Snapshots in Time

Well, my renewed sense of gratitude continues, even after a brand new article in the Herald tells me I'm not alone. It tracks essentially my story: a high PSA test that led to a biopsy and anxiety and "even depression" according to the head prostate guy at the U, Bruce Kava, who Dr. Barry is friends with and would likely have been given stewardship of my prostate had things gotten dicey...

No matter. I went through a rough time, for me, and coming through it has left me looking skyward several times a day and saying "thank you."

Yesterday, after a phone conference with some lawyers on the west coast wanting Paul and me to get involved in a get rich quick scheme (Paul listened patiently for an hour; I was mentally out of it after 15 minutes), Wifey, the Ds, and I fired up the Hyundai and headed North.

After a stop at a Boca bagel place, where we all chuckled at the gathering of our peeps (overheard: "Juuuudy --did we get enough Chanukah cookies???!!!!"), we ordered sandwiches to take to ancient Mom's condo. Ah, West Boca. Long Island's Five Towns moved south, with the less than melodic nasal accents, and jewelry, and little dogs. We smiled, and new that as we drove the few miles to West Delray, the population would get older. It did...

Anyway, Mom was in good spirits. She seems on an upward trend these past few weeks. Dr. Eric said she had the kidney function and cholesterol levels of a healthy 12 year old, so it doesn't appear she'll be joining my Dad in the afterlife any time soon.

We ate, and caught up, and had some laughs. D1 told her she'd be going to Indiana with her boyfriend for New Year's, and Mom asked why she was going to "Havana." Close enough, I told her, though the mojitos weren't as good when made by Hoosiers...

Anyway, I went to my former bedroom, which many years ago became a sitting room, and retrieved some old photo albums. They're falling apart and crumbling, but we still enjoyed one in particular: a scrap book from my parents' early marriage years, in Pasadena.

My mother had typed a letter to her in laws, apparently never sent, talking about how she had learned to cook, and how happy and surprised "her darling Hy" was about that. She recounted my dad inviting his seargeant (she misspelled it "sargent") and "another boy from the camo" to their apartment for dinner, and how proud my father was of her for the dinner she prepared.

The letter was filled with the great 40s expressions, like how "swell" things were, etc...

There were also menus from restaurants they visited in Hollywood, with steaks for 70 cents, and sandwiches offered for thirty cents.

And then the snapshots in time, showing my father graduating from a US Army college program at a junior college, and young marrieds in Southern California.

My mother was D1's age, 23, D1 noted. WW II to the Ds is truly ancient history. To me, growing up with the stories, it's not. And Wifey, a child of Holocaust Survivors, grew up essentially overshadowed by those days...

And so we laughed, and Mom told some disjointed stories, and peppered her words with some choice profanities, which the Ds love, of course...

We left her, about 5 pm, and drove D1 back to Brickell. D2, Wifey, and I came home, and lit our menorah. It's the start of the 8 crazy nights, as Adam Sandler sings...

Wifey actually fired up the fryer, and heated up a few latkes...Truly, this is the time for miracles.