upfromdysfunction.com

When I was a kid I was a nail biter. My father hated it and whenever he saw me do it he’d snarl. “Fingers!” he’d shout, giving me a look like —how could I hurt him so bad. (I knew what he was thinking: that he asked so little of me…. Still, sometimes, when he was close enough, he’d physically pull my hand from my mouth, giving me looks Boston never gave Buckner).

The good man didn’t live long enough to see me stop, which I ultimately did. It was the ‘90s and someone told me if I had my nails done the biting would end.

I did and it did. (Not that there wasn’t some irony to it. Indeed, if my Dad was alive to see me get manicures, that alone would have killed him).

Every few weeks though, I sit for ten minutes. It’s quick stuff. No appointment; it’s just down the hall from my office. I just stick my head in and if they haven’t got time I come back.

No big deal.

It never matters to me who they give me. I’m not there to talk; I’m not on the make; I just want it done. No polish…no buff…no massage. And for God’s sake, “No sauce.” “Just cut my f’ing nails,” I’m thinking—and then let me leave.

By far the best place I’ve ever been cut was in Great Neck. And this for three reasons.

First, the shop was right across from the Great Neck Diner. ‘Nuff said.’

Secondly, it cost seven bucks. (I’d hand ‘em a ten and everyone smiled).

But today it was Cleveland…and I wasn’t smiling…at the shop.

I got in right away, of course. Had I not I’d have booked. But they gave me to someone I’d never seen before, and she didn’t know my game, and she didn’t seem to get it. Not even after she asked me what I wanted. Not even after I told her. Not even as Natalia (a regular) kept giving her looks.

Note: I never care whom I get. Nor do I care, for that matter, what they look like. Oh, I’d prefer there be no tattoos. And I’d prefer not to see those specks of crystal masquerading as jewelry stapled to their faces. But do I really care? I think not.

—As long as they don’t talk to me.

So today—from 4:30 to 4:40 at least—was a day from hell.

“Buff or shine?” she asked first.
“Neither.”
“Really?”
I nodded, eyeing Natalia. “And no sauce either,” I added.
“No massage?”
“No thank you.”
“What about your cuticles?”
“Not today.”

The next half minute was great. It was silent.

“Why don’t you want a massage?”
“It’s not my thing.”

More silence.

“Did you get a chance to enjoy yesterday’s weather?”
“No.”

More silence.

“Did you spend Valentine’s Day with someone special?”
“Yes.”

More silence.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“I gave it up for Lent.”
She then turned to Natalia: “Is he joking?”

Even more silence as finally I thought she got it. I was wrong though. Seems she was just setting up for her grand finale.

“Do you have children?…Are they in town…Grandchildren yet?…”

She got nods.

“What do you think of the new coffeehouse?”
“Why don’t you want polish?
“Are you tired?”

I wasn’t rude, but I had nothing to say…to her.

(Well, that’s not true, totally. What I wanted to say was “Listen whatever your name is, the tip is three dollars, but five if you shut up).

—But like I said, I wasn’t rude. Moreover, true to form, I left four bucks).

Oh yeah—-seems I got sidetracked. There’s a third reason to get manicures in New York. It’s the manicurists themselves!

(They’re all Asian, you see. They can’t speak English).

  “…Do you hear me?  I’m talking to you….”

You are my best friend, you know.

—Not because you ever played ball with me at Rowland, or laughed with me at Greenview— or even rolled your eyes at me through Brush.

—And not because you were part of my first series of “best years” in Columbus or ‘cause we ever interacted in our first adult lives.

But because you are you.

Did you sense it first? Heck, you texted me back on Day Two. Was I “in or out”, you wanted to know. Our repartee? I remember it as though it was yesterday! I recall too heading for New York a week later neither sensing the soon-to-be-rising tide of emotion nor suspecting that just one week hence, on my first best friend’s 63rd birthday, I’d be plotzing at the Roth-Schorr wedding, trying to reach you by phone.

Plotz I did.  And drive I did, the next day…across the country…consumed by the healthy compulsion of infatuation and convinced in my heart of hearts that this—YOU—would be something special.

I was right, C.J. Nailed it! Should have bet the “over”.

Never had I dreamed of a friendship like ours: mental, physical, spiritual.

Never could I suspect I’d be so open or so candid with someone who never owned a baseball card.

Never would I imagine I caring so much,so deeply or so quickly. Stacy? Jason? “Slow down,” they urged…all at the time you were telling me you loved that I was taking things “slow and steady”. It was all about the angle, lady—and from my angle there was nothing as powerful as an idea whose time had come.

        “…They don’t know how long it takes
       Waiting for a love like this
       Every time we say goodbye
       I wish we had one more kiss….”

I never dreamed someone could be so open, so caring, and so naturally nice…

I never dreamed I could have a best friend that never owned a baseball card…

I never dreamed there was a you.

Timing is everything, of course. Our lives intersected at a time and a place where our values intersected. Our loves intersected because—it’s clear—our priorities intersected.

Plus, there were your eyes.

Blessed, I am, with a myriad of life-long and less tenured friends. I’m  very lucky.

—And then there’s you: the yin to my yang.

I thrill like I never have before and play like I never have before and trust like I never have before, frankly, because we were friends first, good friends second, and then fell in love.

Whodda thunk it?

It’s been quoted before: people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Lady, please take note:  you’ve come by for eternity.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

     “…Lucky I’m in love with my best friend
       Lucky to have been where I have been
       Lucky to be coming home again….”

B. Mars

 “People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.”

Just past the turn of the century a confluence of people, two men and two women that had never before met, forged a life-chapter cemented in both my mind and heart.

Deborah was a counselor at one of our country’s strongest universities. Her office was small—tucked (as I recall) on the second floor of the old Student Union. From its friendly confines she would bolster, comfort and guide the student.

Stacy was a young, beautiful freshman. Sprite-like, insouciant and smiling, she was not yet twenty when Ohio State —that venerable institution that had theretofore educated a half dozen of her blood relatives— failed to protect her.   As Buckeyes passed the buck, she turned to Deborah.

Daniel was from, (of all places), Tennessee. A campus-safety advocate working with The Clery Center For Security On Campus, his omnipresence strengthened and fostered valor in victims.  Steadfast support from his national organization bolstered women to speak out so that others …some day… need not have to.

David was a downtown lawyer. Campus cops shrugged it off and campus brass disowned it.  Not this man.  Even as uptown administrators winked at what they termed “date rape”, even as these same suits closed eyes in fear of bad press, this county prosecutor not only got it, but embraced it.

—Separately, yet together, this impromptu quartet played their roles.  Separately but together they guided the message from our daughter’s head to our daughter’s heart:  She wasn’t alone!  Stacy, our Stacy: before the grand jury, before the college bureaucrats, on Dateline— letting America’s daughters know they too were not alone.

That was years ago—more than ten. Deborah?  David?  They’re still in central Ohio, plugging away, doing what they do best: helping others.  Dan’s moved on and now directs 32 National Campus Safety Initiative, squarely in the mix crafting legislation for campus safety. At some level, we remain in touch.

And Stacy? Our baby Stacy? Now a vibrant asset to the Chicago business community, she’s clearly so much more.

She’s a wife, and a daughter, and a sister, and a friend…and….a mother to a wonderful 2-year old who too is beautiful and sprite-like.  Her name is Lucy and she is lucky.  Because of the Deborahs and Daniels and Davids and Stacy’s of the world, you see, she’ll grow up in a much safer place.

“…You who are on the road must have a code that you can live by….”                                                                                                      Graham Nash

I learned early on there are certain things you do and certain things you simply don’t. Not to a friend. Not to another guy. Never. Abetted by a seasoned father, facilitated certainly by my cast of friends, I’ve (if nothing else) grasped the unwritten rules that only in recent years have been dubbed The Bro Code. It’s a system that not only  works but makes sense—and if you think about it, honors an ethic of brotherly love.

I had little use for it early on. Never dating in high school, wedding my first girlfriend, I was never really out there. Like in high school: Bobby was Wally Cleaver; Stuart was Eddie Haskell-Lite  Me? I was just Lumpy Rutherford.  Rules mattered not as I mattered not.

Fast forward some decades. I’d married, divorced. The world had changed and my world had changed, but the rules had not.

I remember Bob’s call—  mid-90’s perhaps.  One of his friends wanted to ask out my ex. So the call came in: “Did you have a problem with it?” he asked.  (Actually I didn’t, and Bobby well knew it).  Still, it was the RIGHT thing to do…to give me the courtesy of the call.

Contrast this with what happened on Ed’s divorce. “Would you go out with his wife?” We were sitting at Caribou—Ed, me, and this guy.  Always willing to stir the pot, I turned to the third:  “Would you go out with Ed’s ex? I asked him, (never dreaming he’d answer). “Of course,” said our friend, (turning to Ed), “ Would you mind?”

The silence was deafening that moment, and I knew from Ed’s glare he would never forget it. (That was years ago, maybe four, and the guy called her). Hold the thought….

Sometimes, of course, even the best make mistakes.

Like…..   I’d been spending time with someone in a short-lived, nice but specifically uncommitted series of interactions when mitten drinnen I met someone else and all bets were off. Within days I’d cut cords decently and predictably, no one seemed to care.

OK. One person did.

“Aunt Helen’s concerned I may run into so-and-so,” I told a buddy at breakfast.
“What’s the difference?” said my pal, “She was seeing another guy all the time she was seeing you.”
“I beg your pardon?” (It wasn’t jealousy that took me aback. I was blown away, however, by the fact that my good, good friend never told me).

“How long have you known?” I asked                                                                                                                                         “A while—but I knew you didn’t care.”                                                                                                                                        “I DON’ T care. That’s not the point. You had an obligation to tell me.”

And still he pushed back: “It wasn’t important.”                                                                                                                   “Are you kidding me? The fact that you didn’t tell me is important. I’ve been violated!”                                          “You two weren’t exclusive,” he defended.                                                                                                                             “Not by her—by YOU!”

My friend never got it. Ever. Here was a guy that had taken bullets for me yet I could see in his eyes he just didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation! And I could sense right on that continuing the discussion would be fruitless…that I could never legislate this morality.

This sequence, fortunately, was the exception underscoring the rule. Indeed most of my friends, from Rowland to adulthood through recovery honor the code.

—-Like mid Y2K’s, when Ed wanted to ask out someone I’d dated. I got the call…from him…as a courtesy. Not that I’d ever say No; it mattered not. If he really chose to go that route, though, he owed me the call. Squatter’s rights? Perhaps.

—-Or like the lifelong friend that had a chance to spend time with a girl I never dated, but had had a junior high crush on. I got the call.

…Which leads me back to the thought we’ve been holding. You know: the dufus at the now-defunct Caribou Coffeehouse that wanted to date Ed’s ex. I bumped into the guy last week—after many months.

“Hey,” I asked him (as if it had just occurred to me), “How come you never called Ed’s ex? The window was open.” After a slight pause I continued: “You need to follow up on that.”

“I don’t have her number,” he pointed out in naivete.                                                                                                        (This was too good to pass on). “She’s on Facebook,” I noted.                                                                                     “Good idea!” he exclaimed.

For a moment I thought to tell him I’d been screwing with him. For a moment I had a conscience. But only for a moment. Instead I did the next best thing, calling Ed, warning him.

“I can’t believe you did that!” he roared (His is a deep, deep growling laugh).
“Oh, please. I had to.”

He too then had a conscience…and called his ex.

Olbermann did a bit the other night citing 10 reasons not to watch the Super Bowl. Once again he nailed it, underscoring further his position as the only sports show that is Must See TV.

We remember the commercials, he noted. But not the game. He was right. There’s just nothing super, frankly, ‘bout the NFL title tilt. Games are rarely compelling and pre-game hype is so shallow—indeed, with rare exception memories of SBP’s (Super Bowls Past) center more off-the-field than on…

Take Super Bowl I: First, that’s a true misnomer. Nobody called it that then. It was just the championship game between two leagues soon to merge.

Game memory: Bobby, Art and I were driving back from a skiing weekend in Mt. Summit, Pennsylvania, trying to get back for the kickoff. Bobby got a speeding ticket and was hauled into a small town as Kraut and I stayed roadside in his Mustang.

Or Super Bowl III: Watched it with my Dad in Columbus. We were “old school” fans, our hearts with the Colts and an aging Unitas.

Game memory: Modell had yet to take the money and run to the AFL. Johnny U would come off the bench, but couldn’t pull it off.  My father went to his grave resenting Namath.

Or for that matter Super Bowl VI: I had been in Ft. Polk, Louisiana less than two weeks.

Game memory: Watching the game with a couple hundred southerners —Cowboy fans all—and rooting quietly for Miami. It was the Ohio thing: Shula and Warfield, and I felt like a prisoner in a Confederate prison.
And then…no memories….for years! That’s what happens, I guess, when you don’t bet and your home team never gets to the dance. Games matter not.

Oh, I recall the year of “The Drive”—how after Denver broke Brownie hearts with an overtime field goal by Rich Karlis that I swear wasn’t good. Sat with H in the dogpound; Michael taped it at home; the kick was wide left.

Game memory: Linick and I were in Vegas…watched the game from the sportsbook at Caesar’s. Won a “prop bet” when they caught Elway for a safety.

And I recall too the year Fenton had a party…with the Gulf War beginning…and me finding out right there in his house that I was still eligible to be called. THAT I remember.

But my greatest memory—my hallmark Super Bowl memory, goes back to the 2008 game. Ask me—go ahead and ask me how I found out that the undefeated Patriots had been knocked off by the NY Giants? OK, let me tell you where I was!

I’d been asked to lead a 12-Step meeting in Cleveland Heights. My share having ended, the meeting was opened for post-talk comments. Some guy stood up…some guy with a wire and a plug in his ear.

“In case anyone’s interested, New England just lost,” he announced.

And that—for me— is a memory. Not only a Super Bowl memory, but a just super memory. In a half century of Brown-less games that just blend together, this is the moment — for me at least — that tops them all.

It was February 3, 2008. (I looked it up).

On that cold winter night in the upstairs of an old building at Mayfield and Lee in Cleveland Heights, Ohio…not that many years ago … everyone in the house was a winner.

Litigation settled, the Magistrate accepted the agreement and provided copies. Six minutes, I figured. Six minutes and I’d be in my car. What next ensued, though, stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Before you leave,” she addressed the parents, “I’d like you to see a short video”. So we all did, the parties and counsel—watch a film for divorcing parents…about how even if they didn’t friend their ex they should  friend their ex’s relationship with the children…for kids’ sake.

Five minutes. Five minutes it played. And there wasn’t a moment it streamed that my eyes weren’t welled up…and that my heart didn’t look back.

My parents divorced before it was fashionable. I was an eighth-grader, Hal was in sixth, and the whole thing happened in a world long gone by. A “broken home” they termed, (and I felt like damaged goods). Our mom was a “divorcee” they said, and our father? He was the first man on his block to win a Scrabble game spelling out “VISITATION”.

Never discussed it with my friends really, although they knew. After all, ours was a corner house and our Dad’s red Plymouth Valiant was conspicuous by its absence. Of course they knew.

—And so it was, that summer of ’63. Mid the ordeal of two cars at every Little League game, as we evaporated weekends to be with Dad at his mother’s, it was different and it was awkward—but it was always peaceful.

I’ve learned a lot over time. About my parents: the genesis of their issues…the causes and conditions…the “mistakes” that were made.

But not a word from our mother. Ever. She knew, this June Cleaver did, that my dad was my hero. And every kid needs a hero. And two parents.

—Even when times got tough…even when the money came slowly…even when there were stories to tell…

Yes, I recall well those days…how she’d wait for support checks. How they’d come in envelopes from Emil J Masgay, Clerk Of Court—and how when I’d see the mail I’d know what they were.

My Dad was doing the best he could!   My Grandpa didn’t think so and was often quite vocal. Our Mom, though— if she caught wind of it she would cut him off. On the spot. Always.

“He’s a good father,” she’d urge. “He’s in Philadelphia getting back on track so spend this time with your Grandma.” (—Out the door she’d send us, often using her otherwise-needed money to put us in a cab from South Euclid to Cleveland Heights).

So we had two parents. And peace. And hope.
And I had my hero.

I remember the days—how I’d write him thrice weekly, all with her postage. And how he’d write back. I still have the letters, to this day.

Kids don’t care, you see, which parent is right or is wrong. Kids want peace…and love…and yes…in an odd, odd sense, kids want to hold on to the thought that in some way their parents still love each other. In some way).

So yes, there was much she held back (I now know). There were stories to tell—stories I never did hear.  And my Dad? He remained in my life. Through bad times to good, he was the vibrant soul that corner-stoned my being. My guiding light and best friend.  And when he died young…at just 59…they found in his apartment the letters I’d penned in the 60’s. And I have them too.

My Mom never quite finished college. (Three years short, but who’s counting?) And yet she was wise—oh so wise.  She friended, I guess you might say, my relationship with my Dad.

—And she gave me a hero…no make that two.

— And she gave me, I suppose, good reason to cry as I walked from a courtroom.

Cry and smile.

It was in many ways my roughest stretch in years. With rare exception every part of me was exhausted.  Aftermath perhaps from the stranded run in Chicago, but difficult nonetheless. I was spent. From office stress to time management through nagging health issues and gnawing wealth (?) issues, I was, as I told Carrie midweek, just trying to get through the week.

And so it was that hitting meetings, making calls and saying prayers, I fought hard that great urge to isolate. And still it was that as sun set Friday but one task separated me from the respite that would be weekend. It was Helen…and shopping at 5.

It’s not the same as it was (the Helen run). But what is?

The sound of her shoes, barely lifting from floor now bears a slower cadence, like the swoosh of too-thick corduroy slacks. There’s a gentleness to her these days— a “vulnerability” (God forbid you tell her) that’s marking her stride. She is losing it…running out of time…and she knows it.

We all do.

Was a time when she’d scrutinize, to the end….

“Check the sodium content in the Cheerios”, we’d hear, she over and over. (Like it was going to change on her watch. Like this would be the week they’d screw with the recipe).

There was a time too when she’d cook…

“Check the sodium in the latkehs,” she’d tell us as well. Or “What kind of store has chopped broccoli but NOT broccoli florets?” Oh! When they had them, she’d stock up like Washington preparing for winter at Valley Forge.

No more.

Not now. Not this past Friday. No more.  Today she is not what she was. It is, as Monk would say, “A blessing and a curse.”

Today she just goes for fresh air…for company…for life. Today she’s but mailing it in.

—And No, she can’t get to me now. Not like she used to anyway. I too sense the loss.  The days are gone, I now sense, where coarsely she’ll instruct on tomatoes.

 “Not too big, not too small…not too hard, not too soft….”

The days too are gone when dutifully H or I will rifle through bushels of Roma tomatoes—and this goes back to Marc’s at the original Cedar/Center (Alav Hashalom)—where we’ll intermittently (almost ceremoniously) pick them and toss them back until finally she was satisfied there’d been adequate sampling….

No, those days are gone. Gone, like the price tag they bore: 98cents/pound. Gone, like the then 98-year old, spritely pushing through aisles. Gone, YES, like the frustration of a nephew unnerved by an aunt.

We hit the deli last Friday, on our way home. It was almost Sabbath, and my aunt wanted soup with dinner. Slowly she trudged, from my car to Jack’s door. Slush…slush…slush, her feet barely lifting. I’d offered to run in and grab it, to let her rest in the car. “No,” she asserted, more gently than usual, beginning the inexorable march.

No, things aren’t as they were.  Neither her fire nor our ire.

It’s good to be with her these days…to watch her push on…as the clock keeps ticking…for all of us.

I’ve heard it said that if you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.

There’s always a lesson.

“Time for new shoes” Carrie said. Again. She’d been urging me since December but an urgency in her tone signaled renewed priority. Perhaps the hole she first spotted had grown?
She was right, of course, but how do you say goodbye to a loyal friend? This pair, this tandem of black dress shoes that had served me so well all these years….these OVERACHIEVERS? I just couldn’t let go.
—So I reminded her, again, of how I’d purchased them for less than ten dollars. And I mentioned once more, that I’ve worn them for nearly five years. (But I held back their hidden treasure: that although they had laces I never untied them—just slipped them on and off…all in one smooth move).
“I’ll buy them for you!” she exclaimed, clearly frustrated. “It’s not the money,” I shot back. “They’re still good.”
(Ed. Note: They still had life, I swear. And they still brought comfort. If these shoes were dogs, I wondered, would Arthur put them down?).
“There’s a sale at Mar-Lou,” she announced. “We can go there today.”
Then I caved. I got real.
Fact was in recent months I’d been resting my shoes. Sometime after moving into Carrie’s in ’12, I found a new pair (still in the box), deep in the of womb my trunk. Must have been lodged there a while. A bigger size, still polished, it had just made the road trip to Lucy.
“Bring presentable shoes,” Stacy’d urged. “Of course,” I replied. “Listen,” I asked my Little One, “I’m not checking luggage so I’ll only bring one pair of shoes. Can I wear dress shoes with blue jeans?” “Since the 90’s, Dad!”
(Ed. Note 2: The newer footgear are larger, 13’s. Not that I tried them on or anything. If memory serves correctly I was leaning against the backwall at Nordstrom Rack, put on one, and it just felt right. Still, there’s something ego-boosting about over-sized shoes. One can just sense the women passing, eyeing the feet, and taking mental note).
So I caved, even though I don’t like shopping, particularly for shoes.
H says it’s a subliminal manifestation of my latent mixed feelings about our Grandpa Irv, (the career shoe salesman that hated our father). I say Hal’s wrong and is just full of applesauce. Fact is I’ve never driven flashy cars, worn jewelry, or for that matter, worshiped footwear.
Ironically, our dad always bought the shoes. Off-the-rack he’d pull them, always, at Diamond’s Men’s Wear. Style mattered not to Big Al, and if Norm Diamond sold it, it was good enough for his boys. (The whole process would take minutes. We ‘d try them on, I’m sure, but I can’t swear he ever made us walk around. It was more like “If the shoe fits, wear it.”).
There were exceptions, of course. Like baseball spikes. Buying these was special…to be savored…a process.
In Little League cleats were rubber. Not that they upped my game, but I recall the excitement of going with my dad to Blepp-Coombs, 5000 Euclid Avenue. Cleveland’s premiere sport goods store, it was in the same building as WHK.
By Pony’s, ‘twas metal, or steel, or whatever. Playing for Brooklyn, (I’d been drafted by Mr. Boman, an old White Sox coach), for the first time I was warned ‘bout my slide. “You can’t do that,” he said. “You’ll hurt someone.” “That’s how they slide on TV” I told him. “You’re not on TV,” he said. “Spikes down.” Who knew?
(I only played one year of Pony League. I don’t know why. The next time I donned my metal it was slow-pitch softball—Waxman Plumbing, and all that. Times changed, of course, and over time, styles changed. Hanging them up in the 80’s, I found myself in the minority. Rubber spikes were back, apparently safer. At some level, I was a stubborn fossil.
A fossil, I might add, that rarely bought shoes. It just wasn’t my thing. I mean I had one pair black, one pair brown, and one pair of sneakers. Who needed more? I’ve rationed my shoes, kept distance from shoe stores, stayed somewhat a fossil.
“Somewhat”. (Ed. Note 3: A few years ago while out shopping with Meredith we happened upon a pair of chartreuse sneakers. “These are perfect for you,” she advised. They were bought on the spot).
I wore those green things once. Maybe twice. They were tight. Soon, though, they went missing. Replacing them with a $4.99 pair from Payless, I never looked back. (Ed. Note 4: Carrie says my tennis shoes look like spats; a child asked if I stole them from a homeless guy).
I haven’t seen those luminous monstrosities in quite some time. I just remember they hurt. Still, no one said they were ugly, and they were definitely cool. I should try them again, I guess. Before Carrie gets sick of my spats. Before she wants to go shopping.

When the weather breaks I’ll grab them. They’re in the trunk of my car.

“…Those school boy days of telling tales? and biting nails are gone?. Yet in my mind I know? they will still live on and on.
But how do you thank someone? Who has taken you from baseball to perfume?? It isn’t easy, but I’ll try…”

A true friend is one that not only always has your back, but just as consistently, holds a mirror to your face. For five-plus decades my friend Robert George has been just that blessing.

—From Rowland through Greenview through Brush through Columbus.
—From Excels, (the sixth-grade club we were forced to disband) through R.E.N., through Shiloh AZA, (the chapter they too stripped away).
—From bowlin balls on the east at Cedar Center to basketballs out west at Cudell Recreation.
—From dancing at the Chagrin Armory to dancing at Brush reunions.
—From eating Geraci’s Pizza often at a restaurant on Warrensville, to devouring Angelo’s Pizza once on a ball diamond at Edgewater Park.
—From hearing WHK growing up to broadcasting WHK decades later (still growing up).
—From dates to weddings to births through divorces….

Life after high school began at Michigan State. Steadfast in disapproval of my venture, Bob (with Stu) went to the trouble of making and mailing an 8-track tape to East Lansing. Beginning with “Ain’t No Mountain High”, the assembly of songs was interspersed with loving insults — warnings of how lonely I’d be. “Come home,” said Stuart. “Don’t be a wussy,” urged Bob.
Life after college meant army: Fort Polk. Family wrote often and friends wrote sometimes. Bobby? Bad handwriting and all, he wrote weekly. It was the thing a Jew stuck in 1972 Louisiana could never forget. (Especially this innocent abroad—away from home for the first time).
Times changed, but not Bob’s game—
Life after marriage came decades later. These were the Radio Days and well…not my prettiest. Still Bob was there, steadfast—-speaking to me on the air and listening to me off. Teasing o’er the airwaves ‘cause it made “good radio”, comforting in the green room, as it made good friendship.

Yeah, there was “on-the-air” Bob and “off-the-air” Bob. I’m grateful to know them both.

Flashback: We were broadcasting on a Tuesday evening, summer of ’93. The conversation with our listeners turned to current movies…
“You know B,” he shot, “Fenton and I were going to let you come with us but we thought you’d be afraid.”
Contrast that with:
“Do you have somewhere to go for The Holidays?” he would ask privately. Always.

Times changed; we changed (maybe); but not our bond—

In some ways he’d forged the path. The 90’s were ugly for me and Bob knew it. Sensing my status, seeing the disrepair, feeling my loneliness, he’d still openly fret watching me look for love in all the wrong places. “She’s not for you,” he would say though I didn’t want to hear it. “She’s not for you.”

A dynamic exists and thrives to this day. Bourne by confidence of concurrent pasts, sustained by overlaps in boyish presents, it brings pure zeal to our futures. It is a friendship from here…to eternity.
Flash forward: It is a Wednesday morning, and as matters go, Bob sits to my left in Corky’s back corner. The boys, busy solving problems of the world, may or may not be listening.

“Why’d you say that to so-and-so?” he’ll whisper, smacking my shoulder. “What happened to your diet?” he’ll ask, smacking again. Yet still, when guys give me sh#t, perhaps about not playing poker like I used to or whatever, my friend from Wrenford will cut it off. “Leave the B alone,” he says, (as if to say “It’s all good.”).
—–65 this week…he turned… my friend Bob—
Still the world’s oldest teenager and well-proud of it.
Still moving, still grooving with his on-air persona and off-air warmth
Still a special blessing in my life.

“…A friend who taught me right from wrong? And weak from strong. ?That’s a lot to learn, what?can I give you in return?
If you wanted the sky?I would write across the sky in letters?That would soar a thousand feet high?: “To Bob, with love….”.

Lulu

       “ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

Sitting in a Chicago Starbucks, just yesterday, I wondered if I’d ever again see Cleveland. (Let alone Carrie or my brother or alas, my Wilson Larry Sherry baseball glove)…

I flew in Friday, sole agenda being quality time with Lucy, Stace/Jace and the captive Adam. Then weather hit, and stuck.

United cancelled flights and wouldn’t pick up its phone. Then Amtrack, not to be outdone, scrubbed train schedules. Finally, Jason, ever voicing reason, convinced me driving was folly. (Ed. Note: Aunt Helen concurred. “If the trains won’t run and the buses won’t run,” she opined, “Who are you to say it’s ok to drive?”).

       “It was the season of Light….”

Lucy’s an angel. Like a fresh bowl of cereal, she’s all snap, crackle and “Pappy”. Monday, what with her parents at work, the kid was all mine. There we were: me on a chair and she on a couch; me studying email, and she….Curious George.

“More, Pappy.” (The episode ended). “More, Pappy!” We did three hours. What is it about grandkids? They say your name and you smile! Lucy, she makes me melt.

       “…It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness…”

“Can you take smaller bites?”
“I haven’t eaten in six hours,” I am thinking. “This isn’t High Tea.”
“Must you read while you eat?”
“Carrie lets me”.
“Do I have to show you how to change a diaper?”
“NO,” I assure, “I changed yours”. (Ed. Note 2: Third base to first).

       “…It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity…”

I love Stacy. Adore her, in fact. But she doesn’t understand—after all these years—that when it comes to food I’m not a good sharer. When it comes to food I say “Order your own. Get whatever you want. Like if we’d be at a movie and both wanted buttered popcorn. She’d be wanting to share a Jumbo and I’d be opting to each get Large). It’s my thing; let me have it! I like to know how much I’ve left at any given moment.

It was Monday dinner and we ordered on line— Jason, then Stacy, then me…perusing the website, pushing the prompts…unfettered by outside pressures…

“Can I have half your potato?” I heard sitting, dining.
“Why didn’t you order one?”
“Yours looks so good.”
(Ed. Note 3: Mine always looks good. I’ve been doing this 60+ years! And she wonders why when I went to Walgreen’s I brought back two bags of Skinny Pop!)

       “…It was the spring of hope …”

“What’s your plan?” Jason’s asked me each morning. Fair question, after all. Planes stopped flying and trains stopped trying days ago.

       “…It was the winter of despair…”

Like when I wanted to eat but couldn’t figure out how to open the baby-proofed drawer. “Oh well,” I mused, “I’d used my hands before.”

Or when I breakfasted with Rooney. The walk wasn’t short, from the lot to the restaurant, and with wind it was also not easy. But we’d made it, and were seated, at once.

“Do you have Wifi?” she asked, hearing “Yes.”
“Do you have newspapers?” I asked, hearing “No.”
(Ed. Note: The weather was no hiking back to the car. Still, I had to read something).

Or when, preoccupied with Lucy and Curious George, I’d delayed taking oatmeal from the microwave. Finding it frozen hours later, this stopped me not. From the frig came the yogurt, to soften the oatmeal I’d heated that morning. Notta! Then, utensil-less, remember, I pulled apart the brickened oatmeal from under the yogurt I’d used to soften the oatmeal I’d heated that morning. Nothing! So…I brewed some Keurig to pour on the yogurt I’d used to soften the oatmeal I’d heated that morning.

Had Gadya. Had Gadya. I’d give more than two zuzim for Carrie’s cooking.

        …And yet we had everything before us….” 

—-That beautiful toddler, enjoying her morning;
—-Her tandem of parents, thriving in mid-day;
—-And the warmth of their love.

Yes, I missed Cleveland, from Carrie to H to the mitt. And sure, I couldn’t wait to get home. Still…still….as rough weeks go, this was a near-perfect moment.

And some memories, with all they encompass, will not be erased.  (Not even by a plane, train, or automobile).

Charles Dickens (adapted)