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He sat at Legacy’s patio. Spotting my approach, he stood like the Coast Guard waving me in. I wasn’t late; Norman was, as usual…early.

“I like to face out, watch the women,” he said.
“No problem,” I obliged the 82 year-old.

His voice is softer now, a far cry from the fire and brimstone that used to greet me. His gait is slower too. Still, though I surpassed his height years ago, there hasn’t been a moment I haven’t looked up to him. To this day.

A half century of business and pleasure: I’ve seen him brash and self-assured. I’ve heard his laugh, watched his anger and oh how I’ve cringed as he’s yelled. Still, in sixty years, there’s never been one moment his heart hasn’t shown through it all. The man, to this day, is all heart and no bite.

“Bruce,” he once shried, “ I hate my relatives. Each and every one of them.” It was an odd statement to hear from a cousin.
“Norm, I’m a relative.”
“Oh, I forgot.”
(That was ten years ago, maybe more. He was just beginning to mellow).

I first met Stormin’ Norman in the 60’s. At least I think it was him—he was moving so fast— I couldn’t tell. My Dad’s cousin, he found me summer work at his Mentor store. Down in Akron then, Norm was opening Summit Mall in a chain growing geometrically.

Too young to handle money, my job was to straighten piles. Pick up, restock, and straighten. I loved it. Donnie Eisner, Joe Lemmo, Richard Kaufman: they’d play word games and tell adult stories of intrigue. I was a batboy sitting in the dugout with Mays and McCovey…content to listen, observe.

One day Norman barged in unannounced. Blowing by me, he stopped at the register, but within minutes turned to leave. And then it happened.

“Who stacked these pants?” he demanded, SCREAMING.
I was mortified. His arms flailing, his face beet red, he was incensed.
“Who’s responsible for this mess?” he shrieked and in one fluid motion picked up a pile of 36-30 Haggar slacks, thrusting them in the air!

Dead silence. No one was moving. I was scared.

“Now,” he implored, “Someone pick these up and stack them the way Norm Diamond stacks pants.” And with that he was gone with his wind.

Fast forward to the mid-70’s. No longer store-bound, Norman operated from corporate offices adjacent Corky’s. I had just passed the bar.

“Al’s boy? Send him back.” I heard from a room.

Ushered in, I found my Dad’s cousin standing, eyes closed, holding a sunlamp
inches from his face. Our session took five minutes—maybe less. He never opened his eyes.
“Your Dad says you’re a good lawyer…that I should throw you some work.”
“That’d be great.” I said.
“How much should I charge you?”
(Did I hear him wrong?) “It will be good for you, “ he pointed out “If people know you represent Norm Diamond.” And then he laughed….(but I don’t think he was quite joking).

Years would pass. Some good, some not so good. Our paths would cross for a while, and then they wouldn’t. He was always there though…at some level. And I was always aware of him. Always. I thought then, as I do now: it’s a shame everyone can’t see him as I do.

As No Nonsense as he was in with business, Norman always buttressed family. Then and now. Over time he found homes and sustained jobs for more people than he’d care to remember. I, however, remember.

When our dad bottomed, Norm got him a line selling ties; (to this day I can spot Shantung samples). Decades later he paid our mom to answer his phone. (Who but Norman would, looking the other way, hire a one-eared receptionist)? Indeed, history will record that brother Hal too once had the distinct pleasure of stacking pants.

Have you sensed yet that I love this man?

He runs hot and cold, but always with warmth. Like in the 90’s when I was leasing from him and had fallen behind. One day, without warning, I found my files in the hall.
“Norm,” how could you do that? I asked (still minus rent). Within moments he calmed down.
“I’ll help you move back in,” he offered…and the two of us carried boxes.

But that was years ago and for both of us….tears ago. My mom’s gone. His Charlotte’s gone. Even some of the stores are gone. Norman and I, though, still stand.

We had a nice dinner on that patio Monday. All pleasure—no business. Leaving, he mentioned meeting Paul from Toledo every now and then…somewhere on the west side…would I be interested?
“I’d love to,” I said. “Anytime after this month—I’m in rehearsal ‘til then.”
That was three days ago.

Walking through Heinen’s today my phone rang.
“Bruce,” the voice came, “It’s Cousin Norm….Can you have dinner with Paul Stark next Wednesday?”
“Norm, it’s still September!” I noted.
The more things change, of course… the more they stay the same.
The man is always early.

          “Five hundred twenty-five thousand
         Six hundred minutes
         Five hundred twenty-five thousand
         Moments so clear….

         Five hundred twenty-five thousand
         Six hundred minutes
         How do you measure, measure a year?”

Can it be a year since the wedding? THAT long since the baby we’d passed around at gin games and first house-trained with a miniature collie said “I do?” Twelve months already?

         “In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
         In cups of coffee
         In inches, in miles, in laughter in strife
         In five hundred twenty-five thousand
         Six hundred minutes
         How do you measure a year in a life?”

I picture the first meeting with Jason. It was a weekend sojourn—H, Caroline and me…The Windy City. They’d been “going” for a while and Stacy’d talked him up a lot; clearly she liked him. ‘Til that trip, though, I paid little attention. Oh, I listened—don’t get me wrong; it’s just that I’m a concept person—not a detail man. She said he was nice to her, was old-fashioned and liked Seinfeld. What more need a father hear? Do I really care where he went to high school?

         “Five hundred twenty-five thousand
         Six hundred minutes
         Five hundred twenty-five thousand
         Journeys to plan.”

We broke ice breaking bread. Rooney, knowing everyone, dominated. As the young talked Chicago, Hal set a pick freeing me up. I was a quarterback looking off his primary receiver. Appearances aside, Jason was at all times on a closed/circuit feed. This was The Baby we were talking about—had to be sure!

It was a long day—one I’d never plan. They made us tour the city—on a boat, of all things! Still, the guy was “meat and potatoes,” oozing quiet confidence. He liked baseball, revered his home town, and although no one used the word that day, I could see he loved both the Cubs and Stacy. (I just wasn’t sure the order).

“Do you like him?” she asked, walking briskly aside me. (We spoke freely—he was twelve steps ahead).
“What I think doesn’t matter—It’s what you think.”
“Dad–”
“Why doesn’t he walk with us?” I wondered aloud.

By then Stacy got it: I liked him. Fact is, I liked him, but I loved them. That day, just as the day they wed, it seemed right. Then, as now, it wasn’t so much that they matched as that they fit.

         “Five hundred twenty-five thousand
         Six hundred minutes
         How do you measure the life
         Of a woman or a man.”

It’s old news: Dad taught me to read a hand. By day’s end I’d caught up with Jason (at a red light). Got him one-on-one.

“Listen, “ I said somewhat hushed, “Let me save you a trip to Cleveland. If you ever want her hand in marriage you have my blessing.” (Looking back, it was a pretty ballsy move on my part).

It mattered not. Can’t recall his response, or if he gave one. The light had changed and he was off again…twelve steps ahead.

         “How about love….Measure in love…..”

                                                                      Jonathan Larson

9:35—a beautiful autumn morning: Turning left to her drive, ten minutes ahead of schedule, I waited. No good could come from being early; this was history’s great lesson. Then…three hundred seconds later, resigned to the inevitable, I knocked.

“You’re early. Why are you early?”

(Rosh Hashana has predictable rhythm. A wondrous holiday, it enfolds (at
least in our clan), as a time of familial interaction set against the Shakespearian tragedy that is Aunt Helen. She is Lady MacBogart, a steely presence in an otherwise melodic family.)

At Kangesser by 10, we sat on the visitors’ 49 (away from the pulpit). Clearly outside the hash marks, close to the door, it was a great view of all who’d arrive late, leave early, or merely evaporate for the sermon.

“Where’s Harold?” she asked. “Why do you suppose he’s late?”

In a setting of peace and reflection, some of us were more spiritual than others:

“Rabbi Skoff’s in the other room,” she proclaimed (as if Balboa discovering the Pacific). Disconsolate, staring at a watch she couldn’t see, the lady listened to her second-string rabbi flanked by her second-string nephew.

“Do you see Harold?” came the reprise.

I tuned her out; it was too beautiful a morning. After all these years, High Holidays at Park remain special. Same prayers, same seats, same peace.

Comfort. Consistency. HOME.

“They’re here—let them in!” she urged. (I had already risen). .And so they were: Three Newmans, Amy, Renee, Margie and my brother. Yes, my brother—her “Moshiach,” had arrived.

Calm set; thoughts wandered…everywhere. To the ushers, the same ushers I’d seen for lo these many years: Jeff Schneider’s been standing there since puberty. He must own his tuxedo. Does he ever go home?

Same faces, same smiles, same hand-shakes.

Rochelle’s up front in the red zone…or at least her hat is. Can’t see the kids, but they’re probably under the hat. Fondly I recall the year Matthew told me my suit was wrinkled. Those were rough times for me, but he cared enough to be honest). Ah, but her chapeau—the year the roof leaked it kept the entire choir dry.

“See Larry?” asked Hal, pointing just past midfield. .”Do you think he looks like a piece of gefilte fish?” “Yeah,” I agreed, and “Cousin Sam looked like a baked potato”. Game on! Margie, (ever the voice of reason), abstained.

“Next time you go to the bathroom, let me know—I’ll go with you.” (said my aunt on my return).
“That would be inappropriate,” I replied.

The sermon came later—(both the rabbi’s and the aunt’s). In each case my body stayed but thoughts strayed…and strayed…By benediction I’d made three profound observations:

1. Park Synagogue was the only assemblage I attend where people don’t
consistently get younger than me.

2. Every reasonably attractive, age-appropriate female congregant was
wearing a wedding ring, and

3. Aunt Helen’s breath would be good for cleaning my bathtub.

“Should I drive Aunt Helen?” my brother offered as we rose to leave. I agreed, (this being his holiday too).

Freed up, I shot to the other end zone—saw my people, said my hellos. I was heavier this year and most of them seemed older. All of us, though, were still standing.

Walking out the front door I saw Cutler. He was under the canopy right where we greeted last year. And the year before. And probably the year before that.

“L’Shana Tova,” he smiled.
“A good year,” said I.

Bouncing down the hill to my car, I cherished the constancy of it all, reveled in the moment, and wondered just briefly if Cutler ever went home.

It was a month ago. My cousin’s kid, a published author, was coming through. Book signing, publicity….nice stuff.

The family would be there, eagerly supporting its own. Including me. You may recall I’d phoned the author a week prior, suggesting lunch or dinner. Hadn’t heard back—no biggie—(just assumed she was busy). It was, as they say: “all good.”

I’ll tell you what wasn’t good though: the book signing itself.

Busted my ass to get there. Used mirrors! Arriving late I saw her propped up front autographing: my cousin the author.

Said the hellos, congratulated the mother… and…,(violating a life-long No Novel rule), bought the book.

There were, by then, few patrons separating me from my kin. Approaching her table, kissing the kvelling mother, I waited on deck.

“Do you remember Al Bogart?” Sheila asked her. There was silence as the book was signed. No hello, no nothing. And I was last!
“This is one of his sons, Bruce.”
Dead air.
Not that she was preoccupied…or hurried. There was, at that moment, more traffic in the men’s room at Starbucks.

It was weird. No one stood behind me, no one aside me. Not one reason not to…but she never looked up. I’ve had more eye contact with a blind man.

“She’s glad you’re here,” said her mom, half-heartedly. Translation: “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I responded, (meaning “See you next Tuesday.”)
Then, after smiling the requisite ten minutes, I left—bad taste drenching my mouth.

Not all authors, of course, have attitude. Take Wieder. He writes of places I’ve never been with words I’ve never heard; he hasn’t changed. Warm, humble, I wonder if Al knows Walt and I need Wikipedia to read his work. Or that I have calluses from constant thumbing through the index?

My cousin’s slight, in the scheme of things, meant nothing. Were I a better housekeeper it might well be forgotten. But I’m not, so it isn’t. Returning home that night I’d placed her book on the TV. For weeks it hadn’t moved.

Until yesterday.

Enough, finally, was enough.

Sunday, shortly past noon, I strode back to the bookstore. Bag in hand, book in bag and receipt in book I approached the counter.

No one stood behind me, no one aside me.

“Need to return this.” I said.

And then, lo and behold, the salesperson looked up.

Adjusting my collar it hit me: the tie—I’d worn it last week. Still, it was a different place, different people. The cravat, I figured, selected from my limited Great Neck collection, could stay.

When was it our roles reversed? Didn’t HE used to wear MY ties?

“Bruce, would you make Michael’s tie?” she would urge.

We’d stand facing the mirror… father behind son… tying and retying. Too high, too law—and finally, (per his mother), “too sloppy.” Each week we tried. Stubbornly. Success though, came only from doing it ‘round my neck then transferring it over. The wife knew she’d married a nebbish. Should I remind her I was also the product of a broken home and that with Dad gone we had clip-ons, etc. It wasn’t going to play well. “You’re a father now—act like one!” (I could hear it soar from her mouth).

When did our roles reverse?

My boy was 9 when Woody died. There was a memorial in Columbus, (so of course we went). School? Work? They’d wait—we had priorities. Sitting in the closed end of what was not yet “The Shoe, ” I pointed to mid-field, citing Archie, Rex, Bo, Earle….sentimental father to wide-eyed son.
It was the last time I remember knowing more about sports than Michael.

By high school the worm had turned. The Tribe’s opener was at the old stadium. Michael and friends would be there—parents and batteries not included. (To a point).

It was an afternoon contest. Could I, my kid wondered, pick them up after the game. (Of course I would).

A plan was set. Eighth inning or so I’d head downtown; we’d meet up on Lakeside just west of 9th. Not a problem.

Ah …but the best laid plans….

As advertised, I did my part. Second-last frame—in my car. Top of the ninth—sitting, double-parked—waiting in place for the final out.

And waiting.

And listening to the radio….when the one thing we never counted on happened: the game went extra innings. Eight extra, to be exact.
Poached like a schmuck, held hostage by the crack of a bat, I kept leering through the growing crowd of people trickling out. Everybody, it seemed, had at some point had enough and was heading home. Everyone, of course, except Michael’s boys of summer. No different than I had been, they stayed to the bitter end.

We drove uptown—exuberant boys, exhausted father (just happy to be needed). I wonder if I realized that my chauffeuring days were numbered.

Once a tour guide, now a driver—soon I would be an add-on:

It was November, 2002 and the phone rang.
“Dad,” said an excited Michael, “Block and I are flying in for Michigan. You can stay with us if you want.” Years had passed, but my answer was a constant: Of course I would.

We stayed downtown-Brian, Michael and his old man. In the morning we hit campus: Brian, Michael and the old man. Pomp and circumstance on High Street; everyone looked so young. (Stacy was somewhere—couldn’t find her). Tried to tell them of my first game —with Hal and Dad. The Dispatch ran a special Stadium edition back then, I said to absolutely no one listening.

This was their world I’d entered. The torch had indeed passed to a new generation.

Michael pointed to the ESPN booth, Kirk Herbstreit, and some others. He said to stand there for a while, that they’d be back.

“Don’t wander off,” he cautioned. “Don’t get lost.”

I stood there, dutifully, awaiting his return. I stood there in a sea of scarlet and gray—watching time, sensing change, but more than anything else, feeling comfort.

Roles change, I surmised, but people don’t. There we were again, at Ohio Stadium: sentimental father and wide-eyed son.

The child is father to the man.

A girl blew me off recently and it just didn’t compute. Not close. Still, even at 60, post-romantic stress disorder has a three day shelf life. Progress, (as they say), not perfection.

Nothing, but nothing compares to the first time I had it broken off on me. If I only knew then what I’ve somewhat learned now: how not to hurt.

It was 1972, Ft. Polk, Louisiana. I was the token Jew serving Uncle Sam in a sea of duck-hunting southerners, (some of whom were not yet convinced The Civil War had ended). My fiancé—also my first girlfriend ever— was left to mind the store (and the blue & white Plymouth Duster) in Columbus.

An eight week Basic Training began January 3, yet by the Ides Of March the drip of her letters had stopped. There was no internet, of course, nor cell phone. You’d wait long lines to use payphones…and I would. By St. Patrick’s Day she wasn’t picking up. There were no answering machines either—just ringing and ringing. Fact was, the lady ignored not only telephone rings but diamond rings. Our engagement, (shall we say?) didn’t take.

Was I the only guy my generation to get a “Dear John” letter? Hardly, (although I can’t name another). Truth be known though, I was a physical and emotional virgin, newly-arrived at Ft. Sam Houston, Texas, and devastated.

The call to my Dad found Harriet.
“Oh, Bruce…I’m so sorry.”
“Where’s my father?”
“I’ll find him.”

What a support system I had, even then! Remember: no texting, no paging. Still, she’d “find him.”

Back to the barracks…to sleep. Waking up I found the note taped to my bunk. “Report to CQ.” Being summoned to Company Quarters was like being sent to the principal’s office. No good could come of it. (Or so I thought).

“Your father called, Troup…“ the uniform spoketh. “He’ll be here Saturday.” Disdain in his eyes, my Drill Instructor clearly saw me as a pampered “college kid”; just as succinctly I read him to be a redneck anti-Semite. (We were both right).

Days later the cavalry arrived. Pastel short-sleeved dress shirt, tie and cigarette, Al Bogart entered San Antonio as Sherman had Georgia. Oddly, all he did was smile. Even more bizarrely, he took me to the zoo. There we spent an afternoon walking, talking, calming…

“Some day you’ll look back at this and laugh.”
“I doubt it…”
We joked a bit. He recalled the Vicki fiasco, then Marilyn’s sister. I’d survived each crisis.
“This too will pass, little boy.”

He hugged me, yet the prisms of his eyes even more than his words renewed me. My smile was coming; I was turning the corner.

“What about the car? I mumbled.
“It’s insured, “ he counseled. “Forget about it.”
Then, using the old man’s vernacular I asked him:
“What if she winds up in a tree?”
“Then I’ll call you,” he said, adding “You’re not that lucky!”
(We laughed together with that one, and I knew then that the old man, too, was hurt).

Decades passed before my heart again broke. Father gone, nine years post-divorce, I was licking wounds but mending faster.

“B,” you know what your problem is?” offered Bob. “You’ve never had a girlfriend before. Breaking up is just part of it.” Correct he was—but who was I to know? I’m looking for Hollywood endings.

Alan says I have “a soft spot for Bobby” and he’s right. It’s for things like that. Bob knows what I don’t, or close enough. Perception is reality.

And now…in recent weeks—that twinge again. Not the 70s’ pain of course, but a dull sense of rejection tempered more by wisdom than knowledge. My cup, though, remains half-full. Grateful I can still feel, I’m thankful that the first cut is indeed the deepest…

Three days to rebound? I can handle that anytime. All and all it’s just another brick in the wall.

The little one had a birthday. Not just any birthday (by the way). The kid turned 28. Closer to 30 than 25…and if you can’t grasp the significance, just ask a 57 year-old what it’s like turning 58.

Our baby’s no longer a baby.

The others evaporated; I thought SHE’D stay. The others flew east—she went west. Degree in one hand, Coach bag on another, she too was Gone with the wind…to the Windy City. Not coming back.

It’s OK, though. Somehow it fits. She fits. Anywhere.

Long before Everybody Loved Raymond, everybody loved Stacy. From days in a carrying case with Rocky to afternoons as a manikin in storefronts… to nights under the stars with Jason.

Everybody loves Stacy.

She is a “people person” continually touching people. No wonder she’s in sales: that too fits.

The word “friend” has been devalued by Facebook, but Rooney defies odds. Maintaining ties everywhere, (real ties), she still cares, shares, listens and glistens to a myriad of people she’ll reach out and touch. To this day she personifies Hands Across America.

Yesterday they reached back. As she fought mosquitoes on a lake with Sister Sarah, they reached back.

From her first roommate to her first boyfriend. From school friends to camp friends to business associates. They reached back.

The mother of kids she sat, the sister of a sister-in-law. Cousins from the coast. The kid brother of a best friend. Dan Carter.

They reached back.

We spoke last night. At day’s end. I was driving back from Columbus when she called. Twice Ms. Bohrer put me on hold; once she had to call me back. Other callers (you know). Other well-wishers. I get that. I understand.

Everybody Loves Stacy.

There was no reason to be pals. Born across the river, he still stayed in Strongsville. I, on the other hand, was a product of Cleveland’s Miracle Mile. Further, he was a biker—had been to Sturgis for the rally. Me? Can’t change a tire. Sure we’re both lawyers, but truth be known, Greg was a fireman first. Me? Can’t light a match.

We had different games (even then). Ten years my junior, Greg has that innocent look with just a twinge of “bad boy.” The ladies loved it. Me? I can look naïve, but smell “safe.” It doesn’t play as well.

We met five or six years ago, though, and something clicked. So much so that— incredibly— this Saturday night I’ll offer a toast at his wedding— at his request. God truly does have a sense of humor.

Actually, it was laughter that first bound our friendship. This white bread mensch Republican is not only one of the wittiest people I know, but he shares (with me) one fundamental belief: Nothing, NOTHING, is inappropriate if it is funny. There is, for us, no line that can’t be crossed for the good joke. It is a precept honored each time we convene.

The second tie to bind was honesty; Greg doesn’t hold back. I need people in my life that will tell me what I don’t want to hear. He did that—does that.

It was the middle of the last decade and I was encumbered by a chaotic relationship. On any given Sunday it was on or off. “Susie’s having a New Year’s party,” Greg invited. “You can come, but you can’t bring HER.”

By the next summer my love life had hit a new low.

“It’s over,” I grimaced plaintively.
“No it’s not, Bruce,” he cautioned. “This thing won’t end until she ties you to a rope on the back of a pick-up truck and drags you down a hill.”

Ouch.

(He was right).

Still… though humor is the vehicle and candor the cornerstone, the best part of our friendship is that we get and respect each other. Oh, yeah…and still play like kids in a sandbox.

I went to the party that New Year’s Eve. Alone. One lap around the talent pool, I pulled Greg aside.

Pointing at two women, I had to ask: “Are they playing for the other team?”

Clearly I’d impressed Brother Greg. “Yeah, how’d you pick up on it?”
“Please,” I admonished: “You’re not dealing with an amateur.”

It so happened that as we spoke, our friend, fresh from divorce court was hitting on one of them. His chair was angled into hers.

“Mark has no idea,” I gestured.
“I see no reason to tell him,” answered Greg.
(Mark was to invest the guts of his evening to no avail).

Greg and Susie were just beginning then. By Sunday they’ll be one. In the interim, our course, our paths crossed less. He was building a relationship; I was rebuilding a life. The years, though, were good to both of us.

It’s curious, this toast thing. I want to wish him well…them well. Yet I suppose he’ll want me to be funny.

I don’t want to short-change my friends. Greg Schneider is one of the most honorable men I’ve ever met. He would be, even if he never made me laugh. And, as water seeks its own level, he’s found his Susie.

For both of them it is cause to smile….not to laugh.

TO MY FAMILY (WHEREVER I MAY FIND IT):

Saturday afternoon. Rain halted, weather cooled, there was a calmness, a pristine feel to the fresh air. ‘Twas the perfect time to walk. Seven laps: two miles for just me, my music…and my thoughts.

Half-way through, the ipod, with Amy-fresh material, blared a song I’d never heard. Then, my index finger poised to change tunes, in a genre frowned on in the Jewish community, Johnny Cash sang out:

        “…Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
        And you’re the one I need…”

It made me think, feel grateful, then think some more.

Hal, the other night I met someone. We were out of town (in Tremont) when the question came: “Are you close with your brother?” (She’d heard about Bobby and Stuart—even knew some of the “Old Geezers” at Wednesday’s breakfast). My answer was immediate and direct: “He is my best friend.”

        ”…A cardinal sang just for me
        And I thanked him for the Song
        Then the sun went slowly down the west
        And I had to move along
        These are some of the things
        On which my mind and spirit feed;
        But Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
        And you’re the ones I need…”

Kids: We are separated—500 miles to the east, 350 heading left—Wish it weren’t so. The travel agent swears, though: it wasn’t me that moved! Just know that in spite of email, in spite of rhythmic contact, (skype and all), I miss you guys. Bell Telephone used to run an ad claiming “Long distance is the next best thing to being there.” Somewhat misleading, I’d say—there is no second place.

        “…So when this day was ended
        I was still not satisfied
        For I knew everything I touched
        Would wither and would die
        And LOVE is all that will remain
        And grow from all these seed;

Haley, you are a gift to us from God. You are older and stronger now than when first born. Even prettier, I suspect. We miss you. It’s a funny thing about holding a baby. One never knows who is holding whom….or who benefits more.

        “…Mother Nature’s quite a Lady
        But you’re the one I need”

        Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
        And you’re the one I need!….”

Friends since age 5, you’d think we’d had all conceivable conversations. In July, though, I retrieved this voice mail:

“B,” said the recording…”I know everything about you except one thing. Were you bottle-fed or breast-fed as a kid? Please call me back.”

Stuart Fenton is arguably the most conservative person I know—politically, socially, financially. Fair, irreverent, mischievous and loyal, a Puritan without top hat, he is the perfect antidote to Brother Bob and myself. And today, our friend of a lifetime, the Jewish Bill O’Reilly, turns 61.

When Maris broke Ruth’s home run record his 61 got an asterisk. Stuart, too, deserves one. History will footnote our buddy as follows:

• For decades beginning in the second half of the twentieth
century he demonstrated amazing consistency
ignoring social advances and thriving nonetheless.

It’s not that Stuart lives in the past; he doesn’t. It’s just that in spite of long term marriage to an enlightened woman and in spite of material successes in the modern world, he remains, by and large, the same person he was in the ‘60’s. No, not “by and large…” EXACTLY.

I remember those days. Vividly. They were wonder years.

Living two doors apart, we convened daily at the school yard. Even then he was warm, stubborn and funny. He used to tease Jimmy Masseria about his aunt. “Aaaaaaaaaaaagnes!” he’d scream, and Jimmy’d get mad. So mad that Masseria would have fat Morton Cohen sit on him. With Morton straddling Stuart’s stomach Masseria would implore “Are you going to say it again? Have you had enough?”

Stuart was obstinate; he was rigid. His response was unfailing:
“ Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagnes!” he’d repeat louder and louder, at which time, as Stu lay on his back, as Morton anchored him to the earth, Jimmy would give him the “Chinese Torture,” flicking grass on his face.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagnes!” he’d scream, as if begging for more punishment. His face would sweat, his mouth would spew green blades, but he wouldn’t let up: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAgnes!”

Even then it was “Work hard, play hard.” Even then.

Stuart was the first of our friends to toil after school. Or close. Myers helped his dad at Mary’s Style Shop; (that didn’t count). Ermine was at Leader Drug. Fenton, though, was first. It was a work ethic that would (if possible) strengthen. Indeed, ask my brother! They spent 1971’s spring break selling Highlights from a motel in Roseville, Michigan. Daily, just teasing dawn, Hal would wake to a strident cadence:

“Get up! Time to sell, sell, sell!”
“C’mon,” he’d beckon H, “ If I’ve got to be up, you’ve got to be up!”

It never changed. Never…even in retirement. My friend, you see, “retired” several years ago, only to return to the workforce. He travels more now than then. Retirement? Brett Favre couldn’t shine Stuart’s shoes.

Nothing changes. Clearly not his taste. In high school Stu would revel with every new Dean Martin song. Fifteen years after Dino’s death, Stuey still waits for new releases.

Nothing changes. Clearly not his humor. I saw my cousin Pinky last week. She should only know that thirty years after Stuart had her sing the Campbell’s Soup jingle he is still making phony phone calls.

Nothing changes. Clearly not his loyalty. Except for one mishap, (once, in Miss Williams’ room, violating my confidence he told Jan Rini I liked her), Stuart has been steadfast. Over the years many have cheered for me. Stuart has not only rooted, he’s believed. Even to this day.

Yes, the best part about our friend IS his constancy.

It’s a misconception to think that failure to change is failure to grow. Stuart, as much as anyone else, demonstrates this. In a world of daily modulations and reality TV, where everyone gets fifteen minutes of fame, our friend quietly, internally, grows. His values, like roots of an ancient oak, run deep.

The best part of Stuart Fenton IS his consistency, his predictability—That I can know the content of our conversation even before his words spring out. If he greets me “B,” it’s going to be social. If he calls me “Bruce,” it’s going to be serious. And…if he starts with “Well, hello! Have you talked to our fine friend Bob recently?”— then I know we’re going to play.

Our friend Stuart is the 21st century’s answer to the 19th century. In a world of continual change he remains…a rock. And with all his subdued mishigos, he is a rock that we continue to rest on. Even at 61.