his love of life and family more succinctly and sincerely than any newspaper staff writer ever could.<\/p>\n In the year that Julian was born, 1918, the following books were first published:<\/p>\n Now to add his voice to this illustrious roster of writers.<\/p>\n As a tribute to Julian, I have also selected excerpts from his books, copies of which he gave to me after our first meeting in Baltimore.\u00a0 What better way to say \u2018thank you\u2019 than with his words. Those who knew him, will hear his voice in his words. \u00a0Those who didn’t, can relish their magic.<\/p>\n What the writer Robert Penn Warren said about poetry, \u00a0applies to the life stories that Julian shares:<\/p>\n \u201cThe poem is a little myth of man’s capacity of making life meaningful. <\/em><\/p>\n And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see – it is, rather, a light by <\/em><\/p>\n which we may see – and what we see is life.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0And so to Julian and his life:<\/p>\n It is November 1918, World War I is over and I am about to make an appearance. \u2026I was born November 15th<\/sup>, 1918, four days after Armistice Day\u2026Woodrow Wilson was President.\u00a0 My parents, Julian and Rose Ellen Stein were, as far as I can tell, happy, well adjusted, successful people \u2013 all the things one\u2019s parents are supposed to be.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>\u2026My memory of my early years, at least until I was about 7 years old, is a total blank.\u00a0 All I know about those early years are from stories told me by my mother.\u00a0 I know, for example, that I said my first words at about six months.\u00a0 Those memorable gems turned out to be \u201cHi Ducks,\u201d remarks addressed to a procession of said waterfowl which were portrayed marching around the rim of the can of talcum powder with which I was frequently and liberally sprinkled.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>\u2026At five I entered kindergarten\u2026and began and ended my thespian career by playing the role of a mushroom in a French play.\u00a0 My association with the French continued.\u00a0 At age 6, my parents took me along on a summer vacation to Paris.<\/em><\/p>\n \u2026On another\u00a0 trip to Paris I became seriously ill with complications following the measles\u2026my mother, who was nearly frantic, located our family doctor from Baltimore who was traveling in Europe.\u00a0 He came and after awhile I began to improve, during which time I was confined to the hotel while my father read me the Tarzan books.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>\u2026On that same trip my mother, with Gertrude Stein, my father\u2019s first cousin as an intermediary, had a bust of me \u2013 age 10 \u2013 executed by the well-known sculptor, Jo Davidson.\u00a0 There is now a permanent collection of his work at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington.\u00a0 Except the bust of me which sits on a shelf in our living room.<\/em><\/p>\n Me, the bust and Julian.<\/p><\/div>\n \u00a0<\/em>I can write no further without introducing our place, Kemankeag on Bonney Point, Rangeley Lake, Maine.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>I was, of course raised by my parents.\u00a0 But I was also raised by a place \u2013 \u201cKemankeag,\u201d our summer camp on the shore of Rangeley Lake, Maine.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>I spent almost every summer of my life there, as a baby, as a boy, as an adolescent, as a college student, as a husband, as a father and grandfather.\u00a0 Such continuity is rare in today\u2019s world and it is bound to leave an indelible mark on anyone who has had such an experience.\u00a0 It has certain benefits \u2013 perhaps it makes life\u2019s transitions easier, smoothes out bumps in the road.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>Here is a place where today I use the same china, sleep under the same blankets, struggle with the same pump, paddle the same canoe and row the same rowboat that I did as a small boy.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>The DNA of the camp is as much in my veins as the DNA of my parents.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>What does it mean?\u00a0 Can a place determine your character? Can a place give you a point of view.\u00a0 Can a place govern your outlook, even when you\u2019re miles away from it?<\/em><\/p>\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/gertrudeandalice.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/07\/SteinFam.Tree001-600x413.jpg\" "\\"SteinFam.Tree001\\"")
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