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Michael had retrieved us at LaGuardia,  and as we entered the Chappaqua Starbucks, we were greeted by the sparkling eyes of a two-year old.  Eyelashes flickering…. cheeks splashing his unforgettable smile, Eli Bogart was beaming.  “Papa Boos”, he blurted, as this grandfather melted.

Trips east or west without an agenda are special in their own rights. Life cycle events are nice, but the un-orchestrated is often more memorable. Like last weekend.

Max was at camp when we arrived, so my eyes first caught him in our motel hallway hours later. Has it really been five years since that summer of pregnancy, of expectation? Since the ultrasounds?

The kids ate before us, game plan being that Carrie and Meredith’d read them to bed while Michael and I picked up food. Ah but in a scene so reminiscent of my dropping Michael in Manhattan fifteen years ago, we got caught on the wrong side of a procession —this time Mt. Kisco’s annual Firemen’s Parade. (The food got cold; my son got hot; and to the pleasure of absolutely no one, I caught it on tape).

Our first choice would have been to stay at The Kittle Inn. Booked it was, though, so we wound up at the Holiday Inn adjacent to the kids’ camp. Saturday’s day night doubleheader, then, gave us opportunity to see their summer indoor haunt, and their outdoor pool. (Ed. Note 1: My Dad was a great father, but other than baseball, he was not the outdoors type. Frankly, I can’t remember seeing him in a pool but for an occasional volleyball game in the 3-feet at Riviera. Seeing as how those swim club years numbered three, and Cleveland baseball’s but four months, that tells a story). (Ed. Note 2: Michael’s a doting father. Indoors and out. Watching him roll around in the pool with his boys was endearing. To everyone).

No parade before dinner. The Bogarts readied for a party while the soon-to-be Bogarts ordered Chinese. We sat the kids that night, eyes bouncing between network programing and bedroom monitors.

Halftime.

“Papa Boos!” he repeated. “Papa Boos!” Hand in hand, Eli Matthew and I traversed the unfamiliar confines of Muscoot Farm. Thank God the adults were there to identify the farm animals. I was lost. (Ed. Note 3: Yeah, the petting zoo was something else our father didn’t believe in). (Ed. Note 4: Come to think of it— and my brother may correct me if I’m wrong – but I think the only reason we ever went to the regular Cleveland Zoo was because the lodge had some outings there).

Max, of course, big brother that he is, pushed ahead. In the course of the weekend he’d taken a liking to Carrie (his pronunciation rhymes with “sorry”), and the beauty of the whole dynamic was that WHATEVER Max did, Eli would mimic.

There’s something about brothers. Something special.

Sixteen months separate H and I. Less than a year and a half. And don’t get me wrong…growing up…it was both a blessing and a curse. For years our mother dressed us as twins, ‘til she couldn’t. For years he’d tag along with my friends, ‘til he didn’t want to. For years we fought here and there, yet always made up. (Ed. Note 5: To this day I can picture wrestling with him on the carpet of the unmarked line of demarcation between the small dining room and the even smaller kitchen. The flooring had torn; he was poked by a nail and was crying; and our mother’d come to the rescue).

But we were brothers. Always.  We sparred; we jousted; but we were brothers. (Ed. Note 6: In a dozen/plus Boobus Bowls, we were ALWAYS teammates).

Brothers. Like Eli and Max.

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

We returned today. To the work and the play of Ohio.

And ‘though my album of this weekend may fade, one picture won’t dull. It’ll be that of Max and Eli … almost 2, almost 5 … brothers-in-arms. Together.

I pray for all my family. We all do. There’s a dynamic to brothers, however, that trumps other combos. I know it; I’ve lived it; I embrace it.

May these two…these two beautiful brothers… live a life of health and family, and embrace their special nexus knowing though they may sometimes line up on opposite sides of the line of scrimmage, they need never compete.

Amen.

“God does not play dice with the universe…”

Albert Einstein

God made trees, forests, rivers and wildlife, to be sure. What he didn’t create, were plains, trains and automobiles. From this simple fact I deduce it was God’s will that grown children remain in the towns of their ancestors. I can no more imagine He wanted my offspring to uproot, fly, and replant states away than He wanted his Chosen People to abandon Eretz Yisrael and find other “homes” in Europe and The New World. (Ed. Note 1: Play to the end of the tape— where that bottom-feeder Modell moved the Browns out of Cleveland). With this as a backdrop, there I sat: packed in a car with my daughter, a three year old, a two-month old and a dog … heading east on the turnpike.

I knew before sunrise ‘twould be a day to remember. I knew before waking that the day’d be long, the kids would be kids, yet somehow we’d manage. Of material import: I sensed ‘ere we started that as unique as our trek would be—perhaps our once in a lifetime— that the day would be treasured.

Our game plan was simple. We would stop at the 50th annual Bohrer Family Picnic up in Highland Park, mix with the kinfolk, and then head ‘cross the country. (Ed. Note 2: Jason’s family’s get-together is truly a marvelous thing. Generations convene each July 4th —some coming from as far as Florida — and indeed the event would be perfect if only it were held indoors. (Ed. Note 3: Picnics with air-conditioning will come in my time, I predict. I’d like to be on the right side of history).

We left 3-ish from the park — Lucy facing front, Ruby facing back, Adam on my lap, and Stace behind the wheel. We arrived 10-ish — Lucy awake, Ruby asleep, Adam in back all aglow (Ed. Note 4: His roots are in Cleveland; his comfort’s there) … and up front, in the front seat: savoring both the love and the pressure of a day’s travel: two kindred spirits.

…And in the miles twixt and between, a father and daughter laughed, sang, bickered (once), and more than anything else SHARED the splendor of ordinary moments drenched in quality time:

— Me reminding Stacy as we hit the highway that she’d promised I’d enjoy total control of the radio dial.
—Lucy asking “When will we be at Grandma’s?” as we crossed into Indiana.
—Stacy driving cautiously, as caravans of cars passed on our right.

(Ed. Note 5: When you’re comfortable in your skin, as I am in mine, it permits others—especially doting daughters— to be comfortable pointing out how you can improve the skin you’re in. Consider:

“Lucy needs to use the potty,” she said. “We might as well eat.” “OK.” “There’s only a McDonald’s and Dairy Queen at this rest stop” “What do you want me to get? “Definitely not ice cream. You shouldn’t eat it and Lucy shouldn’t see you eat it. Have a salad.” “If I get the salad it will spill as you drive.”
“Then get a wrap.”

(Ed. Note 6: By now I could hear my Dad laughing. This was not going to end well, I reasoned. Sort of like when Michael and I went to the buffet breakfast in Vegas. It was Sophie’s Choice. But Yes, I was going in!).

Returning to the car minutes later I gave Adam some ice chips and wrapped him back under my left arm all-the-while delicately harnessing my inner finesse and gingerly balancing the chicken and lettuce emerging from the foil.

“If you keep your lips together,” she cautioned, “You won’t slurp.” I smiled weakly.  “Do you eat that way in front of Carrie?” She was right, I knew, so I didn’t push back—not even for the sport of it. I went, rather, in a different direction:

“NOW can I put what I want on the radio?” “Not until Lucy’s asleep, please.” (Meanwhile, as Ruby slept quietly, someone had heard her name mentioned). “I think I see Grandma’s house,” she announced in central Indiana. “That’s just a cloud,” I noted. (Ed. Note 7: A good quip, I thought. Cerebral. Apparently not. Not even a muted glare from my daughter).

Fact is I was truly enjoying the trip. We both were. Miles of sharing what H and I term the art of conversation were punctuated by me leading assorted progeny in the singing of “C is for Cookie”. (Ed. Note 8: A second verse, “P is for Pork”, DID yield that glare from my daughter). Meaningful, meaningless, and yet—oh so memorable was our discourse, the highlight being our casting a virtual biopic on Stacy’s life.

—The wheels kept rolling. Rooney refused my offers to drive, yet as we moved through the dusk, with Shirley Temple chirping in the backseat:
“You can play the radio now,” Stacy said. Rejoicing, I struck the first available button, hitting upon Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. “Leave this,” she announced as I moved to change stations, “I like this.”

Ah, but it mattered not. Part of our shtik, it was. I didn’t care so much about the radio. Not really. And she knew it.

Darkness greeted us as we pulled off the freeway. Instantaneously, or so it seemed, our day..our once in a lifetime day…was done.  Within moments Lucy was gone, Ruby was gone, Adam was gone, and my Little One, the sparkle to this long day’s journey into night, was inside her mother’ house.

I will always remember last Saturday, and the rapture it brought, and I’ll save the mosaic.  The seasons will pass; the kids will grow, but there will still be one constant: when I look through life’s rearview mirror, I’ll think not of the music-less travel, fret not o’er the meal that I missed, but see only a priceless postcard: Lucy facing front, Ruby facing back, Adam on my lap, and Stace behind the wheel.

And I’ll know that that very weekend, God rolled me a seven.

“If you were going to repair the world, where would you start?”

Posted by a Facebook friend last week, the above query drew predictable knee-jerk responses. A plurality spoke to intolerance, and others of love, tolerance, and family. Fine answers, to be sure, but not mine. “…Eliminate the Designated Hitter Rule” I suggested.

Tell me I’m wrong. I dare you. Forget your personal happiness for a second and answer me this: Was the world not a better, safer place in 1973 or now?  Ah…now that I’ve secured your reluctant agreement, permit me to offer my personal Top Ten ways to repair the world:

10 The F.C.C. should mandate that all television seasons both begin in September and end in May. Not because I harken to the old days— but because it worked. We shouldn’t have to Google what season we’re in; kids should be able to play outside in the summer and not miss a new episode.

9 High school graduates should be required to attend their first two years of college in their home state. Then, if they want to spread their wings, God bless them. Not only would this defray the mass exodus of upwardly mobile graduates to only New York, Chicago, and the Left Coast, but indeed ‘tis a proviso that is family-oriented. Indeed—why should nice folk like me and you have to get on airplanes to see our grandkids?

8 Political correctness should be outlawed. (Ed. Note 1: NO, I haven’t gotten over how they fucked with Gilbert Gottfried).

7 Newscasters should be topless, (except on CNN, where they should be soundless).

6 SUV motor vehicles should have their own separate parking lots. (Ed. Note 3: Why in the world should drivers of standard sized cars have to play Russian Roulette backing out of spaces?

5 The Washington Senators should return to the American League.

4 If someone steals your parking space you should be permitted to park behind them and block his/her car in.

3 Inappropriate use of handicapped parking stickers should be a first/tier traffic offense with violators compelled to watch one straight hour of CBS’s “Two Broke Girls”.

2 There should be a uniform law for grocery stores whereby the Express Line (12 items or less) defines an item by the “Swipe Rule”, (i.e. you count the amount of arm swipes rather than units purchased. If, for example, Item X is 3 for $3.50, and there is but one swipe and a “3” punched in on the cash register–well, then–that should count as but 1 item. (Ed. Note 2: As an adjunct to this, whenever some mumser wrongfully proceeds through the Express Line and when notified by the cashier feigns innocence, it should be “Intentional Grounding”. Sirens should go off, massive strobe lights should impact on the store, and the putz should be made to return all items to the shelf. (And to watch “Two Broke Girls”).

—- Which leads me back to my immediate answer on that Facebook posting: the horror of The Designated Hitter Rule. (Ed. Note 3: Established by baseball’s American League merely to prolong careers until such time as its chemists could perfect performance enhancing drugs, it changed our great game for the worse. Can you honestly tell me that wasn’t when baseball jumped the shark? It was the yang to the yin of what was one of the GREATEST rule changes in the history of mankind, to the one statute from the 70’s that was indeed divinely inspired: “Right turn on red”.

Amending Ohio’s motor vehicle code to permit right turns on red? Now THAT was a mechiah

…which bettered the world.

The best things in life truly are free. Consider:

June 4th it was… Looking to cheer up my kid in Chicago, and with Carrie holding the cell, I was singings Fun.’s “Carry On”. (You know the song: “May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground. Carry on….!”). Sending her the video —the whole thing took less than three minutes— we settled down to dinner in the splendor of Cleveland, and waited for her smile. What came though, was so unexpected!

“I showed it to Lucy, Daddy,” Stace told me that night.
“She doesn’t know the song.”
“Can you send me more?”

We talked a bit. The usual stuff: “…When are you coming to Chicago next? … Did you speak to Michael this week? … When are you coming to Chicago next? … Why wouldn’t our children be at the wedding?” Oh… and “When are you coming to Chicago next?”

Buoyed I was, hanging up, by the notion I’d heartened my daughter. Doubling down days later, retrieving stuff from my archives, I sent her two minutes of the Top Ten things that make me think of her. And a day later, with the help of others, I texted a tour of the refurbished mens’ room at a local house of worship.  In each video, I might add, I said hello to Lucy, Stacy, and Bones.

That Monday my phone rang.

“Daddy it would be great if I could wake up to a video every day. Lucy looks forward to them!”

The flag was up. (This was clearly a case of “If you want something done, ask a busy person to do it OR Dad, you really have too much time on your hands).

I haven’t missed since.

In the past weeks my granddaughter’s had her out-of-state grandfather come into her home daily — a cross between a Jewish Captain Kangaroo and a fat Mr. Rogers. Sharing with her daily moments, she’s rejoiced (so I’m told) just watching me marvel at the ordinary.  Miles may separate us, but on aregular basis she’s eyed the method to my madness and the spirit to my heart. Rocketed, we’ve been, to a new dimension.

One day I said “Hello” from the lobby of the VA Hospital. The next I filmed buying her a cupcade in a bakery. One night I played her “Mary Had A Little Lamb” on a piano, and another time I greeted her while getting a manicure.

The time I lay atop the car and Carrie filmed me reading her “Pat The Bunny” was her favorite for a while….until the Friday it poured and CJ (standing safely in the garage) filmed me out in the driveway clad in but tee-shirt, Bermuda shorts and black bowtie, holding an umbrella crooning “Singin’ In The Rain”. I-tunes still ranks that her most played.

I could go on, but you get the point. How great it is just knowing that my mishegos has legs, and that somewhere out there my grandchild loves it.

Ed. Note 1: Of course, sometimes Stacy censors. My guess is she never showed her the eulogy for Ed Turner, or the one when Stuart and I went to a friend’s wake on Mayfield Road, only to discovery (after waiting in line twenty minutes) that we had the wrong person.

Ed. Note 2: I do hope, though, that she showed her my “Hello” from Home Depot, where I explained that I’d never been at the store before because when I was married Dick Lomaz would always help fix things — but that when the divorce came down, Jersey Girl got custody of Lomaz.

It hasn’t all, of course, been jest. No One Trick Pony am I.

From the old house on Maidstone I showed Luce where her mother grew up. From Columbus she was greeted by her Great Grandma Harriet.  And from the hearth where I live, she watched me open her Father’s Day card and thank her “live on tape”.

I could go on, but I won’t. Too much planning to do.

—Like where we will film tomorrow. After all, I’ve got one in the can which I’ll text upon waking! Need to have something in Stacy’s phone ‘ere they wake. (Thank God we’ve a time zone to work with).

And…lest you think, YES, Bruce does have too much time on his hands, let me share this:

My daughter and I spoke this morning about her upcoming trip to Cleveland. (I’m flying out, and with the children we’ll all drive back. They’ll stay with the ex).

From the background I heard a voice.

“Pappy, can I sleep at your house?”

It doesn’t get better.

       “…No one ever made me feel like someone, ‘til him…
       My existence bordered on the tragic:
       Always timid, never took a chance.
       Then I felt his magic and
       My heart began to dance!”

In a few hours we’ll be in Columbus standing graveside of the person who made my every day a better place. Thirty years this August it’ll be and even now he remains in my fabric as a compass.

Few remain of those present at the front of the 60’s. Our parents divorced and, gambling debt up his wazoo, our father left town. In an epoch when no one split (except the parents of the kid crying over his bed in the opening shot of tv’s “Divorce Court”), Hal and I found our family broken. Ed. Note 1: The closest of brothers, in 5+ decades we’ve never REALLY talked about it. Suffice it to say we each sense the other’s general perceptions without ever directly sharing our differences. Thirty seconds of unplanned biannual discourse always ends with one of two comments. Either he’ll proclaim “Well, you were older than me and you saw different things” or I’ll advise “Well, you were younger than me and you saw different things.”

A half-century later, do the what, where and why really matter?

Here’s what I do know though— and what has always mattered: in the five years of my father’s odyssey, whether he sold ties in a territory created by Norm Diamond, “home study” from leads off matchbook covers or magazines for dear “Highlights For Children”— in an era pre-cell phones and internet and a time before no-cost long distance — my father ALWAYS found a way to connect. As much as I missed him I was never truly without him.

This is not euphoric recall. Prove it I can.

Reorganizing archives but weeks ago, I happened upon a compilation of letters sent me through his transient days. On motel letterheads from such iconic places as Piqua, Ohio and Inkster, Michigan, and on stationery that was merely the backside of sales report forms, he wrote his boys. (Ed. Note 2: Did I tell you that if the envelope said “Bruce and Hal” the inside address always read “Hal and Bruce?).

Sifting through his words, some as much as 52 years old, I felt warmth. Smiling…welling… melting, I shared them with Carrie.

I wanted to get on the phone and call my kids—the one that saves and the one that scoffs— and shout from the rooftop “SEE, THIS IS WHY I THROW NOTHING AWAY!!!”

Through lens of decades though I was seeing something new. With my life-stained perception I was realizing that while in the 60’s I held the letters in his absence to render him present,  in my 60’s I held his words in my hand— and his values — to keep his presence immortal.  Reading and re-reading his comments I came to see that indeed, it was what he wrote between the lines that has lived on…

How he’d ask about others, like Gil Arian, Saul Goldman, or “Sheila and her baby”?

Or inquire about Adam? Always about Adam.

(Ed. Note 3: No, not the Adam that Stacy stole away to Chicago, but the one pedigreed “Digest Adam Of South Euclid, the pup of our youth).

How constantly he praised us and encouraged us to be in contact with our grandmother, our Aunt Blanche… and to “remember your Aunt Helen’s birthday— she has no one else”….?

—Indeed, how his musing so often were soaked with his essence:

October 27, 1964:

“…I wanted to mention how pleased I felt to see you on the Bima last Friday night…I would like to have you carefully consider remaining in Hebrew School. Look at it this way: Perhaps you will not benefit from continuing but all you have to lose is two hours once a week from Alan Wieder, Bobby Snyder, etc…”

August 5, 1966

“…Philadelphia is mammoth. It makes Cleveland look like a country village. I have a conservative synagogue directly across the street and the “Corky & Lenny’s” of Philly two blocks away. They give about twice as much meat in a corned beef sandwich…”

September 12, 1966:

“…Glanced at the Rolling Stones on TV on Ed Sullivan Show, got sick…Recovered with Red Skelton on same show…”

May 5, 1967:

“…Bruce you force your mother to be harsh on you. You were 100% wrong. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not mention this episode. OK, consider it buried but really? All this for an Indians game?”

March 14,1968:

“We’ve been cheated out of time together but this too will pass”.

I went to Michigan State out of high school the fall of ’67 in large part because my father was teaching an hour from East Lansing. (My mother’s Aunt Ruth would jeer that I’d followed him).  I transferred to OSU for my second quarter. When, within a year my Dad found work in Columbus, (as the that same aunt railed “He followed you.”).

By junior year my 45 year old father had met his “Carrie”. He knew right away (he said then), and once we had that Sunday afternoon on East 4th when Marilyn made latkehs and we all met Harriet, the man was off and running.

—But never without us.—

So today is Father’s Day… and with timing that can only be termed “divine”, Harriet, alas, is in the process of moving.

“I have these things of your fathers,” she phoned. “More stuff for your closet”.
“We’ll call as we leave the cemetery”.
“Bring boxes,” she cautioned.

Yes, today is Father’s Day.

(Like every single day of my life).

            “There will never ever be another one like him….”

Mel Brooks (“The Producers”)

“I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.”                 Mark Twain                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

He died this week and guess what? My son was right. It wasn’t “bad news” at all — just “news”. Indeed, if death is a part of life, let the record be clear: this man was no part of ours. (At least not once he slinked out the back door by way of the bank and County Recorder’s office).  Ah, but that was years ago. We’ve moved on and now, apparently, so has he.

There is an old Latin phrase “De mortuis nihil nisi bonum”, which translates to “Of the death, nothing unless good”.

Should I not then speak? Is silence more appropriate?

I really don’t want to err. Is there a proper barometer?

Less than a year ago the “Washington Post” noted the passing of Jean-Claude Duvalier, the Haitian leader credited by human rights organizations with killing tens of thousands of his citizenry and under whose watch his country — as per the obit — became the “Western Hemisphere’s epicenter for AIDS”. Still, the newspaper’s balanced coverage pointed out that Mr. Duvalier “…supported a quickie divorce law — anyone could get a decree in 24 hours…”

May I reflect then how years ago our dearly departed, on the eve of Passover, signed his wife into a hospital, told her the marriage was over, and then drove to the coast?

No less a publication than “The New York Times”, in its May 2, 1945 obituary of Adolph Hitler noted:

“…Hitler was truly devoted to music not only as an art but as a tonic for his nerves. His favorites were Schubert, Beethoven and Wagner…”

Would it be appropriate then to mention that the recently departed enjoyed Johnny Cash?

Lost I am— not so much for words, but for a sense of proportion?

Dare I speak? Does it matter? Indeed, what is right?

It is hard not to recall at this time, the thoughtful, sensitive, poignant words attributed to the late Bette Davis:

“…I was told only to speak good of the dead, she said before adding: Joan Crawford is dead….good!”

I think I’m done!

Tuesday night was relaxing. Key word: “relaxing”. It was dinner at 6, meeting at 7, gin at 8:30, then DVR’d “Olbermann” and “Castle” enhanced by Skinny Pop popcorn in bed. Oh yeah, and commencing 10:45 give or take, periodic pausing the recorder to check the NBA playoffs.

Let’s go Cavs!

Now before you start railing on me as my son does or registering skeptical amusement as my son-in-law has, let me explain:

It’s not that I don’t care. Of course I do. Indeed, I am passionate. Past games have been riveting and I stood before the TV the last five minutes of each. (Ed. Note 1: Regulation, that is. The first two went to overtime. As such, I retreated to the recorder until I sensed but a minute or two of game remained).

I can’t take the stress.

Michael doesn’t get it; neither does Jason. The guys up at Corkys do, though. (The non-gamblers). And the bailiff I spoke to just today does … and I do.

Look, I’ve paid my dues!

I sat in the Coliseum rafters for the Miracle At Richfield. I was THERE when “Duck” Snyder hit the layup. And I suffered through “The Shot” of Jordan; I did.

I was in the dog pound with H for “The Drive”, watched “The Fumble” on tv with Mandel, and sat in disbelief as the Indians pissed away the last game of the 97 World Series.

Oh… and even before all that I had my heart broken in the final minute freezing my ass off in the upper deck with Al Oster at the Red Right 88 Game. The windchill of -37 degrees still ranks in the Top Ten of the NFL’s “Weather Games”. Google it. Ah, but I was young. (Ed. Note 2: How much did I want to be there? I wore a garbage bag with cut-out sleeves over my winter coat).

I say DAYEINU! Enough!

I just don’t need the stress. (Ed. Note 3: That’s why I never read novels. Only non-fiction for this cowboy. I need to know how things end.  At 65, I’ve had enough drama in my life. I’ve buried four grandparents, two parents, a step-father and a marriage. I’ve served in the Cub Scouts, the Army, and was married to a girl from New Jersey. I’ve taken my Aunt Helen shopping).

Yes, DAYEINU! I say. I’m all in.

The Cavs tip off at 9 tonight. I’ll be ready.

We’ll have dinner by 8, play some gin around 9; and then I’ll head for bed.

And “Olbermann”
And “Castle” (or maybe “The Mentalist”).

…And at 10:45 give or take, I’ll check out the game.

Hopeful I’ll be, to be sure. Calm I’ll be, either way. And best yet: my cardiologist will be smiling.

Dear Dad,

You were wondering how Aunt Helen was doing, what with her 101st birthday being today. Draw your own conclusions:

Sometime last winter her TV stopped working. I mean for good. (Ed. Note 1: Remember that on countless instances o’er the past decades H has been summoned –at all hours, I might add — to “fix” her television. Recall further that on each occasion it was a two-second job. She just had to be reminded not to hit a certain button again, or not to unplug it, or that perhaps…just perhaps… people should consider replacing their TVs every thirty-five years). (Ed. Note 2: She never called me, by the way. “You’re not good at this,” she’d articulated. Bothered I wasn’t. After all what did I ever do but call Dickie Lomaz?).

Anyway, Thanksgiving the thing just died. Done. Fartik!

— So in December we debated…

“Your brother thinks we should go to Target. I’m not certain.“
“He knows those things,” I confirmed.
“How do you know what he knows? Perhaps Margie told him.”
“Margie knows those things,” I concurred.
“How do you know what Margie knows?”
(Yet before I could frame a response she continued):
“How often do you talk to Margie?”

— And in January we planned…

“When we go shopping this week might we look for a new television?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I will call your brother. Perhaps he has thoughts.”
“OK, whatever he says.”
(Then on Game Day):
“Your brother wants to make this simple.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired.
“He thinks it doesn’t matter.”
“It really doesn’t,” I assured. “They’re all the same.”
“How would you know?  When did you last buy a tv?”
“Whatever my brother says — that’s what we should do.”
“I think I shall wait.” (she concluded).

February turned March turned April. Her silence was golden. Indeed, if my Aunt Helen wasn’t bringing up going for a television, neither was I!

Ah, but then came May…

Renewing her focus on what, when and where to buy a set, she again spoke with Harold. (Ed. Note 3: You know, H: her “good” nephew—the Ray Romano to my Brad Garrett).

“Let’s go to Target!” she pronounced that week.

(Ed. Note 4: A fool I’m not; I was going to take her WHEREVER my brother suggested. This would not end well (odds were), so a Sgt. Schultz mode was best. I knew “NOTHING”.

—And so it was that one Friday mid-May, per directive of H, we went to Target (Ed. Note 5: the same Target he’d suggested a half year earlier), purchased a tv and antenna, and …

Conducting me up her stairs, pointing to a spot in her living room, in her female Colonel Klink:

“Leave it there,” she directed. “Your brother is better at plugging things in than you are. He will come over.”

(Once again, if she didn’t want me to—-who am I to object? As I said, this would not end well).

Placing the unopened box per her orders, I smiled, kissed her, and left. It was Raymond’s to deal with, to plug in, to program.

He called me, he did…your son… late that night:

“The TV’s going back,” he said (laughing). “She never let me open it.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said she likes her old one better.”
“You mean the one that doesn’t work?” I asked him.
“Apparently so.”

That was three weeks ago, Dad, and she’s still without television. She did call Carrie the other day and inquired about her old monstrosity—the one still sitting in her basement.

We shall see.

I guess when you’re 101 a TV of 35 doesn’t sound so old.

Again, we shall see.

In the meantime, that’s what’s going on. Draw your own conclusions.

I miss you,

Bruce

       “…I want to wear the life I’ve lived… 

Pat Benatar

What could one have made had he bet back in the 60’s that a half century later I’d be seeking Wieder’s advice on marriage? (Ed. Note 1: Bobby, Stuart, Ermine –of course. Treinish and Stockfish, yes. But Alan? The odds would have been prohibitive)!

And yet at Starbucks in April I sat with Alan:

“At this point you don’t really ask her. You can’t propose,” he counseled. “Just discuss it.”

HOW FUNNY IS LIFE?

—At age twenty, in Columbus…naïve and unwitting:

“It’s time you talked about marriage,” the Jersey Girl’s friend pointed out in the DPhiE living room. (Who knew?)

—At age sixty-five, in Cleveland…seasoned by a lifetime:

“Why do you need to get married?” I heard — she heard — from our blood ONLY.

Carrie told her kids first; they’re here. I told Stace in Chicago and then, excusing myself to another room, phoned Michael. Perhaps it was the culmination of blood, sweat and years, but as I spoke to my son, tears erupted.

“Just want you happy Dad.”
Overcome with emotion I was.
“I know. I love you.”
“Are you all right, Dad?”
“Yeah, we’ll talk later. I love you. Goodbye.”

Before I’d travelled out west, during the two-day window that her children knew but mine still didn’t, we agreed to tell no one else. After all, right it wouldn’t have been if my kids had heard on the street. (I would find out later that she couldn’t help herself; she told a friend. She would find out even later that I told someone too: Mark. Oh yeah, then Bobby and Stuart and Kraut).

Life-long pals, of course, were thrilled for us. I sensed it in the voice of one, the laughter with “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” from another, and the “B, I’m so happy for you I could cry” from yet another.

I heard it not only in emails that trickled in— one even from a friend of the ex — but also through unabashed voice mails, one of which bubbled “We are SO happy for the two of you!”

How great we felt!

My friend offered up a Florida condo for the honeymoon. CJ’s cousin helped with tickets for a concert. Our agenda was moving forward.

It takes me back — takes US back, frankly — to my conversation with The Kraut back in 2012. Standing in Corky’s lot I’d just shared with Art that I’d be giving up my place and moving in with her. “It’s easy,” he told me, “Because it’s right.”

So here we are less than three years later: me pushing a pair of sixes and her teasing sixty. Getting married.  Meshing through legal issues, nuances, “stuff”.

Some, clearly, are wishing us well yet wondering why. Others, just as certainly, are quietly noting our age, our circumstance, our already being together, and … again … wondering why.

As noted before, what others think of me (us) is not our business.

For me though, I know that seeing is indeed believing. And that Carrie and I share at least one strong suit: we lead with our hearts.

— And yes, there is but one Rule Of Engagement: “Love conquers all”.

       “…How do I say goodbye to what we had?
       The good times that made us laugh…”

Those who know me well grasp that I don’t live in the past so much as embrace its best pieces. As such, reveling in the present, still, I found parts of this last month…well… rough.

First, the play:

No show stirs this soul like “The Music Man”. I’ve said it before: my father was the spellbinder in my life. So many of the lines from the script could well have been spoken by him.

Yet it goes way further. Every song that is sung takes me to that air-brushed portion of youth where our family was young, melodic, together….

This production was indeed special. Joyous burial in the ensemble permitted me time to enjoy the music, interact with the principals, and practice “The Art Of Conversation” with the kids backstage.

“Bruce,” asked young Jack, (he in his first show), “Have you been in a play before?”
“Once” I told him. “In fact, that’s how I met John (the actor playing Professor Hill). “We were in ‘Sound Of Music’ out at Chagrin and a week before opening the lead got sick. I had to step in and play Maria.”
The lad’s eyes opened… wide.
“Yeah,” I continued, “I had no problem with the songs; I knew them. But I refused to kiss Von Trapp.”

—So on top of two months of singing with the music, I had all those weeks of this kind of nonsense.

(The kids loved me).

“Jack,” I asked nightly, “You going to stay for the second act?”

Oh, and I taught him early on the special hand-slap that Bob Cummings had with his Army buddy Harvey Helm on the 50’s tv show “Love That Bob”. Yeah, I created a monster. I can’t tell you how many times I entered the “green room” and found the myriad of pre-teen actors slapping each other around.

We closed Mothers Day. My distinct sense as I walked off stage was that I’d never pass that way again. River City Iowa…these friends specifically… would be missed.

Then the player: one of my favorites.

Letterman announced his retirement a year ago. It was a clock that kept ticking. Not for one moment of it was I happy. Had I not been loyal? Had I not read both books about the late night wars? Was I not repulsed always at the sight of that bottom-feeder Leno? Indeed, did I not, through my nineteen “single” years always consider a lady’s preference of Jay a deal-breaker?

When the news broke last summer I jumped on line, trying to score tickets for a taping. They were only reserving them a month in advance and what with the three shows I was doing this season, it just didn’t happen.

Carrie and I did the next best thing. Meticulously we taped his shows— so as not to miss one. “Inventory”, we dubbed it. ‘Twas not only the end of an era, but the loss of a friend.

This spring the inexorable march beat louder. Still, we laughed as the A-list parade stopped by…one last time. Crystal, Murray, Romano, Stern…

— And we learned how to chuckle with lumps in our throats—

Until the evening of May 20.

I was in Chicago that night, with the Bohrers. I’d be flying out the next day.

Sitting “Indian style” I was (Can we still say that?), four feet from the screen. Behind me lay Bones and his dad, sprawled on the couch. And The Little One, she was tiring too quickly.

For an hour or so I perched, until at one commercial I stood, and stood, and stood. Gripped by what I knew was my final look, I just never sat down.

“I’m going to bed Daddy,” Stacy announced, from the hall near the kitchen.

Standing, I walked to her, and hugged her good night.
“Why are you crying, Daddy?”
“I don’t like to say goodbye”, I told her.
“But I’ll see you in the morning. I’m taking you to O’Hare.”
“Not you, honey. David Letterman.”

       “It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday….”