"Miss You Desperately"

"Miss You Desperately" was how Noreen often closed her letters and e-mails. I'd say "to me" but I suspect that whoever she wrote to, someone a long way off, geographically, got the same closing. Still, it always seemed so personal to me. Made me feel significant. She was the only person I have ever known to use such a phrase--whether she made it up or adopted it I don't know--and I loved it.

I think about Noreen often. She became a friend when she was engaged to, and then married Gary, with whom I had not only attended college, but shared that bonding experience of our then student run radio station, WFUV, Fordham University, New York.

One of the parties I used to have in my father's Bronx apartment before I left home for Califoria

They married in the late 1970s, and my life's journey took me to California only a few years later, so over the years I saw far too little of her, something I still regret. Yet though rare, and too brief, my encounters with her were always a joy. Our conversations--I particularly remember one when she and Gary came to California and we were on the boat to Catalina--were deep, and satisfying. She had encountered breast cancer personally. I had encountered it in the loss of someone, my mother, to its virulence. So maybe that was part of the bond. There was, also, her particular thoughtfulness, different in kind, from the ordinary. She just was one of those special people you are privileged to meet. I was privileged to meet.

I said I think of Noreen often. Every day, explicitly, or implicitly, as I pass this framed item in my living room.

In 2002, when I made one of my trips to New York, I stayed at the Algonquin Hotel in Mid-town. Back in the 30s, the hotel had been the haunt of various literary figures, Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchly among them, the glitterati literati of the age, known as the Algonquin Round Table. So many quips from the members of that group wended their way into our social consciousness. I was enamored of the place and I so enjoyed my stay there, sipping apple martinis in the lounge, as Mathilda, the house cat sniffed luggage and flicked her tail on the concierge desk, as I ate heartily in the dining room as it appears above, capped with dinners nearby at Sardi's before a Broadway show. I shared my joy with everyone. But it was Noreen who so clearly absorbed my joy, for one day, for a birthday or holiday, I no longer remember which, I received the item above in my mail. She had taken a postcard of the dining room of the Algonquin, provided it an expensive frame and a brass like label to enhance the image. It's not the only thing in this room worth more than money to me, but it is one of the most treasured. The emotional and personal effort in so small an item with such importance to me has always impressed me in a place only a very few have reached.

I think as I write, of an evening, perhaps it was that same year 2002, I can't place it for sure, when Noreen, and Gary, and Len and I sat on their amazing terrace of their home in Westchester, New York facing a lush backyard, and just talked and laughed--their dog was barking furiously at some bug on the floor, and their son, Casey, was practicing his pitching moves silently while we watched--and it was just, well, nice. Surely there would be more of these moments.

Do you know, no I don't think I have told many people this, that Noreen used to call my father and check in on him in conversations he thoroughly enjoyed after I moved to California? She wasn't the only one kind to dad after I left--Len and Andrew were his companions on the stormy night as he waited for his delayed plane to leave for California, when eight months after I moved, so did he. But it was the unique nature of her kindnesses that impressed me, warmed me.

Both Dad and I have stars named after us somewhere in the carpeted skies, courtesy of Noreen. I just love that.

Everything she did, even if it was a small card, seemed personally made, and well considered for the recipient.

In the summer of 2010, I was on one of my visits to New York. It is always hard because the stays are short, and the number of people I hope to see, and not insult by a failure to connect, is disproportionate to the time available. But I had called Noreen to suggest lunch or dinner. She initially declined, and I remember being confused by what sounded like a disinclination to see me rather than a schedule conflict. Something seemed off. And then she called me again and said that she and Gary would be in Manhattan for a play, and while it would be very short, could I meet them at the Hard Rock Cafe in Times Square?  I was delighted.

And so we met, and I think I picked up the small check because I was so happy to see them, amid the crush and voices of tourists. She sent me a lovely thank you note I can't now locate, but am sure I have saved, somewhere. You would have thought I had given her dinner at the Ritz from the generosity of her words. Still, I had felt something was wrong when we met. And I hoped what I thought it might be was not the case.

I was down in Long Beach near the Queen Mary sometime later, the fall, 2010. She had visited Long Beach with me, and Gary and Len, and we had gone to a favorite restaurant of mine in the Long Beach Museum of Art. I wanted to remind her of that wonderful day, and so sent her a phone photo as I had lunch alone down there one day after a hair appointment. I think I was wishing she were there and we were having one of those too rare deep conversations.

Noreen died of the returning relentless cancer soon after.  I look at her still standing Facebook page from time to time. I am glad it is still there. I hope it will always be there in some form after all of us are gone. I regret that I don't stay in touch with Gary and hope that I, that we, will reconnect soon. I keep tabs on Casey, their son, through that same Facebook, who seems to be thriving. I imagine Noreen's delight.

I was going to write, "Noreen, I miss you desperately" but then I realized I feel her around me. And then I look at my beautifully framed postcard, and I am sure she is.

The Way It Was

This next of Dad's writings is especially short, though the entry will not be!

The event which triggered his reverie was my fiftieth birthday, now well over a decade ago. I had decided I wanted to orchestrate a party, at the beach, with people from various parts of my life, then largely the State Bar of California, where I was then working, my college days, and my younger days. I selected a restaurant right by the water, Moonshadows, and booked about five rooms, for myself and those friends who would come into town from the East and from San Francisco, literally right on the beach at the Malibu Beach Inn. 

Among the people I invited, but one who could not attend, was the first woman my father seriously dated, nearly five years after my mother's death in the late 1970s. At the time he was just 60 years old and she was (I guessed, for she has never told me her actual age) about 16 years younger, in her early forties. She was beautiful, a full blooded Greek woman who had managed both career and family, but was then separated from her husband. (She remained separated always, for divorce was not a serious option for her Greek Orthodoxy; she would end up being her "technically" still husband's caregiver at the end of his life for among her qualities was, and is, compassion). She had even attended the same Greek school as had my father, though many years later. She was openly affectionate, and had a boisterous laugh that belied her otherwise quiet charm. And, as my father loved, she was a great dancer. They tore up dance floors in New York, places like the once well established Roseland. If it had been up to me, they would have remained a couple. But it wasn't to be He told he broke up with her because he felt it unfair for someone so young to be placed in danger of having to care for an old man, with a heart condition--dad had his first heart attack at 51, and another, a year or so after they went their separate ways. She would tell me many years later, for I felt a strong need to stay in touch with her, that it had been a mutual decision--the time hadn't been right. I suspect it was also because of her religiously inspired faithfulness even to a separated husband. 

Over the years, any reference Dad made to her was always with fondness, more than fondness. I had invited her, when he turned 80, to come to California and share that milestone with us. She had not been able to come. And again, when I was 50 and Dad was 86, I had invited her but she could not come. Dad pretended that this was as it should be, and that it did not affect him. But of course, it did.

Dad enjoying my party with some of my friends

It just happened that one of my long time friends is also full blooded Greek American and while she did not look exactly like my Dad's former inamorata, I recognized that there was something that was similar about their facial structure. My friend Carol, then approximately the same age as Dad's once love had been some twenty five years before must have looked as Dad remembered her. 

And out of that context, as I now reconstruct it, Dad wrote the following:

What does one do at a party for sixty-three?  Mingle. I mingled. I am well known to most of the invitees.  I enjoyed the hubbub, the handshakes, the hugs--some ceremonial; others more affectionate--the kisses on the cheek.  The clink of glasses and the laughter of my daughter could be heard above the unintelligible hum of many voices speaking at once. It was gay and festive.

A woman came toward me he hands extended and taking mine.  She said her name, but I did not hear it. I was stunned.  She had come after all,I thought. I was silent and unresponsive.  She was still beautiful and surprisingly affectionate considering I had broken off our relationship some twenty-three years ago.  There had been little change after all this time, though I thought she might be a little heavier than I recalled.  She noted my consternation and laughed.

"I'm Carol," she repeated.  She seemed amused. The name penetrated my consciousness and finally, I recovered.  It was not her name, the her of my memory.

Perhaps it was an illusion, but the resemblance was remarkable.

I felt relief, but also regret. It might have been pleasant had she really come, though I probably would have been as awkward as I appeared to Carol.  I realized I would not have been able to maintain the slightest appearance of urbanity.  I needed to explain to Carol. I realized, suddenly, that I was still holding the hands she had extended when we first greeted.  I remembered that she too had been a touching person.

Later, as I mingled once again, I encountered my peripatetic daughter.

"Dad," she asked, "are you ok?"

"Why do you ask?" I responded innocently.

"Well, Carol told me you paled suddenly when you met her.  Are you sure you're ok?"

While Sophia, the object of Dad's wishful mistake, did not come to this party, she did come for a quiet celebration of his 90th birthday, some four years later. By then Dad was ill, and I knew (despite his protestations) that there would be no more chances for a reunion. There was dinner at Madeo, and brunch at the now defunct Mirabelle. It warmed my heart to see Sophia holding Dad's hand as they together walked up the stairs to my church for Mass. He mustered his old charm and as best he could, speaking Italian to the owner of one restaurant, critiquing, sub rosa, the serving of a Bloody Mary in the wrong kind of glass at another. He died three weeks later.

I conclude this entry with a number of photographs from that party which Dad shared with me--he never gave up on trying to get me to tell him how much it all cost; he couldn't fathom I would have a birthday gathering and pay for it.  I realize, and it makes me a little sad, that I have seen very little of many of those who attended over the last years, all people I still have great affection for.  Maybe the time will come for a little reunion. That would be nice. And those I do see regularly, for that I am very grateful. Life is short. It is hard to believe that Dad has been gone over eight years.

Bob P. and Len K.

Diane, Peter, Dane, Adriana and Yvonne

Two Carols, the second is my cousin

Nancy and Maridee

SOME CARDS AND GIFTS, DONATIONS!

Noreen had a star named after me.

Karen, Cyd, Geri Janet and me

Joey, Jim, Mike and Jessie

Mike

Carol, Mike and Me

Ellen, Bob and Len

Geri and Kathy

 Big Donation!

Marc

Another Geri, from Australia and Chris

Me and my pix

Carol, Mike and Me

Bob and Len

Me and Cyd

Cyd and David

Veronica

Jeff and me

Luis and Murray

Dede, Margaret, Jim and Joey

I am a very fortunate person to have or to have had so many wonderful people in my life! Some are gone, and I miss them, but that only makes their importance soar!

Reflections upon Seeing a Child at The Library

Observation, and Remembrance, written by Dad, February 26, 1996

The child was very young, perhaps four or five years old.  He clung to her right hand as if there was no thought of his ever letting go.  She seemed to minister to his need, and, as a consequence, she had great difficulty maneuvering three books to the counter with her left hand. She presented her library card. 

I heard her say to the child, "You know, you have to return these books after you have finished with them."

"Why?" the boy asked.

"Because they belong to the library," she said, "and then you can borrow some more."

Clearly this was his first introduction to books.

The woman was austere. She wore no make-up.  She was tall and thin, and I marveled she could reach so far down to allow the boy the security of her hand, which he still clutched.  He was small. From his garb I guessed he had already been introduced to the world of objective truth--perhaps an introductory taste of self-abnegation. He wore a Yarmulka and the fringes ordained by Torah, hung loosely below his leather jacket.  There was more than security in that gentle hand that he grasped. There was a bond between them, and the promise she would still be there for him when he felt he could release her from that grasp. Three books to start him on his journey of learning and discipline, a quest that began when the world was young.

I felt a twinge of jealousy.  In my childhood, books were not a primary consideration. There was school; but that was a requirement of the laws of this new country to which my father had emigrated. Beyond this requirement, books were a frivolity. There was my father's store. It was summer and vacation time from school. One was never too young to learn about work.

The years fall away.  I am perhaps a year or so older than the boy in the library.  I am on my way to work. It is my first trip alone from the Bronx to Manhattan. I remember. I can hear the rumbling of the massive Third Avenue elevated train that snaked its way, high upon massive pillars of steel, towards the 149th Street Station, where one debarked for the IRT, that thunderous subterranean Seventh Avenue express that would take me to my destination.

So it was, on that day, I descended to the underground station in time for the arrival of the train which was screeching to its customary halt.  I was confident and proud that I would accomplish this trip alone and unaided.  I had come this way several times before, but not by myself. But the sounds were familiar so I mounted the train, savoring the praise that would surely come from my father and the other admiring adults at the store.

When the train made a turn I did not recognize, terror set in.  When it made its first stop, my terror increased. "Mott Street" said the signs on the massive terra cotta walls. When the few passengers who had entered the train with me were gone, I was alone in a silent, high-domed vastness. Distant footsteps echoed menacingly.

Passengers for the next train began to arrive. The enormity of my peril, not another nickel for fare, even if I knew how to get back. I began to cry. A crowed gathered about me. My tearful incoherence made no sense to anyone. Many of the put nickels an dimes into my hands "You took the wrong train," was repeated over and over again  Everyone had advice which I did not understand.  Finally, a woman took me by the hand and led me to an overpass that traversed the tracks.  We rode back, together, her hand still holding mine.  We recrossed the tracks as a train was arriving.  I started forward. She restrained me.  "It's the wrong one," she said.  "There are two Seventh Avenue Expresses at this station.

She was still holding my hand as she placed me on the correct car  She bent down, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and a quarter.

I was one dollar and forty cents richer--an enormous sum  I have no recollection on how I spent this fortune, but I still remember the kiss and the comforting warmth of her hand.

Caprice

My father in 1989

I haven't been incorporating Dad's writing of late. There are just so many pieces that it is, frankly, overwhelming to be retyping them (scanning wouldn't be clear enough for ease of reading) and, I think, it is impersonal to do it that way. And, for some reason, I have been feeling inertia.  I have not been tackling many of the things on my long term "to do" list.  Then a sudden spark of realization of the transience of life in general, and mine, in particular, reminds me--at this stage of life I cannot assume the long term. And whatever I am going to leave behind for a memory of my immediate family, as I am its terminus, is only going to be in the computer ether. This generates urgency.

Let's see how long the current resolve lasts. Probably not long. But at least now, this moment, another of Dad's stories, this one about his response to a political call for a local candidate back in the 1990s. 

The voice had a child-like quality.  I could not immediately place her age. 
"Is this the Gochis residence?"

High school or early college--a newly installed telemarketer, I thought. But I wasn't sure. I decided to use my least offensive method for cutting unwanted calls short.

"Mr. Gochis is on a tour of the Cayman Islands," I answered.  "I'm the butler."  I find this method useful in discouraging the telemarketers.

She laughed. She was not put off by the tactic and the tinkling sound in her voice tempered my impatience.  I decided, instead, to listen to the sales pitch.

"What's your name?" she countered.  There was generous good humor in her tone.

"My name is Constantine." I replied, fully expecting the usual incomprehension, the hesitant garbling response to the name.

"Contantine!" she exclaimed. "That's a nice name."

I was pleased. I continued with an expanded comment. "Yes, the thirtieth in line from the one who had his head stuck on a pole for talking to the wrong people.  He had unfriendly conversation with Mohammed II when the Ottoman Turk took Constantinople in 1453."

She laughed again.  It had a genuinely pleasant sound.

"I'm not selling, I am offering hope, hope for the children of our schools."

The "children" I thought.  Another chant from the Dome in Washington.  My enthusiasm was slightly dampened.

"Are you running for something?"

"No," she demurred, "just helping the fight."

"Are you in college or an aspiring political who has been promised a fat I.O.U.?"

"I'm a sophomore." 

"What's in this thing for you--a job, a novitiate aspiring to more ambitious internship--pardon the expression."  I felt a little guilt at the question.

"No," she said, without indication of offense taken, "all I want to do is to help Caprice in her work."

"Who is Caprice?" I asked.

"Caprice is our hope for better schools, for the children. She is running for leadership in the coming School Board primary on April 13."

"Rather an unfortunate name for a politician," I suggested.  "Haven't we seen enough capriciousness in politics in the last several years?"

She had no response.  She seemed rather to be reading now.

"Caprice Young is endorsed by the Los Angeles Times. . ."  Mentally, I made this one count against her.

". . . and Mayor Riordan. . ." her voice continued. Again not a recommendation in my book.

". . .she will provide the kind of thoughtful common sense and leadership, and accountability, that our system desperately needs. . ."  I had had enough of the lyrics and so interposed, "Do you believe all of this?"

"Yes, I do," she said with that enthusiasm only possible in the very young and as yet unspoiled.  "Will you come out for her on the 13th?"

I thought it would be sinful to deny her a small victory  Such innocence deserved at least tolerance.  "Yes, I will," I encouraged.  It would be capricious of me not to"

She laughed a third time.

Last night I channel-surfed the news for the election results. If there was any, I missed it.  I learned however that some unfriendly bees were swarming in the vicinity.  On a happy note, the last of a trio of criminal beavers was capture.  California trees are now safe from these marauding dam builders.  Last but not least Arkansas judge Susan Webber Wright discovered that President Clinton lied.  Now that's news.

Senior Sunday

I was on my way up to see my nonagenarian friend at her nursing home, as I do several times a week, and stopped, as is my habit, at a specific Starbuck's along the way. As this is the Labor Day Weekend, and traffic is comparatively light (though not as light as I would have thought it would be) I decided not only to get a sandwich but to purchase and read The Wall Street Journal. In the non-news life exploration section was a single review of two books about aging. Ah, that happy subject! A few blog entries back I stirred that pot, but is it my fault that I ran across these articles that thrust my mind back to the minefield that is getting old--ER?  I submit that it is not! So onward in the wretched reverie that makes so many retch, so to speak.

The two authors, Ian Brown and Willard Spiegelman, one just 60 and the other in his 70s, have distinctly opposed views of what the reviewer labels, "Life in the Fourth Quarter". The former is wildly pessimistic in view of all the things he says are failing in mind and body, the '"slippery indignity of the stinking slide' into decrepitude". Whoa! If I was jarred by a friend's comment that we were all decaying, this one really delivered a gut punch. I had to double check. Did they say he was 60?  Really, is it that bad?  I guess so, since he is anticipating nothing on the "other side" or rather, he anticipates there is no "other side." The other writer's themes seem to more accord with mine, a couple of years older though I am than Mr. Brown. Mr. Spiegelman presents essays, I am told by the reviewer, Gerard Helferich, and they look back with some sense of satisfaction, as well as the hope of a future, albeit not as long as what has gone before.

Having savored my Turkey Pesto and mentally consumed the articles that interested me in the Journal, I was back on the road to the nursing home. I have to say, I have seen more sort of family oriented movies courtesy of my visits. I say, "sort of" because even this one, "Baby Boom" from 1987 had a spot of non-G rated nudity. So, there I was, amid fifteen or so eldsters, and one nurse, Jackie, fully engulfed in the story of a woman who did finally have it all-a child and a career--but on her own terms, a nice Hollywood fiction. And there was even a young James Spader with a nice full head of hair playing a corporate young gun. I was going to leave right after the movie. I was even offered some cake and ice cream, which in my current focus on the need to lose weight so I don't have a stroke (also an age related theme), I declined. And then a cloud of pink in a large red hat appeared. This I understood was the pianist. I hadn't quite absorbed the outfit when she said something like, "I know you want to know about what I am wearing." I might have described it as a pink tee shirt with some embossed picture sewn onto a lace table cloth. And that's what she said it was. She had created the couture of the day. And then she sat down and without music in front of her played tune after tune breaking only to say hello to a friend who had come into the room, a man she noted had never neen married and for whom she was seeking a mate. She added, looking directly at me, "I'm a match-maker too!"  I replied, "I am not surprised." I don't know what the man's, I think his name was Jerry, issues were such that he had never taken the marital leap, but I took me and my issues out the door while the Lady in Pink continued to tickle the ivories with amazing facility.

Here's the thing. She was a bolt of life. Eccentric. Unnerving in her likely lack of boundaries.
She was probably only a little younger than the people she was entertaining, and she was taking her future, however time limited it might turn out to be, by storm. I admired her.

Last night, a bunch of us went to the last Hollywood Bowl of the season, featuring the wonderful and reliable John Williams, a movie music legend, he of the Star Wars tracks, fro 1977 to date. I brought a light saber I ordered on Amazon so I could join all the other fans in waving light during the accompaniment of oncoming storm troopers on screen.

I guess you could say I have always been a bit eccentric. I might be something like that lady at the piano today, in just a few years. I guess I am on the way, and here's another thing, I think I like it.

As my cousin said in her Facebook comment to the posting of my picture, "A Jedi in pearls."

And why not? I sometimes think that maybe in this fourth quarter I will finally overcome the fears and inhibitions that kept me from exploring so much in the first three. Like Mr. Spiegelman I know that a lot is dependent on continued good health (despite lots of genetic and life style risks that lurk in my background), but I do pray it is so.

I am older. I know in this picture I don't look much like I did 30 years ago. . .my teeth need whitening, I have a double chin, or two, and as I said, I need to lose weight, lots of it, but I do not plan to go 'gently into that good night."  I hope to learn to dance before the earthly curtain drops, regardless of whether there is oblivion, or as I do believe, something More.