Thursday, February 26, 2015

Next Generation.

Warren Rockmacher’s father and my father went to podiatry school together. And that, my friends, is the Jewiest sentence to ever appear on this blog.

Our parents had instant chemistry, and the Rockmachers eventually had four kids, and my mom and dad had three. While most of my parents’ friends were completely insufferable (ya know, New Yorkers), my brothers and I loved going over to the Rockmachers’ house. We spent Sundays and holidays with them. They were the cool family. Hilarious. The ones with the giant RV, the pool, the go-cart. They were the only grownups we called by their first names – Phyllis and Larrie. My best memories of childhood are of our dads taking all seven kids in the RV (stocked with double-stuffed Oreos) to Six Flags in New Jersey every fall.

Warren and I hadn’t seen each other since my dad died, but we picked right up where we left off. He’s such a nice guy, but of course he is – he’s his parents’ kid. He told me the only time he’s ever seen his dad get emotional was when Larrie spoke at my father’s funeral. Death finally broke the bond they’d forged. I bet my dad would have liked that their sons have forged one, too.

1 comment:

Phyllis said...

Thank you for the kind words. Remember the thanksgiving when your mom forgot to turn on the oven and we had to wait 3 plus hours for the turkey to get done?