Howard,
Of course, I feel like a jackass now. I must have been feeling neglected and sorry for myself that particular day. Please don’t take it amiss. I apologize for being a grinch.
As I recall, I was curious about Saint Ignatius High School after, lo, these many years, having realized that the fiftieth anniversary of our graduation was near. I wondered, too, about my classmates, many of whom were truly awesome assholes. I shall actually make an effort to go. A surprise to me, as I did not leave SI with any great fondness for the malevolent Irish fathers.
I am sorry to learn, too, that you were back East recently. My wife, Manya, and I have lived in a small Connecticut town near New York for over thirty years now. If you were anywhere near or in the city, sorry we missed you.
I should bring you up to date. I went to Yale from SI, then an MBA at Columbia, then Princeton for a PhD in economics, which I didn’t finish (ABD), with various entrepreneurial attempts woven in (they’d call them start-ups now). Eventually, in the early 80’s I found myself with three kids and a dissertation to finish. Guess what? Kids have no interest in economics.
Rachel is my youngest. She 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 detention centers. I’ve never seen such a resumé. Kids these days are truly awesome. I don’t know where they get it. Plus, there is something about fathers and daughters, like best friends. She even has me working for her, translating documents from Spanish to English. One of my (her) cases won, and the poor guy 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.
Nico (my second) 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, sommelier, 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. Nico is the classic breezily gregarious middle child, happiest when surrounded by fifty of his best friends.
Alec 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.
And then there is the incomparable Manya, my wife of forty years and friend of longer still. We met in my sophomore year at Yale, where she was some other guy’s girl. She continues to work in 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 an expert on governance issues. Rachel 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,” having ditched the other guy. I’m just glad that I happened to be nearby. And, it seems to just get better over the years. What incredible good fortune. But the one I really married was Manya’s mom, Marci. She was the true prize, the source of all unconditional love and kind wisdom. Just don’t mess with her kids. I am happy to report that she’s still with us.
As for me, there isn’t one piece of this old house that I haven’t touched, and restored and repaired. And it’s still a wreck of an old house. My epitaph will read, “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. 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, when no one was watching. 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. I can’t think of what else to report. My brain has turned to mush, and remembers less and less. This is a good thing.
I have been tapped to assist with my 50th college reunion. I can’t imagine why, but it might actually be fun.
So tell me about you.
Cordially, JP
