Jeff Cohen
First of all, happy holidays to all who are observing anything. And no, I didn't just make a political statement. That's just silly.
This is the last full week of new DEAD GUY posts, so it's necessary to do two things: 1. First, let me tell you where to find me after we close up shop here. You might not know that my CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND E.J. Copperman has a blog called Sliced Bread (it's the greatest thing) and I'll be dropping in to post there on a regular basis. Let's say every two weeks, and we'll keep it on Mondays for you tradition junkies. So please do drop on by and check in. Comment when you're moved to do so. E.J. and I (is it necessary to keep up the appearance?) will be thrilled to see you there.
2. The other thing I must do before we stop here is to tell you about my grandfather.
Benjamin Cohen (born Boris Cahen or something equivalent in Russia) was as important an influence on my life as anyone and more than most. Growing up, my grandparents on my father's side lived next door to our house so I spent a lot of time with them. My grandmother Rose was a wonderful person and I loved her dearly until she passed away only six months after my wedding, but my grandfather was the one who really had an impact on who I turned out to be.
He was not a tall man and not a loud one, but he had an effect on every room he entered. As good-natured as anyone I have ever met, he radiated warmth and understanding (not everything was passed along). Sure, he could get cranky--everybody does--but that wasn't his go-to emotion. I rarely recall him not smiling. Maybe it was just that he loved having grandchildren.
When the weather was warm I'd find him in the backyard when I woke up in the morning. He'd be sitting in a lawn chair at the top of the driveway, looking out. Sometimes he'd feed a squirrel he called Peter, who was any one of a dozen squirrels who lived in the area. Benny (as my grandmother always called him) had an ear for a good story and loved to tell them. So if he wanted to invent a pet squirrel for himself, we knew he'd make it interesting.
He'd be smoking an unfiltered Camel--my grandfather, not the squirrel--and observing whatever went on. I'd come out and look at him and, as I always did, worry about the smoking, which at that point he'd been doing for the better part of 60 years.
"Smoking again, Gramp?" I'd say.
He knew there was a disapproving comment coming, so he'd deflect. "No. Not smoking again. Still smoking." And he'd take a puff on the Camel the way Groucho took a puff on his cigar after delivering a prime one-liner.
So the next morning I'd figure I had him. There he'd be in the lawn chair, Camel between his index and middle fingers.
"Still smoking, Gramp?"
"No. Smoking again." And he'd take a puff.
And there are those who think there's nothing to genetics.
Pitchers and catchers report in 49 days.
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