Big whopping "Zero" makes this birthday special!

Another birthday and it's time to celebrate.

There are birthdays and then there are birthdays! This one comes complete with a big whopping "zero" to remind me that time and tide wait for no man.

With that in mind I've spent the last year out and about -- Boston and New York, Vegas and Salt Lake City; Yellowstone National Park and the Grand Tetons, Zion National Park and Bryce Canyon; Horseshoe Bend, Antelope Canyon and the Grand Staircase Esplanade! Later this month the always lovely Miss Wendy and I will be cruising about the Caribbean and we'll finish up the year back in the Big Apple.

I began 2017 by seeing "Dear Evan Hansen" and "Chicago" on Broadway and will end it in December with the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall and, back on Broadway, seeing "Come From Away"! Filling up the time and space from there to here was a smorgasbord of outings with friends -- dinner dates and movies, parties, holiday meals, walks, hikes and meaningful chats; and, certainly worth noting, a mini-reunion with a few folks who I worked and played with at the Red and Black, UGA's student newspaper, when Richard Nixon was still president, computers were the size of a ginormous room and fed with punch cards, and an apple was a snack that, ostensibly, would keep a doctor away if eaten once a day!

So, how old now? Well, just count the candles!

It's also been a year when I've been lucky enough to spend some quality time with my brothers, traveling with them to a few of the top spots on my ever-diminishing bucket list; doing, um, family stuff with my extended family and staying close and busy with my remarkable and amazing daughter, Lauren, and son-in-law Josh. And then there's Bailey and Avi, my absolutely perfect grandkids who fill my life each day with renewed wonder and constant love.

Oh, there's also the lovely Miss Wendy, my wife, partner and soulmate who has been willing to put up with my nonsense for well over four decades; the person most responsible for keeping some semblance of balance in my life with her half-glass-filled vibe and upbeat attitude.

But I digress ... and where's an editor when you need one! The point of this post is to share a bit of distilled wisdom it's taken me nearly seven decades to learn. Plastics, despite the advice offered up by Mr. McGuire to Benjamin, isn't the answer to the big question of life. Who Knew!

Okay, truth to tell, this note is actually my incredibly long and windy way to thank you, all my Facebook friends, for your recent birthday wishes. It's nice to know that, if only for a moment, a gaggle of family and friends was thinking of me and wishing me well on this special day!

Las Vegas: Twinkling lights and a memorial for the dead

Vegas Strip remains bright and dazzling despite recent tragedy.

The first surprise when stepping onto the Las Vegas strip in early October is the weather. The blast furnace of summer has clicked off in recent days and been replaced with moderate temps that hover in the low 80s. It's still warm, but not unbearably hot, and crowds of tourists are out and about like bees in search of nectar.

For first-time visitors, getting around can be an unexpected challenge. The massive scale of the hotels and casinos that line Las Vegas Boulevard -- Caesars Palace and Circus Circus; the Luxor and MGM Grand; Bellagio, the Venetian and a dozen or so others -- give the impression that a festive playground is easily within reach. It's not.

The resorts are huge and trekking about is a tiresome and time-consuming affair. The illusion is only magnified when the sun goes down and the Vegas lights come fully alive, offering up a dazzling, multi-colored fantasy land.

Memorial honors 58 people killed by deranged gunman.

It's this twinkling world, filled with dreams of hedonistic delights that adds weight and meaning to the city's marketing slogan, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!" Tragically, the dream morphed into a nightmare earlier this month when a deranged gunman opened fire from his suite in a high-rise hotel, the Mandalay Bay, raking a nearby concert venue with thousands of rounds of gunfire.

In just a little over 10 minutes, the shooter managed to murder 58 people, injuring hundreds more in the deadliest mass shooting in modern American history. Police report that in the midst of one 31-second span, the shooter fired a staggering 280 rounds, roughly nine bullets every second.

I'm in Vegas to meet up with two of my brothers and  nephew, a brief stop and gathering spot for a trip that will take us across southern Utah to Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park. But for the moment I have joined with dozens of other tourists to walk about a temporary memorial resting at the foot of the neon-soaked sign welcoming visitors to "fabulous" Las Vegas, Nevada!

And off in the distance a yuuuge golden blemish.

The space is filled with a jarring mix of balloons and banners, flowers, candles and personal notes and prayers for the victims. A line of wooden crosses, one for each person killed, cuts across the grounds, a sobering remembrance and reminder of this most recent madness.

This isn't the first such memorial I've visited. Last year I was in Orlando only weeks after 49 people were murdered at Pulse, a gay bar on the southern fringes of the downtown area. The Vegas memorial echoes the melancholy vibe found there and, sadly, in another few days, perhaps a week or two, the lawn here will be swept clean and Las Vegas will become yet another painful memory of a place where evil once visited.

The names of the dead and injured in attacks stretching back decades are mostly forgotten in a world moving at the speed of light. Inevitably, the locations are what we recall: Columbine, Blacksburg, Newtown, Aurora, Fort Hood and Charleston; San Bernadino, San Ysidro, Washington, D.C. and Tucson.

City a jarring mixture of hope, greed and really expensive cars.

The full list spans the country. No region is immune to the momentary madness of mostly boys and men directed by hate, fear and a grotesque anger fueled by job and personal issues, teen angst and mental illness.

Our political leaders, starting with the yamster-in-chief in the Oval Office, have offered their thoughts and prayers while, yet again, failing to take any sort of legislative action to deal with the problem. Their tepid response, a predictable show of institutional madness, is simply to ignore the issue. It's a rancid position -- bought and paid for by the NRA -- that will certainly result in additional slaughter, thoughts and prayers!

Some "patriots" argue the lack of gun control, the shootings and mass murder, is the price of freedom. If that's the case then the cost is too high. That becomes clear in the heartbreak that hangs heavily above the Vegas strip this day and the knowledge that other innocent victims will be picking up the check in coming years.

A dose of reality on the streets of Boston

Bumping into "someone" and offering a helping hand.

The lovely Miss Wendy and I were wandering about Back Bay, taking an early evening stroll on our last day in Boston. The weather had cleared and the oppressive heat of the afternoon had given way to a pleasant chill.

Families and couples were out and about, along with gaggles of college students and tourists enjoying the final hours of the weekend. There was much to see and enjoy: trendy restaurants and boutiques; intimate gardens and expansive parks; soaring skyscrapers and ivy-covered town homes.

All was not perfect, however. Off in the distance, as we neared Copley Square, I spotted a bag lady struggling to cross the street.

She had managed to cart a suitcase and black garbage bag to the median strip of the divided roadway, had made her way back to the sidewalk and was struggling with a second battered case and several other bags as we neared. I figured it was going to take her several trips to reach the relative safety of the far sidewalk.

So I handed Wendy my camera, approached the woman and asked if she could use some help. She was fixated on her stuff, fussing about and mildly agitated. She glanced my way and mumbled something that sort of sounded like "yes" as I took hold of the case and a second bag and began to cross the street.

She told me I needed to wait until the traffic signal changed. I remain unsure if it was a legal or safety issued that captured her attention. A moment later she caught up with me and her bags and, because I'm a giving sort of guy, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of bills.

It wasn't until that instant that I had a chance to get a good look at her. She appeared to be well into her 70s, a little ragged around the edges, but clean with a pleasant face surrounded by a swirl of white hair. I couldn't help thinking that she reflected the sentiment of a sign I once saw a homeless person holding: I USE TO BE SOMEONE! Someone, indeed!

I started to give her the money I was holding when she stepped back a foot or so, glanced over at Wendy and asked if she was my wife. I nodded, yes. Then things got a little weird!

The bag lady apparently had a set of rules that govern her life and quietly explained to me that she never takes money directly from men. She asked if I would please give the money to my wife and have her hand over the cash.

I can't fathom the philosophical or psychological gymnastics at play in her mind. And even though I was curious about the why of it all, I decided to play along and pass the cash to Wendy who passed it along to her.

Wendy and I still had things to see and places to go. As we headed off in search of a sugary treat and  last look at the nearby skyline, I glanced back at the bag lady. It had only been a moment, but she had vanished into the twilight, a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma!

Grand welcome comes with tiny cut!

Rite of passage: Grandpa Steve, Avi share special moment!

A bris is a memorable tradition filled with much high ritual, the moment when a Jewish boy -- for those who believe in such rites -- becomes part of the ancient covenant given by God to Abraham and his descendants.

It's part of the bedrock of Judaism, one of the numerous mitzvot, or laws, that are at the heart of the religion. It also offers up a distinctive mark -- both literally and symbolically -- that helped create and sustain the Jewish people for thousands of years, a community filled with rich and robust traditions, rites, ideas and laws.

Baby Boy Levetan's bris was such a happening, a gathering of family and friends to welcome him into our lives and community with love and good cheer eight days following his birth. Oh, there was also a mohel, trained in the practice of brit milah, the "covenant of circumcision," to whack away his foreskin.

Ouch and welcome to the tribe!

Say ahhhh: Avi with his mom and dad, Lauren and Josh.

It's also the moment when a child receives their name, when what already is becomes even more, defined and enriched by a back story that adds weight and context to a precious being at the starting point of life.

For those with even a smattering of Hebrew, baby boy Levetan's name -- at least his Hebrew name, Avraham Yisrael -- was first heard uttered by the mohel, Rabbi Ariel Asa, as he went about his liturgical chores. But it was left to Lauren and Josh to announce and explain the proper name that now will be forever linked to their son and all he will become.

Avi Kenneth Levetan, a euphonic blend of old and new, ethnic and modern, is inextricably meshed with the ganze mispucha, the entire family. The Hebrew and English names honor and recall a great grandfather and grand uncle from Lauren's extended family and both Josh's paternal grandfather and, most poignantly, his maternal grandfather, Ken Stone, who died last year.

Their collective lives offer up a rich tapestry of being that stretches back to the Pale of Settlement, spanning half the globe and the last century or so; men who both embraced the ancient customs of their ancient religion and communities while striking out for the New World and all the wonders to be found in America.

We are family: Bailey (l-r), Pops, Lauren, Avi, Josh and Bubbe.

All they were, in a fashion, will now be carried into the next century, a bit of spiritual energy comfortably resting in the heart of a sweet little boy.

Avi, sucking away on a cloth dabbed in a bit of wine, rested comfortably following the bris as family and friends feasted on deli delicacies at a celebratory meal, Seurat mitzvah, that is yet another custom of a folk who are defined by such traditions.

So this is my hope, Avi, a little postscript from your Pops on the day after your bris.

If at some distant time you find yourself surfing whatever passes for the World Wide Web in the next century and stumble across this post, you should spend a few moments reflecting on all that happened on this special day in 2016. Then take a moment to understand that even when you were little more than a vibrant idea and bit of flesh you were already part of something huge and ancient and, most importantly, from the very beginning you were loved.

With that, I'll sign off for now with this wish, offering up a priestly blessing (sort of) while quoting that ancient Talmudic sage, Mr. Spock: Live long and prosper, Avi Kenneth, live long and prosper!

Baby Boy Levetan makes his grand entrance

Only 2-hours old, Baby Boy Levetan ponders his future.

Life begins in an instant -- the blink of an eye, tick of a clock, a precious first breath. With a little push the darkness gives way to light and all that is and the potential for all that will be comes into focus.

So it was with Baby Boy Levetan, who joined our family and the world on Monday, April 25, at exactly 12:45 p.m.

It was a momentous day, of course, worth remembering even with all the static and noise and nonsense that jarringly speaks of a world gone slightly meshugga.

Johnny "Football" was indicted and John Kasich and Ted Cruz momentarily joined forces to best The Donald; President Obama announced that trade deals are good for the U.S. and every Republican on the planet agreed that he was wrong; the Hawks lost to the Celtics in OT in Game 4 of their playoff series and the Braves lost to the Mets in a season that was over before it really began; and Passover ebbed its way into day three, which means I remain five days away from a slice of pizza and big bowl of pasta!

Piffle, the mundane stuff of life; seconds ticking away while cosmic happenings wait gently on the horizon.

Josh, Lauren and the newest addition to their family.

Such are the musings I hold when writing this ode to Baby Boy Levetan, a gentle child just waiting to enter the arena, a baby that will one day carry memories of me and those of my generation into the 22nd Century -- Intimations of Imortality!

What wonders there will be out there, a time when technology will make this wondrous life we live today seem hopelessly simple and dark. The slight and tiny fingers that grasp my hand this moment might one day pound away at a super computer that easily changes the weather, or flips a switch that turns night to day.

I can only wonder at the sights and sounds that Baby Boy Levetan will experience in a life moving at the speed of light, a time of peace and plenty, I hope; a time when he, his sister Bailey and others can grasp and become all that they now hold only as potential within their tiny souls today.

Call such thoughts a prayer, if you like, the hopes of a dreamy Pops reading ephemeral tea leaves and pondering the future and the stuff of dreams!

Meanwhile, there's a bris a few days off, a bit of the ancient past filled with high ceremony and ritual that will carry us all into the future; a day when Baby Boy Levetan will be ushered into our Jewish community and, along with the rest of us, learn his name.

Stay tuned!

Let's face it, some people are just jerks!

Spewing exhaust for fun and entertainment.

You can file this under disturbing and disgusting.

Wendy and I were out and about the other day when we spotted a bicyclist hugging the side of the road as cars whizzed by.

A pickup truck pulled alongside the guy, slowed down for a moment before the driver hit his accelerator. A plume of noxious exhaust completely enveloped the cyclist as the trucker sped off down the road.

It was clear the bastard in the truck purposely slowed so he could play his little game, knowing exactly what would happen when he stepped on the gas. Turns our this bit of nonsense is so common it actually has a name: "Rolling Coal".

Sadly, this little vignette says volumes about the world we live in today. And so it goes ...

Aylan offers a glimpse into a world gone mad

On a long journey in search of freedom.

I was out and about recently with my granddaughter Bailey, helping keep her busy as her Mom and Bubbe did a little shopping.

We were passing a new store in a strip shopping center in our neighborhood when she noticed one of those wiggling promotional thingies that's animated with a fan, and shimmies about to attract attention.

Bailey, who will be two next month, is at that stage in her young life when she takes notice of everything. Her favorite phrase these days is "What's that?" So it wasn't at all surprising when she pointed at the rubberized thingy and quizzed me about it.

What did surprise me, however, is after a moment or so of watching it dance about, she lowered her head, covered her eyes and said, "I don't like!" She was frightened, a feeling I didn't know was yet even part of her emotional life.

I told her something soothing, lifted her up and turned her around; and in another moment or so she was smiling and giggling and asking me about a truck that was pulling into the parking lot to make a delivery at a nearby market.

I mention this little vignette, because it's what came to mind when I saw a photo of Aylan Kurdi on the web this morning. He's the youngster, only 3-years-old, who washed ashore on a beach in Turkey earlier this week, one of a dozen refugees, including his older brother and mother, who drowned after fleeing Syria and attempting to reach the Greek Aegean island of Kos.

Aylan was spotted by a soldier who was photographed cradling his lifeless body, a stunning image of loss that had me wondering just how puzzled, desperate and frightened the toddler was after being tossed into the sea.

There was no one about to pick him up and speak soothing words of comfort, no one to lift him up and save his precious life. It's an image that tugs at my heart.

It gets worse.

Another photo, snapped moments earlier, is a stark and melancholy portrait of innocence and death, a somber reminder that we live in a world that has gone slightly mad in recent years. At first glance the youngster seems to be napping on the beach, a slight figure at peace. The truth, unfortunately, is much darker, a bleak essay on life and loss.

And I think yet again: There was no one about to pick Aylan up and speak soothing words of comfort, no one to lift him up and save his precious life. It's an image that tugs at my heart.

We live in a country that is filled with gifts, freedoms and riches that make us the envy of millions around the world. So, at least for the moment, with Aylan weighing heavily on my mind, I find the constant static offered up by politicians and the talking bags of hot air on cable TV to be, at best, small and petty. Truth to tell, I think all the sturm und drang is morally reprehensible.

But I digress.

A little boy drowned this week, searching for what most of us already have. He was found on a beach and gently carried away. There are thousands more, just like Aylan, getting ready to hop aboard a dingy in search of a dream. Here's hoping there's someone around to help them all safely on their journey to freedom.

Life with Bailey: Short visit turns into grand adventure

Rule No. 1: If Bailey is happy, everyone is happy!

It was a cold and blustery day last January when Bailey, her mom, dad and doggie sisters dropped by for a short visit. Their home had been hit hard by the "arctic vortex" that blew its way across the region, dropping temperatures into the single digits and causing all sorts of weather-related problems.

My daughter and son-in-law's house was temporarily afloat, one little leak spilling gallons of water across much of the main floor. At first glance it seemed a minor, if troubling issue that might take a few days, perhaps a week or so, to fix.

Absolutely no problem, both I and the lovely Miss Wendy figured. Here was a perfect opportunity for all of us to hunker down and weather the storm; spend some quality time with the kids and really get to know Bailey, our precious little granddaughter, up close and personal.

I did mention this all happened last January, right? If you look at a calendar and crunch the numbers, that means we've been together for five months now. The good news is we're all still talking to one another and, even better, this little adventure is nearing its end!

In just a few days, Bailey, her parents and doggie companions will be schlepping back home and Wendy and I will once again become empty nesters! Despite the challenges that come with four adults, a baby and two dogs living in close quarters, I'm thinking it will be a bitter-sweet moment when the gang moves out and the house goes quiet.

The silence will be especially heavy in Bailey's room, filled with a crib and changing table, toys, diapers and the heady, soft scent of a baby. Her yips and yaps, cooing, crying and laughter have become part of the space, hanging lightly in the air and my memory.

It's not often that grandparents get to experience the first steps a newborn takes into the world -- eyes focusing, rolling about, sitting up and reaching out for sounds and colors. But Wendy and I have watched with expectant glee as Bailey mastered all these little things, her babyish ways ever so slowly morphing into what has become her unique personality.

What lingers around heavily at the moment is the soliloquy she offers up some mornings, a quiet cooing that spills lightly into joyous squeals, signaling the start of a new day. I've lain awake in my bed, watching the early-morning shadows march across the ceiling and, filled with contentment, listened to her soaring song.

A moment later, standing at her crib, I've watched Bailey glance about and, spotting me and whoever else has the morning watch, break into a smile that never fails to warm my heart. Find a way to package such innocence and spread it about, and the curse of cynicism would be vanquished from the world.

And so it's on this cosmic note that I choose to remember this bit of life, an adventure that I'm thinking we'll be sharing for years to come. The story will most always begin on a melancholy note, "do you remember back in 2014 ..." And at least for a moment we'll recall the donuts and fleas, web connections and Sesame Street, stacks of laundry, shared meals and walks around the neighborhood.

But mostly I'll recall Bailey's soaring song and the morning smile that filled my world.

Life can sometimes be a pain!

I was deep into a wondrous world of light and shadows earlier this week when a nagging call came my way. It pulled me from the tranquil calm of REM sleep and demanded my attention.

The lovely Miss Wendy needed me awake. The last time I had gotten such an early wake up call was three decades earlier after Wendy had gone into labor. This time around the problem was just as urgent – at least for the moment – but involved a much different sort of pain!

Wendy, who’s up before the sun each morning, was feeling just a little faint and puzzled by a growing pain in her chest. It was the sort of feeling that moved around a bit and the sort of problem that toys with all those existential fears we push aside when night gives way to day.

And it persisted; the pain a pulsing tease, the thoughts a growing concern. Wendy talked and detailed the problem. I listened and diagnosed. We weighed our words and spent a few moments handling the issue in a high-tech sort of way, fishing about the web for answers. All we managed to do, of course, is raise additional questions and scare ourselves silly.

I’m thinking most of us of a certain age have played this little game; measuring out the problem and viewing it from all angles, then trying to figure out exactly what needs to be done. The problem is there’s nothing “exact” about the issue, unless you happen to be a physician and also keep an EKG parked in your closet!

And so it was that the lovely Miss Wendy and I found ourselves in the emergency room of one of the mega-hospitals in our little corner of the world, listening to the beeps and bings of all the gadgetry that defines modern health care today.

Five hours later, the hospitalist – that’s a term I’m thinking Marcus Welby never heard back when doctors made house calls – announced that Wendy was not only fine, but “the healthiest young lady in the entire emergency room.” Let me repeat his diagnosis: Wendy’s fine!

He smiled. We smiled. Hope, yet again, rested easily on the horizon.

A Seder to Remember

Lauren and Josh are all smiles after announcing we'll

be needing another chair at next year's Seder!

I’ve written much about the ghosts that take part in my Passover Seders, a spiritual link that connects me with both my ancient ancestors and family members who have died in recent years. Interestingly, this holiday season it wasn’t the past that offered up a cosmic connection but a glance into the future.

The first night of Passover, the lovely Miss Wendy and I attended a Seder at the Nathan’s – that would be Barbara and George, longtime friends of our machatunim – along with other family and friends. We spent a few minutes shrugging off the evening’s chill and warming up with casual chit-chat, then settled in for the night’s high ritual and festive meal.

So it came as a small surprise when Josh, my son-in-law, shushed the expectant crowd and asked for everyone’s attention. He stood silent for an instant then casually mentioned that Passover had been a very special time for him, especially in recent years when good fortune and grand adventure had become part of the holiday.

Five years earlier, Josh recalled, he and Lauren had gotten engaged. Wendy and I were hosting 30 of our closest friends and family for the first night of Pesach that year and were madly dashing about taking care of last minute details – honey, where did you store the matzo balls?

I was in the process of adding additional sugar to the bottles of Manischewitz – hey, you can’t be too rich, too thin or have too much sugar in your Passover wine – when Lauren called and asked if she and Josh could drop by to, ah, check out some pillows! For a normal person, the pillow talk should have been a clue that something was up; but I was deep into Passover madness.

So it was that the happy couple dropped by, stood in the foyer making small talk as Wendy and I whirled and swirled around in a prepping frenzy. After 15 minutes or so they mentioned they needed to be off and, yet, they still stood and waited. Lauren kept waving her hand about and I kept wondering why they hadn’t checked out the pillows upstairs.

It was in all this misdirection and hustle and bustle that the word “engaged” finally captured my and Wendy’s attention and we took note of the glittering diamond Lauren had been waving around frantically since she’d arrived. The diamond sparkled; Lauren and Josh beamed.

And so, it’s been five wonderful years, Josh was saying at the Seder the other night, and I thought how nice it was of him to celebrate the moment. But then I noticed Lauren. She was, well, beaming – again! I forget exactly what Josh said in the next few moments; something about needing an extra seat at next year’s Seder! What I mostly remember is everyone laughing and crying and hugging. I’m pretty sure I even heard the oh-so festive melody of Siman Tov Umazal Tov quietly in the background. After all, my yiddishe ghosts travel with me.

It turns out that for Lauren and Josh; Janice, Steve, Wendy and me, Passover will now always be about the future. If I recall my high school biology, Lauren will be doing the heavy lifting – after all, she’s the one who’s pregnant – but I’m pretty certain we’re all expecting!

What can you say about a 13-year-old dog who died?

The first time I met Joey he stayed busy following me about. He wasn’t alone. He and his doggie sisters, Maggie and Ella, were all pretty much underfoot.

Joey, a golden retriever, and Maggie, a black lab, were two hairy and huge freebies that were part of the package that brought Josh into my daughter’s life. Lauren, meanwhile, had a little canine of her own, Ella Rufus.

So it was that when Lauren and Josh said “I do” four years ago, about 250 pounds of unconditional love was part of the equation.

Joey was majestically special. He reminded me of the older brother in many large families – the quiet, brooding, protective type. At times he seemed indifferent to all the Sturm und Drang his younger – and smaller – siblings could cause and stoically went about his business.

Yet he was always there, ready to push his weight around if there was a little extra kibble to be had or – even better – a friendly pat on his noggin was available. Truth to tell, there was a world-weary melancholy that hovered about Joey, a sense that in some doggie fashion he comprehended stuff that was just outside the realm of human understanding.

A few years ago, when Lauren and Josh were out of the city, the lovely Miss Wendy and I were handling dog-sitting duties. Wendy begged off after the first night and I found myself, literally, bedding down with three hairy hounds one evening.

Ella nuzzled up against my side and Maggie rested her head across my chest. Joey stood off to the side of the bed, examining his options and, apparently, waiting for a special invitation. I did mention he was huge, right? If he stood up on his haunches my noggin would be the logical place for him to rest his paws.

I glanced his way, lifted an inquisitive brow and in an instant he was standing over me. For the next few minutes he did that little doggie dance of slowly chasing his tail, looking for that special, elusive sweet spot before settling down across the foot of the bed.

He let out with a contented sigh, rolled over on his side and began snoring. And this is the crazy thing about it all. The little twitching and murmuring and, yes, even the snoring was bizarrely comforting. Go figure.

And so it’s with apologies to Eric Segal that I finish this remembrance by paraphrasing the opening line of his sappy novel, “Love Story”.

What can you say about a 13-year-old golden retriever who died? Well, actually, lots of stuff. But mostly, at the moment, I’m thinking the important thing is that he was loved.

Life, Death and Noah Pozner

Noah Pozner was the youngest of the 20 youngsters who

died at Sandy Hook Elementary School earlier this month.

He turned six in late Novemeber and was in the First Grade.

I was out and about on a recent Sunday morning, walking on a trail that snuggled up closely to the Chattahoochee River just West of Roswell Road in North Atlanta. The sky was a cloudless, achingly beautiful deep blue and a stiff wind had me hunched over, pulling the collar of my jacket up around my neck and ears to stay warm.

My daughter Lauren was at my side. Now that she’s married, working and staying busy with the large and small stuff of life, we don’t have as much time to spend together as we once did.

That’s not to say we don’t see one another. There are family meals and holidays gatherings; day trips and occasional shared vacations; phone calls, e-mails and, when the weather is reasonably nice and our schedules mesh, walks along the river.

It was during our most recent stroll, as we wandered passed joggers and bikers, couples and families, that I started thinking about Noah. The thoughts were troubling and, for a moment or so, the morning grew dark and melancholy.

Noah Pozner, as some of you might recall, was the youngest of the 26 victims killed in the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre in Newtown, Conn. a few weeks ago. He had just turned six in November and, like all of the other children murdered at the school, was in the first grade.

All these youngsters were precious souls; innocent girls and boys filled with laughter, life and endless potential. But there was something special about Noah, something familiar that had him resting uneasily in my mind. After all, he was Jewish.

As the horror played out endlessly on television, across the web on news sites and in my daily paper, I started spotting video and photos of men with kippot, some wearing tzitzit, black hats and other such garb.

One of the first people on the scene, offering comfort and a few details of the tragedy, was Rabbi Shaul Praver of Temple Adath Israel in Newtown. It would later turn out that the Pozners were members of his congregation.

And, of course, as the funerals began, Noah was one of the first to be buried. Yet again there was a sense of the familiar hovering about the cemetery as stunned family and friends observed the ancient rituals of Judaism and said their goodbyes.

"I told the mother that was grieving that I personally believe in the eternity of the soul, and I believe that she will see her son again," Praver told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency (JTA). He added that he isn’t focusing too much on the cosmic and grand these days; that mostly he thinks it important to show compassion, to hold and hug and cry with the bereaved.

The compassion and hugging and crying were all part of the scene as I watched the final moments of the funeral unfold on TV. There seemed to be a collective wail and sigh when the chazzan offered up the anguished words of El Malei Rachamim: O G-d, full of mercy … grant proper rest on the wings of the Divine Presence … for the soul of Noah!

It was the melancholy tune and words of the memorial prayer that seemed to be on an endless loop in my mind as I walked with my own precious daughter the other day. You see, what I was having trouble pushing aside was the painful reality that the Pozner family wouldn’t be spending time with Noah ever again.

There would be no family meals, holiday gatherings, day trips or vacations with the bright and active youngster; no watching him grow and mature; no tomorrows.

As Noah’s small casket was lowered into the ground, the veil we know little about was being slowly pulled aside. One journey was ending. Another was beginning.

Just a few days earlier and a few miles away in a small school house in a little village in Connecticut, there had been 26 gentle souls that now seemed lost and gone. But where? I’ll leave such metaphysical musings to the poets and philosophers among us.

But this much I know is true. At least part of Noah’s soul now rests in the hearts of all those who loved him. The rest, I like to think, is making its way to a place where pain and misery don’t exist, light and love fill the world and innocent children spend their time laughing and chasing butterflies across lush green meadows.

 

Zikh-ronah liv-rakha … may Noah’s memory be for a blessing. Amen.

And off in the distance, a frightened pooch ...

The lovely Miss Wendy and I were out and about earlier today, running a few errands and enjoying some, ah, quality time with one another. We zipped onto a major boulevard in our little corner of the world and a block later noticed that cars were screeching to a halt and swerving around what appeared to be an accident.

A moment later we passed a pickup truck that was wobbling atop a nearby curb and a smashed up SUV in the intersection. The entire front of the vehicle was caved in, the window shield shattered and tires flat and spinning. Off to the side, a small crowd was gathering and several people were surrounding a woman who seemed to be conscious but shaken and, perhaps, going into shock.
We maneuvered our way slowly around the scene, but noticed that a bunch of cars in front of us were still crawling along, blocking the intersection. I wanted to get out of the area so emergency vehicles and medics could make their way in and didn’t understand what the holdup was.

Then, as one car zigged while another zagged, I spotted the problem. A tiny dog, trailing a longish leash, was dashing up the highway. It was spooked and seemed totally lost and bewildered! I’m only guessing, but I think it quite possible that the dog – a terrier mix of some sort – had been in the SUV and was tossed from the vehicle when it crashed. A dozen or so cars were trailing the pooch and, finally, one driver managed to get in front of the dog and force it to the curb. She jogged over to the trembling animal, offered a few soothing words before picking it up and getting it out of harm’s way.

I detail this little slice of life to offer up this observation. When I spotted the wreck, my first feeling was annoyance – backed up traffic, rubber-neckers, wasted time. Then when I saw the injured woman, I mostly thought that that’s life in the big city and hoped she wasn’t seriously injured. But seeing the small dog touched my heart and had me feeling sad. It was obviously confused, frightened and, well, completely innocent of all the madness we humans unleash on one another. That said, it was nice to see most everyone slowing down a bit, making an effort to shield the dog before it could dash into traffic.

Five minutes later and a mile down the road, cars were once again whizzing about, most everyone focused on the distant horizon, feeling the urgent pull of life. And so it goes.

Staying really busy and doing absolutely nothing

I had dinner with the minyon group last Thursday. Irwin, praying pal extraordinaire and longtime friend, asked me what I’ve been up to lately. It’s a fair question, but one that often leaves me puzzled.

Since leaving that place with the printing press over, gulp, three years ago, I’ve stayed busy doing all manner of stuff – traveling, volunteering, writing, reading, walking, jogging, painting (both of the house and fine arts variety), yard work and drinking; in short, nothing much.

Mostly, I’ve learned that there’s a talent to doing nothing and that just about anyone can do it by doing, ah, nothing. But over time I’ve actually figured out how to do nothing in much more interesting and creative ways.

In the last year or two I’ve done nothing while watching TV, movies and plays; done nothing at film and book festivals, workshops and seminars; also stayed busy doing nothing working in my yard and cleaning the house and done a whopping amount of nothing sitting in front of my computer.

I’ve done nothing on trains, planes and cars; done nothing in Alaska, Washington, California, Arizona, New York, New Jersey, Georgia and Florida. I’ve also managed to do a whole lot of nothing in Israel – twice!

Of course nothing, for some people, is something. I’m thinking this philosophical notion is buried somewhere in that whole half-glass full or empty concept. So, given my mood on any given day, it actually turns out I’ve been awfully busy! Almost makes me want to take a nap!

The really good news is that’s an option, perhaps one of the very best things I’ve learned over the last three years.  Turns out I’m a natural at doing nothing while napping.

Dawgs, Gators and quadruple bypass surgery

My brother Larry had quadruple bypass surgery earlier this week. I’m happy to report that he’s up and about; not yet dancing but well on the road to recovery.

Doctors discovered the problem late last week. The really good news is this is the sort of health issue that, despite its seriousness, is very fixable. Once upon a time blocked coronary arteries were difficult, if impossible, for surgeons to repair. In recent years bypass surgery has become a procedure best filed away under the heading of medical miracle.

The truth is that the procedure has been perfected over the last few decades thanks to the intellect, rigorous training and passion of curious medical researchers and skilled surgeons. And let us all say Amen!

The question, of course, remains why Larry’s arteries clogged up in the first place? Some will say it’s the weekly dose of Big Macs and fries, all washed down with chocolate milkshakes. I have another theory. My brother is a loyal and true Dawg fan, who bleeds red and black and worships each fall “between the hedges.” He made the mistake of leaving the Land of Cotton several decades ago, moving south into the land of Gators. Need I say more?

Now he’s really in a pickle! I’m thinking that many of the doctors, surgeons, physician assistants and nurses who have been tinkering around with his innards this week are loyal Gators who bleed blue and orange. Those of you living outside the U.S., and have no clue about the seriousness of college football, simply need to take my word that this is not a good thing!

So I guess on some sort of cosmic playing field he’ll now have mixed loyalties. Gators or not, his physicians did make him whole again. That said, there really isn’t much of a conflict. After all, Physicians and medicine are all about science. And everyone knows that college football is a religious experience.

Here’s hoping that this little episode will be a fading memory in a month or so and that Larry will be suited up and ready to play completely in the game of life very soon. And since I’m just about out of sports clichés, I’ll simply finish with that well known Georgia prayer, “Go you hairy Dawgs!”

The Big Apple, Part I: In search of winter’s chill

It was a warm and humid Land of Cotton that the lovely Miss Wendy and I jetted away from late last week. Winter was paying little attention to our little corner of the world, so we decided if we wanted to be, ah, cool, we would have to turn the temperature down ourselves.

That’s how we ended up in New York over the weekend, in search of a little winter chill and cheer. We weren’t disappointed! The Big Apple has also been experiencing an unseasonably warm winter this year, so we had no idea really what sort of weather we’d find a 1,000 miles north of home.

Apparently Mother Nature decided it was time to make a showing. She blew into town, riding an arctic cold front that greeted us with falling temps and falling snow.

I had packed my bag with a couple of new and little-used sweaters that, along with a new hat, scarf, gloves and winter coat, kept me warm and toasty. Ditto Wendy! Over the long weekend, We stayed busy strolling around the upper west side of Manhattan, then down through Central Park to Columbus Circle and on to Times Square.

We eventually made our way all the way through Midtown to Union Square, on to Greenwich Village, Soho, Tribeca, the Financial District and the 9/11 Memorial; and, finally, Battery Park on the southern tip of the island – more about all that in postings later this week. Stay Tuned!

For three days, the sky was a wintry gray and the temperature hovered around freezing. On Saturday morning a light snow fell, partially blanketing the trees, walkways and green spaces with a dusting of the white stuff; a special little gift from Mother Nature and the Big Apple’s Bureau of Tourism.

The whole winter thing almost became a little much when on Sunday gale force gusts whipping off the Hudson and East Rivers dropped temps into the teens. As Wendy and I walked around the area it felt like we had momentarily stumbled onto the North Pole.

Back home now and it’s all a warm memory, the chilly trip up north a nice reminder of the joys of winter and the promise of spring. The oh-so drab and gray days of February linger about, but the temperate month of March is waiting in the wings.

Here’s the inside story on the weather outside

I looked over at the near wall in our beautifully redone kitchen, checking out the temperature outside. Only problem, is in our little dust up recently of our aging castle we decided to toss a few things, including the ancient inside / outside thermometer that came with the house when we bought it – that would be early in the first Reagan administration!

It was old, rusty and featured a dangling bit of wire that snaked for a foot or so across the wall, underneath a window and connected to a metal thingy that registered the outside temp. The unit was paired with an inside thermometer; so I could see both inside and outside temps at a glance.

Practical? Why, yes. High-tech and aesthetically pleasing? In make believe Army speak, that would be a big negatory!

Of course, all I really need do to find out how hot or cold it is in my little corner of the world is log onto my computer and check out any number of weather sites. With the click of a mouse I can find out all sorts of interesting and informative data – including up to the minute temperatures for my region, state, county, city and neighborhood.

The problem is that I still keep glancing over my shoulder when eating breakfast, staring at a blank – if freshly painted – wall in search of weather info. Change, someone once said, is difficult; and habits are hard to break.

So it is that the lovely Miss Wendy and I are now the proud owners of a little bit of high-tech magic – Brookstone’s Wireless Weather Forecaster. It’s a sleek little box that offers up all sorts of data – inside and outside temps, humidity levels, daily forecasts and the time.

The base unit syncs up nicely with a smaller satellite box – it’s about the size of a flip phone – that is placed outside. It quickly provided basic info – outside temperature and humidity – and in another day or so the forecast feature will kick in.

I’m told there are now a veritable cornucopia of devices that offer high-tech solutions for comfy living – portable phones that sync up with base units; sound systems that wirelessly link to stereos and TVs; security and lighting systems that can be controlled remotely through smart phones.

The problem? Check out that bold bit of info I detailed earlier about change and habits. The lovely Miss Wendy and I might have weather info flowing into our home now, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before anyone mistakes us for high-tech geeks!

Whoa-oa-oa! I feel good, I knew that I would

I had a little medical malfunction for most of November, a bothersome ache that appeared suddenly to remind me that I’ll never see the other side of 60 again. It all began with a nagging soreness in my hamstring that lingered for weeks.

Once upon a time, when I was young and had hair, I dashed about a bit; running most every day and taking part in weekend races. Pounding the pavement became an obsession and I eventually became crazy enough to run several marathons. This madness went on for well over a decade.

Aches, pains and the occasional pulled hamstring was the price I paid back then to be a jogger. As often as not, the remedy for such injuries was an icepack, a shot of gin and a few days of rest. Well, I iced down my leg for weeks in early November, drank a bottle of gin and rested until I was tired of resting. My leg still ached.

The week before Thanksgiving, the pain began shifting about; shooting into my hip, then lower into the area around my knee. It all became such a pain that I actually started thinking that I might need to visit a doctor.

Instead, I replaced the icepack and booze with drugs – Tylenol and Advil. Bingo! For a day or two the ache continued to rattle around. Then, ever so quietly, it was gone. A miracle!

I have no idea what caused the problem and even less idea how it was cured. I’m thinking there’s more of this sort of thing in my future and I’m not at all certain that that’s necessarily a bad thing. Little aches and pains can sometimes remind us all how good it feels to feel good; words of wisdom from me – and James Brown!

Why, it’s a house of a different color – almost!

So I’ve been hunkering down for the last week, waiting for the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel to shine in my direction. Unfortunately, the glimmer I spotted turned out to be a train – metaphorically speaking.

The lovely Miss Wendy and I have run into a few small roadblocks in recent days in our efforts to update and modernize our home. It’s been an adventure, dealing with a dozen workmen plastering and painting; installing appliances, new light fixtures and electrical outlets; ripping off the warm and comfy siding that has protected us for years and replacing it with new stuff that will be hanging tough long after I’ve called it quits.

The little issues – a cabinet door butting up too closely to our lovely new backsplash, some sort of putty glop spilling out of a drain in the kitchen sink, a slight crack in a small bit of crown molding – have been tidied up nicely and it’s time to address the one major problem that has been dogging Wendy and me for weeks.

Now that the house is covered in a fresh layer of siding we need to figure out what sort of fresh new color we’d like to paint our home. The good news is we have an embarrassment of choices, the full spectrum of colors that add zest and zing to life. The bad news is all those colors are giving both of us a monumental headache.

The living room carpet is covered in dozens of paint cards from at least a half-dozen different paint companies – greens and grays; browns, taupe and beige; at least a dozen different varieties of white! I feel like the kid who has stumbled into a candy store, has a quarter to buy one piece of candy and keeps changing his mind.

At least Mother Nature has come to my rescue for the moment, covering the Land of Cotton in gray, turning down the thermostat and offering up a little rain and a few more days to ponder our colorful future.

Right now it’s looking like Cincinnatian Hotel Briggs Beige, Light Raffia and Del Coronado Tequila hold an inside edge to cover our home – and, yes, those are real names of paint colors. Go figure – and stay tuned!

Ups and downs of spiffing up the home front

The banging began on Monday and I think / hope that I can just make out a bit of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. It all began quietly and quickly enough. A dumpster and modest pile of building supplies were dropped off at the end of my driveway late last week.

Early on Monday, just as the sun was peeking above the horizon, a team of worker bees descended on my mighty castle, the place the lovely Miss Wendy and I have called home for nearly three decades. The plan all along has been to fix a few problems and update everything else – new siding and a few new windows; new granite countertops and appliances in the kitchen; a bit of fresh paint from here to there! Hey, we’re not going anyway. Might as well make what we have as nice and comfortable as possible.

I’m happy to report that the workers are, well, working. They’re energetic, banging away at various tasks from early morning until darkness sweeps across the Land of Cotton. The problems, and there are always problems when ripping apart stuff, have been relatively minor. But the devil’s in the details and I’m the sort of guy who straightens photos on the wall, lines up my shoes and hangs shirts, pants and suits according to color and style.

All of that is to say that I’ve been busy stressing out over siding that isn’t perfectly aligned, bits of trim that doesn't come together nicely, and paint that has sprinkled onto light switches and door hinges. Then there are the dozens of endless decisions – what style to use in placing accent shingles; what color to paint the house and use inside; how best to coordinate new hardware for the cabinets with all the new appliances; where best to cut the granite and place the seam on our new countertop; what sort of lighting fixtures and sizes to purchase for outside? Well, you get the idea.

Meanwhile, dealing with the team of international workers handling all these chores has been challenging. They nod mightily when I make a suggestion, but I’m thinking they don’t have a clue what I’m saying. I certainly don’t understand them. In fact, it took me two days to realize they weren’t speaking Spanish. Turns out the crew doing the bulk of the outside work is from Brazil and speaks Portuguese.

Hunkered down in my little office, I spotted at least a dozen workers from three different companies yesterday. At one point the noise was deafening, a jarring symphony of pounding, banging, hammering, ripping and shouting. But at day’s end, I could start to see all the little pieces falling into place.

In a week or three the work will be complete and Wendy and I will be able to settle back with a sigh – for a moment or so. Then, unfortunately, the real work begins. Somebody has to go through all those boxes we packed up filled with stuff from drawers, cabinets and closets and put everything back. I’m thinking that’s a job that we’ll still be attacking when 2011 has become a fading memory.