Halloween on LI

MY California sister and her S2 just finished a great stay at our house, and her presence, along with the coincidental happening of my high school's 35th reunion has had me, in my mind, going back to Lawn Guyland. I skipped the reunion, largely due to the convenience of FaceBook (tm). I'm able to keep up with those old friends I wish to , and any morbid curiousity I have about others is easily satisfied by social media. Speaking of morbid curiousity, I did look at all the pictures from the reunion, which was held at the Jones Beach Hotel, a place that defined seedy when I was living in Wantagh. It's located on the mainland north of Jones Beach, and was a den of hookers and bikers in the late 70s. Some of my friends went there to make illicit purchases. Now, apparently, it's been gentrified, and was the venue for the reunion. The pictures were depressing. The years have not been kind to most of the participants -- to say the least. A few of the cute girls I recall were, well, no longer cute. They were matronly and gray. The best looking was a guy I'll call Scott, since that's his name, who came out as gay soon after high school, and now lives in North Broward. He looked awesome. Maybe not having kids does preserve one's looks... Anyway, so Halloween is approaching, and it brings back wonderful childhood and adolescent memories. As a kid, my friends and I ran home from school, put on costumes, and trick or treated until dark. Since vandalism was part of the holiday, at nightfall my Dad parked a chair out front, with a cane and our dog Missy in hand, as the older, scarier kids came by for candy. His guarding was successful -- no eggings or shaving creamings at 527 Charles Lane, as far as I new. When I became a teen, or near, my friends and I became the vandals. We'd buy our stash of eggs in early October, so as not to raise suspicion at the Pathmark. We'd also get a few cans of shaving cream -- which we used on girls we liked if we came across them while out on our night raids. Junior high really is the worst time of life. I was one of a gang of 6: Mark, Fitz, John, Mike, Eric, and me. We walk ALL over Levittown, Wantagh, and Seaford, it seemed -- hitting the targets of nasty neighbors or jerky kids. Of the group, one is a retired CIA agent, three are engineers, one's a lawyer, and one is an unemployed printer. Mike, the retired printer, has been happily living on NY's generous worker's comp benefits for the past 20 years . He fishes every day and looks, by far, the youngest of all of us. One year, when we were about 14, we stalked down the street, I think in Seaford, where a really mean teacher lived. I heard "Chickee" which was the mid 70s code that the cops were coming. The cops would confront kids, and slap their pants, to break any hidden eggs. I was too smart to become a victim of that: I looked to see a street lamp was missing a steel cover at its base. I placed my eggs inside until the cops passed. When I retrieved them, I got an electric shock that knocked me back at least 5 feet, but miraculously lived. I learned empirically that touching live electrical stuff wasn't a good idea. I figure the damage done has kept me out of the US Supreme Court... My last LI Halloween, in 1978, was less destructive and life threatening. A friend had, as I recall, once of those kick ass Levittown parties, with a keg of beer, and great costumes. My friends and I toasted with beer, feeling nearly grown up, and sensing that our easy adolescences were coming to an end. I remember that night well. By the next Halloween, I was in Miami, and Mark was in Key West. A year after that, John and Eric would leave, too -- never to return. None of us attended the reunion, but plan to get together one of these years. I don't think there will be any eggs.

Comings and Goings

So it's been a happily hectic time here at Villa Wifey. D2 has been here for a week, enjoying her Fall Break from UF. I took a lot of time off to catch up with her and her adorable dog Bo -- getting Dad/daughter errands done, watching some Canes football, and even taking her clothing shopping for her upcoming corporate job interviews. She came with me Friday night to fetch my sister Sue and nephew Henry from MIA -- they flew in for a few days as well. Henry has a "work cation" -- doing some video work for a client over on Miami Beach, and he paid for his mother to fly here, too -- first time Sue has been in the 305 in two years. That Henry -- what can I say? He's about to turn 30, and has, as the saying goes, got it all going on. He started his own business, and its soaring. His beautiful wife is graduating with a Master's degree soon, and we hope they supplement their dog child with a human one soon. The pressure on Henry is that he and his wife are both so attractive -- they need to have a baby. Even Wifey's friend Laurie, who stopped by yesterday and met him and saw pictures of his wife, remarked "Wow -- the two of you need to breed!" So Wifey, Sue, Henry, D2 and I spent a lovely Saturday -- breakfast at LOL, and then a trip to Matheson Hammock so Sue could visit the spot where I spread our Mom's ashes. The day was stunning -- brilliant sunshine, and not too hot. We stood at the spot and told Grandma Sunny stories. It was exactly why my father and mother opposed funerals in cemeteries -- they wanted to be remembered at the sea -- not the sadness of a graveyard. We walked around the park, and settled on a picnic table where we kept talking for hours. The breeze was delicious. Mom would have loved to see us all gathered there together. After some afternoon naps, we continued our family visit -- this time Henry treated us to Thai and sushi at Sea Siam, our local place for that. And then we wowed them with Chill-In --our new local hot Ha! ice cream spot. Today, D2 will leave for Gville, with Bo sleeping the entire trip. New classes start tomorrow, and I'm missing her already. But she's due back in only a month -- for Thanksgiving. D1 made reservations already -- it'll be our 8th year at the hotel on Key Biscayne, minus one year missed to go to Coconut Grove. And D1 is coming home -- after 5 days in Atlanta for a Peds Nutrition Conference. The plan is to fetch her at MIA, with her dog in tow, and have dinner together before dropping her off at her apartment. Henry will either stay here an extra night, or we'll run him to the Beach. Tomorrow we'll bring Sue to my partner Paul's -- he's hosting us all at his club in Aventura -- and my other sister Trudy and bro in law Dennis will take Sue up to their place for a few nights. So it's been nice -- real nice. And all of a sudden, I've gotten busy at work. In the space of the last two months, we've received no fewer than 4 wrongful death cases -- the latest just last Thursday. So I have stuff to keep me off the streets for awhile. As to my family -- well, Godspeed to all in their travels. It's great to have them here for awhile.

Should We Talk About the Weather?

So Wifey came home yesterday, after 2 weeks at back camp, and it was a lovely reunion. I fetched her at MIA, and she was happy to be back. The strange rescue dog greeted her excitedly, too. We took an evening walk in the gorgeous Fall Miami weather, which has turned blissfully cooler. Our welcome home dinner was at Canton, the place we frequented when we first dated, 31 years ago. Since I'm eschewing carbs for awhile, we had their "Special Steak," which comes to the table sizzling. We talked about how much her father in law loved that dish. Canton was out go to place for years, since it's so loud and therefore compatible with my mother in law's not exactly whispering speaking voice. Anyway, Wifey is here to stay, as is the nice weather, we hope. When I was younger, I never cared so much about the climate. I preferred hot to cold, for the simple reason that too hot is uncomfortable, while too cold is painful. My mother hated winters, which is why, when she was 59, she made the decision that my father would retire and move to Florida. My Mom was never the one to drive family decisions, but she was the reason for that major move. Wifey can't stand the cold, but the last few years is bothered by Miami's summer heat. I wasn't until this year. I guess cruising into my mid 50s has done the trick. So we talked about next summer, maybe renting a place in Asheville, which we both love. I don't want to buy anything -- as I age, I want to own less (except dividend paying stocks and high quality tax free municipal bonds), but renting a place for a month or two might be ok. D2 is set to graduate with her MS in May, and D1 is enjoying an awesome life, with an interesting though underpaying job, great friends, and more charitable work than any 25 year old I know. So maybe it's time for Wifey and I to keep the nice weather around us, even when things get too hot around here. We'll see.

Fleet Manager

So now that the Ds are all grown up and own their own vehicles, with their own insurance policies, my old duties as fleet manager are much simpler. Ha. As if. It is the job of the Dad of even grown daugters, apparently, to maintain their cars. Last Wednesday, D1 drove her '09 to the body shop, to leave it for a repair from a fellow parker at JMH who decided to dent her door and scrape the paint. Of course, a note was left, in broken English, saying the guy was sorry, and offering to pay. Unfortunately, the note was then handed to the Easter Bunny, who failed to deliver it to us, as both are figments of my imagination... I gave D1 my man sized Buick to drive while her car was being fixed, and I drove Wifey's SUV, since she's in Orlando also getting fixed, hopefully. On Friday I fetched the car, took it for an oil change and tire rotation, and then left it for D1 to pick up at the house on Saturday, while I was at the Canes game. I'll service D2's car over Thanksgiving break. And Wifey's 10 month old SUV also has a nice bumper smash -- which she claims was done by an anonymous fellow parker in Kendall. Since Wifey has damaged no fewer than 10 of our cars, and our friend Maureen's, too, I have my doubts about the genesis of her vehicle's damage. Nonetheless, I will take it for repair this week, as well. My Ds and Wifey are not unique. I have a friend, nearly 50, who founded and owns a multimillion dollar business. She's an only child, and her father still takes her car for repairs, too. Her husband is happy to abdicate this responsibility to his father in law. I never had that option... A lawyer I'll call Michelle, since that's her name, is 43, married, and mother of two. She told me the other day that HER father, still a practicing doctor, takes care of her car repairs, as well. And, just last year, she took herself off of her parents' AAA acccount, and got her own, with her husband. So this is the lot of some dads and husbands... As one of my heros, Sidney Poitier said, the measure of a man is how he takes care of his family. I've long since done that. At this point, I guess giving concierge service is in the cards, too.

Point of View

So I was tooling up Bayshore Drive this am, blasting "Do You Know What I Mean" on the satellite radio in Wifey's Lexus suv, which I'm enjoying driving while she's in Orlando, and I came to the red light at the entrance of Grove Isle. Grove Isle was THE luxury development in the 80s -- three buildings built on an island a short bridge ride away from Coconut Grove. I've always loved visiting there, and plenty of Miami machers still live there. The speed limit on the bridge is 19 miles per hour, and the legend is the developer, then in his 50s, so designated it that because of his 19 year old mistress. Anyway, the car that pulled in front of me was a sleek, Mercedes convertible. The fellow driving looked so well groomed and relaxed -- wearing a gold watch and designer sunglasses. Wow, I thought, how nice; a fellow in his mid 60s, living in a great place and all right with his world. And then I recognized him: a disbarred lawyer who I'll call Al, since that's his name. Al is an old friend of my partner Paul, and had a very succesful practice. Unfortunately, he had a gambling addiction, which he fed with clients' trust fund money, and somehow the bar and local judge who heard his case weren't too understanding. They took away his ticket, as we say in the trade. Al went to work for his former associate. He has, as expected, continuing money troubles, but when you meet him you'd never know. He has no assets except the lone apartment he was able to keep, and somehow finagled the Benz people into leasing him his car despite horrific credit. And there he was, this sunny morning, commuting to work -- looking like the world was his oyster. Many of my friends have plenty of money, and prestige in the community, and we all stress. How much is enough? How will we live in retirement? Can we send grandkids to college? What if? What if? And then there's Al, broke ass, as the rappers sing, and yet looking so dapper, tanned, and happy. My partner and I have lunch with him, and it's always enjoyable. He still has tales of adventures that old married guys like me savor. Despite his many trials in life, he's smiling. A man happy with his lot, which, as the Good Book teaches, is the real definition of wealth. So rock on, Al. This morning, at least, you looked mighty cool leaving your presitigous island, in that fine ride. It really made my day.

The Quiet House

So Wifey left yesterday for Orlando, and a physical therapist she hopes will finally heal her painful back. It worked once before -- maybe. 7 years ago, during a flare of pain I've teken to calling back intifadehs, she saw this same woman, and came back better. But -- it may have just been coincidental that the intifadeh was ending anyway. Either way, I'm hoping it works. When Wifey's home, she always likes to have at least one tv on. I'm the opposite -- I DISLIKE background noise -- particularly as I get older. The silence is, to me, so lovely, and increasingly hard to find in our world of clutter and constant stimuli. So I awoke early, and gave the strange rescue dog breakfast. When the sun rises, I'll take her for a walk around the 'hood, as we are enjoying our first "cool front" of the season. The temps are still in the 70s, but the humidity has taken leave. Wifey called last night -- proud of herself for renting a car and finding her way to her friend's house. I really have spoiled her: whenever we go away, I deal with all of those things, and Wifey gets to just admire the view. She called from the rental counter -- not sure whether to reject the rip off daily rental insurance they try to sell. She made it with to dinner with her friend Elizabeth, and Elizabeth, by necessity much more independent, actually caravanned to the hotel, so Wifey wouldn't get stressed by getting lost. Wifey's evaluation and twice daily treatments start today. She's lamented being away so long, and last Saturday my know it all mother in law, during a visit to the MJH, told me I "SHOULD drive to Orlando to visit" while Wifey was there. It's funny -- when someone tells me I SHOULD do something, I tend to passionately oppose it. I explained to my mother in law that, as the poets say, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and then I told Wifey no fewer than 20 times to make sure her mother calls her CELL phone while Wifey is away. If anything can work to disrupt the exquisite silence of an empty house, it's my mother in law's less than subtle voice. So I shall embrace some solitude for the next less than fortnight. I really hope Wifey gets better -- we're at a stage in our lives where the world is truly our oyster -- and it's the height of sadness to be unable to savor that. But meanwhile, the silence calls, and I silently answer.

RIP to a Good Man

Among my colorful cast of college friends, there's one fellow who's cut off all contact with us. I'll call him Jeff, since that's his name. Dr. Eric and I met Jeff when he transferred back to UM from Tulane, after a semester lost due to mononucleosis. Jeff was hilarious, in an extremely self deprecating sort of way, and quickly joined our band of merry pre meds. Dr. Barry really took a shine to him. Jeff's Dad was David, a man who always welcomed us warmly into his West Kendall house. David owned a succesful printing business, which he started after returning from Korea and then attending UM on the GI bill. He married Faith, and they had Jeff and his younger brother Bernie. David was classic old school Jewish Dad. He adored his sons, and pushed the envelope to be able to say "My son the doctor; my son the lawyer." Bernie went to UF and UF Law, reluctantly. His Dad pushed him, but at the end, Bernie never took the Bar exam. He followed his love of science fiction, and ultimately ended up managing his brother's medical practice. Jeff DID want to become a doc, but it was a tough path. He got rejected by several med schools, but then went up to UF for a year program where you take science classes to show you can handle them at a graduate level. It paid off; he was accepted to UM Med school a year later. He married a nursing student he met in Gainesville, and they were married in South Carolina, where Jeff was doing a residency. Wifey and I drove to Charleston for the wedding, with a nearly 3 year old D1 in the car seat, singing songs the entire trip. Wifey was pregnant with D2, and from my Mazda 626's primitive car phone, learned that D2 was, in fact, fated to be D2, instead of S1. Jeff settled North of ORlando, where he started a succesful GI practice. In an exquisite twist, this one friend who had the lowest pre med and probably med school grades ended up the richest of my doctor friends. Through some snooping a few years back, I learned he has substantial real estate holdings up in Central Florida. For reasons none of us is really sure of, he completely cut off contact with all of us. Did he feel slighted by Eric and Barry's superior academic success? That wouldn't account for me -- I got Cs in the sciences, and took a path to the Humanities. Jeff and MArilyn had a son who is now a junior in an Ivy League college, and a second son, who was born with an awful genetic disorder. But other than holiday cards -- no contact from Jeff. I was a customer of his Dad's, though. Even though he charged three times the going rate, I proudly used Dave for my law firms's printing, back in those stone ages where law firms needed a printer. David moved to Central Florida, though, and that was my opportunity to switch to the cheaper Cuban printer... Well, through the wonder of FaceBook (tm), I kept indirectly in touch. Jeff's wife, mother, and brother all friended me, so I saw the family's growth and accomplishments. And then, last night, Faith messaged me to tell me David had died. I'm guessing he was in his mid 80s. I thought back to the pool parties and barbecues he hosted for us. I remembered graduation from college. Eric and his family, and Jeff and his family and my mother and some date all went to Steak and Ale on 97th Avenue. None of us was wealthy enough for a higher level restaurant, but I remember how proud the 5 parents were. I was annoyed at my mother that she brought a date. My father was the one who should have been there -- he had died a year before. But my Mom didn't want to be alone, I guess. David G led a toast. He was beaming. His boy Jeff had graduated college, his alma mater, no less, and his younger son was on the path. He was a good man. A good Dad. RIP, David.

Volunteering Blues

A few months past, I ran into my colorful, courtly neighbor Doc. As usual, the retired dermatologist was out walking before the sun rose, with his friendly Boxer Sam. Doc stopped working as, I believe, the oldest practicing doc in Miami Dade. I always enjoy our chats -- he has an old world gentility about him, with ZERO political correctness. He has mutton chop sideburns, and an appearance that makes him look like a character out of an old Western movie. I was shocked to learn he was Jewish -- he even has a WASPy sounding last name. Anyway, he was lamenting that retirement left him bored. I asked him about teaching, and he was thinking about it, but didn't want to commute Downtown to Jackson Memorial. Maybe fledgling FIU -- where he could teach at local Baptist Hospital. Then I asked him about volunteering. His face screwed up. "Never! Volunteers aren't valued! I used to do it, and they treated me like a slave, and never thanked me. No -- in our society, people don't value you unless you charge." His words resonated with me last week. I volunteer as a Guardian Ad Litem, and I have one ward -- a pregnant teen. I meet with her monthly and report on her "well being." Each time I try to see her, it's a chore. For my last visit, I texted her I was coming by. She used to live in a group home way out in casa carajo, as the Cubans say, and now she's moved to one ever FURTHER away -- East Naples, just about. We texted, and I fought traffic on Coral Reef Drive to get to her place. When I was close, her text was dismissive. "Not home yet. Stopped at the dentist. Be home in a few hours." I texted back that I'd come meet her at the Dentist's office -- she wasn't a patient, a fellow teen was. OK, she replied -- the office was in Southland Mall -- another 45 minutes SOUTH. No, it didn't make sense -- we'd simply reschedule. I have a most fastidious sense of time with other people's time. I abhor being late, let alone canceling appointments. I know all we have, ultimately, is our time, and if someone is sharing theirs with me, I treat it sacredly. I realize this it an unrealistic burden to place on a 17 year old who grew up as my Ward client did, but still... I remembered the other day I've been volunteering nearly 40 years. When I was 15, I was a once a week "candy striper" without the cute dress, at Mid Island Hospital on LI. I did it to get a sense of medicine, and whether I wanted to do it. The staff had me carry records around, and help bathe patients -- typically elderly men dying of lung cancer after decades of smoking while working at Grumman or other LI industries. I had almost forgotten my stint there -- it ended nicely, with a certificate, and an award as a high school senior from the Levittown Optimist's Club -- something Wifey always chuckles at, as she finds me humorously optimistic... D2 volunteers through her sorority, and used to in high school as well. I remember one bad experience: D1 came home from UF, and we went to the local Petsmart, where D2 was helping with an adoption day. D2 was crying with the dogs -- the director of the program, not ironically a super bitch, had made her feel bad. We rescued D2 from the dog rescue, and cheered her by explaining that that very same woman had upset our friend Loni by deeming her, an upstanding community teacher and loving mother of 2, as unworthy of adopting a stray dog! D1 seems to have the best volunteer experiences -- junior league, where her Spaniel Mads is a therapy dog, and work for the elderly Jews in Miami. I'm extrememly proud of my Ds, and the work they do for others. And I guess I'll keep at my GAL duties -- even with the lack of appreciation for my time. At a recent conference call, the issue came into focus. NINE state workers involved in my Ward's case talked at each other on the phone, espousing theory about her care. It was a wake up call about the absurd waste in our government. At the end of the call, it was clear to me that no one was going to actually DO any of the things discussed -- like go out to Homestead to see whether the Baby Daddy's home might be suitable for the coming baby. I spoke up and pointed this out. One of the bureaucrats actually said "Well, as GAL YOU can do that!" I replied "So NINE of you are paid by the State and County to watch after this girl, and you want to one guy working for FREE to do this?" Finally, a social worker, or case worker, or some such spoke up and said she would make the visit. Again, the volunteer is the red headed stepchild. That's ok -- the work is sometimes its own reward.