July 14th. Bastille Day in a country Wifey and I are set to visit in a bit over three months, with friends Joelle and Kenny -- cruising down the river from Lyon to Avignon, eating and drinking well. Ought to be grand.
Today is also the birthday of Norman's exotic foreign wife Deb. She's Canadian, and since it always seems to me Canada might as well just be a 51st state, with usually better hockey and an always better health care system, I always joke about it's exotic nature -- like Deb was from Nepal, or something.
Another birthday in our orbit is Edna's daughter Lauren. When I met Wifey in September of '83, she showed me newly developed (ha -- how's that for an ancient reference) photos of holding her best friend's baby girl -- and telling me with disgust how her cool friend had become a mother -- as if she had become a crack whore. Well -- that little baby is 39 today -- mighty close to official middle age.
Also Mike's birthday -- he is 4 days older than I. I always got a kick out of thinking about how 4 days apart a baby was born in Coral Gables, and another in Queens -- one to conservative Midwestern transplants and the other to liberal Bronx natives, and these 2 boys would become close in law school 22 years later. Loni and Chris and Rachel are taking Mike to dinner tonight -- I hope to meet them and share a pre meal celebratory cocktail with him -- probably in that very native city, Coral Gables, where he was born. I'll invoke the memory of his Dad, Ed, who was a true mentor to me, and who I credit with a lot of my career success for the connections he shared with me.
Speaking of great Dads -- July 14, 1982, forty years ago today, was also the worst day of my life. My Dad Hy died in my arms, in the chair of a barbershop in West Delray Beach, as I and some young woman haircutter, punk rock looking, tried to give him CPR.
I've recounted the details of his last day so many times, but one keeps jumping out in my mind and informs my life today. His last meal. At his doctor visit earlier that morning, his hapless internist, Dr. Heller, told him maybe he should try eating more fish, to bring down his cholesterol, in those pre statin days. We went for lunch at Morrison's Cafeteria, and I of course picked the brisket. I don't recall what Mom chose. But Dad made a face and got the fish.
So it turned out his last meal on this earth was something he didn't even like. I always thought that was a final insult -- hell -- condemned murderers get to eat their favorite food before the chair or needle.
If you ever see me at a great steakhouse and I order a salad, or a great Italian place and I order some sauce-less fish -- you will know I have lost my mind. We typically don't know which meal will be our last, and I ain't takin' no chances!
Wifey had on Billy Chrystal's "700 Sundays" the other afternoon, and my life mirrored that far more talented man in many ways. I grew up on LI like him, and his Dad dropped dead when he was young -- 15 in Billy's case. And he talks about how he looked in the mirror the next day and no longer saw a kid -- he saw a man he knew he had to become to take care of his widowed mother.
I was older -- about to turn 21 - but in that instant, I also knew everything would change. Sunny had never handled any of her financial affairs, and I gave myself a crash course in adulting, as the millennials call it, in order to do things for her.
Well, as bad as that day was 40 years ago, yesterday was at the opposite end of the spectrum. D1 and Joey sent multiple videos of the meeting of our grandsons -- big brother Jaco and baby to be named Monday encountering each other.
Wifey had predicted that Jaco would see him and walk away uninterested. But something very different happened with the 2.5 year old. He clearly understood something sacred had been brought into his young life -- he kissed the newborn's head, and stroked his back gently. He played with his hands. I cried with joy at these videos, and later, on a Facetime. Damn colds are keeping Wifey and I away from this holy scene 20 miles away from our house in person, but we've already met the new little man in our hearts.
At the end of "700 Sundays," Crystal recounts his major life events like he's analyzing a poker hand he's been dealt. Each card is something like "Dad dropped dead when I was 15," and then more happily "I married my true life partner and we're together decades later," and, like me, "I have two amazing daughters" and "I have amazing grandchildren."
He looks up at the imaginary dealer, which an English professor would clearly see symbolizes G-d, and announces "I'm holding right here!"
In other words, a man who realizes that with the tragedies and setbacks, he still appreciates greatly the hand he was dealt.
On this anniversary of my life's worst day, I say a resounding Amen.
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