upfromdysfunction.com

        No longer forward nor behind
        I look in hope or fear;
        But, grateful, take the good I find,
        The best of now and here.”

                                         John Greenleaf Whittier

It was the mid-seventies and my father called, incredulous. “You want to vomit?” he asked. Without waiting for response, he noted that a good friend’s child, fresh from college, had passed on a home purchase since the house had but one bath. “Can you imagine,” he opined, “It wasn’t good enough.”

Decades later the words echo, as does a picture…quite different:

December ‘69, and I was showing a girl my home town.

“This is where I grew up,” I said, pointing to the bungalow at Bayard and Wrenford, and this is where we played ball. “
“Wait a minute,” she interrupted, ignoring the swift-pitching wall,
“You lived in THAT house?”
“Yeah!” I answered, still unaware that to women, size matters.

(I had no idea our house was small. It never occurred to me. Intellectually, I suppose, had I thought about it, YES, Wieder’s split level was larger and SURE, Fenton and Cohn, over on Temblethurst and Langerdale—they had bigger spreads. Heck, and come to think of it, everyone else lived in colonials, up and down. I just had NEVER noticed it).

Not that it mattered. We thrived on simple things—my brother and I. We’d play wiffle ball out back and football up front in a yard bordered only by love. It was a time of innocence, bliss and vigor.

I’ve turned recently, to those days…to the era when health was expected and life a clear given.

No longer innocent, I’ve watched my brother lay in a hospital, hit every pitch thrown at him and still slide head-first into life. I’ve heard him speak gratefully of a chance, after six days, just to eat breakfast. I’ve marveled, yet I’ve understood.

Life was simpler when omnipotent, but it was no better.

In a world bordered only by love, the future’s bright, and even cream-of-wheat tastes good. Especially, Hal points out, when you eat it at home.

Dear Dad,

Happy 86th! Boy, that’s a lot of years. I still see you as 59.

I was reading an article in Friday’s paper and thought of you. It was a story on the fiftieth anniversary of “The Dick Van Dyke Show”. Remember how you’d complain that Van Dyke was trying to steal Morey Amsterdam’s show?

Anyway, they quoted him as saying “The wonderful thing is we knew at the time it was special.”

I was trying to think (since then): which experiences have I had that I knew at thetime were special?

“Sol’s Boys,” for one. There wasn’t a moment, through years of wins and trophies, that I didn’t feel like a champion. (We all did). It wasn’t just the titles—it was more than that. There was a swagger, a glow about us that said “We’re it!” Cocky? Perhaps…but not conceited. We just played better in rags than all the other teams did in uniforms, and WE KNEW IT.

Looking back, I see why Wieder’d growl from time to time. It wasn’t that he feared a loss. No, he held this firm belief that with our talent and our mechanics, bad things should just never happen. Alan thought—and made us feel—-that ball diamonds were our sanctuary. He demanded purity in his play and ours and if, for example, someone (Godforbid) missed a cutoff man, his slam of the glove to the mound proclaimed “We’re BETTER than that!”  Once, actually, I remember he grooved a pitch—had just released it from his hand—and before it got to the batter he had already shouted “Oh F _ _ _!”  

Yeah, Sol’s was the right collection at the right time with the right karma. We knew we were special.

I had the same feeling a few years back on stage. “Laughter On The 23rd Floor” was set in the writers’ room of the old Sid Caesar show. Cast as young Mel Brooks, I spent eight weeks with some true characters. Even the rehearsals were fun—madcap clinics—and we knew early on something special was baking. The first play in oh so long where I actually urged friends attend, it really was that good. For two months I rushed to the theater (think: airport), then lingered over coffee as other actors drank, night after night, joke after joke. Indeed, when the final curtain fell, I knew well how unique the experience had been. We all, I suppose, sensed we might never pass that way again.

And then there’s us, Dad. Me and you. Special.

Don’t know when first I felt it. Perhaps the mid-60’s, when you lived out-of-town. I recall writing you, often, and your notes right back. To this day my closet’s cluttered with letters addressed to “Bruce and Hal” that begin “Dear Hal and Bruce”…on hotel stationery (Imperial 400), or the backs of sales reports (Academy Of Home Study, in green….Highlights For Children, in white)…

Or maybe it was the college years. One minute I was a freshman in East Lansing and you, a teacher near Detroit. Then, as quick as one might say “Did you really buy your tickets from Tody Smith?” there I was in Columbus, and there you were, transferred to central Ohio. It always felt right.

I knew it was special, Dad, when you lived on campus and it didn’t bother me. When my friends, selling for you, even agreed to get haircuts for Upper Arlington.

And I knew it was special when we’d play cards with Walt, and you’d weight the payoffs. (3 cents/point for you, 2 for Marc…1 for me). Or when you played too, with The Jersey Girl.

For that matter, I knew it was special when I called you from the army in Texas and told you my engagement was off. It was a Tuesday, Dad—April of ’72…and on Friday you showed up on my doorstep in San Antonio. Arm around me, you spent the weekend espousing words you’d preach a thousand times more in the course of my lifetime: “Some day, Little Boy, we’re going to look back at this and laugh.”

And, Dad, I remember so well those next few months. Harriet has shared that when The Jersey Girl and I parted, you acted like she’d broken up with you…that you couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want your son. But you know, Dad, in all the time, before, during and after those days, I never once heard you utter a negative word about her …me…anything. Indeed, phoning you, announcing our re-engagement, your response was immediate.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“We’re elated,” you averred, and then, to confirm your support: “And besides, we need her for the card game.”

It was amazing, Dad, how much you loved my friends. From Stuart and Bobby and Alan to Raisin and Mark, from Glassman and Fischer to the guys in Harold’s grade…to David, to the lodge brothers you knew to the one’s you met through me…from how you accepted every ounce of me: smiled when I smiled, hurt when I hurt, and cared when I cared…and …all of it, on a two-way street.

I knew in every conversation we had about everything nuance we shared, that not only did you love me unconditionally, but that you knew I LOVED YOU unconditionally. And I sensed, too, that you knew how special it was.

Ermine says it’s OK to think about the past but we shouldn’t stare at it. I buy that. This letter, though, is not about our past; it’s about us. There isn’t a day, even now, that I don’t sense you with me…that I don’t feel your presence.

A quarter century later, that’s pretty special.

Love,
B

       “…Of all the things I still remember…”

This was a flat holiday. Brother down, kids out of town, it was just flat. Not like last year when, sitting side-by-side (but for ninety years between us), we worshiped in temple…laughing, smiling…making memories.

As much as April brings baseball and July means fireworks, nothing says September like Rosh HaShana. Even in 2011— make that 5772. In the autumn of my years I see well the beauty of my spring and summer. It’s all, as they say, in the angle.

When young, Hal and I’d cringe, twist and turn at the thought of High Holidays. Better to have been in school! Others may have played in childrens’ services but we caught no respite. The moment they’d end our dad hauled us to the Main Sanctuary and parked us in the far reaches of Rosenthal Ballroom (think centerfield bleachers) where we’d wait….and wait…..until then, upon sounding of the Shofar, like Pavlov’s dog, we’d bolt outside, stand by the assigned rock, and wait some more.

We paused, in the 50’s, for the same thing we do now: Aunt Helen. (Then, of course, she was joined by the love of her life, “Ma” — our grandmother—ably played by Helen Hayes…and our father, who in retrospect was the family’s first Robert Romano).

Then, as a sea of bodies flowed down the steps, as others marveled at the majesty of Park’s massive dome, H and I scanned furiously through the mass of skulls, seeking the only dome that mattered: our father’s bald one.

As arduous as the process was “in the day,” that’s how sweet it feels today. What we both might give for one more endless morning! (Or, for that matter, one more bland, East Overlook lunch that followed). There we’d sit, The Boys, white shirt and bowties, being seen but not heard, listening with others to Helen’s review of the rabbi’s sermon. “Pa would not have agreed,” she’d tell us. It was a soliloquy, her pronouncement never once questioned. With Ma in the kitchen and Dad being Robert, that was it. Our Mom, of course, had to raise her hand to speak. She never got called on.

It was a time fastidious to tradition. There was no TV (on, at least). Nor could we go outside. Catch, even in the yard, was verboten. So we’d sit there, twisting, turning… making memories.

I wonder what my kids recall. Do their hearts airbrush their youths? After all, adding in The Jersey Girl, the roster was set. There—in the 80’s, were The Boys, Ma, and Helen (now played by Tilda Swinton). Do Michael, Jamie, Stacy look back at simpler times…and smile? I think not. Not yet. They’re still too young.

Sitting, wistfully in my car, today, it was hard not to ….think.

Yet another thirty years…

Our parents—they’re gone. Grandma too. Still, though the bench is getting empty and there’s quiet in the dugout, I’m grateful. Hal, Margie, me…we’re older, but still standing. And my “kinder,” they’re off having children in places that, heck, growing up I only knew of from baseball cards. Imagine: me— with grandchildren near Yankee Stadium and Wrigley Field!

Sooner than they think, though, Michael, Jamie, Stacy…their kids will grow—their dugouts will empty.

So I wish them health, of course…for the year and years approaching. And wisdom too—wisdom to bore their kids with family and tradition—and allow them to make memories.

Someday they too will be sixty.

        “…The years go by and time just seems to fly
        But the memories remain…”

                                Chris Daughtry

I did something this weekend that I rarely do: hid from reality. The weather, growing disgust with my appearance and imminent family surgery put me in a place where frivolity—however fleeting—was in order. The bad news (and the good news) is, it never lasts.

Tipoff of escape came Friday. The game plan was set: a quick Shabbos dinner, then Loew’s Theater for “Money Ball.” How long had I awaited the opening?

Life, however, interrupted plans. Margie served food as my brother offered laughter and nostalgia…and 7 became 8 became 9 o’clock. For two hours the world stood still.

The next morning was no different. Sometimes, even with work to be done, I just need to laugh.

Sitting on twin chairs at Caribou, Ed and I were stunned when a middle-aged lady, clad in armor of gold, walked in with a dog.

“Isn’t that against the law?” he asked me.
“Call a lawyer,” I mused, giving little pause.
“We should tell the manager to kick her out,” my friend advocated.
“PLEASE,” I shot back, “Do you think you’re dealing with an amateur?”

Motioning that he follow my lead, I rose from my seat and moseyed over to the table next to the now-seated patron. Pooch at her foot, head in a crossword puzzle, she was oblivious as Ed sat between us. Back to the lady, he was setting the perfect pick.

“What are you doing?” Ed asked as I played with my phone.
“Wait.”
And then I found it. Channeling Youtube, I’d punched the prompt titled “Dog barking.”

Suddenly there came yelping and scrapping! The poodle’s ears perked up as just a bit the dog growled. From over Ed’s should I saw the lady look and look and look.

“Turn that crap off!” urged my friend (as I hit replay). Poor Ed. He had less patience than the dog. Sometimes, though, I just need to laugh.

Let the record show, of course, that there is laughter and then there is LAUGHTER. As a corollary, there is waterboarding and then there is Aunt Helen.

Ever the “good son,” H called her days before to schedule Sunday breakfast. Further proving that the good son is also a good husband, he set it directly opposite Margie’s teaching!

We were standing by the Manischewitz sign—the aunt and I—just Friday—when my phone rang.
“Who is it?” she inquired.
“Hal” I said.
“Ask him,” she began, pausing to ovulate, “If instead of First Watch on Cedar might we go to the one at Eastgate.”
“You ask him,” I offered.
Grabbing the phone she continued: “I was hoping we could look for towels; Macy’s doesn’t carry the right sizes.”

(It mattered not. Hal and I were in it together. History records that in ’72 my father asked him to go to the army with me, but he’d refused. Decades later, though, we share a foxhole). Truth be known, by the time Sunday came…in a bizarre “No one else will appreciate this” way, I was looking forward to breakfast. So was H.

Scooping her up at 9, in a hair under two hours we did oatmeal, Michael’s AND BedBathandBeyond…AND made an old lady happy. (Well, not too happy, you should note: BedBathand Beyond, it turns out, doesn’t carry the right towel sizes).

So we went home—both of us— to reality.

I had coffee last night, with Brother Burnside.

“You know, “ I told him, “I passed Daniels Park today. I caught in tournaments there—under the lights….my grandkids are out of town…I’ll never be able to drive past there with Max and point out where I played…”
“You don’t know that, “ he said. “You think they’ll never come to Cleveland?”

And in an instant…again…I saw things half full. And for a moment, again, my head sat straight.

Returning last night there was an email from Meredith. It was a video…of The Prince….leaning, almost walking. He was laughing, (as was his Dad), as at ten months he stutter-stepped to the camera.

And he was smiling.

It was a wide-open smile—broader than our continent of states! Shining, like the stars and stripes!

And I realized, once more, that smiles are better than laughs…and that Max’s smile, set betwixt those ocean eyes—is my reality.

Life is good.

We didn’t break our teeth in country clubs—not on the mean streets of South Euclid.

Golf (in grade school), meant makeshift courses in the back yard. Someone found a nine iron and we’d slice through the grass before Henry Tyrangiel cut it. First hole may have been hitting the telephone pole; second fairway perhaps was the fire hydrant. It was a simple world and we all shot par.

By Greenview, though, the stakes got higher. Riding bikes up Mayfield, we’d either walk nine holes (where now sits The Greens Of Lyndhurst), rent clubs and play, OR, if money tightened, hitch down Green and hang around Highland’s practice green. No frills but all thrills.

No, I wasn’t weaned on country clubs. Not even those three years our Dad bartered membership to The Riviera. This, note, was a SWIM club. Clearly, in MadMen America, this was no more than swimming pools for the kids, tennis courts for the ladies, and cabanas for the men to hide in and play uninterrupted gin. Indeed, the only time our Dad found the water was when a bee found the card table.

And so it was that Thursday marked the annual Hold-Em tournament at Les’s club. For reasons unrelated to venue, I couldn’t wait. Walt and I had each cashed two years ago; Cut won big last year; it was our turn again!

Truth be known, I didn’t fit in. Not there. First of all, it’s not certain at these place, you’re even allowed to perspire. Secondly, half the members strut around like Jewish Chatsworth Osborne Juniors. Not that I didn’t enjoy my time; like Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack, I stayed true to myself.

The tourney, of course, preceded by a nice buffet. Arriving late, I found myself sitting at a table for ten flanked by eight empty seats and one 70ish stranger eating pork ribs with a fork and knife. (Need I say more?) Cut came over; so did Walt. For the most part, though, it was just me and this extra from a Sopranos shoot.

By 7 though, the room had emptied. Destiny was calling in the parlor.

This year I went all out to win. Priming my table image, donning a collared black dress shirt, (straight from the Meredith Bogart “Never Wear This Again” collection), my focus was constant.

Early on I was seated at a table with a “nice Jewish boy” that thinks we all forgot he too grew up in South Euclid. Moreover, the guy’s in my business and trust me—when he sees me on the street, when he sees me at Corky’s— he always looks me off.

At 7:50, raising the mumser All In, I knocked him out of the tournament! (Did that, by the way, not only for me, but for Fromin, Masseria and Hovanyi). “Nice hand,” he muttered, slumping away. “Eat shit,” I thought, nodding politely.

And the game went on. And the tables went away..until…Marc and I found the final table. It WAS, like I said…our turn.

There’s something special about The Final Table. Hours having passed, those already out linger, standing on the periphery, watching, musing…waiting as nine players become eight become seven…

Herzog stayed, and Schneider, and Les (still on tilt). They stood as six became five became four…

When we got down to three Jeff chided me on my short stack.
“Leave me alone,” I said, “I’m on fire.” (By then I was playing to the crowd. Card dead for an hour, even Hellen Keller saw my borrowed time).

And then there were two. Just me, with a name tag labeled “Guest”, and the guy to my right, with a tag shouting “Member.”

The Director approached, yawning.
“You guys want to chop it up?” he asked, urging an agreed-upon split.
“It’s not the money, “ I exclaimed. “Do we get a trophy?”
The game went on.

Ten minutes, maybe twenty on, the whole thing ended. Stung by a crippling flop, I turned to the boys:

“This is not good for the Jews.”

And it wasn’t. Moments later, though, shaking hands, I felt like a winner. The real champ approached me, asking if I wanted to stay for a cash game.
“Not a chance,” I said.

Not quite out the door—nothing but smiles—I was pulled aside by the tourney director.
“Did you take care of the dealer” he asked, (as if a Guest wouldn’t know).
“I was born at night,” I said warmly, “But not last night.” (This wasn’t my first rodeo).
And then, hiding shit-eating grin, I walked to my car.

“Abandonment issues never leave you.”
                                               The Envelope Lady

I sat alone, recently, in the dark of a movie theater.

It was my second sit through the Woody Allen movie, and I found it better than the first. Still, the endless previews —with neither popcorn nor comrade—caused thoughts to wander.

Just maybe, years ago, Tom was right. Just maybe, flying solo has less to do with finances or fat and more to do with what’s going on in me. “Abandonment issues,” he called them.

The problem, I’ve surmised, is that life is good—bountiful in so many ways. Rarely is there pause to think of what I’m missing—if anything. Between family, friends, recovery, work, play, plays, nonsense…it’s only in periodic instances (1.5 per week based on Eastern Daylight Time), that I sense “Gee, I shouldn’t be doing this alone.”) That night, in that theatre, was one of those moments.

“You systematically set yourself up to fail,” Tom said. “It’s your defense mechanism.”

The interaction with Rolo was a perfect example. Founded on timing and trust, it was sustained by friendship and more. Even still, I knew –in my heart of hearts– there was a glass ceiling.

I remember that first kiss (in her garage). Heading home, standing by the door, ten minutes to Seinfeld…it just sort of happened….and she cried. God, that was so long ago.

“This can never go anywhere,” the lady said, ‘though neither of us listened. Then, for two-plus years we integrated our lives until, as others expected, the clock struck twelve. With the coach again a pumpkin, lives went on.

I was hurt, of course; who wouldn’t be? There was a pureness to it, though—an honesty. It just WAS what it was. No one lied and no, no one died. To this day we remain the best of friends. She shared in Stacy’s day; I stared at Chase’s bris.

In the dark of the theater, however, I had my shrink pal’s sight. (There’d been safety with Rochelle…even in the inevitability of the fall).

Couples filtered into the auditorium and my thoughts turned next to Jodi. Was she not but another self-fulfilling prophesy? In a tour of duty oddly commensurate in length to that with Rolo (it only seemed to be longer), I proved again the precision of Tom’s call.

Had I not set myself up for yet another acceptable failure?

At any given moment, what in the world could the two of us have shared? Separated by sixteen years, education, emotion, finance…in retrospect, what were EITHER of us thinking? Clearly, had that dynamic somehow survived it would today be recognized as the eighth wonder of the world. For two-plus years, though, I had no idea. (A lot of money could been made on that run, just wagering on the “over”).

I stood alone back then. I had no clue what an epic achievement each day had been.

My friends knew. The kids did too. Michael and Rooney have since chided me, noting that even during the short engagement (No, that’s not a misprint), they never once thought the marriage would happen.

“But Michael,” I asked last year, “Remember when I called you to clear wedding dates…didn’t you think, then?”
“Please, Dad,” he uttered, rolling his eyes.

(From the mouths of babes).

What then, does this all mean? What good is my introspection if, again, it’s swept under the rug by more good, bountiful times?

Do I really look for fatally flawed relationships? Do I, subliminally seek an “exit strategy”? One that won’t hurt when it fails? What do I fear…really?

As much as I like to think I’ve grown, as much as perhaps I’ve conquered fears…still…I lie to myself. Flying solo has less to do with extrinsics than it does with what’s inside me.

Why am I insecure at 60? Yet only in certain arenas?

I’m trying out for a show today. In Painesville. A room full of strangers and I’ll work without a net, never once fearing failure. The director will either like me or she won’t, and lives will go on. Why, when it comes to women, do I insist upon a net? What failure, really, do I fear?

I’m a work-in-progress, and I get that. Perhaps some day I’ll figure this whole thing out…and truly leave my darkened theater.

Wouldn’t that be a Hollywood ending!

It’s amazing how for someone so averse to travel I actually love the flying process.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have that macho thing for planes. No model airplanes growing up, no wonderment about aviation… not even a passing interest in NASA. Growing up Bogart, if you couldn’t hit, throw or catch it, it didn’t matter.

But I like being IN an airplane; it’s restful. And I love being IN airports—for respite.

The first flight we ever took was in ’66 (Philly to Cleveland). Our father was living out east at the time and had summoned his family. As such, Hal and I, with Grandma and Aunt Helen, spent ten hours on a Greyhound… sans air-conditioning…answering his call. I don’t want to say the trip was rough—-but The Jersey Girl’s labour years later with Michael was far less painful. That being the case, ‘though his mom and sis wouldn’t fly, the boys flew home.

But…we didn’t fly much. Not a South Euclid thing. Oh, I did in the army and did on my honeymoon, but generally it took an act of Congress to get me air-bound. Not that I’ve been afraid. Hardly. I’ve shown a profound ability to fall asleep before takeoff and awake after touchdown. Like clockwork. Nor was I nervous. At all. Heck, in ’96 we were flying back from Paradise Island: Fenton, Snyder, Kraut, Treinish…when all of a sudden the lights went out, the craft was bouncing, there was lightning and the pilot was warning of bumpy weather ahead! Tension filled the cabin—but not us.

“Let’s have a Ricky Nelson sing-along,” we urged passengers, few of whom were laughing. “And how ‘bout some Buddy Holly?” said Stuart. “And Otis Redding!” I added. (Not surprisingly, only Bobby thought us funny).

My true passion, though, when it comes to travel, is with airports.

First of all, there are the smiles. EVERYBODY’S smiling. People departing can’t wait to go—people returning are thrilled to be back. It even makes dropping off or picking up friends a joy! I love airport runs. Everybody’s happy!

Well, not everybody. My kids give me a lot of grief for arriving early. So be it. Who’s harmed? Doesn’t it make more sense to be ahead of the game? Security takes time; lines are unpredictable. The hour prior to leaving for the airport—regardless of where you are—is “garbage time”. Nothing gets done—everyone is waiting until the right “time to leave”. Doesn’t it make more sense to sit sixty minutes at a gate and be safe than run out the clock at home and risk being sorry?

I head to the airport, with pride, 2-3 hours before takeoff. There is coffee to drink, a computer to play…a book to be read and, if inclined, calls to be made. In an odd way, whether I’m heading out or coming home, it feels like vacation.

Often Michael books my travel. Rare is the case that he doesn’t bust chops. Just recently my boy mused “It leaves at 12:30, Dad. You’ll have breakfast once you get through security.”

Ah, the kids…they just don’t understand. (Nor some of the adults, I might add).
Consider:

Returning from LaGuardia, just days ago, I was booked on the same flight with the ex. In a rare instance when a disagreement between us ended with me breaking the tie, we arrived at the airport at 11:30 for a 2:20 flight. (It was, after all, Monday—the back end of a holiday weekend—why take chances?)

“You’re so early, there’s a 1 o’clock flight you may get on,” we heard checking bags. We shot to the gate. (It occurred to me, of course, that all this was happening because I’d rushed us. It was to early, still, to gloat).

An hour later, maybe more, the call came:

“We’re going to start calling stand-bys…As you hear your name please come forward……….BOGART!”

Approaching the desk I saw the uniform frown. “There’s only room for one of you,” he said, coaxing an answer. We looked at each other, but not for long. I really didn’t care.

“You take it,” I uttered, in more of a knee-jerk reaction than true chivalry.
“OK.”
And with that she was gone with the wind.

The story, though, had a happy ending. For both of us.

Cabin shut, I turned to the agent.
“How do I get I get my boarding pass back for the 2:20 flight?” I asked.
“Oh,” he responded, “That flight’s been delayed. It’s leaving at 5 o’clock.”

It mattered not. Time on my hands, there were strangers to watch and people to talk to. There was coffee to drink, a computer to play on, a book to be read and yes, calls to be made.

And I was smiling.

People are fond of proclaiming their precise location for each pivotal moment gone by.  “I remember EXACTLY where I was,” they’ll exclaim, as if the disclosure itself is history-making. Enough already.

Don’t get me wrong! With an engineer’s accuracy I could well cite my whereabouts for most seminal events, from November 22, 1963 to March 12, 1987 to, of course, September 11, a decade ago. I choose not to, however. I’ll dwell, rather, on better times.

Ask me where I was when The Jersey Girl said she’d marry me—I can tell you. It was the den of her parents’ home in Passaic, and yes, I was thrilled. The engagement, as it played out, didn’t take, and so….ask me next where we were months later, as SHE proposed to me. I recall that too; we were leaving the movies after seeing the animated feature “Fritz The Cat”.

Wonder where I sat when her water broke with Michael? It was a Thursday morning and I was in the office. Ran uptown to get her and we shot back to the hospital. Missed lodge that night, but it was well worth it. My boy arrived at 12:37 AM.

It’s moments like these I prefer revisiting.

Like where I was each time news broke that one of the kids was in love. At a horse show for Jamie’s call, in a car for Stacy’s and… outside a meeting when I learned of Michael. (Come to think of it, it wasn’t he that phoned; his sib did. “Just so you know,” she related, “Michael’s getting serious.”)

Each was a Kodak moment.

I met Harriet at 20 East 14 and her kids on Napoleon (off Broad). At street’s end stood the old Kahiki Restaurant, host to elite Polynesian dining.

Memories…positive memories….first meetings…from glory days in Franklin County to grownup times in Cuyahoga:

I met Marilyn at Roma’s Pizza, the in-laws at The Clarmont Steakhouse and Margie at Suburban Steakhouse.

And met Susan on the fourth floor of the old Mott Building, Lana at Lutheran East High School, and Alice in Fairmount Temple.

It’s the upbeat times that live longest in my heart and I’m not alone.

Ask Walt what was so memorable about the Bucks’ ’69 OSU home opener. Or ask Wieder. After all, it was a laugher ((62-0). They’ll share, though, with precision, how on the very first play from scrimmage Kern hit Jankowski down to the TCU seven, but the play was called back—yet how Woody then, on the very next snap, had Kern throw again—same pattern. 58 yards…Touchdown! Then inquire where they sat. They’ll know. 50 yard line, C deck: a mental postcard unfaded by time.

I’ve learned that whatever I focus on grows. Focus on negative—it gets worse. Focus positive—I feel better!

By the way, I’m sensing a trend here. Why are valued memories so often lodged in restaurants or sporting venues?

Like the seats for the ’63 Major League Allstar Game, in Cleveland. H and I sat with our Dad out in left field, first row, over the Pesta Pickles sign. Or our seats (Wied and me) for the ‘64 NFL Championship (first row, 40, Colts’ side)….and why is it I remember other seemingly incidental venues?

Like watching the ’69 Rose Bowl with Stuart at Henry Katz’s place on Van Aken….and eyeing the moon landing with Longert and her parents on East Antisdale…or, this millennium, not moving my rear end from Matthew Friedman’s kitchen table for the four-plus hours of that divine Fiesta Bowl…

And so it is that this weekend, people will not be wrong recounting their whereabouts on 9/11. But I won’t.

I’ll think rather of where I stood that morning, just ten months ago, when Michael called—that water’d broke (Rocky River Middle School). And dwell too of where I dined (Burgers N Beer, Willoughby) that very evening when word of Max’s arrival came.

Not because I’m socially or politically unaware, or uncaring. But because this is me, and what I do. I focus on the smiles.

…Which reminds me, I suppose, of a story someone told me a few years after my divorce, as I eased back into the dating world. It had to do with how you could tell if the person you were seeing was age-appropriate. It seems some guy asked his date “So, where were you when you heard Kennedy was shot?” And she answered in dismay: “Ted Kennedy got shot?”

I choose to remember the happy days, (and not, by the way, Mr. Gonze’s eighth grade typing class).

“…There were moments of gold
And there were flashes of light
There were things I’d never do again
But then they’d always seemed right…”

Social scientists may wonder why the wife and I married. No one, however, has ever debated my blend with her family. I love them.

We first met four decades ago in a Stamford backyard. Virginal, collegiate, a fish out of water, I was introduced to a people that would grapple me to its soul and hold tight long after the gavel of a judge lent exit strategy. As such, with traffic at a standstill, ‘twas no wonder that trudging to Connecticut, each passing brick train depot brought me warmth, (and in an odd way), home.

Numbers didn’t lie: Forty years after college…teasing twenty post-divorce. That’s a boatload of time. Heck, the aunt and uncle we travelled to honor were wed less time when I’d met them than The Jersey Girl and I ultimately strung together.

And with every sign post passed, every hand shake, every hug this weekend, I not only smiled for today, but remembered…

Uncle Ernie’s older now, and Aunt Lee. He still asks about my practice; she still asks about the kids. With Uncle “Mush”, these are the last folks standing from the peak of strong family tree. My in-laws, their siblings, all of blessed, blessed memory, would have loved this conclave.

We sat in the family room—the one generation above me melding with two below.

“Bruce, did you see your picture in Eric’s Bar Mitzvah album?”
“That’s ok” I said, having no desire. (I know I’ve aged).
“Here!” shried a well-meaning relative, thrusting the volume in my lap.
(I had to look).

There were her parents, so young. My father-in-law was a prince. Had he been stashed in that traffic jam Saturday he’d never have complained. The man was swept with acceptance…gentility. Closing my eyes I still hear his answer to any adversity: “Everything’s all right in America,” he’d proclaim, (except, of course, if the Yankees won—he HATED Steinbrenner).

And there, in a pic of ‘70’s cousins, was Howard. The clan’s “it” person back then, we’d shared a room that weekend. I remember thinking, even then, that our rooming put me on the family map.

Most pictures, of course, were mental.

The motel was gone, but I recalled how we all stayed at one of those places where the rooms opened to the outdoors…and that somehow I’d locked a teenaged Jackie, (bra and panties), outside on the terrace.

And ‘though her mom was gone, there was Judy. Had she not heard the story? Long ago, Manhattan. I’d known my future Aunt Honey perhaps a half hour when suddenly, without warning, the lady pulled me aside in Brentano’s, bought me a book and, shall we say…. ”encouraged me” to wed her niece.

And there was Hindy—the last living person to voluntarily sleep at Aunt Helen’s house (Michael’s Bar Mitzvah). My cousin still has a coat there, in the closet. I should pick it up one of these Fridays.

The past, of course, is only valued with a future. And so it was that at the house I met Ben. California-bred, he’ll be marrying in next summer. Common ground came quickly. We spoke football, some baseball, and baskets: the Kobe-Shaq thing, the Dodgers…. It struck me that I’d this movie before. The last time, though, I was the new blood; it was me breaking in…talking to Uncle Willie…about football, and baseball…

The most beautiful part of the weekend, though, was perhaps the simplest. Toasts concluded, Aunt Lee asked we all join in the Shehecheyanu, our traditional prayer of thanks.

I have a lot to be thankful for, and I know it.

Especially family.

“I can barely recall
But it’s all coming back to me now.”

                         Celine Dion

As a Noun: A subdivision of a company of soldiers, usually forming a tactical unit that is commanded by a lieutenant and divided into several sections.
As a Verb: (in baseball and other sports) Have (an athlete) play in rotation with one or more teammates at the same position.

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

I still daydream. Sometimes, knowing full well I’m delusional, I play with thoughts—push them to the limit—just for the sport of it. Not sure if it’s a healthy exercise, but it keeps my mind active. Problem is though, sometimes I believe my own nonsense.

I first heard the word “platoon” in the late fifties. Not only was Sgt. Bilko’s squad a staple on my father’s TV, but the term came into vogue through sports world as well. LSU’S national champs had a defensive squad— a platoon, if you will — known as The Chinese Bandits. Still, the word was just not part of my working vocabulary. Nor was it in the half century that followed.

In early August, though, I had an epiphany. Live music playing, I walked Legacy Village one Saturday, bored. Flying solo that night, the brainstorm came!

Why do I look, on dates, for “the one”? She may not exist. Why not, (I asked myself), just platoon? If pro baseball has a lefty-righty theory, why couldn’t I?

The concept had promise. Too often I’d missed events because they were matters you just didn’t take a first date to—like “Les Mis” last April, or a wedding, months later. (After all, receptions play only so many Horas).

It occurred to me, then, (in my idiocy): I should have one person for movies, another to walk with, and yet another for Jewish events.

A friend urged reality: How, he inquired, could finding three persons of interest be easier than finding one? I ignored him, though; there is nothing, but nothing as powerful as an idea whose time has come.

What were the odds, I wondered, of finding a nice Jewish girl that likes movies, temple, and casinos…that would fit in Cleveland, New York and Chicago…?
10-1? Like making a hard eight? It could happen, but it hadn’t.

I thought further: Being honest about it, what were the odds, REALLY, that a nice Jewish girl would take to a guy with more charm than money?

Again, it could happen, but it hadn’t.

No, I’d concluded: at this stage in life, perhaps the skeptics were right. Perhaps, indeed, I should cease picturing some enchanted evening and stop waiting for that magic moment. Indeed, eighteen years post-divorce, I just wasn’t going to find someone across a crowded room. Maybe I should…platoon…and be done with it?

I shared this “brilliance” with a pal or two; they scoffed. “If nothing else“ claimed one, “You’re a dreamer.”

The very next night we were sitting on the couch, watching Michael’s wedding video. Tired, exhausted from the flight, I heard the Maid-Of-Honor’s toast.

“How great it is,” she told the couple, “To wake up each day with your best friend.”

It made me think—right there on the couch—to past relationships.

I’d found, when I really thought about it, that synchronicity before. I’d rolled, yes I had, that hard eight.

Moments later the movie ended. Retiring soon after, I lay my head down, ready to dream again…and yes, to pick up the dice.