teacher, teacher

My third grade teacher died last year. The news came to me via a Facebook group — of which I am a member — that concerns itself with memories about the elementary school I attended. According to the announcement, my third grade teacher was 93 years old. I found this to be particularly thought-provoking. When she was my teacher in 1970, I was pretty sure that she was 93 years old then. I made quick use of a calculator and my rudimentary math skills revealed that she was actually 43 at the time — just a few years younger than my mother. 

I remember when I was assigned to her class — as determined by my final report card of second grade — my heart sank. Rumors ran rampant within the school about my third grade teacher's disposition, especially towards the male students in her class. She was a "miss," and tales were told of how she hated men. The boys in her class often felt the wrath of her misandristic leanings. I worried all summer about what third grade would be like and if I would survive.

I distinctly remember beginning third grade. I remember my teacher as a towering, imposing fearsome, figure. She rarely smiled, usually sporting a scowl. She wore old-fashioned looking dresses and big, clunky, black shoes like my grandmother wore. She wore her silver gray hair in a no-nonsense, easy-to-maintain bowl cut. She was a firm (borderline cruel) disciplinarian with zero tolerance for passing notes or whispering between students. Every Hallowe'en, she greeted students at the door of her classroom wearing a huge woven wicker mask that completely obscured her face. She wielded a large straw broom which he used to whack each student on the ass as they passed across the classroom threshold. Every St. Partick's Day, you had better be goddamned sure you were wearing something green, lest you succumb to the ire of my third grade teacher, who was of proud Irish ancestry. I don't remember any particular lesson from my third grade class. No piece of information that stuck with me for the rest of my life. No special bit of knowledge that could guarantee me the grand prize in a round of cruise ship trivia. (I learned state capitals in fourth grade. I still know those.) I only remember not liking the class or the teacher.

The announcement posted to my elementary school's Facebook group was just this week, My teacher had passed away in April 2020, but, due to the social limitations imposed by the global COVID-19 pandemic, a proper funeral service was not held. The post noted a date in September 2021 when family and friends could safely gather to honor the memory of their beloved sister, stepmother, grandmother, aunt, great-aunt and — yes — teacher. 

She taught at the elementary school for 45 years, so, of course, the post was overflowing with positive, sometimes gushy, comments from former students expressing their fond memories of this teacher. 

Until they weren't.

After scrolling through a dozen or so glowing sentiments, I stopped at one comment that was posted by a name I recognized as one of my classmates. 

"Unfortunately I had a very different experience with her. She had a mean streak, she put me in the corner and told me save my hot air for the clarinet."

This was followed by several more comments elaborating on more less-than-stellar behavior from my third grade teacher. Memories that were more in line with my own memories of her class. One student even told of an evidently traumatic experience when my third grade teacher confiscated one of his Matchbox cars and held on to it until the last day of school. These folks are now sixty years old, but these incidents have stuck with them their entire lives.

I find it interesting that so many people can have so many varying memories of the same person in relatively the same situation. Or perhaps a lot of these people have skewed memories, altered by the fact that they are talking about someone who is now dead. There's a old expression — "Don't speak ill of the dead." A lot of people subscribe to that conviction. Eulogies become very sweet and flowery for someone who was a total jerk when they walked the earth. What is it about death that washes away the bad behavior and awful temperament someone exhibited in life. I have been to many funerals where I heard final words delivered by someone who either never met the deceased or was fed a bunch of bullshit by family members trying to grab at one last effort to cast their loved one in a positive light. 

A few brave souls on Facebook, under the guise of anonymity, voiced their true feelings about someone's beloved teacher. Feelings I also share. Was it the correct forum to do so? Maybe.... or maybe not. Nevertheless, you don't get a second chance to make a first impression. Especially an impression that lasts fifty years.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you and your cousins

My wife's cousin passed away unexpectedly this week, just ten days before her 66th birthday. Yesterday, we — along with many family members, friends, co-workers and other acquaintances — attended a memorial service in her honor.

I didn't know my wife's cousin very well. I had only seen her a handful of times in the 38 years I have known Mrs. Pincus. Our paths crossed mostly at large family gatherings — weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals and those sorts of events. When I was still new to the family, I'm sure I was introduced and reintroduced to my wife's cousin a few times. I remember that our brief conversations were pleasant, although I cannot remember exactly what we spoke about.

The memorial service began around 11 AM on a Sunday morning, once the attending crowd was coaxed into their seats after a period of mingling and reminiscing. A rabbi spoke and then chanted a few prayers. Then, the rabbi introduced a number of my wife's cousin's family and friends to share their thoughts and memories of a loved one. One by one, a brother, a life-long friend, a neighbor, a nephew and another friend approached the lectern. Each one delivered a short, but heartfelt, tale of kindness, warmth, devotion, loyalty and love. Some of the related anecdotes evoked laughter from the attendees — and rightfully so. These were sweet and humorous glimpses into relationships that my wife's cousin shared with those with whom she was close. Her brother told of long talks at her house when he should have been working on a needed home repair. A friend talked about teaching my wife's cousin how to ski. A neighbor smiled as she spoke about my wife's cousin dropping off freshly baked cakes at her house for no reason at all. Another friend revealed a long tradition of gathering for each other's birthday — with this year's soiree having my wife's cousin's daughter taking her mother's place.

Although I did not know my wife's cousin very well, I was touched by the consistent emotion of each little speech. Everyone spoke of her kindness, her consideration, her ability to listen and comfort, her advocacy for other's ideas and plans. She was a genuinely nice person, something that is rare today. 

I have attended several funerals and memorial services — more than I would have liked. I am not a believer in "just because someone dies, all of their bad qualities are automatically erased." I understand that a funeral is not the time to bring up someone's terrible disposition when they were alive (although I have seen it happen). Eulogies are reserved for extolling the niceties someone exhibited during their time on Earth, not to rehash old grudges or to expose an all-around jerk for what they were. Sometimes, I have listened to a eulogy and wondered if I was at the right funeral. But hearing one story about my wife's cousin after another, made me realize that I had never — and I mean never — heard anyone utter a negative word about her. Never!

It is probably unlikely, but that is the way we would all like to be remembered.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we're two ships that pass in the night

I met Jonathan three times. 

The first time I met Jonathan was at the end of February 1982. I was an art student, working at my cousin's heath food restaurant in Center City Philadelphia. Jonathan came in to the restaurant with a date. His date would become my wife two years later. Jonathan and the future Mrs. Pincus were close friends growing up. Their parents were friends. Actually, the first time young Mrs. P laid eyes on him, she was head-over-heels in love. It was a strange bit of "kismet" that Jonathan chose to bring her to the restaurant where I worked on that particular evening. I didn't really have too much to say to Jonathan. I remember he was a good-looking guy, but I was too busy chatting up his pretty companion. She, however, thought I was the most obnoxious person she ever met. I know this, because she told me so. Right then and there.

The next time I saw Jonathan was in 2001. My wife, my son and I attended the bat mitzvah of a classmate of my son. The young lady, Gabby, was Jonathan's niece. After the service, we mingled among the guests. Jonathan approached us. My wife smiled at Jonathan, although he didn't look at all familiar to me. He and Mrs. Pincus embraced. He shook my hand and turned to my then thirteen year-old son and introduced himself. "I'm your mom's first husband.," he said, with a wink. My son, a bit panicked, turned to me and cocked his head in confusion. (Just a note: That is not something you say to a thirteen year-old.) We explained that Jonathan was an old friend and he was, indeed, kidding.

I saw Jonathan one more time. It was a week or so ago, just after Labor Day 2016. Actually, I saw him at the same synagogue that our paths crossed fifteen years earlier. This time, however, it was not for a joyous occasion. We were joining hundreds of other mourners at a post-funeral shiva for Jonathan's sister-in-law Linda, who had passed away after a long struggle with cancer. Mrs. P and I maneuvered our way through the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs, until we came upon Jonathan. Again, like they had done previously, my wife hugged Jonathan. Jonathan shook my hand heartily and said, "How'ya doing, buddy?" I don't believe that he remembered my name, but that was okay. He was friendly enough and exhibited no hard feelings that I was happily married to his one-time date for the past 32 years.

Jonathan took his own life on September 16, taking with him the opportunity to see him again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I count all the charms about Linda

On Sunday afternoon, I went to the funeral of a lifelong friend of Mrs. Pincus. She was a woman who my wife met when they were kids. They remained in and out of touch with each other until her death just this past week. I didn't know her very well. I only met her a handful of times, but she was always friendly and smiling and seemed genuinely happy to see me. I found out that she was more genuine than I imagined.

Linda was just 54 years old and ill for nearly seven years. However, as it was soon revealed, throughout the course of her illness, through the ups and downs, the gravity and relapse, she never complained. Never. She just lived life to its fullest and did all that she could in the time she knew she had left.

Linda's funeral was, easily, the saddest funeral I have ever attended. The funeral was arranged through the most prominent Jewish funeral director in Philadelphia. Mourners began arriving hours before the ceremony. By the time the 1 o'clock start time came, the chapel was jam packed. Every seat was taken. Guests arriving late stood and lined both side walls, as well as the rear wall. The lobby, too, was brimming with people unable to secure a spot in the main sanctuary. It was announced that the service would be broadcast into the lobby for the benefit of those gathered. The service itself – the requisite prayers and recitations – was brief. The bulk of the ceremony featured personal tales from family, detailing Linda's warmth and kindness. Everyone who spoke – a niece, her three brothers, her mother, her daughters – all uncannily expressed the exact same sentiment. Linda was truly a nice person. The nicest. She had the ability to make everyone feel like they were the only person in the world. The running – yet unrehearsed – theme of the day was: "Everyone was Linda's best friend." It wasn't just something she said. It was something she made everyone believe... because it was true.

After interment, the family and mourners returned to Linda's synagogue for shiva, the traditional gathering after a Jewish funeral. Linda's widower is the rabbi at the synagogue and he bravely led the service, in spite of being a mourner himself. Just before the final prayer, he opened up the floor to anyone who would care to share a story or anecdote about his late wife. Instantly, hands shot up throughout the packed sanctuary. The rabbi recognized and called on everyone one at a time. There were childhood friends, distant relatives, congregants, friends of her children, neighbors. Every story, every single story, shared the same common theme: Linda was a sweet, fun-loving soul who made everyone feel privileged and yes, even blessed, for knowing her.

My wife and I went to three evenings of shiva and, despite being on weekday nights after a long Labor Day weekend, the crowds remained enormous And the stories about Linda continued to be heartfelt, uplifting and truly inspiring.

It was a funeral and subsequent remembrance that we all wish for ourselves when our time comes. Few of us, however, will receive it. Or deserve it. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

funeral for a friend

I've been to a lot of cemeteries, but I've only been to a handful of funerals. The cemetery visits are part of a hobby that has spanned almost a decade. I like to take pictures of the graves of famous people. (And — believe me — "famous" is a relative term.) I have been to over two dozen cemeteries to search for and chronicle the graves of the famous. On the rare chance when I find myself at a cemetery for an actual interment after a funeral service, I find myself wandering around the grounds, searching for the plot of a noble departed. 

Just last week, a dear friend of my in-laws passed away. I attended the funeral with my wife. After the service, we joined the procession to a nearby cemetery for the burial. We carefully navigated the narrow pathways in the cemetery, following the helpful blue arrows placed by the groundskeepers, and were directed to the plot. My wife pulled our big SUV along the side of the pavement, the passenger-side wheels just resting on the grass. I got out of our vehicle and looked around. The area looked familiar. Very familiar. The last time I was at this cemetery was in 1994, over twenty years earlier, for the unveiling of my father's grave marker. (Just after the first year of a loved one's passing, in Jewish tradition, mourners, family and friends gather at the grave site to ceremonially "place" and dedicate the grave marker. My father was not a follower of most Jewish traditions, but Jews of every level of observance usually participate in this ritual.) Just before the actual burial began, as more cars from the procession were snaking around the cemetery, I wandered off to find my parents' graves. It was weird how the surrounding were immediately familiar, despite the amount of time that had passed since my last visit. I recognized a low chain-link fence that separated the grounds from the backyards of the neighboring homes. I recognized the houses that jutted above the trees, in spite of two decades of growth. I slowly strolled along a line of flush-to-the-ground plaques, reading each Semitic name to myself. At the very end of the row, I came upon my parents' graves. Two small, sun-baked bronze plaques — unidentified and probably unnoticed for years. The last time I saw these plaques, my son (who now owns his own house) was entertained by Thomas the Tank Engine and my politically-rambunctious nephew was just a few months into this world. 

After my mother died, my father visited the cemetery regularly in the two years until he joined his wife in the adjacent plot. He would call me after nearly every visit and ask if I had been there yet. When I told him I had not, he would say, "When you're ready, you'll go." My desire to not go to my mother's grave had nothing to do with "being ready." I just never saw the point. What would I do there? How long was I supposed to stay? Ten minutes? An hour? I certainly wasn't going to talk to a gravestone. And, as far as I was concerned, my mother, most certainly, was not there. I was not going to jabber aloud about my day with an expanse of grass. After my father died and after his unveiling a year later, I knew it would be very unlikely that I would ever return for a visit. Unless I was at another funeral... and, sure enough, that's exactly what brought me back.

So, here I stood in a cemetery, a position in which I have found myself many times over the years. Once again, I found myself looming over a pair of headstones I had successfully  located. So, I did the only thing I instinctively knew to do. Something that I have done countless times in this same situation: I took a picture. Then I texted that picture to my brother, since I wasn't sure if he had considered himself "ready" for a trip to the cemetery.

Nevertheless, as the text exchange with my brother reveals, there's always time for a little dark humor in the "gravest" of scenarios:

Here are the other cemeteries I have visited where my parents aren't buried.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't you forget about me

My wife sells stuff. All kinds of stuff. — toys, TV memorabilia, cookie cutters, vintage advertisements, clothing, household items. Like I said, all kinds of stuff. In order to sell stuff, she has to buy stuff. And she buys a lot of stuff. 

Recently, Mrs. P made arrangements through the internet to buy some guy's stuff. And buy it she did. She came home with a big box filled with stuff — mostly ephemera. "Ephemera," for the uninitiated, is a fancy word for "printed and paper collectibles." The box, a carton that previously held neatly packaged reams of copy paper, was overflowing with thick folded documents, dogeared squares of faded and yellowed cardboard and an assortment of printed advertisements that predated my parents. She plopped the box in an unobtrusive corner of the dining room with the promise to sort through it after dinner.

When we finished our dinner, Mrs. P cleared a spot on the kitchen table and we began to make some sort of order of the box's contents. We made neat little piles of colorful postcards here, stacks of vintage road maps there. From the bottom of the accumulation, Mrs. Pincus produced three folded portfolios, dark, but faded in color, each embossed with a hard-to-make-out, but official-looking seal. She opened the first one to reveal an elementary school diploma bearing the name of a student named Arthur. The second one was Arthur's high school diploma and the third was a commendation for Arthur for perfect scholastic attendance. Mrs. P examined the three documents closely, noting the name and location of the schools. We live just outside of Philadelphia and it seems Arthur got his education in the Chicago area in the 1940s.

Now, my spouse was on a mission. She took to Facebook, everyone's favorite go-to source for all things human and interconnected. First she posted a little blurb on the Facebook page maintained by the Chicago suburb that was Arthur's hometown. Next, she posted photos of Arthur's documents on a Philadelphia-based Facebook page that regularly features vintage images of the City of Brotherly Love.  Then, she sat back a waited.

Her wait was not long. Soon, she was flooded with replies, mostly from strangers commenting on how cool her find was. But, in the midst of those benign responses, she received a link to poor Arthur's obituary in a Fulton, Illinois newspaper. After getting over her momentary sorrow, she read the death notice and found the name of the mortuary that handled Arthur's funeral.

Always persistent, she found a phone number for the funeral home. Actually, there were three locations. She tried the first number. After two rings, a man with a deep, ominous voice with a slow, deliberate delivery answered.

"Hello." My wife pictured Lurch from The Addams Family on the other end of the phone line.

She explained the reason for her call, mentioning the diplomas and certificate, before asking the very out-of-the-ordinary question: if she could have access to contact information about next of kin. The man on the phone, once understanding that this call would not result in his business handling another funeral, lost interest in furthering the conversation.

"Write me a letter and I will put you in touch with family members, if I can.," he offered with no detectable emotion in his voice.

"A letter?," Mrs. P asked, "Can't you just give me that information now? Over the phone?"

He repeated, even more slowly, "Write me a letter."

My wife thanked him, hung up and immediately called the number for the funeral director's other location. A friendly woman answered the phone. She was much more receptive when Mrs. P related the story of Arthur and his school certificates. She told my wife the names and phone numbers of several nieces and nephews, as Arthur had never married and left this world childless. For the second time that evening, Mrs. P thanked a funeral director.

Still determined, Mrs. P left voice messages for a niece and nephew of Arthur's, one of whom lives in nearby New Jersey. The next day, our dinner was interrupted by a call from Arthur's niece. She was grateful for the contact and spoke briefly about her departed uncle. When asked if she would like the few earthly remnants of Arthur's existence we had discovered at the bottom of a box of maps and postcards, Arthur's niece politely passed.

A little later in the evening, Arthur's nephew called. A few pleasantries were exchanged. He told my wife that the woman claiming to be Arthur's niece is not actually related, thus creating a bit of family intrigue. The focus of the conversation was quickly rerouted when he then explained that Arthur served in the US Army and his battalion was in the first wave of troops at Okinawa or Iwo Jima or something to do with World War II. In reality, Mrs. P stopped listening when yet another of Arthur's relatives declined to be the caretaker of his precious records of academic achievement. Arthur's nephew was more interested in telling about his own preoccupation with US military history.

So, Mrs. P stared at poor Arthur's documents, turning them over and examining them again. "There's gotta be somebody who wants these things.," she lamented.

If you are the person who feels qualified and, maybe even obligated, to carry the torch for Arthur, your wish can come true here. You pay for shipping, of course.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gigolo aunt

Aunt Clara and JPiC at the Philadelphia Zoo, August 1964.

When I was little, my Aunt Clara was a fixture in my life. She was very, very close with my mother, who was her little sister. So, she was regularly at our house for dinner, for holidays and, sometimes, for no reason at all. She would often accompany my family on short trips to Atlantic City. She came to birthday parties. She went along with us on visits to the zoo. She was around so much that I would refer to her as my "second Mommy." And, since she had no children of her own —boy! — did she love and relish that.

She did some strange, inexplicable and surprising things, too. One year, at Halloween, when I was too old to go trick-or-treating, I decided to don a costume and scary make-up to frighten to kids who came to our door. Aunt Clara was staying at our house that night. When I spotted a group of costumed kids approaching our front door, I'd hit the lights, cue the eerie music and open the door, letting them behold my horrible visage. Aunt Clara popped in and asked the kids, "Are you scared?" — totally breaking the illusion and ruining the moment. A few years later, at a party for me in lieu of a formal Bar Mitzvah, Aunt Clara made off with a copy of Stevie Wonder's Fulfillingness' First Finale that was supposed to be a contest prize for one of my guests. I'm still not sure how she managed to sneak around a bunch of thirteen-year-olds and cop that album.

As I got older, I started to see things in my Aunt Clara that, perhaps, were always apparent, but I may have been too young to understand. For one thing, she treated my father like shit. Sure, my dad had his share of faults, but Aunt Clara took a "disgruntled mother" role towards her sister's husband. She criticized and belittled my father, perhaps in misplaced retaliation for her own failed marriage. After Aunt Clara divorced my Uncle Sal, she was romantically linked to a mystery man, referred to only as "Dee." For twenty-plus years, no one ever met him, although Aunt Clara talked about him often.

I believe that Aunt Clara had a difficult time accepting the fact that I grew up. She continued to treat and talk to me like I was a child well into my high school and early adult years. When I got married, I began to see behavior from Aunt Clara that I'm sure existed previously, but I guess I just ignored. She was invited, as a part of my family, to my new in-laws' house for dinner. My mother-in-law was serving buffet-style and Aunt Clara pulled a chair right up to the buffet table, tucked a napkin in her blouse and began eating. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

When my mother died, Aunt Clara gave an Oscar-worthy performance as the grief-stricken mourner. She dramatically sobbed and wept at the funeral, loudly proclaiming, "I'm all alone! My sister is gone!" This, in front of my father, my brother and me and after she had been living in Florida and not seeing her beloved sister for several years. When my father died, two years later, she asked my brother, via a late-night phone call, "Should I come up to Philadelphia for the funeral?" I stood next to my brother, as he answered that the decision was totally hers, that she should do what she felt was right for her. The next day, she called to tell me that she would not be coming in for my dad's funeral, explaining, "I wanted to come, but your brother insisted that I shouldn't make the trip." As she lied to me, I felt betrayed. I wondered what else in my life she had lied to me about.

I did, however, invite Aunt Clara to my son's Bar Mitzvah because (as I was told by my wife) it was the right thing to do. Although Aunt Clara did not attend, she once again surprised us by sending a gift.

Over the years, my brother remained in touch with Aunt Clara. I, however, did not. He and his family made annual visits to her retirement complex in Florida. I did not. Upon his return, my brother would give me a brief rundown of the trip and Aunt Clara's current status and day-to-day activities. I feigned interest.

At the end of December 2014, my brother returned from his most recent journey to Florida. It was to be his final one. Aunt Clara had passed away after months of declining health. My brother filled me in on details and I politely listened. Then, he told me the two of us were named as beneficiaries of an insurance policy Aunt Clara had purchased from her employer decades earlier. I was shocked that my name had not been purposely stricken from every piece of Aunt Clara's inheritance. After providing specific information and a month or so of processing, I received a check for a thousand bucks.

I have to hand it to Aunt Clara. She was full of surprises right to the end.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

she's just a devil woman with evil on her mind

She was the most evil woman that I have ever known. Don't be deceived. Look at that conniving, scheming smile. She was always up to no good.

When he was a child, she told my dad that water ice (a popular Philadelphia summertime treat, similar to a snow cone) was poison. She didn't allow him to partake, although the other kids in the neighborhood were enjoying the frozen confection and not dying.

She treated my mother like shit, dishing out unwanted (and unwarranted) criticism, while lavishing praise on my dad's first wife.

She was a bigot, regularly spewing out the "N" word as part of her normal conversation without batting an eye. After all, from her mean-spirited viewpoint, that's what "those people" were. Not to be left out, she referred to people of her own ethnic background (who dared speak with an old-world accent) as "mockeys."

Upon their respective deathbeds, each of her siblings specifically requested that she not be permitted to attend their funerals. "I don't want that woman anywhere near me – alive or dead!," they each echoed.

When her only son died, she responded to the news with: "Well, who's going to take care of me now?" Her only concern was herself.

My wife felt sorry for her, comparing the relationship to that of her own grandmother. She did her marketing for her to help out (purchases were always criticized and determined to be "wrong!"). Mrs. P maintained her banking and bill-paying – until my wife's name was unceremoniously taken off the account without any warning. When I found out, I called her and screamed and yelled and poured out thirty years of disdain. I had to take my phone conversation behind a closed basement down, so as not to upset my young son. I told her to never call my house again and that I was happy to know that, after I hang up the phone, I would never have to speak to her again.

She lived out her final days in a facility for the elderly. My brother made several visits and then would give me reports on her condition. I didn't care.

My mother always said that she was too mean to die and she would outlive us all. For a while, we thought my mother may have predicted accurately. However, when she finally did pass away, I only attended the funeral to make sure that she went into the ground. When it was over, I drove out of the cemetery and went back to work for the remainder of the day.

She was a lifelong Republican, to boot.

My grandmother. I don't miss her for a minute and I'm glad she's gone.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ave maria

My wife got a call from one of her closest friends. She called to say that her mother had passed away and the funeral was scheduled for Monday. Her mother had been ill for quite a while and her time had come.

My wife arrived at the funeral chapel and stood quietly just inside a doorway as the service commenced. The proceedings were filled with praying and psalms and organ music and singing and Jesus — all of the things a textbook Catholic funeral should include. After the service, my wife greeted and consoled her friend Lisa. Lisa reintroduced her father to my wife. They had met once before, but it was the polite thing to do. Lisa's dad Vince was visibly distraught. He managed to display a brief smile and he embraced Mrs. Pincus and thanked her for coming. Soon, the attendees dispersed, some returning to their regular day's business while others queued up in their cars to continue on to the cemetery. My wife decided to accompany the small contingency to witness the burial.

The praying and psalms continued, followed by each member of the assembly placing a flower atop the casket. Afterwards, as few attendees lingered with family, Lisa's dad threw a burly arm around my wife's shoulders. Teary-eyed, he thanked my wife again for coming and for her support for Lisa.

Mrs. Pincus said, "It was a lovely service and a beautiful tribute to your lives together."

Vince, steeped in the ancestry of Old World Italians, recounted, "I saw her every day. In her sickness, some would have walked away, but I believe that marriage is a commitment... a commitment you make forever. I told her, just before she passed, that I would marry her again if I was given the chance. I said if there is marriage in Heaven, please wait for me. Don't get married in Heaven. Wait for me because I will marry you again in Heaven when my time comes."

He shook my wife's hand, lightly squeezed his daughter's shoulder and started off toward the cars parked on the cemetery grounds.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com