February 21, 2018--Trump Running Scared

As evidence that some of the most arrogant of politicians in America are already feeling the heat being generated by students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, where 17 teens were murdered a week ago, the Florida state legislature, aware that busloads of survivors of that mass shooting were on the road, heading for the capital in Tallahassee, 400 miles north, before even showing them the courtesy of a meeting, like the cowards they are, they voted overwhelmingly not even to consider, not even debate about ways to control the kinds of weapons of mass destruction the shooter used to mow down their classmates.

They exposed themselves--only cowards are afraid to talk. 

All those tough-guys (mostly men) who attend Florida legislative sessions with their openly-carried hand guns stuffed in the pants (how appropriate), sensing the potential political power these children are generating, hid in their offices during the morning and then later vacated them hours before these children arrived, after attending, earlier in the day, another funeral of one of their classmates, before these survivors arrived to share their stories and to seek the help of adults sworn on their bibles to protect them in their classrooms as gun violence in the schools turns more and more deadly, before being confronted by representatives of the youth of Florida, who they claim to represent these useless legislators voted as they did, not even having the courage to wait to talk with these constituents about gun control. 

Instead, they up and ran for cover.

Cringing behind their desks and feeling manly clutching their weapons, may bring them a sense of protection, but these students, in a campaign that is rapidly taking hold in high schools across the country are in fact a real threat to them and their undeserved prerogatives. 

These children are bringing at last a reckoning. A powerful one, one that hopefully will begin to mean "never again," one of their tag lines, knowingly or not, similar to the "never again" avowed by Jews who survived the Holocaust.

Another coward, cringing in his gilded bunker in Washington, a coward who sought and secured five phony deferments so he would not have to serve in the army during the Vietnam era, that tough-talking coward, who some call "our president," is at least willing to talk or, as he promises, listen during a meeting later today at the White House that will include some of the Stoneman-Douglas survivors.

This pretender is not prone to listen to anyone about anything must be running scared because otherwise he would be lying in bed as usual this afternoon taking an "executive break," watching Fox News while gorging himself on Big Macs. We'll see if he can sit still longer than the usual 15 minutes he is capable of concentrating.

If he thinks he can cool these kids out by inviting them to their (not his) White House, he shouldn't hold his breath because these children, many already old enough to vote, with hundreds of thousands more eligible to do so in just a few months, in November during the midterm elections, they, and not you, Mr. president will ultimately determine who sits in state legislators, houses of Congress, and, yes, even in the office you illegitimately hold.

Your directing the Attorney General to do the paper work to ban the use of "bump stocks" that turn semi-automatic, military-style weapons into automatic weapons of bloodshed is evidence of how scared you are of the power of these kids. This is begrudging acknowledgment that as rigid as you have proven to be they are bringing fear to your heart, which must be a feeling familiar as Robert Mueller's noose tightens. 

Nothing that you do will deter or distract them. They are unleashed and activated and will not be bought off by phony listening sessions or White House tours. 

They are coming for you for a reckoning and you should be scared for your political life and already shaky place in history because that is what a reckoning is--holding people like you responsible for things you are constitutionally required to do. 

It is obvious that this means nothing to you. You do not even understand your sacred constitutional role. But they do. They have been paying attention in their American history classes. 

These kids are on the move not only to take their protection into their own hands but to teach any of us who may have forgotten or, like you, never even paid attention or understood, what America means.

But you do have strong survival skills--that I'll grant you--and though you truly do not understand you are feeling sacred. 

As you should be.

February 28 2017--A Week Without Trump: Intentional Walk

Let's see how I do today--

Spring training is underway all over Florida except near Donald Trump's Palm Beach spread, Mar-a-Lago. The Secret Service is shunted visiting crowds away as well as shutting down local airports. But  Major League teams are making the best of the tumultuous situation.

Also, in an effort to speed up the game, they are meddling with one of baseball's most cherished strategies--the intentional walk.

For non-aficionados, an intentional walk or base-on-balls is when a team decides not to pitch to a hot hitter and on purpose the pitcher throws four out-of-the-strike-zone pitches and, with the umpire signaling ball four, the batter trots off to first base.

This takes about 30 seconds. Which appears to be too much time for desperate officials worried about the bottom line. They are eager to add excitement to the game. Like football or basketball they believe that making things move along quicker is the key to engaging alienated young fans who like football's hurry-up offenses, tennis' tie-breakers, hockey's shoot outs, and basketball's 24-second clock.

Baseball has already changed the rules so that batters, once at home plate and in the batter's box are not allowed to step away to readjust their batting gloves, spit, or scratch their crotches.

Also under discussion is reducing the number of times pitching coaches would be allowed to visit the mound to talk with pitchers and the institution of a pitch clock. Baseball's equivalent to basketball's 24-second version.

I hate all of these ideas.

It would be like reducing the number of characters Donald Trump could use when tweeting. Say 130, rather than the traditional 140. What it would do to him is a version of what these schemes would do to our national pastime--dilute and distort things to which we have become accustomed.

In baseball's case, time is irrelevant. In a speeded-up world where time is money baseball remains a haven of calm where time does not intrude or rule. It moves with an unhurried rhythm and pace of its own.

It's bad enough that all ballparks have installed Jumbotrons and blast rock and roll and rap music between innings. But to put pressure on teams to end games in less than two hours when virtually all memorable games unwind for up to four hours would be to change baseball from something it culturally always has been--a boys' (an now girls') game more suited to rural America than urban three-on-three schoolyard basketball pick up games. Baseball has been a reliable place of peace in a world of ceaseless action and conflict.

Moving things along in baseball should remain a small-ball goal for batters--hitting behind baserunners so that they can be moved along from first to second base.

Intentional bases on balls are an integral part of baseball's aesthetic and lore and can at times lead to surprising results. It should be an easy thing for pitchers to lob out-of-the-strike-zone tosses to their catchers. But at times they have erred--the concept of error, taking responsibility, also remains an essential metaphoric part of the game--bouncing one in the dirt where it eludes the catcher and the man on third comes scampering home with the winning run. Or at times when the batter manages to reach out of the strike zone and hits the weakly tossed ball for a homer or game-winning sacrifice fly as the Yankee's Gary Sanchez did late last season. A baseball example of the occasional power of upending the predictable.

There is yet one more crackpot idea under consideration--to shorten tied games as the teams move to extra innings the leagues are considering starting each at bat by placing a runner on second base so that the hitting team immediately has a runner in scoring position.

Baseball has traditionally rewarded scrappiness and this proposal to, without effort, give teams base runners, a leg up, is antithetical to the game's culture of hard work and limited reward where players can achieve Hall of Fame numbers by succeeding, making a hit, just three times for every 10 trips to the plate--what 300 hitters eek out.

I won't be making it this year to the Grapefruit League--too much tumult in South Florida when Trump is in residence--but I'll be watching on TV and following closely what is being done to spoil the game I love so much.

*   *   * 

Returning to my agenda for the week--I think I mentioned Trump only three times, which makes me feel I am making progress. The fever seems to be abating, the cold sweats too, as well as the detox tremors. Three more days to go. Let's see how I do after his address tonight to a joint session of Congress. Hopefully . . .

January 5, 2016--Snowbirding: Adieu to Balthazar (Concluded)

Early-Bird Special

Ten days later, with my mother still very much alive—actually quite recovered with many months and possibly many more years to live (so said her team of doctors)--after catching an early afternoon movie at the local Regal Multiplex, the 3:00 p.m. show of True Grit, which we were surprised to see played to a house two-thirds full of seniors with no one munching on anything and no one talking to the screen in a loud voice, still with no return tickets to New York and no plans to purchase them—Alice suggested that rather than eating leftovers at our rented condo by the ocean, maybe we should try the Chinese restaurant, the China Diner, at an adjacent shopping plaza.

“But it’s not even six o’clock,” I whined.  “No one eats dinner that early.  Other than my mother and her friends.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alice said, “Half the people down here eat at this time.  You know that.  We’re hungry, right?”  I sheepishly nodded, “So stop pretending we’re back in Greenwich Village and let’s see if we can get a table.”

“There should be no trouble with that,” I offered in a mocking tone.  “It’s so ridiculously early.  For God sakes it’s still daylight.”

In fact I was quite wrong--there were no tables inside and even all the seats at the sushi-bar-like counter were occupied.  “This must be at least a decent place,” I said, “to be so busy so early.” 

Alice looked at me as if to say, “You’re so naïve.  We’ve been here long enough for even you to know about early-bird specials.” 

But there was an empty outdoor table, and even though it was situated virtually in the shopping plaza’s parking lot, and since we were in fact hungry, we slid into the last available seats. 

“I’m sure we won’t run into anyone from New York.  It would be terrible if the word got out that we’re having dinner this early,” I said, and, just in case, slipped lower in my seat and hid my face behind the plastic-sheathed menu.

“You’re being silly,” Alice said, “Just look at the specials.  They sound quite good.  There’s steamed sea bass with scallions and ginger and one of your favorites, Singapore Chow Mei Fun.  Though I wonder if they’ll use enough curry.”  She looked around at our neighbors as if to indicate that considering the age of the other diners it would likely be tamer than I would prefer and am used to when we order it at the Big Wong back in New York’s Chinatown.

The waitress appeared, smiling broadly, to ask if she could bring us something to drink.  “Just tea and ice water,” I said.  “I see you have pu erh tea.  It’s our favorite.”

When she returned with our beverages she asked, “When did you get here?”

“A few days ago,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”  It seems like a strange question.

“I mean this afternoon.  I mean here this eve-n-ing.”  She pointed at her watch and the table.

“Oh, you mean at the restaurant.  I don’t know.  Maybe 15 minutes ago.”

She smiled broadly, “That good,” she said, “Still early-bird time.  You can have soup or an egg roll with your order.  No charge.”

“But we don’t want that,” I said, “We’re interested in the steamed fish and . . .”

“It all comes.”

“What comes?”

“Before six you get soup or egg roll.  For free.  It comes.”

“Thank you.  That’s nice.  But we just want the sea bass, the Singapore noodles, and also some Chinese eggplant with mushrooms and water chestnuts.”

“No soup?”  She scrunched her face in a look of puzzlement.

“No, just that,” Alice said, sharing the responsibility for our seemingly unusual order.  Actually, our mutually-agreed-upon decision not to participate in any Florida freebies.

“You can take home later,” she persisted.

“We’ll be fine.  But thank you for suggesting that.”

The dinner turned out to be quite good.  Not exactly Chinatown quality, of course; and, as expected, the Singapore was a bit tame for me, but it was much more than just respectable.  Not what one would expect at a Chinese restaurant called the China Diner in an unprepossessing shopping mall right next door to a nail salon.

As she cleared the table, the waitress seemed happy that unlike the other customers we had eaten virtually everything on our plates with chopsticks, not forks.  Smiling broadly, she asked if we wanted the pistachio ice cream that came with the dinner.

We both rubbed our distended stomachs and simultaneously said, “No, but thank you very much.”

“You sure?” she asked, again looking puzzled, “It comes.  No charge.”

“Really, we’re stuffed,” I said.  “Just the check, please.”

As she turned to get it for us, a 70-something woman at the next table called out, “What about us?  We want our ice cream.  Pistachio.  I love pistachio.  It’s my favorite with Chinese food.”

The waitress, once more taking a long look at her watch, responded curtly, “You had the soup, yes, and the egg roll, no?  Both.  I make exception for you. You just get two. Not three.” 

The woman, ignoring that, more insistently demanded, “I want my ice cream.  Pistachio.”

“But you had egg roll and wonton soup.  I told you it comes with either one.  But you wanted both so I give to you.”

“What about them?”  She waived her bejeweled finger in our direction.  I was cringing, sorry I no longer had the menu behind which I could hide.  “You told them they could have pistachio.”

“They had no soup.  No egg roll.  Neither.  Not even one.”

The woman tapped her husband on the arm.  It looked as if he had fallen asleep over his dinner and when she poked him he jolted into consciousness, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.  In an even louder voice she broadcast, “She says they didn’t have the soup.” 

“The what?  What did you say?”

“She says they didn’t have the soup or the egg roll.  And now she says we can’t have ice cream.  Though she wants them to have theirs.  Talk to her will you.”

But before he could, to our great relief, the waitress said, “I’ll bring you two orders of ice cream.”  So as not to be misunderstood, she wiggled two fingers in their line of sight.  “Two.”

“Morris doesn’t eat ice cream.  He has cholesterol.  So bring two scoops for me.”  The waitress, expressionless, nodded and turned abruptly to get our check and their two scoops of pistachio.  She had clearly seen it all.

Witnessing this exchange, I wondered again about the wisdom of eating so early.  But the food had been excellent and I sheepishly said to Alice, “If we come back for another dinner, we should be sure to arrive after 6:30 and take our chances that they’ll still be open.” 

“And,” Alice said, “we’ll remember to ask them to make the Singapore Chow Mei Fun spicier.”

To that I wondered out loud, “But what will we tell everyone back at Balthazar?”

January 4, 2016--Snowbirding: Adieu to Balthazar (Part One)

Adieu to Balthazar

Breakfast at Balthazar

"You're going where?"  This edgy query from Peggy Samson, the noted performance artist and Balthazar regular.  For the past five years, she and Alice and I and a group of others have been gathering for morning coffee and talk at this impossible-to-get-a reservation-at brasserie in Manhattan’s Soho.

"You know where."

"To do what?"  This from George Wyatt, architect to the very rich and almost famous.

"You know for what," I said feebly.

"And for how long?"  This from Sharon Short, the gorgeous and brilliant executive editor of one of America's leading fashion magazines who is best known in the business for being the first to take note of the flip-flop revolution.

"A week or two," Alice added quickly. "We'll be back before you know we're gone."

"Florida is where you're going," Peggy said, "Don't try to hide the truth from me. You know how intuitive I am.  You’re going to Florida where everyone is waiting to die."

"That's what Florida means in Spanish," world-class sociologist, James Hilberson chimed in with his faux British accent and the beginnings of a derisive smile.  He first became well know for his research on Bangkok rent boys. "'Waiting to die' is what ‘Florida’ means in Spanish.  The Conquistadors went there looking for the Fountain of Youth but instead discovered Medicare." 

Everyone, including Alice and I joined in the laughter.

"We're just going there to spend a few days with my 99-year-old mother,” I said.  “She had a small stroke.  One never knows about things of this kind for someone that old."

“You won’t be turning into one of those Snowbirds, will you?”

“What kind of bird was that?” George Wyatt looked puzzled.  He is not known to be much of a naturalist.  He spends all of his time indoors in chic cafés and 30,000 square foot houses.

“The kind of bird that goes south for the winter,” Sharon said.  Environmentally minded, she is a patron of the Audubon Society.

James added, “Like the Arctic Tern.  Except that Snowbirds fly south on Jet Blue.”

“Aren’t they extinct, like the Dodos?” George was showing off his erudition.

“Far from it,” Sharon laughed.  “Snowbirds are very much alive if you call going to Florida for the winter living.”  I chuckled along with her and the rest of our friends.

Looking to change the subject, Peggy still couldn’t resist saying, "And while you're down in Florida maybe look for a condo for yourselves.  You're not that young, Lloyd.  Alice, on the other hand is another matter.  She's still a child.” At that Alice nodded in agreement with her newest best friend. “And you have the time--you're between documentaries and Alice's job at the university doesn't require much of her.  She can telecommute. Or just like always continue to have coffee until 10:30 and then drift in for a few hours. Not like the rest of us who have real jobs."

"You call running around naked on stage splashed with paint a real job? " George said sotto voce but intentionally loud enough for all to hear.  But then, full voiced, looking directly at me, added, "If I hear that you're wearing a white belt and going to early-bird dinners I promise you I’ll fly down there and . . ."

"On one of your client’s private jets, George?" James needled him.  He thinks of himself as a man of the people in spite of his endowed chair and penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.

Ignoring that, with a flip of the wrist, George continued, "As I was attempting to say, if I hear that you’ve taken up shuffleboard, I'll be on the first flight to bring you to your senses and put you on the next plane north."

"Look, we hate it there too,” I was quick to assure them, “All those gated communities and shopping plazas.  Where everyone is hard of hearing.  Did you ever go to the movies in Florida? It's a nightmare. Everyone talking so loud you can't hear the soundtrack."

"Exactly,” Peggy gleefully chimed in, “I can hear them now talking to the screen--'What? What did he say?' ‘Who? Her? What did she say?' And they bring all that food with them.”

“In insulated tote bags,” I said.

“Sandwiches and fruit,” Sharon chirped.

“And cans of Ensure,” James added with a derisive grunt.

Again, we all laughed.

“Speaking of the theater,” Peggy whispered—we all leaned in close so that our heads were almost touching—“Is that Meryl?”

“Who? Where?” Sharon twisted in her chair to get a better look.

“Keep your voice down, will you. Yes her.  Meryl.  Over there in one of the booths.

“You mean across from Yoko?”

“She’s here too?”

“God I just love Balthazar,” Peggy said.  “I wouldn’t want to be caught dead anywhere else in the morning.  And where will you darlings be?” she asked turning back to Alice and me.  “I mean in Florida.  The coffee is just awful.  It must be all the chlorine in the water.”

“As I said,” Alice said, “we’ll only be there for a week or ten days at the most.  Remember, she’s in a coma.”

Annoyed, I corrected her, “That’s not true.  She only had a small stroke.  That’s hardly being in a coma.”

“But Lloyd, doesn’t this mean that you’ll be missing the TriBeCa Film Festival?  Aren’t they showing one of your things about the Beat Generation?  And isn’t Bobby De Niro going to introduce it?  I mean,” Peggy said, “if your mother’s not in a coma can’t you postpone your trip.  I mean, Bobby will be there.

Mother Sterling In the IC

Later that day Alice and I were sitting at my mother’s bedside in the neurology ICU, sipping watered-down coffee from a paper cup.  She was sleeping, snoring loudly enough to blot out the sounds of the beeping telemetry devices and the incessant chatter on the hospital intercom.

“Do you think she knows we’re here?” I asked, speaking softly.

“How could she, she’s in a coma.”

“I don’t know why you keep saying that.  I spoke with her doctor and he didn’t say she was in a coma.  She just had a stroke.  A small one.”

“At her age, 99, there is no such thing as a small stroke.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Well, we’re scheduled to be here for a few days, but one never knows . . .”

“Again, you keep saying that.”

“And again you’re in denial.”

“And?”
“And, I say, if she wakes up, I mean,” Alice quickly corrected herself, “when she wakes up I think we should tell her we’ll stay in Florida for as long as she’s in danger.  And—listen to me calmly—considering her age and condition, I think we should tell her we’ll be staying here indefinitely, not put a time limit on it.  Until she, until the . . .  Do I need to be more explicit?”

“But . . . ?”

“I know you hate it here.  You never seem to tire of reminding me about that.  You hate everything, including the coffee.   But coffee isn’t the meaning of life.” 

She saw me  staring into my cup.  “Well, I admit it, it’s important to me.  Both literally and metaphorically.”

“You and your metaphors.  And I know you can’t stand all the driving.  You’re so addicted to taxis and restaurants.  We’re staying in a nice place on the beach.  And we drove by a few restaurants that look halfway decent.  Look,” I kept peering at my coffee, “how long are we really talking about?  She’s been a wonderful mother to you, to both of us.  Neither one of us would have a problem being away from work for a few more weeks, so why not make her last days happy?”

“Is that you, darling?”

“What?  Who said that?”

“I know you’re hard of hearing. It’s your mother.  I think she’s rousing.”

“Come to me my darling.  Come here.  I am breathing my last breaths.” 

I turned to her bed and, pushing aside the numerous wires and tubes connected to her so I could get closer, took her hand and with a voice expressing deep concern, said, “Yes, it’s me mom.  Lloyd.  We’re here to take care of you.”

“Do you get anything to eat?” she asked in a voice made husky by the tube in her nose.  “They tell me they serve brisket in the cafeteria.”

“This you heard while you were in a coma?  I mean while sleeping.”

“You wouldn’t believe what you hear when they think you’re dead.”

“Please don’t talk that way.”

“I heard that the end for me is near.”

“No, no, Ma.  You must have been dreaming,” Alice assured her.  “You look fine to me.  You have good color.”

“You must need new glasses,” my mother said, brushing aside Alice’s attempt to make her feel better.  “Take a good look at me.  I look like a corpse.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” I said as gently as possible.  I took another sip of tepid coffee, made a face, and handed the empty cup to Alice.  “The doctors say you had a very, very small stroke and should make a full recovery.  You don’t even have slurred speech and you’re not drooling from one side of your mouth.”

“For me a full recovery means they get me ready for the cemetery.  So I’m happy you made it here so I can say a final goodbye.”

“We just got here, mom.  No need to be saying any goodbyes yet.”

“You are not using your eyes.  Look around.  What do you see?  Someone who’s 99, on her last legs, and who looks like a corpse.”

Ignoring that, Alice moved closer to the bed and, taking my mother’s other hand, with as much love as she could express, with tears in her eyes, said, “Ma, Lloyd and I have made plans to stay here for as long as you need us.”

“You mean you’re not racing to the airport like you always do when you come for what you call a visit?”
“No, we do not even have return tickets,” Alice fibbed, “As I said, we’re here for as long as you need us.”  I nodded in agreement.
Gasping for breath, my mother panted, “Considering my condition . . . that shouldn’t be very long.  If I were you . . . I’d call Jet Blue this afternoon to book return tickets.”

We ignored that as well.  “And remember,” she said as we tiptoed toward the door, “promise me you’ll eat something.”  And with that she fell back to sleep or into a . . .

End of Part One . . .

January 1, 2016--2016

A brief note today to wish everyone a happy new year.

As we will be on the road to Florida, to get in the mood, I will return on Monday with a reprint of the first of the Snowbirding stories--"Adieu to Balthazar."

October 27, 2015--Poor Marco

Poor Marco Rubio.

Like so many Americans, he hates his job.

He literally told that to a friend.

That he hates his day job as senator.

On Sunday he said that he's seen enough and thus won't run for reelection. He failed to note he would not be able to run concurrently for the Senate and the White House--it's against Florida law.

But he apparently doesn't hate it enough to quit. He must like pulling down that $174K a year Senate salary.

And it's unlikely he'll get fired even though for at least the past two years he pretty much stopped showing up for work. Apparently senators get paid by the taxpayers even if the are AWOL. No one clocks them in or out. No one supervises them as they would be if they had a real job.

It not that he hates being in DC. Quite the contrary.

He hasn't been seen in the Senate because the job he wants, also in Washington, is the presidency and he has spent all his waking and dreaming hours campaigning for it. Not at his own expense, mind you, but supported by campaign contributions and as a result of the largesse of his principal backer, Norman Braman, a south Florida car dealer and billionaire.

Norman's been slipping cash to Marco and his wife for years and in return, as he had said publicly, when he telephones his protégée, he gets his calls returned pronto.

You bet.

When pressed last week by Matt Lauer about his no-show job on Capital Hill, Rubio, with moral indignation and a straight face, said, "I'm not missing votes because I'm on vacation. I'm running for president so that the votes they take in the Senate are actually meaningful again."

Clever boy.

Still with a straight face, he went on to say, "My ambitions are for the country and Florida. [If I'm elected] we can begin to fix some of these issues that I've been so frustrated we've been unable to address during my time in the Senate."

He isn't frustrated enough about life in the Senate to motivate him to say--

"Enough. I've been in Washington now for four and a half years years and from the inside I know how things work. I am so disgusted [are you listening Tea Partiers?], and so I quit.  You might wonder," he could add, "why I am running for the presidency, the most Washington-establishment job there is. Good question. I am doing it to shake up and change everything. To scale back the government we all hate."

And, he might add, he's not doing it just for the money. Though the president gets paid $400K a year, pockets another $175 more for expenses, and has that wonderful big jet to fly around in.

This is a lot more than Rubio's been getting from Godfather Braman.

But that would require more integrity than he has thus far displayed.

In the meantime, he's planning to keep depositing his Senate salary checks and not showing up very often.

Norman Braman and His "Boy" Marco Rubio 

July 3, 2105--My Favorite "Ladies of Forest Trace" Story

As you might imagine, I have been doing a lot of thinking about my mother. She died two days ago at the age of 107 plus three days.

During the past 7 or 8 years I've written more than 50 stories about her and posted them here with the running title, The Ladies of Forest Trace.  I have received comments from people far and wide, mainly strangers, who have written things such as--

Thank you so much for sharing your mother with us all these years. She is a treasure, and will be part of so many people's memories. I am so sad that she will soon be leaving, after all this time. Clearly it is inevitable, but I did begin to wonder if she might be immortal . . . and I guess, in a way, through these stories, she is.

So here, at the end of her amazing life, is my favorite Ladies story from June, 2008--

Henry Cross

When visiting with my mother on Saturday to celebrate her 100th birthday, I did one of those silly things one is inclined to do on such occasions.

Rather than asking her which invention or technological development that occurred during her lifetime was, in her view, most consequential--electric lighting, radio, TV, airplanes, the Internet--instead, I asked what single lesson she learned that she felt was most important in guiding her.

Without missing a beat, she said, "Do unto others as you would have them do to you."

"I totally agree," I said, once again amazed by her mental acuity and what she chose to offer as her guiding principle.

"I think, without your preaching it to me, that by your example, I learned that Golden Rule and hope I also have been at least partially inspired by it."

She smiled at me as if to say, as I hoped she would say, that she feels I for the most part have been a good person.

To test that, I asked if I could tell her a story about something I had never before revealed to her that has been troubling me for more than 60 years. 

She continued to smile at me.

"A few years after I was born, you returned to teaching and needed someone to care of me during the day. You hired Bessie Cross to do that. You remember her, don't you?"

She nodded and said, "Of course I do. She was wonderful. And do you remember she had a son, Henry, who was about two years older than you?"

"Yes. Of course I do. In fact, my story is about him. Henry Cross. And it is relevant to mention that he was black.”

With my heart beating faster, I continued, "One summer because Bessie Cross had to return to South Carolina to take care of her mother, who still lived on a plantation where she and Bessie as a young girl had picked cotton, Henry came to live with us.

"And since at that time I was an only child and our apartment had just two bedrooms, he slept on the daybed in my room. At night, lying side-by-side, we shared stories while waiting for sleep. 

He became like a brother to me. I liked to hear about his family, especially his Aunt Sis and Uncle Homer who tended the coal-fired boiler and steam heat system in the basement of an apartment building not far from our house. They lived in that basement too, and I loved to visit them with Henry. Aunt Sis would make us chocolate milk and pecan cookies that I can to this day still taste. They were that good."

"I remember your bringing some home for me one day. I had them with a cup of tea. They were delicious. Made with love."

"After his mother returned from South Carolina, for years Henry continued to stay with us on weekends and the two of us would join our friends in street games. Since he and I were good athletes we were among the first to be chosen when it came time to choose up sides.

"When we were done playing the whole gang of us would go to one of our mother's houses for milk and cookies. This went on for some years. But then a terrible thing happened."

"What was that darling?"

"What I never told you about." I took a deep breath. "One Saturday, after a punchball game, we were invited to Stanley Shapiro's house for our usual milk and cookies."

"I remember his mother. She was such a nice woman. I wonder if she is still alive."

"Probably not. That was more than 60 years ago.” We sighed together about the effects of time. “Well, all of us, including Henry, walked over to her porch where she had set up a card table with pitchers of cold milk and stacks of oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies.  As we were passing these around, Mrs. Shapiro came over to me and whispered that she had something she needed to tell me.

"'In the house,' she pointed.

"Puzzled, I followed her inside where her 14-year-old daughter Rosalie was hovering. Mrs. Shapiro leaned close to me and said, 'It is of course all right for you to stay. You are always welcome in my house; but your friend,' she hesitated, 'he has to leave.' Protectively, she glanced over at her unhappy-looking daughter."

"That sounds terrible," my mother said.

"That's only half of it," I said. "I went outside again and saw Henry waiting his turn to get a glass of milk. I took him aside and told him what Mrs. Shapiro had said.

"Henry did not look back at me nor did he say a word in response. Rather, he turned and raced down the steps and then along East 56th Street toward Church Avenue."

I heard my mother inhale.

"I never saw him again," I said, tearing up. The memory of that sweltering summer day rushed over me as if it were yesterday.

When I gained control of my emotions, I confessed that I did not follow after him because I chose to stay behind with my neighborhood friends. I had trouble continuing the story.

"Here's what I've wanted to ask you," I managed to say to my mother on her 100^th birthday. "If I had asked you later that day what I should have done after what Mrs. Shapiro whispered to me, what would you have said?"

Again without hesitating, this time in her most loving voice, my mother said, "You should have gone with Henry."