upfromdysfunction.com

     “…Out, damn’d spot! out, I say!…Hell is murky…”

                    Lady MacBeth (Shakespeare)

She was my first love and I was introduced to her by my Dad in the late 50’s.

Long before “air guitars” he’d direct the fight song—my father would—with his air baton. Long before there was Tatum or Griffin there were others: like Frank Kremblas and Bob Ferguson and Tom Matte. Laying on his bed he’d cradle a pre-printed list of college football games, checking off schools with names so foreign: VMI, The Citadel…Lehigh, allthewhile listening intently to Ohio State.

My first love.

Havlicek and Lucas and Knight, the horror of ’62 (when the faculty rejected a Rose Bowl bid), the majesty of Coach Hayes (who my Dad would point out, ALWAYS), wore but a baseball cap and shortsleeves…

“Look,” he’d announce, ALWAYS, pointing down to the sideline.
“Yeah, Dad, we know.”

Cementing our love was ritual. We’d get down there each fall, to a game. Once—I remember it well—he woke us on Saturday—and we travelled by train. Tickets? Not an issue. Ever. Outside the closed end we’d wait, marvelling as our father worked the closed end of the stadium.  How we’d worry that we wouldn’t get in!  “Relax,” he would caution. “Right after the kickoff there’ll be all kinds of seats available!”  There always were.  

They were special years molding special memories and a special love. Indeed, not even tougher times could kill the regimen. Weekend stays at The Neil House downtown turned into one-night stands at a Nationwide Inn on Olentangy, but always hit The Jai Lai, always valet parked, and each and every meal there our reverie grew.

“Look, boys,” he’d remark, pointing to a large, framed black and white photo by the hat check; “That’s Woody. He eats here.”
“Yeah, Dad, we know.”

Al Bogart died suddenly in ’85. He was survived by Harriet, kids, and a legacy of love for God, family, and Ohio State. It is precisely because he would put them in that order that he could now understand what I’m about to say:

It will never be the same again…ever.

My Dad’s eyes closed long ago. He never saw, thank God, the way his grandchild was treated. He never knew, thank God, how the institution he prioritized for life so reckless threw his baby to the curb.

(Editor’s Note: I separated from active duty in May, 1972. Just days before we’d learned that, contrary to its prior promise, OSU would not admit me to grad school. Incensed over what in context is so trivial a matter—my Dad went wild! “They can’t do that to us,’ he proclaimed, calling Governor Gilligan. But they did. Even after a face-to-face meeting at the Statehouse with Ohio’s Chief Executive, even as the governor shook our hands telling us “Sorry, but the folks uptown don’t like me butting in,”, even then he pushed back. Face turning red, puffing his lip he shot back: “With all due respect, Governor,” he told Gilligan, “Jim Rhodes wouldn’t have let this happen.”)

It’s a living thing: history. What my Dad didn’t know, I just can’t forget. What my Dad didn’t see, I just won’t erase.  It WILL never be the same.

The heroes of my past had nothing to do with the bottom-feeders on campus in ’01. And still…

I revere my past:  those halcyon years as a Buckeye. But I can’t let go. Not really. ‘Can’t hear a score without thinking; can’t watch a game free of conscience…no matter how exciting it may be.  Truly.

We can’t forget.

Intellectually I know, the players have changed. I wonder though:  does the game go on? How many besides my daughter were compelled to move on while the bureaucrats danced on? (I read about the golden parachute the then-president of OSU got and I wanted to vomit. We hear the name of my daughter’s perp and we still get nautious).

I accept and I let go, but I can’t forget.  Not really.

They won a game last weekend, the Bucks did. I’m glad, of course.  And yet…as a national alumni rejoiced, my shout was muted. How couldn’t it be? 

My father’s gone but his memory lives. The tapestry though, the one he weaved so well of God and family all framed in scarlet and gray, has a stain on it. On its border. Right at the corner of 15th and High, (shall we say?)

I will cherish always my memories of youth and revere warmly the “best years of my life” on campus. 

They’ve soiled it though, indelibly. I can’t help it.

Godless pretenders feigning to be educators callously hurt our Little One.  The thrill of an overtime victory can never eradicate the way my school, my First Love, dropped the ball in regulation—nor can new jobs for the old regime ever cleanse their grimy hands.

And this, time and change will surely show.

                ACT I

Scene One—a temple in Stamford, Connecticut, Labor Day Weekend, 2011. A montage of congenial middle-aged people, each speaking louder than the next, has collected to celebrate Aunt Lee and Uncle Ernie’s 60th anniversary.

“How’s Aunt Helen?” she greeted me. (Odd question, thought I).

(I’d forgotten their lives’ intersection. It was 1990—Michael’s Bar Mitzvah. Cousin Hindy had stayed at Chez Fossil, walking distance from shul).

“You know…she still has my coat!”

(I didn’t know. In fact, I was blown away learning that for two decades Hindy’s rainwear hung quietly in our aunt’s closet).

“I’ll get if for you,” I pledged. “Not a problem. “I shall return!”

Fadeout

Scene Two—A few weeks later: The upstairs of a duplex in University Heights, Ohio.

“Aunt Helen, “I exclaimed, “Remember Hindy, who stayed here when Michael was Bar Mitzvahed?”
“Ah, Hindy.’ (The thought of this observant Jewess had clearly warmed the cockles of my tante’s soul. Turning east, she looked wistfully to the sky).
“I saw her in Connecticut. She says her coat’s in your closet. I’m going to send it to her.”
“You may NOT go in my closet!”
“Are you kidding?” I asked, wreaking incredulity.
“Don’t make me cry!”

Scene Three — a banquet hall in Westchester County, New York–summer, 2012. The Stamford clan, one voice softer, have gathered for the wedding of Ernie’s granddaughter.

“Where’s my coat?” Hindy urged, somewhat playfully.

Lamenting my failure, recounting the episode of months ago, I found new resolve. I could not—I would not—let Hindy down.

“I shall return!” I re-vowed.

Fadeout (to the theme song from ‘Rocky’)

                ACT TWO

Scene One — in a car…at dusk…somewhere on 422 East in Ohio. A man is driving, lady by his side, and the talk is animated.

“I need your help”, he explains. “You need to keep her busy while I go through the closet. She looks at him, somewhat amused. “And you’ll have to meet her,” he adds tentatively, (tepidly fearful of placing her in harm’s way). From the tone of their talk, it is clear neither has sensed the enormity of the task.

“I’m in!” she proclaims, whereupon, in a flourish— ebulliently— like Jason seeking the Golden Fleece, he honks the horn.

Scene Two — Weeks later…same car…in darkness…on Washington Boulevard approaching Cedar. The duo has been joined by another.

“Aunt Helen, can Carrie and I come up for a few minutes.”
“No.”

Scene Three — Even more weeks later. It is morning and the same car heads west on 480. The old lady is gone, replaced by an enthusiastic young adult.

“My aunt called this week. Says she needs a light bulb changed, and with Harold not feeling well, she’d like me to do it.”
“So?” said the lady.
“Well, she’s says I have to stand on her bed and that I should have someone to hold me up—that I can’t do it by myself…I suggested you.”
“Perfect,” she responds. “Let’s do it today. We’ll take Leesa. The two of us can keep her busy while you’re in the closet.”

The lights flicker a bit, and we see this same trio upstairs at the creaky old duplex. They are wearing the morning’s garb, and it is clear that this it is the same day. Carrie stands on a bed, feigning to screw in the fixture. Feet away is Leesa, gently hugging…occupying Aunt Helen. It is a strict man-to-man defense.

No one is talking.

Me? I was in the other room, going closet to closet. Front closet? Empty. Side closet? Stark empty! Where was Hindy’s coat? I slid into Grandma’s room. Two decades after her death it remains a museum. Alas, her cupboard too was bare.  Where was Hindy’s coat?

Re-entering the fray, dejected, I signaled Carrie’s descent from the bed. Leesa was still hugging my aunt and a new bulb shined but our venture’d failed.

I knew that.

The curtain closed as we trudged down steps, three of the world’s greatest minds having been beaten by one 98-year old. Two questions remained—just two.  Where WAS that coat? (I wondered), and WHAT, oh WHAT, would I tell Hindy?

I used to joke, some years ago, as they accused my favorite football coach of slugging a kid. “It’s the angle,” I would say.

They sat in the stadium—three of them—each integral to my world, each with her own set of eyes.

In the open end was Lucy. Perched in her highchair, staring into a life ahead, she savored every movement and yes, every moment!

I watched in Chicago. She was “not herself” said the parents (of their girl’s malaise). I studied her eyes—the little one’s—as Stacy fed her and Jason held her…and she healed. Tender, looming orbits, they filled with the love that surrounded.

There’s an innocence in babies. Undeterred by pasts, theirs is a realm where seeing truly is believing. As such, when a mother coddles or a father sings, they not only learn love, but believe in it. It’s a warm world (when you’re ten months old), and I couldn’t help but thinking that my little one’s Little One is in a good place, evolving a good world view.

She was, in fact, not herself last Friday. Keeping her in (per doctor’s orders), tweaking our schedule, we did what strong families do best: we made do.

It was a great weekend! Lucy, from her spot near the one, was embraced by images of parents laughing, a grandfather playing, and the threesome both laughing with Seinfeld and crying to “The Descendants”.

Lucy Hannah Bohrer, her whole life before her, had a much better angle than did her aunt. (Or should I say great aunt?) (Or should I say great, great aunt)?

Way on the other side of the field…down at the closed end of the stadium, was Aunt Helen.

In the bad seats….with the bad world view.

She’s seen it all, I suppose…this 98-year-old. (Perhaps too much). I wonder how I’d view life if I too had witnessed two world wars, a Holocaust, and the death not only a much younger brother, but of all her contemporaries. Would my vision not narrow looking only through a rear-view mirror? Would I too not see things “half-empty”? Would my eyes not also be closed?

We were driving home—just this Kol Nidre—three of us:

“What did you think of the rabbi’s sermon?” she asked.
“I liked it,” said I, (speaking both in truth and safety).
“Really,” she surmised….
I just waited.
“The rabbi should listen to his own worlds,” she continued. “He had no business telling that story. You know he still has not returned my call”.

“Get over it,” I wanted to say, but didn’t. It was, after all, a new year. (Again, though, who am I to judge? Did I not, in fact, sit in the closed end of Municipal Stadium the day of The Drive? Do I not, TO THIS DAY, still contend that Karlis’ game-ending field goal was wide to his left?)

The best seats, of course, are near midfield…

Which is where she sits: Carrie.

Eyes wide open…like the ocean…ever the fan of life.

She’s seen good plays, plays gone bad, and even called some audibles. She gets it.

We spoke of family, (the other day), and there was laughter. We spoke of Helen as well that night, (and there was not).

It mattered not, sitting there next to her by the fifty.  Not at all.

I wasn’t getting out of my seat, you see.  I liked the balance, liked the view, and more than anything else, I loved the fan by my side.

It is, to this day, about the angle.

It’s a funny thing having roots in South Euclid. So fond are we of our origins— so moist the reflections—that we just presume we hold memories intact. ‘Tain’t so.

Act I

Labor Day, 2012. Dickie B, my brother and I stood poolside, chatting. Once past the usual speak: health, children, etc., attentions turned, as they often do, to our halcyon days in Columbus. Focusing, as we did for at least an instant, on a particular night, we hit a wall.

“Remember the Association concert?” (We all did…at some level). “You took Debbie Denunzio, “ I told Dick, “And H took Shelly Kern.” Eyes rolled for a minute, and as my ego swelled to the tune of my memory, Baskin spoke:
“I don’t think so.”

Turning elsewhere, three matters struck me: 1), I was sure that was the girl’s name: Debbie Denunzio. I wouldn’t just imagine it, and 2) oddly, I couldn’t recall who I’d taken, and 3) it was, in fact, recorded in an old hand-written diary.

Act II

“This is a sure sign we’re getting old,” I said laughing, and Harold agreed. By phone we were drawing to conclusion the ping-pong of an internet dialogue.

He started it. He would say, of course, that I did.

“When were the three of you (Dad, Lomaz and you) (sic) living together?” Innocently this inquiry’d come through my email at Thursday, at 11:45 AM. He was referring—my brother was—to a recent blog

Holding my tongue, reluctant to wipe his face in so profound an error, at 11:46 I responded…softly.

“Dick Baskin.”

“Just the THREE of you?” he rejoined, that very minute. It was the intensity of his capitalization that by 11:47 had given me pause. If he was cocksure of himself…could the almighty me, with pride in my memory, be wrong? Gently, ego falling, I wondered: WHO could I have missed?

“I think so, “ I wrote back…showing weakness. “Do I remember it wrong?”

Moments later I learned. “What about moi?” he typed., stopping me in my tracks.

Could I have forgotten my brother? Was he there too? Really?

And so we spoke that day, laboring by phone recreating the past.

It was two bedrooms, the place. We pictured it well. There was Dad, and Dick…and me? But who slept where? And was H there?

We couldn’t remember. Either of us. Exactly. Oh, recalled his living there, but couldn’t picture it—couldn’t swear to it. And me? I imaged it: 20 East 14th—even the bedrooms. But I wasn’t sure. Not really.

Intellectually, we sensed, he had to be there. Why then, weren’t we sure?

So well we recalled the prefab hole in the wall separating bedrooms. I regaled, yet again—(it’s a story I love to tell)—‘bout the night I’d asked our father if he’d ever had pre-marital sex with our mother. Since the two’d been divorced, it struck me ‘twas a story that he’d somehow tell). The old man balked, (to his credit), turned red, and abstained. Dead silence for a bit—maybe more—and then…all of a sudden… from the other side of the wall Dick Baskin bellowed: “C’mon Uncle Al.”

Now, THAT I remember! But where was my brother? Could he have been at the library that night? Even in this epic of visuals, he was not to be found.

“Where’d we sleep?” we both wondered, playing ping-pong once more. “You sure there were only two bedrooms?” he asked, asserting, “I NEVER lived in a dorm!.”

It didn’t occur to us—even once—to phone a friend. Like maybe Baskin. As such, we hung up in tacit agreement. He had to be somewhere, we supposed. Probably there.

Act III

Lyndhurst, Ohio. Perturbed by struggles with Hal’s residence, puzzled (perhaps) by Dick’s protests of two weeks back, I went right to the archives: to the thick SBX spiral notebook, where all truths lay.

The news there was both good and bad.

First the good news: One entry read: “November 10, 1969: “…DB was fixed up with Linda Longert’s pal Debbie DeNunzio…” Then, in an apparent recap dated
November 14, I’d diagramed the post-concert dinner at Suburban Steakhouse. Sketched in at a table of eight, seated twixt “DB” and “AH”, was a “DD”. Case closed.

As to my brother, the news isn’t good. Scanning fall quarter I saw a myriad of names. There was Walt, Wied, Stuart, and Hal—all the usual suspects, mentioned time and again. Nowhere, though, NOWHERE, did it state where H lived. Not even a hint.

It matters not, I suppose. Not anymore. What matters is that four decades later Dick, Hal and I still stand…by a pool…talking, smiling, and usually laughing.

Oh, and one more thing. I tripped on, when re-reading my diary, the identity of the person I’D taken to that concert, all those years ago. Turns out I wound up marrying her.

(Who knew?)

There’s a lot going on these days. No time to breathe in a world that, quite frankly, is leaving me breathless. From a coming trip west to my plans for the east, from the romance of direction to the direction of romance, it’s all been good.

Even better.

It is, then , a time to be grateful.

“Harriet’s remarkable,” I was told just this Sunday. (With that, floodgates opened, and memories of years gone by, stories of a distant but vivid past were shared):

…Of the night they’d met at a Columbus J.C.C. —he was living with Dick and me back then—of my middle-aged father, frustrated by the sight of teen-aged hosiery hanging from a kitchen sink, hurling his shoe through a wall…

A pivotal time in not only my Dad’s life, but mine as well, it was anchored not by one of the guys from his card game, not by one of my friends on campus, but by a woman that barely played gin yet always hung in.

I’ve been thinking. Not only of Harriet…but of others that’ve graced my life.  Women, all three, who through circumstance married my pals, acquiesced to my nonsense, buttressed my journey, and became true friends.

And hung in.

‘Met Marilyn first, or so it seems. Stopping Stuart’s world on a dime, she put an immediate dent on what had been a standing dinner with Fenton, Longert and myself. Dorm kitchens closed on Sundays, we were munching pizza at Roma’s in the alley behind SBX or doing Chinese at Jong Mea down on Broad Street until…

And a friend she’s been. From the time she survived the scare of me taking out her sister to the times I’d go to Stuey for counsel. Like they used to say about the Super Bowl and Pittsburgh, the road to my buddy Stuart goes through Marilyn. And always—always—she’s had my back.

Rita Lena? Can’t quite recall the start. What I do remember is that all of a sudden Brother Bruce was in Columbus and she was there. Then, when it came to law school, he was there, and she was there. Still yet, as we had our children, we were all there. Always.

I see snapshots. There’s a brutal snowstorm. It’s January, ’78, and Rita’s mom’s working at 9th and Euclid. Me? I’m driving her home, two miles per hour…safely.  We were young then. Alive. Then a Saturday night, years later. Many years later: Bruce, Rita, some kids, me…and her father walking out of “Schindler’s List”. You could hear a pin drop. And my favorite picture—not a snapshot so much as an audio…a recording.

“When you going to stop over?” she’s asked…endlessly…for nineteen years.

No one, male or female, has so often made it clear to me I was welcome. Always.

And Lana. As I rode her husband’s coattails up our lodge’s ladder, she, the Pride of Philadelphia, inherited me. The dynamics of my kinship with her Michael being what they were, ‘tis safe to say that no one saw my mishigos closer, or from a better angle than she. And she hung in; she always had my back.

I am thinking of these ladies today NOT with reverie for times gone by, but with gratitude for times so good.

Like today.

To one I am “B” and another I’m Bruce. (Heck! To Lana, it’s… simply …“Bogart”). Matters not! How well I know that had they each in their own way not been there for me all these years, I might well not be standing today.

And I am standing today…on the threshold to a future…smiling.

Gates Mills’ production of “The Odd Couple” begins rehearsal Thursday and, healthy as it may be for my soul, I am out of my comfort zone.

Eagerly accepting this directing gig, it readily occurred that the this new task smacked of “The Peter Principle”. Was I not, as the saying goes, rising to the level of my incompetence?

They were doing a comedy, this theater. For that reason I sensed, the powers-that-be figured I knew what I was doing. Candidly I told them I’d never done it before. I shared, in my letter (which may I state was Pulitzer-worthy), a plan to surround myself with a cadre of off-stage help assuring success.

And they hired me.

July sped by. I hit the library, called friends, and listened hard. There I was: the book-smart kid that never studied going to class on-the-fly. Afraid I was not, but clearly, this wasn’t Kansas anymore.

Reaching out I called Mango. Eight times he had cast me. From “The Fantasticks” a decade ago in Solon through “Hairspray” this June at Fine Arts—for big parts and small— he’s called my number. Who other than he to know what I don’t know? Who other than he to hold a mirror to my face?

“Two things, maybe three are guaranteed,” said my friend. “You’ll make mistakes. That’s part of the job— and you’ll lose friends. Guaranteed.” I was smiling knowingly when he spoke again. “Directing will make you a better actor,” he said, pausing a bit…”Not that you’ve ever acted”.

August came. And went. Twixt that month full of magic, I read…and read…and read the script. No Cliff’s Notes this rodeo. I was in it to win it.

I formulated, anticipated, perfected. Didn’t know what I was doing but I kept on reading, continued thinking, planning, conjuring. Nothing though— NOTHING I read, wrote or even heard from Mango prepared me for the toughest thing since reffing basketball:

Last Tuesday I cast the show.

Looks easy, perhaps: just sitting there, watching auditions. Science it’s not; there is, within reason, no right or wrong. As Lil Selzer would muse, “That’s why God made blondes and brunettes”. No, the hard part of casting is not saying Thank You, granting roles. It is, rather, saying No Thank You to friends.

Few female parts in the show. Two, to be exact. As such, from a field of eight, all KNOWN to me, one pair’d be picked…by me! (I felt, to be sure, like Bobby Snyder at the Heights Temple dances, circa 1961).

Then in strode Natalie.

Talented, half my age, we’d done three shows together. She reminds me—always has—of Jamie. I’ve broken bread with her dad, she trusts me, confides…
She is “good people”. And I wanted to cast her…almost did…but I couldn’t.

She just missed.

When it came time to call her, to tell her “No go”, I just couldn’t. Could not pick up the heavy phone to tell my friend it wasn’t going to work.

It was Tuesday, mid-day, and all other calls made, I had business in Painesville. Natalie, I knew, worked in Euclid, still somewhat en route. Better, I deduced, to share bad news in person. (Not around the problem, as we say, but through it). Eyeball to eyeball.

Speeding I-90, rounding the spur toward a ‘hood unknown…it would be the first and last time I would drive East 200. Sighting her storefront, pulling right up, and eyeing a darkened window, with my best George Costanza resolve, I thought “I’m going in, baby!”

But I couldn’t.

There was a sign in the window, which once close up, I read. “CLOSED MONDAYS/TUESDAYS”

Some things aren’t meant to be, I figured. Snapping a pic of her signage, texting it to her, I waited. She called at once.

“Listen,” I uttered, “I can’t cast you.” (Guilt, for no reason, consumed me– not unlike when Aunt Helen makes demands and H and I struggling, decline).

“I know,” she said at once. “I would love to help you backstage.”

I knew then and there that a lesson’d been had: a lesson of confidence. Couldn’t learn it from books, couldn’t hear it from Mango. Had to feel it.

And I knew then and there not to fret mistakes nor worry ‘bout friends. If my heart is pure and my motives right, all would be ok…I would be ok.

Oh, and Natalie? We spoke again just Thursday. She’s found a home, my friend has…this fall…in Gates Mills.

She’s in charge of props.

Happy, healthy, and much wiser than I’d been that age, the Little One turned thirty this week. Time to reflect.

She was born, that sprite, in a year of change. It’s been three decades, two lifetimes ago: hers and mine.

We opened ’82 on Wrenford, long field goal range from the school of my youth. Michael was four, Jamie but two, and between playgroups and naps, we schlepped with Elaine Walter looking for houses. Stacy was coming and there was, (per The Jersey Girl), no room at the inn.

It would be a year of change, both on and off the court. Downtown that spring, my partnership ended. Uptown that summer, we moved onto Maidstone. Down south that March, a grandmother perished; up here in August, our step-dad cashed in. In a lot of ways, it all fell on me.

And in the midst of it all….

Stacy Celia Bogart arrived three weeks past-due on August 27. It would not, by the way, be the last time she was late. Named for our Grandmother Cele and Mom’s husband Sam (if you’re following along in your scorecard, this is Husband 2 in the series of 3), Rooney proved to be a hybrid. Autonomous, loyal (and stubborn) like our grandma, she is at once soothing and excitable like Sam.

And likeable. Everybody likes Stacy. To this day she walks with a child-like insouciance intoxicating all she touches. Rooney is one of those people, dare I say, that even as she frustrates you…even as she momentarily pisses you off…you can’t help but love her. Better yet, you can’t help but smile.

(At least I can’t).

I’ve heard it said that God has a great sense of humor. Consider:

The household split in ’93, Stacy being ten at the time. Last of the littler, she had yet neither the independence of Michael nor the soft guile of Jamie. That pair found ways to see me. Rooney just couldn’t; she was young, and I got it. Times together were, to be sure, jagged.

Ironic, (is it not?), that the lass I’d plot to see now calls up daily! Funny (is it not?), how it all works out.

Just thoughts worth sharing on this her birthday week…

Love and wings, we give our kids. Unconditionally. Just love and wings. I say it often—at least when asked. ‘Tis easier sometimes, though, to talk the talk rather than walk the walk. I miss her.

I miss all my kids. They’re out there, all three, sharing their love and spreading their wings.

On her thirtieth birthday I called my daughter: The Little One. Her voice mail—what a shock!—was full.

I didn’t get mad—even the second time, hours later. This was, after all, Stacy.

To Jason she’s a wife; to Lucy she’s a mother; and to many she’s a loyal friend.

To me, though, and to those who saw her all those years ago either laying in the kennel with Rocky or standing in a Tower City window with manikins, she’s still Punky Brewster. She is smiling, radiant, and warm enough to always melt a frustrated father.

(If only she would clear out her voice mail)!

I left the following message for my father this morning:

“Dad,

Sorry to bother you in the middle of your heavenly gin game, but I need to vent.

I was leaving my meeting this morning…waiting to turn onto Chagrin…and, eyeing my phone, saw four calls I’d missed. Then it struck me. Again. And I put down the phone.

They’ve changed the rules, Dad.

Remember the time you drove up from Columbus to join me at the heart doctor’s? Our meeting was at the end of the day, upstairs at Mount Sinai; you didn’t want me to be alone. Recall how you lit your cigarette and like lightning the receptionist motioned passionately, pointing to the placard on her desk. Apropos to the times it read “Thank You For Not Smoking”. Remember the look you gave her while politely crushing your smoke?

I do. (Turning to me, under your breath you muttered: “Next they’ll go after all left-handed people).

The screwing with us again, Dad.

It’s not enough they make us wear seatbelts, but they’ve passed this new law…
in one of the suburbs I frequent…that prohibits phone use while driving. Can you imagine?

It’s unfair, Pop—much worse than your smoking.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand the texting thing; I get that. Driver inattention, like second-hand smoke, can injure others. But talking? Are they kidding? Are they serious? What’s next? Banning speech to a passenger? No shaving in cars?  No ipods? (Maybe there should be a law that only people in the backseat can sing along? It could be standard equipment for new cars to come with ear plugs for drivers).

What about sporting events? Will there next be an ordinance requiring motor vehicle operators to turn off baseball after seven innings? They could pattern statute after the MLB save rule, where if it’s more than a three-run game it doesn’t count. This will allow drivers to safely listen to boring games.

It’s frustrating, Dad.

I got a taste of it last week, this intervention. My cross country drive was encumbered by the same nonsense just entering New York. There I was, looking for this bridge or that parkway, surrounded by honking maniacs posing as humans, and I couldn’t pick up the f’ing phone to call my son for directions.

(Michael, you should know, thinks it’s a good thing. I haven’t asked Stacy, frankly, since I know she likes Oprah, and Oprah campaigns for this nationally. Michael and Oprah both champion the law. He has a blue tooth; she’s got a driver. Go figure).

You can’t imagine, though, how it impacts me here. At home.

Just Wednesday, near day’s end…leaving the office… my phone rang. It was Harold. “You got a minute?” he asked.

We spoke for twenty, give or take. We dealt with his stuff, my stuff, and even Aunt Helen’s nonsense. Finally—politely— he cut me off.

“I’m on Brainard now…I’ll be home in a second,” he reported. (He’d been heading home from work as we spoke). Me? I was sitting like a schmuck in the same damn spot at La Place.

And that’s when it hit me, Dad—when I got up off the mat.

Beginning then, with my trip to the theater, I began routing myself—to the extent practicable—outside that suburb.

Gates Mills to Beachwood? Not a problem. I took Mayfield in, the longer way, and made a left at Richmond. Yesterday’s meeting at Van Aken & Warrensville? Not a problem. Bypassing Chagrin, nixing Green, Richmond and the like, I drove down Warrensville, swallowed some lights, made my right turn at Cedar and head toward the office.

Longer excursions, perhaps—but more efficient. My phone buzzed all the way.

It was at this point that the tape ran out. Redialing my father (to finish my rant), I couldn’t help but notice the phone was flashing. A voice mail’d come in, ten minutes ago…caller ID blocked.

I retrieved it, and the voice was familiar. Comforting and familiar.

“Got your call, little boy,” it said. “If this is the worst thing that happens to you today you’ll have a great day….And by the way, you’re crying with a loaf of bread under each arm.”

I hung up the phone and drove down Cedar.

       “…Well I was born in a small town
       And I live in a small town
       Prob’ly die in a small town
       Oh, those small – communities….”

In a few hours I’m heading home. To Cleveland. Ten-day road trip concluded, it’s back to my future. Other than twin two-week sojourns to Aruba, (guns perched at my head, I might add), and yes, other than the U.S. Army, I’ve never slept off my home court so long a sustained period.

THIS was MY idea. This year, with the advent of east coast events successive weekends, it made sense. This summer, therefore, gracious hosts at Chez Miller enabled me to sandwich five days of Max Parker between family nuptials. I seized the moment!

       “…All my friends are so small town
       My parents lived in the same small town
       My job is so small town …”

From the instant that first rehearsal dinner when Cousin Eric shried “I didn’t know you were invited!” to last night’s tug on my heart: Matt Schorr asking Michael sign the K’tuba…my trip was special.

From musings with Cousin Lewis to amusement with Cousin Mike…From the warmth of Jeff’s toast the first Sunday to the tenderness in Jason’s that second Saturday….and from, most of all, just watching, eyes moisting as 21-month Max, tuxedo and all, marched down the aisle.   

Yes, on this trip—my longest voluntary vacation ever, even the mundane was memorable:

Like dining at Ben’s Deli (Bayside) and dubbing it the “best salmon ever had in New York” , and drinking at Dunkin’ Donuts (Great Neck)—“Best decaf ever!” smiled my Meredith.

       “…Educated in a small town…
       Used to daydream in that small town
       Another born romantic that’s me…”

They had a gentle flow, these days. A rhythm. Awaking mid-7’s, I’d hit the diner, then the library…back to the diner for Max and “Mama”, then errands post-lunch and some potschkying around. Family by day, some meetings by night.

       “…No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
       I cannot forget the people who love me…”

And now…now it’s time to go. Carriage turned pumpkin, heading ‘cross 80, I’ve three states to drive, miles to think and, upon breaking the plane of Ohio, (the proverbial) miles to go before I sleep.

“Sound Of Music” opens Friday. My role, taken more as a favor than anything else, is not well-timed. Heart, mind and agenda lay elsewhere.   Not yet behind the wheel, I’m already thinking:

Tryouts for “The Odd Couple” Wednesday. Let’s hope I cast a better show than they cast a director…Then there’s that book I opened that very first night of August. Looking forward to the next chapter(s)….

That, though, is for next week, and the week after. For now I’ll just revel in the week that was, when all my family that chooses family was under one roof, smiling—when two weddings bordered days of a bubbling, growing Max.

If only I could bottle it, bring it home…them home…to my home.

‘Can’t remember the last time I drove west from the coast. Must have been year’s ago–perhaps when my father-in-law died. This time, alas, I’ll be coming from the Empire State, up north a bit. It matters not. Michael will get me to the bridge and from there it’s a straight shot in. Like it always was…all those years.

My trip will end as it always did— all those drives, all those times. Tired of singing, weary of travel, I’ll gaze up ahead at the arches, the bright navy, red and white signposts. “Welcome,” they’ll read, “To The Great State Of Ohio”.

Exhaling, I’ll wind it down, finish the drive.

God will be in His heaven.  All will be right with the world.  I’ll be home.

       “…Well I was born in a small town—
       And I can live in a small town
       Gonna die in a small town
       Ah, that’s prob’ly where they’ll bury me…”

                            John Mellencamp (adapted)

Saturday. Paws together a toddler and his doting uncle stutter-stepped through the park. For the former it was business as usual; he’s never alone. For the latter, father to his own newborn, it was batting practice for the spring to come. Holding hands, bridging four states through touch, they ambled over brick and grass…and played.

I envy Max. The world is his oyster. First born of first borns, at twenty months he remains the “only game in town”, unaware he is positioned as patriarch to yet unborn branches of his family tree.

Perhaps the kid knows. I do sense he gets he’s directing traffic. Who (but a first born) receives a standing ovation for trying on clothing? Or gets high fives for GIVING high fives. Everything is new not only to him, but to the kinfolk as well. There’s a purity to it all, even to the childlike innocence with which adults feel compelled to exult in sometimes just ordinary behavior. (He is NOT, I am reminded, the first child to eat an avocado. THE FIRST BOGART, PERHAPS. but not the first child).

I watch them kvell, enveloping him with bursting hearts. Like I do. How lucky that tyke! How many kids out there—born of less circumstance— miss that gift? Is there a greater jumpstart on life than love?

And I’m grateful. If warmth is the legal tender invested by family, a boatload of people are doubling down on my grandson.

The story’s not unique, of course; it is, though, specific to us. My deduction, moreover, (after decades of “people watching”), is that love is systemic…congenital…You can’t give what you haven’t received. Rarely have I seen a family breed love that hasn’t been raised in it.

Warmth, unlike the zone defense, is not readily learned.

I remember my youth. I picture the days–the “old neighborhood” off 105th: our Hopkins house, (home ’til “white flight” sent Jews scurrying to suburbs). It was a happy home, a family home. It was—dare I say—a “Poor man’s Ponderosa”. Our mom’s mom, Grandma Cele, lived above us, and though they didn’t live near, family never was far. There were first cousins and second cousins and aunts and uncles and great aunts and great uncles. To a mid-50’s Bruce or Harold, though, they were all just kin. We felt closer to Gary than Sheila because he was our age and a boy our age and she was a girl much older. But that was it. We all belonged.

My mind’s eye looks back: Marla Hoffman’s third birthday. Forest Hills Park. Family all over. Everyone alive—everyone still talking to everyone else. And we’re surrounded, (my brother and I), by all kinds of adults. Smiling adults. (We were “new” back then— !in a way. First boys of the next generation—in an era before equality—we bore baseball gloves, not dolls. And we could catch. We were—you guessed it—the only game in town).

I’ve never asked my brother this, but my guess is that, like me, there’s never been a time in his life he didn’t feel loved. It’s a wondrous feeling, that family adhesion. It toughens at times, to be sure…but cementing like no other, it’s a priceless foundation.

There’s a feel to family, a trust to it, a love to it.

…Which is why so readily, so steadily, a little Max Parker held Jason’s hand. And why, just months from now, in an Illinois park, a little Lucy will seize Michael’s.