PLP

My grandfather is dying. And it is both a tragic shame and a time for relief. The radiation necessary to try and treat his recently developed cancer would be overwhelming and too much for him and everyone else who loves him. His time as a wheeling and dealing business tycoon, with snazzy clothes, cars, and toys, has come to an end, and to sustain his life from this point further would be wrong.

I’ll never forget riding in his gigantic Mercedes Benz. He had those uncomfortable beads that lined the backseat of the car at one point, but I also remember the plush furry seat covers too. Of course at the time, I much preferred riding in the back of my grandmother’s foxy Jaguar, because even the back seat passengers had mirrors and tray tables with cup holders, which let me feel totally posh despite being stuck in the back. I remember going to the Burger King on Tamiami Trail, just outside the hospital with him for his weekly whopper and fries that he always ate with a fork after his tennis matches. I remember him tinkering around on his multiple boats on these weekends, with his long standing companion and fix-it man Harold, but mostly I remember Harem V. The majority of the life of this beast of a boat, the fifth in a series of boats named Harem, after the collection of women in his life - his wife and four daughters – never left the marina (during it’s nearly twenty year stint in the same boat slip) save for the one time he took me and Danny to Tampa on the 87 foot cruiser to have the barnacles scraped off the hull. Danny and I would run around the long piers with the fanciest yachts, the ones that said boat owners and guests only, and play about restlessly atop the three story ship that had the best nooks and crannies young people could ask for.

I remember “making pizza” on grandpa’s belly, which involved punching his gut and making sauce. Haha. He always let me play chef. I remember his drinking of copious amounts of high-end scotch and red wine. I remember Sunday nights eating Greek salads from Demetrio’s in the Florida room at their house and listening to Pavarotti and the Gipsy Kings. I remember the ping-pong room, next to the perpetually muggy indoor swimming pool at their Siesta Key home, that was almost never used for such because it was filled to the gills with every possible type of fishing, building, boating, crafting, etc material you could imagine. I remember my grandfather “going to the office” daily, up until last year, be it for no other reason than to read the paper and take a nap in his office building under antique paintings of Israeli children that I always thought were scary clowns. The real reason he went to the office, I think, was to take the entire office out to lunch, at the same restaurant five days a week. Once he made his mind up on something there was no changing it, like when I began to play the cello and he decided he would as well (in so much that he went out, bought a cello, and took lessons!). There were no if ands or buts about the fact that my first car would be new and it would be Japanese.

Most of my memories are based on these material posessions and his habits -- they really are the tangible aspects of my memories, as he was never one for verbal communication. Always thoughtful but never expansive. I remember his magazine collections that lined multiple rooms upstairs, his ever over-flowing bedside table, his neat wardrobe, his love for animals, the shrimp cocktails, the firm hand shake, the soft skin, the funny caps, his fine and sophisticated taste in music, jewelry, and art, his appreciation of good business and his love of Italy.

He’s probably the most stoic and generous man I’ve ever been blessed to know. As well as the most resolutely steadfast person, always available, always encouraging, and never with a cruel thing to say (to me). His contributions to the Sarasota community are undeniable: from building three thousand homes and establishing the first community with something of a community concept, to building our synagogue, Temple Beth Shalom, and serving in various leadership positions within the Jewish Community. His philanthropy was unlike that of anyone else, his value of family and education, paramount.

My mother says Hospice begins tomorrow and that I’ll be in Uganda when it happens. She told me not to come home. I don’t know if I feel more challenged by the distance or the fact that no one here can conceptualize the significance of the death of someone in his 80s when the life expectancy in Uganda is 44.

Here’s to you, on your birthday, grandpa. I love you and am thinking of you from around the world.