Honesty versus of Integrity

Years ago I read an article with that title in one of the smart magazines -- maybe "Atlantic Monthly." The writer, a well known ethics expert, explained the difference between the two. Many people feel "I HAVE to be honest -- no matter what!" But having integrity goes deeper -- examining whether or not the honesty is harmful or hurtful, and the motives of the speaker. For example, he used the wife attending her dying husband at bedside. He had only a few days to live, and the wife decided it was time to be "honest." She admitted to him that she had a long term affair with his brother, had always loved the brother more, and felt the truth needed to be told before the husband left life. Of course, this bout of honesty was awful. It robbed the dying man of peace during his final hours, and served only to unburden the slutty wife of her guilt. No action could be taken with the revelation -- too late for divorce -- and this was an example of zero integrity for the sake of telling the truth. Spock, of Star Trek, also added that the failing to disclose information is not a lie, logically... Anyway, I thought about this after a long talk with Mirta over the weekend, about a relative of hers, a long closeted gay man. His mother was on her last legs, and always thought her son was just one of those "confirmed bachelors." The woman is a strict Catholic, and couldn't ever accept her son's homosexuality. While many of us find that abhorrent -- well, that was the nature of their relationship for over a half century. The man told his mother -- he was gay. He wasn't going to "live in the shadows" with his mother -- even during her last days. The old woman died praying constantly for her son, and sad, and miserable. In my opinion, the son, now out of the closet with his mother, is also a supreme asshole. I approach 30 years of marriage with Wifey in January, so maybe I'm at least a bit of an expert in that regard. With total honesty, we couldn't have lasted a year. When we last dressed well for an event, I asked her how I looked. "You look amazingly good," she replied. The truth was, of course, "you're a gray haired, 50 lb overweight nearly 55 year old man, whose skin is getting leathery, and bear little resemblance to the 22 year old thin, fit guy I fell in love with over 3 decades ago. How do you think you look???" Wifey has integrity, of course, and so tells me the sweet little lies we all must tell if we truly care about others' feelings. To unburden ourselves is nice, and freeing, but we have to ask what is the cost? I don't want to be friends with Mirta's cousin. Often it's better and cooler to know when to stay in the shade...

First Day of Summer

It brings to me the sweetest nostalgia of my childhood. When you live on LI, with crappy weather from late Fall until Spring, Summer is the best. Since 1979 I've lived in a place where summer is the least desirable -- a time of weeks on end of sweating just to pick up the morning paper, and humidity that comes from the tropics. Still, there's the occasional breeze, or respite from the Bay, and it's nicely endurable. Wifey has fled, to cooler Atlanta for a week. Yesterday there was a health scare with her best friend's daughter, which thankfully turned out to be no big deal, so she and her closer than a sister can happily resume their week of endless conversation -- "getting each other" as no one else can or really wants to. She so cherishes her time there, and I'm content to stay here, feeding and cleaning up after our spoiled dogs. But back to memory...D2 endured me last weekend, as I schlepped her to LI for the day -- truly a trip down memory lane, to a time when my own life was all that mattered to me -- the exquisite freedom of youth. My brother Paul and I had a long talk yesterday about parenting -- how some people, mothers, it seems, more than fathers, burden their children with their own insecurities and anxieties, turning children into messed up proto-adults. We agreed this was a supreme form of robbery -- they steal the best part of their kids' lives from them, the one time where their only concerns should be themselves -- learning who they are, and where they fit in in this huge world. That's why I recall my childhood and first years of college so beautifully. My parents never saddled me with their problems -- they let me be a child and then young man. Four days before I turned 21, everything changed for me -- my Dad died in my arms, and I went from a 20 year old thinking only about girls, friends, and my future career path to becoming man of the house. As Tony S said -- what are ya gonna do -- and so I played the hand I was dealt -- but if a young person is lucky enough to NOT lose a parent young, then a parent who dumps on them anyway is really awful. There was no dumping on me during the summers of my youth. There were trips to Jones Beach, or up to the gorgeous Planting Fields, where we talked, and learned human nature from each other -- said "I love you" and heard it for the first time, and felt the lighting, as Bob Seger sang, while waiting on the thunder. And it all seemed to happen in the summertime.

All is Quiet On Father's Day

Father's Day is the hind teat of holidays. God forbid anyone forgets Mother's Day -- there is hell to pay. Last year, D2 didn't get around to sending her email to Wifey until later in the day, and that was a catastrophe. This year, Wifey, in the classic mold of HER mother, who uses guilt like a surgeon wields a scalpel, told her "Don't worry --this year you don't have to send an email at all." D2 knew better, of course, and saved the day with some words about how her mother is always there for her, etc... But Father's Day? Ha. Wifey planned a trip to Atlanta, where she sits as I write. When D1 reminded her her Baby Daddy's day was today, Wifey said "Oh yeah -- want me to change my trip?" No thanks, I said, what I DON'T want as a FD gift is a hefty AA change fee... And so it is. I guess I'm a tad bitter, since I ain't had no Dad to celebrate FD with for 34 years now. I don't even remember my Dad's last FD -- actually, I guess I do. It would have been late June, so he would have been in the hospital recovering from his serious heart attack. He was released from the hospital near the end of June, seemed fine, and then had the massive MI on July 14. So year, I got a major FD issue. When Wifey's father was alive, we'd always celebrate. We'd typically take him to Canton, his go-to restaurant, and order him the sizzling steak, which he always praised in his heavy Yiddish accent as "good and soft." If a steak was hard -- forget it. The sizzling one, made of who knows what kind of beef, was soft. The final three FD's we spent either taking Richard to Soyka, the restaurant near Miami Jewish, or bringing food to the facility. There's only so much happiness celebrating a holiday in or around a nursing home. My friend Jeff called yesterday, to wish me a happy FD. I said the same to him -- he was headed today to spend the day with HIS father. I started thinking -- there are so few of my friends' fathers still alive. Jeff's is one, my friend Kenny still has his Dad, a retired music teacher, and my friend Norman has Max -- thankfully still vital and happy and living an awesome life. I couldn't really think of any other fathers in my circle of friends... Last weekend I was in NYC, and D2 and I celebrated early. She gave me such a precious gift -- her time and indulgence, as we walked the chilly, windswept boardwalk at Jones Beach. I spent memorable times there with my Dad, and now I have the memory of walking there with my D2. Today, D1 and her man Joey are hanging with the old guy. I scored three behind the dugout seats for a Marlins game, and we head there for 1 pm first pitch. I love Fish games, mostly since the new stadium sits on hallowed ground -- where the old Orange Bowl used to be. I purposefully never park in the garages -- I find front yard parking with one of the old houses -- that starts the memories ticking. And then I'll pass an open grass field, and see, in my mind, the classic tailgate parties. Ed Perse, Mike's Dad, held court. He became a surrogate Dad to me when I met Mike in law school, in '83. If there's an afterlife, I like to think he and my Dad Hy somehow met in heaven -- two opposites in many ways. Ed, a Catholic from Milwaukee, politically conservative, and huge sports fan. My Dad, the Liberal NY Jew, not so much into sports. But both loved a good corned beef sandwich, and both lived for their kids. Yeah -- they'd have plenty to talk about. Before baseball, I'm meeting Norman and 1/3 of his awesome son contingent, Benji. We're headed to LOL for breakfast, of course. We'll hopefully be served by our favorite, Lori, who never had kids, but is the LOL Mom to so many over 30 years working there. So come to think of it, Father's Day is ok, after all. I sure still miss my Dad, though. I miss him each day.

Friends With Shelf Lives When we're young, we think the friends we have are forever. Of course, as we age, we learn this is rarely the case. Last night Wifey and I dropped off the ancient Suegra at the condo where we store her. As we were leaving, we ran into the son of one of my old friends -- he lives in the unit, across from mine, that his Dad bought when he convinced me to buy one also in 2006. The young man has been there for two years, and we were happy to see he had transcended a very difficult youth, and was doing well. I messaged his Mom on FaceBook, to tell her how great it was to see her boy, and how well he was doing. The last time I spoke to her about him was at a Starbucks over 5 years ago, and she broke down in fear that he'd end up in jail or dead. So it was a happy message exchange, and she asked why I hadn't kept in touch with the young man through his Dad -- my old college friend. No, I told her, the Dad had dropped me as a friend after I refused a request for a loan. She was shocked -- we had been so close. I guess not, I wrote to her, if a single financial transaction could end a 30 something year friendship. Sometimes friendships have shelf lives -- like milk in the refrigerator. Wifey and I were going through some pictures from our wedding -- it'll be 30 years since we were married. I had LOTS of groomsmen -- 7 of them. They were all folks I would have sworn would be part of my life forever. In fact, only four have any relevant meaning to me now -Drs. Barry and Eric, and my law school buds Mike and Jeff. Two of the other fellows are also docs -- one I met with for the first time in 20 years last Fall, another I speak to or see only very rarely, and the final person and I have had ZERO contact for nearly half a decade now and won't speak again. So things change. Wifey had 4 in her court, and has virtually nothing to do with two of them. The others are still friends, but Wifey sees them only every few months of so -- life just drifted them apart. My Mom had many, many friends and close acquaintances -- she essentially outlived all of them, and over the last year of her life was only visited by her children and some of her grandchildren. My ancient suegra also outlived all of the "card players" -- fellow Holocaust Survivors who socialized in Miami, and later at Century Village in Pembroke Pines. My suegra has one best friend still alive in Israel, but in the final stages of Alzheimer's Disease, and each trip to the mailbox my mother in law cringes -- waiting to hear news of her friend's death from her daughter. As usual -- Springsteen said it best: "In the end what you don't surrender, well this world just strips away." So I'm a lucky guy -- I still have very close friends, from all stages of my life. But, wisdom teaches me, some just fade away.

LI Memory Lane

So typically when we visit D2 in NYC, I let Wifey or the Ds set the agenda. This last trip, I was under the pull of nostalgia and memory -- I wanted to go back to the situs of my childhood. And so I did. After running into good friend Norman's sister and brother in law at the Centurion Lounge at MIA, I squeezed myself into the 737 aisle seat. As an American Gold (tm) member, I usually pick a "premium" seat, but this flight they were all taken, and I was assigned an aisle seat of the "standard" variety. It was absurdly tiny. Of course, the fellow in the middle seat was a Cuban guy who was offensive lineman sized, so the whole trip was a real back bender -- wildly uncomfortable. Still, I landed safely -- which is the hallmark of a successful flight. I checked in to the Affinia Hotel, and then schlepped some of D2's stuff to her apartment. I have adopted my old boss Ed's prohibition against schlepping. As he taught me, if you agree to schlep stuff for people, you become, well, a schlepper. My two exceptions are the Ds -- and D2 needed two pairs of shoes and some summer dresses -- I delivered these. We ubered to Midtown, and met her boyfriend Jonathan at the original Smith and Wollensky. I learned that neither is a real steak person -- a guy named Stillman picked the two names out of the Manhattan phone book, in 1977 when they opened. We ate well, but not great. We shared a porterhouse and a strip -- the strip wasn't worth its $57 price. Still, we laughed, and caught up, and enjoyed each other's company, And then I got a text from Alan, my disbarred lawyer friend, inviting us to the Lower East Side and a place called Buddokhan. D2 demurred. She recalled the last time we ran into Alan -- at Zuma in Miami, on D2's farewell from Miami dinner. Alan, 67, had a "date" who was 22. D2 finds this uncool. But Alan assured us he was with Ali, his adopted daughter who lives in Brooklyn, and her husband Chris, so we went to this South Beach-like place. We had great conversation. Alan headed to Belmont the next day and won big at the track -- so his NY weekend turned out great for him. Saturday I rented a car, fetched D2, and headed to Nassau County. First stop was Kwong Ming, our family's go to Chinese place, that opened in 1962, the year we moved to Wantagh. It was 11, and they didn't open until noon, so we opted for Circle M, also a venerable diner. Then we stopped at my old high school, so I could take in how ugly and industrial looking it is, as it always was, and then I headed to Charles Lane. I pulled up at the house, and was telling D2 tales, and then door opened, and a 70 year old Italian woman appeared. It was the lady who bought the house from us in 1979. She chatted with us for half an hour -- telling us what a wonderful life she had there, and how much she still liked and thought about my parents, who were "dolls" when selling the house. She brought me up to date about the neighbors -- many had died, of course. And she was getting ready to move now -- to be closer to her daughter further out on the Island. We left, headed for Jones Beach, and I asked D2 if maybe we ought to buy the house back, and she and her BF could live there and commute to NYC. She didn't think that was a great idea. We parked at Jones Beach, and it was blustery, and I bought D2 a hoodie so we could stroll the boardwalk and talk of life. We did -- and I recounted to her one of my favorite memories involving my Dad. We left, and took the Ocean Parkway East -- towards Captree Park, and then North to the LIE. we were headed to my friends Mark and Rita's house in Dix Hills. We had a lovely time on their sunny back yard deck. Their boy Joseph was home from his freshman year at Binghampton, and he and D2 actually seemed to enjoy our tales of our LI childhoods. Rita and Mark are so genuine and warm. Mark refuses to travel, and has ignored my many invites to come visit in Florida -- his last trip we went to Fantasy Fest in Key West in 1985. Rita said she'd try again to get him to expand his horizons this year. We drove back to the City, and I ditched the rental car, and then we ubered to SoHo and Jonathan's go to Mexican place, La Esquina, which is Spanish for The Esquina. They have a great DJ, and we took turns identifying the songs he played -- I was good with stuff until about 1990 -- and D2 and Jonathan took over for newer stuff. We ate fine food, and headed back to Murray Hill. Sunday D2 and I had brunch at Sara Beth's -- and then walked back to her apartment. We were going to stroll more, but the temps were Miami-like, and we just enjoyed each other's company and the air conditioning. The flight back was nicer -- this time I had a "premium seat" which let me extend my arms enough to read the Sunday Times. And my nostalgia thirst was quenched -- probably for another decade. But -- my 40 year high school reunion comes up in three years, and Dr. Kenny got me to commit to go, so Long Island is in the long term plans. But for now, it appears Manhattan will be the destination.

Moving On

I have an old friend, who I'll call Fred, since that's his name, and I haven't seen him in person for over 10 years. He was the best childhood friend of my ex-friend Vince, who I haven't seen or communicated with in over 4 years. I call Vince "ex friend" because he's cut off all contact with me after I refused to loan him money for a business he had started, and I explained to him that I was forever done loaning money to friends after an awful experience with a prior failed business venture with a different college buddy. It turns out that Vince had cut off Fred as well, following a divorce, where Vince thought Fred took his second ex wife's side. But through the wonder of FaceBook (tm) Fred and I reconnected. He's a Miami native who later in life got a law degree, and moved to Tampa with his wife, who was his high school sweetheart. Three years ago, she died of cancer. Fred moved back to the 305 to go work in a family friend's long time Coconut Grove business. But alas, he's been bereft over the loss of his wife. Fred was always a guy to wear his heart on his sleeve, and, of course, the modern sleeve is FaceBook. Daily, Fred shares how miserable and lonely he is. Every post deals with sadness, and missing his wife. There are photos of the two of them young, and older, with kids, and grand kids, and finally, of his wife's grave. He claims to know he has to move on, but just can't. Recently, he asked his group of friends whether he should get a tattoo of his wife, or whether that would be the death knell of any future lady in his life. The responses were mixed, but most advised against the tattoo... I guess there's something romantic about the notion of being simply unable to be happy without a spouse. My parents were married nearly 40 years when Dad died. Mom was lost for about a year, and then eventually returned to her normal life -- even dating a few fellows, and then ending up in a relationship with Max, a very quiet Detroiter who taught her to like NBA basketball and took out her trash for her. Alas, Max died in his living room chair, and Mom found him sitting there when she went to fetch some food she had kept in his freezer. She called 911 and the Palm Beach Sheriff came, took Max, and told Mom it was ok to remove her frozen food. But her life went on happily, for years more. My father in law died in January -- he and my mother in law neared 70 years of marriage. She misses him, of course, but her life, as a food obsessed, yet obese 91 year old, goes on. She hungers for activities, and Wifey does her best to accommodate her, but she sure wasn't jumping into the hole after my father in law's coffin was lowered. Poor Fred. I feel for the guy, but I also want to shake him. He's turning 60, and is in great health. I want to share with him the great Greg Allman advice from "Ain't Wasting Time No More:" Go on Downtown, baby, and find somebody to love... Part of me wants to meet Fred for a coffee, but I won't. As I age, my wisdom tells me to surround myself with the up beat and happy, not those who drag you down. I just hope Fred's path leads him to a second chapter lady, and he is able to accept her in his life. In the mean time, I guess I'll just quickly skip over his FaceBook (tm) posts...

Heavy Air

When the Ds were babies, my father in law insisted on taking them outside. For D1, it was several weekly trips to Matheson Hammock, where my mother in law would watch her as he swam or fished. By D2's time, they had moved to Pembroke Pines, and the venue was CB Smith Park. Either way, he insisted the Ds get "Good Air," which he pronounced with his heavy Yiddish/Polish accent. It sounded like "Gut Ay-re." He was convinced that growing girls needed this, along with Gut FOOOD. He made sure to always take Wifey outside in Haifa, when she was a toddler, and let her breathe deep from the breezes off the Mediterranean. I thought of him this am as I fetched the paper. June is here, and a tropical storm awaits in the Gulf. Right now, the air is heavy with heat and humidity. The rains will come and cool things off, hopefully. And we'll endure Miami's dog days for the coming months. Friday night I was at UM, watching the Canes baseball team in the company of distinguished gentlemen: Norman, Mike, their terrific sons, and my junior high bud Kenny. It was hot, but as the evening rolled on, and it passed 10 pm, a lovely breeze kicked up. It reminded me of evening sailing trips when I was an undergrad -- it always seemed the cooling breezes came across the Bay near that time. Melville wrote that he knew it was time to put out to sea when he found himself down a bit -- when he caught himself spending too much time at funerals. Funny -- for me the travel bug has hit, in a small way. Every decade or so, I get the urge to visit Long Island, and just drive past my old house and schools, and walk along the Atlantic at Jones Beach. The time is upon me, and I booked a trip for this weekend. I asked D2 if, in the close to a year she's live in NY, she has been out to LI. Of course not -- why would she go -- there's nothing there. She's right, objectively, but for me there are the memories of a happy childhood. And as I near 55, I like to kindle them a bit. So I rented a car, and D2 and maybe her boyfriend Jonathan will come with me on Saturday. We'll lunch at my family's chinese place, Kwong Ming, even though I hear it's not so great anymore. But the nostalgia is why I'm going -- not the wontons. Then we'll drive the old 'hood, and then decamp to Jones Beach -- the venue of so many happy childhood times. As a small boy, my parents would take me -- my Mom packing a full chest of sandwiches and drinks. As a teen, a 25 cent bus ride on Hempstead Turnpike would drop us at Parking Field 4, as my friends and I searched for ladies from other Nassau schools -- maybe more exotic than the ones from MacArthur High. My happiest memory of Jones Beach was a cold March day, though. It was a Saturday, and I had no plans. My Dad and I had just bought new coats -- mine was down, and his poly filled. Both were tan -- ski parka types. We drove to Jones Beach. I was a high school senior, accepted by scholarship to UM, and at the end of the school year, we were to move to South Florida. My Dad and I walked the frigid, wind swept, but sunny boardwalk for miles. We talked about his life -- poor childhood in the Bronx, years of service in the army, and coming back to NY to start a family -- and now able to retire at 60. His one regret -- to a man who prized intellect above most else -- was that he never went off to college, and now I, his only son, was going to do just that. I felt so empowered by him. I felt like a son becoming a man. I wanted to become just like him. We returned to the Jones Beach restaurant and went inside. We had hot cocoa and clam chowder. Funny -- I recall the table linens were royal blue. That day, now 37 years in the past, is one I still treasure. I would go on to live out his dream, and mine. He'd be gone just over three years later... My old friends Mark and Rita never left LI, except for Mark's one humorous year studying marine mechanics at Key West Community. They married young, and had their only child late -- Joseph is now home from his freshman year at an upstate SUNY school. They've invited us for a Saturday barbecue, and we'll attend and bore D2 and Joseph with tales of our "Dazed and Confused" youth. And hopefully it will be cooler out, and those lovely LI Spring breezes will swirl. I still like to get good air for my Ds.