Gastonia, NC

 Today's news had a sad tale about a multiple shooting in Gastonia, NC. I was sorry to hear, but that's a place deep in my memory, for an oblique reason.

I adored and worshipped my father. Unlike me, he wasn't a very social man, though he could be charming -- he needed that for his job as a glassware salesman. But I never really knew of friends he had -- exactly the opposite of me. My Ds know well my stable of dear brothers and sisters and how important they are to me.

One of my Dad's childhood friends was Bobby Danzig. Bobby was the reason the family moved to LI -- he had bought a house on Charles Lane, and encouraged my parents to do the same. We lived 4 houses apart, but Bobby and my Dad each had busy work and family lives, and rarely socialized. 

Another name I used to hear was Harry Binder. My Dad would bring him up from time to time, as Harry had a far more exotic post WW II life than Dad -- he had settled in the SOUTH!

Well, one day, and I must have been a high school junior or senior, Dad said Harry and his wife were coming to visit -- they were in NY for a wedding, and were coming over for lunch. Now -- it was Summer, and weekend days were precious -- I would spend them all with my friends. But the thought of actually meeting one of Dad's childhood friends was too alluring to me. I said I would stay home.

Harry and his wife came over. I believe we brought in pizza or Chinese -- my Dad joked that he wouldn't dare barbecue for a true Southerner like Harry's wife. They were delightful. Harry had a slight accent, and his wife was full on "Driving Miss Daisy." She was born and raised in Gastonia, which was shocking to me, as she was Jewish. To a garden variety, Tri-State Jew like me -- there were no Jews in the South.

I mean, I knew they were in Israel, and California, and large Midwestern cities -- but North Carolina? I knew there were plenty of Jews in Miami, like my grandmother, but Miami wasn't the South. By the late 70s, in my mind, it was the 6th Boro of NYC, and North Havana at the same time, buy not SOUTHERN.

It was a delightful day. Mom and Mrs. B chatted about their lives, and Harry, Hy, and I spent several hours together. I hungrily sought information on my Dad as a boy. Harry said he was always smart and bookish -- not into sports, like many of their friends who grew up literally in the shadow of Yankee Stadium. While the rest of the boys played baseball, or football, or basketball --my Dad preferred his tenement's stoop and a book.

Dad admired how Harry hadn't returned to NY after the war. Instead, he went into his wife's family's business -- I think it may have been furniture -- and prospered there. Dad let on as to how he had a small regret -- not staying in Southern California after the War. He and my Mom LOVED Pasadena, and Dad wondered if maybe he'd have gotten a more exciting job as a writer in TV or movies.

Harry pointed at our house -- a modest tract home - and said he had done just fine for a poor boy from the Bronx -- the child of immigrants, like Harry was. I had the sense Harry had gotten much richer, but he was humble.

I never saw Harry or Mrs. B after that lovely day, though they had invited us all to be their guests in NC.

Fast forward from '77 or '78 to the Summer of 1991. Wifey and I and toddler D1 were in Charleston, SC, for the wedding of our friend Jeff to Marilyn. Marilyn was Catholic, and Jeff a Jew, and the wedding was officiated by a priest and a rabbi at the same time.

It was a lovely trip. Wifey was pregnant with D2, who we learned WOULD be a D and not a S during the car ride up the Seaboard. 

As we waited for the ceremony, I struck up a conversation with the young rabbi. No -- he wasn't from Charleston, he was from a town called Gastonia, NC. He laughed -- I probably hadn't heard of it. Ha. As if. I told him I had, and my Dad's childhood friend lived there -- Harry Binder.

The Rabbi's jaw dropped. Harry and his family were the FOUNDERS of his congregation. He knew the family quite well -- they were pillars of his community. I think he said Harry had died a few years before. I guess the two friends from the Bronx weren't destined to make it to old age.

Fast forward again -- to the late 90s. I had a deposition in Charlotte, NC. As usual, I arrived hours ahead of schedule, and had time to kill. As I drove around town, I was a highway sign: "To Gastonia." I followed it, and soon was in the land of Harry.

I found a local diner, and stopped in for breakfast. The place was out of a movie of the old south. The waitress asked where I was from -- most of the diners were local. When I told her Miami, she laughed and said "And you speak English??????" I responded in my best Al Pacino from "Scarface:" "Oh -- not so goooooood." We both laughed and I had a memorably delicious breakfast -- thick cut bacon and eggs with biscuits. I think the waitress gave me extra bacon since she may have sensed my Old Testament background...

So I hope all is well, despite the shooting, in Gastonia. For me, it's not just a place. It's a place in time.

Fast forward from '77 or '78 to 1991.