Grateful to Be Here

 Today is Memorial Day, and for me it always brings back memories of the story my Dad told that explains why the younger of my two sisters and I are even here. It took place in Texas during the final year of WW II.

Dad was in a battalion that was training to be sent to Europe. My Mom was back in the Bronx, with her baby girl, who was conceived in Pasadena. My Mom loved her life there, but she and Dad agreed it would be better for her to go home to NY to be with her family -- who knew when, of if, Dad would come home?

Dad was at the PX, and it was a hot night, and he was in his undershirt. He struck up a conversation with a fellow NY Jew -- the two found each other in the room of mostly Southern WASPs at the base. The other fellow was a bit older, and my Dad could tell right away, very educated. I wish I knew his name -- I'm not sure whether or not Dad recalled it himself.

Anyway, the two played pool, and drank a few beers, and the older Landsman noticed Dad was down. Dad admitted he was -- being shipped off to battle the next am, and had a baby girl he had never met -- and didn't know whether he ever would. The older man commiserated -- war is hell sort of stuff -- and then put on his jacket to leave. Dad was floored -- the fellow was a freaking Colonel! Dad started stuttering "Um, Sir, I had no idea..." The fellow smiled at him, and said "The name's Sid Rosen (I'm picking a random WW II era Jewish American name) and you're Hy, and hopefully we meet after the War in Brooklyn or the Bronx for a corned beef sandwich." And then he left.

My Dad went to sleep, and was up early to report to the airfield and the transport plane. As he was about to board, the soldier saw his name, and said "Nope -- not getting on -- change of orders just came in -- you're heading back to Pasadena." My Dad shrugged and did what he was told, of course. The Colonel had acted.

Months later, my Dad ran into someone from the old squad, who said to my Dad "Wait -- you're dead!" Dad replied that obviously he wasn't. Well, the fellow explained, Dad's compatriots were sent to the Battle of the Bulge, and had like 90% casualty rate. To an extremely high degree of certainty, the Colonel had saved Dad's life.

VE Day came soon after, and a bit later Truman ordered a few bigger type bombs to be dropped on Japan, and WW II was over. Dad made his way home to the Bronx. Mom had found an apartment to share with Hannah, a woman who became a life long friend. She had two sons, Arnold and Stanley. Her husband Julie came home from the Navy, and the two families then welcomed my sister Susan, born 73 years ago next month.

My Dad and Mom and sisters got their own place, on Bathgate Avenue, and then in public housing on Dyckman Street, in Upper Manhattan. Dad worked 3 jobs, and eventually they made it to Queens -- the Eden for Jews of that generation. I was born there in 1961, and then a year later, the American Dream really came true -- OWNING a house -- out in the suburbs of Long Island.

But it all happened because of a chance meeting in Texas, in 1944. And today I think of the scores of brave soldiers who didn't have Dad's luck, who fought and died, so that we could have this still greatest country in the world.

A NY Times columnist, maybe it was Tom Friedman, wrote recently that there's no way our fractured nation could win WWII now. Hell -- we have selfish idiots who won't even get a vaccine to bring this plague to an end -- or make wearing a stupid mask a political statement. Could we ever again sacrifice the way we did in the 40s?

The future's not ours to see. Hopefully we come around again. But today, I'm thankful for all those who fought and died for us. And especially thankful Dad was lucky enough to come home from the War fully intact.

The First Grocery Store Trip

 So as the plague continues to recede, D1 and Joey took the little man to Publix this am, for his first time. I got a photo of him looking serious. Serious face is my grandson's default expression, which is of course adorable on a 17 month old. He was sitting in the big Publix simulated car atop the cart -- a vast improvement from the simple baby seats of the Ds' childhood.

The photo brought back a memory of a trip I took to the grocery store 40 years ago -- it was 1981. Barry and I were roommates, and Eric commuted, but spent most of his time in our apartment, and the three of us would often visit the Pantry Pride across from UM.

They made fun of me for good reason. I almost always bought only Lender's frozen bagels, American cheese, milk, oj, and fish sticks. I was lazy about cooking -- still am -- and those were staples I ate when I didn't go to the U's cafeterias or delivered in pizza or subs.

This one particular day, I had my staples bought and paid for, and got bored at the front of the store waiting for my friends. I noticed the microphone for the PA, and went over to it, picked it up, and announced "Attention Pantry Pride shoppers. Please note that a known homosexual, Barry G, is currently shopping in aisle 5."

The manager came over right away -- a Bill Macy in "Fargo" looking fellow, in a white short sleeved shirt and black tie, and said "Um, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store now." I looked down, and said "Yes, I understand," and walked out, joined soon by Eric and Barry and ensuing hilarious laughter.

It was, of course, literally a sophomoric prank (Barry was a freshman) but at the time, before political correctness, something we all found amazingly funny.

And so I wondered about my grandson. Would he have adventures with friends in grocery stores? Will they even be around when he gets older? Wifey and I, never big visitors to markets on account of we don't cook, will definitely keep using InstaCart even after the pandemic ends. We're lazy and not too picky about the groceries we buy -- InstaCart is a natural for us.

Ah -- that beautiful little man. As he grows, I plan on teaching him the same basic things I taught the Ds. First -- life is indeed NOT fair. Second, as D1 just reminded me via an interview she gave about being a health care leader, ALWAYS be a student of human nature.

And a third, which hit close this week with the sudden death of our friend Elizabeth: always live in the moment, and enjoy each moment.

I hope these lessons resonate with the little guy.

In the mean time, he had his first Publix visit. And we have the pictures to prove it.

A Night of Relief

 We're still reeling from the loss of Elizabeth -- her death still seems unreal. Wifey is fortunate -- she can bawl in grief. It's tougher for me -- my eyes got misty, but that was it. It takes me longer to mourn. I think I first cried about my greatest life loss -- my father - more than a year after his death.

We had had plans with Joelle and Kenny to try out a great new restaurant, as a going away dinner for them -- headed to Maine for the Summer -- and Joelle texted that she totally understood if we wished to skip the night. Joelle has close sisters, both biological and of the friend variety, and she understands well Wifey's loss. No -- we would go ahead -- do us good to get out -- and with the plague in retreat, it'd be nice to have a normal, inside restaurant experience.

Plus -- there was an added attraction. D1 invited us for a pregame, and we eagerly accepted. We rolled up just as the grandson was toddling about, laughing, before his bath and bed time. Joey poured us some vodka and whiskey and we toasted Elizabeth. Wifey was in heaven on the floor with the beautiful boy.

The restaurant was Cote, a Korean steakhouse. Both Ds and their men had tried it, and reported it as delicious with fine service. They were correct -- you sit at a table with a hibachi in the middle, and they bring you fine meats and cook them for you right there. The cocktails had nice pours, and indeed the food was delicious -- although, as the server lifted the chunks from the grill and cut them with a special scissor, I couldn't help but think that this place would be a great side hustle job for a mohel. Luckily I shared that thought after we had eaten.

The crowd, as usual in the Design District, said "We're not in Pinecrest anymore," as Wifey is wont to say. Models, Europeans, a couple of tables with obviously rich Gulf State Arab folks...

We all loved the food, and I had thought about returning for my birthday dinner, but I'm a dinosaur. I love a great steak put in front of me in its "natural" state -- uncut. I'm thinking it'll still be the Palm for me in July, Big Man willing.

After dinner, we walked around the new buildings in the District. I hadn't been since they were completed -- all the highest end designer stores, and art installations. Three separate model shoots were going on -- I joked that I was so disappointed that Armani was closed -- I had hoped to hop in and buy a $15k suit.

There were two sets of swings -- and the 4 of us enjoyed them. One, as Kenny noticed, is an art installation, and as you swing, steel slats move, making you part of the art. Two sophisticated women saw it as we finished, and noted the same thing, in, I think, Italian accents. We truly weren't in Pinecrest anymore.

So it was indeed a fine evening. Yesterday there were some more tears about Elizabeth. Her sister Ruby texted that the Utah ME said it'd be quite awhile before they had autopsy results -- although hopefully they'll be letting Ruby go ahead with the cremation. Elizabeth wanted her cremains -- can't get enough of that word -- spread in North Carolina, near Ruby and Harris's home there.

I think Wifey may travel to Orlando with Ruby to help in the cleaning out of Elizabeth's house. In a way, that'll be the funeral, bringing closure for Wifey. I hope that comes to pass.

Dr. Barry and I spoke about this terrible loss. The two healthiest men from my neighborhood, Ben and Evan, died. Ben died of an arrhythmia just over two years ago --- he was running in our 'hood and dropped. Evan, meticulous about his health, had a brain tumor.

And now Elizabeth -- by far the healthiest and most meticulous about her health of any of Wifey's friends. As Barry pointed out -- we like to think we have control of our medical destinies, but we don't.

My mother smoked for 60 years -- never developed heart problems or lung cancer. My mother in law, also a lifetime smoker and eater of unhealthy foods -- obese much of her adult life -- slogs on, at 96.5.

During our Zoom happy hour last night, I asked Barry if there was a term for that -- when reality is exactly opposite of a prediction -- like when the tortoise beats the hare in the race. We both agreed to give that question some thought.

But for now, as always is the case for the survivors of even a tragic death, the sun is up. I'm taking the new early birthday gift I bought myself out for a test run. I got a Sonos Roam, a portable hi fi speaker that connected easily to my Sonos system, so I can have great quality sound and the almost infinite music and podcast choices as I do my constitutionals.

Elizabeth enjoyed our walks when she was here -- marveling at the tropical foliage of our gorgeous 'hood. She'd have enjoyed the Roam, too.

A Pain In My Heart For the Loss of A Pure Soul

 Wifey and I have many things in common, and one of the most important is our group of true and lifelong friends. Elizabeth is at the top of the list.

She and Wifey met as FIU students in the late 70s, and grew quickly close. The two traveled to Jamaica a few years after they graduated, in 1979, and happened to be there when Bob Marley died in Miami. The Israeli American and Cubana attended that momentous funeral -- and it remained a treasured memory.

Elizabeth was living in Coconut Grove, and she and Wifey were poolside one day, when Elizabeth asked a long haired guy blasting his boom box to turn it down. The guy was Pat, who had scored a few gold records, and was playing his own music. The two married the next year.

I met Elizabeth in 1983, when she was still married to Pat, and have wonderful memories of their company. They'd stay with us in Miami, and we stayed with them in Orlando, where they had moved. After they divorced, it was clear who we'd keep, so to speak -- it was Elizabeth -and we traveled life's road with her from young adults to middle age, and now kind of the next level.

Elizabeth reinvented herself in her 40s, after a career as a saleswoman in pharmaceuticals -- she went back to college and got a second Bachelor's degree, in nursing, and then a MS to become a nurse practitioner. We were so proud of her.

Elizabeth visited us often, and became a wonderful aunt to the Ds. She adored them, and they her. When they were at UF, we would visit either on the way or returning from Gville. Later, when D1 would lecture for Zumba in Orlando, Elizabeth was proudly in the audience.

We last saw Elizabeth in late January of '20 at D2 and Jonathan's wedding. She was beaming -- as proud as if D2 was her own. She saw the grandson briefly as he was whisked to the car. It was a banner weekend.

During the plague, we'd speak often, and Zoomed a few times. We planned to finally hug again this Summer, as the Covid beast retreated.

I had a long chat with Elizabeth last week -- excited to go away on a hiking trip to Utah. She so loved being in nature. She was going with a group of other women -- they would hike during the day and drink fine wine and eat well at night. Wifey was a bit jealous -- though she would have skipped the hiking part.

Hilariously, she was paying for the trip with proceeds from the engagement ring from her ex husband Pat -- why keep a memento from a failed relationship when instead it would pay for a priceless memory?  I loved hearing that.

Well, today I was driving Wifey to the Palace, and Elizabeth's sister Ruby called. Elizabeth had died in her sleep at the hotel following a long hike. No. We were stunned. We were sickened. We simply couldn't, and still can't process this awful news.

Elizabeth would have turned 64 in July. We shared a birthday month, and often celebrated together. This year for me will now be tinged with sadness. I feel as if I lost a sister.

Elizabeth was a truly beautiful woman -- inside and out. She only wished for people to share love, and appreciate natural beauty. She loved dogs -- long a dog mom herself, but since working so many hours at the hospital, became a doggy aunt to our pups instead.

The Ds are devastated. Wifey was a mess all afternoon. I process grief differently -- things will hit me in a few weeks.

And yet, something beautiful happened today. D2 was walking Betsy, the enormous puppy, and saw a small, older dog wandering in the street -- wearing socks, of all things -- and limping. The dog had no collar or tag.

She carried him back to her condo, had Jonathan bring Betsy upstairs, and headed to the vet with the little guy to check for a chip.

I was already thinking our family did not need any more dogs. What would D2 do if there was no chip? Simply abandon the old guy to Mary Street again?

Well -- the chip was there -- the dog was Bruce - and his owner raced over to the vet, beaming with thankfulness to D2. Bruce was old and had wandered away. D2 got him out of the street, where he might have died.

I have no doubt that Elizabeth's beautiful soul was somehow involved in this rescue. She loved dogs. Her niece of another mister, D2, did a wonderful thing. Elizabeth would have beamed. I like to think she is so beaming.

Ruby sent us the last texts Elizabeth sent, from Utah. She said the hike, of 8 miles at altitude, was the most grueling of her life, but she was so glad she did it -- to see the beauty. There were photos of the group of women with their guide. All were smiling in the bright Utah mountain light.

Apparently they returned to their hotel, had dinner, and then to their rooms. Elizabeth didn't show for breakfast. She passed during the night, in her sleep. Far too young, of course, but the death of a queen.

And we all feel the pain of her loss. Wifey, as I write, is outside sitting in an area by our front gate that Elizabeth planted for her. She was a master gardener. Wifey is going to have a special tree planted, to daily think of her dear sister.

And her memory will be a blessing. But for right now -- the pain is very new, and sharp.

And the Marlins are in the WIN Column!

 Well, after a blip, the first MLB game for the grandson took place yesterday. Wifey had begged off, fearing too much walking at the Park, and so I offered her ticket to Mike. But then we got a call from the Palace -- there was a staffing meeting for my suegra that I was to attend, and so I begged off. D1 offered a ticket to her brother in law .

And then, the meeting got moved earlier, and so I was able to go -- met the crew at the Diamond Club entrance and we were taken up by elevator to the main concourse. 

The grandson loved it. I feared he might freak at the number of people and noise. He laughed and clapped. We let him run on the concourse, and he did so like the hilarious drunken sailor he is as a toddler. And, since Covid restrictions were still in place, and only 5 seat pods were open, we were able to bring his stroller to the seat aisle, where he sat happily for quite a long time.

We got beers and I got a vodka, and hot dogs and pretzels and nachos, and watched the game. It was a pitchers' duel, though the Mets did strand a lot of baserunners. 

To my amazement, the grandson loved it -- watched the action and crowds, and laughed in the arms of his grandma. Before we knew it, 7 innings were done, and D1 and Joey took the baby home -- it was nearing his bed time. Jackie and Alan and I stayed.

We caught up -- been awhile since we talked, and the theme was, of course, the blessing of that large baby boy. We decided to stay until the end of 9 innings.

It was 1-1 going into the bottom of the 9th. Anderson got a hit. There were 2 outs, and up came Cooper, who D1 tells us is probably the most intellectual player on the team -- a true student of hitting. He applied his knowledge well -- a blast into the second deck for a walk off HR! We all high fived. The many Mets fans in attendance were looking down. It was lovely.

And so, a benchmark is in the books. First MLB game, though I'll be telling the boy about it when he's older. Is he ready for a Canes tailgate this Fall? Hmm...have to give that some thought.

Meanwhile, our Village's mayor, a voice of reason throughout the plague, posted his Friday evening status. He announced that next Friday would be his final post about Covid -- "we are nearing the end." I exhaled deeply when I read that.

Maybe I can make it to 60 and worry about dying of something else than Covid after all! At least I DID get to see my grandson at a ball game...

Thinking about Richard, My Father in Law

 So Israel and the "government" of the Palestinians, Hamas, have reached a cease fire after 11 days of bombings. That's a nice development. It caused me to think about my late father in law Richard, and IDF veteran.

Richard was born and raised in Lodz, Poland, one of 7 children. His family was relatively affluent -- his father was a high level cabinet maker, and provided furniture for the elite of the city. Well, things turned to shit in the 30s, as the Nazis invaded Poland. Three of Richard's siblings were killed in the camps, including a beautiful sister who had been a model. Richard's parents, grandparents, and cousins and aunts and uncles were also killed, by the Nazis and scores of "innocent" helpers from Poland and Germany.

After the War, he emigrated to Haifa, and was recruited into the IDF. Richard was tall and strong and a wonderful athlete. He would win most of the athletic contests held in the DP camp in Germany where he lived before leaving Europe. The IDF brought him into Special Forces, since, as they told him "You're an orphan and so if you die for the cause no one will really grieve that much."

He used to share some of the tales of the War of Independence. They weren't pretty. He secured the first house for his family by politely asking some Arabs to leave. Well, maybe not politely. The house was "conquered," as he called it.

I met Richard in 1983, and we spoke many times about the Arab/Israeli conflict. He spoke to me as one who was actually there. He wasn't an educated man, but read widely about the War -- he loved to watch TV shows about WW II, Israel, and nature. He loved animals -- thought they were far more noble than people.

So, asked this pampered American Jew, who had only been to Israel as an 8 year old but was imbued with Zionism by my parents -- what's the deal there?

Richard told me he and his fellow IDF soldiers were constantly amazed at the sheer stupidity of their Arab opponents -- the only way tiny Israel won the Independence War, the Six Day War, and Yom Kippur Wars was due to a completely unmatched battle of intelligence.

"They are so stupid, we couldn't believe it," he would tell me.

I asked how he would finally settle things there. His response: give the Arabs land, like Gaza and the West Bank, and then go take it back when they caused too much mischief. It was that simple. Since the military sophistications would remain so one sided, this would really be no big deal.

And how have things played out? Precisely that way. Gaza was given back to the so called Palestinians, things got dicey for them since their leaders are Hamas, a terrorist group, and they started firing thousands of rockets into Israel -- each one, with no true target, a war crime.

And then Israel, the mean old man with a gun telling the misbehaving kids to get off the lawn -- well -- made them get off the lawn. They bombed the crap out of blocks of Gaza -- going after Hamas leaders and stores of rockets.

Will this cycle ever end? Well -- a big game changer is that the Gulf States no longer support the Palis. As one British pundit wrote, the elite in the UAE wants to deal with the tech wizards in Tel Aviva, not the rock throwers in Gaza. Maybe that will finally change the calculus.

I hope so. No one wants to see dead children, whatever their background.

But I'm smiling today, thinking of my late father in law, Israeli military veteran and hero. On his gravestone, the inscription is his name, dates of birth and death, and the letters "IDF." That was the recognition he wanted. And damn if he wasn't spot on as to how things would play out.

Sellers' Market

 So we keep hearing about how crazy prices have become in Miami real estate. Today I heard some news that confirmed that.

Our next door neighbor bought their place in '12 for $1.5M. It was actually a bit of a steal for them -- our friend Diane was getting desperate to sell, following her divorce, and prices had dipped a bit. The people who bought are a couple with an average age of 45. He's in his 60s; she's in her early 30s. He has grown kids and a grandson from wife #1, but decided his virility was still extant, and now has 5 kids with the wife who is close in age to D1. 

They built a beautiful playground on the side of the house. When I complemented it, and told the husband I someday hoped to bring my grandkids to play there, he said "Grandkids??? Dave -- you're MY age -- have more kids of your own." No thanks. That would require replacing Wifey with a much younger model, and that's not in the cards for me. Grandkids are fine -- I adore the one I have, and hope for more.

Anyway, they put some money into the house, but not tons. I mean -- the bathrooms are late 80s vintage, and there is even carpet in some of the bedrooms -- supposedly verboten in any upscale house.

I'm no maven, but figured maybe the house was now worth a bit north of $2M. They listed it for $3M. They're under contract for $2.75M, and today got a cash offer for the full $3M asking price! Wow. That one hits close to home.

As a blue collar Jew from Levittown, LI public schools, I don't know that I feel comfortable in my 'hood anymore. I mean, I love living here and all, but at these levels?

Bill and Cheryl just sold their place -- a nice but very dated house on 1/2 acre. I would have thought it would have gone for about $800K. They got nearly their $1.4M asking price -- and the place sold in less than a week.

If Wifey and I were ready to downsize, it would make sense to sell. I'm not -- I figure the longer you're married, the MORE space you need to preserve domestic tranquility.

In Bill and Cheryl's case, they have a house in Colorado and a condo up in Jensen Beach -- so their cashing out makes tons of sense. But if you're staying in the 305 -- the nutty selling numbers leave you with nutty buying numbers. So we'll stay put.

The good news is that the new neighbors, according to the wife, are a young couple with a 1 year old -- they're moving from Miami Beach. I'm thinking that means they'll keep the playground, so my grandson can hopefully enjoy it, too. Of course, Miami Beach can easily mean Orthodox Jews, so that'd mean no playground on Saturdays. That's ok.

With this latest sale, there are no more houses on the market, in my 'hood. I have a feeling that may change, as people on the fence about selling might well decide to jump out now. I guess time will tell.

Eventually, the peafowl will be taking over anyway. I spotted a bunch of chicks with two peahens the other day. House prices will mean nothing to them...

Held To Account

 So things have gotten a bit chippie lately, as the Brits say, in Israel. Probably the Israelis were a bit heavy handed in picking when (end of Ramadan) and where (Al Aqsa mosque) to clamp down on Palestinian activity, but then the terrorist group, Hamas, which seems to be the Palestinian de facto government, began its missile mischief -- shooting thousands of rockets into Israel.

I guess they never learned the basic lesson of survival every suburban kid does: when the mean old man, especially one with a gun, tells you to get off his lawn, GET OFF THE LAWN! Israel, the mean old man, went after Hamas bigly, as Trump used to say -- and used this as an opportunity to take out a lot of the terrorists' leadership.

My late father in law Richard, an IDF Special Forces vet, used to tell me Israel only won its independence against staggering odds because their opponents were none too smart, militarily. And so it still is: the IDF communications team "mistakenly" said the IDF was launching a ground invasion into Gaza, their Hamas leaders retreated into the tunnels under the city, and then the Israeli Air Force picked them off pretty easily. When there WAS no ground invasion, the IDF said, essentially, "Oops."

So this will go on for another few weeks, Israel will clean out a lot of the Hamas and Islamic Jihad fighters, and things will quiet down again for awhile. True peace will only happen when the Palestinians get leadership that stops advocating the death of all Jews, i.e. "From the River to the Sea, Palestine must be free" which means free of all Jews. Not gonna happen.

Another turned worm happened yesterday, too. The powerful UAE called upon Hamas to stop firing the missiles. The rich Gulf States want to deal with tech savvy Israelis instead of rocket launching Palestinians -- this is a true game changer. Hopefully it bodes well for a lasting peace -- without their rich uncle oil folks, the Palestinians have to rely on Iran. Iran has their hands full lately with those pesky Israelis, too, who seem able to wreck the nuclear weapons program Iran, an oil rich country wants for "peaceful purposes," at will.

Yesterday D1 sent an annoying video. Midtown, where she used to live, held a pro Palestinian rally, with all kinds of "Zionism Equals Nazism" posters. The majority of the protestors were NOT Arabs, but rather knuckleheaded young Americans.

I guess they were too young to remember 911, when the Palestinians partied hearty watching Americans die in that awful terrorist attack. Morons. Self hating fools.

But I'm confident things will settle down in Wifey's ancestral home. To his credit, President Biden is keeping quiet -- he's truly much more pro-Israel than his old boss Obama. But Biden also knows he has to placate the far left part of the Dems -- who are decidedly anti -Israel. So Biden is just keeping quiet -- typically a smart strategy.

But when I see Hamas, I see post 9/11 partiers. And to me, they must be held to account, regardless of those who conveniently forget.

Party Like We USED To

 So I was chatting with my friend Jeff a few weeks ago, a very humble fellow just over 2 months older than I. I knew his 60th birthday was coming, and I asked how he planned to celebrate. He really didn't, he said -- he'd have his wife, and 2/3 of his daughters home, and he really never liked to be the center of attention, and so that would be it.

Well, I try to give less life advice as I age, particularly when I'm not asked, but I held forth. I told him that in my view, each day, and certainly each year we get on this planet is a gift from the Big Man, and the Big Man had given him, or was about to, 6 decades. If he did NOT celebrate, well, wasn't that a bit of an affront to the Big Man -- getting such a gift and not celebrating it?

Jeff is a spiritual guy, and studies Judaism a lot, and I guess my message resonated. He decided to have a small gathering, with representatives of his childhood friends, law school friends, young lawyer friends, and his rabbi and her husband. It took place last night.

The timing was terrific. All of us were fully jabbed, and our man Fauci had just said it was ok to gather, maskless, if everyone were so vaccinated. And so we did -- driving the 4 houses since Wifey was wearing nice shoes for the first time in awhile and announced she could NOT walk in them...

The affair was low key and fun -- sort of like Jeff himself. We ate some Middle Eastern food, and drank some cocktails his youngest daughter, a rising Duke senior, prepared. I loved catching up with Jim, one of Jeff's oldest friends, and someone I see far too little. We always make each other laugh hilariously, and last night was no exception. Jim married late and has a rising high school junior, as well as a grown stepdaughter. I showed pictures of my grandson. We both kvelled.

I also chatted with Laura and Randy -- two still practicing Assistant US Attorneys. Laura's oldest boy was finishing NYU Law, and would be coming home to Miami this Summer to take the Florida Bar and then join a big firm -- but not for long. The young man was a protege of the hip, young, Miami mayor Suarez, and had big political plans. Since his great grandfather on his Dad's side was a big macher in pre Castro Cuba -- it seems to run in his blood.

The 60s, 70s, and 80s music played, courtesy of a mix tape Jeff's daughter made. Lili is a master baker, and made a flourless chocolate cake and apple pie -- we all marveled at how delicious they were. Mike was there without Loni -- she was returning from an uncle's funeral in upstate NY - and I told him the tale of my rabbi friend buying a house from a Lebanese Christian, who left an enormous cross in the bedroom which Yossi had to carry out on his back -- not realizing he was performing a Mel Brooks level take on Jesus in Jerusalem -- the belly laughs we shared were exquisite.

Jeff thanked me for the nudge. I was happy it had the effect. Big Man willing, my 60th comes in about 2 months, and I plan to celebrate, as Sinatra sang, my way.

And it was sure nice to be among friends and see their faces and even hug them. Boy -- nice to be, hopefully, beyond the plague. That's really something.

Self Loathing Tribesmen

 So things in Israel have gotten chippy again, as the Brits say. Apparently some Palis were being evicted from homes in Gaza, and this took place during Ramadan. Things escalated, and then the Palis started firing rockets into all parts of Israel. This never ends well for them -- the IDF started bombing stuff in Pali lands -- and as usual kill 10 Arabs for every Jew killed. You'd think simple math would keep things in check, but since many are Islamic radicals for whom martrydom is a worthy goal -- the normal analysis doesn't apply.

This has gone on forever, and will continue to happen, but what gets my goat is my fellow Jews who jump on the anti-Israel bandwagon. Most are ultra liberal, which I probably used to be before I matured and got had more wisdom, and see the Palis as oppressed underdogs, while the Israelis are modern day Nazis.

I learned last night that my next door neighbor was one of these. I'll call her Carrie, since that's her name, and she responded to a FaceBook post about the situation in a totally anti-Israel way -- typical "all pain is the same" bullshit.

I couldn't help myself, and wrote that I was starting a relief for the poor "rocketeers" from Gaza who might have gotten burned launching the rockets into Tel Aviv. Yes --- some Israeli children were killed, but wasn't the pain of their parents the same as the pain of the poor, burned, terrorists? Human pain is human pain, right?

The Arab world is so vast -- boundless oil money, and room for 100 times the number of people there. The lone Jewish state is smaller than New Jersey, and yet the credo of the Palestinians is "From the River to the Sea, Palestine must be free." That means, of course, that every Jew must be killed or moved away. Simply put -- no -- you can't have your New Jersey sized land.

I've actually heard Jews support BDS -- the boycotting of any goods from Israel. To truly show they believe, they've given up cell phones and many medical devices and drugs developed in Israel. Ha. As if. BDS only when it's stuff they don't need.

My in laws survived the Nazi camps. Strangely, the only physical permanent damage my suegra suffered came at the hands of a fellow Jew -- a kapo -- a Jew who collaborated with the guards. This lowly son of a bitch hit my suegra when she refused to work in place of the kapo's lover, who wanted a rest. The hit caused hearing loss that lead to total deafness. So yeah -- I have a special place of enmity in my heart for Jews who hurt other Jews -- much more than for anti-semites.

I hope and pray things settle down in Wifey's ancestral home. I'm a proud Zionist and support Israel in several ways. Do I wish to live there? Not at all. I thoroughly enjoyed my two visits -- one as a boy, and the other a few years back -- but I'm very much an American and will die that way.

As for Carrie -- well -- all I plan to do is encourage our strange rescue dog to take her large craps on their lawn. That was what comes out of the dog will be the same as what comes out of Carrie in her FaceBook posts.

Adios, Old Neighbor

 So we often have nightly group FaceTimes -- usually it's when D1 is giving her son his pre sleep nursing, and D2 is walking the oversized puppy. Wifey is usually wandered off somewhere, so it's just the 4 of us. Last night D1 shared some sad news: our former neighbor Evan had died.

Evan and Stefanie lived 4 houses away. D1 used to babysit for their kids, and grew close to Stefanie -- a very cool lady who is an art executive. Over time, D1 became Stefanie's Girl Friday -- even though I think you're not supposed to use that phrase anymore because of the colonialism thing, but too bad. D1 would help with chores related to Stefanie's job, and she and Evan even had D1 stay with the kids while they went to Europe. D1 was a nanny!

About 7 years ago, Evan and Stefanie moved to the Grove -- a lovely condo on South Bayshore. The kids went off to college. D1 stayed in touch, and they had us over for a congratulation cocktail when D1 and Joey got engaged. All was well -- their son graduated Wharton, and went into the art field, like his parents. Evan was a private banker who used his MA from Columbia to advise wealthy clients about buying art. Their daughter went to school in England, I think.

Well, last year we got tough news: Evan was diagnosed with brain cancer. It was a shock -- though he was my age, he looked 10 years younger, the result of a strict diet and exercise regimen. He sought treatment in Europe, and Duke, and finally at the new cancer center at Baptist. I knew prognosis for brain cancer was grim.

A few weeks ago, the Ds and D1's baby went over for a visit. Evan seemed a bit out of it, but certainly not imminently dying. But he did -- Sunday night. It was very rough news.

I told Barry, who knew Evan from our days at the gym on Brickell. He replied that it was a cliche, but like most cliches, true: each day of life is a blessing. Indeed.

I emailed Stefanie last night, and she responded right away -- how much Evan loved my family and especially D1. I made a contribution to Lotus House, a wonderful shelter for homeless women, in his memory.

I plan to reach out to the kids. I know from personal experience what it is to lose a father in your 20s. You never get over it. I surely never did.

Although Evan dressed like a GQ model, and was very elegant, with a Masters degree from an Ivy League school, he was a fellow mule. And I mean that in the most positive way. We mules carry the load of our families -- economically and emotionally. All of my close friends are mules. I have some acquaintances who are not -- a non mule could never be inner circle with me. Like Don Corleone says -- a man who doesn't spend time with and take care of his family can never be a real man.

It's strange: our neighborhood lost two men, both just 60, and both who lived the healthiest lifestyles. Ben died 2 years ago last February. He was a daily runner and clean eater -- he used to make fun of me for walking along ploddingly, and hitting the unhealthy stuff at parties. But the lesson is, when the Big Man calls -- time to go.

So RIP my fellow mule. Your memory will be a blessing.

They Call It Stormy Monday

 This am is the perfect Monday am for someone not needing to be anywhere -- gray and drab, with on and off rain. The downpours forced me inside after only one go around the block, 1.4 miles, and that's ok. Now I have Blues on the Sonos, my trusty herbal tea, and a couple of dogs happily snoozing nearby. It's exquisite.

Yesterday was a banner MD. I fetched the food from Joanna's, but when I got home, thought -- hey -- this is too little. Sure enough, I ordered a bagel platter for 8, and they heard, I guess 8 bagels, and so the nova and cream cheese were in short supply. No problem -- D2 and Jonathan were en route, and I called in smoked fish and cream cheese replacements -- and there was plenty to go around.

I started the day drinking before noon. A new tequila for Jonathan, martinis for Joey and me. D2 had a little prosecco. We ate, and drank, and laughed -- even when oversized puppy Betsy got ahold of an old Beanie Baby and chewed through it -- sending the plastic beans all over. I learned the Shark vacuum is indeed good -- scooped up the guts of the famous 90s toy quite well.

We retired to the family room, and put some dance music on the Sonos, and the grandson was passed from loving relative to loving relative to be danced, and lifted, and hugged. D1 put on some new sandals that flash green lights when you step down, and we all laughed watching him figuring out that each step caused the light. 

Wifey beamed -- the Queen enjoying her amazing family. I had written her a MD note that had a risque component, and luckily never got drunk enough to share it with the Ds -- nausea would have resulted.

Around 430 the grandson and his parents and aging Spaniel left for home, and D2 and Jonathan stayed. Jonathan's friend and co worker was out biking, in the 'hood, and we invited him over for some drinks. He had later MD plans with his family -- the very charming Michael enjoyed our company. 

Around 6, it occurred to me that the party was missing something, and that something was Anthony's Coal Fired pizza and wings, and so D2 ordered it to be delivered. We went back to the dining room and chowed down.

At 8 or so, the guests all left. I was thoroughly knackered, as the Brits say. 

But mission accomplished -- the mothers all had a fine time. Actually, turns out that woke culture now uses the term "birth person." I saw an ultra liberal congress chick used that word yesterday. Oy. Those of us uterus challenged will have another voice, I guess.

"I said now hey, baby, you sure been good to me." Yep -- Blues on a rainy Monday. Not too shabby...

Everthing's Quiet on Mother's Day

 So in our "full squad," as Joey named us (Wifey, me, the Ds, the sons in law, and now the grandson) I am the only one who is neither a mother nor has a living one. But somehow, MD must still be celebrated -- Wifey always reminds me she is my baby mama, and deserves ReSPECT.

The last MD for me with an actual, live mother was 2012. Mom had just moved into Miami Jewish, and we visited her there and enjoyed the day. She died in April of '13, and her cremains got sent to my house in May, the day before MD. D2 was here from UF, and so Wifey, the Ds, and I drove over to Matheson Hammock on MD and committed Sunny's ashes to the 7 seas. It was not a very happy MD.

But as for the present -- Wifey got to start her MD celebration early this year. We were spending a lazy Saturday, and my Schlage lock app chimed -- the front door lock was being touched. Wifey said "Oh -- you probably just hit it by mistake," but when it happened again, I got up to check, and sure enough there was a happy pair of intruders -- D1 and the beautiful boy! She was in the 'hood visiting her friend Hillary -- in town for MD at her parents' house with HER baby girl, and so dropped by. Wifey was thrilled.

D1 was going to leave, so that the little man could nap on his way home, but instead I suggested a walk-nap. I pushed him for about a half hour, as he made joyful Pebbles Flintstones sounds, and then the stroller grew quiet. Sure enough, he had PTFO, as the millennials say. It was cloudy and breezy, and I pushed him for 2 miles, as he happily slept. It was delightful.

Today, I'm about to fetch a bagel platter from Joanna's, and the Full Squad is coming -- a total of 7 humans and 4 dogs. I LOVE this -- a noisy, happy house, with eating and probably a good amount of day drinking.

I have olive juice to make Joey his favored dirty martinis, and a new tequila for Jonathan and maybe D2 to try. I chilled a bottle of Prosecco for D1 -- she's a cheap date. It was raining hard earlier, but blue skies have returned -- maybe another walk nap, with some to-go cups, will be on the schedule.

It's funny -- I have a dear friend who told me when he was looking for a wife, his number one criterion was someone who would be the best possible mother to his children. And he succeeded -- he has grown sons, and indeed they have a loving and devoted mother.

I never gave that too much thought. In fact, I never much thought Wifey would be very maternal. When I met her, she had just returned from a trip to Atlanta, where her BFF had just had a baby girl. Wifey made a face when showing me the photos -- as if her friend had moved to a toxic waste dump.

Well, the worm sure turned. After D1 was born, the career woman who planned to take off 3 months and then head back to work fell in love totally with our baby girl -- simply couldn't bear to leave her. And then D2 came, and that was all she wrote.

And her parenting was superb. Loving, of course, but also wise and strong when necessary, particularly when the Ds got to that tough adolescent stage. There was a time D1 was clinging, and D1 pushed her out of the nest, as tough as that was for her. And D1 soared. D2 sort of was always flying the coop on her own...

So today we celebrate our baby mama. And we also celebrate D1 -- her second MD! Joey sent a photo this am of the little man sprawled over her, in bed. The picture was the epitome of MD, in my eyes.

Happily, all is well this MD. D1 is a kick ass mother. D2, should she be blessed with human children, in addition to her oversized puppy who she mothers well, will be a great Mom, too. And I won YUUUUGE, as Wifey would say, Brooklyn style, in the baby mama department.

Click Bait

 As I spend record amounts of time web searching, I see more and more so called "click bait." That's a story, typically in some more obscure publication, designed to catch your eye and have you click on it -- the better to expose you to advertising.

A particularly annoying version is the tale where you have to scroll through a slide show, to get to the end. Almost always, I abandon this after a few slides. If it's a legit tale, I go over to Wikipedia or some other source to see what truly happened. Every once in awhile, though, it's a tale I know appears nowhere else, but I still need to see the resolution. That happened this am.

It was a story about a fellow who was patiently waiting for a parking spot at a crowded restaurant, and a bunch of rude young women cut him off and stole his space. I scrolled through the rather mundane tale to see how "Tom" had gotten revenge -- when he left, he had a waiter tell the girls their car was keyed, and they ought to have parked elsewhere. Tom didn't really key the car, but the girls were so drunk and off they called the cops to report the vandalism, which wasn't there, and then proceeded to drive off, at which time the driver was arrested for DUI. No proof this actually happened exists, but it DID bring back a memory of the time I was that "Tom," and it brought a smile to my face.

It was the Summer of '92, a month or so before Hurricane Andrew. Mike and Loni and baby Amanda and Wifey, the Ds, and I had taken a trip to Northern Wisconsin, where Mike's parents owned a lake house. It was a delightful family trip -- we flew in and out of O'Hare - and spend a great week tubing on the lake and exploring the family friendly sights, like the Hodag Museum - a paen to a famous hoax about a mythical beast called the Hodag, which local hotel owners created to gin up visits to their part of the North Woods.

We had rented a minivan, and had it packed with the three car seats, and baby supplies for Amanda and D2. D1 was the elder states-child, and I still recall her uncontrolled laughter at the chipmunks. Mike would tie peanuts to a string on the wooden deck, and the adorable chipmunks would comically jump up and grab the peanuts. D1 made him do it all morning.

Anyway, we had a flight out of O'Hare, and had booked two rooms in a local Embassy Suites, to spend the night before returning the mini van and flying home to Miami. We took the families out to dinner, and returned to the hotel.

The hotel had a strip of maybe 20 spots right next to the building, which were most convenient, especially to 2 families who had to schlep the supplies for 3 small children. There was also a larger garage a bit away in the back, which required a long walk laden with stuff. Mike was driving, and as we entered the lot a space in the coveted line was opening up. Mike put on his signal and we waited for the parker to leave. He did, and then in swooped an early 90s Camaro -- a comically looking Chicago "Da Bears" kind of guy with three young women with him -- the hotel had a bar that apparently attracted local Chicagoland types.

Mike was furious. I got out of the car, and approached the guy -- silk shirt and gold chains, with the 3 women reeking of cheap perfume. I explained that we were patiently waiting for the spot, we were two families loaded with gear, and could he please let us park there, and instead take the garage spots, since he was young and strong and had 3 ladies and was headed to a far more fun evening than we.

He smirked at me, said "Nah -- sucks to be you, doesn't it?" and started off. Mike was furious -- he was ready to jump out of the car and go after the guy. I stopped him, and smiled, and we dropped off Wifey and Loni and the 3 girls, and told them we'd meet in one of the rooms. Mike and I parked in the lot and trudged back to the hotel. I told him I had a plan.

We went to the room, and I wrote out a note. "Good evening, asshole. You truly wanted this parking spot so much, you stole it from 2 families with kids. Well -- now you get to stay in it for a bit longer. Enjoy the night. By the way -- the girls were at MOST 2s or 3s." I guess that last part was pre "Me Too" language, but the three females had laughed and enjoyed the macho display of their Camaro driver.

We went back to the lot, put the note on his windshield, and emptied the air of TWO of his tires -- chuckling like adolescent boys. And then we retreated to our rooms.

My room overlooked the lot. I kept checking the lot -- in great anticipation of seeing the rage of our enemy. As of midnight -- no sign of him and his 3 gun molls. I have no idea whether he had a gun. I finally went to sleep, and by the next morning, the Camaro was gone.

We returned the mini van, flew home, and laughed about our frontier justice for the start of the trip. Loni now knew her friend Dave was definitely a "Don't get mad -- get even" kind of a guy. I still am.

Like the click bait tale of this am, there are no pictures of this episode of poetic justice, but I can testify it happened. I wonder whether the "Da Bears" guy learned his lesson. Regardless, it made for a lot of laughs for the otherwise aggrieved Miami tourists.

Back To School

 So today was Cinco de Mayo, the fake Mexican holiday, that's a good excuse for drinking margaritas. I spent the day butlering for Wifey -- double therapy session at Baptist in the morning, with a nice coffee meet with Captain Doctor Kenny while Wifey was finishing up.

She had a 2 pm appointment at the Lennar Center at the U, and I thought we might go for lunch first, but, alas, she was knackered, as the Brits say, and we came home for her quick nap. She awoke, and I sprang into Hobson mode again -- driving her to the U for her 2 pm check up with a new GI. After I dropped her off, and she sadly realized I couldn't go inside with her, I parked near my freshman dorm, the 1968 Complex, which was built in, wait for it, 1968, and began a tour of the campus.

I hadn't been to my beloved UM since before the Plague. I walked over to where my home for 3.5 years was, on Merrick Drive, and, like Joni Mitchell's paradise, it was gone. I became disoriented. There was a YUUUUUGE new complex there, the Lakeside Villas, which was literally a modern city of buildings and gardens, and even a sandy beach. It was gorgeous.

I was truly blown away. Since Tad Foote became president in '81, the plan was to turn UM into a Tropical Garden. Well -- they've nearly finished it. The campus may be as beautiful now as Stanford's, but indeed tropical. The place is amazing.

I walked around Lake Osceola, which still has the stink I recall from my time there -- I guess it was some rotting vegetation. The students, now most 10 years younger than my youngest child, looked, well, vibrant. Everyone was masked. I walked along, realizing most of them, if they paid any attention to me, figured I was a near retirement age professor. Thankfully, nobody asked.

I found a table near the lake, in a spot I spent a lot of time in '79/'80, and reflected on the passing of more than 4 decades. Would I like to go back? You're durn tootin', as Bill Macy's character said often in "Fargo." They were, simply, the most carefree and best years of my life.

I was responsible for...well, ME. No wife, no kids, no grandson, no house, no declining parents. Just me, and my quest to go from boy to man, having as much fun as possible. I succeeded big, if I don't say so myself.

Wifey texted, and I replied she'd have to Uber home -- I was staying. The place was beautiful. In my mind, for that moment, I was 20. The young coeds were wondering who the mysterious, silver haired sophomore was. There'd be parties...

Nah. I walked back to my car, and fetched Wifey. Elizabeth was on the phone -- Wifey's FIU friend. They were talking about current topics -- aging -- not their FIU years together in the late 70s. So I pulled myself back to the present, too, and stopped at Brewing Buddha, the gourmet coffee place owned by the corpulent barista Cassidy, and got us a couple of low cal lattes.

Wifey went outside. Josh called into my Zoom, which I titled Cinco de Hebrews, and we chatted. He's 23 and was on Las Olas, finishing his margarita. I poured a Zyr vodka and tonic.

At 7 or so, Edna and Marc joined in -- also talking about grown up stuff -- chronic pain and aging. I thought about bolting out the door and making a run for it to the UM campus, but realize I'd get arrested, not welcomed. I am a viejo verde -- not a college kid.

In James Taylor's mind he went to Carolina. In mine, I went back to UM for college. Lord -- I have always loved the place, and it was nice to visit again. I texted D1 and Joey --we need to take the grandson there, and begin the indoctrination process. Maybe we'll have a third generation Cane. That boy can go wherever he wants -- but he'll damn well cheer for the Hurricanes, if I have anything to do with it.

I have a friend, Stuart, whose son is a budding social media exec. He's just 18 and already making money as a high school senior. Stuart announced, proudly, that his boy is NOT headed to college -- he's already been there, done that, and bought the T shirt about traditional college stuff.

I felt badly to hear that. I surely hope the young man becomes richer than rich -- and supports his family forever. But those years I spent at college? There is no price to be put on them at all.

Diluting the Broigus

 I learned a lot of Yiddish words from my parents, particularly my Dad, who was fluent in that language of his parents. But one term that was new to me was broigus -- that one Wifey taught me.

Like most Yiddish words, it's stronger and more picturesque than its English meaning, which is, essentially, a feud. But Broigus entails much more. It specifically refers to a family feud, but one so deep and often long lasting.

Wifey grew up hearing it. She might ask why they her family hadn't seen a particular cousin, or uncle, and was told "Oh no -- we have broigus with them." It became a normal thing, like "Oh -- we can't see your Aunt Sally since she has an infectious disease." But the disease often lasted years.

Cinematically, the great Barry Levinson portrayed broigus in his autobiographical "Avalon," where a patriarchal uncle would each year have the honor of slicing the turkey at the family Thanksgiving dinner. One year, the kids were restless, and Uncle Louie was late, and they went ahead without him. When he arrived, he asked in horror "You cut the toikey without ME?" It was the height of disrespect, and caused a family rift that lasted decades.

Well -- a few weeks ago I nearly waded into treacherous broigus waters. I meant well -- sending an email to a dear friend of Wifey's suggesting that maybe she and Wifey exercise more together -- particularly when they have marathon phone conversations. Sometimes I leave on a several hour walk, and Wifey is on the phone, and I return, and she is in exactly the same chair. So -- why not spend that time moving, and getting healthier?

Bad move. My suggestion was apparently read as "You're a big, fat pig, and need to get off your ass to lose weight." Broigus, like a dark cloud that would have hung overhead for at least months, loomed.

So I immediately wrote an apologetic email -- accepting responsibility for stepping out of line - and begging forgiveness. I thought I had reached a denouement -- to use the fine French term for resolution. Not so fast.

Turns out my ill fated email was even worse -- it was received when the friend was on her way to a rare mother/daughter weekend, and my email cast a pall over the first day of that sacred meeting.

So -- to hopefully dilute the broigus, which never really totally goes away, in the manner toothpaste squeezed from a container can never be put back in, I wrote a SUPPLEMENTAL apology, in which I attempted with some gymnastics of grammar and diction to apologize for the timing of an email I never should have written in the first place, and promising that if I ever write such an inappropriate email again, which I won't, I will make sure to NEVER NOT WRITE the email I won't write at a particularly bad time. I hoped the permutation of my broigus dilution passed a logic test.

Well -- supplemental apology, as well as original apology, were both accepted. I have learned to keep my big mouth shut when it comes to ANY form of unsolicited advice. Matter of fact, I'll keep my big mouth shut when it comes to any solicited advice.

Ah -- my people -- the Ashkenazim. Leave it to us to come up with a word like broigus. My son in law's family is Sephardic. I don't hear tales of long lived feuds in their family. I'm sure they exist, but I would bet with fewer twists and turns. I have to check Ladino and see if they have any similar terms for family feuds.

I've never had a difficult time apologizing. Some people do. If I step on your foot, I immediately say "So sorry I stepped on your foot." Wifey has a tougher time. She'll say "Your foot was where it shouldn't have been." I say "Yes, but you STEPPED on it." Eventually, and hopefully without a mini broigus, she comes around to saying sorry.

Broigus. A great word. But I prefer kreplach. That's a better word, and most delicious.