Whistle A Happy Tune

Whistle A Happy Tune

As Alby sat in the chair he began to whistle quietly, an unconscious habit he’d had for as long as I could remember. It was soft and gentle and reassuring in its consistency. When Alby whistled, all was well with the world.
He never whistled any particular tune, perhaps because he couldn’t carry one, but I loved to listen nonetheless. It was kind of like the ticking of a clock in its rhythmic comfort and it turned Room Number Seven into a warmer and more palatable place. My mind couldn’t help but wander back. . .

“You’ve got to put your lips together like this,” my father said patiently as we sat together in the backyard and he was teaching me to whistle. “There’s got to be just enough space for the air to get through.”
I tried and tried but all that came out were sprays of spit, most of which landed on him. He gallantly pretended not to notice. This was the third time he was giving me lessons and the third time I was unsuccessful. At six-years-old, I was impatient, unable to sit still, and was always determined to do something my mother didn’t want me to do. I also had an uncanny ability to annoy everyone around me except my father. Because he was always so mellow and relaxed, my personality amused him and he had a real soft spot for me.
My mother pleaded with Alby not to teach me to whistle. “Don’t you know that if she learns it, she’ll never stop?” My mother knew me oh-so-well.
“Pearl, that’s ridiculous. What’s the big deal?” He was sitting on the grey vinyl chair in our Pepto-Bismol-pink kitchen. “She wants to learn how to whistle. I’m not teaching her how to shoot spitballs for goodness sakes!” That would, of course, come later.
“Do what you want Al, but I think it’s a mistake.”
The lessons continued until finally, about two weeks later, I whistled with a minimal amount of salivary mess and danced around proudly as though I had accomplished world peace with a single blow.
Peace, however, was about the last thing that came of these lessons. I whistled everywhere I went, annoying my mother and siblings, and had substituted a whistle for silence at every possible opportunity. Meanwhile, Alby was delighted that I’d mastered the skill and soon we moved on to whistling songs. I learned “Bei Mir Bist du Schon”, a Yiddish tune my grandfather was fond of singing, and blew out the notes with all the gusto my small body could muster.
Then came my mistake and it was a mighty big one. It was during nap time in my kindergarten classroom. Napping, my teacher Miss Jaggers believed, was crucial in the development of our young minds and of critical importance for our intellectual well-being. It didn’t occur to me then that all she wanted was for her students to shut up for awhile so she could have a break.
Nap time? I wanted none of that. To me, resting was reserved for nighttime, in my bed, with my pajamas on and my sister next to me with my mother hollering “Be quiet” up the long stairs of our home. This nonsense of napping during the school day would have to end and I was just the one to end it.
The classroom was quiet as all the dutiful students put their heads on their desks as Miss Jaggers had instructed, and closed their eyes. Ever so surely I felt it coming, welling up from way back in my throat until it squeaked past my lips. A quiet but distinct whistle. Could I help it if the sound happened to travel into my table-mate’s ear? Should I be blamed if she was a light sleeper? Clearly, the answers were yes and yes.
It was very abrupt – a few whistles and I was out of the classroom and sitting in Principal Krumbiegel’s office where I was informed I needed to stay until my parents came for me.
“Your mother and father will be here shortly, Susan. You must stay here until they arrive,” Principal Krumbiegel-with-the-big-ears-and-fearsome-voice said.
What I heard was altogether different. “Your parents are on their way and your mother is going to make you sorry you were ever born. She’ll rip into you like a cleaver into beef and shred you into teeny tiny pieces, leaving you to bleed until there’s nothing left inside of you. And when she’s done with you she’s going to give your father a piece of her mind until he, too, leaves this office a beaten man.”
By the time they got there, I was shaking and it was all I could do not to wet my pants. Pissing off my mother was not a good thing to do and yet, I did it so well. Another feather in my cap, I suppose. They walked in and I couldn’t see my mother’s face because she wouldn’t even look my way. I thought I heard a hissing sound, probably the steam coming from her ears. I was doomed.
And then, I looked over and saw the laughter in Alby’s eyes; he hadn’t cracked a smile but I knew he wanted to in the worst way. It relaxed and appeased me but when my mother spoke I immediately sat up straight in my chair and readied myself to pay the piper.
Principal Krumbiegel reported every detail about how my whistling disturbed my classmates and how, with this warning, the next time I would be removed from my classroom and sent home for days! He made me feel small enough to disappear.
“Susan is very sorry for disturbing her classmates, aren’t you?” Mom said more than asked as she finally turned my way. I guess I hadn’t disappeared after all and almost melted from the fear my mother’s anger could elicit.
“Yes, I’m very sorry.”
“And you’re not going to do this again, are you?” she demanded, wielding her invisible scepter over my bowed head.
“No. I won’t do it again,” I said meekly, hoping beyond hope that I could live up to my word.
“Can I interrupt for a moment?” Alby asked. “It seems to me that this is pretty harsh for such a minor infraction, don’t you think?” He casually rested his right ankle over his left knee and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.
What in the world is an infraction? I wondered.
“So she whistled during nap time. She didn’t hurt anyone, she didn’t damage any property. She’s only six and hasn’t learned to tame her impulses. I don’t think she deserves to be made to feel so corrupt. Do you?” Alby’s green eyes bored into Principal Krumbiegel’s.
A dare with words I didn’t quite understand but I loved it!
“Well Mr. Rich,” Principal Krumbiegel interjected, “We cannot have the children do whatever they feel like doing whenever they feel like doing it, can we?”
“Hmm, I’ve got to think about that one. I guess the answer is really another question…can we have the children do what they’re told when they’re told or is it okay to walk over the yellow line sometimes as long as no one gets hurt?” Alby always had a way of getting his message across without sounding impertinent.
“How you choose to raise your child is up to you, Mr. Rich, but I strongly advise you to watch out for this one. She’s trouble.”
After leaving the office we walked toward Alby’s blue Bonneville with the license plate ECO-910, each of my parents holding one of my hands. Mom took small, brisk steps and essentially tried to drag me without ever looking my way while Alby’s strides were slower and calmer. My body nearly ripped in half from the dichotomy.
“Susie Q,” he said as we got into the car. “Just remember something. It’s never wrong to bring a little life to a dull party, but always remember who your host is.” With a wink and a smile he got behind the wheel of the car and as he drove the mile from school to home, he whistled softly the entire way.

Alby - Run, Run, Run

Run, Run, Run

Together with my brother, sister and mother, I ate bagels and made conversation.

“Do you mind that we’re eating in front of you, Dad?” I asked. Alby always had a healthy appetite and enjoyed his food more than most. In fact, we had our own unit of measure with which we could determine how much or little he enjoyed his meal: Dad had a problem with his nose – when he ate good food, it ran and he needed to blow it. Constantly. Restaurants get star ratings, our family meals got blows. Good meal? Four blows, easy. Great meal? Five blows. Exquisite meal? Buy stock in Kleenex. The “Blow Barometer” was at work, no matter where or when he ate.

The first time I cooked for him I was a teenager. My mother had been mildly ill and was resting in bed so I decided to save my father from starvation and make dinner. Short of boiling water, I’d never cooked a meal before that day but had watched my mom enough times. I thought surely I knew what to do and after quite a bit of mixing and mashing, I formed a meatloaf. This ought to be good, Alby loved meatloaf. Funny though, it didn’t look like mom’s and I was surprised at how heavy it felt. Surely some ground beef, lots of bread crumbs, mashed Rice Krispies, ground Corn Flakes, oatmeal and bran buds should taste okay.

I put the meatloaf into a five-hundred degree oven, set the timer for forty-five minutes, poured a pound of spaghetti into boiling water, ripped up a few pieces of unwashed lettuce and cut up a carrot for a tossed salad that I drizzled with about one-fourth of a jar of vegetable oil, and voila!

After about ten minutes I opened all the windows to get rid of the smoke that was pouring from the oven because the exhaust fan wasn’t strong enough to clear the air. Odd how the oven never smoked when mom cooked. The water from the spaghetti was boiling over the top of the pot but that eventually stopped after about thirty minutes when the pasta absorbed all the liquid.

We sat down to eat and I watched my father cut into his slab of meatloaf..I had to replace the regular knife with a serrated-edged steak knife…and he put a generous piece of the meat-and-other-stuff-mixture in his mouth. I continued to watch his nose as he chewed. And chewed. And chewed.

“Delicious,” he said. I thought I saw him struggle to swallow a few times because his face kind of contorted and if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the contortion was from pain. I still watched and waited for his nose to run. Dry as a pile of dead leaves. He ate another piece and another and another until the slab was gone. He twirled his spaghetti on his fork, putting in mouthful after mouthful, and he didn’t even react when it crunched a little bit. I didn’t know that cooking pasta al dente browned it too.

I didn’t dare eat my own portion because I was too busy willing his nose to run. We didn’t talk, he just ate and I watched. Alby cleaned his plate, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “You did a great job Susie Q, a great job."

I cried. It was the first time in my consciousness that my father lied to me and I knew it as surely as I knew that he looked like he was going to vomit.

“I didn’t do a great job. It was awful and you know it,” I yelled petulantly. “You didn’t blow, not even once. You’re lying, Daddy!”

With that, he reached over to the meatloaf tin, sawed off another equally large piece, and while he chewed he reached for his hankie and blew his nose so loudly that I thought his eyes would pop out. Success! One blow. A few chews. Another blow. A few chews. Another blow. Four blows altogether. He blew before I even had a chance to see his nose run…he just needed more of the food to get his blow barometer working. I knew it!

“I can’t eat another bite,” he exclaimed after finishing what was on his plate and carrying it to the sink.

I was so proud I thought the laces on my peasant blouse would come undone. As I cleaned the table and put everything away, I didn’t even notice that it was hours before I saw Alby again, when he came out of the bathroom red-faced and perspiring.

“You know dad, you were my inspiration to learn how to cook,” I said as I swallowed the last bite of my bagel. “I don’t know how I didn’t kill you all those years ago with that meal,” I laughed.

With a sideways grin and a bit of the devil in him he replied, “If I lived through that dinner, I must be indestructible.”

If only.

Alby - The Fifth Putt

Lining Up Your Fifth Putt

“Your veins don’t want to cooperate,” Jenny said as she tried to find another spot to insert the I.V. “This happens sometimes, it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

The chemotherapy drugs were infusing when Dad’s vein shut down, stopping the entire process cold. He had been peacefully drifting off a bit while the rest of us watched The View. Well, we weren’t watching really; we were each just looking at the television set while seeing our own mental movies being acted out. In the distance I could hear Barbara Walters yammering on about something unimportant in the scheme of my life yet her voice was somehow comforting in its familiarity.

When the vein shut down the fluid backed up rapidly and was forming a nasty looking welt before any of us even realized what was going on. No sooner had we called for Jenny than she was in the room working hard to set things right again.

“I’m so sorry to have to poke you again. I know how unpleasant it is. Bear with me, I usually get a good vein on my first try.”

“You know,” Alby said as he turned to Jenny while she pierced his fragile skin, “This reminds me of something. I’ve got a story for you…” he began.

Alby was a golfer. He’d say it was terrific exercise because he’d get to chase a white ball through fields and forests, commune with the forest where his tee shot would magically disappear, make artistic designs in the sand, and have a captive audience for his repertoire of jokes. His average score was somewhere between 100 – 110 with a thirty handicap. Plain and simple, he sucked at the game but always held onto the hope that one day the Messiah might come and walk the course with him, allowing him to break 100 and not lose any balls in the process.

Alby had numerous golf partners, none of them in it for his skill of the game. They just liked to laugh and his jokes could them forget that they were witnessing one of the worst golfers to ever walk a cleated step.

Even though I grew up watching my father golf, I hadn’t taken on the sport myself. On one Mother’s Day my husband Gary bought me brand new titanium clubs with a vivid purple grip and took me to the driving range a few times to give me some pointers.
We have a local Par-3 course and Alby didn’t need much convincing to come out and play nine holes with me.

“Wow! If I play with you then I’ll actually look like I know what I’m doing. How can I turn down such an invitation?” Always the smart ass, my father. I wouldn’t have traded him for all the chocolate in the world.

When he showed up to play with me, I was forced to shield my eyes. Alby was a vision. He had what I liked to call a “Fashion Disability” and it’s certainly not nice to make fun of someone’s handicap. But there he stood, in all of his splendor, and it was impossible not to fear blindness from the mere sight of him.

From head to toe he was a study in fashion faux pas and exquisitely poor taste. He wore a red Kangol cap (he had those caps in every color, making them hip long before Samuel L. Jackson had ever even heard of them. . .) and had a scoring pencil behind his ear. His golf shirt, a navy blue and white horizontal plaid, was tucked into his blue, green and white vertical plaid pants which were being held up by a black belt. His brown golf shoes added just a touch of panache and almost hid the grey socks he was sporting.

“Dad. Oh my God, Dad. Look at you!”

“What? What’s the problem?” he asked, always delightfully unaware that he looked like a clown reject from Barnum & Bailey. Bozo would have run for his life.

“What’s the problem? The problem is that I’m nauseous looking at you. Besides the fact that the conflicting patterns are making me motion sick, your colors don’t even remotely go together!” I could barely squeak out my words.

“What do you mean? The shirt is blue, the pants have blue in them, therefore they’re both blue and therefore they match.”

Who could argue?

We teed up at the first hole and Alby immediately set out to make me the next champion women’s golfer. Okay, okay, so all he was trying to do was get me to make contact with the ball so I might actually hit it and it might even move off the tee a few feet. He repositioned my grip, fixed my stance, and told me to concentrate on the ball and my swing.

Thwack! The ball lofted high in the air, soaring straight and falling to the ground just yards from the green. “Whoo hoo!” Alby exclaimed. “Susie Q, you’re amazing. That was a perfect shot!”

I was jumping up and down like a child. “I can’t believe I hit the ball like that!”

“You had a great teacher. What do you expect?” he chuckled.

No matter that it was my only good shot of the day; my dog would have played better than I did. Each hole was more painful than the next for me, although I must admit there were some really interesting flowers growing in the rough where I consistently found myself.

But the real story was how Alby handled it all. Yes, he was a terrible golfer but in comparison to me, he was Tiger Woods without the Green Masters Jacket (although God knows he’d have thought it matched what he was wearing). I knew he was better than I and he knew he was better, but he derived no pleasure from looking good at someone else’s expense in any avenue of life and even more certainly, not in golf with his daughter.

He proceeded to miss every single shot pretending that he was trying his best, leaving crater-sized divots and “losing” ball after ball after ball.

“Let me tell you something,” he said as he took a shot out of the trap. “In golf, you ideally want to putt no more than twice on a green. But things just aren’t ideal no matter how much you want them to be, whether on the course or in your life. I always wanted to write a book and I would title it Lining Up Your Fifth Putt. The entire book would consist of only one sentence: When lining up your fifth putt, just remember that at least you’re still playing the game.”

By the fifth attempt at Dad’s weary veins, Jenny had gotten the needle in and the chemotherapy drip had resumed. “I guess I lined up my fifth putt correctly,” Jenny said with an apologetic smile.

“Sweetheart, you can play the game with me anytime,” Alby said as he planted a kiss on the young nurse’s cheek. “And at least in this game I didn’t lose my balls.”

Alby - Cool Whip

Cool Whip

“I’m ashamed to say it, but I feel scared,” Alby reached for my hand. “I need some air.”
Although it was early spring and the air was still quite cool, we opened the window in Room Number Seven. Alby wanted to be able to smell something, anything, other than cancer. The moment the breeze came through and ruffled our hair, Alby and I were transported.

It was during one of our Fallsview Hotel weekends that Alby was teaching me how to ice skate. He was a phenomenal skater with speed, grace and skill. He would glide around the rink with a stride so light that his skates would barely make marks on the icy surface despite the fact that they were heavy ice hockey skates. My parents had bought me my own trainer skates, white as marshmallows with pink pom-poms at the end of each lace. Alby’s were deep black with newly sharpened blades that shone under the bright lights of the indoor rink.

Mom was apprehensive as she watched my father lift me up and place me on my virgin double-bladed skates atop the ice. I was pretty sure my ankles were going to snap.

As I teetered like a foal taking her first steps Mom called out, “Al, hold her up.”

“I always do, don’t I?” His answer was directed more at me for reassurance than toward her.

Alby stood behind me, holding both of my hands up in the air, his skating propelling me forward while I didn’t lift one foot off the ice. “Look at you, Susie Q! You’re going to be the next Peggy Fleming!”

Peggy Fleming? Was she clumsy too?

Harvey and Marcy, already seasoned skaters having been taught by Alby, flew around me shouting their own brand of encouragement.

“You’re doing great!” Marcy yelled. Older sisters are great.

“Not bad for a midget,” Harvey teased. Older brothers are jerks.

“You’re gonna fall!” Mom yelled, always the voice of encouragement.

After a few chaperoned laps around the rink, I pushed off with my right foot and glided with my left. Then I pushed off with my left and glided with my right. Over and over I repeated the steps until Alby needed to hold only one of my hands.

“Don’t fall down,” my mom continued to shout from the sidelines. She was sitting on one of the folding chairs placed around the rink’s perimeter, clearly nervous that her baby might fall, break a leg, go to the hospital, need surgery, go into rehab, end up with a limp for the rest of her life, never get married or have children and live out a life of solitary depression.

Alby, meanwhile, said to me, “It’s time.”

“Time?” I asked.

He guided me to the back wall, instructing me to wait. Alby, Harvey and Marcy were in the middle of the rink, arms around each other in a huddle, and although I had no idea what was being said, I knew Alby well enough to know that I was in for something. I waited impatiently, anxious to get back on the ice.

Finally the three of them skated toward me and from the corner of my eye I could see my mother put her hand over her mouth as though stifling a scream, shaking her head back and forth until I thought her permanent wave would straighten. What was happening?

“Susie Q, do you trust me?” Alby asked.

I nodded but couldn’t help wondering why my siblings looked like the proverbial cats who swallowed the canaries and my mother looked like she’d faint.

“Then just do what I tell you and I’ll do the rest. Trust me, okay?”

Alby took hold of Harvey’s hand, Harvey took hold of Marcy’s hand, and Marcy took hold of mine. My father turned to look at me and said, “Okay. We’re doing the Cool Whip. Susie Q, keep your eyes closed and whatever you do, don’t let go of your sister’s hand. Got it?”

The Cool Whip? I’d had some on pudding but somehow, I knew we weren’t talking about the same thing and this one didn’t sound very good; and I suspected that once I found out, I was never going to forget.

Within a very short time I went from being led gently around the rink to being whipped around it at great speed. Would my blades snap off and send me careening into space? It was as though we were all train cars and I was the caboose, getting snapped into place after turning a corner. Although I had my eyes closed I imagined my father’s devilish smile as he engineered the voyage.

“Hang on,” he called out.

Oh, like I had a choice?

Harvey and Marcy had been initiated long before I, so they were experiencing the pure enjoyment of it all while I worried about how I would hide the pee I would surely make in my pants. I was scared but exhilarated and the more times we went around, the more I began to enjoy it. The cool breeze of the temperature-controlled rink became nothing short of refreshing and dried the perspiration that had formed in my pre-adolescent armpits.

Soon the Cool Whip wound down and we eventually slowed to a stop. The muscles in my legs began to go slack and my ankles ached but I felt like I could fly. “So, what did you think, Susie Q?” Alby asked as I opened my eyes and searched for my bearings.

“It was so much fun!”

“Were you scared?”

“Only at the beginning. But then I wasn’t anymore,” I was surprised to hear myself say.

“Susie Q, sometimes things in life can be really, really scary but if we just close our eyes and LIVE them from the inside, we find out that we’re bigger and stronger than whatever it is we’re afraid of.”

“Do you trust me, Dad? Then close your eyes and hold on tight. I’ll lead the way.” I held his hand, wishing more than anything that I could engineer this train for which he was the anxious and frightened caboose.

Alby - Polar Explorers

Polar Explorers

It was subtle, but I could see my father wince as a bolus of chemotherapy pulsed through him. He shivered and I ran to get a blanket, tucking it around him as he had done for me so many times. “Warmer now?” I asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” he answered. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

I went down the hall and got Alby a cup of boiling water and flavored it with a little lemon. It was an old Jewish remedy for upset stomachs that Alby swore by. I offered it to him and he held the cup near his face to feel the steam.

“I’m still cold,” he complained. I went behind the chair and put my arms around his waist, holding him. I figured that if I held on tightly enough, neither of us could fall.

“Please, Daddy, please? I really want to.”

It was our annual winter week at the Fallsview Hotel, a popular Catskills resort in Ellenville, New York. We went winter after winter, year after year, and every time we went I rejoiced in being there. Every inch of that hotel was home and as December turned into January into February, I would count the days until we’d make our pilgrimage.

This one year in particular the snow was deep and tightly packed and the snowmobiles were lined up in a queue by the lake, their motors humming a quiet rumble as they waited to be boarded.

“It’s too dangerous,” Mom said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Mom was always the worrier of the family and she excelled at it.

“Oh, come on Pearl, I’ll drive and Susan can just hold on behind me. I’ll go nice and slow, just kind of a ride through the woods to look at the scenery. Really, it’ll be fine.” She didn’t notice the twinkle in his eye but I did and I almost couldn’t keep my feet still in anticipation.

“Yeah Mom, pleeeease?” I gave my angelic look that I reserved for just such occasions.
Okay was barely out of her mouth than I was on the snowmobile and Alby was tucking the plaid woolen blanket around me. “Sit on it so it doesn’t blow off,” he instructed, wrapping me tightly.

“Now listen, we’re going to drive very slowly so that we can have a nice, pleasant ride. All you have to do is keep your arms around my waist, okay? Just hold on and don’t let go.” He said all of this within earshot of my mother. He winked at me, climbed on in front of me, and slowly pressed the gas. We pulled away from the base camp and as we rode, Alby said, “Smile and wave to Mom.” I did and she returned the wave, comfortable in the knowledge that her husband was going to take good care of her baby.

Yeah, right. The very moment we got into the woods, Dad stopped the snowmobile and turned to me.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I answered and with his hand pressing the throttle to its maximum speed, we took off. My long braids stood out behind me like flags in the wind as we raced along. Everything was a blur; trees whipped by at an amazing pace, their icy branches just barely missing the pom-pom on the top of my snow hat. Our speed made the frosty air feel as though my face was being pricked by toothpicks but I felt no pain. I was holding onto Alby and knew that getting hurt was impossible. I lived safe, warm and dry under my Alby Umbrella.

“Ride ‘em, Cowboy,” he screamed and I could hear him laugh above the deafening engine of the snowmobile. “Yee Hah!” He looped in and out of the woods and even the snow rabbits scurried for cover as we relentlessly carved new paths in the mountain. The pre-approved snowmobile trail was nowhere in sight and I felt like Alby and I were explorers in a new world, conquering undiscovered territories.

I can’t quite remember how much time had gone by, but when we left the woods and returned to the sedate trail which would bring us back to Base Camp, I still had my arms around his waist and rested my head on his back. There was such peace, such comfort. He radiated warmth through his winter jacket and even at that young age, I knew I had reached nirvana.

We pulled up to where Mom was standing. “Did you have fun?” she asked me as she bent down to straighten my hair and feel my hands to make sure that I wasn’t dying of frostbite.

“It was very nice,” I answered. Even so young I understood that sometimes errors of omission were necessary for détente.

“Oh yes, it was very nice,” my father echoed and as we walked back to the main lobby, Alby and I shared a conspiratorial smile.

Yup. It was very, very nice.

Alby - Do You Hear What I Hear?

Do You Hear What I Hear?

“Al,” my mother said as Alby tried to relax in the chair. “AL!” she screamed when he didn’t answer right away.
“What is it, Pearl?” he replied, adjusting the volume on his state-of-the-art computerized hearing aids that, as he was fond of saying, weren’t worth the cost of a flea’s fart. “Why are you shouting?”
“Because you didn’t answer me the first time.”
“Pearl, just because I’ve got cancer doesn’t mean everything is going to change. I NEVER answer you the first time!”
“Your father has selective hearing,” my mother complained to me for the umpteenth time in my life.
Alby began losing his hearing when he was in his early thirties, the result of having had scarlet fever as a child. Although the loss was gradual, he eventually grew deaf in both ears and conversing with him was an effort at using controlled shouting as he read lips. Yet, I had no choice but to agree with Mom’s assessment that surely my father heard what he wanted and needed to hear.

“Dad, can you lend me a few bucks?” I’d ask often as a teenager.
“Kiss my what?” he’d reply.
“Seriously Dad, I need some money, I’m all out.”
“Gotta get these hearing aid batteries replaced. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too Susie Q.”

Selective hearing at its finest.

“Okay, Mr. Rich, are you comfortable? I’ve begun the infusion and it’s going to take a few hours. Can I do anything for you?” Jenny asked. Such a loaded question to pose to a man like Alby; she had so much to learn!
“Well, let’s see,” Alby said and I could just see his green eyes getting that devilish look that always accompanied an off-color remark. “My wife is here so I can’t really say,” he whispered conspiratorially, “But I guess it wouldn’t matter anyway. After all, I’m eighty-three-years-old and most of my good parts are out of order and no longer in stock.”
Jenny laughed and I knew that Alby’s humor was probably a wonderful respite for her in a job that was filled with a lot of sadness and gloom.
“Well, if you think of something just holler and I’ll be right in,” she winked.
“Hey, Jenny,” Alby called as she was turning to leave the room.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got to tell you something.” Alby was quite the scalawag when he wanted to be. “Jenny,” he said slowly, “I’ve been sleeping with the same woman for almost sixty years…Just don’t tell my wife!”
We could hear Jenny laugh her way down the hall and Alby turned to me and said, “Susie Q, no matter how bad you feel, humor will remind you you’re still alive.”
He kicked back in the chair and we waited for the chemicals to begin their onslaught.

Alby - Introduction

I'm trying a different approach with my writing. I've decided to post my new book in chapters on this blog in the hopes of getting a wide readership. For many, the art of writing is cathartic. For me, it is not just the process of writing, but the knowledge that other people are reading my words. Everything I've ever written and anything I will ever write again has personal meaning. "Write what you know", the standard creed for authors, is evident in this, my very first BLOVEL (I've just coined a new word!!! Blog and novel!!! Consider this copyrighted!!!)

If you like what I write, please forward my blog to your family and friends and feel free to comment on anything at any time; my ego isn't fragile.

So here it is, the birth of my first BLOVEL.

In Memory of Albert Rich, H.B.E. (Human Being Extraordinaire)


"There are stars whose light reaches the earth only after they themselves have disintegrated. And there are individuals whose memory lights the world after they have passed from it. These lights shine in the darkest night and illumine for us the path . . ."

- Hannah Senesh
(The New Mahzor, page 568; Compiled and edited by Rabbi Sidney Greenberg and Rabbi Jonathan D. Levine; Consulting Editors Rabbit Irwin Grower and Rabbi Harold Kushner; The Prayer Book Press of Media Judaica, Bridgeport, CT; c 1978.
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The nurse’s name tag said JENNY and as she led the way, Alby and I took in our surroundings. The linoleum floors and painted walls of the center were white, and the only splash of color was in Alby’s cheeks. To look at him, you’d never know he was dying. We held hands, mine sweating, his warm and dry. Letters of gratitude from patients hung on a bulletin board and cheerful fabric daisies dangled from every door knob. There was a small food area, stocked with bagels and cream cheese.
“Make sure to get yours early – these bagels go really fast,” Jenny offered. Yeah, that was pretty much what I was worried about – would there be any bagels left for me? We continued what felt like an endless trek down the hallway that smelled of coffee and cancer. It made my nose hurt and the pain traveled down to my heart and made me want to cry.
With a smile and a welcoming motion of her hand, Jenny brought us into Room Number Seven. Strange, seven had always been my lucky number; two of my three children were born on the seventh of a month and during my first trip to Las Vegas with my father all those years ago I won $10.00 on number seven on the roulette wheel. My first thought was that seven might be lucky for my father, too. Maybe within these walls the chemicals were stronger than the cancer. We entered with trepidation, hope, prayer, and a lot of humor.
“Have a seat and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Rich,” the nurse said. Comfortable? You’ve got to be kidding. Without missing a beat my father replied, “I’d certainly be a lot more comfortable if you could get me a Chivas and soda; and hey, could you go light on the soda?” And that began our foray into a new world that would forever change the old one we’d lived in for so long.
Alby was diagnosed with Stage Four Adenocarcinoma of the lung, an ugly name for an even uglier disease. But if you knew Alby you’d know that there was nothing ugly about him. At five feet, five inches short, he was the tallest and most dignified person I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. “It ain’t the height and it ain’t the heft, it’s the heart,” he’d always say. He’d always say a lot of things.
















What a Pain in the Ass

As Jenny prepared the cocktail (unfortunately, NOT the Chivas and soda!) for Alby’s infusion, she dropped a glass vial on the floor. It shattered and the paper-thin shards dusted the floor like glittering talc. Alby began to laugh and said, “Hey, did I ever tell you the story…”

Before being called for service in the United States Army during World War II, I was an accounting student attending New York University. My Jewish immigrant parents from Russia, Samuel and Minnie, couldn’t afford to pay for my room and board so I was forced by circumstance to commute from Newark, New Jersey into Manhattan daily. I never complained because, to quote Lou Gehrig, I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. My parents had never even completed a lower school education and here I was, a college man. The world was in my pocket.
On one particular evening, my friend Murray and I decided to share the expense of a city motel room so we could stay overnight and study for a big accounting test the next day. If we stayed in the city, we would have more time to concentrate on cramming without having the commute to worry about. We pooled our money and for about a buck we got a room in what was probably the dingiest and most bug-infested room in all of New York City. Even the bugs were looking for somewhere else to stay.
The only light was a single, low-watt light bulb dangling from the ceiling. It was so dim that it barely cast a shadow. You know how humid and thick the air can get around here? Well, the air was so stifling and heavy that we stripped down to our skivvies, opened the windows, and began an all-night studying session. Our dinner that night consisted of Nesbitt’s Orange Crush soda and two corned beef on rye sandwiches from the kosher deli and some cinnamon raisin ruggelach my mother had baked especially for us.
Murray and I tested one another on the ins and outs of Cost Accounting, from cost allocation systems to unit cost determinations. The soda, which had been cold when we first arrived, was turning into piss water from the heat in the room. But we kept studying and drinking the warm soda; a few hours into it, the lone bulb flickered and died, leaving us in the dark. It was bad enough there was no air conditioning and we were sweating like we’d just run a marathon, but now we couldn’t see past our own noses.
There was a black phone mounted to the wall and picking it up connected us directly to the front desk which, by the way, was nothing more than a small table with a bored college student earning a few cents an hour. I asked for a replacement bulb. Since studying was out of the question until the light was fixed, I decided to climb onto the bed and take down the bulb so when the desk manager came we’d be ready. I unscrewed it, put it down on the bed, and as I went to climb down, lost my footing and fell square on my ass onto the bulb. It shattered and slivers shot like bullets into my skin, piercing both butt-cheeks.
Try imagining how you’d feel if you walked through a row of thorns that tore your skin and you’ll have some idea of how I felt. I was moaning because all the tiny cuts felt like hot, burning pokers. I shouted to Murray, “You gotta help me. My ass is on fire!” But it was dark and he had nothing that could remove the glass splinters. Embarrassed as I am to admit it, I was moaning so loud that Murray was unnerved. He didn’t know what else to do, so he had me lie across his lap and, in the dark, Murray put his face up as close as he could to my ass, began feeling for the glass, and used his fingers to pull out pieces one at a time.
“Get it out! Get it out!” I can remember yelling as the front desk manager walked through the door. This was the late 1930’s remember, not a particularly open-minded era, so when the young manager saw and heard what was going on, he naturally assumed something far from the truth and ran screaming down the hallway, leaving the replacement bulb rolling on the floor.
I can’t begin to tell you how hard we laughed. My ass was killing me but every time I thought about the horrified expression on that young guy’s face, I was reduced again to hysteria. Murray spent the rest of the night pulling out the splinters and laughing uncontrollably. We never did get to study after all. And you know what? We both got A’s. A for ass.

Jenny looked at Alby, put an arm around his shoulder and said, “Keep on telling stories like that and I might just grow to love you.”
She had no idea.