From the American Scene: Uncle Ben of Upper Broadway
I REMEMBER the night my uncle died. Of course he really didn’t die; but for me he died just as wholly as if he had been buried from the Riverside Memorial Chapel, as was customary for the New York side of the family.
As a matter of fact, he had begun to die long before, but I didn’t realize it. It began when I was around fourteen, and my father and my sister and I lived in West Orange in New Jersey. We had a house on Northfield Avenue halfway between the houses of the Edison plant workers in the valley and the houses of the upper-class New York commuters on Orange Mountain above Gregory Avenue.
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