Doctor Visit Time Machine

 So Wifey and I both had to visit our primary doc today -- she for a blood draw ahead of her annual "MDVIP" physical, and me so Nurse Nancy could do a cerumen-ectomy on me -- otherwise known as ear wax removal. Wifey and I laughed at what had become of romance: shared doctor visits. Is a couples' colonoscopy next?

Anyway, when  walked into the waiting room, I noticed a late 30s man sitting there, who had obviously suffered disfiguring injuries from an accident. Our eyes met, and I was struck with a deep sense of recognition -- I knew him from somewhere.

Sure enough, Karen, the office manager, announced to Nurse Nancy who was waiting to be seen, and said the young man's name. I said to him if he was in fact the person whose name I had heard -- he said yes. I told him I was his lawyer -- the one who met him and worked to settle his case well over 3 decades ago.

He was with an older lady, who was now married to his former case manager, who worked for our rehab expert. She had been his guardian, apparently, for many years. She knew who I was.

The young man looked far better than I may have expected -- I guess he's had a bunch of surgical repair work. He told me he finished high school and taught marine life lessons to kids at the special needs camp he attended as a child. My heart warmed.

I asked after his parents -- he was estranged from his Mom, which was probably a healthy thing -- she was no mother of the year. His Dad, a sweet guy, had died young, he said -- in his 40s.

Nurse Nancy told me he had been a patient a long time -- many people who get huge settlements and need a good deal of medical care, join the concierge practices. It made sense.

We finished our blood draw and ear cleanings and left for The Emporium for breakfast. I was really kind of knocked off kilter -- I last saw the young man when he was probably 6 or 7 -- three decades had passed, and he was doing pretty well. Money was zero issue -- I guess the guardianships our old firm set up for him worked as intended.

I didn't get to tell him that the lead lawyer on his case, Ed, had died last year. I don't think he knew, or cared to know, much about the mechanics of what we did for him legally. He just knew money wasn't an issue -- he never needed to work -- and that was a positive for him.

I'm back at the house now -- Wifey is out for another appointment -- trying to get her back and hips as pain free as possible before we leave -- 3 weeks from Friday.

A FaceBook (tm) memory popped up the other day. It was a photo of Dr. Eric and me at our college graduation in May of '83 -- we posed with our Moms, letting them wear our mortar boards. We were just kids -- a few months from moving in together at an apartment in Kendall -- he to start med school, and me to start law school. We were on student loans. We were happy but poor students.

Now, we're taking our brides on a luxury trip up the Danube -- Budapest to Prague. I have zero doubt that several times throughout the journey we will look back and toast the fact that we have followed the Joe Walsh lyric: "Life's been good to me...so far."

But man -- still shocked from earlier. My first huge case's client sitting in the same waiting room -- across more than 3 decades. Life can be kinda funny...

It Never Hurts To Ask

 My late boss Ed taught me so many lessons -- about law and life. As to the latter, he taught the concept of "you can't afford NOT to," when I would ask him about spending a lot of money on a great bottle of wine, or meal, or hotel. He was raised VERY working class in Brooklyn and Miami Beach, and achieved a very high level of success -- yachts and airplanes and a Lear Jet level of success. He NEVER passed up the opportunity to travel for a fishing or hunting trip, or Paris for Cordon Bleu cooking. He lived large, and when sometimes I doubt going first class, I hear his booming, slightly lisped voice.

He also taught us the concept of "it never hurts to ask" when negotiating. He would sometimes make what most thought absurd demands to settle cases, and because of his skill and force of will, the defense lawyers and carriers would pay! He was proud that I learned quickly -- he asked me to handle a "small case" for a friend of his wife DeeDee.

It was an older lady who traveled to Disney with her grandkids, and was knocked over by a young Mom pushing a stroller. The old lady ended up with a fractured elbow, but a simple fracture -- healed fine with no surgery -- I think her total medical bills were about $5K.

The stroller pusher was nice -- she hung around and gave the old lady her information -- turned out she had a $100K liability policy through her homeowner's coverage. Ed handed me the file and said "Have fun."

I interviewed the client. She had, other than the medical bills, ZERO economic damages. She was retired and lost no work time -- she said she even had very little pain -- hell, her arthritic knees bothered her more. Still, I sent a demand package to the out of state carrier, demanding they pay the policy ...or else! Or else...what? I would try the case and get, on an amazing day, $25K? But I guess the adjustor was afraid of the Dade County verdicts, and called me and said "David, I have 85 for you to get things started." I honestly was going to ask "Eighty five HUNDRED?" as that would have been a reasonable first offer. But I played tough, and said "No -- this is a policy case." He ended up asking for a "discount" off the policy and we settled for, I think, like $97.5K. Ed was proud -- it didn't hurt to ask, and I got a great result for the lady -- she was rich and nonplussed when I told her she was getting a big chunk of tax free money for her "little elbow crack." And I guess I paid to gas up Ed's plane and boat for a bit...

Ed's spirit was with me today when I spoke to the "advisor" who oversees my online brokerage. I had done this once before, a few years ago, and decided to try again: ask for a nice cash bonus for keeping my account with them, as opposed to switching to ETrade or Fidelity. Barry from JVille called me, and this time we spoke for awhile -- he was a Miami boy who went to FSU and stayed with his Minnesota wife from college in North Florida -- but his parents still live in Kendall. We talked all about the 305 -- he remains a staunch Fins fan "Who can truly LIKE the Jaguars?" and his South Dade childhood. He was just here for Passover, and took his family to Knauss Berry Farm for some of the last cinnamon buns of the season. I told him next time to take his kids to Frost Science and the Children's Museum -- as well as Pinecrest Gardens.

I told him maybe it was time to get paid again -- and he agreed! He has to speak to his bosses, but I expect tomorrow he will call and tell me that so long as I keep my accounts with the brokerage until next Spring, there'll be a nice credit to my account. I think a few years ago it was $3500 -- this time I asked for more.

And why not? They make nice money on the holdings I keep in my MMA there, for fear of investing more in the market in these volatile Trumpian times. So we'll see if Ed's advice gets me paid again.

On a more somber note, yesterday was my Mom's yahrzeit -- she died April 27, 2013 -- a dozen years gone by now. I savored a day with D1 and the boys at ZooMiami -- Sunny would have smiled down, I know.

Kenny is on his way back from Connecticut, following his Dad's passing. We have plans to go out with Joelle and him Friday, now that he has joined Wifey and me in the Orphan's Club. Joelle still has one surviving parent -- her Mom.

I guess it also never hurts to ask the Big Man for more time. I have a strong sense, thought, that He gives us just the correct number of days. I plan to toast our late parents Friday...

Gotta Keep That Energy Level

 So D1 and her bear cubs, as she calls them, came over yesterday afternoon. D1 is of the belief that activities must be provided constantly: Wifey and I don'r roll that way. We had coloring, and feeding the fish, and lots of in house hide and seek.

We decided on Chick Fil A for dinner, but even D1, not shy about spending for convenience, balked at the UberEats markup -- and so left to go fetch from our newly opened location. Meanwhile, our neighbor Jesus had invited me over for a cocktail, and so I took him up on it while D1 was out.

Wow. Amazing guy. He owns 3 crypto/AI companies, and I felt like I was talking to a Cuban born Malcolm Gladwell -- talking about a future where the currency of wealth will be knowledge instead of dollars. He opened a Spanish wine that a family check revealed cost over $500. We were having such great conversation, he tried to open a second -- I begged off. So instead he poured fingers and fingers of Johnny Walker Blue. I'm not much of a Scotch guy, but even if you're not a chocolate guy, you don't turn down a Sacher torte, as Wifey and Eric and Dana will learn next month on our trip. It was delightful.

I came home in time to tell Little Man bedtime tales of the Night Bird, a critter I contrived when the Ds were little, about a powerful bird who flies over the city at night, re-homing lost children, dogs, and cats. The Little Man had a LOT of commentary to go with my story telling, but about 9, he conked out -- as did D1 and Baby Man downstairs, and Wifey upstairs. I drifted off into my nice Blue induced sleep...

Little Man is maturing -- as promised -- he didn't wake me until first light. We made our trip to House of Bagels and got provisions for everyone. Around 10:30, we left for the Zoo, and pedaled around, meeting up with D1's lovely British friend and her 2 "Masterpiece Theater" casting daughters. "Mummy -- will we see the gorillas?"

We separated so the Brits could do the splash park, while we searched for the Harpy Eagle -- to no avail. But then we had lunch at the very nice restaurant there, and headed for home. Baby Man napped in the car with his Mom; Little Man built block castles and colored. I got to nap for 10 minutes, and awoke to take the Baby Man on a wagon ride around the 'hood.

They just left -- after 26 hours -- and it was delightful but really tiring. I don't know how grandparents tasked with full time parenting do it. I guess if you have to, you do, but man little kids are for the young -- I say this like a broken record -- a reference meaningless to young folks.

I keep thinking of my friends who had kids later, or whose kids are nowhere near producing grandkids. I hope the joint replacements and hormonal therapy do the trick -- I can't imagine being in my mid 70s and tasked with toddler sitting.

That said, they indeed grow so fast. The older boy, now 5.5, is a real kid, and not a constant threat to kill himself. The little guy is maturing, too, though remains very much a toddler.

So may we keep the strength to continue this grandparent gig. We sure do adore these boys...

The Honest Roofer

 So the roof at Villa Wifey is the original one, and the house was completed in 1997 -- so we're getting near the 3 decade mark. Though clay barrel tile roofs CAN last 50 years (in Europe some are nearly a century) turns out that if you get to 30 years, in our tropical climate -- you're doing pretty well.

Though the clay tiles look pretty and romantic, like the Italian Villa our house was copied from, they crack and move in storms. After Hurricane Wilma, I thought the roof only lost a few tiles, but it turned out every tile had been loosened. A few months later, a young fellow spent literally dawn to dusk refastening all of them -- and all's been well over the last 20 years.

Anyway, since it appears we WILL be staying here, I decided to get an estimate to re-roof. I want metal -- truly a lifetime roof , and wanted to learn options. They make metal roofs that look like barrel tile, but Kevin, the young roof maven, explained that those have issues -- the channels below the tiles tend to get blocked, causing leaks. Plus, the material, a stone coated metal, is much more expensive.

So Kevin said he'd go with standard metal, though doing so will technically change Villa Wifey from a Mediterranean style to "Island Style." And that's ok.

Kevin said the job would take 3 weeks, and then came the part I truly appreciated: he said that since the roof is still serviceable, I ought to wait until November -- post rainy season. He said if the roof was bad -- do it now -- but since it was still ok -- might as well wait.

I know the estimate is going to be between $100 and $200K -- wow -- most contractors would not be so have such forbearance. But Kevin reminded me that the Andrew Palmer who owns the company is actually Andrew III -- his grandfather started the company in 1920. They're honest and been around more than a century for a reason.

So next week I'll get the proposal, and some metal samples to pick a color. Then comes decision time. If indeed we're confident we're staying for at least 3 years or more -- we'll do the job. If not, we can hope the original roof holds up, and be prepared to offer a credit to a buyer. Great First World decision to have to make.

Meanwhile, D1 is do over later with her boys. We'll spend the afternoon and then they'll sleep over, so we can leave early tomorrow for Zoo Miami. She has another friend meeting us there. Wifey is opting out -- too early and too hot for her -- we'll see her after the adventure.

So this Grandpa gets to take his grandsons to the zoo. Pretty, pretty, pretty nice. It makes one happy to still be vertical in the world...

Another Orphan

 So last night I got the news from Joelle -- Kenny's Dad Manny had died, in Connecticut. He was 92. And that means Kenny has joined the sad group I have belonged to since 2013 -- being an orphan.

Of course, when we think of orphans it involves children who've lost their parents -- not those of us ourselves past 60, the "beginning of old age," as a sociologist calls us. But still, there's a sadness and shock that comes with losing a parent, even one who has lived such a long and full life.

I first met Manny when Kenny and I were in high school -- our group of nerdy smart guys would play epic ping pong tournaments in their downstairs rec room. Years later, we joked that Kenny was the product of a "mixed marriage." Both his Mom Toby and Dad were Ashkenazim, but his Mom was from Philly and his Dad from NYC. Toby passed last year -- they were living in Palm Beach County -- and after her death, Manny wanted to move back North. He did, to Connecticut where his youngest boy David lives. Larry, the middle son, lives outside of Philly -- Kenny and Joelle are true snowbirds now -- Miami most of the year, and Maine when Miami's weather grows oppressive.

Manny was a long time music teacher and musician. Years later, when he visited, we learned that one of the schools he taught was the high school Wifey attended -- South Shore in Canarsie -- before her parents plucked her out middle of sophomore year to come to Miami. That night, Manny played our piano -- it was lovely. I hadn't seen him in a long while, but kept tabs -- Eric was his doctor when he lived in Boynton Beach. Manny got the death of a king, as Kenny and I discussed last night -- he passed at home -- away from the hospital and doctors he didn't wish to be around.

I measure a man like Sidney Poitier did -- how he takes care of a family -- and BOY did Manny measure up. His three sons all soared -- two medical stars -- cardiologist and peds radiologist -- and a successful businessman. There were grandkids who adored him, and a full life to the end -- he'd play piano for his neighbors at his ALF most nights -- bringing happiness into his 90s.

And Wifey and I sat and reflected -- how few of our friends' parents survive. Barry's Mom and Dana's Dad are with us. Loni's Mom, recently widowed. Joelle's Mom is doing well up in Broward. And Norman's Dad is the Dean -- 97 and still attending UM games.

Kenny and I were reminiscing about how age measures totally from where you are. Manny had a major heart procedure when he was in his 50s. Obviously if the surgeon is still around, he deserves props. But Kenny, at the time probably 22, remembered thinking "Well, my Dad IS an old man -- they get heart procedures." He was probably a decade and a half younger than Kenny is now. Likewise, my Dad died -- the worst event of my life. But I also thought: "Well --- he IS an old man." He was 63 -- I just passed his lifespan last Labor Day, and though I sure don't feel like a young fellow, I don't feel anywhere near the end.

Paul and I actually had a long business lunch yesterday -- on Brickell -- with an old lawyer friend who resolved a case of a client referred to him from someone we met years ago. We ended up sitting in a Peruvian restaurant for hours -- discussing our lives. We realized all of us, though lucky in so many ways, have plenty of tsuris, Yiddish for  existential heartburn -- with spouses, kids, grandkids, friends -- you name it. 

But we also have had, and continue to have, events that are exquisite. Even eating ceviche with 2 fine men, comparing our life's journeys, was exquisite.

Wednesday, Barry contacted me -- was I free that afternoon? I was, and looking to get out of the house while Wifey hosted her weekly mah jong game. Well, he was going to an event he wished to avoid, but knew I would like -- the UM Provost's Faculty awards -- sort of UM's annual Oscars. He was up for a clinical teaching award. Donna came, and Barry's best work friend Patti -- one of the best humans I ever met.

Turned out to be quite an affair -- probably 400 people, catered, wine and beer, in one of the new expo centers they have in the "Lakeside Village" of residential colleges they built to replace the barracks and prison-like dorms of our day. UM is now near $100K per year -- nepo babies, as D1 calls them, can hardly be expected to rough it like we did.

Anyway, in Barry's group, some cancer doc won -- I recalled the great politically incorrect line from "Tropic Thunder" that "you can't win an Oscar if you go full retard" and changed it to "You never beat the cancer guy." It was still a delightful night, capped off with a late dinner at Captain's Tavern with Barry and Donna -- we shut the place down at 930! And we got to discuss how much our kids are the focus of our lives -- and how sometimes it seems they're trying to kill us with some of their life's decisions -- but we endure and love them unconditionally nonetheless.

Before dinner, though, I had noticed at the next table 3 professors from my undergrad days -- actually 2 -- one came later. I introduced Dan Pals to Patti -- and he was effusive about me -- I was "the finest and most memorable Religious Studies student ever," and Dan has been at UM 45 of its hundred years. In fact, I guess I was one of the few who gave money to the Department, and got to teach 2 classes with my dear friend Steve Sapp, now retired. Dan won his award, and I texted a photo to Steve, who responded from his airplane over the Atlantic -- on his way to Europe. It was lovely.

And the former English Chair was there, a double Harvard man, likely closeted, who spoke like Charles Emerson Winchester on "Mash," much to Barry's delight. I told him I often quote the Browning he taught me when Wifey is disappointed about something: "If our reach does not exceed our grasp...then what are the Heavens for?" I think he dug that...

Point is -- exquisite night -- with friends so dear, and I got to live out my academic groupie fantasy. I need to do more of that.

Kenny is heading up to Connecticut today to spend the weekend with his brothers doing some of the business that follows the loss of a parent. He returns Sunday.

We WILL go out next week, and celebrate his Dad. Manny's memory will be a blessing.

That ESPN Percentage Bar Keeps Shifting

 One of the new(er) features you see on sportscasts is the percentage of each team winning, based on what's going on in the game. During the Duke-Houston Final Four semi-final, I think at one point Duke had like am 80 something percent chance, and then went on an epic collapse -- Houston won. But it's fun to watch the feature and see how often it's accurate.

And so it is with whether Wifey and I choose to flee Villa Wifey or not. A few weeks ago, the meter was favoring the relocation to Miami Shores, for a series of reasons. But then D2 and Jonathan checked out a few houses we thought might be suitable, and they were not. Part of it is the absurd cost -- we can afford most houses NOT on the water in the Shores, in part of the 'hood we like -- East of Biscayne Blvd -- but the thought of paying $2.5M for a smallish place on 1/4 acre is just a bit much for us now.

One place looked great -- beautifully renovated, 3 houses from the Bay, so probably with those "breeeeeezes" Wifey wants, but Wifey realized it had no garage and no real family room -- just walk into the living area, which was the case of SO many mid century houses that weren't custom built. So she canceled even visiting that place for today.

I still plan to meet tonight with Tony, my friends Mike and Loni's consuegro, as he seems to be the most experienced realtor in the area, and certainly made a mint doing it. He's stopping by to give me his input about what Villa Wifey might truly sell for, as I trust Zillow and Redfin and Movoto not much at all -- they essentially take your house's square footage and do simple arithmetic based on typical price per square foot comparables. 

I know Tony would want this listing, and he'll likely inflate what would be the asking price, but I always like to gather as much data as I can before making a decision.

Wifey and I are truly on the same page about this. We weren't, for a long time -- she wanted OUT -- needing some CHANGE from her SUBURBAN lifestyle, and also wanting to be closer to the Ds. I was steadfastly opposed. 

Now, she recognizes that since we're in no rush, a downsized place needs to really blow her skirt up, or she'd just as soon stay put. And my stead is no longer as fast...

Last night we met Kenny and Joelle and several more of their friends at the Cocowalk theater to see "Sinners." It had great Blues music, which I love, but ended up being a vampire movie, which I don't. I could have done with waiting for it to be on Netflix -- but it was nice to go to the luxury theater, where it felt like we were in Business Class flying across the Atlantic.

After the movie, Wifey and I went to validate our parking ticket, and the rest of the group walked off -- they all live in the Grove walking distance from Cocowalk, and were going to enjoy a nice constitutional back to their places. That's nice, but I really want to live in a house -- you can take the boy out of the suburbs, but I guess this boy wants to suburbs to stay with him.

So we'll see -- if Tony surprises me with a REALLY yuuuuuge number -- well -- as Paul and I always said about our law firm, even at its height of success -- EVERYTHING is for sale in a capitalist world. I suspect that won't be the case...and I have to give Uncle Sam 20% of any gain I make, anyway, after a $500K credit. Uncle Sam always gets paid, even when the Republicans are fully in power, it seems.

Last Sunday, D1 brought the boys here, and we DID have an awesome time. Villa Wifey is a magical house. She plans to spend more and more time here with them on weekends, truly using this as their "country house," and we welcome that. 

So for now the bar is moved...time will tell if the upset gets pulled.

Central Europe

 My grandparents, tired of the pogroms and persecution of Jews in "Russia," as we were told it was called, decided to bounce. My Dad's parents left Czernovitz, then part of Romania, and my maternal grandparents left their bialys in Bialystok, then, I guess Russia, now Poland. They arrived early in the 1900s, and never looked back, though the dark joke "A pogrom is a pogrom" remained one of my Dad's favorites.

My parents had ZERO desire to visit "the old country." Their only dream, as proud Zionists, was to see Israel, which they did in 1969, taking me along. Truth is, my 8 year old self cared far more about Apollo astronauts and the NY Mets, but it WAS my first airplane trip, and I still have memories of our 3 weeks in Israel. I would go back a second time years later, with Wifey and the Ds, after both Ds had been on Birthright.

Wifey was born in Israel, to Holocaust Survivor parents originally from Poland. Her Dad was a big city boy - from Lodz -- and her Mom from the much smaller Sosnoviecz. They enjoyed lovely, loving childhoods until things went South under the Nazis, but their youth and strength to the Nazis as slave laborers allowed them to survive, and emigrate after time in the same DP camp, in Feldafing, Germany, to the Promised Land.

I would have thought they would have never wished to set foot in Poland again, but I was wrong. Wifey took both of them back, to see their childhood homes, and my mother in law so fetishized her youth, she had Wifey bring her back a second time -- looking to recapture, I guess, all she had lost as a young girl coming of age.

My father in law LOVED Israel, though he saw more opportunities for his family here in the US, and so emigrated here in 1960. My mother in law was never a fan. She had difficulty conceiving for years, and then finally got pregnant, but had a stillborn boy. My suegro's family was kind of mean to her, too, and she just never bonded with Israel. Years later, when D2 was showing a montage of her trip on Birthright, to the tune of Hatikva, my father in law watched tearfully and my mother in law clucked her tongue and walked away. It truly is a miracle Wifey isn't more screwed up from these loving yet heavily damaged parents. But I digress...

So in a bit more than a month, Wifey and I, along with Eric and Dana, are going back to that part of Europe -- in high style, on a luxury Danube River tour. I took essentially the same trip with the Ds back in 2007, when Wifey was homebound on account of a bad back, and got to see Passau to Budapest. But Wifey never did, and Eric and Dana haven't been there, so Wifey contrived a way to get me to travel again -- setting up a trip with my dear friends.

Of course, when we're in Hungary, Austria, Slovakia, and the Czech Republic, we'll be bordering the places where all the really bad happened -- Poland and Germany. Hey -- it was 80 years ago, right? You gotta move on -- from cattle cars towards concentration camps to luxury boats to Michelin restaurants.

With all the Trump craziness, hopefully we all make it back ok -- especially Wifey, whose passport shows she isn't a native born American like Eric, Dana, and me. I guess worst case scenario they'll ship her back to Israel, and we'll get a condo there -- Haifa is indeed my favorite city -- and move on with life.

I really wish the thought of travel excited me. We were out Saturday with Joelle and Kenny -- they LOVE it. They visit Europe more frequently than I go to Key West, and are planning a big trip to Vietnam and Cambodia for next Summer -- with great excitement.

The only Asian country I have any interest in seeing is Japan, and I got to live that through D1 -- on her honeymoon. I now stock Japanese whisky -- classic Japan -- took something some other nations came up with and made it better -- like cars and electronics.

But for now, Big Man willing, Central Europe awaits. I look forward to reprising something I did for the Ds on our Danube trip. On a grassy bluff in Austria near where the ship blocked, I put "The Sound of Music" on my phone and the 2 of them danced like Julie Andrews in that classic beginning to the movie -- actually the first movie I recall seeing. Dana and Wifey can enjoy that moment...

Time To Fly North of Flagler Street?

 I never loved a place I lived nearly so much as Villa Wifey. We bought it in December of 2000, and moved in early February of 2001. We had our first Valentine's Day on the front loggia, as I learned they were called -- brought in DiNapoli and ate at a table the Ds and Wifey set up, while romantic music played on a boom box --this was long before Sonos played through the outside speakers.

I felt like Jay Gatsby with a family -- the firm had done very well, and at 39 I bought a 7 figure house on an acre in Pinecrest, the newly incorporated Village which was already making the "Best suburbs in Florida" lists. I looked at my family, and the koi pond with the stone bridge behind them, and felt amazing.

I used to joke that each morning, when I walked near the front gates to fetch my Herald, in my mind I heard "Hey kid -- get the hell out of there!" Part of me, a blue collar Jew from Levittown, as my friend Joel correctly described me, had no business living in some rich guy's house.

And then a quarter century, or nearly, flew by, with parties, and simchot, and sheltering from Hurricanes Katrina and Wilma and Irma. Wilma was the best memory -- the house was largely unscathed, but we knew the power would be out for weeks. Wifey took the Ds to Atlanta, and across the street friend Susan took her kids to Orlando, and Pat and I lived like cave men -- well -- after we'd return from dinner at his Riviera CC, or Fox's -- we'd sit on either of our porches drinking vodka or Middleton whiskey and then sleeping in the blissfully cool late October night air.

And I love my 'hood -- 82 houses on half or full acres, each unique, under a tropical tree canopy. Wifey and I were on the volunteer HOA for years, and it provided more humor than tensosity, with only the occasional asshole, and mostly fine folks -- all well off, of course, but doctors, and lawyers and antique map painters and school administrators, and crypto machers...

The Ds had amazing childhoods here -- D1 was in Middle School, and after some rough bullying times which she reported were not really that rough for her as she suffered from a surplus of self esteem, she ended up making lifelong friends at Palmetto High. D2 transitioned from some party girls friend to serious students, and ended up graduating VERY high up in her Class of '10, cruising into UF and UF grad school, and never getting anything other than As, though she disputes this. But there IS a Phi Beta Kappa certificate hanging in my office -- and she was admitted as a junior -- a rare feat.

There were illnesses and health scares -- the worst being Wifey's stroke in January of '21, at the height of the Plague, when I thought Covid would take her at the hospital or Rehab Center at UM/JMH and fortunately she emerged.

We grieved the loss of my mother, and Wifey's parents -- all well into their 90s. I recall leaving the house early on the am of April 27, 2013, and stopping for gas next to Miami Jewish Home, having missed Sunny's passing by about 20 minutes. Years later my suegro Richard would die there, too, and it turned into a comical mix up, as Wifey confused the name of his cemetery -- in fairness, they all skip around from Gordon to Riverside to Mt. Nebo -- and Richard got TWO final hearse rides -- until he made it to the correct place.

I saw the irony in that -- he always WAS terrible at directions.

And the last goodbye -- I left Wifey with her beloved mother. We knew the end was near, and F-ing Vitas Hospice was short staffed -- the nurse walked out and sadly said there would be no replacement! I tried "escalating" with their weekend staff -- telling them they were hired for the final baseball game and it was now bottom of the ninth --PLEASE -- send someone, as the regular Palace nurse didn't have power to offer the final morphine once Vitas had taken over!

I went home and called Mt. Nebo -- this time I wanted to make sure we got it right -- and while I was on the phone with the night person, Wifey called -- her dear mother had passed while Wifey was holding her hands -- and Vitas DID send out a minister with the ability to sign the death certificate -- nice guy -- asked if we would pray with him to Jesus -- we explained we were Jewish -- could he pray alone? Sure. And then Rachel was taken away, and Wifey and I returned...to Villa Wifey.

Years later we hosted the Bris of our second grandson. Our house was truly our home for the circles of lives...

And so I always steadfastly refused to consider leaving. The Ds love visiting from Shorecrest and Miami Shores -- D1 says her boys love their "Country house" where they feed the koi, cichlids, and turtles, and take peafowl walks, and Tio Jonfin (Jonathan) is tall enough to pull mangoes off trees in the Spring.

But I'm finally at least no longer steadfast. Part of it is the main bad quality of life issue of Miami: traffic. Pinecrest to The Shores was always 30 minutes. No big whoop. But lately, even during non rush hour, it runs to an hour or more. Last week, I DID make it from D2's home, around 8 pm, in 35 minutes. It was so pleasantly unusual.

And as more and more cram into this city I love -- best described by Iggy Pop as a "beautiful whore of a city," the traffic will only worsen. And since the main focus of our life is the grandsons, and hopefully more grandkids to come -- maybe we OUGHT to be closer.

Plus, I walk. Love it -- put on at least 3 miles per day -- sometimes 5. And in the Shores, if you go to the end of 96th Street, there are benches on Biscayne Bay with gorgeous breezes and views. Less foliage than Devonwood, but the place of true beauty. I guess I'd change the Fagan lyric to "Biscayne Bay, where the older gentleman sits all day..."

D2 and Jonathan are casually looking for us -- they stopped by an open house yesterday -- 50s era house, already renovated -- 10 blocks south of them and probably 3 minutes to D1 and the boys -- and liked it. Wifey will go see it on Tuesday. They're asking $2.25M -- double what I paid for Villa Wifey in 2000, but probably 2/3 or less what Villa Wifey will sell for.

I'm meeting with Mike's consuegro Tony Tuesday, a top local realtor who I really trust, to get a realistic view of what Villa Wifey would reasonably sell for. Luckily, we have "Save Our Homes" which gives "portability" of real estate tax savings, so downsizing won't double our taxes -- just increase them somewhat. Then again, Gov. Ron is talking about doing away with ALL real estate taxes -- so who knows. Ah, the state of our government...

So -- nothing happening yet, but as Kenny and Joelle noted last night when we went to Black Point for a great dinner, the fact that I'm no longer a hard "No" about moving  is a major life change. We talked about the need to also have a one story house as we creep into those golden years -- their condo in the Grove is one level, but their house in Maine is not -- but they DID put a bedroom on the main floor -- just in case...

Kenny said "You'll be moved in 6 months." We'll see.

But it is funny that I have lived in Dade, now Miami Dade County for 46 years -- ALWAYS south of Flagler Street. UM dorm and apartment, Kendall apartment with Eric and then Wifey, first house on Galloway and 125th Terrace, second house on 107 Ave and 136 Terrace, and finally Villa Wifey --essentially 4 miles East of house #2. We DID own a condo on Miami Beach that was North of Flagler -- but never lived there -- I think the longest stay was 5 nights.

So we'll see. But at least there is a new option on the table...

Sad Obit Dave

 So my friends on the Canes chat have nicknamed me "Obituary Dave," as I am typically the first to post a death notice -- though Norman has been scooping me quite a bit, lately. But last night I shared one that had none of the typical snark of "Look a (lawyer) or (doctor) near our age, who had all these later life plans, who dropped of (MI, Cancer, Crash of some type). No, last night I shared the Herald obit of my old friend John DeLeon.

I met John at UM -- we shared a close friend named Peter. At the Honors Convocation, in, I think, April of 1983, I sat next to John -- he was the Outstanding Philosophy Department graduating senior, and I won the English award. Eric was the top Chemistry guy -- I don't recall any others.

John was headed to Georgetown Law, along with Peter and another Class of '83 grad, a Jewban named, I think, Miriam. All three did well -- Miriam met and married the son of a very famous man, Cesar Chavez, the "MLK of Mexicans." Fernando decided years later to capitalize on his family name, and started a series of law firms, the Miami one including John. John and I reconnected when he referred some of the cases to Paul and me.

Paul and I thought this would become THE source of business for us -- it never truly did -- though Paul and I traveled to San Jose, California to personally ask Fernando for more cases. I guess he never much liked our chemicals, to borrow my late suegra's malaprop, and though we handled several matters together, there weren't many.

Still, I kept in touch with John, who was really a criminal defense guy and also president of the ACLU. He would often call me for advice in handling civil matters, and I was generous with my time.

I think everyone around John knew he was gay, but he never came out until much later in life. He was Catholic and Cuban -- I wonder whether his family's displeasure with his orientation was a part in that, or he was just VERY private with his personal life.

In any event, several years ago, per Peter, he DID marry a boyfriend, who is now his widower.

I last saw John pre Covid, and noticed he was slurring his speech. Peter said it was advancing Parkinson's Disease. A few months ago, at Dana's 60th birthday, I asked after John. Peter said he was in very bad shape -- bedridden. And so when I read about him today, I wasn't shocked.

John handled a lot of high profile ACLU cases, under the mentorship of Howard Simon, an old school, Miami Beach, Jewish Liberal. I read a few years ago Howard had come out of retirement to become President again, on an interim basis. He was quoted today in John's obit about how John taught him the "Byzantine nature of Miami Cuban politics."

John and his husband had a house up in Maine, on a river. I recall last time we spoke, he told me how much he loved spending Summers there, away from the brutal Miami heat. I hope he got time there before he passed. 

In any event, RIP John. We sat together on stage at UM's Gusman Theater 42 years ago. We've both been blessed with full lives -- yours more public service than mine. May your memory be a blessing.

The Wisdom of My Old Boss Ed Ratiner

 My friends on the Canes chat, which keeps getting different titles, call me "Obituary Dave," since I'm usually the one who reports a death, though Norman and others have taken up the sport of scooping me on famous deaths. They now also call me "Tragedy Dave," as I typically report awful things that befall folks we may relate to. Give me a wreck involving a doctor or lawyer --totally my whistling past the graveyard wheelhouse.

So yesterday the news reported a doozy: a neurosurgeon named Michael Groff was piloting his high performance private prop jet, and crashed it near an upstate NY airport, killing his wife, a urologist, and 2 of his kids and their partners. The kids were MIT and Swarthmore grads, all young superstars either in med school, private equity, or, in the case of one son, a paralegal. That son's girlfriend was to start Harvard Law this Fall.

Awful -- 6 people who, in the words of the Dad of one of the boyfriends, had a LOT to offer the world had they survived.

For me, it recalled the sage words of my old boss Ed, an aviation expert who knew how to fly but never got his license. He always say second seat, but let the pros do the sky driving. I asked him once why.

He answered that a cliche in aviation accidents was the doctor who got a pilot's license, and bought himself a Beechcraft Bonanza. Since the doc's mind was probably on his patients, he'd fly the thing into a dangerous storm, the tail would separate, and tragedy would result.

Same for lawyers. Ed was ALWAYS thinking about his cases -- how to advance them, how to out maneuver his opponents. He said there was no way he had the laser sharp focus a pilot needed to safely operate a machine flying near the speed of sound, where a mistake could kill lots of people.

I googled the plane Dr. Groff owned -- a Mitsubishi prop jet infamous for being relatively cheap but tough to fly, particularly during difficult approaches. I don't know the facts, but it sure looks like that as experienced the neurosurgeon was, he lacked the experience to safely land his plane after things got chippy.

I came to greatly dislike flying in Ed's private planes after 2 incidents in his King Air -- like Dr. Groff's plane, a high performance prop jet. Once, Ed's pilot and friend Bill was flying me to a depo -- I sat in the co-pilot's seat. Right before we reached V-1 -- takeoff speed, Bill shut the engines off saying "Ah hell no." I was scared but silent -- when we got back to the FBO, he explained that the doodad the coordinated the two props' spinning was off -- had we taken off we might have immediately flipped over. I made my way to the commuter terminal at MIA and flew commercial to my depo.

The second time was much more hairy. Ed was in the jump seat, and Bill was flying said King Air. As soon as the plane took off, it kept wanting to only turn left. Ed and Bill struggled to keep the thing flying, and after all left turns, struggled to get the thing back on the ground. I was suffused with a strange sense of calm --  I KNEW I was about to die -- and wondered -- where would they find my body?

ATC cleared the runways, we landed, and pulled to the side. Bill looked at the controls. "Oh man -- just the rudder trip tab left in the far left position. Dumbass mechanic -- you're supposed to center it!" We took off again for Tampa, and hours later, in the depo, my hands began to shake. Later, we celebrated at Bern's with great steaks and the most expensive bottle of wine I ever had -- this was 1992 and I think it cost $500.

No one believed my tale of near death, until years later -- probably 2003. Paul and I hosted a party for Ed at my house, and Bill was there, and he said in fact that over his long aviation career, that was the closest he came to death -- and he was in a float plane crash which left him partially paralyzed!

Meanwhile, close to home, last night we enjoyed a banner second night of Passover. Wifey and Bo the Special Needs Spaniel arrived, and Jonathan poured us a couple of Stoli Elit martinis. I had a second. D1 and her skittish Spaniel and 2 beautiful boys arrived, and we feasted on Hometown BBQ brisket, chicken, and turkey breast, and some kosher desserts Wifey had fetched earlier from Whole Foods. We joked why it was called Whole Paycheck -- a small box of pastries was $25.

We talked of Passover, but Wifey got a great idea -- we put on the Rug Rats Passover show, which the Ds used to love, and the boys watched, transfixed -- even the 2.5 year old. So the story got told, we had a great night -- P2 was a success!

But my thoughts are with those 6 superstars who left us -- on the way to THEIR family seder somewhere in the Catskills.

And it reminded me -- I plan to NEVER fly with someone who isn't a full time pilot. If Ed is looking down, he's shaking his head.

Happy 105, Sunny

 Today would have been my Mom Sunny's 105th birthday -- or would it have???!!! She always told us April 13, 1920 was her birthday, but in her later years, when I had to check her into doctor's appointments and used her Medicare card, the day was different -- maybe the 14th or 15th? When Wifey and I asked her about this, she dismissively said "Oh well, you know, 13 was always my favorite number!"

And that was that. Mom was a fierce Democrat, but would have fit in well with the Trump era way of creating new facts when the real ones don't suit you. Actually, she would have LOATHED Trump...

My Mom was a loving one, and one of a kind. Unlike my Dad, who absorbed all of his family's anxieties and let them affect him -- Sunny did not. She dealt with what she had to, beginning with having a "crippled child" when my sister was diagnosed with a missing hip socket in the early 50s, and the loss of her husband of nearly 40 years, in 1982.

She would always ask how we were, and I was never really sure if she heard anything negative. But she kvelled about her kids and grandkids. I remember well calling her in 1992 and telling her how much money I had made on a case -- more than she or my Dad could have ever imagined -- a check multiples of their net worth. She said "Oh that's nice, sweetie -- need anything for the girls?"

Again -- that was that. She had no thought of sharing in my winnings, so to speak. Just everyone around her: be happy.

I guess I first realized this coping mechanism when I came home from UM senior year -- my first visit after leaving her alone following Dad's death. I woke up early, and looked for the newspaper -- my parents' always had a morning paper -- first the Herald and later, Sun -Sentinel. It wasn't outside the door. I asked Mom.

"Oh -- I stopped it. It's all bad news -- who needs to read that? I no longer watch TV news, either -- too depressing. I stick to animal shows and cooking shows."

Later on, when she met a man who was in her life, Max, she also watched, improbably, NBA basketball. Max was from Detroit and a big Pistons fan, but  had converted to the Heat in South Florida. And he got my Mom into it, too. She went from the classic Mom who knew nothing about sports to saying stuff like "Oh David, that Alonzo Mourning is something!" Even in her 80s, life had surprises.

When she turned 80, in April of 2000, I decided to make a big deal of it. Our firm was in the chips, and I flew our family, plus my Boynton Beach sister, to SF to celebrate. The Ds were 8 and 11. My California sister and her 2 sons met us in SF, and we had a lovely visit -- drives to Berkely and Wine Country, and visits to Alcatraz. Sunny was still mobile, but needed help with the steep SF hills -- lots of laughter accompanied her grandkids' helping push her up those elevations.

At 85, we decided to give it another go, but this time without my Florida sister, and we all met in LA. Wifey found us a cool hotel in Hollywood where the magicians used to stay, and we visited Pasadena, where Mom and Dad married and began their life, and indeed the life of our family.

But at a visit to my friends' house in the Hollywood Hills, Sunny took a scary spill. She was ok, but she realized then her traveling days, at least involving airplanes, were over.

A few weeks ago I had lunch and a lovely long walk around the UM campus with Mirta, my sister of another mister. She always reminds me how Sunny had a huge impact on her -- the final 11 months of Sunny's life, when she was at Miami Jewish Home. Mirta visited her often, and Sunny's words and disposition amazed her -- here she was in The Big Man's Waiting Room, and she savored every small pleasure -- the feel of the sun on her arms, the delicious ice cream sandwiches from the vending machine in the lovely gazebo they had.

We celebrated Sunny's final earthly birthday April 13, 2013. She was, or nearly was depending on the calendar mix, 93. Mirta recalled the day well -- she got her dressed and met us at a social hall at the Home. We had cake and soda, and 2/3 of her kids were there, and all Florida grandkids except one, but his ex-wife attended with Sunny's 2 great grandchildren. Her Tampa great grandkids were there as well.

Sunny lifted her cup and exclaimed "Happy New Year!" She was still happy but confused. She would die 2 weeks later.

But she lives on in our hearts and memories. Several months ago, I learned that Hannah, one of Sunny's great grandkids and now a scientist living in NC, always keeps a picture of her displayed in her home. That warmed me.

So I hope your soul is resting, Mom. Maybe even, in ways we don't understand, reunited with the soul of my Dad, and your beloved brother, parents, and sisters. Who knows?

I just know I was a lucky son, indeed, and am thinking of my beloved Mom today.

And So This Is Pesach...And What Have You Done?

 Tonight is the first night of the week long holiday of Passover, and Wifey and I are sitting out our usual attendance at the seder, or Pesach dinner. This is frowned upon, to the point that a Jew learning that a fellow tribesman having no place to seder (I made it a verb) MUST invite said Jew to her home.

And that has happened, even though Wifey and I have several invites: our daughters' in laws, Rabbi Yossi's Community seder, and other dear friends. But we're instead opting for dinner tomorrow at D2 and Jonathan's -- probably around 6. D1 will bring our grandsons, and we'll bring in food and maybe Jonathan and I will have a Passover L'chaim.

Speaking of Jonathan -- that's also the name of my trainer who has become a young friend. He and I came out to each other last Thursday: Passover is both of our LEAST favorite holiday -- we don't really like the food, or having to sit for hours re-telling the story we all know SO well and was best told, anyway, by Cecil B DeMille in "The 10 Commandments." I mean, who can hear the name Moses and not think of Charleton Heston?

I don't recall my parents holding actual seders when I was a kid. There WERE Passover dinners -- I remember lots of Manishevitz wine, and matzoh -- but that was really it.

The first real seder I attended was in Spring of 1980 -- Eric's family invited me. I was there with his dear parents Norma and Marvin, long gone, and his sister Elissa, who was still at Killian High. I felt silly not knowing the songs, except for "Dayenu," which I must have picked up by osmosis somehow. I also recall being a klutz and breaking a dish that was, as I recall in embarrassment, a family heirloom of sorts. They forgave me.

After I met Wifey, seders were at her parents' house -- typically a few non Jewish friends would be invited to enjoy my late suegra Rachel's delicious Ashkenazi soul food. My late mother Sunny LOVED the whitefish Rachel would prepare -- she would go home with jars of it -- later on to the horror of my sister Trudy, who has driven down from Boynton Beach, and was convinced the jars would open and turn her minivan into a fish smelling vehicle.

The story is, or course, crucial to our people -- how we were emancipated from slavery. These days, since the vast majority of us are NOT slaves, we seek metaphorical meaning -- we must emancipate ourselves from the slavery of our own demons, our own anxieties. Rabbi Bob Marley, who had a LOT of Old Testament imagery in his songs said "Emancipate yourself from mental slavery...none but ourselves can free our minds..."

And such is Pesach 2025 for us. I look forward to Little Man's excited telling me about HIS seder tonight, and of course being with the family.

Maybe next year at the Seder Table!

Blessed Not Depressed

 I'm very fortunate, as I've never dealt with actual, clinical depression, which I know well can be truly debilitating. Rather, I get bouts of melancholy, or the blues, and typically these periods last weeks -- not months or years.

The only different time for me was after my Dad died. He passed in July, and in August of that year (1982) I went back for me senior year of college. First, like Psych 101, I developed chest pains. I hadn't seen a doc other than Health Center folks, and I called my dear family friend Bob Davidoff, who was then Co-Chair of Neurology at UM. He had me see a nice young internist named Michael Lerner, who gave me my first EKG. It was normal -- Dr. Lerner, though not a psychologist or psychiatrist, said I was clearly having symptoms related to my trauma. So I'd live.

As that last year played out, I would often have a strange sensation: I would be sitting in class, but I felt as if I were above my actual self, looking down. Later, I learned that was probably a dissociative disorder - I was dealing with the event by having my psyche get out of myself. Thankfully, that passed near graduation, in May of 1983, and by the time I met Wifey, three months later, I was mostly back to baseline neurotic.

But the blues came calling several weeks ago, right before we left for D.C. and my nephew of another mister Scott's wedding, and they hung around heavily since. And then, yesterday, was mostly very happy.

Wifey and I drove up to D2's house, and D1 was there taking calls while D2 and Wifey did pilates. They had brought in lunch, and after pilates and the calls, Wifey, the Ds, and I got to sit for a solid hour catching up -- talking of days past and days to come.

We piled into the man sized SUV and fetched Little Man, who knew that Grandpa pick up meant honey yogurt, which only I mix the right way. He had us laughing all the way back to D2's house, and from there D1 drove him to skateboarding.

Wifey and I piled the 3 dogs into our vehicle, and followed D2 to D1's house -- we watched Baby Man play in the back, so happily, and then greeted his older brother and D1. It was delightful -- happy grandsons, happy Ds, and happy Wifey. Even the dogs were happy, except for the Special Needs and now VERY elderly Spaniel -- he was a bit grumpy and snapped, mostly toothless, at Baby Man.

And on the way home, with unexpectedly light traffic, I felt it: the lifting of the blues, the thinning of that queasy, melancholy feeling.

I spoke on the phone for over an hour with one of my dear friends, whose health stuggles are one of my triggers -- he was feeling well and optimistic. Me, too.

To reinforce this positive change, I played Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly" on my Iphone this am, as I indeed walked under blue skies, with none of the "dark clouds that had me blind."

The issues that brought the blues, a/k/a known as life, will remain, but oh, it feels so wonderful when one's mood is raised.

I recalled my Dad, and the funny way he taught me the Yiddish word mechayeh. We had come to Miami Beach for the first time, probably December of 1970, and as he and I waded into the glorious Atlantic, in DECEMBER, he sighed and said "What a mechayeh!"  I asked him what that meant, and he said "Oh, a Me-HAI-ya is a beautiful and peaceful Japanese lake -- actually called Lake MeHaiya -- near Kyoto. So when something is so peaceful and lovely, you refer to that placid Japanese lake."

I believed him, and then shortly after, he said "Just kidding, Dave! Mechayeh is Yiddish for something delightful or pleasurable -- like the two of us swimming in the ocean here in Miami while everyone else is freezing their tucheses off in NY." I knew what tuches meant...

So the lifting of the blues is indeed a mechayeh. I count my blessings, and hope to keep the depressions at bay.

Active Compassion

 Tonight I plan to practice, as a giver, a key lesson my dear friend Joelle taught me 4 years ago, which I call active compassion.

In January of 2021, Wifey suffered a stroke. Within less than a week, we found out that while serious, it wasn't going to have catastrophic effects -- truth is -- I was more afraid Covid would take her as she was hospitalized days before she was to get her first vaccine. I still recall those scary times too well. When we were waiting in the ED, an alarm would go off and staff would push us into the private alcoves -- a patient in pink was coming through -- and pink meant sick with Covid.

I assembled "Team Wifey," and they were terrific: my brilliant doc friends Eric, Barry, and Kenny. I didn't allow a single medical move on Wifey without their blessing, and back then, Kenny was still working as a Peds Radiologist at Baptist, so he was actually hands on. When Wifey was transferred (transferred by ME in the car as awaiting med transport in those Covid days was silly) to Lynn Rehab at UM, she was under Barry's watchful eye -- he visited her, and me, daily. And Eric kept a cardiology watch from Delray/Boca -- overseeing his friend Harry's check of Wifey's heart to rule out any rhythm disorders as the cause of the stroke (they weren't).

Anyway, the Ds and I visited on daily vigils, and I had plenty of support from friends constantly offering me meals or whatever I needed -- but then there was Joelle. She didn't offer I meet her and Kenny and her boys for dinner -- she DEMANDED I attend -- sometimes at their High Pines house, other times at local restaurants. I would beg off, but Joelle, an FIU Law professor and former federal prosecutor, wouldn't have it, and I gave in, and realized those breaks from the anxiety and fear about Wifey's recovery in the time of Covid were wonderful for me.

And Joelle does this for friends who aren't nearly as close, as well. When her colleague was sick with cancer, before tragically dying young, Joelle was there for her young daughters, whose father was a bit of an absentee Dad. Over the years, whenever I bring this up, I typically cry, as I have on trips to France and the Caribbean we've taken. Last night, we met for sushi, and I again told the lesson -- like the Passover story, it bears, to me, at least, repeating.

Well Wifey and I have a friend Susan, who suffered a stroke while babysitting grandkids in Dallas. Sadly, her episode IS catastrophic -- she's barely regained consciousness in over a month, and has been med-evacked back to Miami. Her husband Steve, a terrific guy, is dealing with his wife's care as I did Wifey, assembling the best care he can get, and luckily Susan is a decades long UM faculty member, and so has plenty of contacts.

We're not THAT close to Steve and Susan -- maybe dinner out once or twice per year - but I knew this was my opportunity -- and I have given Steve little choice but to let me take him out to dinner -- and that's planned for tonight.

One of his 3 kids, Spencer, D2's old friend is coming along -- Wifey is hosting mah jonng and would go if I asked strongly, but probably easier to keep things all guys.

Steve's such a sweet guy -- hoping I can just give him a few hours of escape. Susan's case is baffling -- it's like an episode of "House," but Steve is hopeful that the academic teams of docs at UM can figure things out, and Susan can begin rehab. Right now, she's too medically fragile to move to Lynn -- but they're doing PT and OT at bedside. Scary stuff, but we've seen first hand that people CAN recover from even awful strokes.

Our friend Mark, Crazy Sheryl's 20 year live in boyfriend, suffered a massive stroke on the golf course a few years ago. It was so bad, Sheryl and his daughter considered letting him go, rather than having brain surgery to give him survival. Mark woke up enough to realize the state he was in -- they asked if he wanted to "rest or fight," and he made a fist with the hand on his working side like a boxer -- he wanted to fight.

He just turned 70 and will live out his days in assisted living in Boston, but he's recovered enough that he's become a speaker on stroke recovery and the necessary of savoring life. We watched on Zoom recently as he spoke at their synagogue -- he was sharp, and funny, and most of all, amazing to those listening to his message. It seems the Big Man still has need for him here.

So as Passover approaches, I hope Susan can be emancipated from her awful state. But tonight, at least, I hopefully get to pay forward a beautiful gift, and lesson, from my sister of another mister, Joelle.

Switched At Birth

 So it was a lovely Sunday. D1 and the boys and Lemon the Spaniel and Betsy the enormous puppy and her Mom D2 came by in the afternoon -- leaving D2 and Betsy and taking the boys and Lemon to Coral Reef Park for a playdate. D1 texted when she was on her way back, and I ordered Anthony's Coal Fired, and everyone sat around munching on pizza and wings and meatballs and salad. The happy, well fed crew left, and Wifey and I settled in to watch some "Mobland," and English themed Sopranos, and then headed upstairs for the season finale of "White Lotus" which has become our go-to show.

After it ended, and we discussed the fates of the spoiled rich white people infused with some Buddhist wisdom, I depressed myself a bit reading about today's stock futures, which may well portend another Black Monday. Truth is, since I am my Dad's son and never really trust the Stock Market, the losses will not affect our daily lives (if savings and muni bonds tank -- uh oh!), but still, it's no fun to watch my Merrill Balances tumble from the heights. Hopefully they bounce back, like they did from our first Black Monday.

That was 1987, and Wifey and I opened our first brokerage account, with Ronnie, a Drexel Burnham guy who was Wifey's co worker Kathy's husband. They were SO much richer than we -- huge house in Pinecrest -- wedding at Grove Isle -- BMWs. Ronnie was smart, a South American Jewish guy who had gone to Bentley, I think, and Wifey and my total life savings, other than our house which had small equity, was $9K -- my IRA with $2K, and Wifey's with $7K. We opened the accounts in late September, and took a trip to D.C. to visit Wifey's friend from FSU Dolly. When we toured the Capitol Building on Monday, I noticed most of the Congresspeople were gone -- later, in a Pub, I learned why: Black Monday.

We returned to find our $9K nest egg was worth probably less than $7K. I freaked, but Ronnie told me to stay the course, and I did, as an investor, ever since. Of course, Drexel went out of business, Ronnie and Kathy divorced, and we lost touch. These days, I'm happy when a monthly AMEX bill is close to $9K -- so things have changed, a lot. Hopefully Trump doesn't push us totally into a depression this time --I'm getting too old to do manual labor. No -- I AM too old to do manual labor.

Anyway, I kept reading online, and I came across an article about a guy my age named Kevin McMahon, born in Queens at Jamaica Hospital minutes after another baby McMahon was born there, and, sure enough, it turned out the babies were switched! The other baby was named Ross.

Ross ended up having a great childhood, with a loving family, but Kevin's father and paternal grandmother always treated him like the proverbial "red headed stepkid." They KNEW he wasn't their biological kin - -he was much darker in eyes and complexion -- and abused and treated him awfully. Grandma always suspected that her daughter in law had had an affair, and convinced her son of that, and so poor Kevin suffered his entire life.

His sister learned the truth through genetic online testing -- it showed she had a full brother -- the REAL McMahon, it turned out. All 4 parents are dead, and Kevin is suing Jamaica Hospital for the mix up -- he ended up doing ok, it seems, and he has met his biological siblings.

Of course the awful part of the story is how badly Dad and Grandma treated him just because they FELT he wasn't biologically connected. Ross McMahon was the one who lucked out -- he ended up with the loving, accepting family, even though he was the only blue eyed blonde.

These stories will only increase as more people get the DNA tests, although I suspect most of the "scandals" will be more of the great reggae song variety: "Your poppa not your poppa but your poppa don't know."

This caused me to reflect: maybe I was switched at Long Island Jewish Hospital in July, 1961, and truly belonged to one of the elite Ashkenazim from The Five Towns, or Great Neck, instead of my middle class family from Glenn Oaks. Hmm..I could have been handed everything, instead of working from age 12 to, really, about 5 years ago -- I STILL work, though only very part time. Hell -- I just assumed the role of private counsel for a good doctor friend being sued who has no insurance -- though Norman is the one getting paid and will do the real defense...

But I'm glad the way things worked out. Had I been to the Great Neck Manor born, maybe I'd have become a total douchebag, and instead of making the great friends who went to UM on scholarship, had MORE douchy friends who went to places like Duke. I might be still running my Dad's company...who knows?

All I know is, the luckiest part of my childhood is that I always felt PLENTY loved, and a strong sense of belonging. As I grew, my older than the others Dad and I became truly best friends. I loved and adored him so. Plus, I look a lot like him -- so pretty confident LIJ got it correct.

Another week begins. Speaking of UM, Wifey and I had planned to attend UM's Centennial, with open house and a concert by Music School alums, with Kenny and Joelle, neither of whom are alums. But when I told Wifey there'd be lots of walking -- she opted for Door #2 -- just dinner with our dear friends. And that's fine with me. I'll just plan on attending the Bicentennial...

Psychological Ozempic

 So during the first years of the Pandemic, I lost a LOT of weight --probably a good 40-50 lbs. My appetite was low, and I walked miles per day -- often 10 -- to fight the anxiety. During one of our "distance walks," Kenny took a photo of me to show how much thinner I was than a few years earlier, when we traveled to Sonoma County for Kenny and Joelle's 25th wedding anniversary celebration.

The anxiety came from the unknown -- would our baby, first born grandson survive this awful disease? Would the kids? I had a constant low level of queasiness that kept me from eating -- and the weight loss was needed.

In January of 2021, Wifey had her stroke, before she was able to get the Covid jab, and my anxiety increased. I knew she would survive the stroke -- would Covid in the hospital or in patient rehab, where she spent 3 whole weeks, get her? 

Thankfully, Wifey survived and recovered, and by 2022 or so it became clear that Covid was largely the "Boomer Remover" the pundits thought it might be -- taking, mostly, older folks. My appetite returned to it's typical fraternity boy levels, and my walking, though never ceasing, went back to 3 miles per day. The weight, not surprisingly, came back.

Well, the psychological Ozempic is back -- a series of life events have me dealing with existential changes, and the weight is coming off again. Wifey noticed it the other day -- I was wearing shorts I had retired in 2023 or so -- and I guess it's a positive unintended consequence of anxiety. Hey -- if the The Donald keeps up the craziness of his presidency, and drives us to a true Constitutional Crisis, or even Civil War -- I may become as svelte as I was in college, law school, and about 5 years after -- my pants were 32 waist size or lower. 

Meanwhile, I dealt with another silly phobia yesterday: tech. My IPhone, which is with me like a pacemaker to a heart patient, is, or was, a IPhone 11, which I got in 2017, from the Verizon store Downtown while Wifey and I were still Hurricane Irma refugees. The phone worked, except the battery wasn't lasting, and I was SO opposed to upsetting any tech carts, I took it to the Apple Store on Xmas eve and had the battery replaced -- that was nearly 2 years ago. 

But we have a Euro trip planned for late May, and I didn't want my ancient phone dying over there, so yesterday I steeled myself and visited the Verizon store on 104th St and S Dixie. It was 1030, and the place was empty, except for 2 salespeople -- I went up to Juan. I told him I thought it was time to get my free upgraded phone, and he asked if the one I had worked, and I said it did, but when he took it from me and saw it was an 11 that was 8 years old, he laughed and said indeed it WAS time to replace -- many of the Apps I use didn't work well with such an ancient piece of equipment.

I asked if they had a service where you could pay and have them transfer all your date, and he said yes -- it was $29.95 and I would need to stay in the store 1.5 hours or so. I did, and Juan got 'er done, while we talked of our lives -- he was born and raised in Cuba, came here at 25, and is now turning 40. He is no fan of the Communist government -- he told me even what USED to be good about Cuba -- like the doctors, no longer are -- no money to even run med schools correctly.

Somehow the time flew by, and I walked out with my new IPhone 16, which works just like the old one did, with some spiffy upgrades. The Ds called on FaceTime returning from Miami Beach, and I learned I could hit an emoji and fireworks or balloons or rain would appear in my image. They laughed at first and then told me to not use that with anyone else, lest they make much fun of me...

Of course, I had to reinstall Facial Recognition with some of the Apps, and of course no longer recalled user names or passwords -- but I spent a lot of this am after my long walk getting THAT done. So I'm back -- even bought all the new chargers the newer phones require.

So the phone lasted 8 years -- Juan's manager came by, I praised Juan to him, and he said "Well you got your money's worth with this guy." Indeed I did.

So I had my yogurt parfait for breakfast, and then a chicken salad sandwich for lunch, and now have zero appetite to eat more. At D1's the other day, we brought in wraps from Pura Vida, and I ate half -- I ALWAYS polish off a whole wrap. Hopefully lower bad blood markers await -- even though I was already strangely healthy while fat...

Hopefully we get to see the grandsons tomorrow, and maybe even D2 and Jonathan! We always order in Uber Eats -- less for me these days!

A Monday Night Visit

 So we spent a high energy weekend with Little Man -- originally just going to spend Sunday night here, but his trip to Naples to watch the soccer team his uncle Bob owns got canceled on account of his Daddy's wrist. Joey went mountain biking and took a nasty fall -- compound fracture in his left wrist.

Luckily, my friend Dr. Lew is an excellent hand surgeon -- and saw him yesterday and is set to repair things tomorrow am. We figured we could simplify things by taking Little Man early, and we did.

The 2 nights proved again what Wifey and I already knew -- raising and watching energetic little ones is for the young. This boy is non stop -- movement, questions, what to play next? We adore him and had a great time, but by the time I re-homed him via a Morningside lunch with the Ds and their dogs, I was wiped out.

I came home and felt more of the darkness surrounding me lately -- 2 seriously ill people flying back to South Florida is a part of it -- one seems to be fine and is due today, and the other not so fine -- ICU to ICU transfer from Dallas to the 305.

The second, Susan, was truly a shock. We became friends with her and her husband Steve when D2 and their middle boy met in middle school. The young ones drifted apart in college, but we stayed friends -- dinners a few times a year to compare notes on how even adult kids these days seem to need their parents much more than we did at their age -- totally our fault -- and the joys of grandparenting.

Susan is my age and very much a healthy lifestyle person -- exercises all the time and eats clean, as they say. Still, she suffered a devastating stroke while grandson sitting in Dallas -- weeks have passed, and she is barely responsive. Hopefully the air ambulance gets her back today, under the amazing care of our neighbor and UM stroke maven Dr. Jose. We're hoping for good news, and will take Steve out.

When Wifey was recovering from her stroke, Joelle taught me something about friendship. It's nice to ask "What can I do?" as most people did, and this independent guy politely refused offers. Joelle, a law professor, said "You WILL be here for dinner at ..." and later "You WILL meet us for dinner at Titanic..." and when I arrived, realized how curative for ME, the caregiver, those visits were. So I plan to do the same with Steve, though I know he has a fine support system.

Anyway, I was sitting on my couch, and the gate ball rang --- a bit later than package delivery guys typically do it. It was young Rabbi Moshe, Yossi's son, and recent leader of our "Bible study," out doing his pre- Passover mitzvah of delivering the special schmura matzah eaten on the holiday. I knew he had a baby and toddler at home, but invited him in. Wifey joined us.

I asked coffee or a L'chaim, and he said he was never a coffee guy. I went to my liquor cart and was stunned -- my vodka was gone! What -- had fraternity or sorority kids sneaked in while we were in D.C? Luckily, Moshe spotted a bottle of Johnny Walker Red, which he knew was kosher, and I poured us a few fingers in glasses with the big ice cubes from the mold D1 had bought me as a Fathers' Day gift.

And we spoke -- joyously of our families. When his parents moved here, his older brother was a baby - Moshe is the next son. He's one of 9, and has emerged as the scholar, and Rabbi Yossi's true successor at the shul. He's a delightful young man.

I knew he was time pressed -- had to get home to those young kids and his wife -- they're living in an apartment 1 mile walk from his parents and the new Friendship Circle campus, but he was in no way rushed. When I told him it was his father who truly led me back to a strong belief in The Big Man -- he beamed -- that's the whole reason for the Chabad movement -- gathering the straggling Jews who forgot who they are.

And I told him the folly of my ways -- thinking I truly had control over all the sacred pieces of my life -- somehow unlike everyone else. He already knew this, but was comforting to me as we discussed this on our walk back to the car.

So I realize his visit can be seen as a mere coincidence -- a fundraising young man doing a nice deed for a donor before a holiday. But as I sat on my front porch, I felt deep down that his visit had more meaning. And that brought me succor.