Chapter 1: A Letter

Reading this letter will be painful, I know, but I ask that you consider the pain I’ve been living with. Try to imagine what has been like for me to love you with all my heart, and to feel uncertain of my place in your hearts. I’ve told you, a number of times, that I cannot go on living as the way we have, only to feel that my words seem to fall on deaf ears.

What I am doing, I have to do.

Please understand; please try not to blame me.

I know that my perception of the situation might be unfair to you. But, this is how I see it.

 

Veronica, my beautiful wife: I have been in love with you from the moment I first saw you sitting at the bar. Given my situation, I was sure I would never get beyond polite conversation with you. And that intimidated me. All I could do was sit there stealing glances to my left at the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

It was you who made the first move, remember?

“Hi.” That was it, and—I know this is trite—my heart skipped a beat..

"Uh, h-hi,” Fool, I berated myself. I so wanted to talk with you, but could think of nothing to say.

You asked, “Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Just divorced.” What the hell is wrong with you, why would you tell her that. Shut up before you make a bigger fool of yourself.

"When did you break up?”

“Actually, last week,” I said. Schmuck, change the damned subject..

“How long were you together?”

“Three years.” Sure, tell her what a loser you are.

“Wow. Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

By this point, I was sure that I had blown any slim chance I might have had with you. Probably for the best. Probably too soon anyway.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend,” you said, “last month. I had given him the ultimatum.”

“Ultimatum?”

“You know: ring or goodbye. He chose goodbye.” Saying that, you lightly placed a commiserating hand on mine. “I guess misery loves company.”

I took a chance, “Can I buy you a drink?”

A smile, a nod. And we sat there sharing our sob stories.

We sat there till closing, then you gave a slip of paper and said, “Here’s my number. When you feel ready call me; maybe we can go out together sometime.”

A month later, convinced that I had missed my opportunity with you I called anyway.

 

We hadn’t dated very long before I had the courage to tell you that I had fallen in love with you. To my amazement you said that you had fallen in love with me too.

 

Had we settled into a comfortable rut, or had our love cooled?  I wish I knew. All I really know is that to my perception you seemed distant and disinterested.

For some reason that I could never discover, you seemed to go cold on me. I would suggest going out, and either you were not in the mood, or you would cite our meager finances as an excuse. You even seemed to rebuff most of my romantic advances. I frequently wonder if I satisfy you on the rare occasion when those advances actually lead to love-making.

My attempts at simple conversation are met with monosyllabic grunts. Your responses frequently have an edge to them. If I ask whether I had done something to upset you, you say that I hadn’t. But, your tone says that I most surely had. You just will not tell me what it is and I’m left trying to figure out what I did, and how I can make amends.

All too often I feel as though I am talking to myself. I’m lonely, even in your company.

Let’s face it, we no longer seem to have anything in common.

Believe me, Veronica, you are the love of my life. It hurts that I am not sure whether you feel the same.

 

Aviva, my darling daughter, my miracle. I wanted to be a father so desperately that it hurt when it seemed it would never happen. Then you were born.

How well I remember the joy of reading to you at bedtime. We always read the same three books—you even started reciting them with me as I read.

As you got older, and started learning to read in school, we would share the reading, I would read one line, then you would read one line. Eventually you were able to read whole pages, and we would trade off that way.

Eventually, you were reading by yourself—but you still wanted me in the room with you. I would tuck you in, give you your book, and you would read to me. You were so proud of yourself and my heart would burst with the pride and love I felt for you.

 

When you were twelve, things began to change. Everything I did seemed to embarrass you. It was as though you were embarrassed to be around me.

Everything I did for you seemed to lead to a fight.

You even got angry with me when Mom and I signed you up for tutoring.

 

We had a sort of truce when Michael was in Hebrew school. You would come with us as I drove him to the synagogue. Then we would go to the library so you could do your homework while I prepared my lessons for the next day, or graded student papers. On the way back to pick Michael up we would stop to get a cup of coffee—well, hot chocolate for you—and would talk about school, or anything else that was on your mind. You were even seeking my advice again.

 

You started college and things soured again.

How many times have I picked you up when you’ve been out with friends? How often have I tried to have a conversation with you, only to meet with the same monosyllabic grunts that I would get from your mother in response?

Can you imagine the agony a father feels when his darling daughter, his miracle, seems to be unwilling to be in his company?

 

And Michael, my son, my buddy. I can’t begin to tell you how much I relish the memory of teaching you to throw a ball, and to hit. I know that I may have seemed reluctant when you wanted to have a catch—usually because I was engrossed in whatever book I was reading at the time—but you have to know that our games of catch were a joy for me.

Michael, I can’t begin to describe the fullness of my heart as we went to synagogue together every Saturday while you were in Hebrew school. I felt that we were forging a special bond. In truth I still feel some of the warmth of that bond. I often wonder, however, if that feeling is mutual. Do you feel it as well?

I can’t begin to tell you how proud I was as you recited your Haftorah at your Bar Mitzvah. It was an even greater joy for me that you continued to come to synagogue with me after your Bar Mitzvah.

But that stopped when you entered college. Of course, I understood. But it did hurt.

Lately, I have been feeling that you, too, have been distancing yourself from me. It seems that everytime I try to help you, give you advice, it is resented. We frequently end up in a shouting match. Why is that?

 

Why is it that the family I adore seems to despise me?

 

I try to involve myself in your lives because I love you all with all my heart. It seems that my love runs up against a stone wall.

 

It is partly for this reason that I am doing this.

 

I said partly. Here’s why:

 

I realize that if there is a stone wall between us, it is just as much my doing as yours. I realize that with my attention to my students, my books, my writing, and my other obsessions I have may have created a distance between us. I also realize that I have used my pain as an excuse to widen the gulf, every bit as much as I have used my occupations, or preoccupations—my part in the wall—as a defense against the pain I have been feeling.

 

It is time to tear down the wall, and close the distance.

 

I have a lot of soul-searching to do. I need to be alone in order to find the answers.

 

I will call as soon as I get to where I am going.

 

I love you all with all my heart, but this is something I must do.

 

Please understand.

Chapter 2: A Conversation

Leaving the letter on Veronica’s night-stand made me feel like a coward. Doing it this way just didn’t seem right. I had to do this face to face. It was the only way she and the kids would understand. I had to look them in eyes, and lay out my reasons and my plans in detail and clearly. I owed it to them.  

 

I tore up the letter, and waited until they woke. This was going to be hard. But, it had to be done this way. 

  

I had been feeling as that lately a stone wall had gone up between my wife, and kids, and me, that I could not tear down. I had been feeling like a failure as a husband, and father. I would frequently find myself on the defensive, often picking fights with Veronica, or Michael, or Aviva. How much of it was their fault, and how much of it was actually my fault, I really did not know—nor do I know even now. I just knew that I had these strong feelings of isolation and inadequacy. There seemed to be a gaping hole in my very soul, and I knew I had to do something to rid myself of these feelings. 

Before I could rid myself of these feelings of inadequacy, I had to come to some understanding of their source.  

I had considered therapy—as will be seen, I never ruled that idea out—however, I needed to get away, to go someplace where I could think, and reflect. I sensed that therapy would not work until I could take an honest look into my “heart of darkness.” Until I could do that, I would not, I sensed, be able to talk openly and honestly with any therapist. 

I was not about to go off on this self-exploration without trying to explain myself to Veronica and the kids. 

 

We gathered in the family room. 

 

Me: I know that I have not been the ideal husband and father. I know seem to blame each of you for all my issues. Whenever I had difficulty with a piece I was writing, I lashed out at you, when the real problem is that I am frustrated that I haven’t been able to make a living at what I really want to write—that I am stuck writing for the Ledger. I often feeling that you would prefer it if I wasn’t around. 

Veronica: That’s ridiculous. We need you. You know that. 

Me: Yes, you need me. I do know it. I also, in my more lucid, rational mind, know that you love me. 

Veronica, Aviva, and Michael (in unison): Yes, we do. So what’s the problem? 

Me: Truthfully, I have been feeling, lately, that I’m the problem. 

Michael: What do you mean? 

Me: I mean that I have let my feelings of inadequacy—my feelings that I am not the husband and father that you guys deserve—has influenced my reactions to things. To you. 

Aviva: I suppose I could be a better daughter. You’ve told me a number of times that my tone is disrespectful or nasty. 

Me: Yes, sometimes it does seem that way to me—the same, sometimes with your mother and Michael. But, it’s also possible that I’m just too sensitive. Maybe, I’m just too insecure. I need to figure it out. 

Veronica: Therapy? 

Me: Most likely yes, but. . . . 

Veronica: I think that might be a good idea. Wait, what do you mean by “but”? 

Me: I think I need to go off and be alone for a few days, to reflect. To do some serious soul searching. Otherwise, I don’t think any amount of therapy would help. 

 

Veronica and the kids were silent, absorbing this. Then. . . . 

 

Veronica: You’re not suggesting a separation, are you? 

Me: No! No! Absolutely not! I love you guys too much for that. I love you all with all my heart. That’s why, in my paranoid states, it hurts me so much when I convince myself that you’d prefer not to have me around. 

Aviva: I don’t understand, why do you feel that way? 

Me: Sometimes I feel like you’re intentionally leaving me out of family conversations. When I ask what you’re talking about, I sense a tone of irritation—even hostility—in your responses. (Veronica was about to comment, so I held up my hand to hold her off.) I said, “sense.” When I think rationally—after I explode in frustration and hurt—I find myself wondering if I misread the tone. In fact, I end up believing that I did. 

Michael: So, why do you feel the need to go off alone. Why can’t you just work through these feelings with therapy. 

Me: Right now, I’d be working through my feelings while in an emotionally toxic environment. And to be clear, I have this fear that I’m the toxin. I know this is hard to understand. I’m just asking you to try. I plan to be away only a few days, then I’m coming back and most likely starting therapy. 

 

Again the silence, and then. . . . 

 

Veronica: I really don’t understand, but you know I have your back. How long? 

Me: No more than a week. 

Michael: Dad, I love you. I know I don’t say it enough, but I do. 

Me: I know Michael. I love you too. 

Aviva: I’ll try to be better, when you come home. I promise. 

Me: I love you Viv. Just remember, the problem may not be just you; it may be me too. In fact, my problem is that I’m not at all sure the problem isn’t all me. That’s why I need to do this. 

 

They all got up, surrounded me, and embraced me in a hug. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. 

 

Michael: When you come back, maybe it’s not just you who should start therapy. 

Me: What do you mean? 

Michael: Maybe we should start family counseling. 

Veronica: I think that might be a good idea. 

 

I considered this for a moment. . . . 

 

Me: Maybe. It’s something we’ll talk about when I come home. 

Veronica: Where will you go? 

Me: I hadn’t considered it. I guess I’ll head back to the old neighborhood. 

Veronica: Where would you stay? 

Me: I’ll call Jason and Jeri. Or, I’ll just stay with my sister. 

 

I had sensed that this conversation was going to be hard, and now that it was over, I felt that it was not as hard as I thought. I admit I was even surprised by their support. 

As I prepared to go I was feeling hopeful.

Chapter 3: Veronica

Even through the arguments and fights (what marriage doesn’t have a few of those), my love for Veronica has grown--and continues to grow--every day. Even through the arguments and fights I remain convinced that she is my soul-mate. I’ll admit that there are times when I have wondered if she feels the same way as I do, but they are few. I really can’t, and don’t want to, imagine my life without Veronica and our kids.

And that is why the conversation, though necessary, was difficult.

 

This is a long story, and it starts with a divorce.

 

That divorce, from my first wife, Chana, had been finalized. I had hand delivered the signed papers. Although that marriage was one that should never have been, in the first place, I grieved. I had not wanted the divorce. In my mind, it meant that I had failed, and I was not one who could accept failure. Still, when she told me she that she wanted the divorce, I had to accept that I had no alternative but to agree not to contest it. I had to accept that it was for the best.

Chana may have been far from the ideal wife, but, looking back on it and being honest with myself, I would have to admit that I was, by no stretch of the imagination, an ideal husband. I would come home from work, have dinner, and spend the evening in my office, at the typewriter, while she sat alone watching television.

When we did talk, we were usually engaged in toxic fights. She resented of the time I spent pursuing my dream. I became defensive every time she demanded that I be “more realistic” about my chances of success. I was inattentive, and she was unsupportive. So, you see, our marriage was doomed to be a disaster.

 

One week, to the day, after I signed the final divorce papers, and hand delivered them, I was sitting, still brooding over my failure, at the bar of The Seaside, a pub where Chana and I used to hang out with Debra a friend of mine from work. I couldn’t tell you why I chose to hang out, that night, in The Seaside. It must have been kismet. Because. . . .

 

Looking, to my left I saw her sitting there at the bar, alone. I sat there stealing glances to my left at this incredibly beautiful woman whom I just knew was way out of my league. Whenever she looked in my direction I averted my eyes. I felt like a real creep.

She finally said, “Hi.” There was friendliness in the greeting--which took me by surprise.

I stammered out my reply, “Uh h-hi.” My inner voice screamed, Real smooth, fool.

"I'm Veronica," she said. "I think I may have seen you here a couple of times."

"Possible," I replied. "I used to hang out here on Friday nights with some friends. I'm Gene."

She smiled and asked, “You alone, tonight?”

“Yeah,” I replied. Sure, why not just come out and tell her you’re a loser. “Just divorced.” Really, why would you tell her that?

“I’m alone too,” she said. “When was the breakup?”

“Actually, signed the papers last week,” I said.

“How long were you together?”

“Three years.”

“Wow. Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Drowning your sorrows. Do you mind if I join you?”  

Without waiting for me to answer, she moved onto the barstool that stood empty between us, and said, “I just broke up with my boyfriend last month. Gave him the ultimatum.”

“Ultimatum?”

“You know, ring or goodbye. Five years together, and he chose goodbye.”

She laid one of her hands on mine--it was like an electric charge went through my hand. Then she said, “I guess misery loves company.”

“I guess so. Really does sucks, doesn’t it?”

She gave me a scrutinizing look, and said, “Mmm, I not so sure it does suck. I mean, here we both are. I mean I have always believed that things happen for a reason.”

“I guess you could look at it that way,” I said, and I offered to buy her a drink, and she accepted.

“If you want to talk about it, I’ve been told that I’m a really good listener,” she offered. I really didn’t feel comfortable, but I figured that it might do me some good to talk about it with someone who knew neither me nor Chana.

“We met,” I began, “on a blind date, during our freshman year at Queens College, set up by mutual friends. I had just broken up with the girl I had been dating since freshman year in high school.

"I had been feeling really low over that break-up. After a month of me moping around the house, and neglecting my studies, my dad had suggested to my friend that he and his girlfriend set me up with one of her friends. Talk about embarrassing.

"Anyway, they arranged a double date, introducing me to a friend from her Accounting class, Chana."

Veronica kept her gray-blue eyes locked on mine. It seemed that she was peering deep into the depth of my soul as I weaved my tale of sorrow.

"Chana and I dated for four years. When I got my bachelor’s degree we went out to dinner to celebrate. It was then that I proposed. I know, stupid. Fresh out of school, and no job, and I'm proposing marriage."

“What was your degree in?”

“English Lit.”

Talking to Veronica was beginning to feel therapeutic—and surprisingly easy. She didn't say a word throughout my whole recitation. I told her how we got married as soon as I got my first job. How shortly after the wedding I was laid off. I told her how not long after I got laid off the marriage went sour, and we would fight constantly.

“I refused to give up on my dreams, so I focused on finding editorial jobs.”

As I spoke, I could feel that electric charge from Veronica's hand gently squeezing mine.

“I eventually found a job with the Queens Daily Ledger. It didn’t pay much, but it was a job—something for the resumé. Chana wasn’t happy. She kept telling me that we couldn’t keep up with the bills on what I made at the Ledger—every night. I tried to get her understand that I only planned on staying there for a year, and then I would start sending out my resumé again, with actual editorial job on it. All she wanted was for me to be ‘realistic’ and find a real job.”

Veronica pouted, “Doesn’t sound very supportive.”

"I had wanted to be a writer since I was a kid. In fact, it was all I ever wanted to do. Chana couldn’t understand that."

"What do you write?"

Happy to change the subject, I told Veronica, “I’m still working for the Ledger, writing a column on modern ethics. But I also write poetry and short fiction.”

"I’m not really a big fan of poetry--actually I don’t like it, nor do I understand it--but I'd love to see some of your stuff sometime," she said. Did she just say, “Sometime”? Did this mean I had a chance of seeing her again?

"I'm doing a reading at the Quill and Ink Bookmart this Saturday night. Would you like to come?"

In answer, she wrote her number on a napkin, and then asked me for mine.

"I have to check my calendar, but I'll give you a call, tomorrow, and let you know," she said.

 

The next day Veronica called. “Gene, it’s Veronica.”

“Hi,” I must have sounded a little surprised.

I could hear the chuckle as she said, “I did tell you I would call. It turns out I’m free Saturday. Do you want me to meet you there?”

“Why don’t I pick you up?”

“Great.” She gave me her address. “So, I guess it’s a date.”

Hanging up, I marvelled. I had a date. She called it a date.

 

After the reading Veronica and I stopped at a coffee shop.

"I have to say," she told me, "I'm impressed. And I don't impress easily. I told you that I don’t like poetry, remember?" I nodded my head. She went on, “But, your work is beautiful.’

"Thank you. Of course, I'm no Blake, Keats, or Coleridge."

"Who," she asked, "are they?" Then at my shocked expression she laughed. "I had to read them in college, but I would probably say that was what turned me off of poetry. But your poems. . . your poems. . . not only were they understandable, they were beautiful, and they showed a touching depth of emotion. That one about the unveiling of your father's gravestone. I couldn’t have kept from crying if I wanted to."

I had gone silent for longer than I thought.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No," I shook my head, "I was just thinking about I how can't share this with my dad. He and my mom were my greatest supporters. I could always rely on them for honest assessments, and constructive criticism of my writing."

"You're lucky in that. Not everyone has such supportive parents."

I asked her, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, they were great. When Robert chose the goodbye part of my ultimatum, they were there to help me pick up the pieces."

I tried to get her to talk about her relationship with Robert. She wasn’t having it. Every attempt I made was met with a shrug of the shoulder, and a change of subject. I wanted to know everything about this amazing lady--I think I was already becoming aware that I might have met my soul-mate--but I guessed that I had to accept that there were certain parts of her life that were off limits to me.

 

Something about that evening that told me that Veronica would be the one to make me happier than I could have imagined. Unfortunately, I could not have anticipated the pain that would accompany that happiness.

 

I said, before, that I had fallen in love with Veronica that night in The Seaside. I am aware that that was just loneliness mixed with a bit of infatuation. Let's face it, I was on the rebound from a marriage that had just ended.

 

The night of the reading was different. I was looking at things with a slightly clearer head--one not clouded by morose self-pity, and one that could see a friendship developing. I realized that I could not declare love for Veronica yet. After all, although that is what I was feeling, I could not be sure of that, until I could distance myself from my life with Chana.

 

It was a week after my reading at Quill and Ink Bookmart.

I called Veronica. “Hi, it’s Gene.”

“I know. What’s up?”

“My friend, Jason, is doing a reading of his stuff, at the Quill and Ink. Look, I know you don’t really like poetry, but I was hoping you’d join me.”

“Sure. I’d love to.”

Jason Arnovsky was a lifelong friend--our friendship went all the way back to first grade. In fact, he and his wife, Jeri, were the friends who had introduced me to Chana.  Jeri always felt responsible for the pain that marriage, and divorce, caused me. Jason and I had started a writing group that organized public readings for members. I had introduced Veronica to them at my reading.

I trusted his opinion, on everything, more than anyone else's--except for those of my mom and dad. I knew that, if I asked him, Jason would give me sound advice on my budding relationship with Veronica. I also knew that if I didn't ask him, he would keep his opinion (good or bad) to himself.

At his reading Jason concluded with what he called a prelude to a longer piece--yet to be composed--which would tell a touching story. With Jason's permission, I reprint that poem here:

 

I had emerged from

that turbulent affair.

I had been left shattered

I was heart-broken.

Then I met HER.

 

I couldn't help thinking that Jason, in a very subtle way was offering his opinion of Veronica. After all, his marriage--his first and only--was strong. Jeri was a loving and supportive wife and friend. To me she was as much a sister as Jason was a brother. Jason and Jeri were very much in love, and had been since we were in high school. Ergo: he was not writing Soul-Mates about Jeri and him. Jason never actually confirmed--nor did he deny--my assumption that the poem was for Veronica and me.

"Gene," he said, as he laid his hand on my shoulder, "All I'll say right now is that Veronica is beautiful, she's intelligent, and she seems to enjoy your company. Just take it slow for now. Chana burned you badly, don't let it happen again."

"Do you think," I asked, "that's likely to happen with Veronica?"

"Honestly. No." His smile told me more than any words could.

Jeri came up behind Jason, "Hey guys, do you plan on feeding us starving women?"

Jason reached behind him to pull Jeri to his side, "I suppose we could. What do you say, Gene?"

I suggested we go to the same coffee shop that Veronica and I had gone to the previous week.

 

As we walked to the coffee shop, Veronica and Jeri lagged behind. It was a thinly veiled stratagem, to give Jason and me space to talk freely, and for Jeri to vet Veronica. I’ll jump ahead of myself a bit and say that Jason and Jeri gave Veronica their approval--while still cautioning me to remember that I might still be on the rebound. I didn’t need reminding: I’d made that mistake once, and once was enough.

Anyway, as we walked, Jason probed for details--I suspect that Jeri was doing the same with Veronica.

 

It was some weeks later that Veronica had gotten the seal of approval from Jason and Jeri. In fact, Jason even predicted--correctly--that Veronica and I would be married by the end of the year. He had gone as far as to say that it would be a good idea.

“Aren’t you the one,” I asked, “who cautioned me to go slow.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I did. But I didn’t tell you to drag your heels. I’m not saying marry her today, or even tomorrow. But, whatever you do, don’t allow yourself to lose her.”

“I don’t intend to. But, after Chana, I’m not sure--at least not right now--that I even want to get married again.”

“And, that’s why I think you should take it slow. Besides, you told me that you guys met when both of you were on the rebound. She might be a little skittish about marriage too. You need to take a bit more time to really get to know each other. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you two were married by the end of the year.”

 

To make a long story a little less long (not actually short), I moved in with Veronica about three months after we met, and we lived together for another three months before we got married.

It was a simple affair in the Rabbi’s study, with just us, the Rabbi, Jason, and Jeri. Veronica’s mom and dad made us a small party that night, and then we headed to Virginia Beach for our honeymoon.

 

Fast forward two years. After three failed attempts, Veronica finally got pregnant. On April 23, 1985, our daughter, Aviva, was born. As I looked down on my daughter, my miracle, in her bassinet, my heart filled to bursting. Veronica--my soul-mate--had given me a gift (actually two gifts) that exceeded all the blessings I could ever hope for. She gave me her love, and our beautiful daughter.

Life couldn’t get any better--or so I thought.

Four years later life did get better; our son, Michael, was born.

My heart was beyond full; I could not possibly want more. Life was perfect--until. . . .

 

Sometime after Aviva and Michael were born it seemed that our blissful life was going sour. Don’t get me wrong, we still loved each other. Divorce was never on the table, but. . . .

 

It seemed we were drifting apart. At least, I sensed that there was a distance growing between us.

 

From that first time she accompanied me to my reading, I felt that I could talk openly with her. I could share my views on everything: politics, literature, even sex. She would engage, even though these were not topics that interested her. I found it easy to talk with her. And that was the thing: where I talked to Chana, I could talk with Veronica--even though my interests were not always hers. She responded. There was communication.

Then, at some point the communication seemed to stop. I would attempt conversations, and her responses seemed distant and hollow. I was talking in a vacuum. I was talking at her. Suddenly, it seemed, I had to work hard at the simplest conversations.

Around this time, she seemed to become increasingly reluctant to read anything I wrote.

This lady, who attended all poetry reading with me—both mine and those and other members of the group—even though she did not share my love of literature and poetry--suddenly had no interest in reading my work and offering her comments.

It had become harder for me to get her feedback on anything I wrote. Whenever I questioned her for a reason, her response was, “I’m not a writer. I don’t know how to critique this.”

“I don’t want another writer’s critique,” I would say, “I can get that from the group. I want the opinion of a reader.”

“You know I don’t even like poetry. I don’t know what to say about your work.”

For some reason, this, then, lead to an argument—I might even say that it would lead to a fight. We were arguing and fighting a lot

All I had to do was ask if she was okay, and that led to a fight.

 

I still loved Veronica—I was incapable of not loving her. And, I never doubted that she still loved me. But. . . .

 

Something had soured, and I could never get at the source. When I questioned her, she would tell me nothing was wrong, and yet I sensed that something definitely was wrong. It was the tone of voice that I perceived. It was the arms crossed over her chest as she sat watching television.

 

Eventually, I found myself becoming more and more morose, sullen, and withdrawn. Eventually, I stopped trying to make conversation. I found myself getting increasingly moody with her and the kids. I found myself getting aggravated at insignificant annoyances. I took offense at little teasing jokes. In short, I found myself becoming the person I did not want to be. I feared I was turning into the me who had been married to Chana.

I would sit at the opposite side of the sofa, with my tablet, reading, while she watched television with Aviva and Michael. Or I would spend the evening at my computer—usually staring at a blank screen.

I had lapsed into an intense case of writer’s block, which exacerbated my foul temperament. The smallest provocation was sending me into uncontrollable rages. And, worst of all, I found myself screaming at the ones I loved most in this world—Veronica, Aviva, Michael—and blaming them for everything that would go wrong for me, from my writer’s block to our internet connection failing, just as an idea for a poem or story coalesced in my mind, preventing me from getting it down. I even found myself blaming them if I could not find the pen and paper that was sitting right beside me on my desk, waiting for me to start working old school.

Then things really came to head. . . .

 

I had finally broken through my block and had been writing what promised to be the anchor piece in a collection of poems that would tell stories. As might be expected, our network kicked out on me—just as I sat down and was prepared to start writing. However, I had my writing pad and pen right where I could find it—and I did. I had my cup of coffee safely at my left. I was writing. It was flowing as it hadn’t in weeks. And then. . . .

A simple act, such as reaching across myself to grab my coffee, and it all went to hell. The truth is, I had my eyes on the poem, when, pen in hand, I reached for the cup. The pen clicked against the ceramic, and the next thing I knew, an ocean of steaming liquid was flowing all over my work, all over me, all over the desk, and all over the floor around me.

I shouted, “Damn it all! Someone get me paper towel. Come on damn it, I need paper towel.”

Michael barely took a minute to come to my side with a full roll of toweling, which I grabbed from his hand without so much as a grunted, “thank you.”

As I set to work mopping up the mess, cursing up a storm, Aviva made the mistake of telling me to calm down, that it wasn’t such a great catastrophe. I knew she was right. I knew that I just needed to let the paper dry, and I would be able to salvage the work I had already done.

However, all I could do was yell at her, “An hour of writing is ruined. An hour wasted.”

That’s when Veronica, in an effort to calm me, piped in, “Just let everything dry, and we’ll (notice, she said, ‘we’ll,’ as in, ‘I’ll help you’) see what we can save.”

I guess I don’t have to tell you that her offer to help went unnoticed by me.

“There’s no saving any of it,” I moaned. “I’ll never be able to read through the coffee stains.”

“I’ll help you,” she said. “Maybe with two sets of eyes we’ll be able to salvage most of it, and then you can work from there.”

“Maybe,” Aviva offered, “three sets of eyes will help?”

Not to be left out, Michael, who hated reading in general, offered, “Four sets.”

 

This outpouring of help—of love--from my family went far to calm me.

 

I went into the bedroom, took my guitar, and picked my way through Suicide is Painless. I spent an hour with the guitar in my hand, playing through my rage and frustration, until, by the time I played the last notes of Stairway to Heaven, my emotions were more serene. Also, the paper was dry enough to begin salvaging the poem.

The four of us worked until it was time for Veronica and Aviva to start preparing dinner. Michael and I, working until dinner was on the table, managed to finish the job. After dinner, I was able to finish the rough draft of that poem.

 

By the way, anyone who has read the book, Poetic Tales, can tell you that the anchor, “Reward,” is, by far, not one of my best pieces.

 

If I’m being honest with myself, I have to say that the above is one of several occurrences that have given me pause, that has made me wonder if maybe I was imagining the distance that seemed to be developing between my family and me.

 

I’m not sure.

 

I could never quite shake the feeling that my wife and kids—particularly my wife—were constantly embarrassed by, and angry at, me. There was always—well, maybe, often—an edge to their tone when they responded to me, that I couldn’t read any other way than that I had somehow irritated them.

I even tried, several times to talk it out with Veronica. She would either resist the discussion or would tell me I was imagining it.

 

On one such occasion, we were in the car.

“I can’t help feeling,” I said, “that I am an intrusion in your lives.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

“You always seem to tune me out, or you seem irritated.”

She just looked at me blankly.

“I tell you something,” I said, “and you don’t respond. So, I repeat myself. Then, when you do respond, there’s an angry tone in your voice.”

‘I just speak loud enough,” she returned, “so you’ll hear me respond, since you don’t seem to hear me.”

“I feel like there is a wall between me and the family I love with all my heart. Have you any idea how it hurts to love people as I love you and kids, and to feel like they would be happier if you weren’t in the picture.”

“Oh, come on,” she said

“I’m hurting, and it seems that no one cares,” I complained.

“Nonsense.”

“I feel like everything I say, and do, is an annoyance to you.”

She didn’t even look at me, but she said, “You can feel any way you want.”

I really didn’t know how to respond to that. I simply dropped it, and from that time I withdrew into myself more and more. My pain grew with each day. My only relief was with friends outside the house—my involvement in the writers’ group, my work on the paper.

 

I found myself wishing I had the kind of marriage that Jason and Jeri had. They had moved to Florida, so lately, my only contact with them was on Facebook. Jason was still active with the group, through social media, so he and I were still sharing, and commenting on, our poems and stories.

I thought of talking to Jason about what I was going through, but found it was one subject I couldn’t talk about, even with my best friend.

I tried addressing my issues in my writing, but that only intensified the pain, rather than alleviating it.

Suddenly, after some soul-searching, I realized that I needed to do the kind of soul-searching I couldn’t do in what I had come to see as a toxic environment. I knew what I had to do.

Even through the arguments and fights (what marriage doesn’t have a few of those), my love for Veronica has grown--and continues to grow--every day. Even through the arguments and fights I remain convinced that she is my soul-mate. I’ll admit that there are times when I have wondered if she feels the same way as I do, but they are few. I really can’t, and don’t want to, imagine my life without Veronica and our kids.

And that is why the conversation, though necessary, was difficult.

 

Chapter 4: Gravitating Homeward

Leaving the parking lot, I turned onto the Belt Parkway, and on autopilot following familiar roads my course gravitated to Suicide Hill and my big rock.

That rock was where, as a child, I gravitated to when I needed to be alone. I would sit there and cry out all my hurts. It was here that came to think whenever I had a problem of any kind. I even retreated to the rock when, in my third year of college, I broke up with Mandy, the girl I had been dating since our freshman year of high school—the girl I thought I was going to marry. The rock was where I proposed to Chana, the girl Jason and Jeri introduced me to after the breakup with Mandy. And, of course, my despair over the divorce brought me back to the rock.

 

In some strange way, the rock felt like a home to me. From the vantage, atop Suicide Hill, I could look out over the panorama of my childhood. I could look out over the scenes that shaped the man I have become—the insecure, slightly neurotic, mildly paranoid mess I seem to have become.

 

As I sat on the rock, looking southward, my gaze shifted slightly to my right toward the scenes of my less than idyllic childhood.

Elementary school. My first experiences with bullying for being the fat kid. Joey Small, the first kid to bully me. We were in second grade. I was a sort of “paying it forward” victim of his aggression. He couldn’t defend himself against his tormentors (our tormentors), so he lashed out at those of us who were more outcast than he—evidently, I was his favorite target.

Joey was what we would call, today, a geek. He was picked on by the “cool” kids for being awkward and clumsy. A scrawny kid with fine blond—almost white—hair and pale blue eyes, Joey was always second to last picked when sides were picked for touch football, or softball, during recess (guess who dead last was). If he made the last out of the inning he would be pushed, shoved, and punched. He was one of their favorite marks for cruel practical jokes (after me, of course).

Like the torture that he was put through he subjected me to the name calling, the practical jokes, and the blows. Being scrawny and a bit clumsy, he couldn’t very well strike out at the “cools.” He took their abuse and turned to the awkward fat kid with his fists.

Being fat and awkward, I was, of course, also targeted by the “cools.” As I said, Joey was second to last to be picked for touch football, or softball. Being fat and slow, I was always last. To make matters worse, I could never seem to make contact with the softball, or avoid being tackled. I always suspected that this was why I always ended up with the football. And, yes, I said tackled—during touch football on the asphalt schoolyard. And then, of course I would almost always get hit by the pitch—usually in the stomach.

This abuse began in elementary school, and continued through sophomore year of high school. Fortunately for me by junior year the bullies grew up, and somehow we became friends.

They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. As I look at the man I am now I wonder if I am any stronger for having survived a tortured childhood.

Don't get me wrong. As bad as my life was with my peers, that’s how good my home life was. I was blessed with uber-supportive parents, and an older sister who always had my back—especially against the bullies.

Still, I can’t help wondering if this childhood was the genesis of my deep insecurities. Or could it have been something—someone—else.

 

During freshman year of high school I started dating Mandy—Amanda Loring—another social outcast. We first met during an orientation for a special program for gifted and talented students, and became friends.

As the friendship grew I found that I could sit for hours listening to her on the piano. I found myself falling in love with her and the Moonlight Sonata. Mandy and her music became the muse for many of the stories and poems that I would write.

Because we were both social outcasts, neither of us felt that we had to prove anything to the other.

By Spring Break of our junior year we were talking marriage—after college. I even bought her what passed for an engagement ring. A simple gold ring with what was probably a chip of glass that was microscopic in size. As far as we were concerned we were going to be married after we had our Bachelors’ Degrees.

And then we started college. I stayed here, and went to Queens College, and Mandy went to Dartmouth. I firmly believe that long distance relationships are doomed—at least ours was.

 

Things went along somewhat smoothly during our first year apart. Don’t get me wrong, I missed Mandy terribly. I probably drove my mom and dad nuts as I waited anxiously by the phone every Sunday night until it was after nine, when long distance rates were lowest, so I could make our weekly call—or receive the call when it was her Sunday to call.

When she was home for school holidays we were inseparable (as we had been throughout high school). Every moment we could steal to be alone saw us making love, and it always felt as if we were making love for the first time. I mean it was great. Idyllic.

This continued through our second year of college. And then, as the third year approached things started to go south—and found me spending a lot of my time sitting up there on my rock.

 

During our second year at Queens College, Jason and I got together with five of our creative writing classmates and started a writer’s group. We would get together during the “Free Hour”—a time, every day, during which there were no scheduled classes—to discuss literature, share our writing, and arrange readings in the College Union cellar.

That summer I brought Mandy to a couple of meetings and readings. She seemed to enjoy the readings, but—and I admit that I was oblivious to this—she felt lost and awkward when we would discuss various works. I remember that summer we had a running debate over whether Iago was truly a villain in Othello, or whether his grievances against the Moor were justified.

“What do you think, Mandy,” Leeanne Schneider asked.

“Actually, I’ve never read or seen it,” Mandy replied.

Looking back on it now, I wonder why I never saw the discomfort etched on Mandy’s face. Was I really that insensitive? Am I still that insensitive jerk? Note to self: ask Veronica about that.

Anyway, by the end of that summer Mandy and I broke up. To be honest, I really don’t remember what led to the break-up. I simply blame the strain for the long distance romance—the strain of not being together for long periods, after having been so inseparable.

 

It was not long after I broke up with Mandy that Jason and Jeri introduced me to Chana. Mandy and I broke up at the end of August. Jeri had been spending the summer working at a summer camp. Chana, who had been in Jeri’s English class at York College, was working at the same camp.

After Mandy and I broke up Jason and Jeri introduced me to friends of Jeri’s--classmates mostly. None of them really worked out. Then, Jason and Jeri decided to have a New Year’s party at Jeri’s house. It was at this party that they introduced me to Chana, and we hit it off.

Four years later, Jason and Jeri married with Chana as the Maid-of-Honor and me as the Best Man. Then, five weeks later Chana and I married with Jeri as Maid-of-Honor and Jason as Best Man.

I was madly in love with my wife. I was proud of her. But there was something I failed to see.

Jason, and I had graduated from Queens College, and Jeri had graduated from York. Chana had dropped out after three years, never to get her degree. In addition, the year after our wedding, I had enrolled in two of Queens College’s Master's programs: one for Journalism and the other for English Literature.

Had I bothered to look into Chana’s eyes I might have seen something there besides their blue-gray color. I might have seen the pain caused by her feelings of inferiority. I might have done something to ease the pain—to reassure Chana. Instead I remained oblivious to her pain, and that, I think, caused our marriage to deteriorate.

 

Sitting there on my rock, I started to wonder, could these reflections be the seeds of the self-awareness I sought?

Chapter 5: Chana

 After breaking up with Mandy I fell into such an abysmal funk that, according to Jeri, I was really no fun to be around—and, looking back on it, I really can’t say that she was wrong, or being overly harsh with me. My mood was perpetually foul, and any attempt I made to hide it was inevitably feeble and ineffective.

 

I am convinced that the man I am now—my interests, my tastes in literature and music (and probably some of my insecurities)—have been influenced by relationship with Mandy. I’m sure my relationship with Chana also influenced the man I am now, especially those insecurities. And, I have Jason and Jeri to thank for that—note I do not say blame.

 

Not very long after Mandy and I broke up Jason Arnovsky and his girlfriend, Jeri Moskowitz started introducing me to several of Jeri’s friends and classmates at York College.

 

Nothing good can come of dating when you are on the rebound.

 

After several disastrous attempts they thought, for some reason, it was a good idea to introduce me to Charlotte Harper. She was gorgeous, with coppery red hair that hung long and loose, framing a freckled, heart-shaped face. When she looked me in the eyes with her piercing blue-gray eyes I was mesmerized.

I fell in love with Charlotte the instant I saw her. It didn’t register in my love sick mind that I didn’t even know anything about her. I just fell madly, insanely (emphasis on the insanely), in love at mere sight of her physical (emphasis on physical) beauty.

We were on a double date with Jason and Jeri, on Christmas Eve. To say that the date didn’t go well from the start would be a gross understatement. My infatuation with her was killed early on.

Charlotte had a very caustic sense of humor, and very little common sense when it came to employing it. I won’t go into the details. I’ll just say that several times she made what she thought were innocent, teasing remarks about my bowling form that quickly got on my nerves. On top of that she spent the entire evening reminding us that she intended to be home to see Midnight Mass. Several times Jeri attempted to put a stop to the reminders by making joking remarks about a nice Jewish girl rushing home to watch Midnight Mass. The hints were ignored. I was then, and, on reflection, still am certain that she was feigning obliviousness to Jeri’s hints.

That date ended with me pointedly not asking Charlotte for her phone number, and Jason and Jeri so completely embarrassed by Charlotte’s behavior that they couldn’t stop apologizing to me. As if it was their fault that she was, to put it politely, a total flake.

 

That New Year’s Eve Jason and Jeri, ever determined, would try to play matchmaker again. They promised me that this would be the last time—as it turned out, they were right.

 

Jeri spent her summers working at a day camp that was run by the yeshiva that she attended for high school. It was at that day camp that she became friends with Chana Lieberman.

 

It was at the New Year’s party at Jeri’s house that they introduced me to Chana.

Although Chana was not what I would call beautiful, she was pretty. Her curly, mousy brown hair was cut short, and framed a round face. She had a ready and easy smile that seemed to make a hidden inner beauty shine in her dark brown eyes.

I bring this up to demonstrate where her true beauty was. Where Charlotte's was a superficial, physical beauty, Chana’s beauty came from deep within. Talking with her for just a few minutes, I began to perceive a sincerely beautiful soul. I wasn’t falling in love, but I did find myself wanting to see her again.

When the party was breaking up, I offered her a ride home. Before she got out of the car I summoned up the courage to ask her for her number, and I gave her mine.

 

I called her the following week.

 

I have to insert here that I tend to be obsessed with Science Fiction (novels, television shows, and movies). Close Encounters of the Third Kind had just come out and was playing at the Midway Theater on Queens Boulevard. I called her to ask if she would like to see it with me.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t really care for Science Fiction, but, sure.”

I asked, “How’s this Saturday?”

“Sounds good. What time?”

“I figure the 10:00 showing. I could pick you up at 7:30 and we could grab a bite before.”

“I’ll see you then.”

 

I’m not sure if I enjoyed the movie more because it was a superb piece of Sci-fi—which it was—or because Chana, who had claimed not to like Sci-fi, had enjoyed it much more than she expected to. I do know that it did not turn her on to the genre, but she was deeply fascinated by the idea of there being intelligent life beyond Earth. We actually had a highly animated discussion on that subject over coffee before I drove her home.

 

I could feel that a friendship was definitely budding, and I found myself wanting to see where—if anywhere—it would lead.

 

Chana did show an interest in other literary forms. I distinctly remember many engaging discussions of Sholom Aleichem’s Tevye stories. Chana loved poetry—she actually would read all of my poems. She seemed to enjoy our writers’ group meetings. Like Jeri, she would engage in our discussions. Chana admitted that she was not a writer—had no interest in writing—but she was a reader (in some ways she was a more voracious reader than I was).

 

We dated for four years, and the friendship slowly evolved into love.

Then, came marriage.

 

In the beginning married life with Chana was bliss.

Chana was working in one of the major department stores in Manhattan, and I was working as a copywriter for a small advertising firm. We would get home from work and have dinner together, then Chana would drive me over to Queens College, where I had begun working on my Master’s Degrees (I was working on two courses of study in English Literature and Journalism).

Saturday afternoons we would meet up with Jason and Jeri, for lunch, and then the four of us would head over to Queens College to meet with the writers’ group. When the group adjourned at five o’clock, Jason, Jeri, Chana, and I would go over to a diner on Union Turnpike for coffee. Then, it was over to Glen Oaks to have dinner with my parents.

Sundays were strictly Gene and Chana time. Usually it was a museum—particularly the Metropolitan Museum of Art; I had a thing for the medieval tapestries and armor. Or we would just walk around Time Square.

 

I must have been oblivious to something, but it barely took two years for the bubble to burst.

 

I was laid off from the advertising firm. With only a Bachelor’s Degree in Journalism (I still had at least another year before I would have my Master’s Degrees), and no experience beyond working on my high school and college newspapers, and some freelance work for a small community newspaper, no one would hire me for even an editorial trainee job. It was a frustrating time for me, and I can’t help but wonder how much of that frustration was taken out on Chana. For that matter, how much of what went sour was due to her lack of understanding of how I felt?

Which one of us was at fault? Could it be that we both bear the responsibility for the failure of our marriage?

After a day of job hunting, and failing, I would meet Chana at the store. The entire subway ride to Queens I gave her a running monologue on the injustice of being turned down for job after job—especially trainee jobs--for a lack of experience.

“I mean,” I griped, “how is someone to get experience if they can’t get that first job?”

Chana listened silently, gently caressing my hand in what I am sure she meant to be an act of solace.

“Here I am,” I went on, “with my Bachelor’s Degree in Journalism, and I get turned down for editorial trainee positions for a lack of experience. What kind of experience do they expect you to have for a trainee position? Do they not understand what the word trainee means?”

Chana, I realize now, tried her best to be consoling and sympathetic.

 

Looking back, I wonder: was my own frustration so self-centered that I was oblivious to Chana’s?

 

You might be asking yourself what frustration of hers was I not seeing. At the time I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. It wasn’t until one of our final fights that I learned what an insensitive jerk I was being to her. I was so wrapped up in my own issues to realize how small she was feeling.

 

Elsewhere, I had mentioned that while Jeri, Jason, and I all had managed to get our Bachelor’s Degrees, Chana had dropped out of Hunter College after three years, and never got her Bachelor’s Degree.

She had made the choice to quit because she felt she was being jerked around as she kept trying to declare a Business Administration major. It seemed that every semester there some other prerequisite that she need before she could declare.

“At this rate,” she once complained, “I’ll be old enough to retire before I get my degree.” somehow I did not notice the tears in her eyes as I silently listened. Or, I wonder, did I actually listen?

I just never realized how small it made her feel. I wonder if Jeri and Jason were aware of how Chana was feeling.

 

Anyway, Chana and I seemed to take our frustrations out on each other, and this led to the deterioration of our marriage.

 

So, there I sat on that rock atop Suicide Hill, reflecting, questioning, and wondering whether I am still that self-absorbed insensitive jerk that I was to Mandy, and to Chana. Have I been oblivious to the emotional needs of Veronica, Aviva, and Michael.

 

I have been living, lately, with the feeling that the three people I love most in this world would be happier if I were not around. As I sat there reflecting, I began to wonder if it is actually a case of self-loathing that I have been projecting onto them.

Certainly, something that warrants exploring.

 

 

Chapter 6: Gravitating Homeward Part 2: Concussion

 

I remember reading—or hearing—somewhere that even a mild head injury could alter one’s personality.  

While sitting on the rock, looking out toward 255th Street—in the direction of the courtyard of garden apartments where I grew up, and where my sister, Judith, still lived--I reflected on the concussion I sustained during a football game. I wondered whether that concussion have caused me to be the neurotic I seem to have grown up to be? 

 

It was a Friday night, so my family’s routine was for us to eat dinner at the Village Diner. Then Judith and I walked home while Mom and Dad did the weekly shopping. 

She went into the house to watch TV, and I stayed outside with the other kids. 

 

We were playing football on the lawn at the foot of the courtyard, and, naturally, being kids, and maybe not very wise, we played tackle football without protective equipment—not even helmets.  

It was me, Joey Smalls, his brother Davey, Charlie Welks, his kid brother Mikey. I don’t remember who else. 

Being the biggest—read that as fattest—kid on my team, I was the tackle. In this play Mikey Welks—the smallest of us, and most agile—was his side’s receiver. As soon as he had the ball in his hands I was on him. But, instead of tackling him, I managed to trip over him and fall backwards, banging my head on the hard ground.  

After that play the game broke up, and Charlie Welks came in with me. We sat watching TV with Judith. It was then that I began to feel the beginnings of what I thought was a mild headache. 

 

When my Mom and Dad came home, I complained of a bad headache. Mom gave me two aspirins and sent me to bed. That was the last thing I remember before waking up in a brightly lit hospital room. According to Dad, I briefly came to while in the emergency room, complaining of not being able to move. Of course, I didn’t know that I was in a strait jacket (I vaguely remembered this as a bad dream).  

 

As I said, I laid down in my own bed only to wake up in a hospital bed in a ward with three other kids. My mom and dad were sitting beside my bed. I felt disoriented. After all, I fell asleep in my own bed, “dreamed” of being in a dimly lit place, in pain and unable to move, only to wake up in a brightly lit hospital ward with three other occupied beds. 

 

Dad told me what happened the night before. 

 

He said, “When we came home you said that you had a bad headache. Mom gave you aspirin and had you go to bed. You couldn’t sleep, complaining that the pain was unbearable. Then you went wild. I tried to calm you down. Eventually, we had to call 911. It took me and three policemen to hold you down, so that the EMTs could get you into that straitjacket.” 

He showed me scabs on both his arms. The result, he said, of me dragging him and the three cops up and down the wall and across the carpet, of my bedroom as they struggled to hold me down so they could get the straitjacket on me. 

I said, “I had this dream—I think it was a dream—that I was in a dark room, crying that I was uncomfortable, couldn’t move, and I wanted to go home.” 

Dad nodded his head. “That wasn’t a dream. It was in the Emergency Room, last night” he said. “They had to keep you restrained, for your own safety.” 

 

I spent a week in the hospital, under observation. And, when I was released, I was restricted from all contact sports for a couple of months, which meant no participating in gym class activities. If there was an upside to the whole experience for me, this was it. 

 

Like I said, I don’t remember what I was like—my personality and temperament—before the accident. I have asked Judith, but she just says that like all little brothers I was a pain in the ass before and after the concussion. She said that she really isn’t sure if there was any change in my personality. As far as she could remember I’ve always had a volatile temper. With Mom and Dad gone, I really don’t have anyone else I could ask. Like Mom and Dad, my aunts and uncles are all gone too, and I don’t think my cousins would know how to answer. I doubt that Joey, Davey, Charlie, Mikey, or any of the neighborhood kids would remember after all these years—if I even knew how to get in touch with them; I have yet to be able to connect with any of them on social media, though I constantly try. 

All I have is this idea, that a brain injury—such as a concussion—could alter someone’s personality. I guess that is something I could and should explore with a therapist—and maybe a neurologist. 

 

Could the concussion be the key to understanding my insecurity? Could it be the key to understanding my failed relationships with Chana and with Mandy? 

Could understanding the long-term results of a brain injury or concussion be the key to understanding myself, and to improving my relationship with Veronica, Aviva, and Michael? 

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 03.12.2019

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Widmung:
For Ilene, Danielle, and Jordan Friedman all of whom I love most in this world In loving memory of my parents William and Lillian Friedman