Where the Cold Wind Blows

I had a classmates in college named Roosevelt. Everyone knew him as Rosey. I didn't really know him, just met him once, really. But everyone knew who he was. He was a star. His matriculation was reported in Sports Illustrated. He got straight A's. He worked for the governor of Arkansas. He won a Rhodes Scholarship. Everyone who met him loved him, pretty much instantly. And, everyone, everyone, already knew that someday Rosey would be the first African-American to become President of the United States. This isn't about Rosey, though. Not really. But I thought of Rosey today, when considering recent events. Last Friday morning, Jeff Zaslow died. His car skidded on ice in to the path of an oncoming semi; he never had a chance. I didn't really know him, just met him once, really. Sure, he did a magic trick for Elianna, who was 5 at the time. And we had a great talk about (what else?) Bruce Springsteen. After that, we traded emails for a time. He sent me articles. Read my website. All of it. Bookmarked it, he said, and noted the broken links -- not to point out that they were broken, but because he wanted to read the concert reviews that were supposed to be on the other ends of the links. This was all very much uplifting to me. But after a few days the emails stopped, and a few months later Jeff published The Last Lecture, which catapulted him from being a locally well-known writer and Bruce-freak to an internationally well-known writer and Bruce-freak. The sign-off of his first email, "Hope our paths cross again," went unrealized; I never tried to re-connect. But, this really isn't about Jeff, either. Not really. There are hundreds of perfectly wonderful eulogies written for him already, by perfectly wonderful writers who knew Jeff well. On Monday of this week I went to Jeff's funeral at my old congregation in Southfield. People in the middle of terrible mourning got up and spoke with amazing grace and eloquence. His daughters quoted Springsteen tracks ("You're Missing" and "Without You"). He was spoken of in terms, almost, of reverence. Especially for how unimpressed Jeff was with himself, how his concern was always for others. And, of what an awesomely perfect father he was. But my lasting message, finally, came from one of his brothers, addressing the mourners in his own family and beyond who had wondered, "I don't think I can go on after this." Zaslow wrote and said, consistently, things such as, "we’ve got to hug our kids and make the most of each moment, because you never know.” Inevitably, I'm drawn to this Springsteen lyric: Where the cold wind blows Tomorrow never knows Where your sweet smile goes Tomorrow never knows You and me, we been standing here my dear Waiting for our time to come Where the green grass grows Tomorrow never knows I confess, I never much worried about having lost contact with Jeff Zaslow after that wonderful first meeting; we traveled in the same circles, even attended the same shul (albeit at different locations). Inevitably we'd meet again, our paths would cross... Coming back from Spring Break, senior year in college, Roosevelt Thompson was driving northbound on the New Jersey Turnpike. A southbound semi lost a tire and skidded out of control, crossing over in to the northbound lanes. Rosey never had a chance.