The true meaning of “family” has always eluded me. I do not have a large family, and that may be part of the reason, because there are only seven of us. Big families spend much more time together; Sunday dinners are traditional weekly gatherings. I’ve never experienced that with my immediate family. Geography is a factor as well, separating us by thousands of miles. Despite all of this, I learned something recently that has drastically altered my perspective.
The catalyst was a plan, hatched by my son and brother, to meet in Pennsylvania, where we would have a reunion of sorts and visit my mother, who is 92 and endures a painful and lonely existence. There is little reason for her to go on. Yet she does.
My son, Michael, his wife, Sarah and their 2-year-old daughter Rebecca, live in Seattle. Gary, my brother, his wife, Susan and Dani, their 7-year-old daughter, live in Minnesota. Pretty spread-out, huh? I have many valid reasons to despise the geography that separates us. The two that stand out are Rebecca and Dani. I am a grandfather and an uncle, to two of the most beautiful children I have ever seen. I use the word beautiful to include all of the amazing qualities that make them unique. I know, all grandfathers and uncles say these things. If you can suspend your skepticism for a moment and allow yourself to believe that I am not exaggerating, you might understand the incredible range of emotions these miraculous children provoke. In their presence, I am putty. If they choose to manipulate me, I will become the world’s most gullible person.
On a bright Monday morning, March 24 to be exact, I boarded the Metro-North in Poughkeepsie, bound for the big city, where I would meet up with Michael, Sarah and Rebecca at the 2nd Avenue Deli. From there, we would brave the horrors of the New Jersey Turnpike en route to Pennsylvania. The rest of the clan would be waiting for us. All I had to do was tolerate the seats on the train. These seats were designed to accommodate the contours of an ironing board; probably part of the MTA’s plan to torture its riders, physically and financially. So far, their plan has been enormously successful.
There were a few bothersome issues along the way. As I was exiting the train at Grand Central Terminal, I stumbled over a strap dangling from someone’s suitcase, causing me to hit the floor with a resounding thud. This was of little bother to passengers who simply stepped over me in their haste to get to their destinations. I dusted myself off, and fearlessly proceeded to the streets of New York City.
Manhattan hasn’t changed much over the last few years. Congested and chaotic as ever, it appeared to be in its usual state of imminent collapse. As I walked under makeshift scaffolding, I realized I was actually underneath archeological evidence of some ancient, abandoned construction project. Another cost overrun, no doubt.
The intersections were insane. As I crossed Lexington, a black Cadillac CTS, bearing New York State Senator plates, suddenly backed out of a gridlock violation zone, stopping short of my legs by an inch. Was I ever lucky! Had I been struck, I would have been charged with impeding the progress of a government official. Could it have been Elliot? Maybe he forgot to remove his plates. Probably not. He didn’t forget to remove his … that’s odd, I lost my train of thought there for a second.
I arrived at the 2nd Avenue Deli shaken but unscathed. A poster affixed to the door caught my attention. “$100,000 Reward For Information Leading To The Capture Of The Murderer Of Abraham Lebewohl in 1996.” He had been the owner of the deli. I wondered why the poster was still there after so many years had passed.
When my son arrived, I had all I could do to choke down the tears. This fantastic child of mine was now a handsome man with boyish features that showed no signs of stress from his job as an assistant U.S. attorney. He spends a great deal of time in court. My dream is to see him in action. I will make it a reality, soon. Sarah was as high-spirited as ever. Her energy and enthusiasm for life amazes me. Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca. What can I say? She was absolutely beautiful. This was my granddaughter! She called me “Poppy.”
A family affair
The reunion in Pennsylvania exceeded my expectations. Rebecca and Dani came together like magnets. Their connection was instantaneous. Both, by the way, were adopted, orphans of a Chinese culture that cares little for parentless children. I watched as they played together. Their unbridled delight in each other was filled with innocence. It brought tears to my eyes. I knew that the world would attack that innocence.
I noticed the joy in my mother’s eyes, too. For a fleeting moment, she was released from her misery. It will not be enough, sadly. She wants to leave. I cannot fault her.
I damn near cried at the sight of my brother. He cannot possibly know the extent of my love for him. I’ve become a sentimental fool, and I have to tell you, it doesn’t matter. As I listened while Susan read aloud a chapter from the novel she is working on, I could actually feel her words. She doesn’t know it; she is a gifted writer.
When it was time to leave, Dani hugged me tightly, and I felt myself melting. I held Rebecca in my arms, and she said, “I love you, Poppa.”
On the trip home, I thought about Abraham Lebewohl. Someone must have loved him an awful lot to make sure that poster stayed where it had been for 12 years. Abraham had died, but the connection was still alive. I finally understood.