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We were never a Fourth Of July kind of family — even in my halcyon days.

Al Bogart was not the “outdoors” type. To our father the comforts of air-conditioning and a deck of cards could make any day a holiday.  Moreover,  the persistence of flies and mosquitos would make any event a nightmare. Why, he wondered, would anyone opt to perspire over charcoals in pursuit of barbecue. Was not Jayson’s Restaurant conveniently located at Washington Blvd. and Lee Road?  Did Lodge Brother Leitson not provide ample) parking, seating …..and air-conditioning?

Still at times we convened.  Mom’s side only (of course), yet from certain angles it almost appeared our dad smiled. (Ed. Note 1: Other Bogarts didn’t picnic. First: there were few of them. Second:  Parks didn’t have pianos.  Third: In the canyons of my being is the voice of our late, meek mother. “Albert,” she’d say, “I ask so little of you.”).

I loved family gatherings. Even outdoors. The whole cast of characters…

There’d be Bonnie, Gary, Debbie, Marla — our cousins…and Grandpa Irv and Grandma Cele. And Grandma’s siblings three… and their kids. (Ed. Note 2: Little did I know in those 50’s that Grandpa Irv didn’t like this one or that Aunt Ruthie didn’t like that one, or — for that matter — that Harry, Herman and Herschel Hoffman were all the same person!)

In the 60’s it changed. OUT was Forest Hills Park (which had peaked as venue to Cousin Marla’s 3rd birthday). IN was The Riviera Swim Club at Solon and Richmond.  (Ed. Note 3: Merriam-Webster Dictionary, UNOFFICIAL EDITION, defines “swim club” as “a golf club without a golf course designed primarily as a meeting place for post-war Jews without real money”.

I loved it! Just loved it!

They were all there each Sunday, holiday or not: Uncle Irv, Uncle Phil … the generations of female progeny of still-living maternal great-grandparents Sam and Becky Sharp: Celia,  Lil, Ruth, Karen, Sheila, Barby, Elaine —all laying face up in one-pieces in the second row of lounge chairs along the perimeter of the pool’s shallow end. An airplane view would have revealed a 40’s MGM musical cast at a local Hadassah chapter.   (Ed. Note 4: Grandpa Sam and Grandma Becky were there, of course. Sitting in the shade).

—And each Sunday was a holiday. I swear! (Sometimes even, to my father’s delight, a card game broke out).

—And each Sunday ended the same: The Oriental Terrace at Southgate.  Chinese Food.

Simpler times they were.  Sundays …

— When you didn’t need federal proclamation to make our family one nation.

We went to the cemetery today. The two of us.

Four grandparents I saw. And Uncle Bob …Ruth and Ernie Schwartz….Norm, Charlotte, Herb Diamond.  And Aunt Helen. (Can you believe it?) Aunt Helen.

Noon it was, give or take, as I placed each stone. Through a shining sun, not yet perspiring, I was whispering Kaddish.

For a moment I felt old, even semi-depressed. Yet it passed.

Minutes later we were home. Stace called. We spoke to Meredith’s mom.

Smiling again, holding on to last week’s Chicago I filled with glee with my eye on New York.  Two more weeks. Just two more weeks.

Michael‘ll barbecue today on a deck bigger than the house I grew up in on Bayard. For family. Stace and Jace’ll schlep their girls to a park … full of insects. And family.

We’ve got this thing today at the Baskins. Carrie’s side. Fourth of July and all. They’ll sit on the patio, all of them. And they’ll eat, drink and smile. (Like at Forest Hills. Like at The Riviera. Like when my Mom and Dad were there. And my Grandma and Grandpa. And my uncles, aunts and cousins…).  They’ll be nice tonight. Yes, they treat me like family.

(And with any bit of luck, a card game might break out).

“Good to go’, the adage goes, and “Good to come back.” For the first time in three weeks — and only second time since May — my Sunday eyes will open in Cleveland, Ohio. (Not that I’m complaining. Weekends this virtual month of Sundays have each been better than the last). It’s just that I’m tired.

I need to sleep where my boots are. It’s my natural rhythm…and yet I’m blessed:

Cameo appearances, even as a weekend warrior, were nothing but joy. Consider …

We woke June 5 in the greatest capital city in the world: Columbus, Ohio. Our overnight sojourn held its standard agenda:

1) The poker room at West Broad and Georgesville Roads was friendly; it usually is. (Ed. Note 1: Needless to say, I couldn’t resist reminding Carrie for the umpteenth time that before the interstate ‘twas a Lincoln Lodge Motel at that spot and that while lunching there with my father some worker left his paint bucket and mop on the floor at our booth and walked out. And I told her yet again how my Dad had opted at that precise moment to go to the mens’ room— but couldn’t get out. And I told her YET again how his lip puffed and his voice raised, and…and then mercifully my monologue ended turning into the casino).

2) The Jack Roth Run/Walk was in Bexley that morn. (Ed. Note 2: Not that we ran, mind you. Or walked. It was the ebullience of “The art of conversation” that ruled as we renewed acquaintances with the myriad of Shafrans).

3) The cemetery. My father.  “You’ve gained weight,” he told me, “but it looks good on you.” (Ed Note 3: Which is why he was the best).

4) Breakfast with Harriet at an eatery with profound staff, and where on that very day at the age of 66 I concocted the perfect — and I mean PERFECT morning spread: buttermilk pancakes topped with sliced lox. Was it not the ideal ending to this 24-hour outing?

We awakened to the penultimate day of our Vegas trip June 19. The 68th anniversary of my parents’ union — Father’s Day — and it punctuated what had already been a wondrous trip.

1) Dinner with Linda and Jeff. Catching up. Something about Linda always makes you smile; something about Jeff always makes you feel safe. Friends of a lifetime are friends, and a lifeline. Just the best.

2) The Wayne Newton concert cancelled, but curtail it didn’t my recounting that Hal and I saw the crooner open for Jack Benny one ’66 Philadelphia night.

3) You didn’t see it on ESPN. Nor for that matter did it trend on Twitter. My entry in the 2016 World Series Of Poker, however, completed a rare trifecta some six decades in the making. (Ed. Note 4: My appearance in the 1987 World Gin Rummy Tournament was short-lived, although my father did cash. Years earlier, midway through the twentieth century, I came off the bench to hit a bunt double at old Brainard Park in the 1960 South Euclid-Lyndhurst Little League World Series).

5:54 AM it was, just last Sunday. In a well-slept bed near an Illinois mudroom where a bichon hangs his leash, a sprite four-year old tapped my shoulder. (Ed. Note 5: I used to have a dog like Adam).

“Pappy,” she murmured, “I want to watch ‘Curious George’”.
“OK, Lucy,” I obliged, wiping crust from my eyes — as I had also some 24 hours earlier.

Highlight I could my Chicago adventure. Share it I could: in a hundred words or less…

Salads from Michael’s. Stacy says I chew loud. Fixed it, ordering three grilled cheese next meal. Babysitting Ruby, one-on-one (like I had early Max). Stacy skinny. Walked girls and Adam. Forgot tissues. “I’ll get it later” said Stace. She forgot. It found Jason’s shoes a day later. Everyone laughed (except Jason). Read Lucy a book and Stacy a book. Town hall meeting with Bonesy. Good interview, available on tape. Best spinach pie ever. Bohrer refrigerator stocked by a reincarnate of Aunt Helen. Starving in bed. Smuggled in bagel-wrapped hot dogs for Night Two. Kissed Rooney goodnight on top of head. Jason too.

— Memories pale, though. All of them: from the 5K I didn’t run in Columbus to the set of queens I did flop at Bally’s to the joy that is Deerfield —all of them dim to the light of one short colloquy between that sparkling young lady and me:

“Lucy,” I’d told her as I bid her Good Night, “I wish we lived in the same city.”

“Pappy,” she said, “I wish we lived in the same house.”

My Dad’s dad was a Torah reader by trade. A B’al Koreh. In near eighty years not once did he cradle a baseball in his hand and my guess is not even once was he in the room with one. Still, on a brisk October 1948 day he caught a streetcar to Euclid Avenue where he stood at the curb as the newly-crowned World Champion Cleveland Indians paraded. Staid, rigid as Andy Hardy’s stoic father, he beamed as the moment called!

I wasn’t there Wednesday – at the party downtown. Bobby and Stuart had
called me to join them … even teased when I said No. Excoriating me, Snyder laughed that in all the years I hadn’t learned my lesson! Hadn’t the two of them, he noted, been the ones that told me not to go to Michigan State? “When you going to learn?” he asked, Stuart laughing in the background. (Ed. Note 1: Answer I didn’t, still trying to figure out what Fenton was going to do downtown.  (Ed. Note 2: And No, I didn’t pass ‘cause the Cavs fired Coach Blatt. Weeks ago I’d reasoned he wasn’t the first Jew thrown to the curb). (Ed. Note 3: And No, the previous note in no way refered to my first marriage).

I worked that day — at least the morning. Yet in the evening, eyeing festivities from the comfort of a bedroom, I thought back to other titles….

Five times in this cowboy’s we’ve won it all. Five times seasons have ended my way. Five inpenetrable memories:

December 27, 1964, Cleveland Municipal Stadium.

Side-by-side with Brother Wieder I sat. From the first row on the 40 we reveled as the Browns rallied from a scoreless half, stunning the 11-point favorite Colts.
From the tickets we’d won to the post-game press conference we’d trespassed, it was the perfect day for a fifteen year old. I picture it still.

January 1, 1969. An apartment off Shaker Square in Cleveland.

Led by super sophomores, OSU had run the table that fall. I’d been in the closed end for the October shut out of #1 Purdue in October (Bill Long at quarterback), and I’d been in the open end for the season ending route of #4 Michigan. And then… on New Year’s Day, Stuart and I watched Woody’s men upend O.J. Simpson and the Trojans from the apartment of the one and only Henry I. Katz.

January 3, 2003. A kitchen in Moreland Hills.

Sleeping in downtown Columbus the night before Michigan and sharing a room
that night with Michael B and Brian Block were preludes. The double-overtime Fiesta Bowl weeks later was watched with Matthew Friedman, just the two of us. Can I tell you I didn’t change my seat the entire second half PLUS? If there was a chance we could pull the major upset I would do nothing to jinx it!

January 12, 2015. Las Vegas, Nevada.

Elbow to elbow we sat (father and son), front row, eyes angled up. He’d flown from New York; I’d flown from Cleveland; we sat there together. Until… until: as the inaugural NCAA College Football Playoff Championship ended, and as scarlet and gray confetti filled the sports book screen the heretofore composed Michael erupted from his seat. “Yeah!” he shouted as players flocked the field. “Yeah!”

June 19, 2016. Las Vegas, Nevada.

With a woman I sat in a restaurant in “Paris”. A wife! MY WIFE!!! (The world had indeed changed in six-some decades).

There we dined with her friend from olden days — a guy I’d yet to meet by the afternoon of The Drive — and had yet to hear of the night of The Fumble — who wasn’t on my radar as Mesa faltered in that ninth ….

That half century collapsed in what then seemed but an instant! My daughter called at halftime. I peaked up here and there at the game on the monitor. We gobbled burgers.

Then Kyrie hit the shot!

— I cried. I really did, (as did many).
— I filmed all the noise. I really did, (as did others).

This flag, it occurred, wasn’t just for the team or the sport. This flag was for the town – my town — CLEVELAND!

The place I never left.

It occurred to me midst tears of joy that Modell was still scum and the Ravens were still thugs, and Yes, I still didn’t give a damn about the whole state of Michigan —- but that what really mattered was that my heart was #ALLIN Cleveland!

They’re talking Tribe in my hometown this week, (the parade over). Three more months (and a bit) ‘til The Series. But it feels like the year, yes it does. “Next year” might be this year. We’ll see.   Maybe I’ll call Bob and Stuart Monday (for a ride downtown).

East Lansing seems so far away.

I hooked Grandpa Maysai’s tie clip to the cravat gifted from Cousin Rick and hung my dad’s dog tags ‘round my neck. In my left pocket was a photo of my brother and in my right, photos of six grandkids.

I stuffed yarmulkes from Great Neck, Jamaica, and Cleveland weddings into my Siddur bag and pulled my grandfather’s century-old tallis — the one he’d worn on Park Synagogue’s pulpit — from the Diamond Men’s Wear hanger.

And I left, already wistful, for my Confirmation Class reunion.

From Chagrin Boulevard I drove: down Richmond, left on Fairmount, past the temple 80’s Beachwood housewives cherished … through Fairmount Circle, where Cousin Howard, in a since-razed theater once taught us to throw popcorn in the air and catch it in our mouths … and down through the Heights.

Fifty-one years it had been since our class convened. Some of us (the vast minority) had classes three days per week; the greater portion: weekend warriors. Still, ‘though a new world punctured the 60’s, at one level or another each of us — perhaps pushed by our parents — had played by the rules.

I turned down Euclid Heights Boulevard, then right at the gate. (Ed. Note 1: Rabbi Cohen lived there “in the day”. Aunt Helen didn’t like him. “He was rude to ‘Pa'”, she would say to her grave).

Driving past a police car, (the presence of which wasn’t needed back then), I parked in a primo spot that would have made George Costanza kvell. Then I froze! Outside my car, you see, staring right in my face, was a deer. A giant deer.

Really?

(Ed Note 2: He finally moved, but not until I’d taken a picture and perhaps even frightened him. I’d post the pic on Facebook, but in this PC world it would offend nature lovers. Or PETA people perhaps. To paraphrase my hero Gilbert Gottfried: “I apologizes to all animals).

Risk extinguished, entering the temple I joined old friends (some of whom I even recognized). Mixing in the lounge they were, looking older than before.

A beautiful service ensued. They had us march in in procession and put us in field boxes. Me? I took an aisle seat next to Billy Levine. (Ed. Note 3: Water seeks it’s own level. We were Rowland School boys.).

They would bring us to the bima and read our names, but the splendor of the morning came sitting in repose, watching those fifty years younger embrace their own roots. And Torah.

—Like most Jewish simchas: we came, we prayed, and we ate —

I didn’t care for the post-service luncheon. Not my thing,so I mingled. “The art of conversation”, Brother Hal would say.

On a table to the side lay a four by five foot frame. Within it, one half-century later we were: our entire class, posed in black-n-white smiles, framed in composite.

Grabbing my cell phone I took Wieder’s picture. (Ed Note 4: I had no choice. From the Left Coast this month he’d been denying being part of our class. Here was proof I could send him. No wonder Mrs. Tishkoff didn’t like him!).

“Which one is you?” asked a confirmant still wearing his gown.
“That’s me” I said, and then straight-faced: “Do I look older?”
(The boy nodded).
“Do you want to know why I look older?” I asked.
(He nodded again, slightly).
“Because I married a girl from New Jersey”.
(This time he didn’t nod. He just walked away).

“I’m sitting over here,” pointed Levine, and I trod over — to a table with other women I hadn’t seen in fifty years. From Rowland School, of course. (Like I said: water seeks its own level. Beachwood kids? They sat elsewhere).

And then I left. Politely. Shaking hands. Saying all the thank you’s.

Walking to my car I loosened my tie but tightened my grip on what was. Without thinking I drove the periphery: past the old school where Michael begun, past the door Jamie carried her lulav, past the creek Stacy joined me for Tashlich….

This was not my grandfather’s world … nor my father’s … nor even mine.  Yet it was all three.

I am a vibrant and reasonably healthy. I have family, friends and love in my life.

I cradle each day and find comfort in the future.

… And yet … in some ways I couldn’t help wondering, as I drove from my father’s synagogue … whether my tour of the grounds had been a nostalgic victory lap— or just me rounding third, and heading home.

Dear Alan,

Recall a while back sitting at Himmel’s restaurant with Walt and the wives, speculating about all meeting up in Portland? Carrie was thrilled to head west; Marc and Mary were down for it; and me? I assented to go (but it really wasn’t in my wheelhouse).

It never happened, of course, and in the few years since, as you know, I’ve formally codified the unwritten rule of my heart. The “Four State” Rule, I call it. Perhaps you remember…

If compelled to leave The Great State Of Ohio, I’ve limited myself to but a quartet of destinations: Illinois and New York —adopted homelands of my children— plus Nevada and Florida. (Ed. Note 1: Clark County only in Nevada, and east coast only in Florida).

Perhaps you scoff at my thinking and well I know how others (including but not limited to Ermine, who leads the league in out-of-county restaurants) sneer passively at my reverence of home…. but I’ve got to tell you, my good friend: I’m more convinced now than ever that The Four State Rule rules!

The problem with travellers is that they’re never just satisfied. One “hot spot” begets another and this place is better than that. Really? Is the sun any brighter in Turks and Caicos? Is the food any richer? Are the people much nicer? Is where you go this year any better than where you’ll go next year? And if it was so good this year why are you heading somewhere else next yere?

Give me northeast Ohio any day of the week. Any year.

Never a hurricane, rarely major flooding. Meteorology? Meaningless.

Home to culture and Corky’s.

And our roots.

Consider: a giant alligator crawled ‘cross a Florida fairway last week. You may have seen it on Youtube. That crap doesn’t happen up here. The only golf hazard we ever faced was on the fifth hole at Highland.

Look, Alan— I’m not judging. If you want your travel, go for it. But remember: you cut your teeth, and indeed made your mark on Cleveland’s sandlots with Sol’s Boys. To this day hereabouts you are known as “The Jewish John Wooden”. Think back, buddy. Where was all the action on that diamond? In the infield, of course. Closest to home.

What you need, mon frère, is a Life Coach. And for this, I volunteer.

Four states, I say. You can do it!. (Ed. Note 2: OK, six if you need them. You were always more liberal.).

Keep Oregon, both Carolinas…and Illinois.

Yeah, I’m giving you the Land Of Lincoln because I know you’ve got a book signing in Chicago this year. (Ed. Note 3:  And FYI, Wido:  Abe was Republican.  But let it go.).

Oh… and don’t forget to email me ‘bout the book signing. Am thinking I’ll be there.

In fact, I wouldn’t miss the gig — it being in Illinois and all….

RIGHT IN MY WHEELHOUSE.

Talk to ya soon, B

Under beveled glass atop my father’s tall dresser lay two snapshots. Black and white they were. One was my dad, cap and gown with his parents. And the other: a sketching of two boys … brothers, perhaps … one carrying the other on his shoulders. The caption on the latter read “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother”.

The thought didn’t occur right away – self-absorbed as I was — but in the years post-divorce I’ve often wondered what residual impact the marital demise had on our children. Would it subliminally influence on how each treated a spouse? Or children? Would there be lingering effect on their perceptions of commitment or their value of family? Would they only know what they saw? In fact, what DID they see?

Was it better than I thought? Worse than I thought? Do their minds’ eyes remember (or choose to forget)?

Did we screw them up? Strengthen them? Do anything right?

The answers will come perhaps not to me, but certainly for each of them as life unfolds. What’s that they say: Adversity doesn’t build character, it reveals it!

Consider:

My Stacy had surgery this week. Major surgery… the sterile confines of a downtown hospital … near an hour from home.

Her husband, steadfast in support, was bound by reality. Juggled, he did: the dictates of time, work, two daughters …

Yet my daughter, she wasn’t alone. Not on the weekends — and especially not on those “dog days” midweek.

There was her brother.

“Michael’s coming flying in that week,” she chirped back on Pesach.
(Eyes welling, I knew full well he’d have just have been there two weeks hence for the naming of Ruby).
“He’s coming on Tuesday and staying two days. Missing work.”
(Mind working, I thought so too how he was leaving his wife and kids, how Meredith would bolster her crew sans Michael, how the “village” was thriving … answering the bell). The excitement of my daughter’s voice manifested as warmth in my heart. My kids were indeed all right.

They operated as scheduled and all went well. Inside and out.

We spoke briefly Monday, a bit more on Tuesday, and buckets on Wednesday.

“Michael could not be any nicer,” she told me.
“Michael makes me happy,” she told me.
(My eyes filled in joy).

“Why are you taking a bus here?” he asked from the backdrop.
“You told me I was too old to drive alone.” (Ed. Note: Not the reason, of course, but YES, he did voice that sentiment).

The discourse aborted as my daughter spoke up:

“Michael, could you scratch my elbow?”

(Scratch her elbow? Ask a New Yorker to scratch her elbow?)

I’ll be there this weekend. To cradle my baby. And to smile.

We’ll talk about the week, if she wants. And talk of what comes next, if she wants. And I’m certain — quite so certain — that we’ll talk about Michael.

He was only one call away.

My kids don’t see things the way I do, and that’s ok. At half my age, perhaps they’re not supposed to.

“You don’t really believe in miracles?” one asked last week.
“Of course I do.”
“Name one,” he urged with polite incredulity, his mind clearly closed.
“The ’69 Mets!” I shot out. (Why waste my breath?).

It could have ended there — he thinking I’m a dreamer … me wishing he was — but we  were both quite serious.

“You don’t think there are miracles?”
“No, I believe in reality.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Then name one.”

“OK,” I said. It wasn’t really the time or place, but he sat tight on my elbow so I figured “Why not?”

“There was a time,” I reminded him, “When I had spiraled so low I was drinking in the john stall at Burger King. Eighteen years ago. I was slowly killing myself but there was nothing I could do.  I was able to stop — you don’t think my recovery is a God-given miracle?”

“No, I think you just decided—“

Cutting him off in frustration, I knew inwardly it was not his fault. Our differences, frankly, were matters of perception. To him, seeing is believing; to me, believing is seeing.

Yet I couldn’t let go. Not so much because I thought I’d convince him. Hardly! My goal, rather, was to plant a seed.

“Do you believe George Washington really chopped down the cherry tree and then told his father he couldn’t tell a lie?”

(His eyes rolled).

“Do you think he really threw a dollar across the Potomac?”

(I nodded).

My son, startled — frustrated clearly by what he must have perceived as my sustained naiveté — stopped on a dime.

I couldn’t, however, let the gentle impasse go. Not at this Seder. Not on this night, which was “different from all other nights”.

“So let me ask you,” I pushed forward: “Do you believe the Red Sea parted so the Israelites could flee Egypt?”

“No Dad, I don’t.  No one does.”

Time, thought I, to teach the young dog new tricks. Seated near the end of the table, surrounded by his wife, my wife, an ex-wife and grandkids, the first fresh, objective face to my left was Arlene’s. Jason’s aunt, she is objective and open.

“Arlene,” I asked on the second night of Passover, “Do you believe God parted the Red Sea?”

“Of course I do,” she exclaimed, sans hesitation. “Certainly.”

I felt validated and Michael’s eyes rolled, yet debate had ended in triumph. No coincidence, sensed I, that Aunt Arlene was seated right there. Nor was it luck.  No, it was, rather, just God doing his thing.

(Or perhaps a miracle).

   “So, I’ll continue to continue to pretend
       That my life will never end,
       And flowers never bend with the rainfall….”

Paul Simon

Sitting in her highchair, circled by a sea of family, Ruby toyed with her first birthday cake. Mammoth — layers tall, to be sure — it was coated with topping thick as the love surrounding. From Boca, Chappaqua, Chicago and Cleveland we’d come, and abetted by the Bohrer household, we were singing “Happy Birthday” to the broadest smile this side of the Rockies. (Not that she noticed. Her hands, busy spreading frosting through her hair, were playing a symphony).

You never know when you’ll pass that way again, really. When will it be, what with the dictates of work, family, and calendar, that the Seders will again fall on a weekend? When, in sync we’ll pass matzah? When – for that matter — we’ll convene in naming a newborn?

Maybe soon. More likely not. This was special.

Lucy played with Max and Eli: the splendor of cousins.

“Do you think Max and Lucy look alike?” I asked.
“Not really,” said Meredith, “But what about Eli and Ruby?”

(Ed. Note 1: Lodged at a nearby hotel, we were able to breakfast with Michael’s crew daily. The boys bounced in fun, but for me it was a learning experience. Little did I know, for example, that the eggs for the masses were in genesis, “powdered”. “They’re not real eggs,” my son informed me). (Ed. Note 2: You can’t imagine how his eyes rolled when I noted that Kramer had real food when he served all those people at Frank Costanza’s Knights Of Columbus hall).

In the morning there was temple. Layout of the chapel was like Uncle Ernie’s old shul. From an island in the center the Cantor exclaimed:
“Y’amode Shishi”— and with wife and daughter behind him, Jason Bohrer rose at the bima to take his aliyah — as so predictably tears graced my cheeks.

(Ed. Note 3: Not that there wasn’t levity. When services ended the luncheon ensued. Entering the adjacent hall, my favorite son deftly took the sign on the first table in…the one that said “Reserved For Bohrer Family”… and moved it to another table. Based on the kids and the traffic flow it made some sense; and no one would know; and it really didn’t matter. But Yes, I was proud).

There was Seder that night— 28 of us total. Lucy said “The Four Questions”, (or at least Question 1). Good enough for me, I’d figured. She was now on the board.

Why was this night different from all other nights? (My eyes wet once again).

Because on this night we ate matzah, not bread. And on this night we remembered our past. And on this night, I had family beside me. Four of six grandkids there were…and two of three children … and the wife I adore.

In the most perfect of imperfect worlds, this was as good as it would be.

At least now.

A cup for Elijah sat still on the table, yet the door stayed open.   (Not just for the prophet, I knew,  but for the rest of my family).

Perhaps next year in Jerusalem.

On our mother’s yahrtzeit what’s left of her family sat clustered in temple. Five of us, that’s all. Just five.

Bittersweet.

Connected by love now more than consanguity, what was once nearly two dozen grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins gathered under Park’s big dome had dwindled through time, travel, and atrophy to a quintet. Just five of us. Five!

So there we were: Margie, H, Etty, Carrie, et moi … sitting not in Cleveland Heights, but in Park’s new, friendly confines: Pepper Pike. A motley crew! (Ed. Note 1: Four Bogarts and a Hoffman by marriage, but we had our own row. Still, give Aunt Etty her “props”. Remember — she did date Al Bogart at Glenville).

The lump came early (to my throat). How could it not? From the rabbi’s first intonation to the cantor’s last blessing my senses were triggered by sight, sound and memories.

There was the shaking hands and warm embraces with Hebrew School faces. (Most names I remembered, but gee did they get old!).

And the singing of songs. (The tunes had varied o’er time, but the words remained. My father, to be sure, would have cringed at the changes. And so too his sister). But chant I did, and smile I did, and remember I did:

— My Bar Mitzvah, the day the Cuban Missile Crisis ended…
— Hal’s Bar Mitzvah (sixteen months after mine — the significance of which is that during that interval our parents divorced) … and how after services Grandpa Irv walked in front of our dad’s car in the lot, and though stopping, our father dramatically puffed his lip and exclaimed “I could hit him now and no jury would convict me”.).

— Michael at Park Main, too young for fire yet holding a flashlight in the dark of an aisle for Havdalah.

— Jamie accompanying me “religiously” to minyans for my father.

— Stacy, being married by the same clergy presiding that night.

The Shabbos service, of course, bears a recipe ripened by time. The lineup of prayers changes not; the regimen of hymns alters not; I hold peace in just sitting, contemplating, and yes, sometimes people watching: (Ed. Note 2: There’s something warm and fuzzy about seeing an old Sabbath School friend … all these years later … still pedaling in the same parish). (Ed. Note 3: There’s something intriguing too, seeing other old faces and trying — in those moments of mind-wandering — trying to decipher if indeed that was their first wife they’re sitting with). (Ed. Note 4: The most compelling question of the night, however, was trying to guess which surname they’d announce my mother under. Bogart was out, we knew. But would it be Lerner or Turner?).

Yes it was bittersweet Friday. Until it wasn’t. Until it was just sweet.

Readying for the Sabbath Kiddush to close things out Rabbi Skoff urged kids in the congregation to join him on the bima. At once
a girl rushed by me; she couldn’t have been four. Followed, she was, by her sister (perhaps two).

In a Chicago Minute I thought of Ruby and Lucy, who I’ll see on Yom Tov. Eyeing young lads as well, in a New York minute I thought of Eli and Max; they will join us out west.

Then it was over… for the night.

Hal and Margie drove Aunt Etty home; (we had gotten her there). (Ed. Note 5: I drive one way and he the other; it’s the way The Boys roll).

H and M we would see in the morning, at the cancer walk, on campus. Aunt Etty? An envelope she’d given me— with a pic of my mother … and phone numbers for her grandsons in Chicago.

(Family).

I walked out with Carrie, hand-in-hand.  It was early, and the stars weren’t out.  The sky was full of blue, the lightest of azures. And well I knew that above it all was a mother looking down … and smiling.

Awaiting flight to Chicago, looking out at an empty runway, my mind murmurs in a blend of gratitude, wistfulness, and reflection. At 66 I’m running harder, working smarter, and feeling wiser than in years. Fueled, I am, with sustained gratitude for the friends and family that have loved me, held my hand, propped me up, and more than anything else: taught me. It is a wondrous feeling to be teasing my seventies yet quite able to look backward and forward at the very same time.

       “…Once I was seven years old, my mama told me,
       Go make yourself some friends or you’ll be lonely…”

The corner of Bayard and Wrenford roads was to me no less than the 20th century’s intersection of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. This epicenter to my life, the fulcrum of which was its ball yard, brought me the lessons and memories of Fromin, Fenton, Cohen, Gelfand, and Davidson — not to mention Masseria and Hovanyi (two good hitting/poor fielding Catholics whose families, pioneers to South Euclid,  never dreamed that Jews would invade). It was the perfect neighborhood in a perfect time … weather permitting.

       “…It was a big big world, but we thought we were bigger
       Pushing each other to the limits, we were learning quicker…”

Fromin taught me to throw a curve and Johnny Matejka taught me to hurl a spiral.  “Alfie” Feldman?  In an era where they’d line us against Rowland’s right field fence to choose players, he made it clear that age didn’t matter, and that if you were good enough you’d get in the game.

       “Once I was twenty years old. Stuart told me.
       Go get yourself a wife or you’ll be lonely.”

Wedding my very first girl friend wasn’t necessarily mistake. I mean we did last twenty-two years, and you’d have won some money had you bet the “over”. Yet it took its toll.

“…I always had that dream: to be like my daddy before me.                                                                                                                                         Couldda sold some magazines and never looked for glory.                                                                                                                                         Something about that glory.                                                                                                                                                                                                 Just always seemed to bore me                                                                                                                                                                                       ‘Cause only those I really love will ever really know me…”

Passion for my chosen profession has come in bits and pieces. Truth be known, when I’ve been comfortable with myself I’ve been comfortable with my work. My dream job? Still? To be the greeter at Corky’s. (Sunday mornings, 11 am would be perfect)

“…Once I was sixty years old.  My daddy died young— And so I cherish time and life!  Each day’s a better one..”.

 Our mom ran longer, grinding past eighty. I was a good son, on balance, but not a great one. She didn’t ask for much, and I usually delivered … usually. But I felt no guilt —

“…Soon I’ll be seventy years old.  Will I think the world is cold (or will my children’s children come and warm me?).

It’s Social Security now — for most of us. Fromin and Gelfand are on the east coast; Fenton’s on the Gulf Coast; Hovanyi’s dead and Matejka’s just gone….

And yet— and yet friends of my youth remain; friends of my life sustain; and in a perfect example of “Whodda thunk it?”, I wound up marrying my best friend of all.

No, I don’t throw the ball around as I used to. Nor do I care much for football.

And yet — and yet on any given day I wake to family and friends in a world that widens as I let it, and more than ever I embrace looking backward and forward at the very same time.

(Once I was seven years old).

—-Lukas Graham, adapted.