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It was 10:30 on a silent Monday night. Our mother had been gone near a half hour as Hal, Margie and I stood waiting in the hall to see her. The Thief was in her room, presumably checking under the mattress one last time.
“You know, “ my brother said with love, “This means you’re next.”
Truth be known, he reminded me that should we all go in order I am now kneeling, swinging a bat in the on deck circle. (Aunt Helen, rumored to have voted for Lincoln in both elections, will clearly outlive us all).
Being next is not what it used to be. I’d settle for the middle of the pack. Gladly.
Ironically, the very last movie I took my mother to see was “The Bucket List.” We shared happy tears together as
Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson knocked down their final “To do:” list.
Exiting the theater, my melodramatic mother asked me what would be on my list. She was eighty; living in an old folk’s home. I wasn’t ready for that conversation.
But I am today.
So here it is Mom. MY list.

1 Drive around Lander Circle clockwise against traffic.
2 Give a college commencement address.
3 Be a greeter at “Corky & Lenny’s.
4 Rejoin Park Synagogue.
5 Get an apology from Dick.
6 Hang out with a blonde that wears one of those baseball caps where her ponytail sticks out through the hole in the back. (Soft pink, if possible).
7 Hold a grandchild.
8 Sing along at a Bar Mitzvah, arms around each other,
with my three kids and their spouses, as the music blares out “That’s What Friends Are For.”

Truth be known, my mother had a list too. It had but
one item.
Ever since the mid 70’s, when she first announced her impending mortality, she would admonish her boys “When I’m gone you’ll only have each other.” She yearned for her kids to cement their checkered relationship.
By anyone’s account, our mother lived long enough to see her wish fulfilled. Hal and I, (with Margie I might add), do have each other. And we don’t need a movie to laugh and cry together.
Thanks Mom.

Sometimes we measure our growth by our different reactions to like events.
Thirty-nine years ago at OSU I developed a girlfriend. The watershed event came when she actually introduced me to her friends back home; it gave me (I thought), credibility.
One of them, however, was quite vocal in her opinion.
“She doesn’t think you’re for me,” The Jersey Girl whispered, as I slunk into my Plymouth Duster.
My feelings hurt, I angrily sped west on I-80, sing-shouting to Neil Diamond’s “Solitary Man,” my anthem for the summer.
Homeward bound.
(Not for one solitary (?) moment did it occur to me that Gayle was right. A high school majorette from the metropolitan New York area and a naïve “nice Jewish boy” from the mean streets of Ohio: Grace Slick in the same picture with Bobby Vinton?)
Never.
The more things change, however, the more they stay the same.
As the first Seder wound down just last Wednesday the kids got to the C material. Stacy, who’s been in Cleveland recently had met one of my dates.
“She is very, I mean VERY pretty,” said Stacy. Then, with a twinkle in her eye she continued: “I kept thinking ‘What is she doing with Dad?’”
Ouch. Was it really such a juxtaposition? If you prick me, do I not bleed?
It took the Jews 40 years to get from Egypt to Israel; in that same time I have moved maybe two miles. Still, today there is no anger, no hurt.  I am OK with myself—at least this week. What others think of me, at some level, is none of my business. 

When dinner was over I hopped in my Toyota and drove home sing-shouting to The Killers and “Mr. Brightside.”

Thirty years after Begin and Sadat convened at Camp David, a smaller segment of another generation is amazed that my ex-wife and I have achieved a degree of accord.
Some are fascinated; some are disappointed. Balanced people, I would submit, should not care.
Rewind the tape to last September.  We both found ourselves in Chicago for Stacy’s engagement. Due to the 11th hour nature of the surprise announcement it made sense to share a two-bedded hotel room. I laughed and she had a mild stroke when upon arrival the room had but one bed..
So there we were, together again. She took the king-sized bed; I slept on the loveseat and ottoman. No regrets, though. For the first time ever under the same roof with this woman, I held the remote control.
Peace comes in all flavors.
Fast forward to Passover 2009. My mother’s death within hours of the first Seder created a “domino effect.” As my children converged upon Cleveland for a funeral, the ex had her plans for an east coast observance cancelled. She stayed in town and comforted her offspring at their grandmothers’ funeral. (Her EX-mother-in-law’s, no less!). Then, to the surprise of absolutely no one, Margie and Hal extended the dinner table several more notches and the past was present again…for at least one more observance.
Life has a funny habit of getting in the way of plans.

Remember the movie “Zelig?” This omnipresent character from the Woody Allen film was one of those persons that showed up everywhere….Good moments, bad times….always there…Right in the middle.
Permit me to introduce my friend Michael. Friends from the shining star days of the 70’s, through my abyss of the 90’s, to today. On and off the court—before, after, and in between life cycle events. Through decades of noxious Saturday morning breakfasts at a stale deli. When I wanted to smile, and when I wanted to hide. Always.
I used to joke that he only called me with bad news. Fact is he has been so wired to the Jewish community and the world at large that some still think he gets news alerts texted from G/d. (Flashback to his middle child’s Landerhaven wedding when across the dinner table David and I, with straight faces, advised his new machatonim that MJ served on the Warren Commission. Further, we asserted, if Michael chose to violate confidences he could indeed reveal who’d conspired with Lee Harvey Oswald that November Friday in 1963).
Truth be known, it has just been that Michael always cared about me enough to assure that even in my darkest times….even when my own mistakes had forced me from the world I’d lived in —even then he knew I needed to “be a part of.”
For years he was my primary link to the life I had left. Michael and Lana loved me when I was unlovable.
In the mid-80’s as my world was invisibly shrinking, my dad died in Columbus. There was Michael up in Cleveland directing traffic in Franklin County.
Coordinating…..comforting.
A quarter of a century later my Mom has passed.
There front and center are Michael and Lana—coordinating, comforting.
(“Bogie, you have to wear a winter coat to the funeral!”)
(“Bruce, your friends will send food in; please call Margie, please!”)
(“Bogie, do your kids need rides from the airport?”)
I have been blessed with a myriad of loyal, lifetime friends. Bobby, Stuart, Alan, Walt,  Arthur, Randy, Mark and more have been there from the Glory Days at Bayard and Wrenford. To this day. These childhood friends that remain throughout a lifetime, are priceless.
Making friends as adults is not always as special.
Unless G/d puts Michael in your path.
In the next month I will have plenty time to look through the old photos of my Mom …from the 50’s and 60’s….from my childhood. It strikes me now that as I wipe the dust from the black and whites I should look a little closer at the pictures. Somewhere in the backgrounds, smile lurking, I may just see Michael.
Thank you, Zelig.

“My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.’

Mark Twain

My mother is dying. Not because she said so—truth be known, she first made that announcement in the mid-70’s.
But because the hospice nurse said so.
Ten minutes after my brother called saying things were bad but stable, my phone rang again.
“You’d better come home.”
The projection is an unofficial one day to two weeks. It’s no longer something that will ultimately happen; it is happening.
As the morphine drips and the oxygen pumps, she sleeps.
Peacefully, presumably unaware of our presence in the darkened room, she sleeps.
As a lifetime montage of events cruises through my mind, she sleeps.
Hal and I were there this morning with Caroline. We watched her doze; we reminisced; we sat.
There was a rhythm to the visit. There was a peace to it. We exited together as we have for years….me kissing her forehead, and he enthusiastically saying “OK, Mom, we’ll see you later!”
But this time her eyes were closed and she didn’t hear.
This time we lingered invisibly.
And all the while the oxygen pumped.
And the morphine dripped.

Is my not being in a relationship a function of unrealistic expectations, commitment issues, age, or merely that I haven’t met the right person yet. I’m on the back nine now, and isn’t it time?
This summer will be a sweet sixteen years since the demise of my marriage. Not withstanding the baggage of my past, it seems unfathomable that I continue to ride solo. As busy and as full as my life is, am I not wired to share?
Some people “know” the minute they meet someone.
Stuart walked into Ohio State’s Taylor Tower forty years ago this spring and spotted Marilyn talking to Cheryl, another Heights girl.
“Who is this enchanting lady?” he interrupted, forcing an introduction.
(They got married right out of school and are still together).
I used to think I’d know the “look” if I met it: Dirty blonde hair, suburban blue eyes, nice fragrance.
Blue jeans and a smile.
I’m really not a high-maintenance guy. So what’s my problem?
This week I made a written inventory of my past relationships. I listed each person I’d had even a passing interest in regardless of the duration of the encounter.
I am trying to find a common thread.
In 1971 Stuart did his Marine Reserve stint in Cape May, New Jersey. At the time I was debating getting engaged. His three-page letter, (off the backs of Highlights For Children magazine sales report forms), remains in my personal archives. In long-hand, he counseled me find someone that could fulfill me mentally, physically and spiritually. He urged me to look for all three.
It was 1971 and we weren’t quite 22; I thought he was full of shit.
Who thinks that way at that age?
Stuart did.
Maybe that’s why he’s still with Marilyn.

On balance I would say that these are the good old days. But there were others, and some are so special that revisiting them once in a while is also special.
Thursday night I finished reading “1968”, the story of OSU’s undefeated football season. I’d lived through it the first time as a sophomore and the undefeated season’s retelling, week-by-week, brought back a myriad of memories.
The last forty pages denoted where the players and coaches are now and narrated the last decade of Woody’s life and his death.
I cried. I lay on the couch and actually shed tears for the guy. Twenty some years after I pulled Michael out of second grade to go to the memorial service, I cried.
It wasn’t just my second year in college that I was recalling; it was my youth.
Fact is I had bad seats that year. Sat at the bottom of the closed end, (below Block O) for Purdue; was in the open-end South bleachers for the blowout of Michigan.
But I walked High Street with the guys after both home victories, shouting “We’re Number One.” And I watched the OJ Rose Bowl with Stuart at Henry Katz’s apartment.
Glory days.
Then last night my brother prompted my attendance at the Moondog Coronation Ball, a retro-rock extravaganza downtown. The class of the night was Peter Noon, (late of Herman’s Hermits). It was hard not to identify songs with events of my long ago high school or college days.
Three hours into the night, though, reality set in. Enough of the past!
I’m not a kid anymore. It’s ten o’clock. Seinfeld’s on in an hour.
We got back uptown at 12:30. I put on another repeat of “Law And Order.”
Most days I wouldn’t say this, but this morning when I awoke I really wanted to tap someone on the shoulder gently and ask “Remember when?”

One Thursday night in February 1960 our parents brought home a six two month old Shetland Sheepdog. Up until that time neither of Albert and Elaine’s children had come within four feet of a dog. We were petrified.
Within an hour of introducing us to the pet, (which was to be Hal’s birthday present), my father left for the night. Lodge meeting.
Adam was simply the best.
We lived on a corner house across from the elementary school. Kids coming and going would play with the toy collie that Bernie Pleskoff called “Little Lassie.” He’d run and catch tennis balls in mid-air, foam from the mouth, and smile. His best friend Tide Luxenburg lived across the street.
My father wanted to put Adam out to stud to create funds, but Doc Elsner said Adam was sterile.
Adam died childless on April 16, 1966 while my mom was in the hospital. It was rough. I told Arthur about it in gym class and he just couldn’t believe it. I vowed never to get another dog.
Life got in the way of plans, though, and one summer night in the early 80’s Arthur, Bennie (my brother-in-law) and I ventured to Chardon to pick up another miniature collie. The kids dubbed him “Rocky,” a name I hated. So be it.
The good news is that my second childhood came and, living alone, I secured another dog, a bichon. He was named Adam, in memory of Adam.
The bad news is that the dog was stolen from me. My baby Stacy had been staying with me, and one day, took him to her mother’s for overnight consolation. Neither Stacy or Adam ever returned. To make matters worse, Stacy moved to Chicago, and the hunt is now living in Beachwood with his step-mother.
Which left me without a pet,
This past fall it was suggested that I try a cat. Low maintenance (I was told). It was pointed out that you don’t even have to walk the thing.
I adopted Daryl at eight weeks and it truly was a breeze. Took him to Arthur (now a vet), and he urged me to, if nothing else, not get a second cat.
Two months later I rescued another young kitten. I named him Darryl as well. It seemed to work so well.
But not for Arthur.
Among other things he complained that two Darryls might create confusion on the medical charts. Then, when I stepped on Darryl’s neck and crushed his inner ear, Kraut reminded me that he’d cautioned me not to get the second cat.
It matters not. They are nice to come home to.. And while my son says it makes me gay, Meredith just loves Darryl. (or is that Darryl?)
We get along great, and while three is truly a full house, Passover is fast approaching. I wonder what Adam is doing for the second Seder?

My Dad liked all my friends, but some held a special place in his heart.
Like Randy.
To the guys he was “Raisinbrain,” or “Raisin” or “Rais.” Still, more often than not he would just go by “Fool.”
Fact is Randy is no fool. He has just, for some six decades, done some rather outlandish things making him an easy target.
Like calling my mother “Mrs. B”, still, although she became Mrs. L in 1965 and Mrs. T in 1989. Even to her face.

Or the time in the ’70’s when he moved to Oklahoma or some other state Jews don’t go to help a friend build a house.  He was promised half the house, but when construction was completed all he got was a “Thank you.”  So he turned around and returned to Ohio.
One of Randy’s claims to fame was having and being proud of his two pee-holes. On any given day he could stand six feet away from the five adjacent urinals in a Brush High men’s room, and hit the two on the end urinals simultaneously. As if he was two place-kickers kicking off of one tee.
He has no airs about him. Never did. What you see is absolutely what you get. My sense is that this pureness was the reason you could never stay mad at him. Ever.
Like the time back at OSU when he missed the birth of his child. After waiting at the hospital through hours of labor he got itchy and called me to meet him for pizza. I agreed, and with my dad we ate while Hailey was entering this
True to form, when Randy returned to the hospital and found out he’d missed the birth he called again. The three of us reconvened and spent the night/early morning at the Holiday Lanes, an all-night bowling alley off Hamilton Road.
Or better yet, the time he agreed to ride with my dad to New Philadelphia, Ohio to deliver magazines. They decided that while my father was meeting with the elementary school principal Randy’d wait at a drugstore, have a Coke, and read the newspaper. Low and behold when my dad returned to scoop up Randy, he was nowhere to be found.
Fumes came from my father. His lip puffed. Where was Randy? How could he disappear in central Ohio?
An hour or so later my dad and the New Philly police (in a cruiser) found him…..sitting on an orange crate on a side street. Resting.
Happy to see the entourage, Randy exclaimed. “I just had to get away. Ha!.”
I think Randy knew my dad could never stay mad at him. Twenty-some years after my father’s death my phone rings each October 4. It is Randy calling to tell me how he still thinks of my father. His never-ending birthday wishes for “Mr. B.”
Raisin turned sixty this week. Incredible. To think that he is now older than my father ever was.
In reflection though, they shared not only a special bond, but also a special trait: each was and is forever young.

So here’s my birthday wish for Randy:

May the good lord be with you
Down every road you roam
And may sunshine and happiness
Surround you when you’re far from home
Be courageous and be brave
And in my heart you’ll always stay
FOREVER YOUNG,