We Grow Old, We Grow Old...

So it was the last Friday in June, and I got up and fed the dogs, had breakfast, walked 2.2 miles, and prepared to go to the office. Fortunately, Mike called asking if I had left yet. I had not. He reported complete gridlock, as some loser was on the Rickenbacker Causeway with a gun, threatening to kill himself, but succeeding in killing all traffic movement on South Brickell. Mike had already been in his car nearly 2 hours. I took it as a sign to stay home -- it turned out the moron Causeway guy finally surrendered near 2 pm.

Cops get heat all the time about dealing with the mentally ill. Seems they used complete patience with this guy -- allowing the fact that mommy was mean to him to paralyze a city for hours.  Oh well...

So I walked another mile, and sweated, and dealt with my friend and financial guy Pat about some investments. Pat hit well again -- he told me to buy Nike 2 years ago, and it had a nice run. Yesterday it shot up another 10 per cent, and we took nice profits. Pat really checks stuff out, as opposed to all other brokers I've had who just are glorified salespeople.

Speaking of money, I had a $25 off coupon for Shula's, and I convinced Wifey to get dressed and go for an early dinner.  We chatted with D2 on the way to South Miami, about our upcoming trip to NYC. It's as hot there as it is here -- but they'll get some breaks from the heat. We won't.

Shula's was fine, as always, and I had 2 martinis. The server Brian was so wonderful we reported it to the manager, who already knew she had a gem. Brian's diction indicated he was probably also a student -- when Wifey asked about how the asparagus was prepared, he answered "precisely."

Armed with the martini buzz, I led Wifey across the street to the struggling Sunset Place, where I had read they had a place with live music.  Apparently the developers are going to try yet again to make the huge spot a success. When I moved here, it was a bakery -- Holsum -- and the delicious smell of baking bread at night always led us to have to order pizza or subs.  The scent would make its way north on US 1 and snake into our apartment -- cartoon-like -- and drive us nuts.

Holsum shut down and they built the Bakery Center, a gorgeous marble lined place that had a few restaurants we'd visit, but it failed. They they demolished it and built Sunset Place, which was supposed to gather a bunch of gourmet restaurants -- that failed, too, though the movie theater does well.

The Ds hung there sometimes during middle and high school -- I remember one day after I settled a case, and I took D1 and two of her friends to a place called Charlotte Russe, and bought them all dresses. They thought D1 was the luckiest girl in school. They were correct.

Anyway, plans are to try again -- to finally build a place integrated with the lovely Red and Sunset areas. I heard it stalled, so in the mean time there are a lot of empty spaces, but a cool new spot called Tea and Poets.

It's a store, and coffeehouse, and stage. Wifey and I went in, and I bought a black ball cap that said "Miami AF." The hat screamed my name.

The FIU student barista suggested a macha to wake me up, and Wifey and I settled into some comfortable chairs near the stage. A young man came on, with a guitar and electronic devices that let him record himself and play live, and he was quite good. His name was Martin -- he looked to be a music student --probably a New World grad -- tatooed and cool looking.

He sang a Latin influenced version of "Sweet Child of Mine," one of Wifey's favorite songs, and then "Tainted Love."  We enjoyed him.

And then it occurred to me: we were the oldest patrons there, by 30 years at least. I mean, many of the people were a good deal younger than the Ds!

So after about 4 songs, I saw myself like the Tull character Aqualung, and was indeed uneasy like him. We walked away.

Still, it was a lovely date night. Wifey had me stop at Winn Dixie, to buy carrots and apples for Lester. Lester is a brown bunny rabbit who has taken up residence in our 'hood. Our neighbor Monica across the street named him Lester -- he looks to her like the newsman Lester Holt, and feeds him daily. Monica is going away for July, and asked Wifey to take over, hence the needed carrots and apples.

I saw Lester hopping around our front yard, and reminded him that we have three little dogs who will chase him. He crinkled his nose as if he understood -- beat a hasty, hoppy retreat when the dogs are free.

So we grow older in a young city. I see why so many folks retreat to Palm Beach County and points farther north. When Eric and Dana were with us last year in Wynwood, they remarked that when they go out in Boca, they're often the youngest people in a restaurant; in Miami, they're the oldest.

But we're staying -- I'm invigorated by younger people. And truth is, they didn't even ask us to leave Tea and Poets...

I've Seen Enough I Don't Wanna See Any More

So it happened again, yesterday, and this time in Maryland: an abject loser took down some of life's winners, and then simpered under a desk and got arrested.  Just like the Parkland shooting -- except there the loser walked away before getting arrested.

I saw the story all over the news when I came home early from work, and I thought immediately about Barry, whose wonderful son Scott is a journalism student at Maryland, and interning this summer at a news room, like the one that got hit yesterday.

He called me on the way home, and we talked about the chance you take living life, and how when the tragedy du jour is somehow closer to you, it hurts worse. D2's boyfriend Jonathan jogs on the path that a loser Islamic terrorist used to run down people last year. We were just in Paris, where the terrorists seem to enjoy gathering. And now yesterday...

Sure enough, I read this am there's a Miami connection -- a favorite writer, Carl Hiassen, had a brother who was a writer in Annapolis who was killed. Another victim was a sports writer alum of, of course, Maryland.

And the loser was upset that a girl who rejected him filed charges, and the paper covered the story.

There'll be more political whining about guns and mental health, and it'll happen again.

In older times, out species got picked off by sabre toothed tigers. Now the monsters tend to be human, except every once in awhile, like the tale of the small woman in SE Asia eaten by a python...

It's just sickening. The winners work, get themselves educated, look forward to full lives, and the losers sulk and sometimes get guns and shoot them down.

As my Ds will report, since they were about 4 I repeatedly taught them the lesson that indeed life is NOT fair.  Often, it's also tragic.

The Dog Days

Well, the heat is here, as usual, as are the hard afternoon rains. Last night a T Storm stalled over Pinecrest, and before I went to sleep I stood out on our balcony watching its power. I never tire of that.

It's also the dog days for us as we are Spoiled Spaniel sitting. D1 and Joey are in Europe, and Madeleine is at our hotel for dogs. She loves it here -- chasing lizards and lounging with the Special Needs Spaniel and strange rescue dog.  D1 is in London, and Joey joins her from Bulgaria this weekend, and then they spend a few days in Amsterdam before returning July 4. Not a bad summer gig...

Things at the office are going well. My partner Stu is having the best run of his career -- settling major cases left and right, including one of ours. I'm thrilled for him -- this sort of thing has been a long time coming -- I make sure he savors it. And as for us, well, it's nice to know we'll be able to afford fine dog food for awhile...

Mike and Loni are going to the Biltmore for the 4th, and we may join them. They have shuttle buses from the U, so we can avoid the traffic nightmare that follows the fireworks and classical music on the golf course.

Many years we'd book rooms there -- the Ds count those as some of their best childhood memories, but this year I think we'll just go for the show.

When I was a kid, July was my favorite month. First, it was summer on Long Island, a cold climate where we really appreciated the warm season. I loved July 4 -- my favorite holiday. It was the middle of baseball season, and I actually was excited about the All Star game -- always thinking not enough Mets had made the team. And my birthday is in July -- always a big deal to a kid.

In Miami, I prefer the winter months -- the gorgeous weather, and so much more going on. But summer is nice -- much less traffic, for example, as you really notice how many people stay home when school is out of session.

So summer glides on, languidly, as it should. When I fetch the paper in the morning, I smell the breeze coming off Biscayne Bay -- with its heaviness. Dad used to love that -- when I was home from college, we'd go to Delray Beach a lot -- often early to walk for miles.

He died in July. Maybe that's another reason the month is no longer my favorite.

Back For Miami Summer

The jet lag is off, and we're fully back home now. Friday night Wifey and I met D1 and Joey at a fun new tapas place in the Roads -- Xixon. The Roads was originally a Miami Jewish 'hood -- along with some Greek folks. My buddy Norman grew up there, and when my in laws came from Israel, in 1960, it was where they first settled -- Wifey being sent to Beth David, where she came home crying since the kids all spoke English and she only Hebrew...

After Castro, the Cubans came and the area became mostly Cuban -- always kept up, though. Lately, like a lot of Miami, it's coming full circle -- less Latin - and many young folks are moving in to enjoy the nice old houses, very close to Brickell and Downtown. And now Coral Way, the main drag, has new restaurants and clubs and stores. In fact, we saw an ad for a new luxury townhome with a cool shared rooftop patio promising views of Downtown. Norman and I actually checked it out -- it had one major problem -- it was tucked right next to Metrorail. Nah -- my family used to , 3 generations ago, have to live near elevated train tracks. I wasn't going to recapitulate that...

Anyway -- we met and had a lovely catch up dinner, hearing about the bubbly and busy lives of our kids. They're leaving today for Europe -- Joey has business in Bulgaria, a country I truly thought only existed in old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons -- and D1 is going to stay with friends in London while he's there. Joey will then fly back to London, where they'll spend the weekend, and then go to Amsterdam for a few days before returning to the US, on, appropriately, July 4.

Wifey and I took possession of the spoiled Spaniel, who will live in our hotel for dogs while her Mommy is overseas. Madeleine loves spending time here -- running free in our yard unencumbered with the leash she has for urban living.

Yesterday Paul called and asked if we could meet for lunch. We could, though Wifey had made earlier plans with Diane. So we fetched Diane and met Paul and Patricia at Brickell Citi Centre, where we did a bit of Saturday feasting at Casa Tua, the amazing Italian food hall. Then we strolled through the center, which is outside but cooled by a high tech cooling ribbon that supposedly cost millions to build, and capped the day off at Diane's in the Grove, where we were treated to a spectacular T storm rolling in from the West while we watched in awe.

This am I'm meeting Dr. Barry for breakfast -- we have a lot of debriefing to cover -- and then later will go with Wifey to see my ancient suegra. If the rains stay away, we'll take her on the one excursion she still desires -- to the cemetery to visit her beloved husband's grave.

Of the three Brooklyn best friends, Wifey, Edna, and Jeannette, all had parents who lived a LONG time. My father in law was the first of the Dads to pass, and then Jeannette's Dad and just last week Edna's as well. Now all three mothers survive -- my suegra is the oldest, at 93, and the other two are in their 80s.

It's the classic pattern -- the men die earlier. I always joke that you want to avoid visiting the Palace, where my suegra lives, on Mother's Day -- tough to get parking. But go on Father's Day and it's empty -- most of the Dads are gone.

But for now, I'm just happy to be home, and back into the routine, even though Summer in Miami is my least favorite season. Except for those awesome T storms rolling in most afternoons from the Everglades...

The Most Toxic of Emotions

So the other night I was out to dinner with my sister of another mister, Mirta. She completed 11 days of dog and house sitting for us, and took along a gate clicker with her. We met and caught up, and got into a deep discussion about what we both agree is the worst of the deadly sins: envy.

Mirta simply excludes those who envy her from her life. She is extremely close with her sons and grandkids, and knows many begrudge her that. Dong. They're given parting gifts.

She thinks that those who envy all give the evil eye to the objects of their feelings. She's right, of course.

I know plenty of folks richer than I, and better looking, and with far more meaningful jobs. I never envy them -- I admire them, and sometimes try to emulate them.

To me, the mark of a true loser is one who makes constant excuses about why life has been unfair to them. Winners seem to find ways to win, even given setbacks. I prefer to hang with the winners.

Years ago, my college friend Edee gave me what I still consider to be one of the nicest compliments I received. I was telling her how lucky I was, especially with my childhood -- safe, secure, loving, and supportive. She countered with a tale of a guy she might have met at a bar -- an abject wreck. And he told his life story thusly: "I had it all. I was an honors student at college, with lots of girlfriends and plenty of true, close friends. But then the man I loved most in life, my father, died suddenly in my arms. That ruined my life. I started drinking and doing drugs, and have been unable to keep a job or relationship -- here I am, in the Brando named Palookaville."

She was talking about me, of course, with an alternate outcome. Her point was that I had every excuse to fail, but after mourning, I got past it.

People who envy seem to lack that ability. The setbacks define them, they don't strengthen or teach them.

Wifey recently reached out to an old friend with a breezy greeting -- saying how happy she was about the success of one of her sons, and then sharing news of Wifey's life. The friend is going through a rough time, and responded by saying, in effect, glad your life is so great. Mine's in the toilet. Have a nice day.

Wifey felt terrible -- maybe she shouldn't have shared good news with someone so down in the dumps.  I told her to adopt the wisdom of Mirta -- avoid the negativity, at all costs.

We all have demons. I battle mine daily. I guess my sunny disposition, inherited from my dearly departed mother, masks my struggles.

But I don't compare my lot to those above me. As my friend Stuart loves to say, if tomorrow Bill Gates woke up and had ONLY Oprah's bank account -- he'd have to jump out of a window.

One of my life's mentors, the late Murray Meyerson, had a favorite saying, which he read somewhere: Wisdom comes from experience. And experience comes from making bad decisions.

I love that. I try to learn from my bad calls, and gather what wisdom I can.

And a key piece of it is to adhere to the sage words of the Irish poet Brendan Behan, a former pub fly who hit it big in North America, and was told by the bartender that some of his old crowd begrudged him his success. Behan replied: "Fuck the begrudgers!"

I don't go that far. I wish the begrudgers, the envy crowd, very well. I truly do. I enjoy hearing tales of success. I love watching people who have won the Lotto.

I just ran into a neighbor during my morning constitutional. She told me her two sons have MBAs -- one works near Maitland, and the other here on Brickell. Her youngest is starting Emory Law after getting a BA from Parsons in NYC. I was thrilled for her.  I much preferred hearing those tales than stories of young folks going down toxic paths.

So here's to brightness for all. But for those who seem to be happiest in the darkness, I recall and will live by a great lyric from a diva with a big nose and amazing voice: don't rain on my parade.

France, Continued

We found a great parking spot for the nanny SUV, right at the entrance to Versailles. We walked over the vast gravel lot to the front gate, and then read the instructions for meeting our tour guide: "Whatever you do, DON'T go to front gate --meet in tourism office across from the train station." We laughed, and followed directions, and got our tickets. We waited in the McDonalds, which was packed, and had a separate counter for pasty and coffee.

The thing that stuck out about the Versailles tour was Chinese people -- TONS of them. When I visited the palace with the Ds 9 years ago, there were few, if any. Now they seem to be on a mission to see France -- huge busloads of Chinese people were everywhere, except in Normandy. I guess they don't care much about D Day...

We toured the palace and lunched in the amazing garden.  And then we got back to the car, to drive to Paris. I've driven in NYC, and LA, and of course Miami each day with our infamous scofflaws. They ain't nothing compared to Paris. My hands sweated as busses cut me off while speeding motorcycles missed us by inches. Mike and I dropped Wifey and Loni at the hotel, and returned the nanny SUV to the Hertz spot right under the Louvre. We walked back to the hotel and I immediately had a martini -- to calm the nerves.

The hotel was Le Saint, and it was lovely, right in St. Germain. We walked to the Musee D'Orsay, and the Louvre, and the lovely shops and cafes on the Rive Gauche. We met my friend Joelle at a place called L'Escudella, and then decamped to a hotel jazz bar. We felt like Hemingway, and Stein, and all the Lost Generation folks.

We had a private guide for the Louvre, Christina, and she was terrific -- skipping lines for us, and telling us a great history of that greatest of world's museums. We of course saw the Mona Lisa -- got as close to her as the hordes of Chinese would allow.

After three nights, we switched 'hoods and hotels -- to the Montemarte and La Maison Souquet -- a five star place that was once a "house of pleasure." Mike and I asked for discounts since we brought our own "ladies of pleasure" but none was offered.  We were right down the street from the Moulin Rouge, and we had tickets. The acrobatics were cool, and the big production numbers tolerable given the topless dancers.

We visited the Marrais, the traditional Jewish quarter, and ate fine pastrami sandwiches at Schwartz's after we toured the good but confusing Jewish Museum.

We walked to the cathedral Sacre Cour, and marveled at the view of the city. We went to the Eiffel Tower, which Wifey and I had previously seen, but waited while Mike and Loni ascended. We had fine meals -- our favorite was Phillipe's -- all souffles.

The final evening we took a Seine cruise, and I took a photo of Pont D'Arts, a bridge that was my late friend Karen's favorite. I posted the photo on her FB page -- her husband Rich appreciated it.

After the cruise, we found an Italian place next to the Crazy Horse.  One of the dancers was outside -- dressed fully as a Royal Canadian Mountie.  I had no idea that was an erotic icon for women. We watched as he moved a Ferrari, and nearly crashed it. Mike and I laughed greatly at this...

The next am we had a van take us to DeGaulle, and a fine breakfast at the Admiral's Club. The flight home on AA was awesome -- we slept a lot, watched movies, and ate our final pre diet meals.

So Wifey and my 25th anniversary trip, postponed when Wifey's bad back reared its head, finally took place, nearly 7 years later.  It was a grand time, and wonderful to come home, even to the tropical heat and humidity of Miami summer.

France

Young Chris, Mike and Loni's awesome son, buzzed our front gate and fetched Wifey and me. We were off to MIA. I noted the circle of life: I clearly remember Chris's grandfather Ed, one of my life's mentors, driving the same two couples to MIA in the Summer of '90 -- on our way to Northern Wisconsin for a summer vacation. Chris looks a LOT like his grandfather...

We ditched the bags (not our wives) and went to the Centurion for a few toasts to the trip. We then got on our AA bird, settled into bus class, and off we flew. Though the tix were expensive, I checked and learned that had we bought them later, they'd have cost triple. Mike wasn't sure that made him feel better. We slept, all of us, most of the way across the Atlantic. The lie flat seats were worth every penny.

We arrived in Paris, fetched our bags, and headed to the Hertz counter.  We were really in France -- everyone spoke French, unlike the Spanish in our native home. The Hertz lady looked at all our luggage and upsold us an Audi SUV. We loaded it up, and headed North -- to Rouen, our first stop, and cool, ancient cathedrals and lunch.  The SUV was a nanny car -- buzzers whenever we exceeded 60 KPH, and a refusal to move without seatbelts. Damn Europeans...

We arrived in Cabourg near nightfall -- close to 10 pm. We checked into the Grand Hotel, and it was, except for the tiny elevator. The town was lovely -- seaside resort, home to Marcel Proust. His room was right across from ours. We walked the streets, and found a cafe. Mike began his gastronomic adventures -- eating a ray wing, which had thick, cartilage bones you were supposed to suck. The rest of the meal did NOT suck.

The next day we stopped at Merville, sight of a British glider invasion during the War. There was an American plane there, along with the German gun ports, and we spent several hours there, including a tour of the plane by a way cool guy who told us a tale of a man whose father was a co pilot during the D Day invasion killed while the tourist was still inside his mother's belly. The man sat in the co pilot seat and finally had connection with the hero Dad he never met. We were all misty eyed...

We checked out Bayeaux, where we would stay the following night, at the Churchill Inn. That day was a highlight -- a full day tour led by Yorkshireman Matt Turner, who introduced himself by saying that Yorkshiremen were thick of head and tight of wallet. We dug him immediately. He led us on a tour of all the main beaches and forts, with thoughtful, deep discussion about the differences between German soldiers and SS evil. When he learned that Wifey was the daughter of Survivors, he worried he had offended her. He hadn't -- my late father in law, Israeli IDF vet, had no problems with rank and file Germans -- he even encouraged me to buy a BMW.  Now Arabs...

Matt's tour company owned a stone house with a restaurant, which was featured on a Time cover during the War. We ate there. The tour ended at the famous cemetery. We were all moved by its sanctity and beauty. Wifey and I put a few stones on some of the Jewish Star marked graves. At 5 pm, everyone gathered as the flag was lowered and taps were played. Standing next to us was Geraldo Rivera. I had met him in the late 70s at a charity basketball game at my high school, where Harry Chapin played. I was going to introduce myself, but thought better of it.

The next day, we headed for Chartres. We had figured it was a worthwhile stop. We were wrong. First, the hotel was a bit Fawlty Tower-like, with a clueless staff who couldn't explain where we were to park. It had rained, and so the elevator was broken. Really. We schlepped our bags to the second floor -- Mike and Loni to the third.

The famous cathedral was lovely, with its signature blue glass, but the rest of the town was neutron bomb-y -- no people anywhere, except some sketchy looking types. I named it the Jacksonville/Akron of France. We were happy to drive away the next morning, on our way to Versailles, and then gay Paris.

We Leave With A Funeral; Return With A Funeral

So the day before our big trip to France, we attended the funeral of Wifey's dear friend Jeannette's father Dave.  This morning, as we were checking out of La Maison Souquet, our final Paris hotel, Wifey told me Edna had texted -- her father Meyer had also died.

Tomorrow we'll attend his funeral -- up in Hollywood, somewhere. Meyer had been declining lately, and was 93, but when someone dies, it still shocks, somehow.

It's funny -- I thought of him during the trip. I read the NYC papers since D2 is living there, and there was an article about another cabbie who killed himself. Uber and Lyft has turned the once precious medallions to worthless things.

Meyer was lucky -- he retired in the early 80s, and sold his medallion for 7 figures, or near to it. Along with the nice profit from their row house in Canarsie, he and his wife moved to Hallandale with a nice nest egg.

Several years back, Edna was forced to take over their affairs -- they were being taken advantage of by a mentally ill sibling. Edna got both her parents into Miami Jewish -- and she and Wifey would visit their three parents there. My father in law died first, of course. 

My sister of another mister Mirta would visit Meyer, and grew close to him. He would perk up at Mirta's visits -- his highlights were trips to local Chinese places.  The visits ended a few months back. Still, Mirta was very sad to learn of Meyer's passing.

France was lovely. It was a busman's holiday -- we spent two nights at seaside Cabourg, a night in Bayeaux, one in Chartres, and the final 6 nights in Paris -- three in St, Germain, and three near Montmarte.  We laughed a lot, and learned a lot.

But the homecoming brings us to a gravesite, again.

I guess it's just the way life works.

Step Out With Your Right Foot

That was one of my beloved Mom's sayings, whenever someone was leaving for a trip, or a new opportunity like college or a new job. I never knew what it meant, especially since I'm left footed, and tend to take my fist step with the dominant side. But I knew it came from her cheer leading nature, and out of love.

I thought of her last night at Dave's shiva, in Hallandale. His widow Inez looked so bereft, so lost. She and Dave were married over 62 years.  I started to try to comfort her by saying how life went on very nicely for my Mom after my Dad died, after a time, but then remembered my Mom was 62 when she was widowed, not late 80s like Inez.

Still, she has an extremely loving family. She will move in with Jeanette and Bob -- Bob has become his in laws' caretaker. I hugged him as we left and told him he was a great man. It's funny -- he was never very close to his in laws. I think they'd have preferred Jeanette had married a Jewish guy. But over the last several years he has become their angel -- he's semi retired and Jeanette still works full time.

Well -- time to get my mind out of the USA. Young 2L Chris will be here in a bit over an hour, to fetch Wifey and me and drive us, along with his parents, to MIA. Loni had her last day of school today -- she's taught English for well over 30 years -- and she will be raring to party. Mike and I never need much of an excuse to celebrate -- the free open bar at the Centurion Lounge awaits.

Whenever I take a long flight, I recall a swimmer from UM named Carl -- a friend of my Cheech and Chong-like freshman apartment mates. Before leaving for break, Carl and the two Marks (one from Indiana and one from Ohio) would smoke prodigious amounts of weed with Carl, who was a Minnesotan. Carl would smile at me and day "Dave -- I always like to be just a bit higher than the plane I fly on."  It was sage advice.

We're flying Business, so we get seats that flatten into beds, so we ought to sleep most of the way across the ocean. I brought along an anthology of WWII writers, and plan to get in the mood for the Normandy tours.

FaceBook brought up a memory from last year. Mike, Loni, Wifey and I had drinks at the Intercontinental and then walked to the AAA to see Tears for Fears and Hall and Oats. A monsoon came through, and we were soaked. We stopped in the Express store at Bayside and bought dry shirts. Mike and I lucked out -- they had exactly two remaining XL shirts -- in lovely pastel colors. The show was terrific.

It occurs to me how lucky we are -- empty nesters, with 4 awesome kids among us, living nice and productive lives.  I plan to toast that very fact at the airport lounge.

So it's au revoir, USA.  We're off to learn and enjoy, and hopefully NOT hear anyone scream "Allahu Akbar" followed by some kind of explosion.

We plan to be back June 19th. Adios for now...

You Know You're Getting Old When You Run Into Old Friends in the Cemetery

So today we attended the funeral of Dave, our friend Jeannette's beloved father. Wifey and I drove in monsoon rain to Lakeside, out in Doral, and gathered in the small chapel.  A Sephardic Rabbi led a nice, understated service, and then we followed the hearse to the grave.

It was pouring down. We stood under a tent, but the wind blew in the rain.  The Rabbi, and Dave's son in law Bob got soaked to the skin.  The rest of us got a bit wet.

Dave was buried next to his son Larry, who died young, 9 years ago. It brought back the very sad memories of Larry's death.  I looked up to the North, and saw the townhouses that line the graveyard. I wondered what it must be like to be a child living there - looking nightly outside your window over the quiet field.  It must produce some brave children.

After the ceremony, we drove to Hallandale in major traffic to a small shiva -- Wifey caught up with Jeannette and her girls, and I talked with Dennis, her cousin, who is a chef in Delray. I always really liked Dennis -- I told him I would always remember meeting on July 4, 1984, at the huge Beach Boys concert on Miami Beach. He remembers it well, too.

But back to the cemetery. Wifey noticed a gravestone one row over. It had the name of a man, David, who was born in 1943 and died in 2017. "Look at that," Wifey said, "he has the same unusual name as your old friend."

Sure enough, we checked, and it was him -- David, a Jewban advertising lawyer with whom we did a lot of business in the early days of our firm, in the mid 90s. I had no idea he had died.  I called Paul and Stuart -- they were shocked to learn it as well.

Eric called to wish me a great trip, and I told him the story. As I did, my memory started to spark -- sure enough, David was a patient of Eric's when he worked on Miami Beach.

So it's come to this. Running into old friends in the cemetery.  I much prefer seeing them at Canes tailgate parties. I plan to spend less time at funerals, and more with football games.

This Is Not My Beautiful House

I keep hearing the Talking Heads "Once in a Lifetime" over and over in my own head lately, as this journey through time continues.

Yesterday there was another milestone: our friend Jeanette's father Dave died, following complications from a nasty fall. He was in his late 80s.

I always really liked Dave. I met him in '84 when Jeanette and her man Bob moved to Miami . Dave, a Jewban, and his wife Inez, an exotic Honduran Jewess, were already living here  --in North Beach. They were here with their mentally ill son Larry.

Dave always worked, and never became well off, but he first and foremost took care of his family. Jeanette gave him so much joy -- topped off with her two awesome daughters, whom Dave adored. Larry, who he loved, gave him so much grief with his awful journey through schizophenia and substance abuse.  They gave Larry the best care they could, and Larry spent his final years in a secure halfway house in South Miami. The late night calls from police arrests still came, and Dave and Inez just dealt with them, even as they aged.

But when Larry died, in his early 50s, Dave grieved deeply. I remember hugging him at his son's funeral, and saying how sorry I was, that no man should bury a son. And he looked up and me and said "thank you."

We last saw Dave a few months back at his granddaughter's wedding, in Miami Springs. He was beaming. He looked great, and danced with his family.  He and I talked, and he beamed about my D1, who was there with her Latin Jewish husband.  I was so happy for him.

But I guess the Big Man decided it was time to join Him, and Dave did, yesterday. The funeral is tomorrow, and Wifey and I will attend before we leave for France the next day. I'm glad I will get to honor this fine man before we leave town.

So I guess that's the story. You live a long life, if you're lucky. You hopefully mean a lot to your loved ones. I know Dave did -- in his hospital stay, his daughter and granddaughters were there to visit. A lot -- despite their hectic schedules.  Dave gave his heart to his family, and they loved him so dearly.

He died after a full, beloved life.

I guess it was, indeed, his beautiful house...

A Fine Weekend for D2

So Friday Joey, the Ds, Wifey, and I met at Ruth's Chris for our secular shabbat.  We ate and talked -- it was exquisite.  Afterwards we walked over to Houston's to meet old friend Steve the cop and Pat and Susan -- the latter bunking with Steve while here for a wedding.  The place was packed, and Susan and the Ds talked happily about their lives. Marie, their girl, just got her MFA from UF, and is heading to D.C. for a job as a writer. D1 used to babysit Marie.

Saturday Wifey and I dropped D2 at SoHo House on the Beach -- she and Jonathan had a room courtesy of member D1.  It's very cool there -- on Sunday our brunch made Wifey and I feel extremely old.  We wondered how all these young people had the money to stay and eat there.

But first...Saturday. We drove to Mo's, and had a reunion with Wifey's old friend Giselle.  I always dug her -- Jewban lady who grew up on the Beach. She moved to LA and met a younger guy -- an engineer, and they settled in Toronto. Giselle was back home for her Dad's funeral, and over coffee told us she badly wants to return to Miami -- her family and friends are here. When her husband can retire, they plan to make the move from the frozen North...

Paul fetched me, and it was off to Gulfstream. We settled at Christine Lee's, and had a fine time -- Paul even won us a few shekels. We were joined by young Vince, and Wifey and Giselle, and eventually by our bud Stu and his parents and kids. Bill and Mona were celebrating their 60th anniversary -- we toasted them.

I acquitted myself rather well in the martini department, and slept all the way home as Wifey drove. I plan to not go with any adult beverages until Friday, when we leave for Paris.

Sunday we met the Ds and their men. After brunch, Jonathan left for a farewell with his family. We then had the sad drive to MIA to drop D2. We hugged tightly -- we'll see her again in just over 6 weeks in NYC.

I knew I'd be down after saying goodbye to my girl, and Mike had planned a perfect antidote. Turns out that the classic Mel Brooks film "The Producers"  is now 50, and they remastered it to show on the big screen. Jeff and Lili and Mike and I met at a Peruvian place in the Falls -- they had cocktails while Jeff and I teetotaled -- and then we walked to the theater for the movie.

I had seen it several times, but it was still funny -- and this time we spotted character actors like the dude who later became Seinfeld's Dad...

I made it home to hear from D2 -- delayed, but safely back in the city so great they say it twice...

Today D1 and I spoke -- we both miss our girl.  We hope someday she lives here with us -- and if not, there will be very frequent trips up and down the East Coast.

As for us, Wifey has begun preparing for our trip. I'll pack the night before.  Chris will fetch us, parents already in the car, and drop us at MIA -- after a stop in the lounge, it'll be across the ocean.

The past D2 week was an exquisite one.

The Bell Tolls for Karen

So I have a friend from early childhood - kindergarten, in fact, named Karen.  She was always mature, and nice, and an all around mentsch. I think we were in every class together in grade school -- she was always taller than the rest of us, and remained that way through junior high.

In 6th grade I had to make the biggest decision of my young life.  I still recall how fraught with drama it was for me, even though its laughably minor when viewed through an adult lens.  Turns out I was a gifted young flute player in the school's band -- it just came naturally to me. Our instructor, Mr. Lutri, a diminutive Italian guy, nominated me for the All County Band -- and he only sent a student there every 5 years or so. I was proud and excited, but also anxious to be recognized for more masculine pursuits.

I tried out and made the volleyball team. This was no big deal, of course, but it was to me -- I never had a chance at basketball, and baseball, my best sport, wasn't represented. I was going to be a benchwarmer, but was still proud. But there was a problem -- volleyball practice, all mandatory, clashed with the All County practices, of which there were 4 before the big concert.  I had to choose.

Mr. Lutri was devastated that it was even a choice. The gym coach, Mr. Allison, couldn't have cared less. I agonized -- it was much cooler to me to be on a sports team. I remember Karen counseling my 6th grade self -- with wisdom beyond her years. She told me I was already all boy, didn't need to prove anything with stupid volleyball, and also, as a fellow flutist -- what kind of dumbass would pass up a chance at All County?

And so that was my call, and it was correct. I sat among far more talented musicians than I was. It taught me that I was only a big fish in the tiny pond of East Broadway School -- I wasn't going anywhere near to Julliard. And the show was great. They recorded it, and made a vinyl LP. When I played it months after the show, I could make out my father shouting "More! More!" during the sustained applause following our performance.

But back to Karen.  We last saw each other at high school graduation. I was headed to Miami -- she to upstate NY to study at one of the SUNY schools. We connected on FaceBook -- she had moved back to LI with her college sweetheart, a fellow named Rich.  They had a house, and dogs --no kids -- and traveled the world together.

About 6 years ago, Karen messaged me -- could we talk on the phone? We could, and had a delightful conversation -- sharing the tales of the burden of failing parents, and all about life. Turns out she had been a career insurance claims manager in the tri state area -- while I had a career on the opposite side -- plaintiff's lawyer. I could tell she must have been a nightmare opponent to the Northeastern Bar -- she was smart and savvy -- we laughed about all the bullshit in our field.

She told me she was delighted for me to see my family and friends -- she told me she always dug me and admired my kindness to all. It was a mutual admiration society meeting -- we looked forward to sharing some cocktails at the next high school reunion -- though I told her I was skipping number 35 but might make it to 40 -- my friend Kenny is pressuring me to go.

And our FaceBook relationship continued -- I admired her and Rich's world travels, and gourmet meals all over the US, and her complaints about business travel --getting stuck in less than glamorous places.

Monday there was an awful post -- from her husband. Karen had suffered a massive heart attack and was in the ICU at Stony Brook Hospital. Rich is a great writer, and shared progress. Yesterday he reported it was nearly the end -- they had revived her from the medically induced coma, and she was essentially gone. He wrote about how he was devastated -- if she breathed without support, they would move her to hospice for the short time she'd have left before she died.

The FB comments flowed. Most told Rich he was in their prayers. One classmate, Nancy, a tough ass Italian who inexplicably became a born again Christian and moved to trailer South (really) kept going on and on about how we all (Karen's friends) needed to plea to Jesus for a miracle. Karen is Jewish.  Some of the fellow Jews seemed to say -- what the hell  -- if it works, why not?

Doesn't seem to be working. Rich commented this am that things were the same -- he was bracing for the loss of his soul mate and life partner.

So it's just another sign post on the road of life -- a reminder to savor each day like a large buffet line at a fine restaurant -- taking only the quality items, and leaving the crap (anxiety, sweating of small stuff) on the tray.

Tonight, D1 and Joey will be meeting Wifey, D2, and me for our secular shabbat, in the Gables.  D1 and Joey have begun alternating their Friday nights with Joey's folks and us.  We're going to Ruth's Chris in the Gables -- our standby, Christy's was sold out.

I will have a martini and toast Karen.  Not gone yet, but will be very soon, it seems. My life was richer for having had her as a friend.