My grandparents were farmers. Not so unusual you may think. But what is unusual about the fact that my grandparents were farmers, is that my grandparents were farmers in Brooklyn, New York, a borough of New York City, the largest city in the country. The farm, on which my father grew up, was located on Sheffield Avenue in Brooklyn, not far from the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and Flatlands Avenue. Today, that intersection boasts a gasoline station with attached car wash. To make ends meet, as we used to say, my grandfather also worked as a tailor in New York City. My grandfather taught my father how to sew, and my father taught me how to sew. By the way, my grandfather was a member of the tailors’ union. I know it seems that today it might well be considered a burden, but my grandfather was proud to be a union member, back in the first decade of the 20th century, until the day he died in the early 1960’s. In fact, I still recall my father receiving a letter addressed to my grandfather from the union, shortly after my grandfather’s death. The union had not been told that my grandfather had died, and it was left to my dad to inform them of my grandfather’s death.
