Standing in Line after Pittsburgh

Sometimes you stand in line to get somewhere.

Sometimes it’s the destination.                   

Coming up from the Metro escalator at Cleveland Park I could hear the sound of people sighing.  The sight of the line stretching out from the synagogue and down Porter Street was daunting. 

But it was dark and the trees obscured the street lamps and like a long tunnel where you know there’s an end, but you can’t quite see it, I walked toward the darkness looking for light. 

It was 6:00 o’clock, the Community Service and Solidarity Gathering for Tree of Life Synagogue didn’t start for another 30 minutes.  But even then I knew I wouldn’t get inside.

 

I walked past hundreds of people all waiting, talking, wondering if Adas Israel was at capacity.  But more amazing were the hundreds that came afterward.  The ones who showed up at the end of this half mile long line.  After the service had begun knowing full well they would never get in.  But they kept coming.  And coming.

Even after the service started and their faces lit up blue from watching the scene on a live stream, they kept coming.

Everyone’s phone seemed to have a different signal, some a few minutes ahead others just a few words behind.  But nobody left.  Everybody listened, huddling close to watch.

The week continued apace until there was #showupforShabbat.

We arrived at the 6^th and I synagogue thirty minutes early.  We walked past the front door and the security guards and began following a line of people that seemed to stretch barely down the street.

It was raining a bit and umbrellas obscured our view as we continued walking.  We thought we had reached the end, but it was a street corner that turned into an alley that turned into a dead end and then wrapped through a parking lot and back again. 

We parked ourselves at the end of the line and waited along with everyone else.

My wife had a hood to protect her from the rain, and a young man (late 20’s) behind us asked if I’d like to share his umbrella.

The line was young, white and black, some Kippot, some bare.  Most were not on their phones, they were talking with the people around them.  At first they talked about whether they would get in, when might the rain stop. 

But soon it turned to, “Where are you from?”  “Have you been here before?”

There was no talk of politics, no discussions about Election Day because nobody seemed to know each other and nobody wanted to assume.

Again, it was a group of random people waiting in a line to get to a place they would likely never see.  But even on this rainy night, they were content to stand and wait and talk.

The rain came harder.  Some people walked to the front of the line and then came back to report their findings. A rumor spread that a second service might open up at 7:30 when the first was over. 

Even when it was confirmed that the room was full, nobody left.  In the patter of the rain, the rumble of a night in Chinatown, hundreds of people stood together sharing umbrellas and stories with no agenda.

In his famous commencement address, called “This is Water,” David Foster Wallace talks about the petty frustrations of waiting in line and how we can use this time more effectively.

“The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing comes in. Because the traffic jams and crowded aisles and long checkout lines give me time to think, and if I don't make a conscious decision about how to think and what to pay attention to, I'm going to be pissed and miserable every time I have to food shop, because my natural default-setting is the certainty that situations like this are really all about me”

And so for the second time in a week a service came and went without a whisper of disappointment or complaint.  It was time to go and we walked toward the overlit streets from our bunker in an alley behind a synagogue from a group of people whose names we’d never know.

I never made it in.  But I was there.

What I found in those lines was exactly what I came for. 

The camaraderie and community that one needs in a time of crisis.  The generosity of a young man from Venezuela who offered to share his umbrella.   The kindness of strangers who lent someone a tissue from their purse, a Tylenol from their pocket, a tip for where to eat in the neighborhood.

Final Move: Dads on Floors Doing Projects

The fan.  

The shoe rack.  

Anything tall.

These are the three pillars of a father's last lesson to his children.  These are the jobs fathers are called upon to handle during college move in.  These are, in fact, the only times fathers are even mentioned during the final months at home.

As children begin their flight from the nest we want to stuff every ounce of common sense and life lesson into them from how to fix a running toilet, to what we mean by "after tax dollars."  We hope to impart wisdom about goodness, hard work and how much money they would save if they didn't go to Starbucks every day.

But instead we are relegated to jobs deemed least "in the way."  

The dorm hallway is littered with cardboard boxes, FedEx tags, empty food containers and sweating fathers, spread eagle trying to decipher the pictures on the instructions for the Seville Classics 3-Tier Resin Slat Utility Shoe Rack, espresso color.  The instruction wording and odd arrow insertions would stump a WWII code breaker until we are rescued by a YouTube video that surreptitiously circulates among the men.

Regardless of whether it's the well-appointed Freshman dorm room.

The functional Junior year apartment.

 Or the Sh*thole senior house, the
conversations are the same.

"Mom, how does this picture look?"

"Mom, do I need to hang this dress/shirt/jacket?"

"Mom, did we pack (fill in the blank)?"

"Dad, did you pick up lunch yet?"

At the far end of a teeming dorm hallway I pass a lounge on my way to pick up bottles of water.  A television hangs from the wall projecting a hunting show on the Outdoor Channel.  Scattered, one seat apart, on the fading couches is a smattering of tired-looking dads examining their cell phones.

They nod as I pass, a knowing recognition of the purgatory to which we've been relegated.  

We are not our father's father.  We were a new generation of dad that left the office early to show up at the recital and the softball game, we coached the soccer team and cried at camp drop-off as we reached for the unattainable work/life balance.  So when the child walks out that door for the final time we hope she sheds a tear for dear old dad, but she'll ask mom where they packed the Kleenex.  

A few years back there was a series of articles about the "default" parent.  As one article noted, the default parent usually has a uterus.  So when my wife was on a trip to Russia last year I called the kids (texted) and asked them for this one week, to let me be the default parent.  Let me be the one with the answers.

The questions started early the first morning:

"I'm out of money," my middle child texted.

"It's the 18th of the month, that's bad planning," I told her in a warm fatherly warning.

"I'm OUT OF MONEY," came the next exchange.

"I heard you the first time, you've got 12 days until next month's allowance comes."

"That's not the way it works."

"Huh?"

"When I run out of money mom sends me more."

"I'm in charge now."

"This is why we don't call you."

When I come back with the lunch orders I am doused in criticism that gluten-free means NO croutons, the dressing isn't on the side and "did you really get sushi from a food court?"

Amid the small talk with a neighbor in the hallway I ask the parents if they are coming back for homecoming.  They go quiet.  Later I hear the daughter whisper that her mother can't come that weekend so they didn't even bother telling the father.

But when they need height, "Can you put this suitcase on top of the closet" or brawn, "Can you open the package and take the boxes to the end of the hallway," I get the call.

It isn't so bad really, because I've learned, as we take this final child off to college, that it's better to get questions where I actually might have an answer rather than being peppered on topics where I have no expertise.

Because in fact I don't know where she packed her Sofi shorts, I don't know why the body pillow seems deflated and I don't know where to pick up the mailbox key.

I can, however, reach the top shelf, I know the difference between AA and AAA batteries and I hope to G-d that her fan doesn't come crashing down on her, because I have extra parts and the video didn't tell me where they go.

Roxy 2005-2018

Roxy wasn’t the dog

Who cared for other pets,

She didn’t like the lake

Or even getting wet.

But Jill she loved and followed

Around the house and back,

Always by her side

Hoping for a snack.

When I’d come home sometimes

And couldn’t find my wife,

I’d call for our dear dog

To lead me to my life.

The day I brought her home

The kids were so surprised,

They knew I'd said “No Pets”

(‘Cause I knew then, dogs die.)

Most nights when the lights were out,

With Lulu deeply snoring,

Roxy would leave our bed

And sleep alone til morning.

But sometimes late at night

When I felt a little blue,

I’d go off to see her

And ask, “So how are you?”

At some point in the darkness

Her little eyes would close,

And I’d pet her golden hair

As she began to dose.

Yes somewhere in the night

As I pet her fluffy fur,

Roxy made a noise

That sounded like a purr.

And for a moment we connected,

The dreaming dog and me,

Then I’d go off to bed

Or maybe just to pee.

But now my late night partner

Has crossed to the other side,

When I go off to find her

Tears just blur my eye.

And in the foggy mist

Of a late night walk about,

I wish just once to hear,

That little song eke out.

From the dog I didn’t want,

The girl named Roxy Roo,

Who lived 13 great years

Until the children grew.

I wish that I'd been wrong

That nothing lasts forever,

Sometimes we fall in love

It is life’s only treasure.

 

In a Foreign Land: Adult Tears

In a Foreign Land: Adult Tears: Tears are our first show of emotion. Most healthy babies come into this world crying.  And then they spend the next umpteen years cryin...

Adult Tears

Tears are our first show of emotion.

Most healthy babies come into this world crying.  And then they spend the next umpteen years crying because they are hungry or in pain, or cranky or hot or cold or any other misfortune that comes their way and they can't articulate.  They are feeling something and they want whoever is within earshot to make it stop.

Parents spend many years of their lives trying to do just that, filling their kids with love or donuts or stuffed animals or long bumpy car rides in an attempt to make it go away.

Over the course of his life I have seen my son's face contort in all forms of those tears and more:  The it hurts-when-they-give-me-stitches-in-my-chin tears, the I broke-my-arm tears, the I did-it but-I-can't admit-it tears, the I didn't-make-the-team tears.

But tonight I saw different tears.  Adult tears.  Tears of joy, tears that were one part relief, one part disbelief, and one part unbridled happiness.

Some argue that as we age there are more reasons to cry, but the tears come with less frequency.  Adult tears come in different forms:  The baby-is-healthy tears; the child-is-safe tears; the test-came-back-negative tears; the graduation from something tears.

Maybe this is, for him, a peek into his future of crying.

Yes there was pent-up relief.

In 2011 we were there for an overtime loss to the Lightning.



In 2012 he stayed up all night in London only to see the Caps lose a triple overtime game to the New York Rangers.  We found him alone and inconsolable on the couch the following morning draped in mismatched Capitals clothing.
















But there was something different about this year.  It wasn't just the team and their unlikely run.  It was how he began navigating his own trip to the cup.  Where he would watch the game, how he would get home from New York or Philadelphia.  Instead of me searching for tickets that would cost a fortune, it was him setting up two laptops and a cell phone to win a lottery.

I was driving home from New York on Wednesday when the text came through at 1:11 PM:

Son:  "Tickets sold out already"
Wife:  "Really"
Son:  "Sold out in 8 minutes"
Pause
Son:  "But you know who had their computer open to the ticket page 30 min before they were released?"
Pause
Son:  "This guy"

Twenty years ago I was in the same arena with my dad when the Capitals lost to my hometown Detroit Red Wings.  I was rooting for my team. I wanted to see them shake hands and hoist the cup.
During that game my son slept in his crib while players he never saw like Peter Bondra, Adam Oates and Dale Hunter played under the Caps banner.

My super powers to fix my children's problems diminished long ago.  There was a time when I could cure what ailed them by holding them close, a late night ice cream, or a trip to Funland.  But no more.

For 21 years his tears were a signal to me that something was wrong.  In this stadium, on this special night, the tears that flowed told me something was right.

51 Feels Like 15

High School, arguably life's worst years for children (and their parents), have always been something of crime scene.  For parents it's an unsolved mystery, endlessly examined for clues with which to guide our children.

But now it's in their past as well.

"What if I peaked in high school" the youngest exclaims into her Cheerios one morning, with graduation around the corner.

Those 4 short years imprint so much on our psyche, from the fear of Freshman year, the false sense of being a Sophomore, the suffering of Junior year and knowing that "this counts" and then the waiting, oh the waiting, of Senior year.

Some of my strongest memories of songs, movies, concerts, tastes and smells are from those 4 short years that make up nary seven percent of my life.  

Yet every time we hear about a child not getting invited, a friend of theirs who ends up sick in the toilet, or a car that comes home with a dented fender, we feel sixteen again.  

When we say we understand how they feel, we really mean it.  But the words sound hollow, even to us.

In the 1984 movie Sixteen Candles Sam is turning 16 but her family forgets as they are caught up in her older sister's wedding, the new in-laws, the arrival of the grandparents and Long Duk Dong.

My birthday does not sneak up on me.  In advance I know what day of the week it will be and which dairy/sugar/gluten free dessert I will splurge on.

Last week my wife asked what I wanted to do.

“For what?” I asked.

There was prom, final swim meets, graduation, and the mass coordination of people, parties and plans.

In January I was back in the classroom.  A week of Executive Education to "think big" as they say in Cambridge.  I walk through the courtyard and up the steps to the cafeteria where I fill my tray.  Standing under the archway I stare out at 20 tables filled with CEOs eating lunch and in rapt conversation on everything from Bitcoin to Blockchain.

I stand there looking for an open spot.  There are jackets and sweaters saving seats.  I slalom through the tables to an empty seat and I ask if it's free.  An open smile welcomes me into the conversation.

High School never ends.

Swimming it All Away

Four o’clock in the morning is a dismal hour for parents of swimmers.

There is the chore of waking yourself, extracting the child from their bed, driving them to the pool in the dark and then trying to balance whether to fall back to sleep in the car or power through. What is harder is sleeping through your alarm, waking at 6:30 am in a panic, only to realize that the child now sets her own alarm, feeds herself and drives alone to the pool.

The question is no longer who, but what drives her?  There is no swim scholarship at the other end of the pool.  No fame, no riches.

None of that matters to her, just the satisfaction of how she feels getting out of the water after a practice or at the end of a race.  

As she wrote in one of her college essays:  “My team has become my family, the pool has become my second home, and the scent of the chlorine has become my new perfume.”

The pool is not always warm and welcoming, but in a world where there is so much communication, so many signals, so much vying for our kids’ attention, so much to do, she finds comfort under water.  

For two hours a day she has no cell phone to grab, no Snapchat streaks to contend with, no videos to like or pictures to share.  No one is calling for her attention except the water, the wall and her now-quiet mind.

There is something about the simplicity of it all that draws her in.  The rules are black and white, like the lines at the bottom of the pool.  There is a start and a stop, a beginning and an end, complete clarity, even under the murky water.

But the times improved and with it the awards and the confidence and it became a part of her.  She was a lot of things, but she was a swimmer first.  Years of leaving parties early on Saturday nights so she could get up early for Sunday practice, coming late and leaving early to endless family vacations, impossibly early mornings all conspired to form the core of who she is.

This is not a story that ends poorly with heartache or injury.  It ends the way high school ends with a final meet, improvements that come in tenths of seconds, tears for what's over, and wonder about what's next.