Then very carefully guiding my hand, he tilted it so that all the valuable little critters fell neatly back into their glassine home, where all the inhabitants were equal.  He folded the top of the envelope over, returned the envelope to its appropriate slot on the black tray, surrounded by dozens of other such envelopes, and returned the tray to the yawning black safe behind him.  Buddy then placed his hand flat against the safe’s thick steel door and pushed it until I heard a distinct ‘click’ sound as it locked itself. 

Buddy then showed me a nice-looking platinum ring with all its little prongs standing straight up, as if reaching for a stone to grasp.  They looked like tiny baby birds to me, stretching their necks, waiting to be fed.  I said it would be fine, in my vast experience as a connoisseur of jewelry.  Buddy nodded, and told me to wait there in his office and he would assemble the ring on the spot. 

He placed the diamond I’d selected into the ring, right there in front of me, as I stood next to him at his workbench.  He carefully, skillfully pressed down all of the prongs, as he slowly turned the ring to attend to each one in turn, to firmly hold the diamond in place.  Then he washed the assembled ring in some solution to make it sparkle.  He dried the ring, placed it inside of a little black velvet jeweler’s box and handed it to me.  That…was it. 

He also handed me a certificate of authenticity stating the exact number of carats, or fraction thereof, the diamond’s color and other information my insurance company would need.  Buddy then signed and dated it as I watched him. 

Then, I paid him. 

In cash, of course. 

My Dad’s relationship with Buddy and his presence in Buddy’ office with me that day assured me that everything was kosher, as we say, even about a Lutheran.  But Buddy the Hun was no ordinary Lutheran. 

My Dad’s world was neatly divided into either “them” or “us”—Friend or Foe.  It was a crucial difference and all that mattered.  To him, and now to me, too, Buddy was “us”. 

And also, my Dad told me that I received much more diamond than I could ever have afforded to pay for otherwise, at that time. 

Where did all those diamonds come from? 

Only God knows and I sure as hell didn’t feel the burning need to know. 

Some things, you just don’t ask. 

How much did I pay for the diamond ring? 

Well, my Dad died ten years ago.  Among his few remaining possessions, I found a black jeweler’s loop. 

Buddy, Buddy the Hun is dead, too, and hopefully from natural causes.

Thirty-three years later, I’m the only one left who still knows, and friends, things will remain that way. 

Some things, you just don’t tell. 

So, finally, what does that now decades old diamond ring represent? 

Well, no one has ever gasped in amazement as my lovely wife walked into a party with all the light in the room brilliantly filtering through the enormous rock on her hand, blinding everyone.  No, Joy’s ring is much more modest than that. 

Subtle love. 

Joy’s diamond ring somehow tied together: 

(1) My once happy Mom’s teenaged talent for designing beautiful jewelry…seventy-one years ago 

(2) Her elf-like mentor, the Master Jeweler, Sander Goldstein, who opened other doors to the trade for her 

(3) My Dad’s unlikely, yet enduring friendship with a man who was very different than his own people, Jews, overcoming his own ethnic prejudices in a dangerous part of Chicago…eighty-two years ago; 

(4) The Irish-Jewish alliance stemming from the grim tenements on the old West Side of Chicago 

(5) World War II, my Dad’s 42 months overseas in the Pacific, and the impact on his life afterwards 

(6) The very strange and now completely forgotten fact that once upon a time—for years—my Depression-era parents were both jewelers with their own jewelry store, when Eisenhower was America’s President, and they were both filled with high hopes for their futures, together 

(7) How that store disappeared after Bonnie and I were born, and the gradual disintegration of my parent’s marriage after that 

(8) My Dad’s postwar reunion with ex-con Buddy the Hun and Izzy’s offer to rehabilitate his old friend’s career 

(9) My Dad’s old world protective impulse toward women, including one particular black woman, Lorene, and his calling on his (connected) friend Buddy to rescue her from the source of her misery 

(10) My previously unknown (to her) appreciation of just one woman’s expectations of me: A Ring 

(11) An architecturally significant Chicago steakhouse that used to employ sensuous senior citizen waitresses in tight red satin corsets and worn fishnet stockings, slinging booze and serving sirloin 

(12) And, of course, not to slight them by forgetting, the silent but always nearby Chicago Syndicate, ready to help out, whenever you need them.  An equal opportunity supplier of services and one which—amazingly—no one ever complains about, well…anything 

I hope it is quite clear to my readers why it took me so long to sort out all these many parts, so I could accurately write this story.  Truth takes longer than fiction.  Some of those doors in my memory were locked up tight.  Hard to open.  Some, I didn’t want to open.  It may be that the recent (June 11, 2010) death of my sister, Bonnie Sue, compelled me to finish a story in which she was part of it.  I don’t know. 

But this I do know: 

To me, when I gave it to Joy, the diamond ring meant, 

Here, take this and wear it.  Have my babies.  I will love you forever. 

To Joy, when she received it from me, I believe the diamond ring meant, 

Love me now, when I’m beautiful. Give me babies.  Love me later, when I’m old.  Stay with me always.  

Thirty-three years later, a deal …is still a deal. 

We have four children, three married, have one grandchild, and two more on the way. 

We’ve shared prosperity and ruin.  Too much surgery and even incurable illnesses. 

As Joy and I both continue to thread our way together through the dependably treacherous thicket of life, we still pause in the occasional sunlight-dappled meadow, to kiss. 

We still hold hands. 

We still keep each other going. 

Never mind all that. 

By now, I hope she knows: I will love her forever. 

Ring…or no ring.

Q. Is it difficult to adjust to far less space?

A.  Do you mean Netherlands?

Oh, the boat!  I miss the counter space in the kitchen.  It is hard to find space to set things down and impossible for two people to work.  Other than that, no, not really.  We spend a lot of time off the boat, wandering around wherever we happen to be.  When there is nothing new left to see, we can easily go somewhere new.

Orca's galley

We still have a cubic meter of “stuff” slowly working its way through customs in Rotterdam.  When we get that, things will become more crowded. Stowage can be an issue if you think you need too many things.  We tossed the waffle iron, the microwave, the TV, and all the kitsch.  We will likely find we still have too much stuff when our shipment arrives.  I am sure we will fill the boat and jettison the rest.  Some people have told me they would like to go cruising but they have too much stuff.  At least they realize who (or what) is in charge of their lives.

too much stuff

I definitly do not miss the yard work.  If I weeded the lawn I would have allergy problems – if I didn’t, I would have weeds.  Boats eventually have weed problems too.  When they come, you have the choice of working on them underwater or, hauling the boat out.  I guess it depends a lot on the local water temperature.

On a boat, you have to use the space you have as efficiently as you can.  Sailboats are not rectangular so there are many odd shaped compartments and cubby-holes.  Some of these will be easy to get to, others, more difficult.  Everything must be stowed based on where it will fit and how often (and under what circumstances) you will need it.

Provioning is another issue.  Every boat must carry food and water for the types of passages being made.  We are cruising the inland waters of Europe so we need to carry only two days of food and water.  There are plenty of grocery stores and supermarkets here.  When we were in the Caribbean, we tried to always have enough on board to last a month.

For me, having a computer is important.  I am not retired and I use a computer to earn a living.  I purchased some special computer equipment so that I would have what I need to work without taking up too much space or using too much power.  Right now, it takes up about half of our dinning area but, when I get my tools, I will intall it in a more space efficient manner.

computer on board

Books are the other thing can could be a problem.  I used to accumulate books.  Books contained information I might need someday.  They were, to me, a form of power.  Now they occupy too much space and weigh too much.  Most of the information I need I can find in PDF files I can read on the computer.  I can store a vast reference library without adding any weight or volume at all.  Its amazing.  Usually, I can acquire these electronic books without even going ashore.  I still prefer physical books and magazines for reading in bed.  But even that may change over the next year or two.

After Buddy was released from ‘The Slammer’, as my Dad always phrased it, his relationship with my Dad resumed like nothing had ever interrupted it, like World War II, for example. 

Buddy the Hun was unavailable to serve his country in that war because he was already serving his sentence in that same government’s Federal Penitentiary.   

When they had their first post-prison reunion in 1951, Buddy was trying to decide how to make a living.  My Dad suggested Buddy try becoming a jeweler like he himself had done, after the war.  My Dad laid it out for him: No heavy lifting, the merchandise would never break down, like say, a washing machine, for instance, and (not a small part of my Dad’s reasoning in this situation of career repair) it was distinctly possible to run a store selling jewelry as a cash business. 

Buddy the Hun thought it over, especially the ‘cash business’ aspect of it.  Because to Buddy’s way of thinking, he wanted nothing further to do with the Federal Government of the United States—including paying any taxes.  He figured he’d already paid them enough in years of his life. 

 Buddy knew he had lines-of-credit waiting for him, and he was also fairly certain he could obtain an ample supply of easy-to-move merchandise like diamonds and watches.  What he didn’t know, like how to convincingly portray himself as an experienced jeweler, he would learn.  And his old pal Izzy would be there to help him, as long as it took. 

So, with old chits to collect for time served, Buddy the Hun became Buddy the Jeweler, by appointment only. 

Time passed. 

Decades. 

Now we’re back in December 1977. 

A week before I made the decision to propose marriage to Joyce, I called my Dad—the former jeweler—and asked him where I should go to buy her a ring, since I knew nothing about jewelry, carats or what something like that should cost.  Being a jeweler wasn’t genetic. 

My Dad told me he knew a guy “who would take good care of me”, and to let him make a phone call to arrange a meeting, first.  I said ok. 

A couple of days later, on December 27^th, my Dad called me and told me to meet him Downtown at 5 North Wabash, under the elevated tracks, or in other words…at the location of his former store from long ago.  He must have thought I had no recollection of his place, but I did. 

He told me he had an old friend there, a guy named Buddy the Hun, who would sell me a ring on December 31^st, the same day I planned to propose. 

I first thought, 

“Buddy the Hun?  Is he serious?” 

My second thought was, which I said aloud to my Dad, 

“Isn’t that cutting it a little close?  I need the ring that same night.” 

My Dad, with his trademarked confidence, assured me that his friend was very reliable and that I would have my ring that same day.  I had no way of knowing that normal people who go shopping for rings take weeks or months to do that, and that a personally created ring was something that took a long time to get done.  As a person who built newsstands out of piles of wood, and had the attitude that if I wanted to build a bookshelf or hang a door, it was no big deal and I could do it in an hour or so, depending.  So, I assumed making a ring was like that, too. 

After all, people who aren’t carpenters might think hanging a door was a daunting achievement and only someone with mystical talents could do that.  Everything is relative to what you know.  Or don’t know.

So, if my Dad said this ring would happen at a certain time and place, why would I question that? 

I agreed to meet my Dad at his old address Downtown at noon, twelve hours before the ring was to be presented to Joyce.  We met at precisely at noon, both of us being punctual men, which actually means having respect for another person’s time.  Without much chit chat, we rode up the same old brass elevator that resembled a jail to me, with its same old clanking sounds from the Fifties that I still remembered, and we stopped at Buddy the Hun’s floor. 

With my Dad leading the way, we found a small office tucked away around the corner from the elevator that said, enigmatically: “Fine Jewelry for Sale, by Appointment Only”.  The place was dark.  And quiet, too. 

I thought to myself that this tiny shop, hidden away in an old building on the 7^th floor was only open by appointment?  I guess Buddy the Hun must know a lot of people who need jewelry.  People with money.  I also thought to myself it must be nice to have a private cliental like he did, and not to have to wait around all day for customers to buy something, like I did. 

My Dad rang the bell and I heard some footsteps moving toward the door.  Then I saw some fluorescent lights blink on in the dark store, and then the door opened. 

Buddy the Hun stood before us.  He and my Dad greeted each other warmly, embracing and saying: 

“Hey, Izzy!” 

“Hey, Buddy!” 

Like two guys who knew each other forever, which they did.  Then Buddy turned to me, more formally, as my Dad then introduced me to his old pal and Buddy’s newest customer.  We shook hands, firmly, like men do when they first meet, a firm handshake being an indication of character.  One of my Dad’s many lessons. A limp handshake communicated many things, none of them good. 

Buddy was of medium height, about five foot eight, stocky build, clean shaven, and was sixty-five years old, same as my Dad.  His black and silver hair was receding and there were deep indentations on both sides of his mouth, beginning just below his eyes.  They were not smile lines.  Buddy the Hun was a very serious man.  

We all walked into his cramped office and he told us to wait a minute while he did something.  Then he came back and asked me how much I wanted to spend on Joy’s ring.  I told him.  He nodded, and he went to his safe, which was this enormous black steel monolith sitting in a small dimly lit area behind him like something  transported from Stone Henge.  He returned with a single black tray with many vertical  glassine envelopes in it, evidently all filled with diamonds and apparently arranged by size.  The black tray was about ten inches by about twelve inches in size.  I was mesmerized by this whole situation. 

Buddy pulled out one envelope which he said was in my price range, and asked me to hold out my hand.  I did that.  He then opened the top of the glassine envelope and very carefully poured a shimmering pyramid of diamonds into my cupped palm.  A unique experience for me.  I stared at them for a while, the glittering and uncountable mass of diamonds making little rainbows on my hand, as the light filtered through them. 

I was transfixed by this sight. 

Then Buddy, evidently busy, and perhaps a bit impatient, spoke to me in a matter-of-fact voice: 

“Pick one.” 

I woke up from my trance, arbitrarily picked one stone out the mass of them and handed it to Buddy. 

Buddy the Hun.  

He smiled.

In the furniture store’s office, there was a secretary who answered the phones and did all the filing as the various orders came through from all the salesmen who worked there.  She was a young black woman who set up all the appointments, called “leads” (and pronounced like “leeds”) for my father and the other salesmen to go out and try to make sales.  She was a pretty woman—I met her several times when I was a child—with a big smile and a friendly, cooperative attitude.  She was very popular with all the salesmen.

Her name was Lorene. 

One morning, in 1958, when my father came in as usual to pick up another stack of leads waiting for him in his box on the wall so he could contact potential customers and make arrangements to see them, he was surprised to see Lorene sitting at her desk, quietly crying.  He had never seen this happen before. 

After a moment, not sure if he should intrude in her privacy, he asked Lorene what was the matter?  Was she sick? Did one of her relatives die?  Could he help her somehow?  My father was very chivalrous and protective of women, and seeing her sitting there crying in that office was disturbing to him.  He told me all about this incident years later, just like he told me one hundred other stories about his life. 

Lorene blew her nose, wiped her eyes and told my father that she’d broken up with her boyfriend because he was always drunk and he kept hitting her.  Now he was stalking her and refused to leave her alone no matter how much she pleaded with him.  She was terrified and felt she was at his mercy. 

My father became angry upon hearing her words.  A completely different situation than he was expecting from her.  Flowers wouldn’t do it, this time.  He had three sisters including his baby sister Estelle, then 34 and now 86.  In my father’s immigrant world no one touched the women.  A rule had been broken. 

My father asked Lorene for her former boyfriend’s phone number.  She hesitated, unsure what this friendly Jewish man had in mind.  But then she wrote the boyfriend’s number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.  My father assured Lorene he would solve her problem.  That was his whole persona.  He would either become the Lone Ranger himself, or knew where to find someone else who would assume the role.

A few days later, my father came into the furniture store to pick up his leads from Lorene, and she quietly asked him to step inside of her little office.  He went in there, waited and then she whispered to him, 

“What did you say to him?  My boyfriend called me up last night screaming about cement shoes or something like that and then told me he was through with me, that we were over.  He said he’d never, ever call me or follow me again.  What did you do?”    

My father smiled his enigmatic smile and asked Lorene if she was satisfied with the present situation?  She smiled at him the way I saw women do when I was older, whenever they needed a guy in their life to help them for one reason or another.  He told me that she hugged him, that the bad guy disappeared from her life and everything went back to normal in the furniture store’s office. 

So, who was it that made the persuasive phone call to the scary boyfriend? 

Was it my Dad? 

No. 

My Dad decided the situation required someone more qualified than he felt he was to permanently resolve it.  My Dad called Buddy.   

Buddy the Hun. 

Buddy knew what to say, he knew how to say it, and most convincingly, make it crystal clear that he knew people who would actually follow through with corrective measures if it became absolutely necessary.  Buddy’s objective was to make it unnecessary. 

And, as my father was certain it would be in this complicated ethnic stew of—a young black woman, a middle-aged Jewish man, his well-connected formerly incarcerated German pal from the past and by implication, the German pal’s skilled and experienced Italian associates—the matter was swiftly and bloodlessly resolved. 

In the very simple world of those Chicago tough guys, talk was always preferable to other means of conflict resolution, as long as all sides understood that the talking would either be effective…or else would be a preliminary stop on the way to a different manner of settling their differences.  

Real power, it turns out, is not having to actually exercise it.  

How did my father know this dangerous man from a different tribe than his own? 

For that, we go back to 1928, just before the beginning of America’s Great Depression, to Chicago’s old, immigrant and frequently violent West Side.  There were large Catholic Irish gangs, numerically smaller Jewish gangs, Catholic Polish gangs, Catholic Italian gangs and one misplaced German Lutheran, Buddy the Hun. 

After many nasty initial clashes, the Irish and Jewish gangs made an accommodation with each other to aid each party’s particular needs: The Irish, who spoke English, or a variation of it, sought political power (and respect) in a hostile Protestant environment; the Jews who (mostly) didn’t speak English offered to provided to the Irish the business skills they possessed to financially back their political quest—if the Irish would protect them from the Poles.

The Jews would also rise in political influence, along with the Irish.  The other major attraction of the Jews to the Irish Catholics was that they weren’t Protestants.  A very unique alliance. 

There was no real interaction between the Jews and the Italians. Maybe because we both look so much alike, a gang fight would be too confusing. Most people think I’m Italian.  I don’t mind at all. 

Between the Irish and the Italians, I’m not sure.  But when Buddy’s immigrant German family landed in the mean West Side tenements with all these factions, Buddy managed to link up with the Italians for protection.   For certain, no one could be alone.  Perhaps the Italians felt that this lone Lutheran could serve as an emissary between the various groups.  Perhaps his ability to speak English and German made him useful to them.  I don’t know how he became part of the Italian gang, but that’s how Buddy met my Dad. 

I do know that generally speaking, at least initially, none of the Catholic groups mentioned liked the Jews, because, well, I think we were supposed to have killed Christ or something like that 2,000 years ago.  Truly a grudge of biblically epic proportions. 

What I’ve always wondered about was why wasn’t their common Catholic heritage enough of a bond to cause all the Poles, Irish and Italians to get along better than they did?  

They all had the same Pope, so wasn’t that enough?  They all had the same Christmas, and Easter and saints and all wore crucifixes around their necks and had them on their walls.  Maybe they had different saints?  I’m confused.   

On the other hand, if any of this made any sense, I wouldn’t have a story. 

One interesting sidelight to this complicated and dangerous mix of standoffs and alliances was that however they met, my father spoke fluent Yiddish like his Lithuanian mother and his Byelorussian father.Yiddish is an Eastern European language that is a mixture of Hebrew, Polish and mostly German.  Germans know a Yiddish speaker isn’t speaking German exactly, but they can understand most of what they hear. 

Buddy spoke German like his parents did. 

So whatever intersection brought this vulnerable German into contact with an equally vulnerable Jew, they both literally spoke the same language.  What’s more, they could speak it to each other in some situations where other people around them couldn’t understand what they were saying.  Perhaps they served as contacts between their gangs and a friendship developed.  Perhaps they felt they could trust each other.   I do know that my Dad taught me you can never have too many friends, if they were real friends. 

Buddy the Hun’s name was derived from World War One (1914-1918) when the ferocious and unstoppable Germans Armies swarming through Central Europe were attacking the British, the French, the Belgians and the Russians, all at the same time.  That reminded some contemporary writers of when Attila the Hun (A.D. 406-453) swarmed over the Alps, with his elephants, into Italy and devastated Imperial Rome. 

Since Buddy was the lone German among all those Italians, he was given that unique nickname, which was actually a sign of his acceptance into the group he sought to join.  There were many famous nicknames of tough guys and criminals then and now, too, both in real life and in the movies, like: 

“Lucky” Luciano…Tony “Big Tuna” Accardo…”Scarface Al” Capone…”Little Hymie” Weiss…

Harry the Horse (Guys and Dolls)…Nathan Detroit (Guys and Dolls)…Machine Gun Kelly…

Dutch Schultz…”Bugsy Siegel” and I suppose we could throw in Billy the Kid, too.

In my Dad’s case, even though not a criminal, his actual name was Israel, so he naturally became “Izzy”. 

As far as Buddy the Hun’s time in a Federal Penitentiary, what I was able to pry from my father was the following, aside from being told it wasn’t polite—or safe—to ask such a thing: 

Doing time was not exactly like having a hangnail, but whatever the actual crime Buddy supposedly committed was: Maybe he did it.  Maybe he didn’t.  Maybe he was watching.  Maybe he was driving.  The thing is, no one talked after the fact.  Doing time could be like an investment that paid off later.  A person’s willingness to make a sacrifice of some years of their life in order to protect the larger group, could provide a lifetime of respect and appreciation when they got out.  That same sacrifice also provided protection to the person when he was inside the prison, as well.  There had to be motivation. 

Everyone was equally vulnerable one way or another, both inside and out, so the existing mob power structure was strictly respected.  Or put another and more ironic way, Rules for Lawless People. 

This was Buddy the Hun’s world.  My father, though outside of it, understood it and never judged him.  There were Jewish criminals too, and no one was immune from the cops, when they came seriously looking.  What my father offered to Buddy was unbroken friendship and also a link to the Jewish community, something quite valuable. 

Buddy was grateful for that bond and they remained available to each other, as necessary, through the decades to come.  You can never have too many friends, if they were real friends.

Part 4 next week.  Tell your friends!!!

About a year prior to that evening at the Kinzie Steakhouse, I once read an item in a movie magazine about actor Richard Burton, giving his wife, Elizabeth Taylor, a ridiculously enormous diamond ring.  I remember dismissively saying to Joy that for a diamond that large, a person could go to Europe twenty times.  I said that would be a far better use of money, in my opinion. 

I am certain that Joy silently filed this unwelcome comment from me in her mental file cabinet under, 

Bob: Clueless!!  

However, like numerous other people have in my life, she underestimated me.  Her shock at receiving the diamond ring that night was also a subtle jolt from me to her that I was far more aware about what was important to her than she had previously assumed.  It certainly redefined our relationship on that wintery December night in 1977 when I asked Joy to marry me.

So…okay, a nice romantic moment, yes? 

Maybe, but not nearly as fascinating a story as where Joy’s ring came from.  Because on the morning of December 31, 1977, that diamond ring did not exist.  Yet. 

What follows now, is the truly convoluted story of the long, long journey leading to the creation of Joy’s diamond ring.  I suppose I’m writing this story for my granddaughter Natalia, and her soon-to-be sibling and cousin whom are both presently on the way.  The next generation should know about these intricate old family stories. 

In 1939, when my talented and artistic mother, Anne, then only 18 years old, was already designing detailed, imaginative jewelry.  Although her parents, who were from the Jewish Pale in Eastern Europe, were not in that business and her father was essentially a peddler to other immigrants near the steel mills located at the southwestern shore of Lake Michigan, the Chicago-area Jewish community was still small enough so that she was able to befriend, through friends of friends, some of the veteran jewelers working Downtown on Wabash Street.  For a curvaceous pretty girl, which she certainly was, doors frequently opened more easily for her than they might have opened for any man. 

These old men whom she gradually came to know, turned her designs into reality, and as those finished designs sold, my mother began to make a name for herself in the tight little world of men who handled diamonds, rubies and pearls every day. 

One of those unusual people I can still remember from over fifty years ago was a very old, very short man named Sander Goldstein.  He appeared to me to be a formally-dressed and always laughing…elf.  

He always wore a white dress shirt, a black vest, had thick-lensed glasses with gold wire frames plus a jeweler’s loop—a kind of high-powered miniature magnifying glass inside of a small black plastic tube—with him at all times.  He had a wispy angelic-looking fringe of fine white hair, was round-shouldered from endlessly sitting hunched over his cluttered work table for so many decades, skillfully placing precious stones in gold, silver and platinum settings.  He also repaired broken watches and necklaces. 

In 1955, when I was five years old, I thought he must have been at least one hundred years old.  I still do. 

My parents first met in 1945 after my Dad returned from the War in the Pacific at the age of 33, older than most returning vets.  He felt his life was slipping by and he had no home, no wife and no kids.  Then he met Anne Warman in Chicago.  He was quite swept away by her glamorous beauty and aggressive style.  He had never met anyone like her before, coming from a bland working-class background and Jacob, his silent and steady carpenter father.  She dazzled him. 

When Anne learned he was looking for work, she offered to tutor him in the retail jewelry business.  He still had a little money left from his mustering out pay when he was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army.  Anne’s parents, Celia and Nathan from Byelorussia and Poland also had a little money set aside to get him set up, if it appeared that a marriage was going to happen. And finally, she would be his partner, making connections for both of them within the trade and also waiting on customers.    

So, they were married on June 30^th 1946, sixty-four years ago as of this writing, and they opened up a small jewelry store at 5 North Wabash in Downtown Chicago, under the elevated tracks everyone called then and now, “The Loop.” 

They were moderately successful for a while, but after Anne gave birth to my sister Bonnie Sue on October 22, 1947, and then me on April 30, 1950, she was much too busy to help him sell jewelry in the store anymore. 

Though my father was an excellent salesman, even before the war, he became increasingly disenchanted working their business day after day by himself.  He felt trapped. 

Other problems arose between the two of  them when my mother discovered that she was increasingly disenchanted with having and raising children.  It was far less glamorous caring for two crying, peeing demanding babies than selling diamonds, opals and rubies to her sophisticated cliental. 

A rift opened between my parents with these two critical discoveries in the early Fifties and it never closed.  Though their jewelry store kept making money, my father eventually decided that it wasn’t for him.  Money never was a sufficient motivation to keep him doing something he didn’t want to do. 

After 42 months overseas in the Signal Corp. working for General Douglas MacArthur, the tough, still baseball-playing World War II vet simply couldn’t shrink his world down to a dozen rotating trays each in a cluster of electric jewelry display cases inside of a small shop on the fifth floor of an anonymous old building on North Wabash Street.  It was too quiet.  He felt like he was being buried in silence. 

After experiencing gang fights during the Twenties on the dangerous immigrant-filled West Side of Chicago, then starving with his brother and three sisters through the Great Depression of the Thirties, crossing the Pacific westward with massed troops in transport ships to battle the Japanese Army from island to island for years, being bombed and wounded in the Philippines and finally walking through the deadly silence of Nagasaki after it was flattened by an atomic bomb…my Dad later told me that his being reduced from being an essential US Army sergeant teaching Morse Code to many men in vital situations…to selling watches and rings post war…had no meaning for him. 

Even though he closed and left that store in 1956, after selling off all the inventory and display cases to the many contacts he had developed over the years he spent in that business, he still kept up all those relationships in his complex web of many friends.  To me, even as a small child, my father seemed to know everybody, especially whom to call for a very specific reason. 

He didn’t view friendship as a means to an end.  He viewed friendship as holding another person in high esteem, someone to confront life with. 

After a while of exploring some possibilities, buoyed by the cash raised from closing the jewelry store, my Dad ended up selling low quality furniture, which was called “Borax furniture” in his level of the trade.  The name was derived from when the cheaply manufactured furniture was given away as contest premiums by giant soap companies when they were major advertisers on popular radio shows in the late Thirties and beyond that, through the war.  Even after that situation stopped post WWII, the distinctive name of that category of furniture still stuck. 

But my Dad was an “outside man” and the new job let him drive all over northern Illinois and Indiana visiting with and selling to his many customers.  He was an ace salesman, made a fair buck on a regular basis and most importantly, he was content. 

The job kept him away from our house on the South Side of Chicago for long stretches, which kept the marriage going a lot longer than it probably should have, although my sister and I wished he could have been home more.   A perfect example of a situation seemingly starting out so well, and then becoming doomed by unforeseen circumstances, in this case independently affecting both of my parents. 

My mother’s days of designing beautiful jewelry long over, she somehow morphed into an interior decorator and lived in the basement of our brick home, surrounded by color swatches, scheming and smoking pack after pack of her Pall Mall cigarettes.  

My sister and I rarely saw what slowly became a very embittered woman. An increasingly dangerous, frustrated, angry woman trapped between anonymity and invoices. 

All these events that gradually led to my parents becoming who they were as their lives evolved, also affected the personalities of Bonnie and myself, over time.  Children cannot protect themselves from their parent’s unhappiness.  It falls on them like endless rain.

Next weekend, Part 3

A Chicago West Side tribal immigrant’s tale, encompassing:  Friendship, Jewelry and Gangsters.

A puzzle with so many pieces, all steadily adding up to Joy’s diamond ring.  

On December 31, 1977, New Year’s Eve, I invited my long-time love, Joyce Esther Bishop, then 27, to dinner at a famous old Chicago steakhouse.  Specifically The Kinzie Steakhouse, but which is now far better known today as Harry Caray’s Steakhouse, after the legendary Chicago radio announcer for the Chicago White Sox baseball team, famously remembered for yelling: “HOLY COW!!” after every home run hit by the home team. 

Aside from Joy’s full-time day job working in the city, she also worked at my original Hyde Park store, Bob’s Newsstand, every weekend.  She was either selling newspapers, stuffing the Sunday newspaper’s weekend components inside each paper or keeping an eye on all the numerous part-time employees and/or the endless stream of customers. 

This was back in the days when Chicago still had four separate daily newspapers and was the last remaining American city to be so blessed.  Now there are only two Chicago newspapers left, both post-bankruptcy, and in their present (2010) shrunken and sensationalized formats, they would have seemed other worldly to either of us.  The then fiercely competitive conservative Chicago Daily Tribune and the more liberal Democratic Chicago Sun-Times, were rich and mighty Midwestern icons of journalism, seemingly able to last forever, just thirty-two years ago.  What happened? 

Joy was certain that I loved her, since I told her so every single day (and still do).  I was also convinced that she loved me too, in the way women get that idea across to the objects of their affection. 

But crowding twenty-eight years of age, Joy seemed to want a further level of commitment from me.   With unmarried women, the status quo is an unacceptable status.  I was conscious of how she felt and I resolved to make her happy.  She wanted to put a collar on me, and a leash, too, I guessed, so that night I decided to ask her if I could be her pet for life.  I already had my shots, too, and she was well aware that I hadn’t been neutered, either. 

Back then, though a quite distinct Downtown Chicago architectural landmark,  the Kinzie Steakhouse, with its Gay-Nineties theme was pretty well past its prime as a restaurant and a little worn around its edges.  Maybe more than just a little. 

Our waitress had on some fishnet stockings with some frayed links.  Maybe she was hot once in her tight and somewhat revealing red satin corset costume, but that cold December night in 1977, she reminded me of a Playboy Bunny’s grandmother still in there pitching, leaning over and selling wrinkled cleavage and expensive alcohol.  It was more than a little disturbing. 

The hour was gradually approaching Midnight in that formerly glamorous steakhouse.  But it was still a fine night out for the two lovers who sold thousands of newspapers, together, to mobs of people pulling up to the curb of our newsstand demanding fast service.  And having someone waiting on us, for a change, was a lovely experience. 

So, holding both of her soft hands, I told Joy that I loved her (again) and since we were already living together, I gently asked her, 

“Joy, will you marry me?” 

Joy smiled her mega-watt smile which always lit up my heart, and immediately answered:

“Yes!”  

But then, to her visible astonishment, I wordlessly produced a small black-velvet jeweler’s box with a diamond ring in it and gave it to her.  Almost as an afterthought, like, 

“Oh, yeah, and please take this little thing, too.” 

Joy seemed stunned that I would even think to remember jewelry was part of this ancient rite of proposal. 

I lived a gritty unglamorous life with nothing sparkling in it, except Joy’s eyes.  I wore no jewelry myself.  My watch was a drugstore Timex.  It simply wasn’t a part of my personality. 

Words, handshakes, kisses, hugs…Yes.   

Friendship…Yes. 

 Jewelry?  

No.

Part (2) posted next weekend…Feel free to post any comments you may have…Bob

Where did it all come from?

The story starts in 1984 when Mary and I returned to the U.S. from 9 years of sailing around the Caribbean and other places.  We sailed our boat to Florida and within a couple of weeks I had a job offer – in California.  We flew out to L.A. with just our clothes.  That was all we had relevant to living ashore.  After  a week or two in a company paid for motel, we moved into a furnished apartment.  The job was to be in L.A. for just a few months then it would shift to the Baltimore area.  There was no point in accumulating much stuff in L.A. since we would just have to lug it back to the east coast.  I did however, buy three things, a television, a computer and a 1976 AMC Pacer – otherwise known as a self-propelled solar oven.  When the job moved to Baltimore, we packed all we owned into the Pacer and drove to the new location.

Once in Baltimore we started to settle in.  The first purchase was a used bed.  Shortly after that, two filing cabinets and a door to build a table for the computer.  Then a cousin donated a table and chairs so we didn’t have to eat sitting on the floor.  That job lasted only a year.  The next job was back in L.A. again.

This time the company paid for a moving van.  All our stuff, including the Pacer, filled half the van.

By now, Mary was pregnant.  We rented a nice three bedroom house in Lawndale and furnished it with stuff we found at yard sales.  Now we were getting into “stuff” big time.  We bought washers and dryers, sofas and chairs and of course all the “stuff” first time parents are told they must have.  I found a ten-foot long, floor-to-ceiling bookcase at a swap meet and set about trying to fill it (50 linear feet) with technical manuals and books.  I became interested in radio controlled model airplanes and acquired the necessary trappings for that hobby.

Four years later we moved a few miles to Manhattan Beach.  This required lots of boxes and renting a truck.  This place came with a garage that was useless for keeping a car but had a nice workbench.  There were great electronic swap meets in the area and how can anyone resist buying stuff that was really cool technology just a few years ago and now sells at a 95% discount?

In a few more years came another move.  This time 500 miles to Mountain View, California.  We filled the company paid for van, plus my camper and Mary’s car.  Mark Twain wrote “Three moves equal one fire”.  I found that true from an organizational perspective but, after a fire you actually throw things away.  After a move you still have everything, you just can’t find it.

We rented a large, beautiful 3 bedroom house with attached 2 car garage.  While unpacking, I noticed a few boxes that had never been opened after the previous move.  I thought “I’ll probably need that stuff someday and there is plenty of room here so I’ll just throw it under the workbench”.  More furniture, books, computers, office furniture equipment, etc.

Four more years and it was time for the Big Move.  The stars, financial markets and real estate all aligned and we bought a house in Sunnyvale.  It took 5 trips with a rented truck including stops to drop off surplus major appliances to the friends who helped us move.  This was the first time we filled a new house on the day we moved in.  The year was 2001.  We made a conscious decision to quit accumulating stuff.

That is how we came to have so much stuff (though friends told us we hardly had anything).  In 2009 we agreed that we wanted to return to the cruising lifestyle.  That meant divesting ourselves of 26 years of accumulated stuff.  We began having yard sales and giving things away to friends.  Things we could not sell were hauled to Goodwill or Weird Stuff, a surplus electronics store.  The house went on the market.  We spent months going through things and determining the best way to get rid of them.

How do we get rid of it all?

You would think disposing of ones possessions would be an easy thing to do.  Not so.  You don’t want to rent a dumpster and just chuck all their stuff into it.  After all, this is your stuff.  It is really good stuff.  You paid a lot of money for all this stuff, you ought to be able to get some of that money back.

Some stuff can in fact be sold if you are willing to put the time and energy into it.  We were not so attached to our stuff and did not hold it in such high regard.  We mostly went the yard sale route.  The way this worked, we would drag stuff out of the garage from 7:30 till 11:00 when we ran out of driveway space, then rest for an hour and then cart (seemingly) all of it back in from 12:00 till 2:00.  We knew things were being sold because we always had a wad of cash in our pockets at the end of the exercise but, the volume of stuff did not seem to change much.  In deed, we kept finding more stuff.  I found power tools I didn’t know I owned.  We found stuff we couldn’t identify.  It was like people had been breaking into our house at night and leaving stuff.

There were some things that did not sell at the yard sales.  These we tried to give away to various charitable organizations.  We were surprised to discover that many charities will not take just anything you offer them.  Some can be as picky as the yard sale customers.  There were other things that had sentimental value, mostly photographs and family heirlooms.  These we tried to pawn off on family.  Our son, age 24, would have none of it.  Some simply went into the rubbish bin.

Then there were the 30 years of financial records.  Until recently, your social security number was printed on every bank statement and account summary sent to you.  Why did I keep all this stuff for so long?  I guess because I had someplace to put it.  Now it had to be shredded.

Eventually, by May, we had reduced the stuff to what we thought it made sence to keep on the new boat.  This was mostly clothing, tools, a few books, and the dinghy left from our previous boat.  But the new boat is 5,427 miles (great circle route) away.

How do we get it there?

We looked at a number of shipping companies on the internet and found basic shipping quotes to be less than we expected.  If you want door-to-door delivery, the prices are much higher.  We also found weight did not matter, it was volume that counted.  There is a 1 cubic meter minimum price so reduction of “stuff” below 1 cubic meter does not save you any money.  That determined how hard we would try to reduce our stuff.

We went with a company called APX with a warehouse in South San Francisco.  They offered to ship from San Fransisco to Rotterdam for about $450 (plus destination charges) if I handled customs and transport at each end.  That seemed reasonable.  We started packing.  The result was 15 boxes.  I am a fairly efficient packer, meaning my boxes are full and heavy – I don’t ship air.

One cubic meter does not fit into a Honda Accord.  Not a problem.  You see U-Haul trucks all over California with “$19.95 per day” painted on them.  I rented one.  I took the smallest truck they had and found $19.95 per is all they had room to paint on the truck.  There is also a mileage charge – 79 cent per mile!  Three hours of truck rental cost me over 100 bucks!

the "stuiff"

APX measured our stuff and it came to 1.033 cubic meters and 303 kilograms.  They expected it to arrive in Rotterdam June 18 and would contact us then.

So far, so good.  We took our maximum of carry-on luggage and headed for the boat in Stavoren, Netherlands with a four day stop over in Reykjavik, Iceland.  We took possession of our boat, Orca, on June 8, and occupied ourselves with all the things that must be done when you move onto a new (35 year old) boat.

We knew the ship our stuff was on was Philadelphia Express.  We found a great website, MarineTraffic.com that lets you track ships all over the world.  We knew our ship would be passing through the English Channel about the 17th so we looked it up.  There it was, almost on schedule.  Headed to Antwerp.  Antwerp?  Maybe it stops there before going to Rotterdam?  We watched.  On the 20th, it left Antwerp for England.  So where is our stuff?

The shipping agent in Rotterdam (not APX) had not contacted us so we called them (not as easy as it sounds).  “Where is our stuff?”

“It is being shipped by truck from Antwerp.”

“When can we pick it up.”

“Call back Monday.”

We had arranged to rent a truck from a garage in Sneek, a town about 5 hours away (by boat) from Stavoren.  We left on Monday and spent Monday night in the town of Heeg about half way there.  Tuesday we sailed the rest of the way to Sneek and called the agent.

“When can we pick up our stuff?”

“It should be here tomorrow.”

“Can we get it tomorrow?”

“No. Call back Thursday.”

Thursday, “Can we pick up our stuff yet?”

“No, it has to go through customs.  Send us the packing list.  We will call you when its ready”

We sent the packing list and sailed back to Stavoren on Friday, June 25.

We called the agent again on Monday, June 28: “Can we pick up our stuff yet?”

“Of course!  But you must clear it through customs yourself.  Can you be here tomorrow?”

“No, I have to arrange the truck again.  I will come Wednesday.”

We called the garage in Sneek but were told all their trucks were out for the week.  We called several other places and got the same answer.  Now what?  When in doubt, ask a bartender.  Hans, a good bartender and exceptionally helpful person had a friend with a VW camper.  Maybe he could help.  Hans called Jon, Jon drove over and we talked.  He was free Thursday and could drive us to Rotterdam and back.  We went for it.

We left Stavoren at 6:30 (July 1).  The idea was to get to Rotterdam by 9:30 so there would be plenty of time in case customs was a problem.  We did not want to make a second trip.

Things began well.  It looked like we would be there by 9.  Then traffic came to a stand-still.  There had been an accident on the A12 and the police were shutting it down.  Eventually we were able to get off but how to get to Rotterdam from there?  We had no map and the GPS insisted we take the A12.  Jon had lived in this part of Holland for 40 years.  We wound up traveling roads he had never been on through villages he had never heard of.  Some of the roads were so narrow that when two cars met, one had to back up to a wide stop so they could get past each other.  Picture a road, seven feet wide, with no shoulders and a canal on each side.

It took six hours to get to Rotterdam.  We had to wait for the agent to return from lunch.  He gave us our papers, some helpful tips, and the address of the customs house.  He was not sure customs would clear our stuff without paying import duties.

It took 15 or 20 minutes to drive to the customs house.  We went in and gave our papers to a lady at one of the windows.  She took them to someone else and offered us coffee while we waited.  After about five minutes, a very tall elderly gentleman in a uniform came down and waved me over to the window.

He handed the papers to me and said, “Whats the meaning of this?”

If those words had come from my father, I would have been worried.  However, I am learning to not attach the same emotions to words when spoken by non-Americans.  I explained that the shipment was household goods to go on a boat I just purchased.  He asked if I was staying in Holland on the boat or sailing away.  I told him I would be leaving, he smiled and said “OK”.  Twenty minutes later, some one else came down, called my name and gave me the signed papers to release our stuff.  We went back to the warehouse and loaded the camper with the 15 boxes we shipped from California seven weeks earlier.  The destination charges came to about $275.

Jon drove us back to Stavoren and the trip was pleasantly uneventful.  We unloaded the camper

Jon, the camper, and the stuff

and moved it all to the dock to be loaded onto the boat.

stuff on the dock

Now we have the problem of where do you put that much stuff on a 31-foot sailboat?  The answer is:

stuff on a boat

everywhere.

more stuff on a boat

The question I ask myself at this point is “Was it worth it all?”  I am not sure.  The total cost of the shipping, door-to-door, was about $1,100.  It also consumed several days of our time.  For that, we have all our old clothes, more tools than I can stow, some kitchenware we probably don’t need, and a bunch of photographs that should not be on a boat.  It might have been more cost effective to burn it all and buy new the stuff we actually need in Holland.

I thought we were detached from our “stuff” and in control of our lives.  When I see how much we went through for our one cubic meter of personal belongings, I have to reconsider.

By the way, we did manage to stow it all and make the boat seaworthy again.

The Situation: Rick and Mary Munden, residents of California for a quarter century, sold their house and car and gave away or disposed of almost everything else they had accumulated during that time so as to condense their life sufficiently to allow them to live their lives on a thirty-one foot sailboat.  Both are now sixty years of age.

Prior to that period, the Mundens lived on another boat in the Caribbean for nine years, leaving the Chicago area via the Mississippi River, learning to operate their sailboat as they went along.  They decided to return to the United States to have a child, who turned out to be Robert Munden.

When they felt Robert was ready to be on his own, and yearning to return to living their prior lives life on water, they bid him farewell, and left the USA in June, 2010, flying to The Netherlands and waited there to collect what few possessions they decided to keep, which they’d shipped from their old West Coast home.

Rick and I, who first met in 1961, on the South Side of Chicago when we were both eleven, will be making periodic reports on the minutia of what it’s like to shrink a shared life to a space smaller than a one-car garage.  Ninety-nine per cent of anyone each of us knows, or doesn’t know, will never live a life like the one they have chosen.  This new series of reports will examine the results of what others may consider to be an unobtainable fantasy.

We will probe, in detail, whom they meet, the problems they encounter—if any—with local governments, the weather, their boat, where they find supplies, the quality and availability of fresh food, how they make repairs, pleasures and frustrations, how they deal with illness if it occurs, how they communicate both locally and with the world, and whatever philosophical musings they, or I, may have about all of the above.  All photos will be supplied by either Rick or Mary.   I have encouraged them to supply many, illuminating as many aspects of their existance as possible.   My personal hope is not to see panoramic vistas, but more of a written and visual diary of everyday life.

This the first report about their new life, as they gradually sail south-east through Europe, with the eventual goal of landing in The Mediterranean Sea before winter sets in later this year.

*****************************************************

Q.
I wonder what you guys do all day.  Do you read, or explore the town or what?

A.
We have not had a lot of time to settle into a routine.  When we arrived Sunday evening in Stavoren, the boat was out of the water.

Monday, We had to arrange to have some minor work done to it before it could be relaunched.

Then, Tuesday, the seller arrived from England for the “commissioning” part of the sale.  He answered questions, told us things we needed to know about the boat and was generally helpful and friendly.  We signed paperwork with the broker and the boat officially became ours.

Wednesday, we came back from a walk into town to find all the requested work had been done and the yard was ready to launch the boat.  This was a surprise.  When I had requested the work on Monday, the yard manager had replied “OK, possibly this week”.  I took this to mean that he was either busy or unenthusiastic, and that he may or may not get around to what I needed in the next week.  I now think what he meant was, “Yes, it can be done this week”.

So we had to ask to delay the launch a day so we could paint the bottom of the boat.  Boats require special anti-fouling paint to reduce the growth of algae, barnacles and other organisms that would attach
themselves to the bottom and slow down the boat.

Thursday was spent painting the bottom and putting the boat back into the water.

waiting for paint to dry

While all this is happening, we are developing something of a routine.  As we did in Sunnyvale, we have made a habit of walking into town every day – sometimes twice a day.  It is a nice walk of about one mile each way.  Some of it is along a pretty wooded path that runs along the canal and some of the way is through the town itself.

path to Stavoren

The town itself really just a small village of about 1,000 people though it was once one of the richest towns in the country. I wrote more about this in a previous post.

Once in town we stop for coffee then buy our groceries for the day.  We have not stocked up on food yet, we just buy enough for one or two days at a time.  We have yet to open a can here, everything we eat is fresh.

Since the boat has been in the water, we have spent time putting on the sails, inventorying the equipment, and going out and testing the systems on the water.  The weather here has been mostly cold and rainy so we have not been out sailing as much as we would like.

Mornings and evenings I spend taking care of business over the internet.  I am still running two small companies.  The nature of these businesses is such that I rarely need to meet anyone face to face.  All communications can be done electronically.  There is a 9 hour time difference between here and California so my evening is their morning – a good time for phone calls and emails.  Likewise, I morning is their late evening another good time to talk to people at home.  Remind me to talk later about how globalization has opened up opportunities for me.

Finally, there is socializing.  This is a tourist area and many people from Germany keep their boats here.  We have met quite few of them and had some interesting conversations and some good parties.  Also the Dutch people here are very kind and often have fascinating stories and different perspectives on life from what we are accustomed to.

Now we are waiting for our “stuff” to arrive.  What is left of our worldly possessions is being shipped to Rotterdam.  Sometime next week we will sail inland to a town called Sneek (but pronounced “Snake”)
where we will rent a truck and drive down to Rotterdam to take said “stuff” through customs and haul it back.  It will probably take another week after that to find places to stow it all.

the "stuff"

Upon completing that task, we will finally be ready to start cruising.  I think we will take a few days to head south to Amsterdam but there are no firm plans yet.

***************************************************

Ex-Pat Report (# 2) will appear next week.  Questions or comments from readers of this series will be answered by Rick or Mary as the spirit moves them.  They are floating through Europe.  They do as they please.

Reported and edited by Robert M. Katzman, unfortunately based near Chicago, Illinois, thousands of miles from that little boat in Europe.

When I travel to a new place, the first things I notice are the contrasts to the US and other places I have lived or visited.  Differences are accentuated this time because I have moved from a house to a sailboat.  Here is a recent picture of the constantly changing view from my “back porch” (the cockpit of my boat).

view from my back porch

By the way, we seem to be the only American boat around.  Almost all the others are either Dutch or German.

Life in Friesland seems a little more relaxed than in the US.  That may just be because I am more relaxed now but, I see less traffic, more bicycles and a general lack of angst.

The nearby town of Enkhuizen

Houses look different of course.  These houses in Stavoren were built around 1902 and reflect the local climate and available materials of the time.

houses in Stavoren, NL

Not everyone here lives in a house.

live-aboard barge in Stavoren

In a land that is mostly below sea-level, living on a boat might offer some peace of mind.

One day, while we were walking through town, about one hundred farm tractors came through.  I thought we were being invaded by Hell’s Farmers but they were on an 11 city tour.

Hell's Farmers

There are a lot of 11 city tours here – the most famous being the ice skating race Elfstedentocht.

The most obvious contrast for me is that this is a land of boats and boaters.  Netherlands has been a seafaring nation throughout history.  They once had a great empire as far flung as England’s.  I suppose they still have it – but today it is based on trade rather than military might.

The sheer number of boats here is staggering.  I have been to south Florida and I have been to south England.  They each have a lot of boats.  But they do not compare to Friesland.

island park in Stavoren, NL

The town of Stavoren has one grocery store, three yacht chandleries and four marinas.  At times, there is more traffic on the canals than on the roads.

I think we will be here another week or two.  Our “stuff” is on a ship due in Rotterdam tomorrow.  After we collect it and figure out how to stow it all we will begin our explorations.

You can read more nautically oriented reports of our travels on the “Red Sky at Night” blog and see more photos on Flikr.

The daughter                                                                                                                                                                                                               of an                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Interior Decorator                                                                                                                                                                                              Ought to                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Dwell in Eternity                                                                                                                                                                                                       In a                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Universe                                                                                                                                                                                                                        of                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Subtle colors

You                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Were the Perfect one                                                                                                                                                                                          

You                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Did everything                                                                                                                                                                                                  Right: 

Dressed right

Acted right

Great grades

Perfect parties

Perfect in Hebrew School

Perfect house

So polite

Not like your                                                                                                                                                                                                        Little brother                                                                                                                                                                                                           The                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Hell Raiser

But secretly                                                                                                                                                                                                      Bonnie,                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Maybe                                                                                                                                                                                                                          I’m the side of you                                                                                                                                                                                                     No one                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Ever saw

Not so perfect                                                                                                                                                                                                          But                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Far more                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Free

To me                                                                                                                                                                                                                           For the longest time                                                                                                                                                                                               You                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Were the standard                                                                                                                                                                                                    Of                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Excellence

What                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   I                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Wished                                                                                                                                                                                                                             I                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Could be

Perfect

You seemed to understand Life                                                                                                                                                                     Knew the score

To me                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Life                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Was the enemy                                                                                                                                                                                                Something to stand up to

I                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Was a better                                                                                                                                                                                                           Match                                                                                                                                                                                                                           For                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Life                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Than you were

Because

Life and me                                                                                                                                                                                                               We’re not so perfect

I wish                                                                                                                                                                                                                          You and I                                                                                                                                                                                                              Could’ve                                                                                                                                                                                                               Spoken                                                                                                                                                                                                                        The same language

I wish                                                                                                                                                                                                                             We had spent more time                                                                                                                                                                                 Together

I                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Wished for                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Too much

Then                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Life                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Blindsided you

Sucker-punched you

Hit you                                                                                                                                                                                                                   When                                                                                                                                                                                                                          You weren’t looking

I                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Always expected                                                                                                                                                                                                      That

You                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Bonnie…

You                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Never had a chance

I am                                                                                                                                                                                                                                So sorry                                                                                                                                                                                                                          It’s been                                                                                                                                                                                                                         So hard for you                                                                                                                                                                                                            For                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   So long

I loved you, Bonnie

I                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Missed you                                                                                                                                                                                                             When you were                                                                                                                                                                                                        Still                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Here

I Will Miss you                                                                                                                                                                                             More                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Now                                                                                                                                                                                                                            That you’re                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Not

Life,                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Damn it…

Life                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Shoulda                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Picked on someone                                                                                                                                                                                                 Its own size

And                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Left                                                                                                                                                                                                                                My                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Big Sister                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Alone