Bootleg Harry

The revelation came in 1977, when I was 16. My grandfather Harry Feinberg, or “Popa Harry” as I called him, offered to take me to lunch at the Adirondack Hotel before I joined my high school’s orientation canoe-camping trip on Long Lake. Though my family lived in Saranac Lake, we rarely ventured into the central Adirondacks. Long Lake was as foreign as France to me. Imagine my surprise when the owner of the inn personally welcomed us, like long-lost friends.

“Harry! How are you?” asked the innkeeper, giving my grandfather a warm slap on the back.

My soft-spoken grandfather chuckled as he often did when he was pleased to see someone. Within moments, half the restaurant came over to exchange pleasantries with him. My jaw dropped. How did all of these