Joel's Good Day: March 2010

Have you ever had one of those days when everything seemed to go smoothly and seamlessly, just the way you drew it up?

Me neither.

Until yesterday!

Yesterday was the day I had chosen to accomplish two things: line up a condo rental for a year and trade in my car for a gently used Chevy Malibu. In both cases I knew I would have to assert my usual male dominance. Both the realtor and the car salesman would soon know that I was not someone to be taken lightly. They would learn that I was a worthy adversary, and they would each tremble before me and do my bidding. I wouldn't bully them. No, that is not my way. But, like a Jedi knight, I would project such an air of confidence, such a calm demeanor, and such quiet strength that they would have no choice but to submit.

(Full disclosure: I tried the same approach with a girl named Melanie about 45 years ago...let's just say the results weren't pretty.)

For me this momentous day started around 4 am. That's when I woke up screaming from a nightmare that involved my being trapped in the same room as a rental agent and a car salesman. They were hooded and each one was brandishing an over-sized check, like the ones you see at golf tournaments. They were holding the checks to my face and laughing hysterically. I was tied to a chair, naked (Now there's a nightmare!) and begging them to let me spend more money than they had requested. I think there was also a Hostess Cupcake in there somehow but the details are fuzzy now.

Startled awake, I began making all necessary preparations for my car-condo conquest. First, I made sure I wore my power underwear, the ones that have "Yes I Can" stitched across the backside. (I had decided against wearing the ones that read, "Oh no you didn't!") Next I practiced every way I could devise of saying "No" including, "Get the hook" and "Pick up the clue phone." I debated about using "Go piss up a rope!" but eventually vowed to keep my image as classy as possible as befits a Jedi. Finally, I meditated and assumed the little-known but very useful yoga pose, "Dog Biting Salesman."

I was ready. The first battleground would be on Navarre Beach, a long narrow barrier island that stretches right along the gulf coast for about 15 miles from Pensacola to Navarre. It was here that I had scheduled an appointment with the realtor to view a bay side three-bedroom condo.

As I drove across the half-mile causeway that connects the city of Navarre with Navarre Beach, I was struck by the beauty of the gulf and, especially, the quality of the light. There was something about the light that evoked memories of all those beach towns you've ever visited. But this beach town is different. There is no amusement park or string of carnival food stands; this is a place where people come to live more than they come to play. Splayed out in front of me were a bunch of beach homes, many of them beautifully painted in a kind of South Beach pastel mode, most of them on stilts in order to withstand the September/October madness that frequently visits this part of the world. There were two main streets running east-west parallel to the coastline and a bunch of connecting smaller streets running north and south. At its widest point the distance from the gulf side to the bay side is about five or six blocks.

"I want to live here and I don't care what it costs."

I was horrified when I heard my inner voice say those words. "Shut up, you weakling! Just say no!"

"Yes I can," said my underwear.

"You shut up too."

"Everyone who wants to live here, raise your hand (if you have one)," said Dog Biting Salesman.

"You be quiet or I'll transform you into the 'Dog Under Steamroller' pose."

But before I could resolve this argument, I had arrived at the condo and there was the realtor. Only it turned out she wasn't the realtor, she was the owner. She was young, beautiful, and was carrying Alexandra, her sweet six-week old daughter, in one of those combination car seat/carrier/incubator/rocker/MP3 player thingies.

"You must be Joel," she smiled.

"I would like to rent your condo, whatever the cost," I stammered.

"OK," she said.

"Thank you," I said.

And then it was on to the car.

I was willing to drive the 75 miles from Navarre Beach to Panama City because the Chevy dealership there had a gently used 2009 Malibu that I was interested in seeing. I knew full well that when you buy a new car, you lose several thousand dollars in depreciation when you drive it off the lot. And since I may have committed most of my income and savings to the condo rental, I was more determined than ever to put up a strong fight on the car. I've bought many cars over the years, and I have found that it's best to enter the showroom with an "I could care less whether I get a car or not," attitude. Put them on the defensive and keep the pressure on until you hear those magic words: "Joel, what do I have to do to get you into this Malibu?"

That's when you know you've got 'em!

My salesperson was Nancy.

"You're here about the 2009 Malibu," she said.

"I could care less whether I buy a car or not," I said.

"What do I have to do to get you into a Malibu today?"

"From the looks of it, get a shoehorn."

"Good one."

"I know."

"Did you know that GM is offering a $3,000 rebate on the new 2010 model?"

"That should cover the damn depreciation," said Dog under Steamroller.

"Where do I sign?" I asked.

"Oh no you didn't," said my underwear.

Just in case you're wondering, I didn't go for the paint protection guarantee or the full-size spare tire.

Much love,
J

Oh, I almost forgot. The picture of the USA made of license plates from each state in the correct shapes of those states (Did I say that right?) was taken by me at the dealership. It's huge and it's hanging on the wall for all to see. I loved it immediately, especially the dedication it must have taken to cut up a license plate until it was small enough to be Rhode Island. Brilliant!

The Nostalgia Tour: June 2010

In the great film "Field of Dreams," the James Earl Jones character delivers a beautiful speech about the nostalgic power of baseball. He says, "Baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and could be again...People will come, Ray. People will most definitely come." As I get older and the balance between "good old days" from the past and great days that await me in the future is tipping noticeably toward the former, I find that there are places from all of my former lives that are particularly rife with the sweet sadness of nostalgia.

The photo above is one of them.

It is the beach at "X" Street in Hull, MA. I visited a fine old friend there recently during my travels in New England. Admittedly, this tiny piece of the North Atlantic is not much as far as beaches go. The water is cold, usually right up to Labor Day, the rocks make walking difficult, the water color and clarity are frankly not the measure of my beautiful Navarre Beach in Florida (at least they weren't until the BP disaster); nevertheless, the memories that enveloped me when I walked up to that beach and visited the old house just before it were thick and warm, like a perfect handmade quilt.

Ada and I spent many wonderful days and nights at that house and on that beach. We were 15 or 16, in love or what passes for love at that age, surrounded by friends and The Friedmans, the very welcoming and wonderful family who "took us in" for several summers when we were finishing up high school and getting ready to go off to college.

Ada was good friends with the Friedmans' daughter, Harrie. Harrie's wonderful younger sister, Marcy, was also living there as were Pearl and Dave, Harrie's remarkable parents. Imagine having the patience, to say nothing of the generosity, to host a group of know-it-all, wiseguy teenagers day after day for several summers. The food bill alone would be enough to make you want to board the place up and never come back. But Pearl and Dave welcomed us and, even more remarkably, valued us, engaged us in conversation, sought our opinions, challenged us to think, laughed with and at us, provided me with huge quantities of aged salami, and, most of all, taught us by their wonderful example. Idyllic doesn't even come close to describing how I feel when I think back to those summer days at X Street. Marcy, a magnificent singer and musician who is based in New York City, has kept the house up all these years and manages to spend some time there with Harrie and family each summer, renting it out the rest of the year. When I approached the house recently to catch up with Marcy, I could literally feel 45 years slip away. I was sitting in a place that FORMED me. I am who and what I am partly because of that house, that beach, and that family. It was a powerful moment, especially because the person I shared those days with is no longer by my side. Bittersweet for sure.

Here is a partial list of some of the stuff that happened at that wonderful old house:

1. Ada, under the tutelage of Pearl, became one of the world's most vicious Scrabble players. She almost never lost and took great pride in her ability to make me crazy with her defensive tactics.

2. Also under Pearl's gentle coaxing, I discovered the remarkable beauty in a Louis Armstrong solo or an Ella Fitzgerald ballad. There was always music in that house and it was beautiful, powerful music. I have loved it ever since. I am happy to say that I have passed this love on to my children and grandchildren.

3. I found out I could make adults laugh. Pearl and Dave helped me develop and tweak my sense of humor to the point where I was not afraid to throw my two cents into adult conversations. My ideas and thoughts, no matter how lame, were always treated with respect. I'm quite sure that this remarkable example served me in very good stead during my 31 years in a junior high classroom.

As is the custom, when I visit Ada's grave for the unveiling, I will be placing several stones on her marker. One of them will come from the beach at X Street, a place where we grew up, loved each other, and became who we were.

Some day in the near future I hope Kate and I can visit this and other New England places that provide me with such warm feelings of nostalgia. I hope she likes who I was.

Ain't life grand?
J

An Unveiling: June 2010

As I prepare to undertake a 3500 mile road trip back to Massachusetts, children, grandchildren, my family, Ada's family, great friends, and a small, beautiful Jewish cemetery in Lebanon, NH, I realize how far I've come emotionally these past three months or so.

Previously I would have labeled this trip "Going Home" but now, frankly, it feels like I'm leaving home. I live on the Florida Panhandle, not on the South Shore, not in the beautiful community of Eastman in Grantham, NH. I'm a Floridian now. That much is clear to me.

In just a few short months I've settled into this magnificent part of the country. I find myself caring about SEC football. How's 'Bama gonna be this year? Roll Tide! Think we can repeat? What about them Gators? Auburn and Ole' Miss can just go to hell! Go Dawgs!

I'm devastated by what's taking place on the Gulf. It will affect the livelihoods of thousands of people for years to come. I feel their pain not as an onlooker or a vacationer but as a neighbor.

I'm starting to expand my diet to include more seafood. A grouper po' boy sounds good to me, not too exotic or too country, just good. I'm looking forward to trying etouffee.

At my golf club I'm beginning to be known. I've got some "regulars" with whom I look forward to playing. I'm comfortable enough around them that I can bust their chops in the age-old golfer's fashion. I enjoy it when they give it back to me, which they certainly do...often!

I'm a three-hour's drive from New Orleans and will undoubtedly tour that fine old city one day as many residents of The Panhandle do. I'm established with a local doctor and a local dentist, both of whom are terrific, easy going professionals. Neither went to Harvard or Tufts but, evidently, there are other institutions that offer medical and dental degrees. Who knew?

When Kate and I head over to the bar of the Acme Oyster House near Kate's Sandestin home, the bartender already knows our order. A dozen grilled Apalachicola oysters, some crusty bread to sop up the juices, and a chardonnay and we're good to go.

Of course I haven't entirely abandoned everything I was before I landed here. Nor should I. I still live and die with all the Boston sports teams, and I always will. I read the Globe online each morning to see which Massachusetts legislator is about to be indicted, (although usually not on murder charges as was one of the county commissioners down here recently) I watch MSNBC regularly in the evenings and find Rachel Maddow to be particularly excellent. I seriously doubt there are many other "Panhandlers" tuned to that channel in the evening: Kate and I, an army of two! My friends will always be my friends. You know who you are.

There can be no doubt that having Kate in my life has made this transition much easier than it would have been otherwise. While Kate has spent a good part of her adult life in other parts of Florida, she is a relative newcomer to this part of the state. Family ties brought her to the area and it didn't take long for her to learn what The Panhandle has to offer. She's eager to share some of her "hidden gems" with me and I am a very willing student.

The title of this blog refers to the primary reason for my journey back to New England. As is customary in Jewish tradition, Ada's grave marker will be unveiled. Ada's brother, Bob, has prepared a beautiful service, and he will officiate. This will happen at noon on Sunday, June 20, at the Upper Valley Jewish Cemetery in Lebanon, NH. Some people view these unveilings as difficult ceremonies that force the loved ones to relive the funeral and all the grief that went with it.

I don't feel that way. Ada's unveiling is an opportunity for me and our family to take stock of where we are nine months after our dear Ada passed and to remind ourselves about what a wonderful person we lost.

Any opportunity to do both of those activities is fine with me.

Ain't life grand?
J