Uncle Knows Best

My friend and fellow writer Richard Grayson remembers his uncle, the renowned klezmer clarinetist Dave Tarras.

When I was a kid, Uncle Dave lived on Tilden Avenue in East Flatbush, just across the street from Tilden High School (closed last June and broken up into smaller schools). At one point my mother decided I should have clarinet lessons and Uncle Dave came over and gamely tried to instruct me.

But I have no musical ability whatsoever and I hated the taste of the reed in my mouth. Although I loved Uncle Dave and wanted to please him, whatever came out of my clarinet must have sounded like a catfight.

After just a few weeks, he said, "You don’t like this, do you?"

I shook my head.

"What do you like to do?"

"I don’t know. . . writing?"

"Then you should write." He went downstairs and told my mother the clarinet was not for me.

I wish my own uncles were as understanding. When I was scraping around after grad school, jobless and living with my parents, my California uncle repeatedly mailed me the help wanted ads from the San Jose Mercury - because he loves California so much that he thinks everyone in the world should live there - and my Ohio uncle tried to recruit me into selling Amway. Thanks, no, I replied both times, as diplomatically as possible.