get it right the first time

I recently wrote a story about an age-old incident that has been lingering over my family for years… actually decades. The details of the story – as I recall – have been hotly debated by my brother and me. Since we are the two survivors of the story in question, that debate shows no signs of being resolved. The other two main characters in the story – my mother and my father – have since passed away, so, in the waning years, this tale has been reduced to a “he said-he said” among siblings. Not wanting to stir up an argument with my brother, I have been very careful not to bring up this incident in his presence, as my version of the story differs greatly from his. So, I have told my take to my family over the years and – with no other account for reference – that’s the version they have come to know and believe. I published this story on It’s Been a Slice, with the comforting understanding that my brother never reads my blog. He has better, more productive, things to do than read about my antics in cemeteries and my overblown analysis of The Partridge Family. Knowing that my brother wouldn’t see my “official” published narrative of the notorious Pincus Family “cake-dropping” incident, I was free to make my version the version among the handful of followers who read (and inexplicably look forward to) my posts every Sunday morning. 

I was wrong. And it turns out, I was wrong about a lot of things. 

The pre-disagreement
Pincus Boys

My brother Max, four years my senior, has been enjoying the life of a retiree. He goes to the gym. He reads. He plays card with other retirees. And every once in a while, he casually peruses Facebook. Last Sunday, while wading through the political posts, speculation on the Eagles’ chances of taking the Super Bowl and notifications of the birthday of a long-forgotten co-worker, my brother came upon a photograph that piqued his interest. It was the stock image of a smashed cake that I used to accompany my story of the afore-mentioned incident. Seeing my name associated with the picture, he figured I must have written about "the incident." 

So, with plenty of time on his hands, my brother clicked on the link, arrived at my blog and read my most recent entry. 

I don’t think he was angry. I think he was more confused, if anything. You see, he never thought there was any sort of disagreement over how the events played out. As far as he knew, the story happened one way – the way he remembered it. He never knew that I had a completely different memory of the incident and that I had been telling my version for years. 

Well, Max was about to take matters into his own hands and set the record – and his brother – straight. 

As the time stamp confirms, I published the post on my blog bright and early on Sunday morning. 5:00 o’clock AM, to be exact. Somewhere around lunchtime, I received an alert that a comment had been left on my blog by one “Max Pincus.” I held my breath and thought: “I can’t believe he read my blog. He never reads my blog!” Admittedly, there were a few stray butterflies doing loop-de-loops in my stomach as I began to read my brother’s rebuttal. 

Here is Max’s statement. Read along with me… 

Your blog certainly is amusing. Unfortunately, it also happens to be inaccurate. Here is what actually happened... 

I was asked to pick up a birthday cake, although I do not recall whose birthday was being celebrated. Once I got the cake, I returned home in my white 1963 Buick LeSabre, which cost me $325 and got about eight miles per gallon. As always, I parked on the street directly in front of the house. I got out of the car with the cake, took a few steps and somehow dropped the damn cake in the street. 

My mother -- NOT my father -- saw me park the car in from the of house and was on her way outside to greet me. When she saw what I had done, she pretty much lost her mind. She bounded across the lawn to confront me and began screaming -- in a loud enough voice to attract the attention of several neighbors (who gladly will confirm my version of the story) -- "How do you drop a cake? How is that possible that you dropped the cake?" She bent down and picked up the smushed cake out of the street, then began pushing it into my arms, all the while yelling, "Show me how you drop a cake. I wanna see how you dropped the cake." As I made my way into the house, Mom was following close behind, loudly requesting a demonstration of how I managed to drop the cake. 

Fortunately, for the sake of everyone's sanity, my mother was laughing about the incident before she went to sleep that night.

One final note: The notion that my father, who I do not recall being present when I lost my grip on the cake, "knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands" is absurd. I never saw him clean up a mess of any kind, regardless of the circumstances. Ever. 

I’ll tell you this. He makes a darn good argument. Darn good! With the finesse of a seasoned attorney (he is not), Max presents a detailed description, complete with specific bits of information and precise chronology. He even cites possible witnesses who could corroborate his story if, say, this thing went to trial. Honestly, if it did go to trial, I might be brought up on charges of perjury. 

We agree that a birthday cake was purchased, although neither of us recall who was the honoree. We also agree that said cake was indeed dropped and that Max was indeed the party responsible for the cake’s unfortunate date with gravity. After that, our stories split and split wildly. 

I will say, however, that Max’s story does make a lot of sense. I can absolutely envision my mother’s behavior as my brother describes – at first furious and then jovial as time pacified her anger. I also wholeheartedly agree that my father would never ever make any sort of attempt at cleaning anything up. Ever. That was women’s’ work and it would cut into his cigarette smoking time. Max also elaborated on the subsequent reaction of a neighbor. I could picture that happening, too. 

One of my mother’s favorite adages was: “The six most important words you could ever say were – I admit I made a mistake.” My mother was a very smart person. I will happily – and humbly – repeat those words with respect to my brother. 

Hey, I'm sure I’ve been right about other things. I guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

yes, I remember it well

When my mom died in 1991, she took the entire family history with her.

Every family has an unofficial family historian. You know, that one person you can go to and ask any question about any family member for whom you need a little bit of information or possible clarification. How are you related to this person? Who's child is this and when did they get married? Is that guy we call "uncle" really my uncle? For as long as I can remember, my mom was that person. She was the keeper of the Small family (her maiden name) history and she eventually served in the same capacity for the Pincus family when she married my father. (Curiously, there was no one in my father's family that could be relied upon to give an accurate account of family relations. My father's family all shared one common trait. They were habitual liars.)

My mom knew facts about generations that pre-dated her own 1923 birth. She could rattle off names, dates, locations, offspring, offspring's spouses and countless children — some of whom she never even met. Right off the top of her head, she could tell of long-forgotten incidents, including explicit detail, as though they had just taken place the day before. She could sift through a box of mismatched photographs — ones spanning numerous time frames as exhibited by an assortment of black & white and color examples — and identify the subjects, the location and the approximate date on which the photo was taken.

My mom was the youngest of five siblings — her oldest brother being eighteen years her senior. I recall my mom settling many an argument among her siblings. The phone in our house would ring regularly as a brother or a sister would call to confirm with my mom which one of their uncles owned a produce pushcart or which aunt was especially promiscuous. My mom always had the answer. "Call Doris! She'll know!" was a phase that was spoken frequently among the Small clan and eventually the lying Pincuses came to rely on my mother's encyclopedic knowledge.

In October 1991, after a long, up-and-down battle with cancer, my mom died and left her family in a state of confusion. Not only was she beloved among her immediate and extended family, but she one of the few family members (on both sides) that nobody had an issue with. She was always helpful and pleasant and funny. And when she died, family history began to rewrite itself. Surviving family members were left to piece together their vague, mostly inaccurate memories. This left the Smalls and Pincuses with a legacy that resembled a poorly-sewn patchwork quilt.

There is one story that I really wish my mom were here to set the record straight. It's a story that has become a "bone of contention" between by brother Max and I. Max, as is the way of most big brothers, is always right. This story has been discussed many times since my mother's passing and the way I remember it and the way Max remembers it couldn't be more different. It's as though it isn't even an account of the same incident. Personally, I am fuzzy on the exact time frame. I don't remember exactly how old I was when it happened. But I do know that the way Max tells it is not the way it happened. The way I remember it was....

My mother had purchased a cake for an upcoming birthday — maybe mine, maybe my brother's. I don't remember who would be the eventual recipient. The cake was in a bakery box on the second shelf down in our over-stuffed refrigerator. (I always remember our family's refrigerator being packed so tightly that items needed to be constantly rearranged in order to accommodate new purchases from the supermarket or even a plastic container of leftovers. How my mom managed to find space to fit a bakery box in that frigid Tetris game remains a mystery..... but, I digress....)

The box containing the cake had the string that secured the lid removed and it sat on the shelf with the lid just loosely protecting the pasty within. As was typical for the Pincus family, I sat with my mom and dad in our den, watching television — most likely a program of my father's choosing. My brother was not with us. He was upstairs in his room doing whatever it was that he did up there. At some point, he came downstairs and visited the kitchen, perhaps for a snack or a beverage or both. From the den — adjacent to the kitchen in our small Northeast Philadelphia house — we could hear the refrigerator door open followed by my brother clinking bottles and moving covered dishes in an effort to see what sort of after-dinner nibbles were available. Suddenly, we heard a noise — a sort of a bang! — followed by my brother angrily muttering "OH!"

My mom, my dad and I scrambled into the kitchen to find my brother standing in front of the refrigerator. The door was open. At his feet was the cake box. It was upside-down and its visible contents were smashed on the kitchen floor — a scattering of crumbs and icing in a small, misshapen arrangement on the linoleum. We all stood silently for a few moments staring at the unexpected scene that surrounded my brother's feet. Finally, my father spoke. 

"What the hell happened?" he bellowed, gesturing with his omnipresent cigarette towards the destroyed baked good strewn across the Pincus kitchen floor.

My brother, with not a lick of fear in his voice, plainly stated, "I dropped the cake."

My father was positively dumbfounded. Dumfounded! He jammed his cigarette into his mouth, knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands. He frowned and spat, "How do you drop a cake?" He repeated this like a mantra several more times, until he forcefully shoved the unwieldy mess into my brother's hands and screamed — demanded! — "Show me how you drop a cake!"

The words sounded downright stupid coming out of my father's mouth. It was one of those things where your anger is so out of control and over-the top, that your mind can't form coherent sentences to express the serious tone of the situation. My mom and I stifled our laughter knowing it would have made my mad father even madder. My always-defiant brother, however, just rolled his eyes as he accepted the dented cardboard box from my father. He placed it on the kitchen table. Of course, he wasn't about to demonstrate the procedure of dropping a cake for my father. This was a one-time performance. Max just stood by quietly and waited for my father's tirade to wind down. Finally, my father let out an annoyed exhale, lit another cigarette and retired to the den, shaking his head muttering about dropping a cake.

My brother returned to his room with a couple of slices of cheese from the refrigerator.

And that's the story. For years — years! — the phrase "Show me how you drop a cake!" — was repeated in the Pincus household for comedic effect. My son, whose birth came decades after the notorious "cake-dropping" incident, has made use of the phrase from time to time. It's a funny story with all the elements you'd expect in a funny story — a silly accident, an over-reaction from my father, my brother standing his ground and my mom and I hiding our amusement.

My brother, however, remembers the event completely different — right down to the action taking place on the sidewalk in front of our house instead of in the kitchen. Because of this, the story is never ever told in my brother's company.

He may have to start a blog of his own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

teacher, i need you

School is beginning for a lot of students across the country. I haven't concerned myself with the "first day of school," as my son is long past those days. However, I was reminded of a story that I have told on my illustration blog. This story is from the time I started high school. My brother has confirmed most of it.

I entered George Washington High School in the Fall of 1975, just a short summer vacation after my older brother, Max, took his diploma and his reputation and headed off to college (as a commuter, but college just the same). Max was smart, athletic, good looking, a very good student and quite popular. I was… um…. an awkward former eighth-grader. It was not unlike the time Tommie Aaron replaced his power-hitting older brother, Hammerin’ Hank, for a brief period in the 1962 Milwaukee Braves lineup. I’m not saying that my brother’s departure and my arrival had the same significant impact as that baseball scenario, but there was a vague comparison that could be made. But, I digress. 

My first day as a high school freshman was very hectic and a little overwhelming. I had to become accustomed to a huge, confusing maze of hallways and staircases. I needed to familiarize myself with the location of my classrooms, as determined by the computer-printed cardboard roster I was issued while half-asleep in my homeroom. After lunch in a lunchroom that was triple the size of any school cafeteria I’d ever seen, I navigated my way to the last scheduled class of my day — English. 

I found an empty desk in the second row and sat down among a roomful of unfamiliar students my own age. As the clock ticked past the appointed class start time, there was still no teacher to lead the assemblage. Suddenly, the classroom door swung open and what appeared to be another student crossed the threshold. However, she approached the large desk at the front of the room and deposited the unruly stack of papers and folders she cradled in her arms on its surface. She was an up-to-date reflection of the “Charlie’s Angels -pre-disco” fashion of the time, wearing a tight-fitting jumpsuit with the full-front zipper undone well below an appropriate level. She had long, dark, feathered hair that fell down her back, cascaded around her shoulders and framed her face – a face that boasted a thousand-megawatt, pearly-white smile. She introduced herself to the class as “Mrs. Shacker” and Mrs. Shacker was pretty fucking hot. 

Mrs. Shacker shuffled through the papers on her desk and produced a class attendance sheet from the pile. She took a seat on the edge of the desk, seductively swinging her leg while she took roll. She announced each name in a sensuously low, throaty timbre. Upon declaration of “here” or “present” or the Philadelphia-centric “yo!” from the student in question, she made a quick check-mark of confirmation in the proper column on the attendance form. She wended her way to the end of the alphabetical list and when she called out “Pincus”, she stopped — and her previously wide smile widened even more. Her dark eyes scanned the room until she spotted me in the second row, my hand timidly raised in hesitant acknowledgement. 

“Are you Pincus?,” she asked. 

“Yes,” I replied, “Josh Pincus.” 

She eased her derriere off the desk and sauntered towards me in languid, deliberate strides. I gulped. 

“Are you Max’s brother?,” she cooed, emphasizing my sibling’s name and bringing her face closer to mine. 

“Yes.,” I gulped again. 

A dreamy look captured the gaze in her heavy-lidded eyes and she sighed, “Tell him I asked for him.” She turned and started back towards her desk, her hips swaying as though adrift on an ocean. She finished roll call and began the first lesson of the school year. The first English lesson, that is.

At quarter-to-two in the afternoon, classes were dismissed and I headed home. Once through the front door of my house, my mom assailed me with a barrage of “how-was-your-first-day-of-school” questions. I described the vastness of the building, my varied classes and the population of unfamiliar students. I also told her, in the most homogenized, detail-free way possible, about Mrs. Shacker and her message to my brother. Max was in the next room, home for several hours and enjoying the far more leisurely schedule of college. He overheard our discussion and, upon the mention of his name, entered the room to join us.

“Shacker? That name doesn’t sound famil…” My brother stopped in mid-sentence as a new thought popped into his head. “Oh!,” he remembered. His face lit up and he snapped his fingers, “Blum! She was ‘Blum.’ She got married over the summer.”

My mother rolled her eyes as a memory surfaced. When Max was in his freshman year he was having a bit of difficulty in his high school English class. The problem seemed to be a lack of focus and this was very unusual for my otherwise academically-proficient brother. My mom arranged for a meeting with his teacher, the mono-syllabic “Blum” — as he dismissively referred to her — pronouncing her surname like the sound of a boulder dropping to the ground. One afternoon, long after student dismissal time, my mom entered Blum’s classroom. It was 1972 and Miss Maxine Blum (the future Mrs. Shacker) was dressed in a flowery, nearly see-through blouse, a micro-mini skirt and leather go-go boots and she was four years younger and four years hotter than she was now. “Well,” my mom thought to herself as she gave this pitseleh the once-over, “no wonder a 15-year-old boy can’t pay attention in this class.”

Sometime during my next week of ninth grade, Mrs. Shacker was discussing syllables, a typical subject for a freshman English class. She talked about how some words, even names, pair up nicely — even poetically — based on the same number of syllables in each.

“As an example,” she began, “If my husband had a single syllable name, people would use my nickname to introduce us. Say my husband’s name was Max,” — and she looked right at me when she said “Max” — “we’d be introduced as ‘Max and Max’ … y’know short for ‘Maxine’.” Mrs. Shacker slowly strolled among the students seated in the room while giving her lesson. As she finished her sentence, she lightly brushed my shoulder with her hand on her way past my desk.

Several weeks later, just before the long Thanksgiving weekend, Mrs. Shacker announced to the class that she had a visitor earlier in the day. She explained that a famous wrestler stopped by to say “Hello.” Again, she looked right at me as she informed the class that one Max Pincus, a member of Temple University’s wrestling team, had paid a visit. The class expressed their disappointment, hoping that a rousing tale of an encounter with Andre the Giant would follow. But, Mrs. Shacker wasn’t really interested in the class’s reaction. She just winked at me and flashed a smile.

The story of Max’s relationship with Mrs. Shacker continued to unfold through further investigation. After extensive questioning and maybe a little bribery, a few of my brother’s friends seemed to remember an incident at a school dance (perhaps a prom) where Mrs. Shacker (then Miss Blum) cornered Max and planted a pre-graduation kiss square on his lips. A claim of the inclusion of tongue is unsubstantiated and, to this day, still fervently debated.

Mrs. Shacker didn’t make it to my senior year. As a matter of fact, she didn’t return after I advanced to sophomore. She may have transferred to another school, moved to another locale or perhaps, even more likely, she left to give private instruction to a young Mary Kay Letourneau.

The story you have read is true; the names have been changed to protect myself from broken bones.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the bump

Before Disneyland and Disney World and even Great Adventure (and before they were absorbed under the Six Flags masthead), amusement parks with rides were exclusive to the seashore resorts... as far as I was concerned. Look, I lived a sheltered life, I suppose. I only got to see amusement park rides at temporary school fairs or on those dangerous-looking trucks that would roam my neighborhood on weekends and summer afternoons. But, if I wanted to experience real, live amusement park rides, I would have to wait for a day trip or an extended weekend stay in Atlantic City. My father, not one to travel, would occasionally (and often begrudgingly) take our family to Atlantic City. My mom, my brother and I would love to go. My dad didn't care what his family wanted and when he finally relented, he acted as though he had just donated a kidney.

I loved going to Atlantic City, specifically for the famous Boardwalk. There were games of chance and soft-serve ice cream cones and salt water taffy and arcades. Yeah, there was the beach and the ocean, but those I could have done without. The real draw was the (now long-gone) Million Dollar Pier, jam packed with rides set up much too close to each other, damning all fire safety precautions. Walkways between rides were strewn with a tangled mess of heavy electrical cables. This was long before the days of "lawsuits at the drop of a hat." You tripped and your kneecap became embedded with a zillion splinters? Get up and keep walking... and be careful next time! 

My brother loved the bumper cars. As an adolescent, he honed his future driving abilities on those compact, exposed electricity-powered little death traps. Being too small to ride, as determined by an official-looking sign at the entrance to the ride, I was relegated to watch through a chain-link fence as my brother deftly guided his vehicle through the clumps of other cars, avoiding bumps while delivering same to defenseless fellow riders. With my fingers curled around the fencing, I'd marvel as my brother would weave around the slick floor, slamming randomly into other cars, only to make a clean getaway before a retaliatory blow could be received. It was all in fun, though, and riders would laugh as they exited at the ride's conclusion.

If you've ever ridden the bumper cars, you always remember that one guy, right? The guy who gets stuck in a corner, next to some non-operating vehicles, unable to free himself. While other riders race and bump and laugh, this poor guy just rumbles back and forth for most of the ride's allotted time, until he is finally spotted by the ride operator who frees him and, while standing on the rear bumper, guides him back to the entrance, arriving just as the power shuts off and the ride is over. Three tickets! Wasted!

My brother and a couple of his friends devised a plan when they rode the bumper cars. A plan to enhance their own fun. Once situated in their cars, my brother and his friends would select a rider and target him to ruin his ride. They'd chase after him and taking turns pinning him in a corner, trapping him for the entire ride, denying him the fun of racing around the floor and bumping into other riders. One evening, after picking their cars, my brother and three of his friends pointed to one guy and pegged him as their victim. They didn't know him. They had no connection to him. They just looked around and pointed. The power surged through the vehicles and the ride began. The plan was enacted. The ride floor was dimly lit, bathed in blacklight, distorting any details of other rider's faces. But they zeroed in on their target and they pinned this guy in a corner. My brother first, then each of his friends — one at a time. Their "victim" said nothing, but his anger was apparent from his body language. He was hunched over the steering wheel and bobbed his shoulders each time his vehicle was rammed with a confining bump. My brother and his friends were giddy and gleeful as their underhanded plan unfolded. In the darkness, they could hear a few frustrated exhales, but most were drowned out by the loud Top 40 hits that were piped in through the tinny speakers mounted at the floor's corners. The ride ended. The power stopped, bright lights came up and my brother and his friends got out of their vehicles and made their way to the exit. Their chests were puffed out and they laughed in their achievement.

Until, they saw the guy they pinned.

He rose from his tiny car.... and he kept on rising. With the bright lights on, they saw this guy stood well over six feet tall. He was wearing a tank top and he had muscles. Big muscles. His muscles had muscles. And he was not happy. Not. At. All. He pointed an angry finger at my brother and his friends and hollered "YOU!" and the look on his face revealed his displeasure with three little punks ruining his ride and making him waste three tickets.

This happened easily fifty years ago. I think they are still running.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby elephant walk

Mrs. Pincus, who is way more active on Facebook than I am, got a message from someone with whom she is not connected. "Brian Roadblock," my wife announced as she gazed at her phone with a puzzled expression.

The name was not recognized, at first, but within a few short seconds there was something familiar about it. And it jarred me.

My paternal grandfather died in 1970 when I was nine years-old. After his funeral, mourners returned to my house for a shiva, a traditional gathering of family and friends after a Jewish funeral. My house was packed with people representing my father's side of the family, most of whom I barely knew. My father was an only child. His father (my recently-deceased grandfather) was also an only child and my paternal grandmother was despised by most of her relatives (and rightly so). Later in the day, a young man entered my house. Everyone welcomed him as "Stan." He looked vaguely familiar although he was a total stranger. However, I noticed that everyone in my father's extended family knew him. Even my mother knew him. My brother — a recent Bar Mitzvah — and I scratched our heads and briefly discussed who this guy could be. As the day became evening and wound down to a close, guests said their goodbyes and offered their condolence to my father. When the house was empty of guests, my mother began to gather empty cups and paper plates that seemed to have lost their way to the trash. My father, never one to help with "womens' work," had settled himself in "his chair" in the den and lit up a cigarette. My brother and I confronted our parents.

"Who was that guy 'Stan' that everybody knew?," we asked.

My parents froze and exchanged "the jig is up" glances. They hemmed and hawed and cleared their throats. After stalling for way too long, my mom and dad sat us down and came clean.

My father was married before he married my mother in November 1955. His brief first marriage produced a son, Stan. My father had just divorced Stan's mother when he was fixed up on a blind date with my mother in February 1955. At the start of the date, my father made his intentions very clear. "I am just coming off of a divorce," he told his date (my mother) "and I am not looking for a serious relationship." My mother, a 30 year-old bleached blond doppelgänger for actress Barbara Stanwyck, was a free spirit and not looking for a serious relationship either. But something must have triggered ol' Cupid to pierce their collective hearts with his arrow of love, because they were married a mere nine months after that first date. In the early days of their marriage, my mom and dad took five year-old Stan on weekends, treating the youngster to a day at the zoo or the movies or out for an ice cream soda.  These outings were regular occurrences until 1957 when my mother gave birth to my brother Max. My parents no longer needed Stan to play the part of surrogate son. They had Max, who was their own. Meanwhile, my dad's first wife had remarried. Her new husband adopted Stan and his Pincus name was abandoned is favor of his "new dad's" sobriquet: "Roadblock."

In 1961, little Josh completed the new Pincus family. A larger distance grew between my father and Stan and the two rarely saw each other again. My grandmother, however, maintained a close and loving relationship with Stan, while constantly hounding and belittling my father and treating my mother like shit. She antagonized my mother on a regular basis, criticizing her cooking, her housekeeping, her child-rearing - her every move. My relationship with my grandmother could only be described as "cordial." Not particularly "grandmotherly." She was never warm or welcoming. I remember her playful insults, often referring to me as "bucktoothed."

But Stan! Stan was the "golden child." He was rewarded for being the first grandchild, often lavished with gifts and money and love. My brother and I, the products of the distasteful union between my father and that woman, as my mother was no doubt referred to in private, were treated cordially, never with warmth. My grandmother fancied herself "benevolent" when she offered my brother and me rusty cans of Borden's Frosted Shakes when we accompanied my father on a visit. She exhibited an affectionate and comforting rapport with Stan, while her demeanor towards the second round of Pincus progeny was as cold as the chest freezer from which she extracted those chalky commercial milkshakes.

It was quite a blow to learn that a) my father was married prior to marrying my mother, b) I had a half-brother and c) that semi-sibling's existence was kept a guarded secret for a decade. After my parents concluded their lengthy tale of familial deception, we all sat silent for a long time. My brother and I thought about the novelty of having a new found brother. It was pretty cool. All was forgiven for this little indiscretion (after all, there would be more indiscretions) and life went on.

My grandmother passed away in 1995. She outlived my mother and my father. As a matter of fact, just after my father died, my brother and I drove to her apartment to inform her that her only son had died. When we told her the news, she scowled and angrily questioned, "Well, who is going to take care of me?" 'Cause that's the kind of person my grandmother was. Selfish, self-centered and self-serving. Except, evidently, to Stan and his family.

My grandmother's question was answered when my wife generously volunteered to tend to the old shrew's needs. Mrs. P did her grocery shopping (and was routinely castigated for her selections). She contacted a cleaning service to tidy up my grandmother's tiny apartment (there were repeated complaints about that, as well). She managed my grandmother's finances, writing checks for bills and making sure a positive balance was preserved in the account. That is until my grandmother accused Mrs. Pincus of stealing from her and had her unceremoniously removed from the account. 'Cause that's the kind of person my grandmother was. However, when my grandmother finally kicked, the eternally-nice Mrs. P single-handedly cleaned out and emptied her apartment of clothing, furniture and knick-knacks. She donated what she could. The rest she sold on eBay, splitting the consequential income evenly between our son and my nephew (Max's son), Curiously, Stan and his beneficiary family were noticeably absent from the "tying up loose ends" process. They showed up late for the graveside funeral that Mrs. Pincus had arranged, but displayed requisite somber facades nevertheless. At the sparsely attended ceremony's conclusion, Stan approached my wife with his young son attentively by his side. With a forlorn expression on his face, he asked Mrs. P if any of my grandmother's extensive collection of elephant figurines were in our possession. My grandmother was a lifelong, backwards thinking, narrow-minded, bigoted Nixon-loving Republican. She accumulated a vast assemblage of figures, in a variety of materials, all in some form of an elephant — the symbol of her beloved Grand Old Party. With nary an emotion, my wife reported that the entire contents of my grandmother's apartment was liquidated. Nothing remained. We all started towards our respective automobiles and we never saw Stan and his family again. That chapter of of our lives had ended.

Until a new, revised edition was released just this week — in Facebook form.

Stan's son Brian — now grown — took a shot in the dark and contacted Mrs. Pincus, tracing her though her married name and Philadelphia location. In his unsolicited salvo, he asked if she was the granddaughter-in-law of Molly Pincus and the half-sister-in-law of Stan Roadblock. Mrs. Pincus looked at the message for a long time before issuing a response. Finally, confirming her identity, she asked was there a reason for his puzzling inquiry. His near-immediate reply first expounded on his love for "his favorite great-grandmother" and their special, loving relationship. Then, he asked a twenty-one year old question: "I was wondering if you had any of her elephant figurines?" He explained that he began collecting elephant-related memorabilia in an effort to keep her memory alive. He would love to have one that actually belonged to her as part of his collection.

My grandmother's possessions — all of them — were sold two decades ago. I haven't given them or her a thought in twenty years. I haven't given thought to Stan and his family in as many years, as well. I get a bit steamed when I hear someone tell me what a lovely, caring woman my grandmother was. She was not. She was a vicious, vindictive, hate-filled, scheming troublemaker. I don't care what Brian Roadblock says. I voiced my opinion to my wife and asked her to take that into consideration when she decided to answer Brian's question.

Mrs. P responded. "The contents of Molly's apartment was sold over twenty years ago. I do not have anything that belonged to her. Although I appreciate your fond memories of your great-grandmother, please understand that it was a much different story with her other family. Molly treated my husband Josh, his brother Max and their families poorly. She was mean and nasty to both Josh and Max's mother and father, leaving us with less-than-fond memories."

We thought that would be it. The final final end of the story. But, alas, it was not. Brian sent Mrs. Pincus a Facebook friend request.

She deleted it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get me out of FLA

My brother Max just celebrated the last birthday of his fifties. (Perhaps "celebrated" isn't the best choice of words.) He has mentioned to me, on several occasions, his desire to retire at the first available chance. He works in a state job and a major benefit of his position and tenure is a pension that the good people of New Jersey have unwittingly — and unwillingly — subsidized. Max hopes to take his retirement when he reaches the age of 63 — just a few short years from now.

One morning last week, Mrs. Pincus met my sister-in-law (Max's wife) for a cup of coffee. They chatted about family stuff and my sister-in-law repeated my brother's plans for retirement. This time, however, the plan was elaborated upon, with a detail that was, heretofore, unmentioned. A detail to which my poor sister-in-law expressed her displeasure. It seems that my brother's grand dreams of retirement all take place in Florida.

I first became enamored with The Sunshine State as a teenager. I took my first vacation sans parents in 1980. Three friends and I descended on Walt Disney World and a better time could not have been had. We all agreed that this was the place to be. Soon we realized that the only reason we felt the way we did was because we were on vacation. We understood that if were were to actually live in Florida, we'd have to get jobs and find permanent housing and it would become our lives. The novelty of a carefree vacation would soon disappear. But, the thought stayed in the back of my mind.

"Before we all lived here in Florida"

After a few years of wedded bliss, my new bride figured out that we could purchase a house for a little more than what we were currently paying in monthly rent at our little townhouse apartment. She took me to house after "on-the-market" house until we chanced upon the three-story, six bedroom dwelling that we now affectionately call "Pincusland." At the time, I was, as they say, "between jobs," This did not, however, stop us from applying for a mortgage. As we waited impatiently for an approval from the good folks at Chase Mortgage*, I made a proposal to Mrs. P. I told her if we get turned down for a mortgage, we will pack our belongings and move to Florida, specifically the Orlando area. I had it all planned. I would get a job in the Design or Marketing Department of the Walt Disney Company and Mrs. P would abandon her teaching position (she was a nursery school teacher when we met, a story for a future blog) and find employment at one of Disney's theme parks. My brother isn't the only Pincus with dreams! Lucky for us, Chase had faith and granted us a mortgage. Thanks to a long succession of increasingly better employment opportunities, we were able to pay off that mortgage before the agreed-upon thirty year deadline. I say "lucky," because after numerous visits to Florida, I came to discover that a move to that state would have been a huge mistake. While the tourist business certainly has been a boon for the local economy, there also seems to be an inordinate amount of empty buildings, stalled construction projects and shuttered businesses. On every subsequent trip to Orlando, my teenage fantasy world faded a little more. I saw another closed restaurant and another shopping center sitting empty... while, curiously, another shopping center was under construction just a few feet away. The sprawl and dereliction was a strange and unnerving dichotomy. It smacked of erratic instability.

So, instead of moving, we stayed in Philadelphia. I always managed to find a new and better job (all twelve of them!). Our family increased by one with the arrival of our son soon after settling in our new house. Dreams of moving to Florida became less and less of an aspiration and more of a silly childish pipe dream. To me, it revealed itself to be a frivolous, irrational thought associated with impetuous, unthinking youth.

I can't discount Max's dream of retiring and moving to Florida. After all, it has gained a reputation as the old Jew's equivalent of the elusive "Elephant's Graveyard." Perhaps, though, Max's wife will talk some sense to one of those elephants.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*At the time. Our mortgage was sold at least five times during the past thirty years.