So I went to my first HSA (Honors Students Association) meeting, and met the President, Joe Durnell. Joe was a Midwesterner and he led the meeting with a dry, sardonic wit. Also, he wasn't a good looking guy, but a bunch of pretty coeds seemed to hang around him. I introduced myself after the meeting, and told him I wanted to get involved in the club.
Although I grew up on LI, I always found NY accents grating, particularly the ones of my peer group. Years ago, Wifey and I found an old cassette recording of my buddies and I sitting around my room, chatting. We sounded like we were in a movie --the LI accents so thick.
Joe didn't speak that way. He had elocution. He didn't drop his rs, or turn his "yous" into "yas." I decided there and then that I'd change my pronunciation and delivery. I was 18 and now that the boy was out of Long Island, I was going to take some of the Long Island out of the boy. I wanted to sound like Joe Durnell.
Joe hosted a party at his apartment at the HD. Although he and his roommates were juniors, to me they were grown men. One was Dave, a large, Jimmy Buffett look alike from North Florida. He wore Hawaian shirts and ALWAYS had a drink in his hand. Another roommate was Mike, also a Midwesterner. Mike had a beard, was a music engineering major, and wrote a wine review article for the UM paper, "Mike's Mondo Vino." These were wordly men. I wanted to be like them.
The Honors Students at UM those days were truly a talented bunch. Most were attracted there by scholarships, or by the world class Marine Science program. They were students who could have gone to the likes of Duke, or even lesser Ivy League schools (in those days, Penn was pretty easy to get into. No one wanted to go to the crappy Philly neighborhood. I laugh, now, to hear that Penn marketed themselves so well, it's a "hot school.").
Looking back, the talent level was high. One friend of Joe and his roommates was Tom Kodadek. Tom was a Marine Bio major, who went on to get a doctorate at Stanford, I think. Last week, he was in the news as the discoverer of a new test to detect Alzheimer's Disease.
The party was great. Joe and his roommates had a killer stereo, and blasted Ramones songs. Everyone seemed to know a dance to "Sheena is a Punk Rocker." Dave kept slipping Jimmy Buffet songs onto the record player. Late in the night, someone had a guitar, and all sang along to Neil Young's "Rust Never Sleeps."
We were all young Baby Boomers. Jimmy Carter had just been voted out, and Reagan was the new sheriff. The Vietnam War had ended 4 years before. We were required to register for the Draft, but no one was concerned he'd have to really serve, unless he joined the military to pay for tuition. The hostages had been released by Iran.
I met an Israeli girl, Dalit, at the party. We talked about Reagan. I told her I had voted for John Anderson, that Reagan was a reactionary. Dalit told me I had it all wrong, that under Carter, America had become a laughing stock. It used to be that an American passport brought awe to someone seeing it, she said. That would return with Reagan. Wow, I thought --a Jewish Republican! I had never met one. I had so much to learn...
I hung with Joe, and over the coming weeks, he adopted me as a protege. I haven't spoken to him in nearly 30 years, and I still owe him a debt of gratitude. He included me in meetings, and then gave me a great gift. He selected me to go to Atlanta, to a NCHC convention. The NCHC was a national group of Honors PRograms.
Joe picked another freshman, Janet, who he was dating. The three of us had a blast in Atlanta, a place I'd never been. I remember a pub near Emory (the host school) named Manuels. Joe was on national committees, and I admired how he handled himself. Coming from Miami, a university not known, in 1979, for academics, we were a curiosity. I remember one young lady from LSU, a gorgeous blonde southern belle, asking me if I studied underwater basketweaving. I decided I did NOT want to copy a southern accent --they all reminded me of Gomer Pyle. But the LSU girl was extremely hot.
Joe hung with Janet, and I palled around with the LSU girl. I felt like Joe's little brother. He knew Atlanta well, from childhood visits, and led us up the elevators of the PeachTree Hotel. We were real grown ups...
Back in Coral Gables, there were more parties at he HD. I hung there every week. I met two fellows who lived in apartment Z. They were both names Mark, and so became known as the "Marks Brothers/" They were also known as Cheech and Chong for their prodigious marijuana use. Mark T was from New Castle, Indiana, and wanted to become a vet. Mark B was from Cincinnatti, and was pre med. Both spoke like surfers. Years later, when I saw Sean Penn playing Jeff Spicoli, I was convinced he took the character from the Marks Brothers.
"Dave, DUDE! You need to smoke more, especially when you fly in an airplane. It's always a good idea to be a little higher than the contraption you're flying in."
The Marks Brothers other 2 roommates were nerdy guys, who rumor had it were gay.
Depite his drug use, Mark B somehow got into med school in Ohio (after his father took care of a possession charge) and became a leading radiologist at a nationally known medical center. Mark T --whereabouts unknown.
Meanwhile, I was living in the Towers, with a nice fellow named Ahmjed, from Karachi, Pakistan. We taught each other about Islam and the Secular Humanist form of Reform Judaism I knew. Ahmhjed was a nice fellow, but he never wanted to drink or chase coeds...
In January, when my Spring semester started, I got a call from Barbara Clark, the Honors Program's administrator. There was an opening in the HD! Barbara, sort of the mother of the program, knew all that went on. "I'm not sure you want to move, Dave. The opening is in Apartment Z --with the Marks Brothers."
I accepted, packed up my 2 suitcases, said goodbye to Ahmjed, who took the news graciously (he did everything graciously) and walked across campus . Z was on the third floor. I opened the door, and, just like a Cheech and Chong movie, a cloud of week smoke came out.
Mark and Mark were on the brown naugehide sofa, totally stoned. It was 10 am on a weekday. Pink Floys's "The Wall" was blasting. Over the rest of the semester, they played "The Wall", no kidding, hundreds of times.
"Hey, you're the nice Jewish Dude from NY, right?. Joe Durnell's buddy? Well, welcome, young Dude."
I was home.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Honors Dorm
So Wifey thinks I should write a book. Today, in the shower, the idea of its subject came to me. But, since I'm too lazy and undiscliplined, I'm going to write it in installments. Sort of like Dickens did, but without his talent.
Today is the first one. I'll go back to it from time to time. It's called "The Honors Dorm."
A confederation of events has compelled me to write. First, more than any place I lived, my old apartment at U Miami was significant to me in my formative years. And, as I visited yesterday and confirmed --it no longer exists. The old concrete and block three story building, built after WW II, is just a pile of rubble. Actually, not even that --they've cleared the rubble to a smooth, graded, ready to build empty lot.
Third, my youngest, D2, is precisely the age I was when I moved into the HD. She's a second semester freshman in college, as I was in January 1980. I gow older and don't know how long my memory will be relatively solid.
So I begin today.
Chapter One: What Brought Me There? I was a pretty good student at MacArthur High in Levittown, LI. As my friend Ken's wife Joelle points out, being good at MacArthur, the working class capital of LI, where most of the kids were children of NYC cops, firemen, salesmen, and factory guys, was like being tall among midgets. Yes, Joelle, who went to Stuyvesant High in the City, and then to Ivy League colleges, is an educational snob. She's also right.
Meanwhile, my mother had decided that the family should move to Florida. She was 58 and my father was 59. He had a profit share pension coming to him with a value of about $250K. My folks had other savings, and the prospect of Social Security beginning when my Dad turned 62. They figured the money they got from our split level on the 1/6 acre lot would pay for a Florida condo. And then came the Winter of '77.
It was very cold, and snowed a lot. My mother rarely left the house. She told my father the HAD to move. Coming from a long line of Jewish husbands, he knew that if mama ain't happy, ain't no one in the house happy. He agreed, especially after my mother went to visit HER mother in Miami Beach to move her to a nursing home, and came home to show my father a contract she signed to buy a condo in Delray Beach.
My mother had NEVER done something like that before. My Dad knew she meant business...
So, my father set about trying to get me to apply to U Miami. Ha! No way. I was going to go to Stony Brook, or Hofstra, or one of the other SUNY schools. Miami was "SunTan U," and I wasn't going there.
Then, my father met a young doctor, the son of one of hus customers, and the fellow had received his undergraduate training at UM, in the Honors Program, and raved about it. I listened, a little. And then I applied.
And then came the scholarship offer. Since I was in the top 10% of my class, and had a 1200 SAT, they offered me a "Presidential Scholarship," which covered 1/2 tuition. In 1979, that was worth $1200 per year! More importantly, my 17 year old ego was stroked. Even though I never visited, I committed to go to UM, and join the entering Honors Program in the Fall of 1979.
When I arrived, though, the Honors Dorm, Building 22, was full. I was placed on a waiting list.
But I joined the Honors Students Association (HSA) and met my life's first mentor, other than my father. I met Joe Durnell.
Today is the first one. I'll go back to it from time to time. It's called "The Honors Dorm."
A confederation of events has compelled me to write. First, more than any place I lived, my old apartment at U Miami was significant to me in my formative years. And, as I visited yesterday and confirmed --it no longer exists. The old concrete and block three story building, built after WW II, is just a pile of rubble. Actually, not even that --they've cleared the rubble to a smooth, graded, ready to build empty lot.
Third, my youngest, D2, is precisely the age I was when I moved into the HD. She's a second semester freshman in college, as I was in January 1980. I gow older and don't know how long my memory will be relatively solid.
So I begin today.
Chapter One: What Brought Me There? I was a pretty good student at MacArthur High in Levittown, LI. As my friend Ken's wife Joelle points out, being good at MacArthur, the working class capital of LI, where most of the kids were children of NYC cops, firemen, salesmen, and factory guys, was like being tall among midgets. Yes, Joelle, who went to Stuyvesant High in the City, and then to Ivy League colleges, is an educational snob. She's also right.
Meanwhile, my mother had decided that the family should move to Florida. She was 58 and my father was 59. He had a profit share pension coming to him with a value of about $250K. My folks had other savings, and the prospect of Social Security beginning when my Dad turned 62. They figured the money they got from our split level on the 1/6 acre lot would pay for a Florida condo. And then came the Winter of '77.
It was very cold, and snowed a lot. My mother rarely left the house. She told my father the HAD to move. Coming from a long line of Jewish husbands, he knew that if mama ain't happy, ain't no one in the house happy. He agreed, especially after my mother went to visit HER mother in Miami Beach to move her to a nursing home, and came home to show my father a contract she signed to buy a condo in Delray Beach.
My mother had NEVER done something like that before. My Dad knew she meant business...
So, my father set about trying to get me to apply to U Miami. Ha! No way. I was going to go to Stony Brook, or Hofstra, or one of the other SUNY schools. Miami was "SunTan U," and I wasn't going there.
Then, my father met a young doctor, the son of one of hus customers, and the fellow had received his undergraduate training at UM, in the Honors Program, and raved about it. I listened, a little. And then I applied.
And then came the scholarship offer. Since I was in the top 10% of my class, and had a 1200 SAT, they offered me a "Presidential Scholarship," which covered 1/2 tuition. In 1979, that was worth $1200 per year! More importantly, my 17 year old ego was stroked. Even though I never visited, I committed to go to UM, and join the entering Honors Program in the Fall of 1979.
When I arrived, though, the Honors Dorm, Building 22, was full. I was placed on a waiting list.
But I joined the Honors Students Association (HSA) and met my life's first mentor, other than my father. I met Joe Durnell.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Long Way Home
So Thursday evening, I was pulling out of my office garage, and my loyal friend and former secretary Mirta called, to tell me about a major traffic tie up on US 1. Typically, I'd then switch to Bayshore Drive through the Grove, but I decided to head West instead.
I took the long way home.
Once you pass the I-95 overpass, you're in Little Havana. That's a misnomer now, as Little Havana isn't very Cuban anymore. Most of the residents are from Central or South America.
Some of the old houses, circa 1920s and 30s, are well preserved. I wondered who lived in them. Many of the structures, though, are ugly concrete 2 story apartment buildings, with "For Rent" signs and "No Parking" signs the only adornments.
It was a cool night, and I had my windows and sun roof opened, so I heard conversations as people walked home. I heard ZERO English. It's funny, and one of the things I love about Miami --you really can travel to a foreign country by just driving a few blocks away from your usual "American" neighborhoods.
As I continued West on SW 8th Street, also US 41, the neighborhood turned to hundreds of "no tell motels." They were all well lit and seemingly in good repair. I guess there is no shortage of demand for people seeking mini vacations from their spouses...
As if on cue, my XM classic rock station played Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below." I chuckled to myself. People are the same in Detroit as they are in Miami, although Seger's song here would translate to "Fuego Uterino."
I drove North on SW 27th Avenue to Flagler, and passed Miami High. They're building an enormous extension to the old building, it looks like. I was only inside once, when my 1L "Equity Playhouse" used the old theatre there for their show lampooning the professors. I remember the gorgeous old space. I hope they preserve it...
I continued West, and the traffic tie ups there took me through formerly Jewish neighborhoods which are now COMPLETELY Latin. Some old delis I recall from my first days in Miami 32 years ago are now serving only lechon...
I made my way to the Palmetto, and then south, towards our little pocket of gringo-hood.
The Herald reported last week that, according to the latest census, Broward is becoming exactly like Miami Dade, demographically. I saw it myself at Dr. Barry's boy Josh's holiday show --my rough estimate of his middle school, in Pembroke Pines, was that it was more than 50% Latin families.
I happen to think this is cool. My Levittown, LI upbringing was so limited. All my friends were Irish, Italian, or Jews. "White Ethnic NY" as the demographers call it. I didn't meet a black person until my freshman college year, and the only Spanish speaking kid I met was a Puerto Rican foster child named Ralph Ramirez. He had a big afro...
In South Florida, there's more variety. And as much as I love a good pastrami sandwich, sometimes the lechon is tastier...
I took the long way home.
Once you pass the I-95 overpass, you're in Little Havana. That's a misnomer now, as Little Havana isn't very Cuban anymore. Most of the residents are from Central or South America.
Some of the old houses, circa 1920s and 30s, are well preserved. I wondered who lived in them. Many of the structures, though, are ugly concrete 2 story apartment buildings, with "For Rent" signs and "No Parking" signs the only adornments.
It was a cool night, and I had my windows and sun roof opened, so I heard conversations as people walked home. I heard ZERO English. It's funny, and one of the things I love about Miami --you really can travel to a foreign country by just driving a few blocks away from your usual "American" neighborhoods.
As I continued West on SW 8th Street, also US 41, the neighborhood turned to hundreds of "no tell motels." They were all well lit and seemingly in good repair. I guess there is no shortage of demand for people seeking mini vacations from their spouses...
As if on cue, my XM classic rock station played Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below." I chuckled to myself. People are the same in Detroit as they are in Miami, although Seger's song here would translate to "Fuego Uterino."
I drove North on SW 27th Avenue to Flagler, and passed Miami High. They're building an enormous extension to the old building, it looks like. I was only inside once, when my 1L "Equity Playhouse" used the old theatre there for their show lampooning the professors. I remember the gorgeous old space. I hope they preserve it...
I continued West, and the traffic tie ups there took me through formerly Jewish neighborhoods which are now COMPLETELY Latin. Some old delis I recall from my first days in Miami 32 years ago are now serving only lechon...
I made my way to the Palmetto, and then south, towards our little pocket of gringo-hood.
The Herald reported last week that, according to the latest census, Broward is becoming exactly like Miami Dade, demographically. I saw it myself at Dr. Barry's boy Josh's holiday show --my rough estimate of his middle school, in Pembroke Pines, was that it was more than 50% Latin families.
I happen to think this is cool. My Levittown, LI upbringing was so limited. All my friends were Irish, Italian, or Jews. "White Ethnic NY" as the demographers call it. I didn't meet a black person until my freshman college year, and the only Spanish speaking kid I met was a Puerto Rican foster child named Ralph Ramirez. He had a big afro...
In South Florida, there's more variety. And as much as I love a good pastrami sandwich, sometimes the lechon is tastier...
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Persecution
Oh, the PI business. It's provided a wonderful living for my family, but the more I really look into cases and what they mean (particularly medical malpractice ones), the more I think the Republicans are right about tort reform...
Yesterday I attended the deposition of Dr. Barry's chief accuser, a nebbish academic doctor up in North Carolina.
Dr. Barry handled a case 5 years ago, last Christmas. A ghetto Mom in Lauderdale spilled boiling water on her baby, and took the baby to a Broward hospital. The staff at the Broward hospital gave poor care, as many Broward hospitals are wont to do. They inserted a line into the child's vein, and turfed the kid to Barry's hospital.
Probably from the bad line insertion, the child developed an infection and a weird vessell disorder. Barry asked a surgeon to look at the boy's leg. The surgeon said it would be fine. That was all Barry was required to do. It would have killed the child, quite literally.
Barry, relying on his years of experience (he once told me a kid playing video games never gets to stay in the ICU) knew something wasn't right. So he asked for a different surgeon to evaluate the child. This one knew if he didn't operate, the vessel in the child's leg would burst, and the toddler would become one less inner city denizen of Fort Lauderdale...
The surgery was done, and the life was saved, thanks to Dr. Barry. So the mother dropped to her knees, praised Jesus (it never gets old when my Black clients do this) and then hugged Barry, to thank him for saving the life of the child HER neglect nearly killed.
Ha! Not so fast! She hired a Black Muslim lawyer from a firm in West Palm (the guy's voice is an exact copy of the Johnny Cochran character from "Seinfeld") and sued everyone who saw the boy. The Broward hospital and its doctors already settled for a moderate sum.
And so the case continues. Dr. Barry will win at trial, I believe, although the counsel his employer hired is a heavyweight only literally, not as a lawyer. (Why are my friends and I so juvenile and cruel that fat girl jokes never get old?).
The case will probably settle, although Dr. Barry was already through the ringer. The State Health Department selected his case randomly as one to investigate, and Dr. Barry's employer had to hire another lawyer (this one also a little zaftig, but also a legal heavyweight) to get the claim dismissed.
Also, any money Dr. Barry's Department pays to settle will come out of their budget, where it would have been used to pay for, quite literally, more lifesaving equipment for other kids, and maybe even another doctor in the overworked ICU.
Dr. Barry practiced good medicine, not defensive medicine, with this child. Ironically, had he played the case by the defensive medicine book, and only called the one surgeon in, the boy would be gone.
The nebbish expert in North Carolina has already been paid over $15 thousand dollars by the Muslim lawyer. To a back country hack like him, that's serious scratch. Hence, his motivation for testifying against Barry.
I tell the girls all the time that life isn't fair. I'm just thrilled neither of them wants to become a physician...
Yesterday I attended the deposition of Dr. Barry's chief accuser, a nebbish academic doctor up in North Carolina.
Dr. Barry handled a case 5 years ago, last Christmas. A ghetto Mom in Lauderdale spilled boiling water on her baby, and took the baby to a Broward hospital. The staff at the Broward hospital gave poor care, as many Broward hospitals are wont to do. They inserted a line into the child's vein, and turfed the kid to Barry's hospital.
Probably from the bad line insertion, the child developed an infection and a weird vessell disorder. Barry asked a surgeon to look at the boy's leg. The surgeon said it would be fine. That was all Barry was required to do. It would have killed the child, quite literally.
Barry, relying on his years of experience (he once told me a kid playing video games never gets to stay in the ICU) knew something wasn't right. So he asked for a different surgeon to evaluate the child. This one knew if he didn't operate, the vessel in the child's leg would burst, and the toddler would become one less inner city denizen of Fort Lauderdale...
The surgery was done, and the life was saved, thanks to Dr. Barry. So the mother dropped to her knees, praised Jesus (it never gets old when my Black clients do this) and then hugged Barry, to thank him for saving the life of the child HER neglect nearly killed.
Ha! Not so fast! She hired a Black Muslim lawyer from a firm in West Palm (the guy's voice is an exact copy of the Johnny Cochran character from "Seinfeld") and sued everyone who saw the boy. The Broward hospital and its doctors already settled for a moderate sum.
And so the case continues. Dr. Barry will win at trial, I believe, although the counsel his employer hired is a heavyweight only literally, not as a lawyer. (Why are my friends and I so juvenile and cruel that fat girl jokes never get old?).
The case will probably settle, although Dr. Barry was already through the ringer. The State Health Department selected his case randomly as one to investigate, and Dr. Barry's employer had to hire another lawyer (this one also a little zaftig, but also a legal heavyweight) to get the claim dismissed.
Also, any money Dr. Barry's Department pays to settle will come out of their budget, where it would have been used to pay for, quite literally, more lifesaving equipment for other kids, and maybe even another doctor in the overworked ICU.
Dr. Barry practiced good medicine, not defensive medicine, with this child. Ironically, had he played the case by the defensive medicine book, and only called the one surgeon in, the boy would be gone.
The nebbish expert in North Carolina has already been paid over $15 thousand dollars by the Muslim lawyer. To a back country hack like him, that's serious scratch. Hence, his motivation for testifying against Barry.
I tell the girls all the time that life isn't fair. I'm just thrilled neither of them wants to become a physician...
Monday, January 3, 2011
Students Come, Students Go...
Early on in our careers as parents, Wifey and I agreed that we wanted to be the house where our kids always wanted to bring friends. Neither of us was particularly fastidious, and neigher cared that much for the sanctity of our possessions, so it was an easy thing to do.
I'm proud to report we've succeeded. Over the years, we've been privileged to grow close to many of the Ds' friends, and it continues to this day.
D2 has had her friend Ali staying over for the past several nights. Ali is a sweetheart --grew up on LI, and chose to go to college at UF. She and D2 are sorority sisters. Last night we got the chance to talk, and shared our views on a variety of topics over some take out chicken. It was gratifying to me to see the quality of LI kids is still so high.
Even though D1 lives in her own apartment now, our house is still her home base, and we saw several of her friends over the break. Brilliant Hannah, the Stanford senior was here, and she and D1 made plans for D1 to visit her in SF later in January.
Hannah is the kind of brilliant young woman who never shows it. She has a hippie vibe to her, and is pretty taciturn, but then with questioning you find out she has amazingly high grades in tough Stanford classes...
We're so blessed with the Ds, but at the top of the list is their choice of friends. They've always chosen high quality people, and savored their relationships with them.
It's our treat to have these impressive kids visit. Wifey and I love it.
In the anti-blessing department: D2 attended a charity walk/run yesterday, in honor of a friend who was killed in a car crash in Gainesville in October. The event was to raise funds for a scholarship in Andrew Parker's memory, for a Palmetto Bay student headed to UF.
I just read a line in the Mark Twain autobiography my sister Sue bought me that is right on point. Twain was given the news that his beloved 24 year old daughter died of meningitis while he was in Europe. He noted that it was one of the great mysteries of mankind that a parent could be hit by that kind of thunderstrike and still be able to live on.
And so it is for Andrew's folks.
Meanwhile, Wifey and I savor our Ds, and their friends. If a house is happier than when energetic young folks stay in it, laughing and talking and planning --I can't imagine it.
I'm proud to report we've succeeded. Over the years, we've been privileged to grow close to many of the Ds' friends, and it continues to this day.
D2 has had her friend Ali staying over for the past several nights. Ali is a sweetheart --grew up on LI, and chose to go to college at UF. She and D2 are sorority sisters. Last night we got the chance to talk, and shared our views on a variety of topics over some take out chicken. It was gratifying to me to see the quality of LI kids is still so high.
Even though D1 lives in her own apartment now, our house is still her home base, and we saw several of her friends over the break. Brilliant Hannah, the Stanford senior was here, and she and D1 made plans for D1 to visit her in SF later in January.
Hannah is the kind of brilliant young woman who never shows it. She has a hippie vibe to her, and is pretty taciturn, but then with questioning you find out she has amazingly high grades in tough Stanford classes...
We're so blessed with the Ds, but at the top of the list is their choice of friends. They've always chosen high quality people, and savored their relationships with them.
It's our treat to have these impressive kids visit. Wifey and I love it.
In the anti-blessing department: D2 attended a charity walk/run yesterday, in honor of a friend who was killed in a car crash in Gainesville in October. The event was to raise funds for a scholarship in Andrew Parker's memory, for a Palmetto Bay student headed to UF.
I just read a line in the Mark Twain autobiography my sister Sue bought me that is right on point. Twain was given the news that his beloved 24 year old daughter died of meningitis while he was in Europe. He noted that it was one of the great mysteries of mankind that a parent could be hit by that kind of thunderstrike and still be able to live on.
And so it is for Andrew's folks.
Meanwhile, Wifey and I savor our Ds, and their friends. If a house is happier than when energetic young folks stay in it, laughing and talking and planning --I can't imagine it.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Almost 1/4 Century
Tomorrow Wifey and I will celebrate our 24th wedding anniversary. The day will also mark our family's holiday season, which begins with Chanukah (not too big a deal since the Ds have grown), Christmas Day/Wifey's birthday (Chinese food and a movie per Wifey's wishes, and a Xmas party at Arnald and Cathay's) and New Year's Eve (burning question each year for the past few: can Wifey and I stay up until midnight? This year we did, barely).
We decided to get married over Winter break because it made travel plans easier for family and friends to make it to Miami then. Where have the years gone?
Wifey and I wanted a simple luncheon outside as our wedding. We thought about Vizcaya or Matheson Hammock. My mother in law would have none of that. Wifey was the only child of Holocaust Survivors, and Rachel was having a big, Saturday night party. There's really no way to win when a relative plays the Holocaust card, and, the second mortgage my in laws took out to pay for the wedding gave them tremendous value in the guilt department years later when we had a dispute about whether Wifey and I owed them a waterfront condo. But that's another hilarious tale...
So it was to be a Saturday night at a big hotel. We checked several, but couldn't use them. Another thing: my mother in law insisted the meal be kosher. Over 150 guests attended, and precisely one of them kept kosher: my mother in law's brother Alter, from Boro Park. I had never met him, but he was my mother in law's closest relative (the rest had been killed in, that's right, the Holocaust, so the party was directed a certain way.
We picked the Hyatt Downtown, for their kosher kitchen, and the party was planned. After our Rabbi backed out at the last minute, to take a free trip to Israel, we were forced to find a relief rabbi. The original rabbi, who I'll call MArk Kram, since that's his name, lured Wifey and I into his Reform World with platitudes about how important he was going to be in our lives, etc... He bolted for the free trip like the old man first in line at Wolfie's on free rye bread night.
Fortunately, Dr. Eric's Mom Norma found a nice fellow named Lipson, and he acquitted himself nicely. The ceremony was lovely, punctuated by my father in law's clumsiness taking down several flower arrangements as he walked the aisle, and my mother in law grabbing Wifey for the post ceremony first kiss, before I could.
The dinner party was tons of fun. Wifey and I chose the band, Harry Frank and his combo, precisely because they were traditional, Borscht Belt quality. Harry was charming and fun, and they played our song, Sam Cooke's "You Send Me."
A major highlight was our friend Elizabeth's then husband, the rock singer Pat Travers. After 4 or 10 drinks, he took the stage and played some great rock and roll. Wifey's friend Eileen, even drunker, decided to join him, and sang "Lont Tall Sally" while Pat and the band played "Good Lovin'" It made for a memorable performance.
I danced with my mother, and remember thinking how old she was --a fragile old lady of 67. I wouldn't have dreamed she'd still be here, at nearly 91, and now really, really, really old. I'm talking ancient.
Wifey had 4 bridesmaids. She still keeps in touch with 2 of them. He best friend, Edna, couldn't make the trip from Atlanta because she was 9 months pregnant with her second daughter. Edna is still angry we didn't pick a later date...
I had 7 groomsmen. I'm still close with 4 of them: Drs. Eric and Barry, and Mike and Jeff. The other 3 have moved on and away from me.
After the party ended, after midnight, Wifey and I went up to our suite. We opened another bottle of champagne, got undressed, and then got into bed. We then engaged in the traditional first activity of a new husband and wife following a Jewish wedding. We opened the envelopes to see what gifts we received.
My mother's family was amazingly cheap. One aunt, my mother's only surviving sibling, brought several daughters and her husband and gave a check in the amount of $25, as I recall. Wifey's family and her parents' friends were much more generous.
Still, the money was in the thousands, and we decided to pay off one of my law school loans --one that bore a high interest rate.
We left the next day for our honeymoon in Jamaica. It was January, and the prices were high, and we could only afford to stay for 4 nights, as I recall. We had a blast --walking up Dunn's River Falls, taking a lazy boat down the Martha Brae River, where little boys offered speefs the size of footballs for sale, and getting lost in Falmouth in a rental car, where it took me 5 tries to extricate myself from a roundabout, as little Jamaican boys peed themselves watching me.
Wifey and I returned to our new life together, in our 1400 square foot house on SW 125 Terrace, a street with neighbors so quirky that David Lynch could have made a movie about them. Wifey worked for a flower company, selling cut flowers all over the country. I was a one year old lawyer, learning how to defend insurance companies on my $29k/ year salary.
We laughed a lot and were immeasurably happy. We savored our friends. We hosted parties. The Canes won national championships. Life was grand.
Of course, we had no idea what real happiness was, until a year and a half later, when D1 joined the band. We moved to a bigger house, on SW 136 Terrace, with less quirky neighbors (excluding the family of a notorious teenaged pedophile who was in prison, and targeted young girls at his church, and caused me to think we'd have to move before his family fled to the Netherlands following a controversial acquittal).
Then, in 1992, D2 joined the band, in time to live through Hurricane Andrew, and our house being, as D1 said, "misstroyed" around us.
It's funny. Wifey and I helped write our wedding vows, and we borrowed from Bob Dylan, promising to be each other's shelter from the storms of life. We didn't imagine we'd quite literally have to do it.
And so, tomorrow night, Wifey and I and the Ds will gather at Christy's in Coral Gables, to remember and celebrate. Maybe next year, if we're blessed to he around for number 25, we'll have a big party, or take a big trip.
All I know is, it's been a hell of a ride, and, looking back, the best night of my life.
She still sends me...
We decided to get married over Winter break because it made travel plans easier for family and friends to make it to Miami then. Where have the years gone?
Wifey and I wanted a simple luncheon outside as our wedding. We thought about Vizcaya or Matheson Hammock. My mother in law would have none of that. Wifey was the only child of Holocaust Survivors, and Rachel was having a big, Saturday night party. There's really no way to win when a relative plays the Holocaust card, and, the second mortgage my in laws took out to pay for the wedding gave them tremendous value in the guilt department years later when we had a dispute about whether Wifey and I owed them a waterfront condo. But that's another hilarious tale...
So it was to be a Saturday night at a big hotel. We checked several, but couldn't use them. Another thing: my mother in law insisted the meal be kosher. Over 150 guests attended, and precisely one of them kept kosher: my mother in law's brother Alter, from Boro Park. I had never met him, but he was my mother in law's closest relative (the rest had been killed in, that's right, the Holocaust, so the party was directed a certain way.
We picked the Hyatt Downtown, for their kosher kitchen, and the party was planned. After our Rabbi backed out at the last minute, to take a free trip to Israel, we were forced to find a relief rabbi. The original rabbi, who I'll call MArk Kram, since that's his name, lured Wifey and I into his Reform World with platitudes about how important he was going to be in our lives, etc... He bolted for the free trip like the old man first in line at Wolfie's on free rye bread night.
Fortunately, Dr. Eric's Mom Norma found a nice fellow named Lipson, and he acquitted himself nicely. The ceremony was lovely, punctuated by my father in law's clumsiness taking down several flower arrangements as he walked the aisle, and my mother in law grabbing Wifey for the post ceremony first kiss, before I could.
The dinner party was tons of fun. Wifey and I chose the band, Harry Frank and his combo, precisely because they were traditional, Borscht Belt quality. Harry was charming and fun, and they played our song, Sam Cooke's "You Send Me."
A major highlight was our friend Elizabeth's then husband, the rock singer Pat Travers. After 4 or 10 drinks, he took the stage and played some great rock and roll. Wifey's friend Eileen, even drunker, decided to join him, and sang "Lont Tall Sally" while Pat and the band played "Good Lovin'" It made for a memorable performance.
I danced with my mother, and remember thinking how old she was --a fragile old lady of 67. I wouldn't have dreamed she'd still be here, at nearly 91, and now really, really, really old. I'm talking ancient.
Wifey had 4 bridesmaids. She still keeps in touch with 2 of them. He best friend, Edna, couldn't make the trip from Atlanta because she was 9 months pregnant with her second daughter. Edna is still angry we didn't pick a later date...
I had 7 groomsmen. I'm still close with 4 of them: Drs. Eric and Barry, and Mike and Jeff. The other 3 have moved on and away from me.
After the party ended, after midnight, Wifey and I went up to our suite. We opened another bottle of champagne, got undressed, and then got into bed. We then engaged in the traditional first activity of a new husband and wife following a Jewish wedding. We opened the envelopes to see what gifts we received.
My mother's family was amazingly cheap. One aunt, my mother's only surviving sibling, brought several daughters and her husband and gave a check in the amount of $25, as I recall. Wifey's family and her parents' friends were much more generous.
Still, the money was in the thousands, and we decided to pay off one of my law school loans --one that bore a high interest rate.
We left the next day for our honeymoon in Jamaica. It was January, and the prices were high, and we could only afford to stay for 4 nights, as I recall. We had a blast --walking up Dunn's River Falls, taking a lazy boat down the Martha Brae River, where little boys offered speefs the size of footballs for sale, and getting lost in Falmouth in a rental car, where it took me 5 tries to extricate myself from a roundabout, as little Jamaican boys peed themselves watching me.
Wifey and I returned to our new life together, in our 1400 square foot house on SW 125 Terrace, a street with neighbors so quirky that David Lynch could have made a movie about them. Wifey worked for a flower company, selling cut flowers all over the country. I was a one year old lawyer, learning how to defend insurance companies on my $29k/ year salary.
We laughed a lot and were immeasurably happy. We savored our friends. We hosted parties. The Canes won national championships. Life was grand.
Of course, we had no idea what real happiness was, until a year and a half later, when D1 joined the band. We moved to a bigger house, on SW 136 Terrace, with less quirky neighbors (excluding the family of a notorious teenaged pedophile who was in prison, and targeted young girls at his church, and caused me to think we'd have to move before his family fled to the Netherlands following a controversial acquittal).
Then, in 1992, D2 joined the band, in time to live through Hurricane Andrew, and our house being, as D1 said, "misstroyed" around us.
It's funny. Wifey and I helped write our wedding vows, and we borrowed from Bob Dylan, promising to be each other's shelter from the storms of life. We didn't imagine we'd quite literally have to do it.
And so, tomorrow night, Wifey and I and the Ds will gather at Christy's in Coral Gables, to remember and celebrate. Maybe next year, if we're blessed to he around for number 25, we'll have a big party, or take a big trip.
All I know is, it's been a hell of a ride, and, looking back, the best night of my life.
She still sends me...
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Out With the Old...
And so goodbye, 2010. At least as far as our beloved Canes are concerned, my friend Norman said it best: "Kish mein tuches..."
I had a great bunch of guys over to watch our team's match against our historical rival, Notre Dame. Dr. Dave brought delicious wings, and Norman had given me enough beer for the whole football team. They'd have played better if they drank it. The game was over by the 2nd quarter.
Still, we sat in my football room, Jeff, Dr. Barry and his boys, Dr. Vince, Norman and his fine son, the budding professor, neighbor Garrett, and friend/neighbor Pat and his boy Patrick (Gator fans, both, but who showed great class and restraint as the Canes crumbled).
We went through 7 pizzas, delivered by my Palestinian pizza guy, and joked about the Halal pepperoni.
I adore my Ds and Wifey, but it's such a great treat for me to be surrounded by only men once in awhile, and yesterday was one of those special afternoons...
After the game ended, Wifey returned from a visit to her parents' house, with tales of a visit to a seedy gambling hall and a diner (the Fountain) that had just reopened after a Health Department closure... Her parents loved the day. I loved not being a part of their day...
Dr. Barry and his family came back over after dinner at Captain's Tavern, and neighbor/friend Diane came by for a New Year's toast on the way to dinner with HER son.
D1 and D2 and D2's friend flitted in and out, on their way to more exciting New Year's events. D1 and some friends were headed over to Fox's, my favorite tavern, where, for the second year, a bunch of the 20 somethings paid to take over the place. In anticipation, I was there Wednesday, and heavily tipped the trrific waiter Nelson. I look forward to hearing about D1's night.
Dr. Barry and his boys Scott and Josh dropped D2 and her friend Ali at THEIR party. The girls looked gorgeous in their black dresses, prompting Dr. Barry to reflect on the security of being a father to sons, not daughters...
As I write, I have begun 2011 in my favorite way --with coffee and the Herald on my front porch, with Wifey upstairs watching old movies, and the lovely quiet of a Pinecrest weekend morning.
I called my ancient Mom, and she was chipper and excited and out of her mind. It took me 5 minutes to tell her I was visiting on Tuesday, not Thursday, but that's ok. She'll turn 91 in April, and she's mostly happy and completely thrilled to have lasted so long...
We're due to drive up to Miami Lakes later, to see Wifey's cousins, who are visiting from LI. They're staying in Broward, and so we settled on the Lakes as an easy half way point. We can compare tales of dealing with 80 something Holocaust Survivors...
I have made firm resolutions about 2011. I plan to, as much as possible, minimize the annoying and bad, and maximize the happy and good.
I'll see in 7 months if my Canes, under their new coach, abide...
I had a great bunch of guys over to watch our team's match against our historical rival, Notre Dame. Dr. Dave brought delicious wings, and Norman had given me enough beer for the whole football team. They'd have played better if they drank it. The game was over by the 2nd quarter.
Still, we sat in my football room, Jeff, Dr. Barry and his boys, Dr. Vince, Norman and his fine son, the budding professor, neighbor Garrett, and friend/neighbor Pat and his boy Patrick (Gator fans, both, but who showed great class and restraint as the Canes crumbled).
We went through 7 pizzas, delivered by my Palestinian pizza guy, and joked about the Halal pepperoni.
I adore my Ds and Wifey, but it's such a great treat for me to be surrounded by only men once in awhile, and yesterday was one of those special afternoons...
After the game ended, Wifey returned from a visit to her parents' house, with tales of a visit to a seedy gambling hall and a diner (the Fountain) that had just reopened after a Health Department closure... Her parents loved the day. I loved not being a part of their day...
Dr. Barry and his family came back over after dinner at Captain's Tavern, and neighbor/friend Diane came by for a New Year's toast on the way to dinner with HER son.
D1 and D2 and D2's friend flitted in and out, on their way to more exciting New Year's events. D1 and some friends were headed over to Fox's, my favorite tavern, where, for the second year, a bunch of the 20 somethings paid to take over the place. In anticipation, I was there Wednesday, and heavily tipped the trrific waiter Nelson. I look forward to hearing about D1's night.
Dr. Barry and his boys Scott and Josh dropped D2 and her friend Ali at THEIR party. The girls looked gorgeous in their black dresses, prompting Dr. Barry to reflect on the security of being a father to sons, not daughters...
As I write, I have begun 2011 in my favorite way --with coffee and the Herald on my front porch, with Wifey upstairs watching old movies, and the lovely quiet of a Pinecrest weekend morning.
I called my ancient Mom, and she was chipper and excited and out of her mind. It took me 5 minutes to tell her I was visiting on Tuesday, not Thursday, but that's ok. She'll turn 91 in April, and she's mostly happy and completely thrilled to have lasted so long...
We're due to drive up to Miami Lakes later, to see Wifey's cousins, who are visiting from LI. They're staying in Broward, and so we settled on the Lakes as an easy half way point. We can compare tales of dealing with 80 something Holocaust Survivors...
I have made firm resolutions about 2011. I plan to, as much as possible, minimize the annoying and bad, and maximize the happy and good.
I'll see in 7 months if my Canes, under their new coach, abide...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)