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       “…Well, I don’t want to visit the moon
       On a rocket ship high in the air.
       No, I don’t want to visit the moon,
       And I don’t think I’d like to live there.
       I don’t want to look down at earth from above
       And miss all the places and people I love.
       So although I might like it for one afternoon,
       I don’t want to visit the moon…”

For only a short period of time did I ever consider living outside of Northeast Ohio. It was ’72 and on return from the Army, Ohio State having rejected my law school bid, content I was to reside in Columbus near my Dad and brother. Only when The Jersey Girl proposed marriage (East coast Jewish women LOVE a man out of uniform) proclaiming she refused to live “in a hick town with you for the rest of my life” that I came back to Cleveland. (Ed. Note 1: “With you for the rest of my life” was later defined as 22 ½ years). Dwelling in central Ohio would be the best move I never made.

There were a bunch of us in high school. Friends we were, in one big circle, yet even with our subsets, so often we walked as one. After college, in time, the men left town. Slowly but surely our village leaked. (Not totally, however. Al T remained. As did Fred and Art. And Bobby, in a way. I mean: Summit County? Really?)

Myers went south, and Fenton too. Ermine: mildly south.

Grafchik, of course, went south in more ways than one (reportedly telling Stuart we should each take him out of our rolodexes). Then there were Gaffin and Cohn heading east, Herman and Auerbach moving west, and the most interesting hopscotch of all: Wieder. Southwest first, then east, Wido left his tenured position at the University Of South Carolina not to wed Joanie as rumored, but only when he learned that Portland was an additional 2,500 miles from Israel.

— And then there was moi: first on our block to be the product of a “broken home”, social underachiever of the group —me.

I stayed.

Four decades later, forty some years after my friends’ Exodus, I can’t imagine having lived elsewhere. Old friends have prevailed in my heart even as new faces have joined the circus. Indeed, this town, specifically the four square miles of suburbia I’ve clung to … these metes and bounds remain not only an intangible anchor, but a sustained source of comfort.

I love it here.

This is where we raised our kids. This is where I spread my wings. This is where, even within my emotional diaspora, I have claimed some growth.

So I don’t want to live on the moon. (Or, for that matter…New York or Chicago.)

My kids would love it of course. There was a time a few years back when Michael was urging me east. Sensing my minimal material demands, he’d suggested I get a job as a doorman at a high rise apartment in Manhattan. Truth is, I would have enjoyed the gig — just talking to people all day. Heck, even the physicality of opening the door was something I could handle.
But it wasn’t Cleveland. And my heart wasn’t in it. And that was that.

Stacy too, has urged I relocate. And Yes, Chicago’s nice, truly nice. There’s even a group of guys at Max & Benny’s in Northbrook that breakfast at the same table each morning. Just eavesdropping the last time through I connected. There was a Kraut at their table, and a Walt, and a Les…

But it wouldn’t be Cleveland. And my heart wouldn’t be in it. Not really.

I breathe Cleveland no less than Jason Bohrer breathes Chitown or Matt Klein Queens.

Carrie speaks (at times) of warmer weather. Three kids here, she has —and grandkids. Who’s she kidding?

So, No, I don’t want to move. Stu Fentons of my world can post on Facebook from the Sunbelt all they want, but I’ll stay here…
Where my feet are… and where my pulse is.

(And besides, it will just be easier. After all, on Thursdays I take Helen shopping).

      “So if I should visit the moon —
       Well, I’ll dance on a moonbeam and then
       I will make a wish on a star
       And I’ll wish I was home once again.
       Though I’d like to look down at the earth from above
       I would miss all the places and people I love.
       So although I may go I’ll be coming home soon
       ‘Cause I don’t want to live on the moon.
       No, I don’t want to live on the moon….”

(Ernie and Fozzie Bear, adapted)

       “…I have a place where dreams were born
       Where time somehow begun.
       That town where we got starts–
       We hold it in our hearts.
       It’s 44121…”

It was our Never Never Land, and there was treasure in it. Lifelong bounty.

Cedar on one side …north of Mayfield on the other. Warrensville Center if we were heading to the stadium … somewhere past Green if pedaling to the nine hole Lyndhurst Golf Course. Gentle geography it was, framed by our youth.

The roots of my hometown have legs. Bonds forged in that hallowed town and special time remain. Ties even mildly made on those golden (yet in the case of Wrenford and Verona partially-unpaved) streets to this day offer kinship and connection.

       “…It lives behind our every moon
       With memories of such fun.
       We keep an open mind
       It’s never far behind:
       Our 44121…”

We swam at Bexley Park and not Purvis (which was for “Wiley Snobs”). We put air in our bike tires at Eddie’s Pure Oil, from wherever we lived (even though Mr Codeluppi’s garage was much closer).

The best athletes hung at Rowland. On any given day you’d find Feldman or Fromin and sometimes even a Simmerson or Levine. Younger guys like me would sit, wait, and hope to be noticed. They never needed us for Swift Pitching against the wall, but sometimes in REAL games…perhaps there’d be an odd number of players and they’d want to even teams. Groupies we were — content to chase fouls. So we’d sit there, we would: Bogarts, Fentons, Masseria, Rosenberg, and the like. Content we were watching the icons, just wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and playin’ and plannin’ and dreamin’…

UNIMPORTANT IMPORTANT MEMORY: I was by the green utility box behind Rowland the night Les Levine, (world renown for making the majors at nine), was up there, having slid into home head first for the Red Sox, getting lime in his eye, and being rushed to the hospital. (Long before The Drive, The Fumble and The Shot — decades before the world knew of Elway, Byner or Jordan — there was The Slide). And it happened in South Euclid, Ohio.

       “…We have a treasure
       If we stay there.
       (More precious far than gold).
       For once you’ve played there
       Friends remain there…
       44121…”

I’m not talking about core friends, mind you. That goes without saying. Heck, even the misfortunate of Cleveland’s Jewish Baby Boomers — the Shaker or Heights kids — or even the ones whose parents made a few bucks and fled to Beachwood… even they had BEST FRIENDS.

I’m thinking ‘bout the entire town: from best friends to good friends to acquaintances. From classmates to siblings of classmates to people you really hadn’t known but knew they grew up near someone you knew.

We were and we are all in it together. We shared and still share a magical past. Indeed, the faces, memories and images are to this day embraced! Even chance meetings decades later conjure six degrees or more of separation:

I saw Susie Gottesman at Heinen’s. (She married in). Husband Michael was one of three Michael’s in my class first four grades. Agin was cooler than me, by the way — Letsky skinnier. The former was also in my Hebrew School; the latter had a sister that my brother once took to see The Temptations at the Versaille Motor Inn.

Bumped into Arnie Cohn at Marc’s. Had to introduce him to Aunt Helen. “How do you know him?” she asked aisles later. Gingerly I shared how I’d met him on Hinsdale but more importantly he’d married the sister of Robin Beckerman, the third-grader that broke Harold’s heart.

The hits, if you still live within a nine iron of SE, keep on coming! With neither a yearbook in your lap nor Facebook on a screen, sooner or later, on the street, in a store, at a simcha…somewhere under the rainbow that’s Cleveland you’ll be lucky enough to see someone from our past and realize the thrill isn’t gone…

Ronnie Rivchun at Bialy’s. Ronnie Pollack at Costco. Pollack was a Stilmore lad. So many thoughts: Alan Herzog, Leslie Zilbert, The Cohen girls, Les Rosenberg (nee Leslie). No relation was he, of course, to Marvin Rosenberg of Beaconwood.

Beaconwood: a halcyon street. Masseria had restaurant booths in his basement. Maddy lived nearby, and Susie Bucklan across the street.
These were the first girls I wasn’t afraid to talk to (although I warmed to Lynne Phillips in early years). And Susie Golden…and Arlene Rothenfeld (when they weren’t dancing with Arthur). And Linda Shafran, perhaps the most. She was a Bayard girl, you see…and I knew her brother Sidney…and her sister Leslie was in my brother’s grade…and her cousins lived next door and there was green vine on the house just like Wrigley Field in Chicago—-

And do you remember DD Davis on the other side of Miramar? Or Bernie Pleskoff? Or Mad Man Muntz?

And before you entered Greenview, did you buy an Elevator Pass?

       “…And that’s my home
       Where roots were sewn
       On diamonds in the sun.
       From Rowland, Greenview
       Then at Brush
       ‘Twas 44121….”

(With apologies to Peter Pan)

Facing north from a booth at Corky’s I had the distinct misfortune of hearing the woman at the next table. Sitting adjacent to me, lamentably within earshot, she was, in a methodical gravelly voice, chastising the pour soul across from her. At least twice in her lecture she’d called him “loser”. The first time I focused; it caught my ear. The second time (and maybe the third) I just winced…quietly praying that for his sake he was deaf.

Words hurt. Words hurt. Words hurt. There’s a right way and a wrong way to say things. I was once called “a loser” a lot, and to this day it plays on me.

The best teacher I ever had (bar none) was Virginia Pelander. It wasn’t so much THAT she taught us, it was HOW she taught us. She encouraged students always, win or lose. Never would she embarrass us; never did she proclaim “You are wrong.” Mrs. Pelander’s was a kinder, gentler correction:

“That’s not what I was looking for.”

(Somewhat like the football coach at the sideline greeting a player that’s just fumbled with a pat on the back and a “We’ll get ‘em next time”….rather than barking in his face as a stadium watches).

There’s a right way and a wrong way to express displeasure and my teacher knew it. “I was looking for something else,” she might say.

My Dad knew it too, (perhaps even without knowing it). He raised it, I should note, to an art form. For thirty-five years we shared wins, losses, strengths, faults — everything. Through it all though, he was father first and friend second, and as father first he’d direct me toward right.

—Never would he flinch…but never would he call me names.
—Always would he point out … but never would he demean.

Al Bogart was a black and white person. To him, people, places and things were either good or bad…to be done or not to be done. Bobby, Stuart, Alan, Columbus, always cutting the deck of cards? These were good. Boys with shoulder length hair, Yankee or Wolverine fans or (for God knows what reason) Regis Philbin? Bad. Very bad.

So he had his rules of conduct; he sensed what was best for his boys; he never waivered at guiding us.

— But he never called names, never (even with a smile) groaned “Loser!”, and (but for when I bit my nails), never harped “Don’t”. Speaking often in passion, but always with heart, my imperfect perfect father found loving ways to express even displeasure.

Take my behavior, for example. Sometimes I wouldn’t be doing anything that was technically wrong. “Stupid” would be a more accurate. You know– joking around…perhaps saying something inappropriate in front of my grandmother or aunt.  Boundary stuff.

“You’re not half as funny as you think you are,” he’d remind.

Or like when it came to normal things that most kids did, but that he didn’t think best for me: like playing tackle or hitchhiking down Lee Road to meet the Shaker girls….

“I don’t care if Bobby Snyder’s parents and Alan Wieder’s parents all say it’s OK. You’re not their child.”

Or perhaps it would be a card game. We’d be playing hearts or gin and he’d see me misplay. “Why did you throw that card? he might ask. Or: “Didn’t you figure me for clubs? (Simple questions that would send a lesson).

Our Dad had an uncanny ability to criticize with compassion — to direct his sons with the sternness of Captain Von Trapp and yet the sensitivity of a Jewish Andy Taylor.

“Why do you INSIST on (fill in the blank)?” he might ask. “Where did YOU go to medical school?” he’d inquire.

— Or, when truly exasperated, two of his favorite words: “Must you?”

“I would prefer that you didn’t,” he’d point out. “There must be a better way,” he would say.

— Or, if I’d really upset him, perhaps by repeating the same mistake or wrong behavior…he’d go into a medley of his greatest hits:

“You can’t possibly think what you did would make either your mother or me happy.”….often followed by “Why must you do the things you know will antagonize me?”…punctuated by “Why must you do those things you know are bound to upset most adults?”

(When I got the “most adults” bit I knew he was dotting the I).

I would get the message and accept the message…
With love.

Never was I a loser to my father, though mistakes were made.  Never did he disrespect me, for a single second.

I only wish he had been with me at Corky’s this week. He’d have bristled as the lady spoke; he’d have felt for the guy.  Across our table, moreover, he’d have been whispering:  “Monkeys should fly out of her ass”.

Family and friends tend to chide me a bit. “You should have said this to her” I’ve been told. “Why do you let her push you around?” I’ve been asked. And then there’s the one about Aunt Helen directed to both H and me: “You and your brother need to grow balls.”

Bothered I’m not. As I’ve noted before: I’d rather be happy than right. And yet…

Sometimes I do stand up. Some days I flex my muscle. This week in particular, perhaps with an eye toward Festivus, I aired a few grievances.

Wednesday morning, for example:

I was standing in the courthouse Men’s Room — far left of four urinals — the three to my right distinctly unoccupied. Mid-process another suit ambles in, and in violation of every unwritten rule of mankind stands just to my right.

“Really?” I thought — before staring, glaring, and turning to wash.  (He seemed puzzled).                                                                                                                                                                                                                “Is something wrong?” he asked.                                                                                                                                                                                    Shaking my head in disgust, giving him Al Bogart’s “Why don’t you get a haircut?” grimace (circa 1970), I just dried hands and left.

—Or take the incident at the Cedar/Green Heinen’s:

There I was, heading left from the salad bar area, toward the cashier. From the far side with another cart came a guy about my age. It had to be clear to this schmuck (as it was to me) that if no one broke stride we’d hit the check out line at the very same time. Moreover, a quick read told me that the volumes of our respective groceries were pretty much equal…

So I kept my pace…not quickening, not slowing….

But this putz accelerated perceptibly, and grabbing the angle, cut in before me.

“What are you doing?” I shot incredulously.    “We both got here at the same time,” he smiled meekly. “What’s the big deal?”

(That mumser knew he’d sped up).                                                                                                                                                                                   “Are you kidding me?” I asserted. “You’re supposed to yield to the right!”

Turning his back, the man ignored me. Still, though signally aware I was that A) the world wasn’t coming to an end and B) a lot of staff members there knew I was with Carrie … so I shouldn’t make waves — EVEN SO …

Well –- as the saying goes “I was born at night, but not last night”…

Intently I watched as my “friend” checked out. About that time I’d noticed too that a prior customer had abandoned a large bag of Reese’s Pieces, leaving it at the point-of-purchase gum rack.

THIS was an idea whose time had come.

With a nuanced movement direct from The Bolshoi, I deftly slid the candy to the conveyor. Shortly, (as I thrilled), it was rung up, paid for, bagged and yes, exiting with my friend.

I was to remain in the zone…

Saturday afternoon I took Helen shopping. As I do these days I double-parked, walked her into the store, and then went to park the car.

Drivers in the Marc’s lot, you should know, are notorious for their propensities to go the wrong way.   So there I was… appropriately heading down a one-way aisle — when another car appeared, approaching me head-on at about mid-field. Pointing through the windshield, I gestured he was going the wrong way. Yet the clown wouldn’t move.

(Nor did this clown).

A few minutes passed … and I’m telling you that two minutes in that situation was a long time. He still wasn’t moving, and me? I dug in. (Fact was I relished this clear-cut opportunity to be 100% right.   Aunt Helen could wait, I figured. Heck: she was safe, warm and sitting inside…and besides: she was happy just getting out).

So there we were: two schmucks in a parking lot. I was right; we were stubborn; no one was moving!

Putting the gear in neutral, I popped the trunk. In the rear of the car, somewhere in that mess (I knew), were old books from our aunt.  Culling contents which may also have come from Fred Sanford’s truck, I uncovered (after a while), one large Hebrew picture book. Perfect! Seizing the volume I hopped back behind the wheel and, cover facing out, pretended to read.

From behind the pages I heard a car honk. (I can only guess it was him). A half-hearted toot it was — you know, the kind given when someone in front of you doesn’t realize the light has changed. Ignoring the horn a bit, I peaked out. Alas!  His car was moving. Backward.

Game. Set. Match.

I rejoined my aunt of course. And she scolded me, of course.

“What took you so long?  And why don’t you wear a hat in this weather?” she demanded. Apparently back on her game, she was about to volley again when the emotional carriage I’d been driving turned back into a pumpkin.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll wear a hat next time.”

(Then quietly the two of us — only one of us bearing balls — went searching for produce).

7AM, the day before yesterday, standing in line at Starbucks, stationary, getting itchy…

It’s “study hall” each Wednesday — Yes, I cherish too that hour before I meet with the guys at Corky’s. Working on my computer, greeting friends passing by, a pre game, it is,  to our Breakfast Of Champions.

—Yet the line wasn’t moving, and I was still third.

After what felt like eternity a second register opened. Calming a bit, I moved to the on-deck circle, within earshot of the sole putz customer holding up traffic. What in the world (I wondered) could this guy be ordering?

—So I tilted in and listened…. but heard only small talk.

I didn’t roll my eyes, like I wanted and I didn’t grimace outward either.  The world needn’t see, I well figured, how restive I was — how put out I was.

Soon, of course, this lone ranger not only got his coffee, but paid, pivoted — and left.

“Thank you for your patience,” said the same warm barista that serves me each week. “He has nobody to talk to, and, well…”

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

3PM the same day, wandering semi-lost through the lobby of Cleveland’s V.A. Hospital…

It’s a massive facility; I’d never been there before. The sign outside states it’s the third largest such hospital in the land. There to see a new client, I’m struck as I walk the halls by the intermittent but consistent parade of people on crutches, or in wheelchairs, or whatever. Struck too, am I, by their good cheer.

I meet with the guy. He’s older than me — by ten years, maybe more — but we connect.

“Were you in the service?” he asks, and I nod.
“Just the Reserves.”
“I was in Germany,” he tells me, “Peace time”.
“Did you ever meet Elvis?”
“Nah….”

We joked a bit –- about nonsense as men tend to do. We shared too of family — both of ours. Black or white, it’s all the same.

“I’ll be back next week.”
“I wish I could come to your office.”
“No big deal,” I assured him. “ ‘Probably hit you on the way uptown and tie it into a run for Aunt Helen.”
“Try not to make it Tuesday,” urged my friend. “That’s when I have chemo.”

He leaned forward, we shook hands, and I left.

I walked from the hospital — briskly. After all, Thanksgiving Weekend awaited. I passed the same warm faces on the same staunch crutches, the same old wheelchairs…

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Thursday morning, 7:30 AM:

Waking to the gentle sound of Carrie, I lingered in bed. Glancing out the window for my short morning regimen of prayer, I heard her clear voice.

“I’ll get coffee,” she said.

I rose moments later.  Walking downstairs , I greeted yet another day of a life filled with family, friends, and activity.

There’s a moment each trip west where a sense envelopes me that if nothing else occurs during the weekend, the journey was still worth it. That instant came mid-Friday at a conservative shul in Deerfield, Illinois.

Preschool at Moriah Congregation was due to let out. Poaching quietly in the hall, it was as we peaked through a window that Lucy’s eyes met mine. “Pappy!”
she mouthed (I couldn’t hear her) — and the lass began running. “Pappy!”

‘Nuff said.

Scooping me up at O’Hare, my Little One beamed. (All week she’d been saying she missed me, “couldn’t wait” for my arrival. One time–I swear–she called me her “rock”)! And yes, her face at the airport confirmed that she’d meant it.

Not that she hasn’t always loved me — of course she has.  In her formative years though, she lived with her mother…and there was that whole dynamic.  Still…

Sometimes (like this visit), I’d fly to Chicago the week ‘ere my ex and, much as my kid clearly would thrill to see me, it was still like going to a game in Columbus the Saturday before Michigan. Sure, the house would fill and fans would cheer, but you knew damn well that Woody was looking ahead.

I mention this as an aside only as my focus this week wasn’t Stacy — it was Lucy. My baby’s baby was turning three. Yes, the days filled with friends, family and frolic, but the nucleus always was Lucy.

Not that there weren’t other moments. Indeed there were. Some ordinary and some less-so, each is cemented in my growing mental landscape of Chicago.

—Like getting lost on the way to a meeting late Friday. (11pm Cleveland time, but we finally found it).

—Like Stacy asking me if I noticed her new couch and me nodding “Yes” with a straight face.

—Like Stacy noting new hardwood floors. Shining, they were, like the top of my father’s head … and I know it’s a good thing and all … but I kept thinking that Hal and I grew up in a log cabin in South Euclid and our bedrooms never had carpet. But Rooney was SO HAPPY! And Jason was SO HAPPY! (Which made me happy too, especially since henceforth can spill at my leisure.)

—Like having a family talk about serious stuff on Friday.

—And having nonsensical, “firing for effect” talks still on Friday.

“Stacy,” I asked, would you rather Lucy married a Chinese person or a Japanese person?”
“I don’t know, Dad—what do you think?”
(My answer surprised her).
“I never thought of that. Pretty good, Daddy.”

Lucy bounced for me Friday, as she always does. If I’d have had a trampoline like that when I was growing up my mother would have been glad she was deaf.

And then there was Jason. Continued contentment felt eyeing the fit between Stace and her hubby is trumped only by the peace known watching Bonesy play father. Good things are happening in the Windy City. Always.

And Adam. You remember him, that beautiful bichon I’d rescued from Parma only to have him pilfered from my midst and driven to Chicago (much the same as Irsay ripped the Colts out of Baltimore).

Adam napped with me Friday, for a bit. Unable to quite figure out how to turn on the tv, I settled for Youtube. “Twelve Hours Of Barking Dogs” played as we slept. (Like the good old days).

And then there was the conversation with Brother Greg. Ah, but I need to set the stage:

Stacy had summoned us (a third of the way through Lucy’s birthday party) to drive across the street and get three more large cheese pizzas. An easy gig, one would think. Have YOU ever been married to a first-time mother?

“And hurry!” we were told as we left for Whole Foods.
(One quarter mile it was, from one lot to another).
“It’ll be a half hour,” we were told, on arrival at the store.
(Greg called Bonesy, but his cell wasn’t answering).
“What do you think we should do?” asked my friend.
“No matter what we do we’ll be wrong,” I assured.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
“We’ll take the pizzas,” I told the guy behind the counter. (It’s an old theater adage I’ve learned: be wrong, but be strong).

And so…and so… What do Jews do with thirty minutes to kill?

I got some chicken wings while Greg, he had sushi. I ate with my hands, as he — proving no one is perfect — used chopsticks. And we gobbled.

Within moments of digestion though, the telephone rang.

“We don’t need the pizza,” churped Jason. “They’re doing the cake now. Come back.”

…So we paid for the pizza and told them we’d return in an hour. And we retraced our steps to the near-ending party…

…And we hustled back—he to reunite with his wife and two sons.

—And me to kvell again at my dazzling Lucy, and (with her other grandpa), to leap in a pool of multi-colored plastic balls, and rejoice with our jewel.

Within moments the party was ending. The friends went home as the family packed up….

The only thing left was my smile.

“May we go shopping today?” she asked plaintively. And so later that day I picked her up at the time of my choosing, and we went to the grocery. She was smiling.

“How many bags of Kisses?” she inquired. (We were in the candy section, and it occurred to me that she’d petitioned neither my brother Hal’s opinion nor mine even once in the twentieth century). Oh, and she was still smiling.

I miss Aunt Helen. The white-haired centenarian I mark time with is just not The Iron Lady of old. Indeed this newcomer, whomever she is, has taken the challenge out of Marc’s and both the drama and fun out of anguish.

In the good old days I’d text down aisles, updating her nonsense to Alice or Carrie. Post-game I’d call H to recap the narishkeit.

And then… somewhere along the way … her world changed. Once H was her son me but a nephew. Today I’m her son (while Hal has been sainted).

FLASHBACK TO December, 2000…

Thursday before a holiday and with Hal out of town our aunt went to her bench. “Bruce,” she commanded, “We must buy a new stove.” As such, after work that night, at the Snow Brothers on Mayfield, she bought an appliance.

“When will you deliver it?” she importuned.
“Saturday.” (I exhaled; his answer seemed Helen-proof).
“It cannot be Saturday,” came her edict.
“Then it will have to be Tuesday.

(I took another breath, considering Saturday and Tuesday were indeed separated only by Sunday and Christmas Monday).

With a glare that could melt an ex-wife she relented: “Saturday will have to do. What time will you be coming?”

“We will call you tomorrow afternoon to give you a three-hour window for delivery.”

FAST FORWARD ONE DAY…

Friday evening I called her. With H gone I remained on the clock. Her Complaint de Jour was that indeed the store had called at 6pm confirming the next day’s delivery.

“I waited at home all day in case they called,” she carped.
“Where the f&!# were you going anyway?” I questioned (meekly, and sans profanity).
Clarifying her remark, she asserted she’d stayed off her phone lest the store call, hear a busy signal, and never call back.

It would only get worse —

Long story short: they delivered the stove, she didn’t think the stove worked, she called me Sunday night asking that on Monday I call to have the new stove removed and the old stove returned, she called me Monday morning to repeat the instructions she’d given me just twelve hours before, I called Snow Bros who first they suggested someone come out and look at the apparatus and when I told them that my aunt didn’t want that then advised that unfortunately old stoves are discarded immediately upon pickup. (At this point I would have rather gone to a dentist than call back my aunt, but being the grown-up that my absent brother would have been, I gulped hard and dialed).

“Why must they inspect the stove if I tell them it isn’t working?” she shried incredulously, accepting the fact that they’d be ringing her bell.

Twice she heard me say “They’ll be out this afternoon,” but that wasn’t enough. “One more time, tell me: will it be this afternoon?”

They returned, of course. And got it to work, of course, and life went on (as always). Better yet, in days the Red Sea would part and brother Hal’d return home…. and as family, we weathered our Hurricane Helen.

FAST FORWARD:REAL TIME -2014

It is Sunday, and at a reasonable hour my cell phone rings.

“Good morning, Bruce. Are you able to bring me soup today?”
(She is almost singing her words; I HEAR her smile).
“Whenever it is convenient to you,” she continues.

Softer now, she is gracious, loving…and yet….

I miss the challenge; I miss the angst. I miss the aunt that we grew up with.

The view is bittersweet.  Slowly, inexorably, another piece of my mosaic is going gently into the good night.

Dear Stuart,

Hope you had a nice Veterans Day.

I didn’t hear from my kids Tuesday. Not from my youngest (who usually calls), nor my eldest (who discounts reservists)— nor even from my middle one, who, (no pun intended), remains AWOL.

I heard from you. And Bobby. And my brother. Plus a card  from Carrie— she gets it.

The usual suspects, Stuey. No more, no less.

Look, I know you’re like me. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES would we equate our six months away — stateside at that — as being in harm’s way. We never have.

Yet sacrifice we did; disrupt our lives we did; and in our generation we were a distinct minority. Not that we wanted to go, but we went. Not that we relished the time, but we served.

You went to the Coast Guard, like Agin. I, to the Army, like Himmel.

You they docked in Cape May, New Jersey: armpit of the armpit. Me they flew to “Basic” in Louisiana. Eight weeks I spent tiptoeing through snakes and shrubs on a military scavenger hunt searching for just one Jew to talk to.

— And in uniform too, we lost. You: forty pounds…and me? I shed a fiancé.

I don’t know about you Mr. Fenton, but I’m proud of that time. In a way, it’s no different than other fruits of my life. After all, I didn’t want to go to Hebrew School, but look back now in comfort. I didn’t run to recovery but cherish that journey. And yes, afraid as I was of enlistment — petrified to leave Ohio’s cocoon…I feel good about it now. It too was the right thing.

It’s true, you know: if we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change. In hindsight I see not the after-school boredom of the 60’s, but a Jewish foundation solidified. I feel not the fears of early sobriety but marvel in the ordinary of my todays.

— And I recall well how I didn’t want to go away, how I hated each moment that played out in real time. And yet…

Picturing those days at Fort Polk, I conjure, still: laying on my bunk thinking that any minute something would happen and I ‘d that I’d get a call that I’d be going home. Really, Stuart. Surrounded by strangers that first week of ’72, midst a sea of southern accents, I was certain still that Al Bogart would rescue me! Convinced I was still that somehow, some way — like something out of the movies — any moment my father would arrive, scoop me out of distress, and take me from misery.

I hold those memories, Stuart, and I know you have yours, but I look now through a different lens….

I focus these days though, as I trust you do, on the fact that we went. On the truth that, involuntary as it was at the time, we got out of our comfort zones, and with it all, we grew.

Bottom line, Stuart…. Ask the guys about those twenty weeks…remind them how we went away each summer. They barely remember.

You do, though. And I do. And Bobby and Hal and Carrie.

(That seems like enough).

Happy Veterans Day. Four decades later I still salute you.

Bruce
E5-USAR

PS. Don’t forget about Ermine! The Navy? What was he thinking?

She was one of The Greatest Generation.

She had eyes that sparkled and a face that, frankly,  I never saw not smiling.

She had a quite grace to her — a dignity, if you will.

Growing up Bogart our household — boys only — saw fathers grab all the headlines. I’m not certain if this was our home’s unique spin or just still the Mad Men mentality. After all, dads back then would play catch with us, teach card games, and (in Christian neighborhoods)  instruct sons on fishing.  Moms? They made lunch… and played board games when it rained outside…and…oh, and they’d perhaps serve as den mothers for Cub Scouts — at least until the troops were old enough to play Little League, of course, and run off with their fathers.

Still, some moms stood out…and Harriet Mandel was one of them.

Five plus decades I knew her, and our conversations in all those years were never long. They didn’t need to be. Some people, like Mrs. Mandel, let their actions speak.

I picture her at the old Negrelli Field, watching Bruce play for Hollywood. I see her too at Memorial.  Bruce and Doug were both White Sox. Always present …  always graceful … always smiling.

A decade later I detect her. On a cold Thanksgiving morning at Rowland School…bundled in a car just north of the end zone…she is watching not only Booey, but Dooey and Hooey play football. A dozen boys held the field; only a few viewed their mother. Yes, some moms stood out. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stayed this courier from completing her round.

Years would pass and our paths still crossed. The thread of friendship borne by a Harriet and an Elaine had sustained through to yet a fourth generation…

And yet some things: they never change.

Forty years past Little League I happened into a civic meeting in Solon.  Josh was speaking and this wasn’t a fundraiser, mind you— just a campaign stop in northeast Ohio.  Yet there she was that night…sitting alone…beaming up at her grandson.

I still see her that night, poised in a foreign community center, showing no wear or tear from that long campaign year. Recall I do, watching the kvelling grandmother across the room… wondering how she must have felt, what with some of our own community indeed taking shots. I knew how I’d felt of our “boutique friends”, but how did she feel?  Studying her sustained elegance, I could only but marvel.

—And I see her yet again … two years later, in the ziskite Taylor.  

They teach us in recovery that one key to life is just learning to show up. My friend Mrs. Mandel not only held the key, but with it opened the door for generations to come.

She wasn’t just one of The Greatest Generation; she personified it.

“A woman of valor–seek her out, for she is to be valued above rubies.”

Book Of Proverbs

“I’m about at the end the line. Do me a favor. As I walk off, just give me ‘one of these’.”                                                                                                         Rodney Dangerfield

Many went the extra mile for my birthday— it being a milestone and all. The decks of cards and mug featuring The Boys’ pictures, the Scarsdale dinner with the Bogarts and Millers, Lucy feeding me a chocolate via Face Time—each were of signal moment. Still, no one gifted me with such novelty and purity as Carrie did.

“You didn’t want a party,” she prefaced it, handing me a one foot tall, Halloween-themed gift bag.”
“Didn’t want a present either,” I reminded dismissively.
“JUST TAKE IT!” she pushed back (with love).

Right then I saw—really saw the bag and I grasped—really grasped its contents: Sixty-five cards, to be exact! Birthday cards … delivered by carriers … solicited discreetly by CJ…secreted for days to be tendered in bulk.

“You’ll read them in the car,” she suggested, (balancing my hunger to open the envelopes with my obsession for hitting airports early).

And so I did. Fervently. Zealously. Passionately. As she drove.

Left hand in the bag, I withdrew Michael’s first. What were the odds? (64-1, Walt would say. Marc’s card arrived too). Won’t share my son’s comments, but his sentiment was so moving that an immediate re-reading would have been like sitting through the final twenty minutes of “Field Of Dreams”.

What a ride to the airport! The hits kept on coming….

Not only from my son but from HIS family. And the machetanim, and branches therefrom, and, believe it or not: from two couples I’d only met once at an east coast wedding. (Who says New Yorkers are a tough crowd?)

Not only from Stacy but HER family as well. The machetanim. (Ed. Note 1: Rooney’s card urged me not to die. How do I tell her that sometimes parents have to say “No”?).

Not only from Margie & H but from two daughters and Maynard as well. (Ed. Note 2: “Almost family,” Aunt Helen terms him.).

Not only from Carrie but HER family too. All wings.

And me? Unabashed lover of snail mail that I am, I studied each, savored each, cherished each — and reached back in the bag.

Grateful I was that people’d taken time … and memories emerged:

Aunt Etty sent old family pix. We were younger then, all of us. (I heard too from Debbie and Gary. (Ed. Note 3: Into my 50’s I’d wondered if Debbie even liked me). From Harriet came a copy of a check from Vegas’s Union Plaza Hotel — my Dad having cashed in the ‘78 World Gin Rummy Tournament. And from my most senior of friends, Stuart: reflections on 1969. Contacts (for self-approval) that year and a Mustang (for Bob’s approval). Yet Stu wrote so much more.

Some cards, of course, were less pensive. Keith’s card, for example, burped. A few others sang songs. Still others contained the likes of birthday cakes, erections (3D), singing monkeys, excretions, and various references to anticipated bodily dysfunction.

How thrilled I was that all groups took part! I heard …

—From lodge brothers met in descent to drunks met in recovery.

—From Sabbath School friends (in Hebrew) to a state official from the right to a core friend so far left that he’s profiled in airports.

—From Boobus Bowl veterans and two Vietnam Era vets.

—From one cat and two dogs.

—From one Deak Past Chancellor to five ushers from my ’72 wedding.

—From two Beachwood housewives that never went south to my 12-Step sponsor who keeps my eyes north.

—From a card penned by Lucy and a card stamped by Max to a card signed by “Rocco Scotti” to another just unsigned. (Ed. Note 4: As to the last two, I still have no idea).

Yes, I read every card, both canned text and comment. One couple, for example, said I’d reminded them of The Cowardly Lion. Had I ever played the role, they wondered. (Ed. Note 5: Of course I had. And I’d nailed it!). A few miles from there someone had written “You bring a smile to my face…”.).

And then we got to the airport…and she pulled to the curb…and I left.

With the bag in the car and a smile ‘cross my face.

Reveling in the good wishes, I embraced still, the greatest gift of all: sharing life with one who “gets” me, who sees that as self-assured as I can be, all I really want from people is “one of these” —that “OK” sign saying I’m, well…OK.

—-And THAT is the gift that keeps giving.

“…I always think about how you love and respect the work of your local postal workers….”

R.S. and J.S., Oakland Gardens, NY  (10/31/14)