This Is Memory

She was the fifth, and last, Grandchild of Dave and Rose Schmidt. I was the first and a boy, something Dave and Rose, having two daughters, had never experienced. I was the first Bris and the first Bar Mitzvah. I was, for the lack of a better term, the male heir. I was the one who taught them to duck when changing diapers. I was special, not because of who I was, but because of an accident of birth. I was simply first. Then came Deena, a couple of years later, the first Granddaughter. She was Allan and Sheila’s first child and to be honest, my memories of her first few years are nonexistent. Probably I was too young. What I know, I know from pictures. The two of us in a crib together or in the bathtub together. Us dressing up in winter clothes in the middle of summer just for the hell of it. She was my first cousin, literally, and that is a bond we have always had and always will. Next came my sister, Andrea. I remember the day she was born. I was nearly five years old and got pawned off on our neighbors the Harac’s. It was late December and there was a lot of snow on the ground. I remember thinking that it sucked that her birthday was so close to Christmas and then I remembered we were Jewish and it didn’t matter. I remember holding her when they brought her home from the hospital. Her tiny fingers and toes amazed me. Even at five, I was awestruck by the amount of love I felt for this miniature human being my parents produced. Those parents, Jerry and Phyllis, called it a day after she was born. Two kids, one of each flavor, no need to mess up that kind of perfect balance. A mere three months later, Allan and Sheila produced a second Grandson for Dave and Rose. Jonathan was born and I distinctly remember being completely psyched that he was not a she. He evened the score, made the game a fair two-on-two. He would become my teammate, my soul mate, my best friend. When it was time for me to get married, the choice of Best Man was a no brainer. Only one man could ever fill those shoes and it was he. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t enter my thoughts in one way or another. God! Listen to me! I sound like I’m talking about a lover. But really, is there a difference? Should there be? And then came Lora. The fifth, and last, Grandchild of Dave and Rose. One might say she was a little late to the party, arriving when I was 8, Deena about 6, Andrea and Jonathan about 3. Out of all of them, it is her infancy I remember best as I was old enough to do so. And I remember how once again the balance was upset. Allan and Sheila had gone and tipped the scales in the favor of the dreaded girls. And boy, this one knew how to play the game like a pro. Never permanently aligning herself with any one side. Subtly moving in the direction of whichever “team” was ahead, and abandoning that ship the second it looked like they might start to sink. There were many late night arguments over who was right on so many mundane, childish situations. But she knew what she was doing, this one, and she seemed to live to make us wonder where she was going to be standing when we all woke up the next morning. We poo-pooed her now and then, she was the baby after all. And in that unfair, older sibling/cousin kind of way, we treated her badly at times. But through it all she knew we loved her. Love her still. With all our hearts. Allow me to interject something here. For those of you who know why I am writing this, I need to be very clear about one thing; this is not a eulogy. This is memory. My memory. It is not just what I choose to remember, it is what I do remember. It is the past, my past, our past. Our history as not just cousins, but as friends. What is important to know is that we were cousins in relationship and name only. From the very beginning, we were friends. We talked like friends, played like friends, fought like friends and made up like friends. Best Friends. As kids we played together all the time and one of our favorite games was Hide and Seek. Who doesn’t love Hide and Seek? I remember mostly playing it inside, in the Winter, at night, when outside wasn’t an option. And one particular night made us all realize how special, and resourceful Lora was. I don’t remember who was “It” but I remember that we all looked for Lora for a very long time. Not hours, mind you, maybe only fifteen minutes or so. But when you’re playing that game in a two thousand square foot house, with limited hiding places, fifteen minutes can be a very long time. Lora was maybe four or five, I’m not exactly sure, and when we finally found her we all bowed down to her greatness. Her hiding place? In the laundry room. In the dryer. Under a load of clean whites. If that happened today, our parents would have most likely been subject to arrest. If there is a greater example of household-type child endangerment that exists, I can’t think of it. But back then, in the mid-seventies, it was just plain funny. And brilliant. She’s a tough one, that fifth Grandchild. She didn’t take any shit off of any of us. If she felt she was getting the short shrift in a board game, at the dinner table, or on the ski slopes, she let us know it. It seemed like her favorite expression was “NOT FAIR.” We heard it a lot because, like any self respecting older friends, we did try to take advantage of her once in a while. But we always lost. She fought tooth and nail for our respect and we gave it to her. Not grudgingly either, but gladly. We gave it to her because she wanted it and because she deserved it. I remember a particular time on the ski slopes of Stratton Mountain. It wasn’t a huge run nor a small one either. And when it came time for us to go one of us couldn’t seem to do it. That one ended up navigating the slope from top to bottom on her ass. I’m a bit ashamed at the memory now, as being the oldest I’m sure the responsibility to help fell to me. But I just forged ahead, weaving my way down to the bottom. I’m pretty sure the four of us went up and down that hill three times before she got all the way to the bottom. And no, it wasn’t Lora. It was my sister, Andrea. I wonder, is it too late to apologize? I hope not because I truly am sorry. You see, Lora couldn’t stop to help because as I see it, it might have shown weakness on her part. Being the youngest, she couldn’t afford that. She would have needed someone older (probably me) to stop first. Then it would be okay. But if I wasn’t going to do it, she wasn’t either. I think it was her way of showing she belonged. That she wasn’t the baby. That she was one of us. What she didn’t know until much later, is that she was always one of us. We were one entity really. When the five of us were together there didn’t really seem to be an age difference between us. As we got older we lived, and treated each other, on the same level. Yes, we fought. What friends don’t? But our existence seemed to almost depend on each other. In ways that are somewhat difficult to describe, we played off each other like a finely tuned ensemble. When one of us was missing, for whatever reason, we were a tad out of tune. But together, the sound was sweet, unmatched, and glorious. In 1979 Allan and Sheila packed up their brood and moved them off to Israel. The land of milk and honey. They endeavored to live the dreams of their parents, of Dave and Rose and Irving and Ida. And not to be unfair, their dreams as well. I have always said that to have the kind of passion that they all now have, to live in a place where they are constantly in the line of fire, and to do so willingly, is worthy of all the admiration I can muster. But back in 1979, as far as I was concerned, they might as well have moved to Mars. All I knew was that my friends were gone. I was bitter and angry and I felt cheated. In truth, to a certain extent, I still feel that way today. And I’m a grown man who should know better. There were some very lean years. Starting about 1981 or 1982 we went a while where we weren’t really in touch. I was in college and the rest were teenagers who had more pressing things on their minds than keeping in touch with their friends half a world away. But that didn’t last long. I married my beautiful wife Victoria in 1993 and that day lives on as the only time since 1979 that we were all together in one place. Four generations celebrating the marriage of the first Grandchild of Dave and Rose. They were all there along with their children, Phyllis and Sheila, and their husbands Jerry and Allan. Lora with her fiancé Dovi, and Jonathan, my Best Man. My sister Andrea, her husband (at the time) Gary and their son Jake (in utero). And Deena, along with her husband Oded and their son Asaf, who was the lone representative of the fourth generation. There is a wonderful picture from that day of all of us together. I’ll put it up here soon. You should see it. It tells its own remarkable story because four weeks later, to the day, Rose passed away. It was almost as if she decided that having all of us together, and after fourteen long years apart, she was able to let go and move on. But that time, and that day, represented more than that. It was a reconnection of sorts. A time for us to remember what we meant to each other when we were young. A time to decide to move forward in the manner in which we were meant to be. As one. As friends. A year or so later Victoria and I traveled to Israel for Lora’s wedding to Dovi. It was a magnificent occasion, a whirlwind of a week, and it meant the world to me to be there. I missed, for a variety of reasons, Deena and Oded’s wedding. But to be there for Lora and Dovi, well, it was special. A word about Dovi. In 2004 he, Lora and their children visited us here in the States. While they were at our home, we suffered together through the four day blackout of August of that year. My overriding memory of Dovi at that time is this: I wake up at 3:00 AM needing to use the bathroom. Of course, I go outside to do so, off the deck, because without power our toilets wouldn’t flush. I find Dovi out there, with the propane grill all fired up, warming up a bottle in a pot of water for their infant daughter Gali. It was apparent to me that Lora had found someone equally as resourceful as she is. Dovi is a mountain of a man. An “Andre the Giant” sort of man. He is, simply put, very large. But I have never in my life met a kinder, gentler soul who brings out the best in everyone he touches. It is very easy to see why Lora fell in love with him. He has a way of talking to you like you are the only one in the room and I am a better person for having the privilege of knowing him. No matter what the future holds, he needs to know that he is as much a part of what we are as Lora is. We are not just five. With wives and husbands included we are ten. And he is as an integral part of that as any of us. A year after that I traveled across the Earth again, this time solo, for Jonathan’s marriage to Shani. Another incredible occasion and another whirlwind week highlighted, for me, by a turbo prop plane ride from Tel Aviv to Eilat at 5:00 in the morning. A ride, which if I was given the choice to repeat, I would choose not to. Truthfully, I’d rather have root canal. He reciprocated, by the way, and allowed me the honor of serving as his Best Man. I don’t need to go into what that meant to me, now do I? Six years ago I had the pleasure of accompanying my daughter, Rachel, on her first trip to Israel. The occasion this time was the Bat Mitzvah of Deena’s daughter Idit. Rachel and Idit had bonded somewhat before that when Idit had traveled here. Now, my little girl had the opportunity to connect with all of her cousins. She clowned around with Kfir, Reut and Lilach (Jonathan’s). She cooked with Asaf, danced with Michal, talked more with Idit and played with Nir (Deena’s). And she made a real connection with Liron and Gali (Lora’s). Since that time, each of my children have made connections with their Israeli cousins. Cousins who they can now also call friends. It’s neat to see how things change, but stay the same. How they evolve and come full circle, moving in a natural progression sort of way, no matter what the distance that separates the individuals involved. That trip we took in 2007 also represents the last time the Grandchildren of Dave and Rose were together as one. We laughed and we cried. We told secrets and opened to each other in ways that we hadn’t done in years. We reveled in the love we have for one another and secretly wished that we could have those kind of moments more often. Now, it has become apparent that we will not ever have that moment again. Circumstances far beyond our control have dictated that it isn’t to be. But I’m not giving up that easily. I will not let go of the memory, and I will not let go of the silent promise we made to each other so many years ago. I love my four friends. They know that I love them and I always will love them. They do not have to be here with me to know that. They do not have to be on this Earth to know that. All they need to know is what we have been, what we are, and what we will forever be. We will always be one. We will always be friends. The fifth Grandchild needs to know that regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the despair and the pain, and regardless of the utter unfairness of life, this is memory, and our bond will forever remain unbroken.