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I thought of her today, as I do on her birthday.

My mother-in-law was a beautiful woman. Not in the classic sense perhaps, but within. Rigid standards, fierce loyalties, and her frown on my zest for nonsense could divide us, but her intense love of family cemented my love for this woman.

It was July, ’72…

Stuart and Bobby, living in a house off Northern Boulevard had tired of both selling Highlights and the thrill of Long Island. Fresh from the Army, I scooped up their still-ripe leads, elated to jumpstart my relationship with Lil’s daughter. It was to be an easy summer, as working part-time at best, I eased back into my relationship with the daughter and civilian life as well. I could sell for my Dad that fall, (or so I thought), get married that winter, and while not the most ambitious guy around, I was happy and I knew it.

With that as a backdrop they dragged me to Bograd’s, the Mantel & Goetz of New Jersey, down in Riverdale one day…Lil, The Jersey Girl and me…looking at furniture. The wedding was months away, and I suppose it was the kind of thing I was supposed to care about. (What did Bogarts, however, know from furnishings? At 20 East 14th in Columbus I’d slept on four stacked mattresses and heck: our father’s idea of woodwork was the bat rack from the ’62 Little League White Sox).

“This young man is going to be my son-in-law”, she beamed to the salesman. “And this is my daughter. They met at Ohio State.”
“Wonderful,” he said….or something like that….”What do you do back home?”
“I sell magazines door-to-door”.’’

Talk about awkward moments. The pale of her face told the story. (I’d seen warmer looks on my drill sergeant). “He’s waiting to hear from law schools,” she added. (“But I don’t want to go to camp,” I was thinking).

She wanted what she thought was more for her daughter, and for me. Eight years my mother’s senior, while Elaine lived with depression, Lil Nathan Selzer’d lived  THE Depression.

“Count your pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves,” she would say. (She was right—all along—and if we’d heeded her then I’d be retired today).

She’d give me that look— that pause that said “Some day you’ll see”, and she smiled—almost accepting the inevitability that her kids (she considered me one) would, as she perhaps had, learn from their own mistakes. For a quarter century this strong, intelligent woman stood integral to my life. There were highs and there were lows. Not once though, did she ever say “I told you so.”

She was better than that.

Ah, but I was too young to listen — too young to “get” her.

How I’d laugh, egging my father-in-law on when he’d tip-toe to IHOP for bacon and eggs. It frustrated her—his eating traif outside the house — and me, always laughing.   I was wrong (I would learn), and today, as my kids taste pork, I don’t think it cute.  At all.

Oh,  she was funny too, but didn’t know it. (Not funny in a neurotic Aunt Helen way, mind you,  Not at all. She was funny in an idiosyncratic way).

“Jacqueline,” she’d ask as her younger daughter’d walk in the door, “Why does your friend Jessica have to call you every night at this time?”

…or to another child:

“Why does your friend Gail need so many sweaters?”

(In both cases I’d agree with her—always—stirring the pot… a la Fenton).

And yet there were lessons to be learned, if only I’d listened—

We’d play pinochle after dinner—Ben, The Jersey Girl, and me. “When you going to stop?” she would call from the bedroom — before tiring, giving up, and just going to sleep. Except Fridays, of course. Except Shabbos. On that she wouldn’t waiver. Steadfast she’d stand at the table, demanding we stop. “Not tonight, Ben,” she’d urge.  “Not tonight.”

She was right, even then.

And vividly I recall a supper in her kitchen…how they were talking of a neighbor’s grave illness.
“He has cancer? asked her son, and the room got silent. Red turned her face, and then white, and then ghostly.
“Don’t use that word!” she admonished, (as I egged on young Joel).

Years later—many years— cancers would touch my family and I too would come to hate the word. She was right.  Again.

In time my marriage crumbled and I was gone from the loop. I can’t recall, frankly, the timing—which came first, etc.—but at some point Lil Selzer took ill. At some point mobility left her but she pushed on valiantly, to her sunset years.  I’d see her at simchas and such—wherever our families convened.  Until I didn’t.

She was a rock in my life without knowing it, and her lessons, like medicine in time release capsules, continue to make me better…

When I take time to listen.

       “…Don’t it always seem to go
       That you don’t know what you’ve got
       ‘Til it’s gone….”

Joni Mitchell

Midst a crowd of friends and family, there was little chance the three year-old Max would notice me. Who’d blame him? Living in his world … surrounded by family — familiar  family — his is a three-year old realm which he holds (as our father would say), “by the betzim”. Content then I was last week to be a face in the crowd, quietly grasping the mosaic of his birthday.

They don’t play Pin The Tail On The Donkey anymore. (In this PC world perhaps they’re afraid to offend some jackass? Or that some dork will stick another with a pin and everyone will get sued?)

And they don’t, (at least out east) have the parties at home anymore. When Max was one it was at a deli and Year Two was rained out. Last week an indoor gym served as venue as children ran, bounced, rolled and played on soft, carpeted turf. (We played on tile when I was young. The fun was the same but we didn’t bounce quite as high).

Oh, they still have cake, of course. Yet the food, especially for grownups has changed. Sure there’s pop I MEAN SODA, but also there’s water (bottled)…and salad (romaine) and sandwiches (wraps). Forget Kansas—we weren’t even in Cleveland anymore! How’s a fella going to maintain his overweight?

And they still sing to the kid…

“Happy birthday to you…” (This hadn’t changed).

—Valiantly I held my “camera” mid-air, vainly trying to capture Max Parker on film.

“Blow the candles out Max,” someone yelled from behind.
“Who’s the schmuck with the Iphone? (thought my grandson).

Then the party was done. And my son, abetted by peers, shlepped food from the hall…and gifts.

“Can I help?” I asked.
“Just pull the car up,” he said warmly, somewhat ignoring my abs.

(I couldn’t remember, just then, if my dad helped as Michael turned three. Did Linick or Starkoff turn to him and say “We’re OK, Mr. Bogart? Or did Lomaz take the cigarette out of his mouth uttering “We’re OK, Al.”?

That was then and this was now. The world is Max’s and Michael’s. Not mine.

As it should be.

We went back to the house after candles. Not the children—just adults. I was still a face; it was still a crowd…but the scope had narrowed.

Bothered but an instant— I’d been hoping for more access to Max. (I was wrong, though, and thought myself through it). This was his party, his time, and just as I’d reveled when young, ensconced in a myriad of family…

—The Hoffmans, the other Hoffmans, the Ungars and Sharps…
—Twin Woldmans that never played catch…
—Three heavy-set sisters on my father’s side…the eldest named Nina… (second cousins I think), that my never-thin father called “The Fleet”

Just as I’d buoyantly bathed in the masses that come out ONLY for a youngster’s party….

So was Max!

The baton had passed yet another generation.

So we kibitzed a bit and caught up a bit and had a pie tasting contest and laughed among family. Trivial stuff, but all good. We were family—all of us—connected by one generation cemented by another. (At one point Max played guitar with an amplifier and yes it was funny, yes it was cute…but I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere above my mother now heard him and elsewhere above my father was cringing).

At 5-ish we left. Carrie and I. Back to campus. We had Michael’s car and would see them at breakfast. Pared down again would be the crowd….

In came Max, the next morning. Then Meredith…and Eli.

He knew me at the diner. It was there in his eyes. I think.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked Max, ‘cross the table. At an instant, Eli—from the carriage—peered out. Ten weeks old, and he was beaming right at me:

“I know who that is,” thought the baby, looking up at his brother. “That’s the guy from yesterday—the schmuck with the Iphone”.

It seemed like a good idea. After all, I was holding a Blackberry, and Carrie: well…do they still make those flip-tops?

“Let’s give each other I-phones for Sweetest Day,” she’d murmured.
“OK,” said I weeks ago.

Then the day came, last Saturday. And the phones came, last Saturday.

And the change came—last Saturday—just past noon.

“What’d you get Carrie for Sweetest Day?” asked my brother that night.
“We bought each other matching phones,” I submitted.
“Margie needs to hear this,” he said. “I want to vomit.”

I should know by now: if it’s not broken, don’t fix it…

We’d look forward to a new bat and forward to a new glove. Eagerly don’t we anticipate even the crisp crackle of a new deck of cards? But a phone? This sensitive thing we can’t push but must touch?

Look, I’m not against progress. Not all change, though, is progress. (How my dad railed against microwave ovens! “They’ll be the downfall of the American family”, he pronounced. Forty years later, he wasn’t far off).

First of all, my old phone, “ghetto” as they told me it was, worked. I got my calls, read my texts, and because it was a used phone to begin with, had the pleasure of retrieving NO email. What a machiah my “down time” was! What a burden it’s been—this past week—eyeing missives post minute by minute….

When can I rest?

Not that I actually understand the phone. Not that I even care to. Heck, happiness would flow from just being able to have certain songs ring when certain folks call….like “Eli’s Coming” when it’s New York, or the theme from “I Love Lucy” when Chicago. (Do I have tunes in mind for some others? Yes. I’m not ready yet—quite—to grow up).

In some ways though, the week was one long birth announcement—

“Did you buy a ‘4’ or a ‘5’ someone asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What model?”
“An ‘L’, or maybe an ’S’.

“What color did case did you get?” asked one child. “You cheaped out,” claimed another.

Oh, I knew eyes would roll with the children. Even Jason. There he was, slowly, in speech calibrated with care, trying to tell me how much “data” I was wasting. Data? What was he talking about? I was doing batting averages in my head long before he was born. Data!

And what of the others?

“You’re an idiot”, claimed Stace as she tried to explain things. Hers was a global approach. Michael, on FaceTime, stayed local. “Your nose needs a zip code,” said he.

Just give me some songs. That’s all. Maybe the thing by One Direction for Carrie’s calls, or “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” for H-ie. That’s all I need. Must I schlep my laptop to someone’s house to get it done? Heck, even Weiskopf has sounds.

I’ve got all this other stuff, though. Things I need not

There’s an app that says CALENDAR, which today notified me its “Wednesday 30”. (Good to know). There’s another yet, dubbed WEATHER. (For six decades I’d wake up and look out the window or I’d dial WE 1-1111 where the “voice” of Aunt Helen gave hourly updates).  And still another called NEWSTAND.  I say F the NEWSTAND app.  I’ll read whatever I want over breakfast at Corky’s!

No, if it ain’t broken going forward, I don’t plan on fixing it.Nor do I plan, ever, on opening up CLOCK, or GAME CENTER, OR for that matter PASSBOOK, (whatever that is…I won’t touch the pic to find out). No, I adore Carrie, love exchanging gifts with her, and look well to next time.  But better to hold her than hold the phone. And better to touch her than touch an app.

And speaking of apps…did I mention there’s one called COMPASS?

COMPASS? Really? Really? That last time I took a wrong turn was on our trip to Verizon.

That was last Saturday…just before noon.

   “…Just give me a reason
       Just a little bit’s enough…”

Dear God,

I know You work in mysterious ways and believe me, I accept it. You’re busy running the world and Yes, I’ve enough on my plate just managing me.

…It made sense when I lost my father, I suppose. He was overweight and smoked three packs a day for so many years that his cardiologists had been betting the “under”.

…And I tolerated too the loss of our mother. Years of a home-and-away series with hospitals had exhausted her and the sucker-punch from Turner,…well…she had pushed past eighty. So I got that too, God. I understood.

… And my tears dried quickly—did they not?—with less vital stuff. Did I dwell in ’66 when Brush lost to Talmadge? Or in ’69, on that day in Ann Arbor? …Or for that matter on The Drive or The Fumble?

I move on, God, when it’s only a game. We all do. So I rebounded well from my losses—the good, bad and ugly. From the marriage, my odyssey, and even defection of a life-long friend. (Heck, I now can laugh, especially ‘bout Lomaz. Had my dad been alive at the time, the way Dick bailed would have killed Al. “Addition by subtraction”, he’d have muttered, before adding “Deal the cards.”)

So I know what’s important God, and I know what isn’t. Really. And this here… this matters, God. Really. You see, my daughter walked, God….

From her sister and her brother and her mother and her friends and her past…and me.

But it’s not just her.

She’s got kids, God. My blood, God. And they’ve got cousins, just miles away.

Family. Cousins, God….family!

Whether I’m there or not….whether I live or not…

Family.

I don’t understand, God…and I need to… a little, (unless, of course, you think it’s better that I don’t.

Because you are my God.

And I trust in You.
And I know you have a reason.

And I believe You if you say that’s enough.

Amen.

       “…We’re not broken, just bent…
        …It’s in the stars…
       It’s been written in the scars on our hearts
       And we can learn to love again…
       …Just give me a reason…
       Just a little bit’s enough…”           Pink

I sleep on my stomach, right palm on forehead, left hand under pillow…always. And my left foot? Angling ‘cross midfield, it chances on Carrie, nightly. Those inadvertent brushes ‘gainst her make not only for contented sleep, but remind me, in the midst of each rest, that we’re in “this” together…—-Which is why I don’t relish travelling alone. Comfort flows, you see, ending days with that lady. We share her load, my load, and life.

That stated, plans to fly east in tandem were scrapped last week when Carrie’s mom (The Artist Formerly Known As Mrs. Baskin) took ill. As such, solo went I through the friendly skies to the mountains of New York… to Chappaqua, where two beautiful boys live and thrive and cellphone calls go to die.

This was my first trip post-bris and what a difference in Eli: from eight days to eight weeks! The kid is stunning.

He’s got this wide, I mean WIDE smile that he breaks out and that leaves me giddy. You know how infants stare at you until light hits their eyes a certain way or they twitch a bit, and then we convince ourselves they’re smiling directly at us? Well this kid truly beams and his round, dimple-punctuated cheeks illuminate the room.

Max directs traffic, of course, and is still the star of the show. Nonetheless, it should be noted that Wally Pipp himself (the first Yankee to win a home run title) was New York’s first baseman for a decade before Gehrig took over.

So my weekend was nice. Better than nice: family.

Friday afternoon with the Millers, and at night with the Bogarts… all against a tapestry of Eli feeding, Max glowing, Eli sleeping, and Max displaying more talent with the internet than his charming “Deedee Bruce”.

We brought in for dinner. Not traditional Shabbos fare, but the post-game was special. “I’m going to take Eli for a ride,” said Michael. “It tires him out. You want to come?” (I jumped at the jaunt, only to find fatigue quite contagious. Within minutes of return I was bidding Good Night).

It was not quite 10, and after an unsuccessful effort to access the Netflix on the TV in my room, I called Cleveland. Carrie. She’d been sleeping.

So I did too. In New York. Alone.

There’s something about the fall in New York—must be said—that is special. On a crisp autumn morning, like last year, we went picking pumpkins.

“Is there a reason we didn’t do things like this when I was growing up? (I was asked).

I felt well the twinge, immediately imaging baseball and soccer and football and baskets….but pumpkins? Was it possible they didn’t have pumpkins in Ohio back then?

And then some more sleep—for all of us. Resting up, I suppose, for the morning’s trudge. This would be the fourth walk I’ve joined in on, a way out Long Island. Time was I knew no one en route; these days are different. I know most.

Again, though….a twinge.

Sitting under a tent, applying to give bone marrow, Stuart’s buddy Robert approached.

“What the heck are you doing?” he asked.
“Look,” I showed him, brandishing the form, ”I don’t have any of the diseases.”
“Yeah, but you’re too old.”
OUCH!

Walk over, weekend near done, we were convened at Chez Miller. Max ruled, (go figure), and the men watched football as the women (some unknown, but all with thick accents), passed Eli around … gingerly … like a century-old Torah. The closest I got to him, frankly, was when Caryn put the food out. Then, for but ten minutes, the exodus of estrogen to the dining room left a time slot open. (I could have held him longer, of course, but he wouldn’t take my nipple).

And then it was over. The weekend. I was gone.

Bumped from LaGuardia, my flight being cancelled, they shipped me by cab down to Newark. An hour and a half…plus…in a taxi…then another two hours, in an airport…and a plane….

And in thought.

—About Michael, and the world he is shaping
—And Meredith, and the kids being raised…and their health.
—And Carrie, who would greet me in Cleveland…with the smile of her ocean eyes….

And I thought of my left foot.

A long-running joke between Carrie and me (at least she thinks it’s joke) is that while each of us cut teeth in South Euclid, I was raised on the poor side of town. It’s true. Her roots on Upper Wrenford placed her among the crème-de la crème of our city until God parted the Red Sea that was Belvoir Boulevard and Jews resettled on Langerdale and Temblethurst.

Growing up Bogart across from the school was idyllic. Ours was a small bungalow, (but we knew it not). Indeed, H and I had few of the amenities gracing others’ home— like a second floor, for example. Oh, we did have an attic, but in our decade of residence it remained unfinished. Not to worry: our Mom stored things there so Hal and I’d periodically access what could only have been described as an asbestos bomb shelter.

(Ed. Note 1: I was twenty when first advised that our home was small. It was December of ’69, with my first girlfriend in tow from Columbus).

“This is the house I grew up in,” I boasted, driving by. “You grew up in THAT?” she responded. Politely, of course, but make no mistake about it—with incredulity. (Years later I did ask my mother if indeed our old home had been small. She said Yes and I accepted it as fact. Mothers don’t lie).

The point is it never mattered. Not to me or my friends. Sure I’d noticed that Wieder’s lived in a split level, and that his expanse of land included a driving range. And yes Cohn’s home was bigger. Heck, my twin bed on Bayard fit under Joel’s ping pong table. Who cared? Weather permitting, H and I played table tennis on our back yard picnic table. A baseball bat dissected the surface as the net and the only downsides were the longitudinal cracks in the wood and the errant bounces they caused. (Ed. Note 2: Our reflexes were actually augmented by the unexpected, inadvertent caroms we learned to address). Dubbing it “crackball”, we’d vie endlessly with Gelfand or Fenton or Fromin in our pristine, palatial world— all as Adam circled, barking.

We had no idea—none of us— that we didn’t live in the high rent district. Indeed, ours was the best childhood money couldn’t buy. For whatever reason—and it wasn’t just Hal and I— but the thrust of our group shared a value system concerned less with what others had and more with joy we all felt. Rich kids may have owned “pitchbacks”— those verticle trampouline/nets that provided catchers for pitchers, but we had the real thing: friends.

But back to our house: It had three bedrooms, a small bath and a half, and was so compact that, honestly, years later living in Beachwood— especially after my divorce— I knew housewives with mouths bigger than our living room. So what?

In the mid-60’s we moved. Bayard lost in foreclosure, our mom remarried and new hubby Sam bought a colonial on Stonehaven. It was newer and bigger and I knew they were trying. Still, (to me at least), ‘twas a house, not a home.

Yet all was good. We had what we needed and never looked back. Heck, even in the lean years, with the divorce still raw, the Brothers Bogart saw life half-full. (Ed. Note 3: My Great Uncle Irv died suddenly and I would stumble through junior high wearing his brand new black dress loafers. “The elastic’s killing me,” I’d complain to my mother. “Oh, don’t be a big baby,” she urged me. “Some people don’t have shoes”).

Our values were skewed to the inside. Why look to what others have when you hold all you need? (Like a bat, a ball, and a mother willing to let you ruin a mattress keeping a mitt under it). Sure some kids played Careers while we played Monopoly. And No, we never actually owned our own rubber-coated hard ball. So No, we didn’t ask for much. Why would we? On the streets of South Euclid every day was in season and every game was for the world championship.

We learned long ago, H and me, that happiness is an inside job. Perhaps it’s the South Euclid in us. Perhaps it’s the simple fact that even as our parents’ marriage shattered and even as their worlds disintegrated, each found a way, always, to reassure us how much we were loved. We looked not then for THINGS to be validated; we had family.

I think of those days now and then…not in euphoric recall, but with gratitude. Our parents left us minimal assets yet maximized memories. The cornerstone of love they provided, as much as anything else, is the reason there’s never been a day in my life that I haven’t felt blessed.

1967 the Indians ended the season mired in eighth place. That same year the Browns were thrust from post-season in a 38 point loss to Dallas. Oh yeah…one more thing: 1967 was also the year our lifelong friend Alan, truth be known, limped out of Brush High…

Ah, but that was then. This week—this most improbable of weeks—not only did the Tribe make the playoffs and not only did the Browns perch in first, but Professor Alan Vernon Wieder, make that Distinguished Professor Emeritus of the University Of South Carolina, strode to town on a book tour.

What an amazing story! Not that Wido wrote a book, mind you; he’s done that before. Remarkable it is though that none were the volumes expected.  Left unwritten were “How To Win Games And Influence People”, “Diplomacy in One Word:  No”, and even the long-awaited  “ Mayor Of High Street”.  Au contrere! Our erudite-come-lately amigo, rather, has spent adult decades living with and studying the world of South Africa, and has in fact now authored a dual biography detailing intertwined lives of two leaders of its fight against apartheid.

Still, there we were, Thursday— Bobby, Stuart, Mark, Fred, H & H (the left-handed Hollywood pitching tandem from early 60’s  South Euclid Little League), and Kraut—each refugees from suburbia, tucked in the basement of a bookstore–listening intently.

And there he was — light years from the days on the mound when he’d dust off his mother— speaking passionately of the struggles for freedom.

(It was a serious talk, as such, and we all behaved. Well, almost. Let’s just say each of us behaved as best we could).

“I was surprised” mused a guy from the audience, prefacing a post-speech inquiry, ”That this high-profile husband and wife would fight in public”.

“Just like me and my wife”, blared one of our troupe. (The eighth graders in us laughed as Alan, not quite hearing it at the podium, took another question).

To a man, though, we were appropriate. Ermine shot his hand up first in the Q & A; I nodded my head periodically, and Stuart?  For once in his life, didn’t laugh at the word “Mozambique”.

*  There was one minor surprise: You know how when you’re in school and it’s almost time to leave…how there’s that pregnant pause of silence when no one dares open his mouth? Well get this: it’s 80 degrees in the bookstore cellar and the thing is pretty much over…Wieder’s just thanked the crowd and the store’s hostess is edging in to take back the gavel… And then…AND THEN…and then as Arthur had one foot out the door, Harold Bogart, (arguably a “walk-on” last night), blurts out a question!

“What’s wrong with you, Nemo?” cried Snyder minutes later as we walked to The Lizzard.

It mattered not, though—the night was so good.

Browns played overhead as we sat down for dinner. Bobby faced out, of course, and we dined over burgers or wings—Alan autographing books—and caught up. It occurred to me, (but I said nothing), that the only thing that’ll ever be read ‘tween those covers will be Wieder’s name. Thirty years from now those blue bindings will still be stiffer than us. Bank on it. (I didn’t want anyone to think, by the way, that I hadn’t purchased the book. Not only did I get mine on Amazon in August, but I personally signed Alan’s name weeks ago.

And then it was over. And we left. To our worlds.

—Six friends and brothers, faces chiseled by time, memories chiseled in love, to our homes—

It’s a good bet we’ll never all share that bookstore again. It’s an even greater bet we’ll not share that basement. We’ll have the evening, though:  the night our cherished friend shined. And ‘though we’d don’t quite feel the heat of his passion, we sense well his luster, and we view him with pride.

He deserves it.

“AUDITION FOR A FATHER ROLE IN A FEATURE FILM” read the notice, and for some reason, just after Labor Day, it caught my eye.

Emailing a theatrical resume was easy; I could readily do it. They’d asked for headshots though, and I had none. What to do? Directing them to Facebook, I’d let them browse through both nonsense pics in stage character as well as tender images of Eli or Lucy or Max and me. They’d either like me or not and life would go on.

Then the unexpected happened: some woman wrote back…and invited me to read for the part!

Carrie was sitting there as the bid came in, but I shared it with few others. (Rarely do I talk theater with others; I just don’t. This feeling different, though, I emailed Michael, and Stacy too). The Little One shot back immediately: “Amazing!”, she wrote. My son, however, had other impulse. “It is porn,” he shot back back, adding this proviso: “You are not qualified”.

One Sunday my tryout came. The venue, off Route 8 toward Akron, was not only isolated but surrounded by what even a Christian would say was an inordinate amount of foliage. It made me suspicious.

Was this a set-up, I wondered. How could it be, I answered. Indeed, the website from whence the posting came was reputable and had I not spoken directly to the lady? Did she not sound normal? Taking no chances though, I seized all but ten dollars from my left pocket, grabbed the billfold from my right, and before leaving the auto, tucked things deep in the console.

Two steps later— not even in field goal range of the entrance — another thought occurred. I’d remembered an episode of NCIS where they were trying to rescue a kidnapped agent. The bad guys had violated the captive’s mobile phone and, as I recalled vividly, Gibbs was unable to locate the victim since his phone’s GPS was down. (Just in case…this was NOT going to happen to me).

Back to the car I went, for an instant, dumping my cell on my seat.

OK, I’ll cut to the chase:

The audition went well. Leaving, frankly, I knew I’d nailed it. Bubbling, driving back north, I called Harold first.

“It was intense,” I reported, about my scene with a young actress. “An adrenalin rush. I can see how people in Hollywood are always screwing around with other actors; there’s a tension”.

“Thank God,” H noted, “That it wasn’t a guy.”

By mid-week they cast me.  My jubilation within was more for the validation—that I could leave the friendly confines of my home turf and some unknown casting agent would think I had something to offer…

Now, what to do? I knew this was a compensated role, but no one mentioned money.

But one person did I know who would know what to do. So I called him. He knew me well, understood that it wasn’t about the money, but more about the experience. Still, Griff noted, “You don’t want to get beaten if the thing goes viral”. He likened it to the naïve singers that cut one song, it hits, and they get nickels while the moguls make millions. “Tell them your concern is ‘reimaging’ and residuals,” he counseled.

So I did. Nicely. Very nicely.

And for a few days I heard nothing. At all.

The story, in the meantime, I’d shared with a few. My brother, of course, was busy googling the crap out of the producer’s website. (That’s what he does). And then there was Keith, a program friend I’ve bonded with over not only recovery but mutual disdain for PC. “Is it appropriate for a Jew to have a Catholic as his business manager?” he asked me.

And all the while…from the producer…I heard nothing.

Five days in I texted Griff for advice. “Call her,” he urged, so I did. And making a long story short, I’d been worked. “You’re too expensive,” she said, at which I reminded her we hadn’t mentioned money. My concerns were the other stuff, if at all. “We can always get volunteers,” she then said, (beginning to piss me off). “Your notice said “Compensation”, I reminded. “What did you have in mind?”
“$10 per day” came her answer. (I couldn’t make this up).

I hung up the phone, immediately, and I haven’t looked back. Oh, Stace dropped a note. “I’m sorry,” it read. (That’s what daughters say). And I finally told Michael, but only when he asked. ‘Cause we’ve been there before.

He listened to this saga, my son did, from beginning to end. No gasping, no judgments, just patience, before he spoke:

“Don’t take offense Dad,” he said warm and tender, “But you’re a moron”.
(That’s what sons say, I suppose).

Still, I didn’t take offense—not at all. I just laughed.

We both did.

How often as a youngster would I watch my father privately move tchotchkes from one side of our grandma’s mantelpiece to the other and say nothing. Infantile, perhaps, but he’d get such a kick out of it all, hours later when finally noticing, she’d ask “How did this get over here? Imagine.” Our dad never let on and it mattered not. He had his fun, you see—and I learned a lesson:

You don’t have to autograph every joke.

Stuart too knew this—then and now…

—So many times in our late teens (and OK, our early twenties), I’d listen on the phone as he, disguising his voice, had parents of our friends sing the Campbell’s Soup jingle over what they thought was the radio. Not once, mind you, did he “break character” before hanging up and share his identity). The fun could be had…anonymously.

—No longer on radio, Fenton’s recent games have been in the field of education.  I hate to tell you how many sharp, intelligent people have taken French-by-Phone from Stuie..oops, I mean “Monsieur Buehner”.

“Say pupitre,” he tells gullible students.
“Pupitre”, they parrot.
“No!” he shouts back, “PuPEEEEtre…”
“Pupitre,” they try again—
“No! PuPEEEEEEEEEtre….Say pupeeeeeetra!”

They never catch on. Not even when he has them sing “Frere Jacques”. Not even when, just before hanging up he offers five additional lessons at ten bucks a week.

If you’re having fun, you really don’t have to autograph jokes.

I was driving back from Painesville just Tuesday and, with time on my hands, I called Meredith.

“Hello”, said a voice, (which didn’t sound like hers).
“Meredith?”
“Who is this?”
“Aunt Helen?”
“Bruce,” roared the 99 year-old, “Bruce, what do you want?”
“I was calling Meredith, but I got you.”
“Are you in your car? You can call me later if you are in your car.”
“Aunt Helen, I think when I called Meredith you must have been calling in and the lines crossed.”

“Please!” she shried back, “You are in your car! I will call you later if you will go to the Jerusalem Deli for me.”
“OK,” I said, “But later afternoon.”
—CLICK—

It was just past four when my cell rang. I was still in the office and the screen read “Meredith”. Thrilled…my daughter-in-law must have seen she missed my call and was phoning back…I answered with gusto:

“Meredith!” I exclaimed.
“This is your Aunt Helen.”
(As my father would have said, I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind).
“Are you able to stop at the Jerusalem Grill?”

And it hit me…right then and there. The lady from Willard Scott’s green room still droning I was checking my cellphone. “Contacts”, to be exact.

It must have been Yom Tov; it was probably my brother —but someone ….someone wickedly funny, had changed a number—Meredith’s.

Aftershock: I called Harold that night, and I told him. “Margie,” he yelled, “Get on the phone”. And he couldn’t stop laughing. Nor could she. Nor could I. Especially when I thought even further. About the time, just recently, that I called Meredith and hung up after four rings, not waiting to leave a message. I figured it’s enough that she’d see I called. And then I realized—I remembered getting a later call from my aunt. “Bruce,” she asked me, “Did you call before? I heard the phone ringing but I couldn’t get there in time.”

Something inside called me back and last Saturday, after respite from the morning service, I headed down Cedar. ‘Twas gravity perhaps, or at least the innate sense that shul was where I belonged. “What do you have better to do?” my Dad would be asking.

So there I went, with tallis and machzor, but otherwise…alone.

In past years there were others. Grandma Bogart, perhaps. Or Aunt Helen… and some times —going back, back, back — the . Ah, and there was always Harold. And Margie. And their kids. Those days, alas, aren’t these days. Not this day.

Parking on Ivydale, I tiptoed the shrubs ‘cross a walkway through a backyard…to temple. Where is Ivydale? (you might ask). It’s one of those side streets that unless you went to Heights High or had Al Bogart as a father you might not know existed. For years though, it was where we’d park, autumn by autumn, with spots at premium.

Holding my mahzor and marching uphill—alone—passing the island of grass from where we’d stand, Hal and I, back in the 50’s, lurching forward, leaning out… just waiting for our dad’s bald head to emerge midst the exodus….

Up steps I trudged, returning to the present. Musaf had started, so after shaking hands with Jeff Schneider, (the Al Kaline of Park Synagogue), I found a home on the aisle, seats down from whence our family’d sat…back in the day. It was early still; the house was semi-empty. So was I.

Immobile I sat, alone…my memories adrift in diaspora.

The rabbi was leading the Question And Answer period, an annual killing of thirty minutes as the clock winds down. (Why don’t they just start things a half hour later, I wondered). Predictably, some putz stood and (in his best Chatsworth Osborne, Jr. air), prefaced inquiry with a commentary designed to impress the congregation yet have the great mentor Rashi turn in his grave.

The ark still closed, I was getting itchy. Perhaps I would leave. (But I couldn’t). Indeed, as bodies still filtered in, the last thing I wanted to do was bump into someone coming as I was going. On Yom Kippur? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate Walk Of Shame! And then he said it! Rabbi Skoff! As if speaking to me…

While The Book’s been written, he noted it had yet to be closed. As such, there’s a tension to the last service, and time remaining before God seals our fates.

That was all I need hear. Are you kidding me? I loved my mother, but trust me, when we played gin I cut the deck. You think I’m walking out after hearing that? Not this cowboy. One hour to go? I’m ain’t leaving. God’s getting my A game.

—So I didn’t leave, but my heart wandered. I thought of my Dad… and my kids. Michael took Hebrew seriously and excelled. Jamie took everything seriously; more than the others (perhaps), she accompanied me for minyan when the old man died. And Stacy, the Little One: well I remembered how she’d brandished her flashlight walking the darkened aisle at Havdalah.

They blended, they did—these etchings of past— as we rose for Neilah.

“Psach Lanu” came the sounds, at once both flat and checkered. The place was full now, with welcomed faces of the usual suspects: Rob Epstein (a great line drive hitter), and Howard and Tammy and Cheryl, the smartest girl in my Hebrew class. But there was no Rev Lev and there was no Uncle Bob, (and I noticed that too).

“Ki Anu Amecha” sang the house. Six years post his death, it’s still Rabbi Cohen’s voice I hear. “Ashamnu” sang the cantor as in unison we pounded our hearts. It never gets old.

Sunset had come yet I didn’t want to leave. Not now. Lifted from isolation to a new dimension… no longer alone….in my zone now..and they dimmed the lights!

—In marched the children…down the aisles…holding flashlights…as Stacy did, and I think Jamie, and perhaps Michael…I JUST can’t remember.

—It occurred to me then, that instant, that in a house of worship founded on faith and embodied with sensations of my memories past, I could find my peace.  Always.

Moments later they blew the Shofar. Loudly. And wishes of Happy New Year echoed. Loudly. And I walked out of shul alone.  (But not lonely).