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Lost in the abyss of the Lomaz garage were artifacts of minimal value. Among them, however, was what they used to call a “long play” album …vinyl … a recap of the Browns’ ’65 season. Via the play-by-play of Gib Shanley as narrated by coach Blanton Collier, it told the story of team’s efforts repeating their championship by playing games (as the record was titled) “One Game At A Time”.

More than once I’ve told Carrie that so long as she’s present the activity’s immaterial. “It’s about being together”, I’ve assured her. (Ed. Note 1: Previous evidence includes last year’s Hall & Oates Concert and even a 2012 mile-long hike under treacherous sun on the Beachwood Park path.

Tuesday evening I learned that some times, one game at a time is a lot.

With marginal tongue-in-cheek irony I note that the person gracing us with tickets to see Jackson Browne was one of those not necessarily doing handstands when we married. Still, my bride (I knew) loved the singer and fact is, I’d seen the video of his playing The Scarecrow in the concert version of “The Wizard Of Oz”, so….

“Do you mind if I call Nautica to see if there’s a first act?
“Not at all,” she said graciously. (Had we not both suffered through an atrocious one/hour pregame at One Direction?).
“No”, I was told when I called. “Just him for three hours”. (“Three hours”, I said to myself, quickly doing the math. This was TWICE as long as the Three Stooges movie I’d dragged Michael to).

Still, I love this woman …so I smiled (a bit) … and on a night boasting 88 dripping degrees, I sat by her side.

For three hours.
Knowing but two songs.
Which were sung two and a half hours in.

How much, then, did I love the evening? Let me count the ways:

Tipoff was 7:30, and I entered with reticence. Not having been a druggie, did I even have standing to be there?  The guy’d earned his bones in the 70’s, after all.

Running late, beckoned off I-480 by stand-still traffic, we’d tread down Lee Road and dreidled through city streets until fortunately (or unfortunately) we found the banks of the Cuyahoga and the Nautica Pavilion. It was 7:40; the music had started.

Trudging past beer stands, we hadn’t yet sat when, not breaking stride, my left hand shook the outstretched arm of an old friend. (Ed. Note 1: It would be my last interaction with anyone remotely Semitic until the next day at Corky’s).

Twenty-four rows up we plowed . Tall steps. 8 inches apiece. DOUBLE steps — two per letter, as we sought out Row “X”.  In front of us, already seated, were two schmucks. On and off for a half hour or so these two lumps sat taking pictures by phone. There was a moment, not an hour in, when a huge barge passed by. I’m not sure about the guy, but in his lady’s euphoria over filming the boat, I swear she climaxed.

Twice.

(Ed. Note 2: The couple left us mid-evening, clearly to be home by 10. And I called THEM “schmucks”?).

The band played on, and how Carrie enjoyed it…as my mind wandered.

“Jews don’t drink beer”, I noted.
“Who told you that?”
“Here, let me google it”. (I had time on my hands).

From the stage he kept crooning.  Sensing Carrie preferred Jackson Browne’s voice to my nonsense, I closed the link to “Jews And Beer” (http://forward.com/articles/129798/jews-and-beer/) and searched the web for his playlist.

(Ed.Note 3: Two sets of ten followed by 2 encores of two songs each. 24 songs. Figuring seven minutes per song (every tune had two minutes of instrumental foreplay) and an intermission, it occurred to me that we’d leave directly from there for my grandson’s Bar Mitzvah).

The audience, by the way, reveled in the music. Nine times they stood in ovation. Come to think of it, it may have been ten; I slept through one).  And the night pushed forward. About 10:15, temperature diving to 85 and, I turned to Carrie:

“The breeze feels great. Doesn’t it?”
“Sure.”

“What’s that woman doing in the back of the stage?” I inquired. (In addition to Browne playing guitar and/or keyboard, there were other guitars, keyboard and drums. That, to me made sense. Quite standard. What I didn’t get was the lady upstage left. Other than clapping to  songs, I feigned to think what service she might provide).

“She’s there for backup,” my wife said quite knowingly. “Right,” I agreed. (Rather avant garde for Carrie to note, I thought).

It ended abruptly, (but a song to the second encore).

10:30ish we trudged down steps: 48, past beer stands, to our car. Just a few months shy, it was, of the Browns’ ’65 finale, which they lost to the Packers.  Driving uptown, as much as I loved Carrie, I couldn’t help but think of the lesson I’d learned …like my Brownies back then:  that sometimes one game at a time is too many.

My recent honor necessitated submission of a personal balance sheet. Not for anything bad, mind you — in fact, good stuff.  That stated, the task offered another stark reminder of how often less is more.

I’m in an interesting place, and I don’t mean Cleveland. Six-plus decades within three square miles find me waking daily to Carrie, thinking daily of my kids far away, and walking daily with a God of my understanding. May I be forgiven (at this point in my life) for shouting it out, but I’VE GOT THE WORLD BY THE BALLS!

Fact is, gazing back ‘cross the canvas of my past, I embrace the journey.

First stop: 11417 Hopkins Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio (’49-’55).

Life on the first floor of our grandmother’s duplex was simple. In an exercise of questionable zoning compliance Widow Waller stayed in a third floor box. Her husband Hymie died first, and I recall how my Dad claimed the old man (who wore a patch over one eye and frankly looked like a Jewish pirate) had been a bootlegger. Uncomplicated times, these were, in a house of quite complicated lineage.

(Ed. Note 1: Great Uncle Benny bought the home in ’39. He sold it to Grandpa Harry who died a decade later and left it, in late ’49, to Grandma Cele and their two kids: my mom and brother Bob — 1/3, 1/3, 1/3.). Ah, but the plot thickens: In February ‘52, my mom and uncle deeded their interests over to Grandma, making her the sole owner until … mitten dirrena … mid-March, Grandma signed it back to her children).  Two conveyances in six weeks?

(Ed Note 2: Cele married Irv Porter early in 1952. Note to self: I need to call Aunt Etty and find out if it was Uncle Bob’s idea to get the property out of Grandma’s name. Must have been a whirlwind romance between Irv and Cele. What other explanation for the house being flipped?).

Ah, but I digress. Suffice it to say that the decade’s white flight severed my ties with that wondrous setting. Along with the Rubins, the Eisners, and even Mrs. Waller, we schlepped up Cedar Road to the mecca of “The Heights”.

Second stop: 4249 Bayard Road, South Euclid, Ohio.

One floor living at its best! H and I would cross quickly to school. Abutting us in every direction were friends. To the left: Hovanyi, Fenton, Cohen, Fromin…. To the right: Gelfand, Davidson, Matejka, Mulberg, and even further down Polster and Shafran.  (And Markowitz, and Duchon and DD Davis).

Diagonal from Rowland we were, and everyone it seemed, (except the rich kids from south of the school), would pass our way both in coming and going.

— And pet our sheltie … the dog they all knew: Adam

(Ed Note 3: A bungalow it was — 3 bedrooms, one bath. Ah, but the finished basement featured a tiled floor with four central tiles displaying the ace of spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs. The home would be lost in foreclosure, over time — a product perhaps of our father’s compulsion for gambling. Go figure).

The next stops matter not; they all blend together.  The colonial we moved to when Mom married Sam? Bigger, but so? Unknown to me still was that a seed sown on Stonehaven: a house is not always a home.

College intervened, but once Columbus and Uncle Sam were behind me the theme was sustained.

Next stop: 250 Chatham Way, Mayfield Heights, Ohio.

Good times they were, and in some ways idyllic. What could be better than an apartment adjacent to Stuart’s? Classes in the morning, soap operas in the afternoon…

(Ed. Note 4: I didn’t know the place was small, I swear. In the middle of my last last school year, I got the tap. “We should be moving,” she said. “OK.”).

Not that I didn’t like our next stop. 2250 Par Lane, Willoughby Hills it was, and somewhat brand/spanking new. But then came the decorator, and the interior paint, and…

When we bought back on Wrenford I was thrilled. 1911, a walk to the schoolyard, a return to my roots. Three bedrooms they were, somewhat small. And in the basement, one-half was finished. Just a half. Indeed, the other portion (and I don’t know how), but it had a lower roof. We’d have to crouch like Groucho Marx just to navigate through it.

But I was happy, content, smiling.

ENTER ELAINE WALTER, a good friend, Marc’s mom, but a realtor.  (It was 1982).

“What do you need a bigger house for?” asked my Dad as we purchased in Beachwood.

His head was in the 50’s and mine in the 60’s; we were fish out of water. Still, beautiful as the Maidstone home was, necessary as the new space was (with Stacy pending), Al Bogart’s utterances ring true to this day:

“The house you have now is working!” he counseled. “You can only eat three meals a day,” he pointed out. “You don’t need to put this pressure on yourself.”

I didn’t care, I guess; busy I was, being upwardly mobile, driving a bigger car, worrying we might not “keep up with the Jones’s”.

This stop:  serenity. 

For a long time now I’ve been comfortable in my own skin.  Like I was on Hopkins. And on Bayard. And on Chatham Way.

‘Tis a comfort level borne by the simple understanding that bigger isn’t always better, and that surrounded by love, less can be more.

I didn’t want to go, to be honest. The annual awards ceremony at the biggest venue in the adjoining county. Nominated I’d been— for Best Director Of A Musical. (But I wasn’t going to win … didn’t deserve to win … and besides: in my heart of hearts I know these people like me but don’t really respect whatever theater prowess I have).

But I went — because in my deeper heart of hearts I knew not only was it the right thing to do (many of my friends, some of whom I’d directed, were up for awards), but because I’d had a wondrous 2014-15 season, and that I’d savored parts of each of the three shows I’d touched.

How many times last fall, in that last scene of “The Fantastiks”, did I cry to the tender words of “Try To Remember”? How many performances ended with me tearing to the mental whirlwind of Michael, Jamie and Stacy growing up?

How many nights last winter did I schlep to Chardon plagued with the insecurity of directing my first musical? Sure it was “Bye Bye Birdie” and certainly I got a kick out of the high school senior reprising the role both Paul Lynde and I made famous (Mr. McAfee)….but have you DRIVEN Geauga County in February?

Ah, but how many times did I thrill last spring to the tunes of “The Music Man”, eyes wetting to family memories, prancing as but a piece of a pressure-free ensemble?

No, I didn’t expect to win, but show I did and happy I was — the minute I’d walked through the lobby.

There they were, the actors that became my friends. There they were, the stage hands that propped me up.

So sit I did, in the house for two hours. And thought I did, ‘bout what I would say … in the unlikely event … that they called my name.
I’d give a shout out to the musical director John. And I’d thank the choreographer, Lisa-Marie. And our stage manager Lauren. And the cast — all good kids.

I’m a better prognosticator, of course, than director. Called my name wasn’t (unless you count the 8 pm voice mail from Aunt Helen).

Still, I was glad I’d gone and joyed to see friends.   Best of all, I was content and ever-pleased to be a piece of the ensemble.

Whirlwind days they had been — two weeks of hard work prepping the office for my absence, the pre-wedding “To Do” list, the honeymoon itself. Wondrous as our sojourn was, in so many ways it was non-stop. From the tranquility of Rabbi Mandel’s ceremony to the post-midnight Pittsburgh arrival to our run at the casino to the concert at Heinz Field to the early Monday flight south…. Heck, Florida too was non-stop until we were finally ground to a halt by the unforgettable, unforgiveable, and utterly piss-poor service that last day in the airport restaurant. No surprise then that after ten days at home we needed to get away.

It was almost heaven— West Virginia. 24 Hours, in and out. Almost heaven.

Those who know what makes me tick, i.e. the little things: the nonsense things…the things you can’t put prices on — will get this narrative. Others perhaps have yet to evolve to a point where they can appreciate being shallow with dignity.

Picture/perfect weather last Friday as we drove toward Newell! Popcorn in the car, insouciance and Stern in the air, we went east then south. Carrie drove, and always having my back she was first to acknowledge that my friends would be impressed at the expanse of my travels. Jubilantly she was pointing out that as we sped down Ohio 11 we were passing such exotic places as Calcutta, Lisbon, and indeed, East Palestine.

But let me tell you about the hotel. It was a stellar venue in multiple ways:

1. We parked fifty feet from the lobby, and
2. The lobby was fifty feet from our room.

(Ed. Note 1: I’d called the casino en route, hoping to get a “flop” for the night. Not to be. As such, when the Holiday Inn Express front desk advised they had only a room with queen-sized beds, I deflated. “That’s what we have at home,” noted Carrie. (Who knew? I thought we had a King).

3. Friday nights the place offered All You Can Eat pancakes. We didn’t partake, mind you … but the touch was nice. Showed good values.
4. Set on a massive hillside with the backdrop all greenery, it struck me that this would be the perfect setting to sing “The hills are alive with the sound of music” in a video for Lucy.   Alas, time, sunset and the magnetic pull of good cards made it just impossible.

Suffice it to say that after appropriate private time we found our way to Mountaineer.

“Two hours?” she asked me as I bolted toward the Poker Room.
“OK,” I said over my shoulder, “But I’ll text you if it doesn’t feel right.”

It felt right. (Ed. Note 2: I’ve always had good karma at this place. From the days when I’d drive down with Bob, Terri and Mary Anne, to the day jaunts with the program guys to now. Some rooms just feel right).

Indeed, once sitting down to play (in my favorite seat, just left of the dealer), the gods kept smiling. ‘Twas a good hour and a half later as I stood for the first time (to shake off some putz that had played a 9-3 off/suit), that I noticed my bride…sitting by the side … waiting patiently.

(Ed. Note 3: I remember Walt assuring me once, when talking of losing a hand to a guy who’d played like a schmuck. “Be glad he’s at your table.”).

‘ Left the casino on schedule…not quite 10… and it was there, off the center the hotel lobby, that we made what I would humbly submit is thus far the greatest discovery of this young 21st century: The Mahogany Restaurant. After requisite due diligence confirming that the burgers were “all beef”, we ordered sandwiches to go.
Let me make this perfectly clear (as Dr. Leon H. Spotts would have said fifty years ago at Park Synagogue): Carrie and I, that evening, in a small town in West Virginia (of all places!) sunk our teeth into the best cheeseburgers ever created. Clearly, as she sat desk/side in our room and I lay stomach/down on the bed, as we watched Trump in Alabama, the enjoyment derived from Mahogany’s cheeseburgers was no less than a religious experience.

Had our respite ended there, it would have been enough. Ah, but there was still morning to come —

We rose Saturday and walked those fifty feet back toward the lobby. To the free buffet breakfast.

“I need to video this!”
(She understood).

There in the midst of the banquet (Ed. Note 4: No bagels, no lox— strictly Christian cuisine) … was a pancake maker! Can you believe it? A no-more-than twelve inch cubed metal instrument that — if you press a button — rolled out flat four-inch in diameter flapjacks.

“Lucy needs to see this!”

Carrie had a pancake; me:  scrambled eggs.  And of course we filmed the machine.

I then played poker, and Carrie some blackjack.  Looking up two hours later, (slightly less), my eyes caught her.

She was sitting there to the side, quietly reading, waiting patiently…angelically… for me to tire or my cards to turn.

Soon we were heading home,both refreshed yet still glowing.

“Is this heaven?” John Kinsella once asked his dad.  “It’s Iowa,” he was told.  One state over, last weekend, my bride and I walked our own Field of Dreams.

It was “almost heaven”.

Diverse we were, in athletic interests, athletic prowess, intellect, social graces and confidences — heck: one of us never played little league, one of us (me) couldn’t buy a date, and one of us grew up in a house where English was the second language! Still there we sat, five guys, fifty-fivish years later, in the corner of Red.

We don’t convene that often, actually. It took my marriage to do it. Mark’s in Columbus, but barely. Having just built a home down in Boynton Beach, he’ll retire next month and drag Lisa down south. Fenton? Already gone he is (no matter where he spends summers). Bobby, Art and I stand tall, however, imbedded in Cleveland. Even so, did not The Kraut relate that he might move to Israel?

It was the typical night. Discretion mandates no names be used, but suffice it to say that one of us charmed the server, one of us looked bored, one of us tried to impress the group by ordering appetizers Al Bogart never heard of, one of us kept trying to stir the pot and create controversies, and two of us (Erv and me, go figure), valeted cars.

Across from each other sat Stuey and I. Perfect. Unspoken communication brokered by two hours of eye contact kept both of us laughing. And Yes, Kraut was enjoying himself although he never seems quite as amused as Stu and I at having the SAME conversations over and over about the whereabouts of this girl or that guy…. or the inevitable question from our buddy:  “B, did you find Debbie for me yet?”

We hit priorities first:  the good news with Mark’s granddaughter, then the toast to my marriage… then, (to no one’s surprise) the annual update and breaking news on Marvin.

Bob and Erv haven’t changed an iota.  Their incarnation of Dandy Don Meredith and Howard Cosell blended friendship with their time-worn material — all to our table’s benefit.

Ed. Note: What? You don’t like the 70’s TV-duo analogy? How about this: Ermine played Donald Trump to Bobby’s Rick Perry on steroids.

And the conversation flowed—

Kraut says he won’t retire. I’ll die with my boots on. And Bobby? He won’t stop working, he says, but would consider living in Florida.

“How you going to work down there?” I asked.
“On my computer.”
“You sound like George Costanza,” Fenton told him, referring to George’s desire to be a major league baseball GM.

There was the typical nonsense. We urged the server to put extra garnish on Bob’s plate. He’d ordered steak, as did Ermine. Bobby true to his South Euclid roots went for quantity whereas Brother Mark ordered the small filet, opting for quality. (Both of them SO predictable). Ever-frugal Stuart asked for chicken yet when Kraut got lamb, I followed suit. (It wasn’t so much that I wanted lamb as that in the interim I’d asked Erv the difference between the two cuts of beef and as the waitress came around I still had no idea what the kid from Linnell Road had said).

The fact is it was a wondrous, harmonious evening — not even the gentle jousting that’s oft fueled our dinners. Indeed the only disagreement at all was the table debate about cruises. Stuart noted he’s “been on over fifty”; Mark said he’d never do it again. And me? I told them yet again, “Not in this lifetime!”.

“How do you know you won’t like it if you’ve never done it?” urged Stuart.
“I’ve never had a guy stick his dong up my ass,” I told him, “But I know I wouldn’t like that.”
(The subject changed).

Dine we did, for more than two hours. Sure, we stood mid-meal for the obligatory picture (as Bob and Mark sparred o’er whose I-phone to use).  But the night was for smiling… laughing…reveling…regaling.

Rejoicing!

The other four treated, in honor of my nuptials. Appreciate it I did, truly.

But what sustains us each at such times — is an appreciation…NO a reverence for our lifetime of friendships …

and more than anything else, our undying bond.

                “A law was made a distant moon ago here:
                July and August cannot be too hot….”

Twenty-eight hours before matrimony, and as I picked my aunt up — precisely on time, I might add — nothing had changed.

“I should have asked your brother to drive me.”
“Why, Aunt Helen? I said 5:40 and it’s 5:40.”
“He’s never late,” she noted.
“Neither am I.”
“Why must everything be an issue?”

(We drove in silence: she regretting her last sixty years and me regretting the next sixty minutes). Not really. The Annointed One, Harold be he, was meeting us at temple, and my brother would shine as our buffer).

Poetic it was being our father’s yartzeit. Beautiful memories of him blending with beautiful thoughts of her, the service flew by. He’d have loved Carrie, I knew— and not just ‘cause she played gin. Love him too, would she have. Best of all, however, he (like she and me), would have loved us!

Fourteen hours pre-ceremony I breakfasted at Corky’s. (Go figure).

“The usual?” she asked.
“Challah French toast,” I proclaimed. “No syrup, though. I’m on my wedding diet.”

At the ten-hour mark the calls began.  Meredith and Michael, as I stood in Verizon — followed shortly by Bonesy.  Stacy and I?  We spoke and texted all day,’though Yes, I took a break for Last Coffee with Weiskopf.  (Ed. Note:  From all my single-dom, I’ll miss Ed most).

And the clock ticked down:   Hitting the office, schlepping food for Helen … packing, readying for a rare week away … microwaving (for old time’s sake) one last piece of salmon …

Four hours ‘ere game time I stopped at my brother’s. Sitting in symmetry — on the same couches where we’d cried through “Field Of Dreams” and “It’s A Wonderful Life” — smiling, laughing like the two boys on Hopkins Avenue, on Bayard Road…

Two hours to go, and I was where I belonged: at a meeting. How could I not be?

It was the fall of ’97, and after two nights at Cleveland Clinic, it chose to discharge me.  “Get to a meeting tonight,” urged the nurse.  “I can’t,” I advised her, “…Visitation night with the girls.  ”They’d rather you got well,” she said. “It’s where you belong.”  Sixty-five hundred days have passed. Plus. Forgotten I haven’t: what got me to the dance, what gave me my life.

Dennis stood up at 9, as the conclave was ending.

“Let’s keep Bruce in our prayers,” he announced. “He’s getting married tonight.  “Maybe we should pray for his wife?” someone quipped.

Returning to the condo, psyched, I was greeted at the door by the two Ocean Eyes and unique elegance of my bride-to-be.

Then it happened so fast: Rabbi Mandel’s words … the Shevah Brachot … the holding back tears, the not holding back tears … the breaking of the glass!
Within a half hour we were on our way —

To Pittsburgh
To Boca
To Life.“

“…In short there’s simply not a more congenial spot

For happy ever-aftering than here in Camelot!”

Lerner/Loewe

We’re in the final countdown. Two days to go. The clock’s not ticking — it’s pulsating. As Linick would say: “The flag is up!” I’m ready!

Transportation booked? Check.
Hotel booked? Check.
Concert tickets secured? Check.

Carrie and I have blazed through these past hundred days with carefree confidence. Empowered by the pureness of what we share we’ve swatted away the few pests in our paths. Moreover, warmed by well-wishers, we’ve continued our journey…

—A journey that from Day One… has truly known One Direction.

Clothes from the cleaner? Check.                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Rings picked up?  Check.                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Shoes shined? Pending.

The when and where came easy. August 1st marks three years to the day from our first date (if Carrie’s counting). How could we not?
Her condo made sense. The late tip-off after Shabbos made sense. Keeping it small? No children or brothers or mothers or one hundred and one year-old aunts? A rough call, but the right call for us. The whole thing will be short, to the point, and moving in One Direction.

Haircut? Check.
Manicure? Check
Shoes shined? (Still pending).

Spoke to Bobby yesterday. And Stuart. To remind them. Lifelong friends since the 50’s, why they’re ushers in all my weddings. I called Linda too, who we’ll see down in Florida.  And our rabbi?  I phoned him last week.

“B,” he said, “I’ve got some notes, and I’m ready.”
“Listen,” I reminded, “You’re a great speaker and all, but we have to be in Pittsburgh by Sunday night.”

Ready we are, by the way. Carrie and I. Right on course.

I won’t see her on Saturday. You’re not supposed to see the bride the day of the wedding … I seem to remember that. So I’ll pack up tonight and evaporate tomorrow.  And anticipate.

As David would say: “The flag is up!”

“You’re going to get a call from Stuart Miller,” Michael told me. It was the mid-Y2K’s, and my son, recently engaged to the beautiful Meredith, I suppose was warning me.

(Ed. Note 1: Meredith Vale Miller, nka Bogart, was from Great Neck, New York — hometown of Wendy, the AEPhi I went out with in 1970 — the one Walt said back then was “perfect” for me. I would be lying if I told you that 3+ decades later it didn’t occur to me to look her up).

(Ed. Note 2: It would be a further lie to tell you I hadn’t.).

Anyway: The phone rang on a Sunday night … just past 8 … as I was driving from a meeting … and I remember it well.

First it was Caryn, with small talk. (Ed. Note 3: We’d met once before. There was this dinner, a “Meet The Parents” kind of thing in Manhattan. There were smiles, shared tales of our kids, and fluff. Nothing, to be sure, of major consequence.).

Then, table having been set: “Stuey wants to speak to you.” —

It was less than five minutes, our whole conversation. Straight talk, candid talk, man-to-man talk — candor, if you will; we treaded on sensitive matters.

— And when the phone call concluded, it felt right. When our dialogue ended I sensed right then and there that this was a man to be trusted, a guy not unlike the New Yorkers I met through the Sammy House:  Liff, Appel, Franklin, Safran … that this was a man to befriend.

Ten years ago that was, give or take, and let the word go forth: the man I took an immediate liking to a decade ago I’ve come to love and respect, and admire.

—Not because he’s a sports fan, which he is.
—Not because he’s good to my son, which he is.
—Not even because he went with me to “The Three Stooges’ movie in 2012, which he did… or that he sat with me for hours on end watching the entire first season of “Veep” (which he’d seen before).

…But because Stuart Miller, with his tough New York accent, hard shell breeding and all is a true mensch, a gutte neshuma, a valued friend.

The jury was out at first, of course. Those first years of the marriage, there was nothing on the table. Then came Max… and Eli… and the nurture of family.

Me being geographically-impaired as a grandfather, Stuart’s done everything imaginable to minimize distance. (With Caryn), from opening their home ALWAYS, to keeping me “in the loop”, to ever-gracious rides to and from LaGuardia…to again ALWAYS maximizing my time with the boys—

And yet it’s so much more. Stuart Miller is, I’d suggest (and I hope the Knicks fan in him doesn’t mind the analogy), a latter-day John Havlicek. Indeed, as prolific as the Celtic great was with the ball in his hands, his greatness stemmed from how he moved without it.

As John Wooden put it: “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.”

Stuart Miller has true character.

For a decade now I’ve observed him. Steadfast he’s been, through sickness and health — ever there for his daughters, ever there for his nieces, ever there for my boy. Hard-pressed am I in fact, to recall this hard-core New Yorker saying an untoward word about anyone. ‘Bout the best you can get out of him on a tough subject is his knowing look, his nod of his head. “Switzerland,” Carrie dubbed him.

I’m acutely aware that over time not all my actions have been perfect. Indeed, some of my most poignant moments are spent wishing Michael could live in Cleveland and see me now — in my prime. The upside, however, is that he has Stuart to study— a paramount role model.

We saw Gary Puckett together, just a few weeks back. It was Carrie and Caryn and Stuart and Aunt Robin. We sat there on lawn chairs … as the sun went down…in Great Neck.

The ladies kibitzed, I roamed the crowd looking for my cousin Perry, and Stuart somewhat slept. Quietly.

Earlier that day we’d sung with the boys, laughed in the car, and even had a serious conversation with gut-level honesty.

It was the perfect blend of family and friendship, enriched by the youngest seventy-year old I know:  this truly good man.

Remember the Raid On Aunt Helen? You know: that gallant but ultimately unsuccessful 2012 mission to retrieve Hindy’s coat. Time for an update.

Carrie, (the decoy three years ago) and I–we’d been dating ten weeks at the time — are now engaged. Aunt Helen, still holding the coat hostage, is now 101 and going down swinging. Still, as the saying goes, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

My brother and I got into a debate a few weeks back. Just how much money, we wondered, if any, does our aunt still have? Oh, there’d been rumors way back that Grandma Bogart had been getting a pension from the Polish government or the Russian army, or something or other. But still, our aunt, even in her hay day, was merely glorified clerical.

Ed. Note 1: Yes, she’d managed a record store… but clearly those were times when women were grossly overworked, underpaid, and accepted whatever was offered. Arthur Newman Records? Recordland? Walking distance from her home…on a bus line — how much could she really have garnered?

The more we chirped about it, the more intriguing the subject. The more our interests were piqued, the more of a game it became.

“She’s been after me to bring Carrie to change her overhead light bulb,” I advised him.
“You’re there every day!”
“Yeah, but she’s afraid to have me stand on her bed. She says Carrie’s better suited for that.”
(Wheels were turning)
“What if you came with me”, I offered, “And while you’re on her bed screwing in the new bulb I can be in the other room rummaging through papers?”
“You’re an idiot,” he deadpanned.
“Does that mean you won’t do it?” “No, of course I’ll do it. I just said you’re an idiot.”

The operation proceeded last week. Interestingly enough, while I, perhaps instigated, my little bro called some shots:

Driving down Cedar, but minutes from her house…

“I’ll be on the bed with both of you standing by,” he directed. “After a minute or two I’ll tell you you’re in the way—that you should just go in the other room.”

(He was on a roll).

“You go through the buffet drawers and see what you can find,” he continued, “She’ll stay with me to make sure I don’t fall!”

Like a lady that’s seen 944 Chanukah candles could catch a falling nephew.

Ed. Note 2: That’s counting each Shammash.

Eight houses from her home, however, it occurred to me: what we really needed was a code H could shout out if our aunt started to leave his side. That the last thing we wanted was her walking from the bedroom and seeing me snoop.

“Remember when Seinfeld was switching the telephone message that George had left for that girl? What was the word of warning?”

(He looked puzzled).

I was driving on…we were approaching … I was drawing a blank…he didn’t care.

“Who, I wondered inwardly, would remember the word?”  Three syllables, I sensed, but I couldn’t come up with it!

I called Jason. Voice mail. And Walt. Voice mail. And Burnside. Same.  We were now in her driveway now, as I dialed up Lester.

“Everything OK?” he asked (from the middle of his workday).
“What was the code word Jerry and George used when they changed the tape?”
“Tippy toe”, he shot back.  “Tippy toe.”
The flag was up!

Ascending her stairs and bidding hello, we entered her boudoir. To Hal’s right stood our aunt; to his left, poised toward the door, stood I.  Gamely he toyed with the fixture.  (I mean really, how difficult is it to unscrew a light?).

“Bruce, you’re standing too close,” he complained. “Just go in the other room.”
“OK”

—And for the next five minutes I scrambled through bureaus,  sifted through papers, and came up empty. Wherever her records were, I’d deduced, they were not to be found. Ah… but Hindy’s coat? Would I ever have another chance to scour closets for the garment my cousin left behind?  In 1990.  At Michael’s Bar Mitzvah!

Perhaps…just perhaps!

Time running — after all it was only one bulb H was dickering with — I bolted from the dining room to the front of the house… and I rummaged through the closet —salivating…anticipating that indeed this day I’d uncover the holy grail.  I could feel it, I could.  I could feel it.  Surely it was in there!  What could go wrong?

“Tippy toe!” my brother shouted. “Tippy toe!”

Our parents’ divorce meant the Brothers Bogart saw their father but every other weekend. He was selling on the road back then, but came in late Fridays and returned us on Sundays, and took lodging with his mother (Grandma Bogart). These were simpler times, and frankly, I don’t think it ever really bothered me when we shifted to Cleveland Heights twice per month. A vacation of sorts, it was a respite, in a way. (At least for me. In all these years, I never really asked H how he felt).

Aunt Helen, of course, lived there. And when our Dad came to town and his boys came to stay, quite often our Mom was nice enough to let Adam come with us. Not that our grandmother was so thrilled about it, but — except for when the sheltie would playfully sniff at her — she was fine.

“Albert, what is he doing?” she’d ask timidly. “Tell him to go away.”

It was fun, though … and pure … and family.

Ed. Note 1: I mention “family” specifically. When our Dad first moved out, he was in the final downward spiral of his insurance sales career. Still in town, he’d cut a monthly deal at the Hillcrest Motel, inconveniently located at Richmond and Euclid. ‘Twas there that we stayed. (And NO, I don’t want to know how he found that place)!

The spot wasn’t as far away as it sounded, actually. We used to play ball at Negrelli Field on South Euclid’s northern tip. Dreidling through side streets in our father’s Plymouth Valiant, why it took but minutes to emerge down on Euclid. Not a big deal, to be sure, but with the outdoor pool (and a father that didn’t swim), well …

Grandma Bogarts’, however, offered a semblance of home: a renewal, a gentrification, if you will, of our fallen family. It was family.

There were the four of us (with Adam at times) upstairs in a two-bedroom walk-up. Grandma had her bedroom; our aunt had hers; and the three of us — a father and his boys? On a “studio couch” we slept…on a “fold out”… as a trio…our Dad in the middle with a son on each wing … wishing and hoping that in the course of the night our father (who moved around in his sleep), wouldn’t kick the middle third of the mattress out the window.

It was 1965, and the bedding— old, ugly, and a putrid burnt yellow — was awkward and inconvenient, and yet still warm, and fuzzy.

In a heartbeat, it seems, a half century passed.

I’m getting married this August. On the first, to be exact, once Shabbos concludes. Being the second time around, of course, there’ll be little in the way of pomp and circumstance. And still…I don’t want to see her that day — not before the wedding. Let the pulse of the day build through anticipation!

Extraordinary times clearly call for extraordinary measures: thinking outside the box, perhaps, or through the rear view mirror.

Ten days from now I’ll be a day from my wedding. Ten days from now, for the last time after twenty years, I’ll retire unmarried.

What to do? How shall I spend my last night single? What would be fun? Right? Appropriate?

Ten nights from now I will pick up my aunt. It won’t be for shopping or even for banking.

Ten nights from now we’ll pick up my brother and drive on to shul. For services…at Park Synagogue … our father’s yahrtzeit.

— And ten nights from now…after dinner, and after services, we’ll head back to Aunt Helen’s…

To sleep on a couch that is still old, and still a putrid yellow.

It will be family though, and on the thirtieth anniversary of my father’s death, the thought of snoozing on the same couch I shared with him lo those many years ago is … well …

warm and fuzzy.