Bob O. Berger

The Lawrenceville Alumni Association announced that Bob Berger, '70 passed away on March 4th. He was a friend of mine, quite a character, honest, direct, an athlete and a scholar and an iconoclast. He shared a room at Upper with others where I used to hang out with his acquiescence (leave my books, etc.) because I was off-campus in the Belknap House my senior year and Upper Home was right on the Circle.

I first noticed Bob in Spanish class where he was new to the school as a sophomore, hailing from Cleveland. We didn't have a whole lot of rough and tumble Ohio guys at this New Jersey prep school. The Spanish 2 class was was droning on about the round table when Bob suddenly broke out his comb, like a modern day Kookie from 77 Sunset Strip, and just stated combing his longish jet black hair using both hands to get the forehead back sweep right.  Mr. Walker let him have it in Spanish while the rest of us boys snickered at this uncouth display of manners, not really comprehending everything the teacher was saying but getting it's import, but it didn't bother Bob a bit and he just stared at the Master as he was berated loudly (I liked Mr. Walker, as I think Bob came to, that was just Mr. Walker's acerbic, loud style). Mr. Walker made us all aware that Bob's middle name began with O, which spelled out Bob O. Berger, or Bob, which Mr. Walker often emphasized about Bob in his inimitable way, but it never seemed to bother Bob in the least. Bob's first name was actually Robert, but he was no Rob or Robert, he was Bob, or rather Bob Berger, always.

I remember watching Bob from the stands on the football field, a tough competitor who delivered hard hits that belied his smaller size compared to the older PG athletes surrounding him.

I have a mental image to this day of the chaos that typically surrounded him which didn't bother him a bit, it kind of signified him. I was sitting in his room during a break (he was at class I guess) surveying the hurricane aftermath disorder of articles strewn about his floor, clothes, books, papers, wrappers, when I noticed a bare spot on the floor, free of clutter. In the middle of it was one shoe, upright, Bob's shoe. It was easy to spot as his shoe because Bob always wore pointy black shoes with white socks, quite contrary to the prevailing style on campus of Bass Weejun loafers with dark, or no, socks. Bob was not a penny loafer guy.  Nowhere in sight was the refugee shoe's mate. To me that was Bob, maybe he was in class with only one shoe on for all I knew, that wouldn't have surprised me one bit. Bob always made do.

 He came home with me to Staten Island one weekend in the last spring term because he wanted to go to law school and he knew my dad was a lawyer. He meant to chat him up about it and get his advice. I still remember him catching my dad in our kitchen after dinner and saying, "Sir, I want to go to law school and I wanted your opinion." As any good lawyer would, my dad tried to dissuade him but Bob went to law school anyway after he finished his undergraduate studies at Harvard. At least we had a good time that weekend crawling around Stapleton (Bob had a license, which I didn't have yet, so my dad let him borrow his car) before we headed back to Port Authority on Sunday afternoon to return to school on the bus in time for Sunday night check-in. I don't remember if we were even had permission to officially leave campus that weekend.

When I was considering going to law school myself in the late 80s after spending almost a decade as a peace officer, I sought Bob's advice as I knew he was already established in a practice in Boston. His advice to me was about as short and sweet and to the point as my dad's was to him a decade and a half earlier. He wasn't encouraging of it, telling me that I would have to read a hundred pages a night every night just to keep up. Bob believed that life was a battle, always. He didn't dissuade me, just as my dad didn't dissuade him, and that's why I always thought we were a little bit alike. 

We kept in touch for several years after we graduated, but Lawrentians were from all over and most connections went silent after many years. I should be getting ready to go to England and France tomorrow but instead I sit here at the keyboard saddened, thinking about my friend Bob. This brash character had the ability to become  friends with extremely different types of people, he was incongruous in that regard. Bob was a great guy, an original. I already miss him even though I hadn't spoken to him in decades. That doesn't mean I didn't occasionally think of him during those decades, unbidden.

Thanksgiving 2018, Part Two

The day before Thanksgiving I was in Dublin, OH driving around with my college roommate Jimmy, who lived there for many years.  We visited his mother's and stepfather's gravesite, which had an interesting gravestone for the two--it has an Eastern Airlines commercial jet inscribed on it under his stepfather's name, Peace.  It's quite distinctive, remarkable even, with the prominent word PEACE across its top in bold letters with a jet flying underneath it.  Harvey Peace was a pilot for Eastern and retired when the airline followed TWA into oblivion in the shake-out that occurred following the de-regulation of the airlines in the sixties and seventies.

At noon I went to the hospital where I met my sister and we visited her mother-in-law in the massive Riverside Methodist hospital complex in Columbus.  She was lying comfortably with one of her daughters in attendance, although she wasn't responsive for the most part.  Her son came in and two of her grandsons as well, so she had plenty of loved ones at her bedside.

As evening approached, I went to stay at the place Jimmy was staying at and we called three or four of our friends from our Sewell Hall days at CU.  It was good to catch up with the ones we reached, although we talked a lot about heart attacks, surgeries and other medical maladies in addition to the raucous good old days.  Thanksgiving day I went to visit Jimmy's Uncle with Jimmy and then at noon I went over to my sister's house and we went to visit her mother-in-law, whose condition was pretty much the same, where I met one of the other daughters, who had flown in to spend Thanksgiving with her sister, brother and mother.

That evening there was too much personal sadness going on for a Thanksgiving turkey to be cooked, plus my sister's husband, a gourmet cook, was ill, so we procured some take-out Korean food to enjoy for dinner and braved Black Friday at Walmarts to get the birthday boy in the house a birthday cake.  Black Friday now starts on Thursday.  The birthday party was nice, I gave my nephew a book on the Little Bighorn Battle, which in my youth was called the Custer Massacre.

Broncos

A friend of mine who is into hockey brought me back a momento when she visited Lake Placid, a Miracle On Ice mini-hockey stick, because I had told her about the US Olympic hockey team winning the gold medal there in 1980, a team made up of rank amateurs who improbably beat the powerful professional national Soviet hockey team in the semifinals, an event which occurred before she was born.  It's the only hockey stick I own.

We are all Humboldt Broncos this week.  I placed it on my porch.

New York Strong

New York Strong.  New Yorkers aren't afraid.

My heart goes out to the five killed Argentinians, Belgian and two others, and the injured.  The New Yorkers' response on the scene, protecting school children and assisting the injured, and later, conducting the nearby Halloween Parade shortly afterwards, was strong.

More summer doin's

Twice I went to the ballpark this past summer--once to see the Nets lose 11-2, not much of a game but I did run into a law school small section classmate and we compared notes, as I have left the legal profession after a bout of age discrimination at my agency and he is still steadily rising through the ranks of power in the government.  The other time was to watch the Democrats beat the Republicans at their annual intra-party charity game, an event both marred by the shooting earlier of representative Steve Scalise by a crazy man and elevated by the public outpouring of support for Congress as a result and recognition of the heroic actions of the Capitol police officers who prevented a massacre.  (Play ball!)

I answered a 6 am phone call to discover that a friend and neighbor who was sick had suddenly and unexpectedly died.  He was laid to rest in a peaceful cemetery in bustling 7-corners after a beautiful ceremony at the Catholic church.  Two people at work passed suddenly earlier this year as well and workmates gathered to pay their respect and celebrate the lives of Dave and Dana.  (...and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.)

I went to several museums which I had always formerly just run by, like the subterranean African Museum which has its entrance in Katies Garden, the Museum of Natural History, the Air and Space Museum, the National Gardens and the National Art Museum.  (The Wind Sail outside the African Museum.)

What I didn't do was run a single mile, as my Achilles strain slowly, very slowly healed, or perhaps just got better to a degree.  What I did do was take a tour of the Capitol which I hadn't done since the visitors center was constructed, or perhaps ever.  Although I kept up with my tour group (required), more or less, I wandered around its edges seeking out the 13 or so endangered CSA statues reputed to be on display inside (each state gets to present two statutes), spotting for sure at least five of these odes to slavery and secession.  (Bobby Lee.)

Another fine lunch

When I was retired last year, my friends at my former workplace gave me a great send-off by giving me a gift card for my favorite pizzeria.  A gift that keeps giving, I had lunch there on Easter Sunday, using some of the credit.

I perambulated around the restaurant before my pizza arrived but I didn't recognize anyone there.  But there are people I know that I haven't seen nor heard from in ten years so who knows if I'd recognize them now.

I enjoyed my pie when it arrived, the Italian Pie, a meat-stuffed pizza replete with ham and Genoa salami.  Relishing it, I had my fill and left behind a symbolic slice and a swallow of beer.

Having kids like mine, plus an in-law in the mix now, is also a gift that keeps giving.  Maybe Memorial Day, eh, JJD&L?

Finally, a run

I ran my first "long" run of the year yesterday, 5 miles of hills in the subdivision behind the 'hood instead of on the Mall as originally planned when the person I was going to run with bailed.  I ran on New Year's day also, and two days ago as well, but those were only runs of a couple of miles.

I like running through new neighborhoods; I get to looking at the houses and speculating as to what it might be like to live there or how much it might cost or what the view might look like from the porch.  This particular house took the prize yesterday as the coziest brick house, always a favorite category of mine.

I got to thinking about things as I loped dreamily along thinking about the new year, did the math in my head and determined that it has been ten years since I last heard from any son of mine.  The last communication was a breezy letter from my youngest son asking me to provide for 100% payment of his college tuition and fees at VCU, which I did.

Hey, you're welcome, youngest son.  And happy birthday, middle son!