It is that special time of year when we sit as a family around the dining room table and hold hands to give thanks for the bounty before us: a 20-pound turkey, homemade pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce cooked early this morning, and those delicious, filling sweet potatoes that make you realize when you have finally overdone it. This holiday however, more than ever, I feel gratitude for my life and what I have, and distress for those to whom this warm Thanksgiving scene is a mere fantasy. I dread the headlines when I unfold the New York Times, with the columns of print describing so much destruction and human suffering going on in the world, from Gaza and Ukraine to a Native American reservation in Texas. The news, whether on television, social media, or in our daily newspapers, is replete with these stories, some as close to me as West Palm Beach. Just a mile over the north bridge, in Currie Park, there is a homeless encampment with dozens of lost souls—the mentally ill, the abjectly poor, the addicted—living in squalor. It is a microcosm of what is going on across the country in almost every city. How is it that we, the wealthiest nation in the world, cannot look after the poorest and weakest among us? I know we say we care, yet the suffering goes on. This Thanksgiving I commit to do more than lament the tragedy. I will offer support to local organizations, such as The Lord’s Place and The Salvation Army, as well as the food pantries that are the lifelines for so many. I am not asking others to join me in doing this, but if your Thanksgiving is something like the scene I described above, and you find there is much to be grateful for, maybe there is a way you too can bring a bit of joy and uplift to some downtrodden spirits this Thanksgiving.
Category: Reflections
Lunch with My Rabbi
I have been lunching regularly with my local Rabbi here in Florida since 2017 when I joined his synagogue. I enjoy his company and find him a particularly good sounding board for personal issues, but today’s lunch was not about me. I was curious to hear his thoughts on the events of October 7th, when Hamas terrorists drove into Israel to murder 1400 people before taking over 200 hostages. The Rabbi said his temple congregants had responded by providing assistance to Israel –some had donated ambulances to replace the ones hijacked by Hamas after killing the drivers who were rushing to aid the victims of the attack. He talked about of the resilience of the Israeli people and how we in the United States must overcome the feelings of inadequacy in seeing such a horrific attack from afar, and that we must resist the tendency to compare what happened in Israel to the Holocaust of World War II. He spoke of a recent ceremony at his temple during which scrolls hidden from the Nazis were brought out in a celebration of truth, having survived the war. I asked him about the resurgence of anti-Semitism. His response was that, in his view, social media has been a principal culprit in pushing the rhetoric forward and giving “permission” to the obvious agitators. “People will say things on social media that they will not say to your face.” I said I was troubled for the future of my children and grandchildren, but the Rabbi was optimistic. “I don’t see current anti-Semitism as comparable to Germany during the 1930s and 1940s. It is bad, but not as bad as some think.” His words were calming and left me feeling less anxious about the disturbing current events. We talked about news propaganda coming out of Gaza perpetrated by Hamas showing Israel bombing hospitals. My prayers are with the families devastated in Israel, yet I cannot help but feel empathy for the one and a half million children in Gaza. Like the rest of the world, I await proof that Hamas in fact hides under hospitals.
October 7th
For the last several years my pal Max and I have organized a monthly lunch meet at Swifty’s in Palm Beach. We invite an assortment of friends and guests representing the arts, finance, medicine, government service and retirees settled in south Florida. This week’s lunch was our first of the ’23-’24 season. Only half the usual gang showed – the others are still making their way back to Palm Beach from their summer or permanent homes up north. The conversation centered mostly on our recent travels – fishing in Idaho, visiting abroad. After the brief travelogue, our talk turned to the events in Israel following the Hamas attack on October 7th. We discussed the humanitarian crisis as well as the strategic avenues available to Israel in dealing with Hamas and the potential invasion of Gaza. Clearly October 7th stood out as a date of remembrance of the terrorist attack on Israel and the murder and mutilation of innocent Israelis. The suffering of the children on both sides of the conflict was a particular concern now that Israel is firing on Gaza in retaliation. My friends around the lunch table all commented on the post-attack media focusing on the children in peril and the disturbing images of bloodstained children’s beds. After the worst terrorist attack on American soil– the destruction of the World Trade Center twin towers –the videos and photojournalism did not show the child victims of the attack, as there were no images to capture.
There is no simple, one-sentence solution to freeing hostages, or ending Hamas’ reign of terror, or saving innocent Palestinian children’s lives. Yet 9/11 teaches us not to act out of passion and anger and vengeance. The aftermath of 9/11 with the military incursion in Afghanistan and Iraq left many Americans unsupportive of our government’s anti-terrorism policy. President Biden has personally expressed to Israeli leaders the lessons learned. For Israel it is a difficult and troublesome path forward.
Our Hearts Are Restless
The usual condensation on the windows and glass doors had evaporated during the night so I awoke to the sun shining brightly throughout the house. The heavy humidity had finally subsided and the air was breathable despite the 82-degree temperature. My Sunday schedule was open –no office, no tennis, only the papers to read on a sunny, breezy morning, comfortable on my patio. Yet the day was not peaceful in the world, especially in the Middle East. The human devastation on both sides of the Israeli-Hamas conflict is harrowing. Patti suggested it would be a good time to sit among other churchgoers at the Royal Poinciana Chapel, a non-denominational house of worship. Such a response would be unusual for me. Even after 9/11, I only wanted to be with my family, huddled at the Carlyle Hotel in New York as the day’s events unraveled. Yet this time I accepted the idea of listening to the comforting and judicious words of a clergyman, hopefully bent on soothing our hearts during this time of unbridled human destruction.
The parishioners were friendly and we found a pew close enough for me to clearly hear the pastor. His sermon was entitled, “Our Hearts Are Restless.” He spoke about a recent summer trip with his family to Israel and about his support for Israel. He was very comfortable in Jerusalem as he visited the sacred sites. However, upon visiting Bethlehem, a city in the area governed by the Palestinian Authority, he felt some hostility from the locals when he identified himself as an American. He invited us all to a public rally for Israel in West Palm Beach that afternoon organized by clergy from different denominations.
My heart is restless over the imminent Israeli invasion into Gaza, where Israeli hostages are held—and where there are many innocent children. I try to balance this response against the deadly terrorism by Hamas only a week ago upon Israeli communities and kibbutzim along the border. I cannot watch the pictures on the news of the children in both Israel and Gaza suffering. I find some solace in the words of the pastor: “Look to God for your comfort and protection.”
I waited until the very end of the line to greet the pastor. I shook his hand and introduced myself. I expressed my appreciation for his sermon. I told him I am a member of a synagogue down the road and he asked me to convey his best wishes to my Rabbi.
I am ready and stronghearted for tomorrow’s news, horrific as it certainly will be.
Why I Am Still Working
The Wall Street Journal recently ran an article entitled “Why High-Powered People Are Working in Their 80s.” It is especially relevant to me since I am about to celebrate my 84th birthday next week. Anyone following my columns knows that I am still driven and enthusiastic about my law practice. I am frequently asked why I continue to work, mostly by friends who are retired. Those of us in our 80s who still practice a profession know how lucky we are to be fit enough both mentally and physically to answer a client’s questions or diagnose a patient’s ills. I look forward to the Zoom calls and attacking an issue that needs a prompt solving strategy. My longtime clients attest to thefact that I am as responsive and timely in dealing with legal issues as someone intheir 30s. I never ran from the challenge of a tough question and still don’t. Occasionally I lose my patience when a simple task is made more complicated by the inexperienced associate. Yet I am reminded often that I made similar mistakes when I was a young lawyer. Notwithstanding my inexperience, I started my career with the same work ethic I had as a youngster, then college and law school: I never left a cluttered desk and completed every task even if I had to stay up at night. Working is my primary daytime activity and I truly enjoy having a “day job”. Of course, I occasionally play golf, fish the morning, or read a book, but above all I look forward to the everyday routine of practicing law. The Journal article accuses many of us as unable to “quit their careers.” Yes that may be true. I worked hard to study law, pass the bar, and spent some 50 years working my tail off to secure a living for my family. I am looking forward to celebrating my birthday and the prospect of being at my desk the following morning fielding calls and helping my clients and my partners solve problems. And of course, I truly enjoy getting paid. Many of my professional colleagues are seniors like me. We have practiced together locally since the 1970s. We have a camaraderie of trust and honesty—keeping our word—among the most important qualities in my field of practice.
Storage Lockers
Recently the New York Times reported about an older gentleman, living in a studio apartment in Manhattan, who kept a storage facility in Queens for an accumulation of family heirlooms. He came from an illustrious European background, and the items were of historic and sentimental value. All were lost when the fellow was hospitalized, and several monthly storage bills went unpaid. The article resonated with me because for many years I questioned the necessity and expense of storage offsite from our home. I finally succumbed in Maine when I needed room for my summer furniture, motorboat, and canoe, and reluctantly agreed to rent a garage for the winter months. The New York Times story of that man’s loss of family treasures is indeed a sad tale –and a worrisome reminder, in terms of the need to deal with the daily routine of disposing of the unnecessary, the unworn, the out of date and the sentimental. Too often the response is “let’s put it in the basement” or “I will lose weight and fit into that jacket next year” or “this curio belonged to my grandmother so I can’t throw it away.” So many of us stave off the hard work of discarding, using any excuse. Finding the emotional distance to get rid of a cherished but no longer useful piece of furniture or family memento is obviously a challenge. The tale of the storage facility in Queens is an example of not meeting that challenge. I face it when I finish a book I have really enjoyed. Unable to pass it along or donate to the local library, I build more bookshelves. I have a new office-library building at my camp in Maine. It holds my accumulation of books going back to the 1970s. Clothing is a bit easier, except for my collection of army uniforms which I still hang on to. In my last column I wrote about my father’s gift to me of an authentic Civil War sword, which I have taken from western New York to East Hampton to Maine. My first Indian Racer bicycle stayed with me for some 30 years after leaving home upstate. There is an emotional attachment to certain things that is hard to break, yet I am mindful that if I don’t dispose of the excess, it will be a task left for my children and I don’t want to be their burden. I have no more room anywhere for tchotchkes. My New Year’s resolution is to clean up and clear out.
Fall Visit 2023
It was our last weekend in New York City this fall before our return to Florida for the season. Coming up for air from the incredibly exciting U.S. Tennis Open, I anticipated quiet streets and empty restaurants with tennis journeymen having left town. But that is not the case this week. The United Nations is in session and traffic is backed up; police are everywhere with streets closed for dignitaries housed in various hotels in midtown. Those long black SUVs cruise the streets with police escorts. POTUS is in town, which doubles the congestion and traffic. Yet New York is weather glorious this week. Coming off a hurricane at camp with rain for the entire time I was hosting my high school buddies, I was relieved to be able to walk around raincoat free. In New York, the streets were empty of the homeless during U.N. week. I suspect they were relocated to nearby shelters and hotels to create the impression to visitors that our homeless problem is under control. Now the sidewalks were crowded with back-to-back pedestrians. The countless delegates to the United Nations were here to speak to human rights issues, the war in Ukraine, climate change and terrorism among other important matters. Patti and I made our way to a lecture on the scientific advances in treating Alzheimer’s disease, sponsored by the Melvin R. Goodes Prize for Excellence in drug discovery. That night we attended Lincoln Center for a New York Ballet performance given in celebration of their 75th anniversary. It was soothing after the hectic day. Tomorrow, we head to Minneapolis to support an ill friend of Patti’s from her alma mater, Northwestern University. All in all, a busy few days before we head south. I have a few stops to make before I leave for the airport: a visit to the Hunter College bookstore and the new art supply department in their basement and the Society Library at 79th Street where I will do some research on my forthcoming book about my father. The working title is “Leibish’s Journey to America.” The daily news about the growing number of illegal immigrants entering in through our southern border always makes me think of my father as a 12-year-old uneducated child in Ukraine, taken by horse cart to a rail depot with only his book of prayers in hand to occupy him and a rucksack filled with homemade bread, meats and cheese to carry him through a weeklong ride across Europe to Hamburg, where he stowed away on a ship. I see the photos in the New York Times of a Venezuelan father carrying his child through the treacherous Darien Gap in mud up to their necks. I think of Leibish’s journey, through foreign lands, with no one to hold him as he cried himself to sleep at night. All of these emotions come to mind as I visit New York in the fall of 2023. I savor the pleasant moments, especially with my hot mug of coffee and copy of the New York Times.
End of Summer Visit to New York City
Starting in the early 1960s and for years afterward during the summer months, we fled New York City for the Hamptons at every opportunity. I could not be bribed into staying in New York City for a long holiday weekend. I was drawn to the country with its open spaces, white beaches, and fresh air. In the 1970s, I finally convinced my family to move out to the Hamptons permanently.
I left corporate law and started a country practice of my own for real estate, family law and some litigation. Today, some 50 years later, I still have my East Hampton firm, but surprisingly, I am spending Labor Day weekend in New York City, at the U.S. Open Tennis Championships, Arthur Ashe stadium. Who would’ve thought? Change in direction comes to all of us. At this stage of my life, I am more open to new adventures. Some may not believe that going to a grand slam tennis tournament is adventuresome, but it is an exciting experience and an outcome of my renewed enthusiasm to play tennis again after what seems like a lifetime since I played in high school.
I am always driven to look for something new in life. I try to travel outside the parameters of what is cozy and secure. It is reflected in my professional work when I lean into an argument that was a dissent in a previous case. I look to redefine precedents to reflect current times and needs. I speak often of living in the present. Every day is a new opportunity to venture out– beyond the Hamptons and even New York. Maine has been a regular source of adventure for the past five years. Exploring the backwoods and lakes in Washington and Aroostook counties in my 1973 Series 3 Defender. Fishing the morning on Spudnick Lake. Swimming off my dock in the cove.
I write these columns to record my experiences on paper. Painting and sketching along the shore and in the wilderness are other means of adventure and self-expression. I am indeed fortunate to have the companionship and family support that allow me to do these things. I am mindful every day of those who are unable or unwilling to venture out. The barriers are often money or family responsibilities. Yet there is some adventure for everyone.
Leaving Arthur Ashe stadium today we drove through Flushing Meadows in Queens. There were hundreds of families picnicking, playing volleyball and soccer. Predominantly Hispanic from the music wafting throughout, this community of New Yorkers found their weekend adventures, and relaxation. A Sunday in the park, free of workday demands, some on blankets basking in the sun, babies quiet in their mother’s arms, their own country landscape.
Teachers
Last week my friend from Rochester, Arnie, forwarded the obituary of Pincus Cohen, one of the last surviving teachers from our Ben Franklin High School days back in the late 1950s. Mr. Cohen taught Spanish during our time there and subsequently went on to become high school principal. I did not have Mr. Pincus as a teacher since I took German as a second language, naively believing that the Yiddish spoken at home would help me with the course. The notice of Mr. Pincus’s death led to a feature article in the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle reminding readers of the time when, as principal, Mr. Pincus took out an ad in the paper to recognize the students who made the honor roll. He said there was always press coverage when someone does something wrong, so it was time to acknowledge those young people who work quietly and diligently doing something right. He paid for the ad himself. The $100 expenditure sparked a flurry of national interest and brought brief fame to my alma mater.
In subsequent years the school as we knew it closed, reopening as a cooperative vocational institute. No longer was it the hotbed of youth from diverse backgrounds –Black, Italian, Jewish and many others—that I remembered from my teenage years. Extracurriculars were sports, journalism and music and graduates attended Harvard, Yale, Penn and various state schools throughout the region. Several of my class became doctors and lawyers. Some obtained PhDs and went on to careers in academia.
We never gave enough credit to the teachers who guided us. Like Mr. Pincus there were several standouts. Homeroom teacher Mr. McCormick introduced me to the New York Times which I still read dutifully every day. There were sports coaches who went above and beyond for the athletes among us. For those of us who did not have help from parents with limited education, teachers were the surrogates to whom we went for advice, particularly when it came to the most important decision of our young lives: what to do after high school graduation. Ray Iman was a history teacher who wore Brooks Brothers suits to class every day and took several of us under his wing, mentoring us through the college selection and application process. He sat a few of us down in the front row of desks in the classroom after everyone else had run out and described for us what life had to offer if we worked hard, played fairly and stayed out of trouble. But it wasn’t the same for everyone. I remember the story of a sophomore girl in my homeroom who had stopped coming to class. The rumor was that she was pregnant. Back then, being an unwed mother was a scandal and unacceptable in society. Her boyfriend, presumably the father, experienced no consequences. As I recall, she was an outstanding student. Mr. McCormick gave us a short lecture about choices and without mentioning her name talked about how making a wrong turn can change your life forever. That talk stayed with me. There are lost opportunities and opportunities lost. Teachers made the difference for many of us. In hindsight, things might have been different for her if she had been mentored, the way the boys were. But girls were steered toward marriage and motherhood. She never returned to school.
Maine, July Trip on the Way to Camp
This year’s Maine trip to Kennebunk and camp got off to a good start despite an early rise and hitting the three ferries all before 9 a.m. The SUV was packed to the rafters with all kinds of things–my coffee supplies, snacks, clothes for various social events, my tennis racket in case, a stack of books I have been meaning to read, a full office knapsack with everything from pencil sharpener to note pads and pencils and of course my new old Smith Corona to exchange for my old 1940s Hermes at camp. The typewriter switch was the plan, that is until the Smith Corona—a gift from my kids–fell off the tailgate and crashed while we were packing. The space bar doesn’t work now, so it is headed to a top typewriter doctor in the area for repair. There were a few things in the trunk of Patti’s, but I dominated the back of the car with my stuff. It was like a safari only without the Land Rover—no large animals but plenty of lobster en route. The sunny day took us halfway to Worcester, Massachusetts, where we stopped at the Miss Worcester Diner–a little metal shack with a dozen stools at the counter and five cramped booths. These petite metal diners are typical of the area–dropped off the back of a truck in the 1950s complete with a simple grill, they were all self-contained.
After a short wait in line in the parking lot, we were escorted to one of the tiny booths in this old-time breakfast establishment, open 5 a.m. to 2 p.m. daily. The air conditioning was a relief. Run by an all-female waitress and cooking staff, family-like, everything was timed to the minute: coffee, take your order and then wait. It was a pleasant atmosphere, with colorful stickers all over the walls and ceiling and tacked-up, hand-made advertisements selling everything from mugs to t-shirts with the diner logo. This was our second Worcester diner experience. A couple of years ago we found the Boulevard diner almost by accident. We needed a quick tail pipe repair (my backing up error at a gas fill up) and were directed there to wait. I have been dreaming of going back to a Worcester diner ever since. Anyway, back to the food–the best pancakes I have ever had including the Highland Park Diner growing up in Rochester. A veggie omelet I could not finish. I rolled out of there for the next leg of the ride to Kennebunk but what I really wanted was a nap. It was going on 1:30 p.m. and we had another two hours of I-95 to travel. The nap would have to wait. I felt good though.
Seems I was destined to have some interesting dining experiences on this trip north. A few days later, dinner at Little Barn in Kennebunk, Maine, with Florida friends was memorable: President George Bush and his entourage showed up, Secret Service detail and all. When they walked in there was a momentary hush in the room. Then he started talking to people he recognized; his Texas accent stood out above the restaurant din. No autographs or photos taken–seemed most of the restaurant guests knew him or were related to him—a lot of high fives at the tables around us. We were the outsiders. The former President was jovial and seemed happy. His family compound is down the road in Kennebunkport at Walker Point. Never know who you are going to run into passing through Maine.
Here Back East 