Steven H. Jaffe, Ph.D.
Harold is part of some of the best memories I have from my childhood. As a friend and classmate (at P.S. 41 and I.S. 70) of his son, Richard, I have fond recollections of hanging out at the Reiss’s West Ninth Street apartment, and of excursions to the family’s country house at Shady, New York.
Along with other friends, I always felt completely at home and welcome in the Reiss household. Harold was a quiet but consistent presence, every so often punctuating our games of Risk, Pachinko pinball, or “Kill the Man with the Ball” with some dry but quirky joke or comment meant to get our attention, and maybe scramble our brains. Unfortunately, I can’t specifically remember any of these witticisms (this was almost forty years ago), but I do recall the fact that they usually had a rather surreal Lewis Carroll quality to them, and I can clearly see the wily grin on Harold’s face as he delivered them. The fact that he never once failed to call me “Jeven Staffee” instead of Steven Jaffe from the very first time I met him was pretty representative.
I can also see Harold moving around the garden and grounds at Shady with his hat pulled down over his head against the morning chill. And I certainly remember the “grounds work”—laying out lime on the lawn, chopping firewood—he had us do. Although we complained loudly and melodramatically about this “slave labor,” I actually enjoyed the exercise and the fresh air. I guess what I remember most of all—and vividly—is the fun times spent with and around Richard, Thomas, Vicki, and Harold. Being with these people was one of the positive and formative experiences of my childhood and youth. Thanks, Richard. Thanks, Vicki. Thanks, Tom. And thanks, Harold.