James Reiss
More than four years after he passed away, I’d like to say a few things about my uncle Harold. I only recently learned about his death.
Long ago I remember Harold walking into my bedroom, where I was scribbling something at my desk. I was maybe ten years old. He greeted me, “How’s it going, John Milton?” Decades later, as a septuagenarian who has made poetry a livelihood and passion, I recall his words verbatim.
I also recall him visiting my backyard in Woodcliff Lake, New Jersey and batting out a few balls to my sister and me. Our dad, Harold’s oldest brother Joe, had previously split from Reiss Advertising, where the three Reiss brothers, including the middle child Ben, were partners. If bad feelings prevented Ben from visiting Joe and my mother—who was especially resentful about Ben—they didn’t stop Harold from dropping by our house and spreading his energy and good cheer. I only wish I had more memories of both my uncles.
In his contribution to this memorial Steven Jaffe has written, “The fact that he [Harold] never once failed to call me “Jeven Staffee” instead of Steven Jaffe from the very first time I met him was pretty representative.” Like me, Harold was a poet endlessly playing with words. As an ad man, a wordsmith of Madison Avenue, he toyed with the stock-in- trade that has kept me busy for a lifetime.
Harold Reiss was a complex man whose super-friendly, humorous façade covered over tremendous chasms of wisdom and Weltschmerz. Better late than never I say, Bless him.