Orel Family

I remember the first high school football game I attended. It was 1967. I was 5. My grandfather insisted to my parents, "you gotta see my boy play." My grandfather -- the kids called him Doc Keller but we called him "Boppy" -- was the team doctor at Rippowam High School in Stamford, Connecticut. He was a general practitioner and ENT man who made old-fashioned home visits and had an office in his house. His office wall was adorned with dozens of game balls and trophies, signed by players of many victorious contests. I never quite understood how the team doctor ended up with all those game balls, but there they were. High School Football, Michigan-style. Boppy was my mother's father, but he had a sports bond with my father. They were both originally from Boston, just 17 years apart. Boppy was old enough to remember the Red Sox winning World Series, and he'd tell stories of how the kids who couldn't afford to go to the games would gather in Kenmore Sq...

Just like that, it was over. As an official sort of thing, anyway. In Jewish tradition, it is customary to be in mourning for 11 months after the death of a parent. Some traditions hold that it is 11 months from the date of death, others hold that it is 11 months from the date of burial, and yet other hold that it is 11 months from the date of death unless the burial is delayed by 3 or more days, in which case it is from the date of the burial (insert joke about having 2 possibilities and therefore 3 opinions here ). We went with 11 months from date of burial. So, stepping back to last September 1, the mourning period ended on Wednesday, July 23. I'm no longer required to say kaddish for my father except during yizkor and yahrzeit , and his name will no longer be read, except for yahrzeit . Or, perhaps more accurately, I'm required to stop. Over the days approaching July 23, I thought quite a bit about this particular end. Typically, there's a ceremony at th...

I’m sitting here, trying to come to terms. So far as grieving goes, I’m somewhere between denial, anger and acceptance right now. Part of me wants to yell at my dad, “how could you have done this?” but then I remind myself that he’s the one who’s gone. People coming and going from the same house where I grew up. So many of the appliances and furnishings and even wall hangings have remained unchanged from the 1960’s. Everything’s the same. Some of the kids I went to elementary school with, I’ve seen their parents these last 3 days. Or the kids, some of them still live in town, some of them came back. There are too many desserts. Way too many. More keep coming in, and we can’t keep up, and there’s one less person eating them, anyway. Cousins I haven’t seen in 20 years, super 8 movies to thread for the first time ever (dad always did that), we can all see ourselves from happier times in 1968. As I write, washing over me are the sounds of “Long Walk Home,” a track from the soo...

Yesterday one of my best friends and I were having an email discussion on some things, including my ailing dad. He ended one email by saying, "it’s always sounded to me like there was as much affection as respect between the two of you and that is a very good thing. And he kept the Chevy." Yes, he did. Not that he kept it in perfect condition, but he did keep it. So I wrote back: Did I tell you about our last trip to NJ as a family? Aaron always asks to go for a ride in the Chevy. So, last day home, he convinced my dad to start it up. After a couple tries, he got it running. It wasn't exactly stable, but it ran. Then he said to get in, I figured he'd take it around the block. But, noooooooo!! He goes past the school. and out to Millburn Avenue. Holy shit, we're all going to die. And the kids aren't even scared! Then he turned on to Vauxhall Road! My dad was never much of a driver anyway, and I'm wondering if he's totally lost his mi...