upfromdysfunction.com

Hal,

Today is Mom’s birthday. If she were here, you know she’d be spending it by the mailbox, checking to see who did and did not send her a sugary, sentimental card. It was, (you agree?) the byproduct of her lifelong insecurity.

We really don’t speak of her much, do we? We had her longer than Dad—near a quarter century longer—and still, Elaine Delores Hoffman Bogart (86 Bogart) Lerner Turner (86 Turner, please) is rarely discussed.

It’s probably unfair.

I remember Mom from her good days. Do you? You know: before the divorce, when she had that swagger. She was active—vibrant in a way she never would be again. Say whatever you want about Sam being the “love of her life”, but divorcing—something rarely done in her day—-killed the spirit of the woman that bore us. She may have been a 50’s Mrs. Cleaver, but her every ounce of independence and identity evaporated when Dad did. (At least as I see it).

Yeah, I know: Sam was great to her. He loved her, made a life and honored her. But he also enabled Mom to a fault and by the time grandchildren arrived she was a shadow of her former self.

Do you agree?

I wish our kids could have seen her on the back porch playing board games. Remember…with the Gelfands and Fentons? I wish they’d have memories of a more active grandmother.

You know, H…when I close my eyes and picture her, I see either our first years or her last. I conjure Bayard Road and Menorah Park, but nothing in between.

Well, that’s not totally true. I’d almost forgotten, but …. It was, in many ways, her shining moment.

You wheeled her down the aisle at Michael’s wedding, five years ago. Remember?

How proud she looked, that night. How regal!

I saw the video just months ago…for the first time. Confined in chrome she nonetheless sat front row at her grandson’s wedding. Kvelling.

For the first time in years her eyes weren’t tired—in fact they glowed…may I say…like they had on Bayard.  I need to show you that video some time, H.  I really do.

 And then we need to talk about Mom some more.

Really.

Love,
bb

I’ve been trudging these days. It’s been two weeks but an end’s in sight. From the moment the plane touched down in Akron a week ago Sunday, it’s been work-theater, work-theater—non-stop. (Not only is it futher to Painesville than I thought, but it’s much less fun).

Here’s the math:

Twelve days back MINUS ten days on stage leaves two days free. Subtract from that the number of shopping trips to Marc’s with Helen (3), and we’ve a better reflection of true “down time.”

I’m not complaining, just venting. Considering that for the most part the only human contact I’ve had’s been with Whistler’s Aunt…

I need what Rodney Dangerfield would want. He used to make the “okay” sign with his fingers and plead: “Just give me one of these.”

That’s what I need: “one of these”.

It’s been a thankless run recently—-both life and the show. Shopping today, though, put it all in perspective. The lady is certifiable.

I used to think it was just that she liked Hal more. We’d laugh about it, of course, but it was more of a Tommy and Dickie Smothers kind of thing. Until it wasn’t.

A few years back, through the magic of extended families, we were heading to Columbus. “Twas The Reunion Tour: Hal, Margie, Helen, The Jersey Girl, and moi—all one car—en route to a funeral. Never dreaming I’d get an answer, just stirring the pot, I asked:

“Aunt Helen, since we’re all together today, would you finally admit for once and for all that you like Harold more than me?”
“Of course I do,” she confirmed.
From the backseat, incredulous in tone spoke the ex: “You’ve GOT to be kidding me! Did she really say that?”
“Aunt Helen,” I urged calmly, “We’re all adults here. I just want to make sure I heard you right. You prefer Harold to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”

FAST FORWARD. It’s November 17, 2011. Two years post-Reunion Tour, what with all the truly vital issues surrounding our family, one would think things might change.

(One would think—but not everyONE.)

Leaving the grocery we were discussing options for Thanksgiving weekend. Harriet, turning 80, is being called to The Torah.

“Do you think your brother will go to Columbus?” she inquired.
“I don’t know.”
“You must have an idea.”
“An idea, yes—but I don’t know.”
“What would you guess?”
“Aunt Helen, I don’t like to guess.”
“Please, Bruce! I must know your brother’s plans.”
“Well, honestly…you should ask him. I really don’t know what he’s doing.”
“Why would I call him,” she asserted, “If he hasn’t decided?”
“Why would I guess if he hasn’t decided?”
“Surely you know which way he is leaning.”

(It was time to end the colloquy).

“Aunt Helen, the good news is that I may not fly to Chicago Friday. If that’s the case you’ll come with me to Columbus.”

There was a silence even my mother could hear…and then:

“I’m not certain I would go.”
“What do you mean?” I erupted (more amused than angered).
“Well,” she uttered, (not unlike Jack Benny), “If your brother doesn’t go, why should I?”

I dropped her off shortly thereafter and couldn’t wait to call Dick Smothers. The more things changed, of course, the more they stayed the same.

Four hours separated me from another schlep east. Three shows in the next forty-eight hours and alas, that party would be over. The timing couldn’t be better.

I am tired. I am hungry, and I am lonely. Really, though, I’m not complaining.

It’s just that right now—at this very moment—I just wish someone would give me “one of these”.

The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.

The phone rang.
“Are you there?” my friend asked?
“No, I’m five minutes away,”
“OK,” he said, “I’ll wait in the car.”

It was not the first time we’d had the dialogue. Indeed, he’d been avoiding this woman for several months. Well, not avoiding her so much as demanding a buffer.

And it was all too predicable….

On paper, they should never have dated. Still, with nothing in common, smoke, mirrors and timing only delayed the inevitable. (“Smart” money, by the way, had the under). It was though, an ending that had to be. Moreover, it was proof again that life indeed imitates art.

If there is any wisdom to be gleaned from shallow television, then “How I Met Your Mother” sets the standard. In a favorite episode, Ted Moseby wants to ask out his doctor. Friends try to dissuade him—it being too close to home—- citing The Platinum Rule. Unlike The Golden Rule of “Love Thy Neighbor” (sic), The Platinum Rule, they urge, states to “Never, EVER love thy neighbor”.

My poor friends. Had they only watched more TV! Indeed, in twenty some minutes of tube time, they could have learned as Barney Stinson (catch the name. Does anybody really think it’s not our Bobby?) recited the 8 steps mandated when you love they neighbor.
1. Attraction
2. Bargaining
3. Submission
4. Perks
5. The Tipping Point
6. Purgatory
7. Confrontation
8. Fallout

In hindsight…it was all there….

I remember their first attraction. He’d seen her at the coffee house (where they both hung out). She’d been dating an extremely nice guy for a while, but it didn’t pan out. As such, when that matter fizzled, my friend sought my thoughts on his calling her.

“You’re too tough for her,” I said. “She wants a relationship.”
“You’re crazy,” he responded. “With you everything’s about magic! No one else thinks that way. We’ll just take things for what they are.”
“Just saying…” I continued. He tried to cut me off, but I finished:
“You’ll never agree on ‘what things are’.”
“You’re crazy!” he affirmed. “As long everyone knows the rules it’s all fine.”

He was, (looking back), in the bargaining stage. Forget the “magic” thing—men and women don’t go by rules; they never work. Jerry and Elaine had “rules” before hooking up. How’d that turn out?

So they dated.. The period of submission went well of course—until it didn’t. In fact, there were perks. I’d meet him for coffee and he’d share how nice it was to be with someone without scheduling baggage or family baggage. They could just be together.

The tipping point came on a Saturday in May. We were sitting on the patio, sun shining, and I remember it vividly. Approaching our table, much like anyone dating a guy would, she, without hesitating sat down with us.

His eyes met mine as the temperature dropped. Worlds were colliding, but only two of us knew it.  He stared at me stoicly in silence until finally I spoke.

“How about that Tribe?” (Apparently I was the only one at the table that thought I was funny). Moments later, he left. “I’ll call you,” he said, never acknowledging her.

Purgatory followed. For twelve months—that’s NO exaggeration—he’d complain to me, kvetch to me, and dated her.  Religiously.

“I’ve got to end it,” he’d proclaim, “She’s getting too close.”
“_____, her saying hello to you at the coffeehouse is normal. It’s you.  You like her more than you know.”

“That wasn’t our deal,” he’d say. “Why should I have to go to Golden Gate to get privacy. We’re not in a relationship. I was doing my crossword puzzle here before I met her.”

(I’d explain to him that mixed signals were unproductive…that he couldn’t bifurcate intimacy).

“You can’t see her one day and not talk to her the next!”
“Why not?”

Truth is, I’d sit and laugh at his nonsense. Over coffee I’d hear his same illogic, week in, week out. Predictable as it was—as he was—it never got old. He was going to end it; then he wasn’t. He wanted to see her; then he didn’t. Through it all, of course, he continued to bemoan her patronage of “his” coffee house.

“Why can’t she go to Starbucks?” I’d hear.

The confrontation came when only it could. Another woman surfaced. “Do NOT contact me,” he growled in no uncertain terms. It took a while, but she got it.

“He’s mean,” she’d tell me.
“So?”
“What kind of answer is that?” she’d rejoin.
“What do you want me to say?”

That was months ago (it seems). The fallout continues. I still get texts—sometimes calls—from a man afraid to park his car. I laugh now, as I did then, knowing it’s him, not her.

Acceptance, of course, comes in time. It will for each of them. This summer perhaps, they’ll share a table on the patio, as friends. Maybe not.  For now, though, they’ll have to content themselves knowing that indeed their “interaction” was doomed from the start. They had, after all, violated The Platinum Rule.

       “…If I could save time in a bottle
       The first thing that I’d like to do
       Is to save every day ’til eternity passes away
       Just to spend them with you…”

My grandson will only have one first birthday. Just one. The event, held just last weekend, gave rise to laughter, tears, and (of course), gratitude. It was a day of celebration, a time for “nachos”, and moment to remember.

It didn’t feel like a year. A check to the calendar though, confirmed 365 days had passed since I’d first uttered the hallowed phrase “Max Parker Bogart”. As such, 51 weeks post-bris, 11 months after the Pidyan Ha-ben, there we were in Greenvale, New York.

A sense of optimism consumes first birthday parties—more so, I suppose, when the child is the first born of first borns. Family and friends gather and, each, marveling at the mustard seed of a new generation, is anointed—at least for two hours—with child/like innocence.

I remember the ‘70s. There used to be an expression in football. “The road to the Super Bowl,” they professed, “Goes through Pittsburgh.” Quite simply, it meant that any team aspiring to “win it all” had to beat the Steelers. It was true.

In 2011, let it be said that the road to our family runs through Max. At this point in time he is not just the only baby on both sides of the family, but he is precious, flawless, and our standard bearer.

I tried remembering MY first born at one. So many years ago…until the ex reminded me…and the picture cleared. Whish! For an instant— there he stood: little Michael Bogart (in technicolor)! Beaming from a navy blue and white sailor suit, he had me telling friends “My son should be a model.” Then, again…WHISH! It was today again, and Ben’s Delicatessen. And there, cradled by a mass of Yankee fans, was Max.

       “…If I could make days last forever
       If words could make wishes come true
       I’d save every day like a treasure and then
       Again, I would spend them with you…”

I’ve a different angle now. At a party beyond perfection, I milled not as a married father, but a single granddad. With time’s perspective and a better lens, I opted not just to cherish the day, but to celebrate its moments.

Like seeing Max, serene as he was, refuse anyone’s arms but Lindsay’s…or joining as the family (with two notable exceptions), danced the Hora. (NO NAMES, PLEASE).

Like, too, the trivial, anecdotal “stuff”. Come Bar Mitzvah time, how I’ll impress attendants with:

…”Hey, Joe…remember how at Max’s party, when you first found out your wife put you on Facebook?”

or…

“Mackenzie, remember how you and Danny ‘Fleisch’ were the first people at Max’s party?”

THE moment to remember, though…the image most ingrained, is one of Meredith and Michael together, holding Max. The candle’s lit; the crowd is singing, and four grandparents are watching. Each– Caryn, Sherry, Stuart and Bruce, was eyeing not the past, but the future.

(And one of them—again, NO NAMES, PLEASE—is thinking…maybe Max should be a model).

       “…If I had a box just for wishes
       And dreams that had never come true
       The box would be empty except for the memory
       Of how they were answered by you…”

                                                                Jim Croce

It caught me by surprise. There I was, at an all-day seminar in Boardman, Ohio…barely holding back tears. It’s a good thing Michael isn’t here, (I thought). He doesn’t get the crying.

Perhaps, it comes with age. We reach a point, somewhere in our lives when triggers change and inhibitions evaporate.

Growing up I’d see my Dad cry, but only on Fridays. It’d be Shabbos dinner at Grandma’s and I’d watch his eyes well as he said Kiddush in his father’s stead. No one talked about it; it just was. Other than that, though, he never cried—not even when “Maverick” was cancelled.

The first time I remember crying myself—I mean really crying— was watching ‘The Babe Ruth Story”. William Bendix died at the end of the film, and watching it from my Bayard bedroom, a river flowed.

That, of course, was the extent of my human experience. Two major sensors existed: my father (and what prompted his emotion), and baseball. Not once was I, for example, moved by either my mother (who cried on demand), or by watching “Knute Rockne-All American”. (Pat O’Brien died too).

Our Dad taught us, (long before Tom Hanks said it), that ‘There’s no crying in baseball.” I remember the upset at Nigrelli as Jon Scott’s father blew the call behind the home plate. Assuaging and neutering moods, our manager took a bunch of us…Fenton, Fischer, Racila…to the Victory Park carnival. Jeers were fine, but not tears.

Over time, however, my Mom’s DNA prevailed. Evidence—decades of data, confirm this:

I’ve sat alone crying at television, from Gloria Stivic’s miscarriage to the last Ted Mosby breakup. The stuff just gets me. I’ve sat in movies too, and teared with “Rocky” and “Rudy” and (frankly), every Adam Sandler movie. “Bang The Drum Slowly?” Don’t get me started!

And then there’s Hal.

My brother too, (go figure), has our mother’s genes. Together we’ve sat, conjoined and crying…to “It’s A Wonderful Life,” “The Notebook” and, of course…”Field Of Dreams”.

Don’t tell my kid, though—he’ll give me sh&# ! He’ll say I do too much theater and between guffaws, he’ll announce, for my benefit only, the date of the next scheduled TONY awards.

And laugh some more.

But there I was, as I started to say…in a seminar…misty. The topic, (did I mention?), was Child Development.

I was reading a list of benchmarks for children, 0 to 18 months…and I was thinking of Max, who would be one year old the next day:

“‘Attaches to caregiver”. CHECK
“Crawling, climbing” CHECK
“Imitates what he sees” CHECK
“Consistency in routines and caregivers” CHECK CHECK

I thought of that beautiful, happy, boy—surrounded by family—healthy!

And I struggled, unsuccessfully I might add, to hold back tears—tears of joy, tears of manifest gratitude—-and tears of love.

(But don’t tell my son!)

Tomorrow is exactly 18,000 days since my Bar Mitzvah. (You can look it up).

Google it: October 27, 1962. In the heat of the Cuban Missile Crisis, on a day where OSU beat Wisconsin in black and white, in the week after McCovey broke my heart (ending Game Seven with Mays and Alou on base)…at a time of neither Cavaliers in town nor divorces in my family….with JFK , RFK and EMK in Washington and four grandparents in Cleveland…I “became a man.”

Oh yeah, and there were, that day, Bobby and Stuart.

We met for breakfast today, in Chagrin Falls, the three of us. Back in the day we’d shlep to dances at the old Chagrin Armory—word was they had “fast” girls. Not that it would have mattered to me, of course; I wasn’t to lose virginity for another decade. (You can google that too).

It was a typical meal—three Boomer Boys, mixing past and present.

“I forgot the tapes,” Bob moaned. Custodian of our radio past, he’d promised to bring them. H is going to put them on a CD for us. (Note to Hal, in case you’re reading: I meant to tell you—I committed you to copy recordings for us. Thank you in advance. Love, Bruce).

“So, Fenton,” he continued, “Tell us about China.”
“It was great,” said Stuart, “But B doesn’t want to here about it.”
“What do you MEAN he doesn’t?” urged Bob.
“Ask him.”
“B,” Snyder pushed back, “What do you mean you don’t want to hear about China?”
Finally, I opened my mouth: “I never said that. I can’t see why anyone would go, but of course I want to hear.”
So Stuey shared his “trip of a lifetime” after which Bob admonished me. Gently smacking my right shoulder, lovingly he demanded: “See, why are you so narrow-minded. Don’t you want to see the world?”
“Not really,” I rebounded, “And actually, it’s me who’s open-minded. I’m able to come right out and say there’s enough to do here…AND…if it was FREE, if you gave me a blank check—all expenses paid for two—I still wouldn’t leave the country.”

Across the table, Stuart nodded knowingly. Bob knew me too, though, and found my Achilles. “How about Israel.”
“OK,” I muttered. “Even if it isn’t free.”

Yes, it was typical fare, our breakfast. We touched them all, friends to family: from my brother’s health to the Ermine-Wieder summit in Portland to the next Brush reunion….

I’d brought additional food for thought, as well. Brandishing a white album, I showed them photos from Sherwin’s Party Center, 49 years ago.

At one table were the guys: There were Herman, Krinsky and “Codgie”. There was veteran White Sox catcher Fischer, flanked by Ermine (in dark black glasses), then Auerbach, Cohn, Bobby, Will and even Billy Simkoff.

“‘Chronic’ was at your Bar MItzvah?” asked Bob, “…and where’s Fenton?”
“Lighting a candle,” I noted.

The girls, of course, sat separately: Two Shafrans and a names that read like a law firm: Rothenfeld, Madvid, Sumers and Davis.

“Why were the twins there? “They weren’t at mine….and who’s this? asked Snydo, handing Stuart the volume.

“Hey, B,” Stu interrupted, “Here’s Aunt Helen!” failing to realize our friend wouldn’t be denied.
“C’mon, you’ve GOT to know who this is!”

Ponderous conversation ensued until finally, Bob exulted:
“It IS Sandy !” he exclaimed, (just beginning). “Did I ever tell you about the time…” He regaled then, of way back when …a night he was with The Artist Formerly Known As Marvin:

“I had Sandy with me, “ Bob continued, “…And Marvin wanted to go somewhere and park with Mary Lou…so I thought this might be a good influence on Sandy…..and we drove out to God Knows Where, the four of us…and my battery died.”

“No,” I smiled, (I’d missed the story). Chances are I was playing basketball in Wieder’s garage that night, or perhaps it was the off-weekend and Hal and I were with our Dad.

The fact is, I enjoyed the tale more today than I might have then. It used to take an act of Congress to get a date; I couldn’t relate. Moreover, I sense now what I didn’t feel then: that not only am I OK, but clearly, THESE are the good old days.

The conclave ended as it always does, with smiles. A cupcake emerged from the kitchen, with candle lit for my birthday. I shrugged and waved it off, but they sang.

I don’t like those things—I really don’t. My fifteen minutes have long bee gone. And I don’t eat cake.

It occurred to me though—they weren’t singing for me—they were singing for US…for our holy trinity. And that, by the way, is something you don’t google…you just know.

Twenty-five years ago this fall, with the trickle of one ball into right field, they threw Bill Buckner to the curb. Dismissing the former Cub’s stellar career, fans discarded a batting champ and ignored history, showing neither loyalty nor sense of family. But not Jason. Not my son-in-law. Born and bred in Chitown, his values ran deeper.

Chicago was great this weekend. Stace, Jace and Adam were just as I’d left them, and yet…they weren’t.

This is a time of transition for the Bohrers—nine months of movement, expansion and growth. It is a year that sees them rhythmically transposing from newlyweds to young marrieds. Indeed, their union, like the flow of a pennant-winning season, has built on spring excitement with all eyes on the fall. Accordingly, in some ways, this trip specifically, I felt like a “middle reliever.” (Sure, everyone was glad to see me, but still, it was like the seventh inning, with everyone watching the scoreboard).

Stacy’s my baby. Capricious, funny, nurturing, she fits well in The Windy City. Thank God. There’s a better chance I’ll get pregnant than there is Jason would move. And that is fine.

Arriving Friday I saw her new office. In The Loop, it sits adjacent to a TV station, and is big and clean. What’s noteworthy is that at day’s end, as I stood waiting in the lobby, not ONE of the maybe eighty-five people preceding her was my senior. Chicago isn’t just a young town—it’s pre-pubescent.

The beauty of family weekends is that only the company matters; activities, as fun as they are, are but side dishes. An hour in Target (with Stacy) trumps sixty minutes at any poker tourney. (Well…almost any….or, most…or, at least this Saturday, when after months of searching I found a treasure trove of my favorite gum: Trident Peppermint Splash!

It was a thrill, though, just watching them shop;

“What do you think of this?” asked Jason.
“Whichever one you want,” said Stacy.
“I’ll get this one,” he confirmed.
“Well—are you sure you don’t like this one better?”
“You’re right,” said JS.

(Ah…I too once wore his shoes)…

One thing that had changed was Adam. There was a time he knew me—a time, even years post-kidnapping, he’d pick up my scent. I mentioned this to Stacy, in passing, but she ignored me, (intent rather to point out Jason— in the other room— putting furniture together).

“Can you go see if he needs your help?”
“OK,” I said, and like Pavlov’s dog, then uttered: “Jason, do you need my help?”
The Little One rolled her eyes (as if perhaps I should get up off the couch and actually go in the other room to ask).
“What you need is a Dick Lomaz.” I grumbled. (How many times must I tell her?)
She just doesn’t get it.
“I’m helping Jason more by staying out here.” I pointed out.
She didn’t laugh, but she did give up.

It was a weekend of anticipation, all eyes forward.

“Don’t leave,” she urged plaintively on Sunday. “Go tomorrow.” (There was as much chance of that happening as there was Jason WANTING my help).

We were hanging out…waiting before I left. From the rear came Jason, brandishing a picture, framed in wood.

“Look,” he beamed, “Buckner autographed it himself. It may go in the living room—above the television.” There was a vacant wall just above the set that begged for attention. Nodding approval I saw Stacy cringe.

“You aren’t serious!” she shried.

I WAS serious, you know…but kept my mouth shut.  I, you see, understood.  The Little One: she viewed it as a ball player. No more, no less. That’s her right.

Everyone, though, sees art differently, (including me).

I saw more than Buckner on that cloth, I swear. There was love and history on the canvas.  I felt it. And a sense of loyalty too, and family…

It struck me that indeed, if I was building a home, that wouldn’t be a bad start.  Especially this November.

***** ***** ***** ******                             I first heard of the Ex-Cub Factor at the Maisonette Restaurant in Cincinnati, Ohio. It was 1990 and David and I were there for the opening of the World Series. It will be two years next month that we lost David. I think of him all the time. He was a man of love, of family, and of steadfast loyalty.

Some telephone numbers just have an aura. Seven numerals in unique sequence, they exude good (and sometimes bad) karma. Digits on my phone light up and instantly, before saying hello I feel better or worse.

Meteorologists had already promised “Heavy rain Wednesday” before the Tuesday evening call.

9 3 2 1 4 1 0 it read — a number that’s paralyzed Clevelanders for three quarters of a century.

“Hi Aunt Helen.”
“Would you like to take me shopping tomorrow?”
“It’s supposed to pour….can it wait”? (I asked).
“Would you prefer I go without food?”

I picked her up at 4 today, in the midst of a tsunami.
“You’re not wearing a coat,” she said (entering the passenger side). Circling the car, getting behind the wheel, I felt HER storm:
“Would you like to stop at the library?”
“Why?” I asked, “Look at it outside. What do you need?”
“I am sending Danny something and it would be nice if he received it sooner…and why are you ignoring me—I said you are not wearing a coat.”
“I’m not ignoring you—you didn’t ask a question.”
“Well I’m asking you now: why aren’t you wearing a coat?…and please, if I want to make one stop at the library, why is it so important to you that we not go?”
“Please, Aunt—“
“You never have time for me. Always in a hurry.”
“It’s a MONSOON outside—that’s all I’m saying.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing a jacket?”

Cease-fire in place, I walked her ‘cross the threshold of the library. Once on dry land she removed papers from the protective binder she’d made from a Cheerios box, tendered two dimes, and announced: “You know, I called earlier today to remind them they needed toner.” (Suddenly I pictured a myriad of my cousins fleeing west in the 60’s—all her cousins—they were smiling).

Splashing ahead, we drove to Marc’s where oranges, in see-through sacks, were $2.99 for the four pounds.
“Count them,” she urged. “Some have ten, some but nine….”
For six minutes I juggled bags of Valencias, palm to palm, counting and releasing, counting and releasing…until triumphantly I assured her that YES, we’d scored that precious tenth! (This, in case you’re wondering, reduced the unit cost from 3.3 cents per orange to 3).

We were indoors, of course, but her reign kept coming:

“Should I ask the manager why they’re out of broccoli florets?”… “Do you agree with me that the bananas are too yellow?”…”Why are the ‘aerated’ Hershey’s Kisses priced the same as solid ones?”

Next came the post office. (An easy gig, one would think).

Approaching the drive-by chute, I slowed to the box.

“Let’s wait for the rain to stop,” she suggested. “The letters will get wet.”
“In three seconds?” I asked.
“Why must you be so difficult?”

Soon my brilliance emerged. Brandishing a blank envelope from my visor, I used it as protective cover to escort her mail safely.

“Always in a hurry,” she moaned, “And did you see the letter to Friends of Akim?”
“No, Aunt Helen, I don’t look to see who you’re writing to.”
“It’s Michael Jacobson’s fund,” she continued. “Honestly, I don’t know how he does it! He works so hard; he does his charity; he’s always out-of-town. I don’t know where he finds the time!”
“He doesn’t have an Aunt Helen,” I thought.

Minutes later we were done. Heading back up Cedar, my phone was flashing. Evidently I’d forgotten to put the ring back on, (silence being mandated when on duty). A call was missed.

I was afraid to look! Was something forgotten? Would I have to go back?

Peeking, of course — I knew the number. And No, it wasn’t my Aunt Helen.  It was, however, my ex-wife.

            “Instant karma’s gonna get you…”

                                       John Lennon

“If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right.”
                  – Jerry, to George, in “The Opposite”

Only those who know…know, but yesterday was special. Slowly, making a wide, wide turn, life began changing on October 14, 1997. That night, in a conference room in Beachwood, Ohio, I got real. That night, in a room of solid strangers, I committed to a program of recovery that would not only keep me sober, but improve every aspect of my life. That moment—that very moment—-I began to grow up.

No one, I’ve noticed in fourteen years, comes to “the rooms” on a winning streak. I was no different. There wasn’t a piece of my life going well. Friends sustained, but business was hollow. I feared the phone, feared opening mail, and slowly, like the dripping faucet, I’d made my world smaller and smaller. Only the kids remained and, frankly, though they loved me, they really didn’t respect me. It was ugly.

I used to sit in the meetings—those early years. I’d be the last one in, first one out, and I’d see everyone smiling. All these recovering alcoholics…smiling! I couldn’t figure it out. What the f#$% were they so happy about? I didn’t get it.

I still picture those days. It was a time when, whether I deserved it or not, God kept putting the right people in front of me at all times; it was a time where I always seemed to be hearing what needed to be heard.

“Is all this really necessary?” I‘d ask my sponsor.
“Bruce, you’ve been doing things your way for a while now. How’s that working out?”

Better yet, there was the unsolicited advice:

“If you had time to drink each night and you’re not drinking, then look at all the extra time you have to work on yourself.”…
“Aren’t you tired of being a ‘three inning player’”?
“Bruce, the problem is YOU. Isn’t that great! That means you can solve the problem!”
“Do things our way for a month and if you don’t like it, we’ll refund your misery“.

And so it was. I was like Spanky in The Little Rascals thinking “I’ll eat it but I won’t like it.” And…truth be known, it remained that way for a year or so…until one night, in ’99 when the light bulb went on. It was my Costanza moment. Indeed, it DID occur to me that if every impulse I’d had the past years had been bad, then contrary action might well succeed.

It was at that point—two years post/drink—-that I truly bought in. Bought in? I jumped in! Listening like I never had before, sharing as I never did before, I took suggestions—heck, I FOLLOWED suggestions—from the same people whose smiles didn’t compute when I came.

Get out of yourself, they told me. Find your God and pray to Him. Help someone else.

I did.

Time passed and I continued to listen. Building on the foundation our parents provided at Park, I jumpstarted my Judaism. Riveted by faith, I found comfort in prayer and solace in meditation. It became, indeed, a daily thing.

More time passed. Days. Months. Years. Life was happening (and not all of it good). Still I kept paddling.

There was the Jodi debacle and The Thief and our Mom’s death. Tempering anger with acceptance, I moved right through it, buoyed by a faith things would be OK. OK (I’ve learned), is OK.

A few weeks ago the topic at a meeting was our spiritual condition. My comment drew chuckles, but I was dead serious:

“I have a great relationship with my God,” I said. “I speak to him daily, and find peace. If I had put that much effort into the relationship with my ex we might still be married.” (As the laughter subsided it DID occur to me that a few more decimal points wouldn’t have hurt).

And life continues to go on.

My aunt asks, from time to time why I still go to meetings….why I still have a sponsor. She just scoffs. I could tell her what I tell the guys I work with: that no matter how long a player’s been in the league he still takes batting practice every day. That we either grow or we go. She won’t get it. So what! (I’ve learned). What matters is if I do.

Schlepping through a maize of taxis I saw what appeared to be the Millers’ car.  “So glad you’re here,” called Caryn. I placed my suitcase in the trunk and had taken a seat in back when Stuart got more to the point: “Wait ‘til you see that boy of ours! You’re not going to believe it!”

(We were still a half hour from Max).

I couldn’t wait Wednesday. Couldn’t wait to see that smile…those shiny slate eyes …that eleven month, debonair prince…couldn’t wait. And so, thirty minutes post-airplane, I bounded from the elevator as Meredith’s mom announced words I hadn’t heard in two months: “We’re here!”

Infrequent visits, (as frequent as they are), yield a special dynamic. Not having the luxury, as others do, of seeing my grandson on a daily basis, I watch him grow geometrically. He’s never a day older; it’s usually a month…or more. I marvel at his growth, in spurts.

And so it was that I walked through the door and found not the crawling Prince of this past summer, but a little boy sitting peacefully, playing with toys, looking up…and waving hello. Max Parker Bogart—waving hello—to me. I melted.

My mind, of course, took many pictures last weekend.

There was the one from the downtown park (the day we met Lev and Judah). So convinced was Meredith that I’d not fit down the slide, she made me do a dry run first. And there was the shot from the other park, (where we met Kay and Ilya). Another slide, another look, another laugh.

Not all photos were still, of course. Mental video remains of the debate about Max’s college.

“Michael wouldn’t have a problem with it if Max went to Michigan,” claimed Mer. Squirming, I rejoined “If he wants to go that route, what about Stanford?”

In a conversation arguably premature we then ruled out Virginia, Colgate and our friends in Happy Valley. (Some sixteen years pre-decision, FYI, I’m leanin’ to Princeton).

It was a trip replete with the promise of activities and the observance of holiday…of both old family and new friends. And Max.

(It strikes me, I might add, that the joy engendered by this bundle of boy might seem overstated; it’s not. There is a vitality to grandparenting that survives distance and outlives lack of contact. It’s called love).

He’s eleven months—that’s all. Cameo appearances, to be sure go only so far. Still, while for him they are hints of relationship to follow, for me they are anchors I cling to.

And images…

Of a family, surrounding a dinner table, clapping in unison to a shining boy…and of the lad, clapping back with a transcontinental smile. Everyone’s cheering.

And of breaking the fast, a day later. It is the same crowd, only bigger, and Max is showing off:

“Open, shut them; open, shut them,” we direct as the bambino, arms erect as if to signal a successful field goal, opens and shuts his fists. (Funny how if your kid does this it’s nice but when your grandchild does, it’s Olympic!)

And of watching intently as the little one, eyes wide open, tries his first blueberry.

‘Tis an unwritten law of Max’s being that major steps ensue the moment I leave town. Was it only last June I begged him to crawl (and he did as I touched down in Cleveland)? Perhaps.

It matters not. I know only that each trip east adds a brick to the mortar of family we all treasure. I know further that today’s cameos are tomorrow’s diamonds.

And for this I am grateful.

         “I spent a week away from you last night.”

                                    Lifehouse