upfromdysfunction.com

       The former Stacy Bogart looked me dead in the eye, smiled, and
       with love and fascination shot me an underhanded compliment:
       “Dad, you are a master at pointless conversation.” It is, then, in
       the spirit of reciprocity that I dedicate this pointless entry to her.

Smack dab in the middle of a May Friday, having no business in central Ohio, I was down there meeting Mark Ermine at Starbucks. Early one Sunday, just weeks later, nieces Caroline and Amy marched five kilometers through Bexley. And…thirty or so of my brother’s classmates are now planning a Rowland School reunion.

What connection might there be, you ask, to these seemingly unrelated, marginal events? Ah, to the well-versed Bogart this is easy. They share a distinct genesis, a unique cause. Each was placed in motion by one even more remote occurrence. Margie, you see, toward the end of ’09, bought Hal a book about Jan & Dean. What followed, then, was merely dominoes.

Trust me—details matter not. Honor the concept. H and I share great pleasures causally (and cosmically) connecting actions in our lives that others might not necessarily relate. It is not only fun and thought-provoking, but confirms yet again that each of us has too much time on his hands. We can live with that.

….Which brings me to tonight. Yes, at Shabbos dinner, after careful analysis, I will unveil yet another stream of etiology.

Consider: Just weeks ago my Aunt Helen criticized me AND just days ago my brother advised I was capable of doing something “the odds were a million to one against…” Both events, it is clear, occurred for the same reason, to wit: our mom married a thief.

Here are the facts….just the facts:

In the late ‘80’s our mother wed yet again. We thought she’d taken a third husband; clearly, though, he’d taken her.

2009: Mom died the first week in April. Shivah was at Hal and Margie’s. Although specifically invited back, The Thief never set foot in their house.
Not once.

2010: We finally learned why Ed never showed. The man, it seems, was busy studying. Indeed, internet/local media carried an article praising our step-dad, detailing his recent receipt of a G.E.D. (Mazel Tov).

My brother acted swiftly! With a sense of honor and duty, he emailed the author, detailing the truth of the man behind the curtain. Pointedly, elegantly, he labeled Ed “a thief who does not deserve glorification.”

“That’s my brother!” I thought. “That’s my brother!” (I wrote). Clearly, he’d answered the bell; I was so proud. So proud that I forwarded a copy of his transmittal to the immediate world—including the rabbi.

Harriet, of course, got my missile in Columbus. She, too, was proud. In knee-jerk reaction she called our aunt and read her Hal’s note. That was on a Wednesday. Friday, of course—just two days later— I went shopping with the Woman Most Likely To Meet Willard Scott. Within moments the inevitable occurred:

“Why didn’t you read me Hal’s letter? Why do I have to hear it from Harriet?” (Her pout was stronger than my desire to ask “Why aren’t you mad at Harold for not telling you? He wrote it. Why me?” I let it go….
Wouldn’t—couldn’t throw the kid under the bus.

Three weeks passed. Then, the afternoon of August 10 Hal got an EMAIL from our rabbi, (acknowledging my forward). “You will have to explain it to me someday” urged the spiritual leader in a letter from the temple website.

My phone rang. It was H.

“I have to ask you,” he opened. Hesitating a bit he then blurted it out: “Did you send the email from Rabbi Skoff?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Just checking,” he offered. “It’s something you might do.”
“You mean you think I’m capable of entering Park’s website and sending a dummy email as a joke? Do you know what the odds on that are?”
“About a million to one.” he proffered.
“Thanks for the compliment.” I said, amazed, yet humbled.

I was smiling…I was bubbly. My little brother thinks I’m capable of a million to one shot. Hmmm.

And all because our mother married a thief.

Can’t wait till after Kiddush tonight!

   Back in adolescence, our Dad lived out-of-town.   He’d write us (snail mail then), and exercise his unique sense of fairness.  Any envelope addressed to “Bruce and Hal” always contained a letter that began “Dear HAL and BRUCE.”  Always.  He died on August 9, 1985.  His most recent note arrived today:

Dear boys,

A quarter of a century! Seems like yesterday.

It all happened so suddenly. They told me I was going to a better place and I figured Vegas. But I love it here. Not only is everything air-conditioned, but there’s no traffic and the kaiser rolls are to live for!

Twenty five years. When I got here I must say it was lonely. The only one at lodge on Thursdays was Max Mitchell. By the way, Bruce, did you ever get the magazines out of his garage on Bainbridge?

Little by little, though, my contemporaries have been showing up. A lot of old faces. Your mother’s family, Harriet’s family. Of course, your grandmother’s been here for a while. We play Scrabble on Sundays and it’s still frustrating. “Ma,” I tell her, “No two letter words.” “Albert, please!” I’ll hear; she still complains about her letters. By the way, she says you both should know she wanted to keep the color TV.

Was sorry to see Irwin last year. He’s been playing gin with Paul and me on Mondays. Not the best player, but a game’s a game. By the way, Bruce, per your request, we did include your friend David last winter. Marc was right, though. He’s not only weak, but even in this timeless place, David’s slow. One game we were partners; I kept finishing my hand first and so, I’d stand behind him to watch. Linick would stare at his cards, and stare. I’d want to shout “Throw something—anything!” And then he’d let go with a live card.” (We didn’t invite him back).

Bruce, I see your father-in-law all the time. He’s one of the few guys from the east coast that fit in immediately…You know, All-American and all that. He even got a big laugh on Father’s Day. We were sitting around, a bunch of us, watching “Field Of Dreams.” So the movie ends and they turn the lights on and he says “This isn’t Iowa, it’s heaven.” Then just a few weeks ago he made some more fans. There was a welcome party for Steinbrenner but Ben refused to go. “He’s a bum, I tell you,” he told the guys. (Oh…and Bruce—turns out I was right about Modell, wasn’t I?)

A lot of your friends’ fathers are here guys. Not many of the mothers. Why do they outlive us? Saw Stuart’s dad the other day. Wanted to have coffee, but he passed. Had a big, broad smile, but blew me off. “Can’t do it ‘Big Al’” he said—told me he was on his way to work.

I’ve been watching you boys and I’m proud of you both. It’s wonderful the way you’re taking care of my sister. I don’t know what she would do without you. H, your brother sent me the spreadsheet you made on her, detailing her misdeeds. If half of it is true and anything happens to her…please, if at all possible, give me a head’s up.

As far as your kids go, I’m watching it all and trust it will work out. It always does.

I know it’s been a rough year for you Hal, but the way you’ve carried yourself, they way you’ve not played the victim…well, it does my heart well to know you’ve pushed through. Like I told you boys back in the White Sox days, if you just keep taking a level swing, the hits will fall.

Well, that’s it for now. Picking the men up for today’ game, but need to stop at Revco first. Out of Camels. Smoking, you know, is still legal here. They say it can’t kill us.

(Told you this place was heaven).

Love, Dad

My entire life has been lived within two square miles. From the “Mean Streets” of South Euclid through the first life of Beachwood to the Second Coming in Lyndhurst. It’s been all Cleveland all the time, neither by accident nor with regret.

Married out of school. The wife, born and bred in Passaic, (hardly the garden spot of “The Garden State”), would have preferred returning east. New York specifically, called her name. Didn’t happen! Indeed, as I’d explained to her then, by law she’d waived that right attending OSU. The Bogarts, therefore, stayed put.

Cleveland was home. We thrived until we didn’t and stayed married until we ceased thriving. Still, she’d be the first to tell you it was a great place to raise kids and, I might note: with children gone, the lady remains. (Further, FYI, each of HER Jersey siblings has long since abandoned the Metropolitan area.).

Today’s society is mobile. People choose hometowns on MapQuest as I order from a menu. To a world half my age, when long-distance calls are free and travel is routine, home means NOT where you live, but where you sleep. Too bad.

Last week someone forwarded a well-crafted article by a national sportswriter.  It decried Cleveland, the dying city. A series of historical anecdotes and geographical references, the piece was at once entertaining, misleading, and (for the author), sad. The scribe, you see, earned his bones on Lake Erie.

His running gag had our town replete with streets and sights dubbed “Chagrin,” from the boulevard to the river to the falls. “Chagrin,” he pointed out, has a negative connotation.

Look, I enjoy a good laugh as much as anyone, perhaps more. Still, there’s a difference between laughing with someone and AT him; there’s a distinction between spinning and…oh well………

This guy grew up in Cleveland. He has friends here even today. Subsequent stops placed him in Cincinnati and Kansas City. (For now). I don’t know about him, but conscience dictates whether I tell half-truths; values mandate I not shoot my own.

Am I angry? For the moment. This too will pass. There are, after all, no such things as bad examples. Lessons can always be learned.

I stood on Chagrin Boulevard today, facing west. In a distance, heading downtown, the road’s name changed to “Kinsman.” Yes, that’s right: connoting kinship, brotherhood, family.

The writer, it seems, stood on the very same street, yet faced east—away from town. As such, he not only chose what he saw but his column became quite predictable.

He had, even before lifting his pen, turned his back on our city.

The characters that grace my life point me to live and learn. Satisfaction, (perhaps growth), comes from examining my behavior. At sixty years I am but a work-in-progress.

Mooney’s mechanic beamed proudly, pointing to the center of the tread. It was an oven outside and I’d had another flat. “There’s the problem,” he triumphed. “See it?” Having absolutely NO idea what the guy was looking at, yet not wanting to disappoint, I nodded knowingly. Moments later, through the glare of a blazing sun, a man approached.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, arm extended.

Didn’t, but should have. Knew the face, told him so, but couldn’t pull the trigger on the name.

“I’m married to your cousin,” he advised, after which we spoke several minutes…catching up. Our talk, crisp with laughter at family foibles, ended with another handshake. Exiting, he left me with a smile and one gnawing sense of loss.

Hal and I, you see, grew up surrounded by family. There were grand-parents, GREATgrandparents, cousins, second cousins, cousins of cousins, those that married in, those that opted out…and we knew them all. To this day H and I share vivid memories of even the most ancillary relations.

…Visions of first cousin Marla Hoffman’s third birthday at Forest Hills Park, second cousin Sam, (a ticket-taker at Public Hall), sneaking us through circus turnstiles and in Browns’ games…images of “Little Lou” (cousin of a cousin who now approaches 6’6”—or so it seems), or even NON-cousin Lil Flate showing up at random Seders. (Every family has a Lil Flate, you know: the person that no one can figure out how she’s related, but all agree she is). A generation passes and she’s “grandfathered in.” No one even questions it anymore.

Family.

How sad it is that today, when I treasure family most, I don’t know my own cousin’s name. That he has to reintroduce himself in a gas station parking lot.

Can’t blame this on Dad’s gambling. Can’t lay it on Mom’s bad ear or even our parents’ divorce. No, they raised us right; they set the table. This one’s on me.

I own it.

My kids are blessed. The sense of community that slid in Cleveland is being recouped in new locales.

I saw it in Chicago Independence Day. It wasn’t Forest Hills but Highland Park; it wasn’t Marla, but Stacy. There she was (my little one), ensconced, ebullient in a sea of thirty or so Bohrers and semi-Bohrers… communing with picnic baskets, softball, barbeque…

It’s an annual convention and, even allowing for the croquet, it is all good…

Or Team Pearl in New York:

Eight days ago Meredith’s mishpachah joined hands in memory of its matriarch; en masse they marched to raise funds in the fight against pancreatic cancer, then brunched together. They do it every year.

I marveled at it and felt enriched to join five cousins, their parents and friends, each clad in grape-colored T’s, each bound by love.

And so it was that days after returning home I was confronted not only by Cousin Ken, but also by opportunity.

Cousin Sheila called with an announcement. (You may recall Sheila. She’s in the Guinness Book Of World Records for most consecutive years in a wheelchair without a diagnosis). Anyway, her author/daughter (my third cousin, or is it second cousin once removed?) will be in Cleveland for a book signing.

Empowed by recent examples, determined to recharge local family, I called Ilie. “This is Cousin Bruce,” the message said. “…Your mom wasn’t sure when you’ll be in town, but I’d love to have lunch or dinner with you.“

That was Thursday. Since then she’s joined a growing list of women that don’t call me back. (It’s an unfortunate trend). But that’s OK.

I’m responsible for the effort, NOT the outcome. I get that.

Maybe she doesn’t crave family as I do. It’s possible. Or maybe Ilie, whose mother left Cleveland in the ‘50’s, and who, herself was raised in Rochester, has no idea who I am.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m her Lillie Flate.

        “Life is not tried it is merely survived
        If you’re standing outside the fire”

                                                 Garth Brooks

“Think of me Friday at 5” read the text from a foreign number.
“OK…” I typed. “…Who is this?” Ten minutes later my phone rang.

“Hey, remember when you found my high school sweetheart?”
“Is this Steven?” I asked, recognizing the story more than the voice. (Why do people just PRESUME you know it’s them?)

“Yeah,” he continued, “Well after all this time I finally called her. Finally got the nerve.” (No How are you? What are you up to? Nothing).
“You’re kidding!” I reflexed, both excited and intrigued. “So?”
“We’re meeting in Chicago, Friday at 5.”
“Cleveland time?”

He never answered, but it mattered not. My mind had wandered to Roslyn, New York, to the words of Larry Thompson at the end of the Joan Rivers movie.

“You’ve got to stand in the rainstorm if you want to get struck by lightning,” he said. (It touched a nerve that night and I’ve clung to the synapse since).

“YOU’VE GOT TO STAND IN THE RAINSTORM IF YOU WANT TO GET STRUCK BY LIGHTNING!” My friend Steve was out there—maybe I should be?

There’s this girl, you see. She flitters through my life in cameo appearances. Always warm, always safe, always friends. We’ll talk around it of course, but logistics protect us from what may be gravitational pull. Or not.

May 5 we last spoke—little contact since. This Tuesday, though, she texted: “You alive?” The midnight message had come in as I slept and was read the next morning. Now, late Wednesday, even before my response, mitn derinnen, here’s Steve!

Serendipity? Perhaps. Cause to think? At least. I can see anything when I want to. As such, still chewing on it that night— I called her. For thirty minutes we shared smiles and fluid conversation and….said goodbye.

Hanging up I felt worse. Struck me if I really wanted to get hit by lightning maybe I shouldn’t fear getting wet. I’m pushing 61, after all…hard. What’s the worst that could happen?

With pen in hand, (figuratively), I drafted an email. It was honest yet protective, leaving an exit strategy. Then, being me, I needed a second opinion—a lifeline.
Time to “phone a friend.”

Who was I kidding? My pals are either married or know even less then me. It would have to, then, be a kid. And so, with Jamie unavailable, sensing well that Michael would just roll his eyes, I called …STACY! I would bother the newlywed just long enough to read it, get her critique, and then….

And so it was that I called her cell and got voice mail, phoned her house getting same, and then Jason—also AWOL. Bad news, I knew, for the Jews: I was on my own.

Tweaking the note, I wrote (in pertinent part):

“I am totally comfortable with our friendship…I decided that if you were inclined, I wanted to date you…I treasure our friendship and don’t want to “weird you out.” If it’s not something that you deem do-able, I’d be thrilled to enjoy another forty years in the friend/zone….If you’re open to being open, I’d love to spend some quality time with you. No expectations, no demands—just time together. RSVP.”

Reading it again, I teased the keyboard. Then, in my best George Costanza, at 11:09PM, I thought “I’m goin’ in, baby!” Empowered, I hit SEND and went to bed.

At 11:48, as I slept, the response came in:

“I need a moment to give you a more thoughtful response. Not tonight…Let’s talk about this another time; not weirded out, just tired.”

My take (the next morning) was mixed. Perhaps she was just like me- a bit afraid to start something we might not finish. My hope, though, is that, like me, she is now ready to stand in the rain.

Love, I sense, is like a gin rummy game. There’s either a fast knock or a slow gin. It’s nearly 5 o’clock Friday, and I’m in Cleveland. My friend Steve is somewhere in Illinois. Both of us, it appears, are waiting for a gut card.

My phone rang in Great Neck last weekend.
“B, my mother died,” said the voice. The gentle giant, “Big Will,” en route from Florida… crying.

He wasn’t one of the Big Four nor did he really run with Arthur, Joel and that crew. But he was right there—one of our Sweet Sixteen— part of the package. Always.

A star athlete, Will was 6’5” back when 6’5” was still 6’5”. He was “Big Will,” one of us. Sure, he could letter in everything from Greenview through Brush; sure— the Indians would give him a signing bonus. We never let him forget, though: trophies came ONLY upon return to his roots, teaming with US on the sandlots. “God Damn Will!” we’d shout.

College done, though, like most of Our Gang, Will left town. A high school teacher, then principal, he carved his career elsewhere… returning only a handful of times over forty years. Like yesterday.

It was a graveside service, then back to the house. We shared, and before leaving…we smiled.

For nearly an hour Bob stood; Alan and I split the couch. It fit. Will, (perhaps due to his size), had often been targeted by our humor. Not yesterday.

Monday no one laughed at stranding him in New Mexico, no one mentioned hiding his shoes at the reunion; there was nothing of Will’s tendency to exaggerate. Indeed, not a word even, of his Dad wrestling alligators.

No, yesterday it wasn’t three jokers yet again reliving the past—it was more. In unison, in warmth, it was three friends answering the bell.

A bell that, quite clearly, tolls for all of us.

     “Well it’s all right, remember to live and let live.

       Well, it’s all right, the best you can do is forgive…”

Burnside and I were at Corky’s when my phone rang. A program guy was calling, canceling out on something—totally screwing me over. “Thanks for the call, I’ll handle it,” I said, munching blueberries.

“You’re not mad, are you?” asked Dennis.
“No…He’s a schmuck, that’s all”
“You’ve really got that acceptance thing nailed, Rabbi.”
“Thanks.”

It wasn’t always this way—just the opposite. I used to pride myself on saying most things don’t bother me, that I don’t hold grudges BUT, (I’d readily point out), if and when you make my list…if you cross that line…then you never get off. Ever.

What a terrible way I lived! That heavy burden of resentment weighed ME down, not the “bad guy.” It crippled my todays with past baggage. I now get that A) the world’s not perfect but B), neither am I. I now know that my serenity directly relates to how well I accept the tightrope walkers and acrobats in my life. (Am I not, to some of them, the circus act)?

I don’t have to condone to forgive—I just need to let go. I don’t need to forget to move on—I just need to accept…FOR MY SAKE. (Not theirs…F&#! them).

The gift of time works wonders. Raw feelings grow scabs; new skin covers hurt….and this clown, for one, works to neither regret the past nor shut the door on it. It’s cleaner, easier facing forward.

Sometimes, though, easier said than done.

There was this guy, a friend from youth. His parents ran with mine (so in a sense, we were friends in embryo). Our dads formed Bolo Enterprises as teens, to market used baseball cards. Our moms, years later, would bowl together and complain about husbands between frames).

We were fast friends—from Presque Isle trips at four to grade school…to OSU. Never fully accepted by the core group, he was, nonetheless, always embraced by me. Richard was likeable, funny, and, IN A GOOD WAY, a novelty. This nice Jewish boy not only had an erector set, knew electronics and was mechanically inclined, but—get this—he was absolutely the only contemporary of mine to, in a world when kids would say “Hello Mr. Bogart, Hello Mrs. Bogart,” greet my parents by their first names. (And get away with it).

“How you doin’, Al?” he’d say, offering him a cigarette.

Our friendship sustained through the years. As newlyweds, The Jersey Girl and I fixed him up with the woman he’s been with four decades and counting. Our kids were friends. Still are.

Richard, though, threw me to the curb as my marriage failed. Without warning, without reason. Done. And it hurt.

A relationship that traveled from uterus through adolescence to parenthood…that survived the divorces of our parents, the deaths of our patron saint fathers…the storms of life in general…unilaterally discarded.

It hurt bad.

I remember crying to my mother about it—back then. Elaine Turner had raised victimization to an art form—she was (excuse the pun), the perfect ear.

“Really?” Mom asked AND ASKED. “You guys have been pals for years!”
“I guess I’m not fashionable now,” mused the victim.
“Is this one of your jokes?” she wondered.

But it was no joke. Richard, my friend forever, was now just a Dick.
Ensuing years saw hurt become anger become resentment….until I let go. It was a period I lost, not he. But it was a lesson I was learning, not he.

How toxic was it to say “I wouldn’t pee on his grave.” How wasteful was my spirit…until…

I grew up. I moved on.

By Michael’s ’06 wedding, indeed, I’d let go. It was tennish, and Dick was sitting at the reception…table for eight…alone …post-dinner…looking like a tired Steve Freedman…

“Hey,” I greeted, extending my hand. Nodding response, he asked where his wife was. “Not sure, “ said I, adding “Well, catch you later.”

And then I did what I’d done years before. I moved on.

        “…You know we just don’t recognize the most
        significant moments of our lives while they’re
        happening. Back then I thought, well, there’ll be
        other days. I didn’t realize that that was the only day…”

                           Burt Lancaster, playing “Moonlight” Graham, 1990.

Twenty years ago this summer I first watched “Field Of Dreams.” With Mandel, at a theater, in tears. It was the story of father and son, redemption and baseball…of memorable characters. One of them was “Moonlight” Graham.

Archibald Wright “Moonlight” Graham was born, records show, on November 9, 1879. A physician by trade, his true aspiration was baseball—Major League baseball—to bat against the big boys.

It was a century ago.

From ’02 to ’04 “Doc” Graham pursued the dream playing minor league ball. Then, in June, 1905 it appeared his time had come.

It was the bottom of the eighth. He’d spent the spring riding New York’s bench, but on that day, at that moment, manager John McGraw sent him out to play right. Better yet, he’d bat fourth in the Giants’ ninth.

Poised, ready…Archie Graham could taste it. He was playing for a power-house, a team that would go on to win that year’s World Series. He was minutes, perhaps moments from grasping his dream.

It didn’t happen, though. Inexplicably, unexpectedly…it didn’t happen.

New York’s Giants, MCGRAW’S GIANTS…went quietly that final frame.  Three ground balls. Fartic! Who’d have thunk it? A dejected “Moonlight” Graham retreated from the on-deck circle.

He was never to get that close again.

Our lives, like baseballs, tend to take unexpected bounces.

AND…IN A RELATED STORY…My beautiful granddaughter is eleven weeks old Wednesday.

Life’s winds tossed me hard this week. I’ve dealt with self-righteous colleagues, unreasonable clients and uncooperative kin. Pressure at work, down-time minimal, and ….

Sunday morning, maybe 7. I was basking Caribou’s patio sun when another lawyer walked by. Randi is mid-40’s, reasonably smart, and if she ever learned how to smile, attractive.

“Mind if I sit down?” she asked mid-descent.
“No, “ I lied.

For twenty plus minutes she railed on everything and everyone in her life, (not necessarily excluding her husband).

“Don’t you ever get depressed?” she asked.
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Well,” I backed off…”I get flat, but it passes.”

She did another ten minutes or so, periodically reaffirming herself by reminding me of her “big house and nice practice.”

“I’m sure you have a lot to be thankful for,” said I.
“Who gives a flying f#&!” (thought I).

“Yeah,” she sighed, “…But sometimes I feel I have nobody…”

• My immediate thought was “Gee, I wonder if she’s
hitting on me?’ My even more immediate reaction:
1, Pray she’s not… 2, Use humor…and 3, RUN!

Took a deep breath and tested my wit:

“You know,” if I had your house, your practice— I’d still be married.”
Then, not quite knowing where I was going: “…Just brainstorming here… but if you ever want to leave your husband there’s someone you should meet…”

“I’m not leaving him,” said Randi, (taking the bait).
“Just as well, SHE’S married too.”

By the time my friend caught on I was standing:

“Gotta go…too muggy out here.” I said, entering the coffee shop to hide.

I used to be like her…mid-40s and reasonably smart….but for the most part, I’ve always smiled, and clearly for the most part I’ve gauged things half full, not plain empty. My dad would say she’s crying with a loaf of bread under each arm.

Today it’s a rare moment that I’m not grateful; it is a rare day that I don’t count my blessings. The little things, the intangibles…matter most.

In 2010 my troubles are only problems and my problems are only life.

And true pleasure abounds.

Like breakfast with the boys this morning…which gave me the smile to trudge final hours of trial.

Or the voice mail from Fenton, retrieved exiting court:

“B, call me! ___________ wants to friend me on Facebook. Let’s see how we can aggravate him.”

Stuart’s, of course, was the first call returned. Our plan quickly hatched, he quietly listened in as I dialed the victim. Alas, voice mail! Disconnecting _________, I referenced getting older.

“I don’t think we have to worry about that, B,” said Stuart. “We’re 60 years old and still making phony phone calls!”

An epiphany.

As we both laughed, Stu looked for a second number; we weren’t quite done.

Driving out I-90, grinning, my heart was light. I saw the smiles of Les, Himmel, Walt, Kraut and Stuart all reflecting back on me…from a glass half full.

My sun roof open, I was basking in the shoreway’s sun, and I couldn’t wait for the rest of the day.

       “You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
       You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams
       And life gets more exciting with each passing day
       And love is either in your heart or on its way”

August, 1972- Somewhere on Interstate 85. A flat stopped our caravan as we traveled Atlanta to Greensboro. Murray Galan, age 60, knelt on the median, changing MY tire. He was sweating, smiling and radiant—clearly having a ball.

July 3, 2010- Chicago, Illinois. There in The Second City my daughter spoke words that echoed through not only Wrigleyville, but my heart:

“Dad, I never realized you’re getting old.”

It didn’t bother me the first time, nor for that matter, the second time she said it. Or the third. But by the eighty-third pronouncement (July 4, 10:15PM, Central, 11:15 PM EST, time approx.)…

My Dad was 47 at his first heart attack. Whatever hair he had was gray, and he bent over only for the “Aleinu.” Still, with all that, never once did it occur to me he was old. Ever.

Those were the days Bert would pick him up for cards. The horn would honk, Big Al would bolt out, rhythmically cantering to the car. Even by the 80’s, when he’d slowed to a trot—-it was never about age. A few extra pounds, MAYBE…but old?

Our Mom—SHE got old (and with reason). By 80 she’d wed our Dad, Sam, and The Thief. That would age anyone. Anyway, it wasn’t so much that she got old as that she rusted.

No, I wouldn’t say I’m old. My underwear: old. My taste in music, perhaps. But me?

Don’t take my word for it. Consider the opinion of the unbiased source, the barometer of social mores, the paragon of reason. What follows, then, is a true excerpt of a telephone conversation (July 8, 2010, 4:00 EST):

“Aunt Helen, do you think I’m old?”
“No. Why would you ask?”
“Just wondering.”
“Bruce why do you bother me with these questions?”

If only my daughter called her aunt more! If only she’d known Murray Galan, or people like him. Like cousin Herschel, who at 70 was still dancing the kazakhski and standing on his head at weddings.

Or like Freddy Gold. When not running The Schvitz at East 116th and Kinsman, Fred found time to manage softball. And so it was that in his late 50’s he was blessed with a catcher named Bruce.

Back then it was me that called his field general old. Thought he’d lost a step, his edge–that he was letting friendships color the batting order. Oh, how I’d hound him, noodge him to tweak the lineup! Those were the days (have they passed?) when I didn’t quite know where to draw the line. So I’d give him a little ZETZ. And another. Always…

“Fred,” I said, behind the skating rink at Monticello, moments after he’d announced the starting ten…”I have a question.” (Alas, I’d gone to the well once too often).

All of a sudden, flying out from behind the third base bench comes this “old” man—all 5’7”of him.

“You sonofabitch!” he screams, as he, in one feel swoop, smacks me over the head with his clipboard, “Get out in the field and shut up!”

Fred old? I think not. He scared me more than any Brush greaser ever did. Fred resentful?…not at all. By game’s end it was like it never happened. Fred was young.

I think of Freddy now and then—he died in February. So real, so youthful, even at 80. And Murray. And Herschel.

Age is but a mind-set. The other night Hal, Margie and I blew a tire on I-271. With Murray gone, we waited for AAA. And laughed. We were smiling, radiant, and having a ball.

If you see my baby, tell her the old man’s young. That my weight is down, spirits up. Softball may be a thing of the past but I’m still sliding head first into life!

       “Don’t you know that it’s worth every treasure on earth
       To be young at heart
       For as rich as you are it’s much better by far
       To be young at heart.”
                                                          Leigh, Richards