The best things in life truly are free. Consider:

June 4th it was… Looking to cheer up my kid in Chicago, and with Carrie holding the cell, I was singings Fun.’s “Carry On”. (You know the song: “May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground. Carry on….!”). Sending her the video —the whole thing took less than three minutes— we settled down to dinner in the splendor of Cleveland, and waited for her smile. What came though, was so unexpected!

“I showed it to Lucy, Daddy,” Stace told me that night.
“She doesn’t know the song.”
“Can you send me more?”

We talked a bit. The usual stuff: “…When are you coming to Chicago next? … Did you speak to Michael this week? … When are you coming to Chicago next? … Why wouldn’t our children be at the wedding?” Oh… and “When are you coming to Chicago next?”

Buoyed I was, hanging up, by the notion I’d heartened my daughter. Doubling down days later, retrieving stuff from my archives, I sent her two minutes of the Top Ten things that make me think of her. And a day later, with the help of others, I texted a tour of the refurbished mens’ room at a local house of worship.  In each video, I might add, I said hello to Lucy, Stacy, and Bones.

That Monday my phone rang.

“Daddy it would be great if I could wake up to a video every day. Lucy looks forward to them!”

The flag was up. (This was clearly a case of “If you want something done, ask a busy person to do it OR Dad, you really have too much time on your hands).

I haven’t missed since.

In the past weeks my granddaughter’s had her out-of-state grandfather come into her home daily — a cross between a Jewish Captain Kangaroo and a fat Mr. Rogers. Sharing with her daily moments, she’s rejoiced (so I’m told) just watching me marvel at the ordinary.  Miles may separate us, but on aregular basis she’s eyed the method to my madness and the spirit to my heart. Rocketed, we’ve been, to a new dimension.

One day I said “Hello” from the lobby of the VA Hospital. The next I filmed buying her a cupcade in a bakery. One night I played her “Mary Had A Little Lamb” on a piano, and another time I greeted her while getting a manicure.

The time I lay atop the car and Carrie filmed me reading her “Pat The Bunny” was her favorite for a while….until the Friday it poured and CJ (standing safely in the garage) filmed me out in the driveway clad in but tee-shirt, Bermuda shorts and black bowtie, holding an umbrella crooning “Singin’ In The Rain”. I-tunes still ranks that her most played.

I could go on, but you get the point. How great it is just knowing that my mishegos has legs, and that somewhere out there my grandchild loves it.

Ed. Note 1: Of course, sometimes Stacy censors. My guess is she never showed her the eulogy for Ed Turner, or the one when Stuart and I went to a friend’s wake on Mayfield Road, only to discovery (after waiting in line twenty minutes) that we had the wrong person.

Ed. Note 2: I do hope, though, that she showed her my “Hello” from Home Depot, where I explained that I’d never been at the store before because when I was married Dick Lomaz would always help fix things — but that when the divorce came down, Jersey Girl got custody of Lomaz.

It hasn’t all, of course, been jest. No One Trick Pony am I.

From the old house on Maidstone I showed Luce where her mother grew up. From Columbus she was greeted by her Great Grandma Harriet.  And from the hearth where I live, she watched me open her Father’s Day card and thank her “live on tape”.

I could go on, but I won’t. Too much planning to do.

—Like where we will film tomorrow. After all, I’ve got one in the can which I’ll text upon waking! Need to have something in Stacy’s phone ‘ere they wake. (Thank God we’ve a time zone to work with).

And…lest you think, YES, Bruce does have too much time on his hands, let me share this:

My daughter and I spoke this morning about her upcoming trip to Cleveland. (I’m flying out, and with the children we’ll all drive back. They’ll stay with the ex).

From the background I heard a voice.

“Pappy, can I sleep at your house?”

It doesn’t get better.

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