Wednesday, April 19, 2023
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We have a picture bearing witness to the fact that Harris and I shared a playpen together from the time we were infants, living next door to each other. The picture also attests to Harris’s pulling my hair. Well, he was the older one by one month.
Harris was a picky eater as a kid, and in order to get him to drink milk, Cissie set up a routine one summer. As soon as the street light outside our houses came on in the summer evening, she’d bring out two big glasses of milk, with a marshmallow in each. If I was having some, then Harris would drink his, too. Those were unforgettable cups: metal containers, of various colors: maroon, deep blue. Lonnie will remember these. I think most of us had cups like this. Maybe you got them with coupons at the A&P (or Penn Fruit).
Here’s a story from many years later. We moved to different parts of the area and hardly saw each other through high school and college years. But when I returned to Philadelphia after college, I stopped in at Cissie’s to get back in touch. This was the early 70s, and both Harris and I had hair down to our shoulders. Cissie and Al didn’t mind, and they welcomed me like a long-lost son. Harris (I never did call him “Heshie”) said I should come see him at his apartment, and he gave me directions to the place, just off Germantown Avenue. (I found the sheet with the directions the other day. That’s the way we got around before GPS, kids.)
I turned up in the evening and rang the bell. Some woman answered the door and I asked for Harris. She looked hostile. “Who are you? What do you want?” I explained our connection, and showed her the directions in Harris’s handwriting. Nope, she wouldn’t let me in. It suddenly occurred to me that of course she was suspicious if I called him “Harris”. I must be some undercover narcotics cop (wearing a wig?). So I said the magic word, the password: “I want to see Heshie.” – “Oh, okay. I’ll take you upstairs.”
I was ushered in to the second-floor apartment, where, yes, there was the smell of dope pervading the place. Of course Harris saw the joke in that whole situation, and I was made to feel entirely at home.
I was introduced to his new partner, Nancy, with her little baby, Jamie. I may once have known the reason, but forget it now, but Nancy had a shaven head – sort of a cool look then, certainly an unusual one.
Later Harris, Nancy, and Jamie moved to Elkins Park, a few streets from my parents’ where I was living, so we saw each other often. And after I had a family and we lived in England, we were often at the house in Rydal whenever we’d come back to see my mother, our two English boys feeling at home there, and great pals with Rachel and her friends.
Or we’d meet at the store in Krewstown, and go over to the Garden of Eatin’ (is that what it was called?) for lunch. “So how’s business?” I’d ask, and Harris would say it was doing okay. So now it was a business lunch and could be charged to the store. (I tell this story now, knowing that it’s probably too late for the IRS to catch up.)
It’s hard to bring to mind any specific time Harris and I spent together since they were all so relaxed, just being together. Every time we would see each other again, it was huge hugs before the talking began. And hugs at parting. I remember one time at the Baederwood parking lot when we hugged good-bye and Rachel later said, “It’s wonderful that you always make my Dad cry when you say good-bye.” Yes, besides laughter, warm tears were always close by. (When we were young and Harris would get hurt, he’d always react by laughing.)
A few years ago when I was around he gave me the treat of taking me to a Flyers game. Who could have asked for a better play-by-play announcer? He not only made sure I understood what was going on out there on the ice, but also the strategy of what was going on. The great regret of Harris’s life is that he never became a sports announcer, a job he was so well suited for.
And now at this final parting, I’m the only one of the pair of us left for tears, but they’re tears imbued with Harris’s spirit, so they’re sweet, and holy.
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--- Oh, yes, and every so often Nancy would pack up a batch of Harris's clothes and send them to me - "I don't think he should be wearing these any more. They'll suit you." (I got a large package when Harris's hair went grey that Nancy decided he needed a new color-scheme.)
When I arrived in Philadelphia for my niece's wedding, Harris and Nancy as usual picked me up at the airport. I said I wasn't sure I had the right shirt or tie for the wedding. "Let me see what you're wearing." So I unpacked and showed my suit to Nancy. She rummaged through Harris's closet and took out a few shirts and ties. 'Here, wear this one. He won't miss it." (Of course not. When did I last see Harris in a tie?)
As Nancy knew I would, I'm still wearing many of these clothes years, decades later. The elegant grey overcoat, the green velvet smoking jacket, which I wear every year on my birthday (Christmas Day), but no longer the green silk shirt with the 1970s Stayin-Alive huge collar. And a few sweaters. Wearing them now will have a different, richer significance.
1500 Old York Road, Abington, PA
