Keeping Track of Time

 So six Falls ago, we took a Maritimes cruise to celebrate Wifey and her BFF Edna's 60th birthdays. I have been strictly prohibited from ever again bringing up how Crystal Cruises charged us three times what Royal would have, based upon insufficient pre trip investigation, but we ended up having a fine time, despite the mediocre Crystal service. It was three couples -- Norman and Deb came along -- we figured with Deb, an exotic Canadian in our group, we'd have the necessary street cred.

A favorite memory of the trip was a particular piano bar Norman and I found. The great young pianist, taller than nine inches, indulged Norman and my desire to play 70s songs, and the fellow did a great version of Alan Parson Project's "Time." It's a lovely, haunting tune that reminds us that time keeps flowing like a river... to the sea...where it's gone forever. Norman and I will always share that song, like Bogey and Bergman shared Paris...but not in a gay way.

Anyway, I thought of that song this am, thanks to FaceBook (tm)'s helpful "Memories" feature. Today came a post from 2010 where I noted that my Uncle Abe had died. We weren't close for the years before his death, since I don't think my Mom ever really cottoned to his replacement girlfriend Arden following her sister Lorraine's death years before, but I have only fond memories of Abe.

He taught me how to fish, in the 70s during our Miami Beach vacations, and he taught me to love the 305. His sister Claire lived in the Gables, and I remember finding it way cool that people actually LIVED here, as opposed to just staying in hotels on vacation. That probably planted the seed in my mind that I might live here someday, too, and I have -- for now 43 years.

But Abe's funeral was also a sad reminder of another family milestone -- the last time I spoke to a young man I now refer to as my "ex nephew."

He had cut off contact with all of us, in his family, during a contentious divorce from his wife, and I had accepted it. But at the funeral, his Dad, my brother in law, and I followed the funeral with a meeting with my brother of another mother, Paul, at a Houston's in Boca.

Paul, bless him, used to then be in "Then Came Bronson" mode -- the guy who rode into town, fixed the problem, and then rode off into the sunset. Paul cheer led my brother in law into "taking control, as the MEN of the family," and bringing my nephew back into the fold. We followed his advice, like 60s era Green Bay Packers players under Lombardi, and called the wayward son for a meeting the following morning near his home in Davie. I remember it well.

I still had my yellow T Bird convertible then, and I drove it up in a clear morning, to a local Two Jays. My brother in law and his son and I sat down. Things immediately turned bad, as the younger man let loose with his position -- all of us were entirely responsible for his shitty life -- based on, best as I could make out, his family's "manipulation" to keep him living in South Florida, when he wanted to move to North Carolina for a teaching job, and had he, his wife wouldn't have cheated on him, he would have been living a "more real life" than the plastic, fake life one was forced to live in materialistic South Florida, etc, etc...

I drove home sad but clear -- there was no repairing this relationship. Paul's attempt to deem a family close again had failed miserably. And that is the last time I saw my ex nephew.

In the years following, my Mom declined, and we had to move her to a nursing home. The ex nephew was her favorite grandchild -- he was the first, and a golden boy my Mom always treasured. Because of his demons, I guess, he never once visited her in the nursing home during her final 11 months of life.

At first, Mom would tearfully ask me why he never came -- did she do something to make him angry at her? I would make up a silly excuse "Well he's just SO busy, Mom, that's why he can't visit," and then eventually her fog of dementia caused the pathetic questions to cease.

Well -- that did it for me. If there ever was to be any sort of reconciliation -- it would now never happen. I guess the small percentage of Italian DNA I supposedly have comes through -- someone messes with my Mom -- well -- that's unforgivable. And my ex nephew doesn't likely care at all about my forgiveness, anyway, and that's fine.

I hope he finds a happy and good life -- he sure is very bright and talented. But we shall never speak again, despite our closeness over  the first three decades of his life.

So -- nice to go back over time, of course, and I thank the now questionable social media platform for that. Indeed, time keeps flowing like a river, to the sea...and then it's gone forever.