A Place of Cherished Memories

This is the story of two men and how the grandson of one returned a keepsake to the grandson of the other.

The friendship of Frank Schechter and Melvin Krulewitch likely began as young men in New York City, in the 1910s, probably through their parents, who were active in the Jewish community, most notably in the Conservative movement.

Schechter received bachelor’s and law degrees from Columbia University, before becoming Lt. Schechter and serving as an Army intelligence officer during World War I, inhaling poisonous gas during combat in France.

After receiving his bachelor’s degree from Columbia, Krulewitch entered the Marine Corps, where Sgt. Krulewitch led troops in the iconic Battle of Belleau Wood and the Meuse-Argonne Offensive.

Post-war, the veterans returned to Columbia, where Schechter earned a Doctor of Jurisprudence and Krulewitch completed his law degree. Krulewitch — look him up — holds a distinguished place in Jewish American history, rising through the ranks of the Marine Corps and in public service.

Schechter had a distinguished, but abbreviated, legal career. The gas that he inhaled in World War I contributed to his death in 1937, when my father was just 11 years old.

I grew up knowing the name Mel Krulewitch.

Three years ago, I was contacted by Krulewitch’s grandson, Michael Socolow, a communications and journalism professor at the University of Maine, who, in a previous lifetime, worked for CNN in Los Angeles.

He remembered my name from CNN’s national desk. Michael told me about a box bearing the initials, “FIS,” that had been in his family for many years and that was used to store family photographs.

“FIS” was Frank Isaac Schechter. As best we can figure, my grandmother must have given the box to Krulewitch as a remembrance after Frank died.

The box passed from Krulewitch to his children, Peter Krulewitch and Nan Krulewitch Socolow, Michael’s uncle and mother, respectively.

A couple of weeks ago, Michael and I met, for the first time, at an Iraqi restaurant in Waterville, Maine. There was nothing clandestine about the location; more on that in a minute.

Socolow brought the box, a humidor that Frank Schechter likely used to store tobacco for his ever-present pipe.

Audrey, my wife, took pictures to mark the occasion.

The engraved humidor now sits in my office at home, alongside one of my grandfather’s pipes and other of his personal effects.

The exchange took place in Waterville because that small city is a short drive from “Camp Schechter” — two cabins nestled in a forest, bordered by a lake — for close to 90 years a source of cherished family memories.

My father was a boy when his mother and her sister rented, and later bought the cabins, built in the early 1900s as cold-water camps for fishermen. Today, the cabins are modest in their comforts.

The photographs displayed in the larger cabin speak to the continuity of the family’s presence. One end of the spectrum is a photo of my paternal grandmother with her mother, my great-grandmother. At the other, one of my nephews recently brought his infant daughter for her first visit.

I spent the last week of July at the lake (or pond, as it’s designated on maps) — at what Audrey says is my “happy place” — to mark a milestone birthday.

I kayaked daily, twice some days, alone or with Audrey, ever mindful of my father’s instruction to “Put the wood in the water.”

In the early morning, before the summer camps sound reveille and boaters rev their engines, the water flows like liquid glass. The experience can be idyllic — if you avoid the boulders along the shoreline and those in open water that lurk mostly or completely below the surface.

I lack the mechanical and maintenance skills of my brother the rabbi, who now owns the property, so I trim the brush, fully aware that what I cut will grow back by next year.

And I paint. I joke that cabins — the larger, green, and the smaller, white — are held up by coats of paint applied over decades. This year I painted the steps of the smaller cabin white. Two years ago, I painted them gray.

From my grandmother’s time to the present, admiring the sunsets has been a constant. Viewed from the cabins or, as I prefer, from a kayak, the colors can be bold, with a fiery, orange globe descending into the forest, or muted, with broad pastel shades.

Another feature of camp life is the call of the loons. It’s a treat to see loons while paddling on the lake, seemingly unbothered by a kayak. I watch quietly as these birds, with their black and white bands around their necks, and similarly speckled feathers, dive in search of food or teach their young the ways of the water.

When we arrived at camp, I walked down the path to the cabins eager to get on the water. When it was time to leave, I lingered, gazing at the cabins and the lake before treading slowly up the path. I took with me renewed appreciation for what this place has meant to my family. And with a keepsake of the grandfather I never met, grateful to his friend’s descendants for its return.