I had to watch a Youtube clip about these two guys who clean up classic cars to realize how much I miss my brother-in-law David Shapiro. David, who passed away seven years ago this month, loved old cars, and so did I. We would often talk about our favorites and marvel at the timeless beauty of old designs.
As I watched the car junkies bring back to life a black 1963 Corvette that sat in a barn for decades, I never realized how much I could enjoy the miracle of cleaning materials, special soaps, vacuum cleaners and chrome wax. By the time they were done with their labor of love, with the old beauty proudly gleaming, I felt I had taken the best shower of my life.
But here’s the thing: While watching the clip I couldn’t stop thinking about how my brother-in-law would have loved watching it with me. It’s as if we were having a conversation, commenting on the numerous steps involved in a car’s rejuvenation.
We don’t just miss people. We miss the stuff they come with—the hobbies, the interests, the passions.
I miss my dear friend Rabbi Shlomo Schwartz, better known as “Schwartzie,” because he’d often call me out of the blue just to schmooze or would show up at my house to bring goodies for the kids, usually connected to a Jewish holiday. I especially miss him on Thanksgiving, because after the big meal with our individual families, we had a ritual of walking on the beach and reflecting on life.
Every time a political crisis erupts (not a rare thing these days), I miss my friend Larry Greenfield, who loved talking about politics the way my brother-in-law loved talking about cars. Larry knew so much about American history and politics that in our phone conversations, I got to practice the rare art of active listening. Our calls would often end with an assignment to write a thoughtful piece for the Journal.
Hardly a week goes by when I don’t wonder, “What would Larry say about this?”
If someone makes a joke at a Shabbat table, I instinctively think of my late father, who loved to tell jokes and make people laugh, and who would laugh as hard as anyone, even if it was a joke he had told 100 times.
Everyone who is close to us has his or her quirks. Those quirks bond us to them. It could be a favorite subject of conversation, a favorite thing to watch or eat or a favorite activity. It could be a world view that sticks with you.
Monty Hall was the happiest man I ever met. He and his wife of 60-plus years were so in love it felt like they were still on a high school crush. I would spend hours in their kitchen hearing his stories about Hollywood legends (he knew most of them). When I watch an old Hollywood film, I often think to myself: “Monty knew him!”
Think about those you have lost. What is it about them you miss the most? Are there little moments during the day that make you think of them?
We put the names of those whose memory we cherish on buildings, museums, synagogue plaques or charity initiatives, which is meaningful and wonderful. In our homes, we hang up their photos so we can always remember them.
But those special souls who are no longer with us are more than names to honor and remember. They each had things that made them special, that shaped our relationships with them. More than anything, the memories of those relationships, and the many stories that flow from them, is what keeps their names and memories alive.
Even if it’s only a crazy love for watching an old Corvette get a good bath.
