Mittendrinnen…and the Urgency of Relationships

 Mittendrinnen*, out of the blue, Arthur sent me a message on Facebook: “Are you the David Raphael who went to Camp Ramah in the sixties?” And, in fact, I am such person. This opening line led to a flood of back-and-forth. Arthur (then Artie) and I were camp friends for four years at Camp Ramah and then years after. As young teens, Artie and I would meet at the Port Authority in New York and spend the day walking the streets of Manhattan snapping photos with our new SLR cameras (Can you imagine parents allowing a 14-year-old to do that today?). In 1969, we traveled to Washington DC together to join the March on Washington to protest the Vietnam War. We lost touch somewhere between high school and college.  A half-century later, Arthur and I have now renewed our friendship. 

Over the course of my life, I have been blessed with wonderful lifelong friends, some of whom I’ve known for over half a century: Richard, who became my “bestie” playing basketball for the Jewish Center of Bayside Oaks team at age 16 (1968). Today we share photos of our grandchildren. I am still close with Jonathan, my apartment-mate when I was a senior at college (1973). I reconnected with Bob, head of the waterfront at Camp Masada when I was a counselor (1972). Marc and I first met in 1977 on the Staten Island Ferry on our way to the first day of our field placement at social work school. And of course, there is my dearest friend, my wife Jo, who I have loved deeply for 45 years.   

These precious relationships have and continue to frame and enrich my life. I am a far better person because of them. I have learned of the importance of attending to these and relationships – regular phone calls, birthday cards, and being there in times of need.  

A recent passing health scare, (the seemingly ubiquitous backdrop of aging and, these days, the primary content of our conversations) caused me to reflect on the inevitable passing of time and, in this context, the urgency of relationships.   

And it is with this mindset that I think not only of time but of grandparental time.  

Life's occasional “health bumps” are reminders that I will never be a grandfather for half a century. In recognizing and accepting this reduced time frame, these moments suddenly seem even more profoundly urgent. And so, I will commit myself to nurturing and attending to these precious relationships and to be fully present in their presence.

As I think about my life after death, my world to come, I see it in the eyes and the smile of a six-year-old girl who loves to sing, dance, and twirl and her two-year-old brother who is infatuated with trucks and dinosaurs. And so, as soon as I finish writing this missive, I will make flight reservations to travel to an attached home on Abell Avenue in Baltimore, filled with toys, plastic spoons and forks, sippy cups, picture books, little sneakers, and the melodious voices, and hugs from two little children - the reminders of the urgency of relationships.

*Note: As a child, when I would either ask for something unusual, or do something unexpected, my grandmother, and then subsequently, my mother would respond, with a tone of either incredulity or annoyance, “mittendrinnen”  (mitten-DRIN-nin).

Notes from the CZO - The Day After The Visit

Notes from the CZO, Chief Zayde Officer   The Day After the Visit

The morning after our grandchildren left our home to return to Baltimore (with their parents), I spent 45 minutes trying to wedge the car seats from the back of our Honda. Reaching the anchors, hidden behind the back seat put my aged fingers to an excruciating test of endurance and required a dexterity beyond my 71-year-old capacity. Think of spelunking blindfolded. The car seat removed, I spent the next 20 minutes with the hand vacuum prying bits of Cheerios, fig bars, and animal crackers from the seat. A sticky outline of lollipop residue remains. While I wrestled with the car seats, my wife Jo began cycling the multiple loads of sheets, pillowcases, and towels through the wash. (A note about this marital division of labor, several years ago, Jo asked me to move the wash to the dryer. I responded: “Which one is the dryer?”).

Cleaning the basement playroom was another matter entirely. Doll clothing, Brio train pieces, and Lincoln Logs (remember Lincoln Logs?) lay strewn across an approximate 50 square foot area. We removed the batteries from a 30-year-old Fisher Price ambulance as its piercing noise caused a shrill feedback noise in my hearing aids. We will pick up or step on Lego pieces for months to come.

Our dog Maddie may have been the most disappointed to have the grandchildren leave as she no longer has access to fallen (or thrown) mac and cheese, bits of bagel, challah chunks, and Honey Nut Cheerios. And now, the house is clean, toys picked up, and the laundry done. Exhausted, we sit on the couch... and we miss them desperately. Gone is the joy of their laughter, the grandparental pleasure of snuggling with them while reading bedtime stories, the patter of little feet descending the staircase in the morning, and the sheer, unmatched delight of hearing “Zayde, Zayde, Zayde”!

Remaining are the memories of lighting Shabbat candles together and watching my children bless their children, baking cookies together, and the delight of romping with them at the playground. How can we measure these moments? I cannot help but return to Jacob’s words in the bible after he experienced his dream of angels: “Surely God is in this place, and I knew it not.” Surely, angels were in this place.