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Seems hard to believe but when our dad wed Harriet he’d been living in Columbus just two years. That’s all. My transfer from MSU in January ’68 compelled his request and alas, Highlights found him a home in central Ohio just prior to my sophomore year. (The timing, impeccable as it was, kept me out of a dorm).

So there we were: two wandering Jews living as “townies” in the heart of campus. Neither of us dated much. (He more than me, I suppose—except for an occasional Sammy party) until lightning struck in the fall of ’69.

She sparkled yet again last weekend and shared the story yet again. It’s a wondrous tale really, about how they’d met inadvertently at Columbus’s J, and how she really wasn’t looking for a bald, fat guy eight years her senior.

She regaled us, telling that he’d called her office the very next workday and asked her to dinner. “I’m meeting with a client this evening”, she’d advised him, (which was true). “Don’t you eat?” he shot back.

It was a relationship whose time would come. And blossom. And “have legs”.

Our parents got divorced, you see, before it was fashionable. We spoke back then of broken homes—not extended families. We spoke softly.

I remember well his comments from their very first date. It had gone well. Still, a prediction then that 40+ years hence his first born would drive south to see her grandson sing on stage…well…”Monkeys should fly out of your ass!” he’d have laughed.

No one’s laughing now, decades later; they marvel.

There we were, Carrie, Leesa and I—and there she was, four decades later, with Leslie; and there we sat at a Chinese restaurant…minutes from the theater.

Yes, I’d been meaning to get to one of Matthew’s plays for some time now. The timing though! From travels to plays to general commitments—it just never happened. Downstate trips there were, but never at show time.

Until now.

“What’s in Columbus?” people were asking last month. “Everything OK?”
‘Yeah, Harriet’s grandson is doing ‘Fiddler’”.
“That’s so nice you guys are going.’
“Overdue”, thought I.

They didn’t get it, I knew. This isn’t just my father’s second wife we’re talking about. This is HARRIET. Mishpacha.

Who knew? Who knew that day back then—as we noshed over Marilyn’s latkes and introductions…that the lady on the couch would be such an imprint on his life and enduring fabric in ours?

Fifteen years they were married—to the day. Then, on a Friday in August… without warning…he was gone.

His bride never left, of course. Nor did the kinship between us.

There’s been sweet; there’s been sour; there’s been simchas and then “stuff”.
But there’s always been us. Always.

From Michael’s college laundry to Jamie’s wedding to Stacy’s graduation…
to the next generation (and counting).

I watched her the other night…flitting around in the lobby…at the very J where she’d met our father.

How lucky he was. Imagine: meeting the love of your life on your back nine! How lucky they were, for their time together and the brand of family they mastered.

—And how lucky we are for the lesson they taught us—that “family” is not only a noun, but it’s an action verb.

To life!

I learned long ago that if we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change. It’s a Wayne Dyer line, and invaluable.

Wednesday was miserable, just miserable. We’d been getting long terrifically lately, but the moment my aunt greeted me it was clear ‘twould be a bumpy ride.

“The bag is the trash,” she said from atop, pointing to her weekly bundle at the bottom of the stairs. “The envelope, (unambiguously packaged, addressed and marked in bold print “Do Not Bend”), is not. Be careful with it”.

Like I always do, I ran her garbage to the back, dumped it in the can, and returned to help her down steps.

“Did you accidentally throw away the mail?”
“No.”
‘It’s raining. Did you protect it?”
“Yes”.
“How did you protect it? It’s raining!”
“I put it under my coat”.
“Did you zip your coat?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bend it?”

Ten minutes into our sojourn, not yet off her property, and I was exhausted.

Then, breaking the plane of her driveway, this tender lady, perennial league leader in passive aggression, unleashed a verbal assault that would have made Wayne LaPierre proud:

“When did you decide to go to Columbus?” she asked. I was about to answer—it was, after all, a response well-prepared with my brother, but before I could: “Did you tell Harold before or after you told me?” “Will you see Harriet?” “Why are you going?” “Is Carrie going?” “Did Harriet ask if I was joining you?” “I surely would not have, but did you consider asking me?” “Who will take me to see your brother ?” “What if he can only see me Saturday?”

AUNT HELEN, PLEASE! GO TO COMMERCIAL!!!

“You know, you travel too much,” she continued.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“You’re being stupid. You never used to travel so much.”
“I never used to have grandchildren.”
“You have no grandchildren in Columbus.”

I punted. Drained by the intifada, I said nothing—at all—until we entered the grocery.

The pivotal moment each week is the one full minute consumed choosing the appropriate shopping cart. This is no mean task and not taken lightly. It is also the juncture at which my aunt first brandishes the trip’s shopping list.

“Did you read it through?” she inquired the instant it touched my fingers. “It is long today. And we must select birthday cards for Michael Jacobson and Carrie.”  Groaning inaudibly I envisioned reading every card in stock.  (I would not be far off).

So we did our thing. There was the traditional checking of the Cheerios boxes to assure that since last week they hadn’t changed the sodium content. “Aunt Helen, you’re too old to die young.” (OK. It’s a good line, but I only thought it)…Then her sensuous fondling of six, perhaps seven baked potatoes…and her compelling me (at gun point) to check expiration dates on each carton of milk, package of cheese and YES, bottle of Coca Cola….

And the mandatory math lesson: Is it better to buy one bag of ten oranges for $3.99 or seven loose ones at 40 cents apiece. And which are fresher? “What would you do, Bruce?”

‘Though spent long before hitting the card aisle, dutifully I read her this card and that, all the while being serenaded by choruses of “Too cute” or “ Too juvenile” “Too loving” or “Too long.” Still, I read on (in mortal fear that her next words might well be “Should we check the cards at Walgreen’s?). At one point actually, a card was chosen. Then, dramatically, she reached in her purse, culled text she’d earmarked for Jacobson, and asked that I read it aloud: “This card is belated because a certain someone forgot to remind me it was your birthday”. “Do you agree?” she asked me. With Solomon-like wisdom I offered no comment. “Then you admit,” she insisted, “That you were wrong.” (As my Dad would have said, I didn’t know whether “…to spit or go blind….”).

We never got a card that day. Not one (to her) “seemed right”. “Why is it,” she posited, “They don’t know how to merchandise?” No, we never got a card, never got the black marker she wanted (“Sharpy’s smell”, you see), and never got the cereal.

But we got along. Not as well as we have, but we got along.

No blood shed. No harsh words. We got along.

She’s pushing 99, my aunt is, and that’s quite a blessing. Day was when I’d moan about her nonsense and forget my Dad’s admonition—something he said often about others over many a year: “Someday, if you’re lucky, you too will be old.”

He was right, of course. He usually was.

—And I remembered again that if I change the way I look at things, the things I look at change.

I love my Aunt Helen.

First impulse was amusement when Bob noted that two high school buddies were jousting on line. Actually, I got somewhat of a kick out of it, until I read it.

Ouch!

Frankly, it mattered not with whom I agreed. Boys. Boys. Boys! Don’t you remember the politically bland fifties when our parents told us not to talk sex, politics or religion? Was that so bad?

We came of age in the turbulent sixties yet none of us, from the nice guys that played sports (think Alan, Bruce, Arthur) to the “bad boys” hitching down Lee Road for the Shaker girls, (think all the others)—none of us spoke politics. From Kennedy’s assassination through the civil rights movement, MLK, RFK, Vietnam…Kent State: nothing. Alas, even when quasi-grown in Columbus, even then Bobby hit protests on The Oval only “to meet chicks”.

But we all got along, I think…

Or was I just shallow back then? Naïve maybe? And was I too busy playing hearts with Walt to sense fermenting disagreements? Yeah, I know that somewhere along the way Wido bonded with Bernie Mehl, the far left OSU prof that was rumored to give A’s to all blacks, B’s to all Jews and C’s to the goyim. OK, so Wieder gets an asterisk.

Certain things we just didn’t talk about.

Even at home.

Never talked politics with my father. Not really. Once…we were driving in Toledo visiting Cousin Eleanor—must have been summer of ’65— and Barry McGuire’s “Eve Of Destruction” came on CKLW. Singing in the car I was abruptly interrupted when my dad, changing the station, demanded: “Why must you do those things you know will antagonize me?”. With anguish he then pointed out to me that “….if that animal doesn’t like it here he is free to move….”

And that was it. World order was changing; his realm was changing; he had little else to say. What good, (I suppose my father thought), would come from talking about it? My dad, as such, chose silence.

—Until Watergate, when again we butted… briefly. I’d tried to talk to him, tried to persuade him Nixon was wrong. Yet discuss it he wouldn’t… until one night—I think Sam Donaldson had gotten to him—when he erupted:

“This isn’t about politics,” I was told. “It’s about YOU.” “Why,” my father went on, “Do you feel the need to kick a man when he’s down?”

Case closed.

I suppose I bought in; I don’t know—I just always listened to my dad. What I can state is that, decades later I prefer listening to talking heads than being one. Serious discourse? Change someone’s mind? Better I should pull to an inside straight.

It was uncomplicated before… before we all evolved. It was simpler absent open dialogue on awkward subjects…which is why we NEVER questioned (openly) ’bout how only certain people sat in Snyder’s front seat or why it was no matter who was driving or where he was coming from we always picked up Myers last. And it was easier, clearly, in 8th grade, when none of my many friends pulled me aside even privately asking of my parents’ divorce. Silence was a system that not only worked for us, but bonded us.

Forbearance, moreover, sustained peace and friendships. Trust me: it wouldn’t have done me any good to know then that Grafchik didn’t like me or Fenton or, for that matter, that much of our crew was heading off to college, never to return…like Cleveland never existed. Better that it just happened, I think, than to have discussed it. For me.

And so, today, I read again the posts of my bickering friends. And I wished again that they’d kept it inside and fought instead with strangers. They were using strong words, those two, and it made me feel like I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

Perhaps I’m not.

Why is it that whenever thoughts stray to the bygone years, in my mind’s eye it’s always sunshine, always spring?

       “…When I was small, and all the trees were tall
       We used to laugh with others and to play.
       Don’t ask me why, but time has passed us by.
       Other folks moved in from far away…”

First there was Sunday’s reunion: returning to Fox And Hound, 50 or so remnants from campus days dined and caught up midst the background music of the NBA All Star Game. As usual, Lester did a masterful job on everything and, just as usual, I won nothing.

Then came Monday: in the morning we buried Ruth. She was my dad’s first cousin, vibrant to her nineties and always, especially in our small clan equation, a vibrant part of the family circle.

—–Within twenty-four hours…two events: disparate in tone, different in nature—-and for some reason I found myself reaching back …a long way…even before the core friends … to the oft forgotten buddies I cut my teeth with.

It was the ‘50’s—the “old neighborhood”. Living on Hopkins, we were doors down from our mother’s high school sorority sister. Like our mom, Bunny Lang was now married, living in her mother’s house. Enter new friends, fast friends in Stevie and Kenny Rubin. It was that simple.

Me? I spent time as well with an older kid next door. Hymie was his name, and my dad called him “The Bad Hymie” (to distinguish him from my our mom’s Cousin Hymie, who years later would be fired from Standard Electric by Uncle Bob and dubbed “The Dumb Hymie”). Our father was right, of course. Not only was Cousin Hymie the nicer of the two, but indeed, Hal got in trouble one night when The Bad Hymie was playing with matches with H, Stevie and Kenny and started a fire in the Rubin garage. (Predictably, I was absent).

Ed. Note: Suburbia found us in ’55; within years the Rubins followed. We were on Bayard and they bought on Hinsdale, but it was never the same. (It never is). H remains Facebook friends with the elder but word has it that Kenny left for college, developed a British accent and never returned. Who knows?

Landing on Bayard, though, meant new friends. Next door lived Mozart-playing child prodigy Mark Gelfand and next to him, Eddie Davidson. (Ed. Note II: It was the latter’s legendary temper that abruptly ended the first Boobus Bowl. So unnerved was Ed when, as he was going out for a pass I inadvertently hit him with the ball in the air that he began chasing me around the house. Three quarters of a lap through my perilous flight I ran in the side door, never to come out. Game, set, match).

And to the east there were many: Bulb on the corner… Stuart and Ricky…the original Cohen Brothers…and Fromin—not to mention another Hymie, (Massarobbo) and Turd Rosenberg on Beaconwood.

Rain meant Monopoly on Hovanyi’s screened-in porch. Weather permitting though, it was swift pitching off Rowland’s north wall. Simple stuff: ground ball past the pitcher, a single… fly ball to the street a double…to the tree lawn, a triple—AND, hit Fenton’s home on the fly: a home run. Morton’s house (to the right) was in foul territory. One time his mother, (who coincidentally had worked with my aunt some years earlier), was so unnerved when a ball found her shrubs that she seized it, not to give it back. (I don’t want to say Mrs. Cohen was mean but—-hand to God—Aunt Helen had once called her “ an angry woman”.

Yes, those were glory days, glorious with an innocence that, once life swept me off my street corner, I was destined to lose.

I don’t know why I think of them today. Couldn’t be the flock of Sunday’s Sammys. Where’s the connection? Nor, for that matter, could it be my cousin’s death. Just doesn’t compute.

That nexus, I suppose—the clutch on my past compelling periodic peaks back—is in all of us. Me, perhaps more so.

Mind it I don’t, but accept it I do…and yes, every once in a while I  even relish it. After all, it was springtime then, and the sun was always shining on the street where I lived—in my little corner of the world.

       “…Now we are tall and older trees look small,
       And we don’t have the time of day.
       But you and I, our memories never die,
       It still feels like first of May….”

Barry, Robin and Maurice Gibb (adapted)

The ethic of “The Greatest Generation” was God, family and country. This mantra played well through the Second World War and was modified only slightly in the 60’s when Lombardi told players to focus on but three things: God, family, and the Green Bay Packers.

He didn’t play much football but our father too had a credo and our father too preached a world vision. To the man that raised us, specifically, the world could be boiled down to three things…

First and foremost, our patriarch assured us, came family. Often we’d spend Sundays with Aunt This or Cousin That. They were from our mom’s side (pretty much) but Dad always followed suit. Be they great aunts or second cousins, it mattered not. I still see the old man’s lip puff over Grandma’s poor Scrabble play and, even more graphically, I vision his cringing through arduous violin solos by an Alfred E. Newman-ish Cousin Sheldon. (Dad’s ears were correct, by the way. In adolescence Shelly would ditch his fiddle for a bat ‘n glove— ultimately entering Softball’s Hall Of Fame).

After family came friends. To Al Bogart, his pals were sacrosanct. He taught us to honor buddies, break bread with them, do business with them, and regardless of right or might, have their backs.

There was, of course, a third rung to his holy trilogy…

To our father, after family and after friends came not baseball— and not even gin rummy. No, after family and friends came the United States Post Office. It was a love— and yes, a passion—which he passed down with relish.

“It’s the best buy in the world!” he’d exclaim. “Where else can you just put a stamp on something and the next day it’s in Texas?” “But Dad,” I’d point out, “We don’t know anyone in Texas!”

He was right (of course). I saw it soon enough and in time grappled the postal service to my soul. Those who know me know well how to this day I thrill sending mail!

And it’s never mattered what the stamp cost. First memory says it was 5 cents “in the day”, (with postcards even less). So what? Stick anything in an envelope and for a small price, it’s anywhere! How valuable is YOUR time? Over decades I’ve mailed letters, pictures, toothbrushes, decals, and even empty envelopes, all in the spirit of communication…and all for nickels. Would it have made more sense to schlep by car or pay for delivery?

—Which is why I was thrilled some months back to meet Jillian’s (then-future) in-laws—one of whom travels on behalf of the postal service.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “That’s really what you do?”

Not only couldn’t I get over it, but right then and there—on the spot—live and in person—in the Millers’ living room…I volunteered my services for the good of the service.

“You should let me be the spokesperson,” I urged. “I’d love to tell everyone how great the Post Office is.” (I WOULD, by the way. I’d shout it from the rooftops. For free).

No, I don’t kvetch when the line gets long. Tireless clerks tending to impatient clowns get my sympathy, not my wrath. And I don’t complain when sometimes one day means two. So what? This is the U.S. Mail we’re talking about!

In the ‘60’s it brought word from a dad still selling on the road. In the ‘70’s ‘twas boxes of cookies brightening days at Fort Polk. And even now…even now mail brings pictures—pictures of grandchildren…to hold onto….to grow young with.

With reverie I recall how years ago the ex took Michael’s Bar Mitzvah invites to the station for stamping. Crazy, thought I…until … a generation later I helped Caryn cart even more boxes for the Roth/Schorr nuptials. It was an event, you see—something to hold onto, even though admittedly, just recently, I asked Caryn what the point was.

Yes, it’s all good with me and the post office: from six days/week to five— from commemorative stamps to self-adhesive— from Cliff Clavin to Newman. In sixty years neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night, has ever made me feel any differently about family, about friends…and clearly about the U.S. Post Office.

Aunt Helen and I had been getting along so well these past months. Too good to last? Of course.

It began innocently when, midst her complaint about a local take-out restaurant, I assured her “Well, it’s not the end of the world.” Within moments, smoke flew from her ears.

“Your problem is that nothing bothers you,” she enlightened me.
“And your problem,” I retorted, “Is that when nothing bothers me, THAT bothers you.”

The good news was, thought, that our colloquy ended without bloodshed. Perhaps she too was savoring the recent détente. Still, wandering with her Wednesday— from Marc’s to Jack’s to Target to Walgreen’s— I vowed that the next time she threw that salvo my way, I would barrage her with an ample list of things that distress me.

The problem is: most things just do not bother me. I truly don’t sweat small stuff. Health issues of friends and loved ones concern me. Of course. Family estrangements? Of course. Other than that, though, I usually maintain my boundaries, letting others fight their own battles. So when I see some guy ahead of me at the grocery —like the moron with 14 items in a 12-max express checkout line—these days I let it go. Or when I’m waiting for a spot in front of Corky’s and some clown cuts in front of me stealing my space, I no longer wait another two minutes for him to get out of his car, just so I can stare the man down and give him the dirty looks my father saved for Grandpa Irv.

At some level, I’ve grown up.

But not totally.

It was only hours after Helen’s muted assault and Carrie and I had just entered Champps.

“Table or booth?” we were asked
“Booth.”
And we sat down…facing south, toward the door.

No sooner, however, than our butts touched down that I saw staring right across at us from the next booth some putz wearing a bright yellow University Of Michigan jersey. (OK, it was “maize”, with blue lettering).

Now THAT pissed me off.

For years I’ve contended while not all Ohioans bleed scarlet and gray it is downright disrespectful and an insult to our great state to patronize our chief rival. I mean—there are so many other non-OSU schools. Only someone wanting to stand out, someone craving attention does those things. (Heck, if I were attending a friend’s Catholic mass, would I show up in tefillin)?

And for decades, did I not urge Norm Diamond to purge his stores of all U of M paraphernalia? It was the right thing to do, I told him. You don’t need the money.

The thought of dining for an hour and every time I’d look up having to see that yahoo—well it just nauseated me.

Well…let it be known that last Wednesday night…at 9:30 pm…in the absence of my aunt…I made her proud.

“You mind if we move?” I asked Carrie, visibly motioning at the mumser but feet away. (She well knew, I might add, what the problem was).
“Not at all.”

So with passion and flourish, in unison…we picked up our silver, our napkins, our menus…and moved in tandem (and not quietly) to the other side of the booth—backs to the asshole. And from there we enjoyed our meal, sans the ugly visual…God in His heaven and everything again all right with the world.

And I would tell Aunt Helen, when she fired on me next, that indeed some things DO bother me.

And I would also rest contented, in serenity, knowing full well that it is never the small stuff.

       “…There’s one more angel in heaven
       There’s one more star in the sky
       Cary we’ll never forget you
       It’s tough but we’re gonna get by…”

None of us gets to The Rooms on a winning streak. Cary was no exception. When we met during his stint in rehab—just two years ago— the guy was down, nearly out. “I’m a shadow of the man I was,” he advised me. “Screw the past,” I assured him, “You’re a shadow of the man you’ll be.”

In less than an hour we bonded. I told him my story; he told me his—and before we parted, we shared a laugh.
“Would you sponsor me?” he asked.
“If you’re serious, call me.”

Two weeks later– the afternoon of his discharge—my phone rang.
“Be ready at six.”
“But it’s my first night out!” he complained.
“Cary, really, what the F do you have better to do?”

He hit the ground running—no… racing. Within hours on the outside, the new guy was front and center at a meeting, introducing himself.

Find a home group, we urged. Get a service commitment, we suggested. Share your feelings.

So he did. For the next twenty months, like clockwork, there our friend stood, 7:15 every Friday morning at Suburban Temple… by the door…outstretched hand…. greeting the masses.

And there he was at other meetings: making coffee, setting up tables. And yes he spoke: candidly, to his foxhole buddies, opening up…finding his truth.

They loved him, my brethren did. To a man. We all notice when someone walks in, jumps in the “middle of the bed”, and stays. Too often do we see guys show up ‘til the heat’s off, then head back out. (We call that coming for the relief and not staying for the recovery).

Cary stayed. Cary became accountable. To a T. So responsible was his behavior, so bankable his word, that when he didn’t show to open a meeting two Fridays back, people noticed. And worried. He was, after all, one of us.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****  ******  
There was a moment of silence for our friend last Tuesday. Then, moving around the table, we shared thoughts and memories of our fallen pal. He was comfortable in his own skin, one remarked. And he went out a winner, said another.

I spoke to his willingness, to his purity; I mentioned how he’d called me daily…at 4:30…and how while I didn’t always understand what he was saying, I knew well it that came from his heart.

What I didn’t tell them, but what I thought in silence, was how Cary—like me— had been grappled to the soul by a fellowship that loved him until once again he could love himself. And I was comforted, (if that is the word), knowing that my good friend was indeed resting in peace.

       “…There’s one less place at our table
       There’s one more tear in my eye
       Cary, the things that you stood for
       Like truth and love never die….”

Tim Rice

Hoopla over brothers competing on Super Sunday has caused reflection on other legendary siblings that have threaded the fabric of American sports. Not surprisingly, many of the great tandems cut their teeth on the sandlots of South Euclid, Ohio.

The sixties was perhaps the last innocent decade. Long before video games took the bats out of adolescent hands, long before the clowns in my hometown cemented over the fields of dreams, life consisted of baseball, football and kinship.

First organized ball came the summer after fifth grade as Fenton and I broke into the 9-10 minors with Hollywood.  Later, as H then Ricky came of age, they too would wear plain white tees like their brothers. Not only that, but when the White Sox drafted me another dye would be cast as a year or so later they grabbed H. And catch this: ‘though Stuey made the majors with the Indians, he finished out with the Sox. Contemporaneous to the Sox later picking Little Ricky, a backroom deal was cut bringing Stuart too to the Pale Hose. (Want to know how sib-sensitive the Sox were? Over time their rosters included not only the Capretta and Myslenski boys that I teamed with, but the Brothers Mandel as well). It was like playing on Noah’s Ark.

South Euclid was, of course, home to the Boobus Bowl. Traditionally played on Thanksgiving, this no clock/no-equipment tackle game was in many ways a family affair. Not only did in one decade alone no less than four clans send two or more representatives to the annual event, but each tandem, in its own way, made a contribution to the legacy of the clash.

There were the Mandels, of course—always together. Bruce called the signals; Doug generally blocked. The former was dubbed “Boo”, the latter “Doo”, and conventional wisdom was that kid brother Frank was so unnerved at the prospect of being “Foo” that he opted, growing up, to go by his middle name, Howard.

And the Baskins, Dick and Tommy—the only bros never to team together. Go figure. Dick was older, more compact, and played quarterback. He could run a bit, throw when necessary, and like Rex Kern, was the perfect leader for a grind-it-out team: Conversely, brother Tom—all speed— played well in Mandel’s west coast offense. (Note: Mandel lost more than he won. Remember: in those days the west coast was at the Mississippi River).

Ah, and the Fruit Punch. Each year but one, Pear Freedman played opposite body double Plum. We had Steve, and in games where everyone was an eligible receiver, our huddles were predictable.

Like it was yesterday:

First, Pear would stand with his back to the line of scrimmage, hands up like he was on TV. It would be Baskin, Ross, Herzog, two Bogarts, and Steve.

Dick would speak: “I’ll run right. B, you and Alan lead me”…and four guys would nod. “ I can beat my guy”, Pear would say.

…or it would be…

“B, you take it. Give us time to get in front of you”…and we’d nod. “Yeah,” Steve would urge, “But I can beat Gill. He’s ignoring me.” “We’ve already got a play,” Alan would glare, with that look of frustration reserved solely for amos. (We loved Steve, we did—but it wasn’t an accident that Plum played against him).

….which reminds me of a story (not really related to the brothers theme)….

So unnerved were most of us by Pear’s constant nagging for the ball that one day—and it wasn’t a bowl game—we had a special signal…a special play. Plum wasn’t there, but I recall that somehow we’d reached a silent consensus that we didn’t want to play anymore. At a tacitly agreed time, Herzog intentionally threw an interception right at Pear and then….all of us…both squads, gang-tackled him. On that play—on that one play—we were all brothers.

Which brings me to the last siblings worth mentioning: the Bogart Boys. One hit and threw left—the other right. One could run—the other couldn’t. And one did his homework after school and then played ball—but not the other. They were as different on the diamond, as night and day. But they were teammates, always… on and off the court—

And that made for super ball!

Ask what we did in New York last weekend and I might say “Nothing”. Truth is we did everything. It’s not what you do but whom you do it with.

Friday, 7:10 pm Dashboard voices interrupted the dreidle from LaGuardia to Chappaqua. “Who’s in the car with daddy?” asked Meredith. “Deedee (MaxSpeak for grandpa) Bruce and Carrie,” urged The Prince.

A second call came, featuring the requisite “Do you want to stop for food or bring it back debate. It was at once refreshing yet predictable.

“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t care. What do you want to do?”
“What do Bruce and Carrie want?”
“What do you guys want?”
“I don’t care. What do you want?”
“I don’t care. What do you want?”
“We don’t care.”

“We’re going to stop at a bodega,” he announced.
“What’s a bodega?” I wondered. “We don’t have them in Ohio.”
“Wanna bet? How much do you want to bet?”
“No bet. Just don’t know what they are.”
“Remember the Seinfeld?” he asked. (Michael, who forever chastises me for what he perceives as my constant analogies to episodic TV— Michael, halcyon of realism that he is, then cited the instance Jerry’s dishonored check was posted on the cash register at a bodega).

We hit the compound, hugged hellos, and were told that indeed Max P was sleeping.

“Do you want to see him?” Mer asked. “Of course. “May I touch him? I asked. “Of course.”

Saturday, 7 am He walked in tepidly, a twinkle in his eye— a smile as wide as his paternal grandfather.

“DeeDee Bruce…Carrie” he uttered excitedly. “Max!” we urged, “C’mon in!” “You can go back to bed,” she told Meredith. “We’ve got him.” And most surely we did. For an hour, give or take, she sprawled on the floor, he announced geometric shapes, and me?  I kvelled.

“Hexagon”! the kid exclaimed, placing a six-sided block through a slot. “Octagon”. “Trapezoid”—identifying shapes he could barely pronounce….

A family in stride:  catching up, hanging out, eating…. Just marveling in the ordinary—

Between playing with Max, we (of course), exercised not only our right to free speech, but the obligatory art of conversation.  Indeed, it is this logical yet serious discourse on the most trivial of subjects that has sustained us lo these many years.

“Tell me again, Dad…why is it you eat pepperoni pizza but won’t try a pork chop?” “It’s a South Euclid thing.” “And what about ham?” “We’ve HAD this conversation.” “Yeah, but haven’t you ever had wonton soup?”

There’s a warmth to the verbal jousting—a tenderness brewed through time. We each know the script and yes,  each of us could well recite the other’s lines. Michael, Meredith, myself…we’re fiddlers on the roof singing “Tradition”. Readily, too, Carrie’s joining the chorus….And we sing well, until Max wakes.

Make no mistake about it, though:  my boy Max is the show. The rest of us—we’re lounge acts. Two years old and the kid’s dialing up YouTube, singing “Hava Nagila”. As Ben Selzer would say: “Everything’s all right in America!”

Family.

How sweet is life’s nector when mundane moments are glued together by the dynamic of special relationships!

Lunch at Lange’s Deli— Not a bordega, mind you, but the eggplant wrap would make Letterman’s Top Ten and the owner, well when he greeted me with “You’ve got a great grandson”…

Dinner at Lexington Square Café— also not a bordega. More like Poppy’s, Still, Caryn’s rendezvous with the governor of her home state added spice to the evening. Quietly, moments pre-exit, my machatainista glided over to Cuomo’s table, introduced herself and thanked him for a job well done. Luxenberg, after all, DOES follow Kennedy in the alphabet.

And what better after-dinner treat than the exuberance of Max Parker, hand-in-hand with six adults, doing the Hora ‘round a coffee table. “One more time,” he worked us. “One more.”

Sunday, 9 am  Sunday the grandpa slept late. It was a lazy dawn replete with Johnny Knoxville, Ali G, and Max. We were winding down.

There’d be lunch in Mt. Kisko. “The Diner”, as Mer’dith dubbed it. I think not. Pleasant, perhaps, but ladies and gentlemen, trust me on this. The week of Max’s bris, when I stumbled on the Great Neck Diner, I hit the motherload. I know diners. This, my friends, was no Great Neck Diner.

And there’d be dinner at Aliada’s. Caryn and Stuart came, but Andy stayed home.

And the airport, and goodbyes…

We stood at Security with time to spare. The next time I’d see Max, I was thinking… perhaps, it would be June: Lindsey’s wedding. He changes geometrically, I knew…each stretch…each time….each growth….

Heart filled with treasure, I walked to the gate.  Grateful.

       “Here comes the saddest part
       The seasons are passing one by one
       So gather moments while you may
       Collect the dreams you dream today…”

And yes, I remember the times of my life.

(italicized:  Paul Anka)

I was honored weeks back when Lana asked me to speak at Michael’s 70th. “It’s a surprise party. Roast him—say whatever you want—you know him as well as anyone,” she urged. When the bell rang, though, I didn’t roast him. I couldn’t.

Don’t get me wrong—there was plenty to say. No sooner had I hung up the phone that day than ideas swarmed.

I could rail on the fact that our friend Michael has an answer for everything. Not in a rude or upstart way, mind you—but he always answers, nonetheless. And not that his proffers are correct necessarily—but answers they are—and one thing is certain: you can never quite say he’s wrong. Like…ask him how many gallons of water in Lake Erie? Trust me, he cites you a finite number. No approximations. Go ahead then: say it ain’t so!

How many times have I watched him in action? “Michael,” they ask, “You’re president of our shul. What was Moses’s astrological sign? Did Lot, the shepherd in Genesis, hold the staff in his left or right hand?” “Michael, how many bricks ARE in the dome at Park Synagogue? “Michael…did Oswald act alone?”

And yes, I could mention how Michael has to sit facing out at restaurants. Ever gregarious, he’s always sticking his hand out greeting people… strangers. (Never do I have the angle, but I’d love to know how many times people pass our table after just shaking Michael’s hand, and walking on by utter “Who the F was that?”

“That,” I’d advise them, “Was Michael, and No, you don’t know him– but try to prove it.”

Just sayin’

And yes, I might chide him further, regaling at the party of his overwhelming thrill—NO, his voyeuristic passion for watching others overeat. “Save room,” he warned me, way back in ’81 as I lay in Hillcrest Hospital. “I’ll be there after lunch and bring food.” And that he did: Two triples with cheese from Wendy’s. (Not to mention the fries and Frosty). “Bogey,” I’m sure he said, “You know I know Dave Thomas?”

Yeah, I had the material, had the stories, and ‘though I took no notes, it mattered not. When the night would come I figured I’d just rise and shine and leave them laughing.

But I didn’t—by choice.

NO, when they called me last weekend—before a string of family—as Lana handed me the mic—and I studied my larger-than-life friend….

I didn’t want to share laughs. I wanted, rather, to share smiles and warmth and the sense of family that Michael’s transmitted in so many ways from so many angles for so many years to so many people.

So I told them there was never a time he wasn’t there for me, from the births of my children through the deaths of my parents …and that yes, although we met as adults, he’d seen me too grow up! And I mentioned Lana, the wind beneath his wings. (It had to be said).

Then I sat down.

Others followed, of course. A sister, brother and grandchild spoke, each with oral snapshots of the guest of honor. In truth, though, his youngest said it best. “The reason my father knows so many people,” asserted Brian, “Is because he’s touched so many lives.”

It was a simple statement, an honest statement, a profound tribute.

Not only has my pal Michael touched more lives than any person I know, but seven decades in, he shows no signs of slowing down. He remains, alas, A Man For All Seasons.

I love him.