“How very unlike seders past.”

That is all I could think about during last night’s Zoom seder, our family’s second. We came together dutifully, but “gallery view” revealed the truth: we were broken.

We will soon mark the first yahrzeit of my mother-in-law’s death, from Covid-19. She was the matriarch of the family. Seders were “produced, directed, and starring” Mimi. Her gatherings were a tour de force. The food was delectable and the timing impeccable. The family would tease her, and moan about her rigid ways, but she was the family mortar (forget haroset).

As fate would have it, my son and his girlfriend are also marking a first yahrzeit: their beloved friend Nicole. Dead from Covid-19 at 33. She was a rock star from the midwest who lit up a room, and who participated in family seders at my sister-in-law’s house. My SIL was passed the seder torch from Mimi when it became too daunting for her to handle. My son and his gf are grieving and I could see the pain etched in their gallant faces, as the couple sat on their Brooklyn couch for the Zoom session. My heart breaks for them.

My brother-in-law’s mother died of a horrible degenerative disease in late 2019, just months before Zoom seder #1 last year. Last night, the typically untethered guy, known for his Tourette-like outbursts of ribaldry, was strangely subdued. Diminished. Was it a passive-aggressive ploy? One could make the case, but I think not. I think he’s shot.

In fact, I think we all presented as “shot”, to varying degrees. We’ve soldiered on, but it’s been tough. Do I have to spell it out? Human loss. Job loss. Social loss. Health instability. In music theory terms, the last year+ has been a minor second. Sharp, unsettling, horror-movie stuff.

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We went through the motions, a cursory blast through the Haggadah. Then, instead of a tipsy meal of arguing (what that family considers “normal conversation”), we quickly hit our red “leave meeting” buttons and went about our individual activities. My son and his gf would digitally meet with friends to mourn.

No groaning board covered with haroset, gefilte fish and nostril-searing horseradish, brisket, asparagus, kugel, flourless chocolate cake, etc. etc.

My SIL made salmon.

My wife and I made a half brisket using Mimi’s recipe, earlier in the day. Hers is a garlicky, tomato sauce-based affair. The thing is this: Mimi would always braise it to collagen-laden succulence, then refrigerate it. The next day, she would remove the congealed fat, slice it, and gently reheat it with the sauce, all timed to the reading of the Haggadah with the grand dame’s precision.

So we didn’t eat the brisket last night. It’s on the docket for today’s early dinner. Along with asparagus. Today — a rainy, chilly day. A minor-second of a day.

Why was last night different from any other night? Now, you know.

Sometimes I have nothing. Sometimes, the memories flood my mind, a tsunami of tsouris. Like today, when my Facebook feed had a three-year old post about Parksville.

Parksville is in upstate New York, in the rounded hills called the Catskills maybe 90 miles north of New York City. Maybe a bit more. It’s down in the dumps now. But it wasn’t always that way.

My great-uncle Sam lived in Parksville. To me, a Bronx street urchin, that side of the family — my paternal grandmother’s side — was rich. That is, they did not live in the Bronx. They lived in Queens, which was hoo-hah compared to our down-at-the-heels NYC quadrant. “Francis Lewis Boulevard” conjured images of tony private houses, garden apartments, kids who got braces, foo-foo dropkick dogs.

Sam had a house in Parksville. Not just any house. An old house on a secluded gravel road with a 360-degree porch, gables, turrets, interior staircases, and land, Katie Scarlett, LAND!

Out back was a barn, with an old hayloft, that he converted to a garage. One of his cars — he had several — was a metallic grey Sedan de Ville Cadillac. A/C. Power windows. Red leather seats. Uncle Sam let me sit in that car, with the a/c on, when us po’ relations came a-visiting.

There, I played in the fresh air, with my cousins Dory and Betty. Dory was older than me. Betty and I were about the same age. Where are they now? I have no clue, another family mystery. Why didn’t my parents keep the relationship going? Hell, why did they do anything that they did?

Sam was a WWI aviator. One of the guys in the Snoopy outfits in those single-engined planes with the machine gun synched with the propeller to rain fire at the enemy. He seemed to be a kindly old gent without the accent of his generation, with a cool house, “rich” kids and grandkids, and an awesome Caddy. That’s how the eight-year old me saw him.

But that house! One day, me, Dory and Betty went exploring in the woods beyond the yard. We found a little trail, and carefully side-stepped the poison ivy. There was deer poop, salamanders, thorny ferns. We weren’t in Kansas anymore. Heck, I wasn’t on University Avenue anymore!

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In the distance, the sound of gently running water. What could it be? Dory was brave. “Shhh, follow me!” she said. And we did.

Like Indian scouts, we advanced, careful not to snap a single twig. The water got louder. Finally, there it was. A rushing stream, with darting fish, frogs, lichen lined rocks.

Beside the stream, on a rusted metal bridge chair sat an old man in stained white dress shirt, worn black pants, black leather shoes, wearing tsitsis and a yarmulke. He turned his gray stubbly face to us kids, and smiled.

Then he offered us a water glass. “Taste,” he said. “Taste the vasser.” Betty and I checked with Dory. She shrugged.

“OK,” I said. And the old man dipped the glass into the stream and filled it with Parksville water. Dory took a sip and passed the glass to me. I drank, and passed it to Betty.

We all smiled at the old man. It was the coldest, sweetest, most delicious water I’d ever tasted. It was fresh. It was pure. It was our secret elixir.

We kept that secret from the grownups. We never told anyone about the old man of the stream, and his holy water.

I never saw him again. By the time I was ten, I never saw Dory, Betty, Sam — that entire side of the family — again. I started to hatch my escape scheme even then, for I yearned for more episodes of life beyond my Bronx, beyond Sam’s Parksville yard, deep into the woods, with mysterious people who held life secrets.

Thanks to Maxene Spindell, who runs the Catskills Facebook group that ran this Parksville post. It was a writing prompt that unlocked a precious memory and, for that, I am grateful.

I last posted this story from “Home Front – The Collection” six years ago. It’s called “Yankee Stadium — Opening Day” and it’s about renewal.

Soon many of us will be vaccinated. Soon the clocks will be moved to provide an hour more of sunlight. Soon Yankee Stadium will be open again, albeit with greatly limited capacity.

We are tired and yearn for some semblance of normalcy. Spring training is underway. A new season will begin.

Humans are hardwired with an optimism bias. Hope springs eternal. Enjoy my story and “like” it and/or share it with your friends.

Yankee Stadium—Opening Day

The new Yankee baseball season marks the mental close of another hard winter. Daytime temperatures stayed stuck in the thirties, and stayed there until well past St. Paddy’s Day. The sooty old snow that lined our city’s sidewalks is far from gone.

This new season lies ahead like a kid’s summer, full of promise, adventure, and so much time—unlike the summers of adult life that flick by like casual swipe-right.  A new baseball season means renewal.

The Yankee home openers of my youth were always midweek day games against Detroit. The Opener was an event. The entire neighborhood would make plans to play hooky from work or school. We’d take the number four train down to 161^st Street and run down the “el” stairs and down River Avenue to get on the ticket line for our non-reserved upper deck nosebleed seats.

Leader of the pack was Big Larry. Larry, our building superintendant so long ago, died at eighty-nine. He mumbled when he spoke: my name is Marty—he would call me “Moh.” I think back and remember him swabbing our hallways on Sunday mornings, his hair and white tee-shirt drenched with sweat. I remember the tattoos on his forearms, of faded blue-green anchors.

He fought in the Pacific in the Big One, double-ya double-ya two. My dad had it tough in the European Theater but even he admits that the guys in the Pacific had it even tougher with malaria, booby traps and kamikazes.

Big Larry’s kids were our best friends. His son, Lawrence, was my buddy. We called him Larry. His sister, Janet, was best friends with my sister. The baby of their family, Colleen, was the hapless tag-along.

I loved their basement apartment, and I was there at least as often as I was in my own joyless home, upstairs. There in Lawrence’s place, we played mindlessly, and dreamed of the larger world and of a time when we’d have it all. Money! Girls! Corvettes! We ate sandwiches on the Formica table without plates, we ate spaghetti until our stomachs burst—not boring old pot roast like my mom served us at our home.

We talked sports, we talked about the Yankees and, in time, we talked about girls. Ensconced in Lawrence’s bedroom, we’d worship the poster of Sophia Loren in Boy on a Dolphin, which he taped to the wall.

Time stretched before us and every spring Big Larry would take us all to the Big Ballpark in the Bronx. We were kings high up in the upper deck, surveying the subway, the Bronx County Courthouse, the Concourse Plaza Hotel (which wouldn’t let black ballplayer Elston Howard in, my There are several ways that sildenafil levitra a doctor can check for prostate cancer. The Unit Head mumbled, ‘It just doesn’t look nice on the floor.’ and ED retorted, ‘What do you mean by it doesn’t look free viagra pill nice? I don’t have to fight an election’. If you are suffering from heart diseases or if you are in depression, but exercise in fact is the best way to order online kamagra tablets by Ajanta Pharma. order generic levitra visit address To hold thought about this commander cialis stretch under control, assess and prioritize your errands. father would always remind me). In our hands were pennants, pretzels and hot dogs. The grownups tossed back cups of Ballantine beer. We kids looked forward to the day when we, too, could call the beer guy and order a round.

Big Larry was hardly rich—he probably couldn’t afford to take a gang to the new Stadium these days—but he was always generous. Wherever that family went, I was invited along. Peach Lake, Jones Beach, Yankees opening day, I was always invited. I felt proud, and loved, when—finally one year—he knew I was strong enough to help push-start his cars, which were always fifty-dollar clunkers.

My friend Lawrence would shrink in shame as we pushed his dad’s bombs down Webb Avenue until we built up enough speed for Big Larry to pop the clutch and turn the ignition key. When the engine caught, plumes of thick black exhaust smoke spiraled up to the Bronx heavens.

Once underway, Big Larry would push the buttons of the radio until he found a song he could snap his fingers to. “Toe-tappers,” he’d call them. He’d lean back, and say to his wife, “Annie…light me up a Lucky.” Annie, my surrogate mother, would light up two in her mouth and pass one up front to her husband. Cool.

Annie passed away just weeks after Big Larry.

Big Larry always worked hard, and he knew how to enjoy his money, when he had it. He’d spend a fortune on Christmas presents for the kids. For Easter, they all had spiffy new outfits.

When their relatives came over, the party was on. Big Larry would play Eddie Albert or other popular country crooners on his hi-fi. Everyone would dance and dance, shouting and drinking until early in the morning. I marveled at the magic of good cheer, as before my very eyes cases and cases of Rheingold would disappear as afternoon turned to evening.

The real magic, however, was how my sullen demeanor would brighten once I went down to their place, from my joyless, top floor apartment. No matter that theirs was a dark, dank basement flat. I’d join in the merriment with Big Larry, Annie, Lawrence, Janet, Colleen and the rest of their clan. We kids would watch the grownups dance and drink in a swirl of cigarette smoke and raucous laughter, hard-working, plain-spoken people blowing off steam. One time, Lawrence’s Aunt Agnes got really drunk and, glass in hand, slowly bent to sit on her chair, only she missed it by a good two feet and plopped down hard on the bare wood floor. We all laughed right along with her. Who cared if she laughed so hard she peed herself, right there on the parquet—which made us all laugh even more.

Renewal.  The new Yankee season is about to begin. Winter is finally over. The clock has been turned ahead, extending daylight by a precious hour.

I recall how my mom would yell at me for tramping mud through our old top floor apartment after coming home from the ball fields in early spring. Lawrence’s mom, Annie? She never yelled. She’d just laugh at us, all caked in filth from head to toe, dripping with little kid sweat and grinning from our pleasant exertion. She’d smile, call us jerks, get a broom and a dust pan, and ask us to leave our muddy sneakers out in the foyer. Together, we cleaned up our mess.

Goodbye, Big Larry. Goodbye, Annie. I miss you. Rest in peace.

Love,

Moh