Dear Jeff,
Thank you for your kind and generous note. It was devastating to learn of your triple by-pass and its attendant problems. It made me infinitely sad, reminding me how fragile our physical presence really is. But medicine these days can work miracles–I am happy that you write of feeling great. That is indeed good. Your travails also remind me that I should work harder to make stronger emotional and spiritual ties with family and friends, while there is a little time.
There is much in your note that I must address. First, there is an uncannny parallel between your J (nice choice; it has a certain je ne sais quoi) and my R. She too has dedicated herself to the immigrant cause. Ever since high school she has been trying to save the world, at first in the Middle East, taking up the cause of triply oppressed Palestinian Arab-Israeli-women, volunteering with a number of organizations, often just working to get simple things like bus service. I am convinced that the Mossad has a thick file on her. Then through Swarthmore College and Georgetown Law School, ending up, after various iterations, at the Capital Area Immigrant Rights Coalition, working in, you guessed it, detention centers. I’ve never seen such a resumé. These kids are truly awesome. I don’t know where they get it. Of course, we should get them together.
I understand what you say about best friends; there is something about fathers and daughters. She even has me working for her, translating documents from Spanish to English. One of my (her) cases won, and he got asylum. I like to imagine that it was because of my brilliant translations. She insists that she gets the “justice for the underdog” thing from me. And I just wanted to be Woody Allen. No, not that Woody Allen, the other one.
A is the oldest, and my renaissance artist (starving). He is a woodworker, metalworker (sculpture), furniture and cabinet maker, as well as a specialist in timber-frame barns. We are currently rebuilding our 1752 barn together, where he will live and maintain his workshop and exhibition space. He is equally skilled in any number of more practical crafts: plumbing, wiring, cars, sound and cinematography for his friends’ films. He cooks, gardens, skis, sails, climbs trees, plays tennis. Where do they get it? Did I mention that he is a fully licensed airplane pilot? Go figure.
N and his girlfriend want to create a farm/restaurant (very in now), but she is a real farmer. I’ve never seen twenty-five-year-olds work so hard. He is a master gardener, excellent chef, forager, thoughtful carpenter (like his brother). He’s working his way through the various processes of a fancy French restaurant in Ridgefield, before going out on his own. I suspect we might become angel investors soon. He just bought the house next door. N is the classic breezily gregarious middle child, happiest when surrounded by fifty of his best friends.
And then there is the incomparable Manya. She has finally retired from the investment business (pension officer, CIO, outsourced CIO). She now does boards and advisory committees, for non-profits and for-profits. A slaught of them over the years. She has become expert in governance issues. R gets the “can-do, get-it-done” thing from her Mom.
Manya has one bizarre obssession: she has to go to Paris twice a year, spring and fall. And insists that I must accompany her. Oh, all right. Such a noodge. The luckiest day of my life was the day she took my hand and said, “Come with me.” And, as you have pointed out, it just gets better over the years. What incredible good fortune. But the one I really married was Manya’s mom, Mi. She was the true prize, the source of all unconditional love and kind wisdom. Just don’t mess with her kids. I am sorry to report that she’s no longer with us.
As for me, there isn’t one piece of this old house (1752) that I haven’t touched, and restored and repaired. And it’s still a wreck of an old house. My epitaph will read, “But I haven’t finished the siding.” There’s no end to the projects. I have started writing: a memoir, a couple of children’s books, screenplays (of course!), and a play about a psycho-narcissist mother (www.kingofjesters.com). Manya lets me run our investments to satisfy my interest in financial economics. She’s either crazy or has secret instructions with Vanguard Brokerage! I am not allowed to short anything over 5% of the portfolio, the best ever being the short on the banks in 2007. Of course, I won’t tell you about the (many more) losers! I would do my trading at night, after putting the kids to bed. It all always comes back to Manya, and how lovingly she indulged her family–her runaway bunnies.
I regret now that we didn’t have more kids. Manya, of course, being the wiser, does not. I hope I haven’t used the word regret too many times here.
In your note, you made a reference to something thirty-three years ago. I had to do the math. 2014-33=1981. Let me see, the start of the Reagan administration, I had a faculty appointment at Princeton, Manya was about to go to X, we were still in Philadelphia, about to move to CT. I couldn’t figure it out. Oh, well, my brain has turned to mush, and remembers less and less. This is a good thing.
I have been tapped to assist with the 50th reunion. It might even be fun. We hope to see you there. Meanwhile, should you find yourselves up this way, do let us know.
Cordially, CheBoludo
