upfromdysfunction.com

“If I win the lottery,” I shared recently, “I would buy an Ipad and also rent a Sebring convertible for the week.”

They looked at me—this couple—laughing. Oh, it was polite, their laughter. And it was borne, shall we say, of amusement–not derision. Still, the man pressed on. “That’s what you’d do?”

At 62, I’ve learned well that nothing with a price tag is priceless. Would leasing a Porsche blow a better breeze in my face?

My life’s at peace. Having all I need, (and knowing it), I feel sunshine regardless of weather. I’d trade places with no one. Even so, even in this realm of spice, some days—some twenty-four hours—are just better than others. Some periods—sunrise to sunrise—just beg to be savored.

Will Rogers said “One must wait until evening to see how splendid the day has been.” Not true. I’m thinking specifically of a melodic period just last week. Even in my abundant world, I knew bright and early; I felt it. From the opening bell, as the hits kept coming, my buoyancy grew.

       “…On a wonderful morning like this
       When the sun is as big as a yellow balloon
       Even the sparrows are singing in tune
       On a wonderful morning like this….”

I woke early mid-week, dreading the day. A file—I knew it by heart—had been missing for days. (‘ Took it to the show to work on; ‘recalled putting it back in my trunk. Then it went missing). A day of search awaited.

At 7:15 I found the papersl Right where I’d placed them. (I’d forgotten). Pressure off, I drove downtown, ready to kick ass. (The man on the other side was one of those silk-suited lawyers—the kind that underestimates gents like me, or for that matter anyone he’d consider ethnic. F him). Our encounter, later that day, played perfectly. Polite yet condescending, the guy (predicably) cut me off once too often. Then, with my genteel touch, when all folks were listening I took my shot: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk while you were interrupting.”

Bazinga. It was that kind of day.

The phone kept ringing, (and all calls were good). Only good news, or so it seemed. An invitation for this, a call to do that. Even heard from an old client that owed me money and wanted to send it. It was amazing! None of the clowns checked in.

And then it got better. So much better. The best words, by far, came from H, (on the medical front). Great news from his doc. It was 4pm when Hal passed it on, and it emboldened me further. On this Day Of Days, on this earthly rotation, I, Bruce Bogart, would attempt to scale Mt. Everest.

“Aunt Helen,” I purred, “This is Bruce.”
“What is it?” she said (in a tone that could neuter an ape).
“I’m going out of town this week and my time is tight. Could I just pick up your groceries tomorrow then drop ’em off?”
“I would consider it,” she replied, “But I wanted to stop at Jack’s too.”
“I know where Jack’s is,” I noted meakly.
“But I like to get out. I must go.”

Good scout that I am, I acquiesced. Politely. “OK, I’ll pick you up at 2. No big deal.” (Who was I to complain, I figured. The day’d been so great).

Then: back on the horse, back to my winning zone. First dinner with my Tuesday group at Brio…then a meeting…then quality time with a friend.

It was nearing Letterman, the day drawing to a close.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, tendering the ultimate of delicacies, watermelon and hot dogs, (microwaved as I like them).

“This is phenomenal!” I exclaimed. “What a perfect day. Even the food’s just right. I’m getting my phone—I need to write this all down.”

My Blackberry, at this late hour, was flashing. Not a good sign. Hitting the voice mail, gingerly, I wondered. We were nearing midnight. Would my coach turn to pumpkin?

And then I listened…twice!

“There’s a call from Aunt Helen,” I announced. “She says I can shop without her tomorrow—and just drop off her food!” (And the hits just keep on coming!)

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

I never did write things down that night. I did, rather, recount it to the friend who reduced it to email. For posterity.

My brother’s health, to be sure, was the major matter. The rest—all the other hits that fell—were life. Just life. My cup, though, truly does runneth over. I marvel at the ordinary knowing all days aren’t perfect, but life is. And knowing further that when my head’s on straight, every day’s a drive in a Sebring convertible.

       “…For the world’s in a wonderful way….”

                                  Bricusse/Newley

Looking back, we were wasting our time, both of us.

Stopping en route to see “The Three Stooges Movie”, just months ago, Michael and I split the investment in an Instant Lottery. It was, you know, the type you buy at a gas station. (I think the prize was $100/ week for 20 years, or something like that).

Suspense built as two generations spoke of prospective earnings! “If we get this third one”, he exclaimed as he rubbed.

We didn’t cash that day. (Go figure). Still, it mattered not. My son, you see, won the lottery years ago—ten to be exact. It was in a Manhattan bar, the third night of Passover…when his eyes first met Meredith’s.

Thirty-two yesterday, the lady that became his North Star. No longer the burgeoning coed, she is so much more. One decade later, alas, the Lady From Lehigh is family, friend and confidante.

I wonder
.
Does it get old for her, hearing she’s the best thing to happen to Michael? Or that she’s an extraordinary mother? That’s what they say, you know. And what I see.

I watch how she coddles Max, and nurtures him. I hear when she reads to him, ever softening her tone as he readies for bed. And I love too, how she, (just partially tongue-in-cheek), shares with others that she’s “raising two children”.

My angle is perfect, so to speak. ‘Though visits are temporal—I fly in, unpack, observe and fly out—I view what I must. This is a woman that’s hitting her stride. Pensive but verbal, brimming with confidence, she is on her game.

I love too, our relationship. How many people do we really know that have our back, our heart, and still share their candor.

“Bruce!” she once said, “your outfit is hideous!” (OK, she spoke it more than once…twice this weekend alone). Or the time we were at the park with her son: “Bruce,” she laughed, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move so fast in my life!”

Or her best, (heard most visits):

“Bruce, would you like to baby-sit Max?”

There’s a rhythm to my trips out east. Always. Rushing off the plane I push toward the exit, searching the horizon for the car to pull up…the one with The Prince in a car seat. Two days will pass—sometimes three—-and I’ll not so much speak as observe. Then I’ll go. Always.
It’s never easy heading home—never like saying Goodbye. Still, we’ll head to the airport.
“Love you Dad,” says the father, as I spring from the car. “Wave to your Grandpa,” urges Mom.

I kiss them all, Max maybe twice, and I enter La Guardia…thinking, yes knowing—that my son’s in good hands, that HIS son’s in good hands….and that all of us have won the lottery.

There’s never a good time to lose one’s father—never the right time to lose a hero.

Four men—one from Michigan, one from Hungary, and two born right here. Four men, strangers to each other, fathers for the first time in 1949, to sons….

We were the Big Four that last year of high school. Bob, Alan, Stuart et moi. Truth be known, we were allies and confidantes from the moment our parents allowed us to cross streets alone. From Rowland to Greenview through Brush we were never in solitary and, game-by-game, year-by-year, we molded a steadfast bond.

Today, though, I think of the fathers.

Bobby’s dad had this green truck. I picture him pulling in the driveway, saying Hi through the window. And I remember one night—it was a Wednesday.

Mid-60’s, post-divorce, I’d lied to my mother (who thought I was at Wieder’s), and had joined pals to play tackle after dark across from Bob’s, at Bexley. Codgie was quarterback, and I cut across the middle for a pass when SMACK!!! I ran right into a “No Dogs Allowed” sign.

They took me to Snyder’s. Blood gushing from my eye, I stood leaning my right hand against the white interior of his garage when his Dad emerged. A look of fear (for me) in his eye, he rushed me back home up Wrenford. He was a sweet man, a Browns fan, and always struck me as warm. That, however, would be our longest conversation.

I knew Alan’s father better. It just was. Also soft-spoken, he’d roll his eyes as we’d tee golf balls from the upper lawn of their split level, and he’d grimace as they bounded into traffic some three or four hundred yards away. Never once, though, did he make faces or hesitate those countless times we’d ask him to move his van just so we could shoot hoops.

It was Alan’s dad as well that helped us make history. When three Browns sang “Jingle Bells’ on WHK in ’64, Al and I (after eliminating recognizable Jim Brown, Frank Ryan and one other), entered some 14,000 entries—every combination—on little three-inch square sheets in shoe boxes. Time running out on our all-night effort, we used his Dad’s business stamp; Sam Wieder NORO, (whatever that stood for), inking his name on every entry. Indeed, it was HIS moniker they announced on Cleveland’s airwaves when we won the prize!

And then there was Mr. Fenton. I knew him best. To this day, it’s difficult to think of him, almost impossible not to choke up at his memory.

From two doors down he saw me young; from Langerdale he saw me adolescent, and through life he saw me with love. We respected all the fathers, to be sure, yet knew at times we frustrated them. With Milt Fenton, the only sense I ever felt was love…and understanding. In one sentence, he’d say a lot, he’d tell you not only that he got it, but that he cared.

“Make sure you say hello to your handsome father for me,” he’d urge those dark days (when Hal and I were the only kids on the block with divorced parents).

“Make sure you come visit your Uncle Miltie,” he said when moving to Florida.

And MY Dad? What need I say? He wasn’t my hero so much for what he said but for how he made me feel, always. And that, in a word, was “loved”.

He wasn’t a perfect man, and he wasn’t even a perfect father. He had, though, a perfect heart. My father, you see, was never disappointed in me—he was, if anything, disappointed FOR me. And whether it was a bad grade from me or a bad call by an ump, as he’d wrap his arm around me and tell me that “Someday we’ll look back at this and laugh”, he not only believed it, but so did I.

“This too shall pass,” he’d promise. And it always did. “You can do better,” he’d say. When I could. “Don’t make the same mistakes as me,” he’d counsel, (too often with eyes turning wet).

Al Bogart taught me much, from how to hold a bat to how to be a gentleman. Best of all, though, he taught, by example, that if we learn from things, it’s OK to stumble with dignity.

They were blessings—all of them. And there were more. Was anyone friendlier than Randy’s Dad? Or warmer than Mr. Gelfand or Ben Selzer?  I think not.

And then there’s “Mr. Ermine”, Mark’s father. I knew him marginally when growing up, but over time, (and through lodge), he became “Danny”, a friend.

On a day like today I easily savor the gift that was my father. He played a symphony I’ll hear forever. It would be folly though, and perhaps unfair, not to think also, of the wonderful father figures that shaped my life.

Indeed, they WERE, The Greatest Generation.

     “…I’ve been up, down, tryin’ to to the feeling again
     All around, tryin’ to get the feeling again
     The one that made me shiver
     Made my knees start to quiver
     Every time she walked in…”

My front nine was a journey marked by milestones: first bicycle, first day of school, first car, first love.

Time passed. One moment I was at a Passaic, New Jersey wedding and Walt was witnessing the ketubah as my father-in-law was telling Alan to take his shoes off the table. Whoosh—–next thing I knew it was forty years later and another wedding—-Wieder’s. Marc and I (with Mary—he’d picked her up along the way), were upstairs in a bedroom, sneaking peaks at the second half of OSU-USC.

The back nine moves quicker, with fewer firsts. Cars don’t thrill me; school’s done for this life. And fall in love? I forgot how.

‘ Used to think I didn’t have enough decimal points for Jewish girls. True though
it is, ‘tis not the whole story. Stacy, for one, says it’s me. She thinks—no, she insists—I’m too picky. Can it be?

“All I need, “ my story went, “Was someone nice, with a smile, a half a brain, and a fragrance”. Was I lying? To myself? How many “nice, Jewish girls” with a twinkle and a scent did I find boring? Me? (As my father would wonder: Does he think he’s another Tyrone Power?)

Ed thinks it’s funny. He swears that with me, it’s all about the chase. Some guys, he notes, get their rush from sex. Me? He says that the moment I know someone likes me I back off. He may be right.

So the question remains: why?

Is it fear? Is it because all I really want is to know someone thinks I’m OK? Do I seek the validation my wife never gave me? Clearly it’s not my schedule. Busy as I am, my time’s always elastic.

No, it’s not fear…and not even insecurity.

Am I lazy? Or am I too content with my “today” to invest in my “tomorrow”?

This very morning’s paper wrote of a Hollywood scribe ensconced in a second marriage. Eighteen years and running, and proudly the guy affirmed that they’d never spent a night apart. I want that.

I need that side-by-side style…the rhythmic repetition of familiarity…of comfort.

I’m questioning, though, if I’ll ever have that luxury again. Gnawing at me is the sense that it’s like a trip to Barnes And Noble. How often have I been to the book store, traipsed aisle by aisle, and found nothing of interest?

It’s not them. It’s me. At least now I know it.

And I’ve tried…believe me. A few years ago Michael was saying “Dad, why do you say you need someone with ‘an edge’”? So I changed my game, dramatically. New attitude, new outlook, new horizons.

I dated nice girls—only. And even a Christian, once…just to see… (After all, friends counseled, You’re not having kids anymore).

     “…I’ve looked high, low 
     Everywhere I possibly can 
     But there’s no tryin’ to get the feelin’ again
     It seemed to disappear as fast as it came…”

The nice girls were just that: nice. And the shiksa: I sensed we had nothing in common from Moment One. It was mid-day and lunch was in order:

“Where would you like to go?” I asked, (figuring she’d have no preference and, stunning as she was, I’d walk her through Corky’s).
“Cracker Barrel”, she said.

Still, the lass was so sweet, so attractive, that at Ed’s insistence, I called her again. We had, in fact, plans to meet when, mitten direnna, out of nowhere, she texted me that there was a beautiful woodpecker in her backyard. (Is this what I need? I think not!)

But I miss the magic, whatever that is…and I wonder if I’ll feel it again.

Of recent vintage I’ve seen someone who, on paper, is perfect. Jewish, brains, looks….”gets me”…. All systems go.

But I can’t pull the trigger—can’t get myself to feel that feeling, like if I don’t hear her voice I’ll die.

And I crave that feeling.

I need that compulsion: the reverie when together and the angst when apart.

Maybe that’s what I missed not dating in my teens. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies. But I’m being honest here—brutally honest.

I’m only 62, and if I stay healthy I can get those eighteen years. Starting today, or tomorrow, or….some enchanted evening.

     “I’m trying to get the feeling again.”

                   B. Manilow

Life cycle events require planning. One’s wedding, for example, necessitates strategic balance melding families. A bris demands concise decisions (who will hold the baby, who will say the barucha, and who will feel slighted when they don’t). And then there’s Aunt Helen’s birthday, an annual rite mandating intense debate, examination of multiple hypotheses, and prayer.

We sat as a trio last Sunday— reflecting, exploring, discerning. Hal and I were deep in discussion as Margie, not always amused, was deep in eye rolls.

“Are you getting her a gift?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” said he. “A card is enough.”
“One card from the three of us?”
My younger brother tossed it back: “What do you think?”

(Several minutes passed as we played out sending one card from H and Margie and another from me, or perhaps a single mailing signed “The Bogarts”. Moreover, should we choose the latter, what return address is right? Finally, The Good Son spoke:

“Separate cards,” Hal insisted.

Next step: choosing cards. Where oh where might we find two equally generic greetings, each totally “safe” from neurotic scrutiny?

Rummaging his inventory, Hal came through. One bore a yellow envelope, the other deep raspberry. This too was an issue.

“Your aunt will have a problem with the envelope colors,” noted Margie. “You can’t send the pink,” she warned me. “She’ll say it’s too dark. Let Hal take that one. She won’t get mad it him. You send the yellow.”

One would think, then, that the nonsense was over. At least H did. He and Margie ducked out of town mid-week, grabbing a few days of respite. And so it was that on the anniversary of her birth, I took our aunt shopping.

It was Thursday and I picked her up at 2. The sun was shining. What could go wrong?

We had yet to break the plane of her sidewalk…

“Char says ‘A little birdie’ told her it was my birthday. Was it you?”
(This question, I sensed immediately, could not be good for the Jews).
“It might have been me,” I mumbled. “I’m not sure.”

“How could you?”
“How could I what?”
“How could you tell Char it was my birthday?”
“She likes you and—“
“What business is it of hers that I have a birthday?” she interrupted.

The thing with my aunt is, you see, that the way speaks—the cadence—well, one never knows if her questions are rhetorical.  And it’s always what you don’t expect.   

“And another thing, Michael Jacobson. Why must he call me as well?”
“I told Michael NOT to call you,” I defended. (This, in fact, was true. In recent years my good friend from Philadelphia has been a loose cannon, arranging random dinners with Helen, all-the-while leaving The Boys wide open for taunts like “Michael and Lana take me to dinner. Why don’t you?”

“I’m still angry with him,” she continued, “For the way he went behind my back and invited Harriet to lunch. I TOLD him I didn’t want a celebration.”

How sad, I thought. At 98, her mind sparkles with brilliant memory and impeccable grammar. She is educated, cultured, and…with all she has going for her, she can never just enjoy.  She can never just accept.

It’s hard to stay angry, hard to resent someone so bitterly unhappy.  Our Dad would counsel us to be nice to her, that life hadn’t gone her way. We get that—Hal and I. How often have we silently repeated the mantra our father drilled: “Have compassion for those less fortunate than you.”

“And another thing, was it you that told Norm Diamond it was my birthday?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Why should I believe you?” she demanded.
“He didn’t ask when your birthday was—he knew it was June. Norman asked me how old you were.”
“And you told him?” she shried.
“Of course.”
“Why would you hurt me so?” she rejoined.
“Aunt Helen, he is your first cousin. You eat dinner with him Sundays.  You grew up together!“
“And,” she cut me off, “If he wishes to learn my age he may ask me himself.”

It was pushing 4 as our journey ended.  Briefly, I thought of dinner—(should I ask her?)—this being her birthday and all.   I couldn’t, though. I just couldn’t. It was probably the right thing to do…but I didn’t.  Not that I feel guilty about it.

But I don’t feel proud. 

In some ways I’m like Aunt Helen after all. I can always do better.

It was last Friday, a half hour into the show and, wearing my father’s yellow and black plaid jacket (circa 1975)—with a pink shirt and mustard-colored bowtie, no less—-I walk on stage.  As Mr. Pinky, owner of a fat lady’s shop, I seek hefty women.
“54 Double D?” I ask the lead. (We are downstage, center). “Triple E!” she exclaims.
“Oh Mama” I exalt in my best Frank Costanza,” I’ve hit the motherload!”
The house laughs as I scoot off, returning only at curtain. I’ll do it—that single minute—in ten performances over three weeks. It is the culmination of 20 three-hour rehearsals and fulfill each time.
“Hairspray” is simply the best musical production I’ve ever been in.

I was rusting on a bench in the South Euclid majors. It was 1960, and at ten, I’d “made it” a year ahead of most pals. To be sure, as I sat and watched, my buddies were busy ripping covers off balls in the minors. The fact that I was hitless only added to my angst.
“Would you rather be a big fish in a little pond or a little fish in a big pond?” asked my Dad.
The White Sox, (for whom I batted once per game and got two innings in the field), were running away from the pack. En route to a 15-3 season and a World Series sweep over Lyndhurst’s champ, they were a team loaded with talent. Many, years later, would find their names spread across the local sport page. Even if I wasn’t already plagued with insecurity, this was an awe-inspiring group, a pre-pubescent Murderer’s Row.
Restless as I was though, I savored every moment. I knew, as we skated through that season, that I this was something special—that those cowboys could really play! Indeed, decades later, names like Capretta, Chambers and Lucia glisten in my memory and my little brown trophy—cheap old plastic that it is—confirms that way back when, I, Bruce Bogart, was, in that magical summer, at that moment in time, “a part of”.

I love everything about this show we’re doing. I love the fact that, unlike “How To Succeed…’ there’s no pressure on me. It’s a musical, laden with talent. No shtick here. The singers sing; the dancers dance; and me? I stay out of the way.
The cast, to be sure, is a “Who’s Who” of east-side amateurs. Stars aside, the chorus itself is is replete with marquee names. Standing in the wings, I marvel daily as they blow me away.
I am a role-player here…with a role. It’s garbage time—this comic relief. Necessary evil to a script? Perhaps. Balance? Maybe.
I don’t care. I swear I don’t.
There will be other shows—other comedies and other fat slob roles to fit in…to star in. There’ll be other times, other venues to get my laughs. And more than sixty seconds worth.
Today, though, I’m in the true big leagues. I’m a bench coach, like an aging Minnie Minoso. But I’m here…in the wings: a little fish in not only a big pond, but a golden one.
And I’m “a part of”.

Funny thing about falling in love. You can’t plan it—you’re overwhelmed—but when it comes, the game just changes.

I was introduced to her on a rainy evening, just after 9.

It was November, 2010 and I was out east for Max’s bris. The hour was late and due to family circumstance, the ex was there. It mattered not.

The attraction from that very first moment was immediate, sustained, and everything one could ask for. It was, and is, compelling.

Not easy at first. Staying at The Andrew (downtown), carless, I saw her only in window periods between Max’s naps. Michael knew, of course, and frowned upon it. Meredith, too, was aware, though—as usual—she had my back. The ex? She just rolled her eyes.

Again, it mattered not. Looking back, it seems such folly that people tried to separate us, to deny the inevitable. The pull, from Day One, was magnetic.

I’ve seen her every time I’ve been east—for a year and a half now. The pendulum of our relationship, in fact, has been quite typical. As time went on, the late night visits of the very beginning, (not really “booty calls”), became things of the past (once I started staying with the Caryn and Stuart). That doesn’t mean, though, that they weren’t thought about. Nightly.

These days we grab moments if able, and— like other established couples— have morphed into a comfortable predictability. So I see her at breakfast, (when I can). And I stop by at lunch (when I can), and after a year and a half, I don’t care who knows it. Out there, at least, I flaunt it.

She’s met Max—I’ve taken him alone. And the kids. And the Millers, God bless them, encourage the relationship. Daily.

It’s not always, however, smooth. My son, his eye to my past choices, is skeptical.

“Why do you have to, Dad?” he’ll ask each visit.
“Your father’s happy,” says his wife.

And so I go to her…each time. Usually by car, one time by foot…but I go.

If I’m alone she lets me read the paper; if I’m with kin, with warmth she envelopes my family.

And I smile. We all do.

She is The Great Neck Diner, 14 Grace Avenue, Great Neck, New York (in the Historic Great Neck Plaza). If you get there, ask for Mike. (He’s the one that introduced us).

And look for me…and Max.

The process of Lucy’s baby-naming seemed simple. Saturday morning they’d call my kids to the pulpit, prayers would be offered, and then parents and child would sit. No muss—I assumed. No fuss.

In a normal world.

It began innocently enough. Long before the weekend, the mother of my children announced she’d host a lunch at her home. Harmless, you say? Easy? Simple?

“You know,” said Aunt Helen while shopping, “I never heard from Stacy or her mother about tomorrow.”

I greeted her pronouncement with silence, hoping it would go away.
“Am I invited?” she continued. “No one ever called me.”
Readying my thoughts, I prepared to speak.

“Don’t worry. It’s not your place,” she assured me. “You can’t invite me to someone else’s home.”

‘Struck me we were moving on until when, with staccato-like zeal, she interrupted herself: “Am I invited? Do you know?”

“I will take you to services and the luncheon, Aunt Helen. Of course you’re included.”
“I know you said you’d pick me up,” she shot back. “I am not asking if I am INCLUDED. I am asking if I’m INVITED.”

The gift of silence was short-lived.
“Who else will be there?”

(This, in an ordinary setting, is a fair question. This, in an ordinary setting, is apolitical). Nothing, however, in my tante’s being—from her razor-sharp mind to her ravenous persona, is “ordinary”. And I had to answer. I knew where we headed, but I had to answer.

“Well,” I opened, “Michael, Meredith and Max, Stacy and Jason…Lucy of course…Jason’s Dad and Donna…

(She was, I knew, listening for the H-word).

“…And Harriet and Denise….”

(It was, to this demented nonagenarian, the shot heard ‘round the world. For reasons neither fit to print nor founded in logic, Helen had, some months ago, boycotted Harriet. Our aunt was no sweet little old lady in this; she had not been wronged; it was strictly her venom speaking. Indeed, Harriet, the love of our father’s life, has been a saint to our family since she’d met Al Bogart at the Columbus JCC some forty years ago. She is our children’s grandma, great-grandmother to five on this wing alone, and beloved by everyone Bogart).

Except one.

“Harriet’s coming?” she spit out, (giving me the look our father’d hurl in a hearts game when I’d pass him the spade queen without protection).
“Of course,” I affirmed. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Who called her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I shall assume you did since she is not related to your ex-wife anymore.”
(Not wishing to engage, I kept silent).

“And another thing,” came The Voice, “you know, do you not, that Stacy has never called me to announce her engagement?”
(More silence).
“…And I am certain she called Harriet…”
(Even more silence. Her comments were getting further apart).

“And another thing…” she rewound: “Will I be able to see Lucy or will they hide her from me? I barely saw her at the Seder…And Max? Will he be at your ex-wife’s?”

It was only Thursday, and I was exhausted. By Friday, ‘though, the plans had changed. Hal got ill, and while passing on temple, thought was he’d come for lunch. What followed then was dominoes, Bogart style:

1. With Hal/Margie out, Helen passed on Park, asking only to be picked up for lunch AFTER shul. (Alas, everybody—especially Helen—loves Raymond).
2. With Helen in my post-temple car, Michael urged to be dropped off at his mother’s first. (Alas, everybody—especially Michael—avoids Helen).
3. Me? I’m the gentle breeze in the family: For reasons I’m certain my aunt deems coincidental, she was always in my car alone. I was just, let’s say, playing Morgan Freeman in “Driving Miss Crazy”. ‘ Put 300 miles on the car but sure made a lot of people happy.

There was a symmetry to last Saturday and I wondered if others noticed.

Harriet greeted Helen and Helen grunted. Helen greeted Michael and Michael grunted. And everyone smiled at the babies.  Lucy was beautiful, of course and Max was a charm. So mobile.

And my brother showed up, smiling.  By operation of law, then, this made Helen smile.

And finally—it was time to leave. Driving back with Margie, I borrowed her car for a bit. This freed up Michael to drive off with his family, and of course, left me where it all began: driving one-on-one with a ninety year-old lady…

And praying for silence.

“Lucy Hannah Bohrer…. Layah Honnah!”

Holding the infant aloft, (not unlike a football player displaying a recovered fumble), Rabbi Skoff continued the Hebrew, rattling a myriad of names. I listened distinctly for mine—more to see if my daughter’d gotten it right than anything else. (The kid, by the way, nailed it).

“…bot Binyameen…”

It was a special moment this morning, and my vantage was priceless. Indeed, from the rear of the temple I watched it all…them all.

On the far away “bima” sat Torah, our Tree Of Life. Aside it, exalting in “simcha” were Stacy, Jason, and child. Beaming. Closer in, (right before me, in fact), was Meredith. With Michael aside her she held Max–the now-talking Max.

There I stood— in my field of dreams.

“In every conceivable manner,” wrote Alex Haley, “family is the link to our past and bridge to our future.“ That explains (does it not?) why for so many this day was so dear…why the brother of a granddad drove in from Chicago and the brother of a grandmom rode in from the coast….and why a GREATgrandmom schlepped up from Columbus.

Four hours passed. Surrounded by family, the Bohrers spoke. Lucy Hannah, they shared, was for Lilyan (her grandma) and Harold (his grandpa). It was a loving tribute.

First Jason recounted his father’s father: a mentsch, an incredibly decent man. (I’d heard this before—from Char—and often it occurred that Jason was like his father Bruce, and that Bruce Bohrer was his father. Apples don’t fall far, do they?). Then Stacy, my Little One, waxed poetic…of Grandma Lil’s strength, and love of family… and Judaism.

I watched it all, smiling contently. It was afternoon and my angle had widened. From the back of a much smaller room I saw Helen, Margie, and Harold… and I thought of my parents, and if they were there. My mother, no doubt, would be urging we repeat what was being said and my father (make book on it) would be questioning the wisdom of the sole entrée being salmon.,

And I thought of those who, by their own volition, were absent….

Four more hours passed. Stacy and Jason (I knew) were with Michael and Meredith when Ed’s text came in.

“At Red,” it said. “Your kids are here. Come up.”
“I know,” I typed, “Sitting Max.”

I remembered vividly how thrilled our Dad was whenever “his boys” played together— how nothing made him happier—

And I turned to look again at the monitor, at the sleeping Max Parker Bogart.

It was nighttime now, and my vantage was still perfect.

They buried Andy Sunday.

I sat with Lana. (Michael had the aisle and was busy greeting people). As the chapel filled with old friends in older faces, memories flooded ….

“Bogie,” shrieked the voice through the phone, “There’s a blizzard in Sandusky and it’s heading here!”

December 8, 1977—hours before the most important election of our lifetime. Months of campaigning would culminate that evening when, at Diamond’s Restaurant (Severance Center), The Lodge would elect its new officer.

Secret ballot: me against Andy.

There I was, the fresh young face; there he was, the veteran—the one whose “turn it was”. To some I was “new blood, just what we need”; to others I was an upstart, “not willing to wait his turn”. They were all right.

Lodge elections were serious business back then. Seven-hundred men strong, we were an order requiring physical attendance to vote. No mailing it in, no proxies. Indeed, if a brother couldn’t find his way to lodge that Thursday, he just didn’t get to vote.

Which was why I head uptown…immediately!.

We weren’t supposed to win, you see. Those who’d been around—most of them anyway—had warned us. Though weekly attendance was fifty, two-hundred people would come out to vote, they said. “Don’t be discouraged,” they urged. “Make a good showing and you’ll be a shoe-in next year.” So they said.

It was a curious race that fall. There were committee meetings, and phone calls to get votes. Sixteen of us bunched in the Wrenford basement to read through the roster. Name-by name.

“Who’ll take him?” or “Who can we get to call him?” or “Don’t waste your time—he hasn’t been to lodge in years” or, more than once: “He’s dead. They need to update the directory.”

When the conclave ended I called Columbus.
“Bill Walters showed up” I boasted in optimism
“Forget him,” my Dad urged. “He’s probably a spy.”

I was the underdog, of course. Had been all year. Someone, however, forgot to tell me, forgot to tell my father, and clearly forgot to tell my friends.

I was remembering it all.

My votes back then, were to come from two sources. First, there was a small cadre of pals my age, most of whom had been dragged into the lodge through family. Second, there were the relics of my father’s day, (which in LodgeTime ended in the 60’s). All others, conventional wisdom dictated, “Would go the other way.”

“You get your people there,” said Al Bogart. “Don’t you worry about mine.”

Sitting at Berkowitz, as they eulogized Andy, it kept coming back…

How at the very beginning two Borsteins and Rogoff met me for lunch in the bar at the Rockside Ramada. Past Chancellors all, they gave me “street cred”.

“Sit in a different seat each week,” one told me. “Speak every meeting,” said another. And in leaving, the piece de resistance: “Figure out who you’re going to be with at the dinner dance. You need a good table.”

And more: how the night of Andy’s meeting, Stuart trekked up and down the street recording license plates of Andy’s supporters.

Most of all, though, I recalled what happened on December 8 some thirty-five years ago as I hung up the phone:

Snow fell. Four inches in four hours.

The alta-cockers stayed home that night, trying to no avail to postpone an election. Delays they got, “due to traffic”. The game, however, went on.

As the town turned white, the troops came out. All the young dudes— the renegades that couldn’t care less about our lodge—they answered the bell of friendship, and came to vote.

From Ermine and Cutler to Fenton and Mr. Fenton and so many others who may never have been there again. (Indeed, Stuart’s Dad had actually brought a friend into the lodge just the month prior ONLY to muster a vote).

They came in their boots; they came with their smiles; and they came as a lark—but they came. There was Feldheim and Freedman and Linick and Starkoff. There was Simmerson, Walter, Courtney and even Irv Arnell, the old softball scorer….There was my father’s crew, from Mitchell to Elsner to Al Roth, the guy that’d printed my Bar Mitzvah invitations. From the woodwork they came.

I got 43 votes that night—to Andy’s 31. I don’t think he quite knew what hit him. On an evening when smart people stayed home, as inmates overtook the asylym, I broke a heart.

We rose to leave Sunday– Michael, followed by Lana, followed by me. Somehow, as they carried out our fallen brother, the final tally on a little vote in a snowstorm didn’t seem to mean so much.