More and more I think about endurance and the passing of time. A note received about a month ago, as warm and affectionate as ever, from my demonstrative dad, pierced me so sharply that my heart staccatoed. Getting dressed for yet another funeral my father, who is 88, wrote, “I am running out of friends.”
That day will come – is coming – for me, as well. My family is blessed (I do not know another word for blessed and wish I did) with longevity, a good fortune that comes with heartaches. Heartaches none of us would trade for mountains of cash or lavishes of love.
Endurance – in life, in love – is a gift supreme.
“I’m from out of town, and I like a good pastrami sandwich,” said Jeffrey A. Devore, a lawyer from West Palm Beach, Fla., who was sitting in Katz’s, the Lower East Side delicatessen that, like the neighborhood itself, has become a study in contrasts.
Mr. Devore had driven into Manhattan in his rental car after a court hearing in Newark and had taken a seat amid what a critic once described as the “terrazzo-and-Formica ambience, with a cafeteria counter along one side and signs instructing you, as of yore, to ‘Send a salami to your boy in the Army.’”
Read on here.