The attached poem was sent to me by a friend.

Dr. Kalish and his sons lived across the street.  As a hyperactive, imaginative little boy, there was no end of trouble I could get into, and I often ended up in his back yard uninvited.  He never had anything but a kind word and patience for me on those occasions, and accepted my tramping around in his bushes with typical good humor.  He once insisted his sons give me a wooden rubber band rifle that they had painstakingly made by hand, and which he knew I wanted desperately.  It was a treasured possession all through childhood, and his giving it to me (and insisting that the gift came from his sons) was very like him.  He was part of an open and supportive neighborhood that no longer exists, and I am sorry to hear that he's passed.  I know his personality and lessons live on in his children.