No shore thing

During the first month after superstorm Sandy struck, much was said about about rebuilding the Jersey shore to be better than ever. Governor Christie, municipal officials and others across the region articulated how the beaches, boardwalks, attractions and businesses along the shore would be back for everyone to enjoy as always. A noble sentiment and the proper way to advance hope, certainly -- but no sure thing, realistically.

Can Seaside Heights ever be the same again? How about Point Pleasant and Keansburg? Or, Sea Bright? Long Beach Island? Can they really be rebuilt better than ever?

The mayor of Seaside Heights has mentioned the possibility of keeping the damaged roller coaster, the image of which will remain in many minds for years to come, partially submerged in the ocean as a tourist attraction. No matter how much money is invested in rebuilding boardwalk businesses to open in time for next summer, the crippled roller coaster is already being valued as a way to remember Seaside Heights' heyday -- as if its post-Sandy future may never top its past.

Could the same fate befall Point Pleasant, which in recent years has been challenged to retain its longstanding appeal to families? It's also difficult to imagine the mix of attractions in Keansburg retaining their appeal as an affordable family outing.

Its vulnerable position between the Atlantic Ocean and Navesink and Shrewsbury rivers cruelly exposed by Sandy at a time when global warming theorists are saying "we told you so," will most home and business owners in Sea Bright rebuild in a way to rekindle their best memories of years past?

Older Long Beach Island homeowners and some of their baby boomer children have been through this before. The Ash Wednesday storm of 1962 destroyed thousands of homes on the island, part of which was uninhabitable until that summer. The island rebounded, with some new homes built several feet off the ground for protection against future storms. Fifty years later, Sandy's winds and flooding brought a new round of destruction on Long Beach Island, and the cries to rebuild are being heard again.

Fortunately, some seaside towns were lucky to escape the worst effects of Sandy. Wildwood was unscathed, and all businesses in Long Branch's relatively new Pier Village, including its boardwalk restaurants, reopened within three weeks. Asbury Park will take more time to recover, but is expected to be back to normal well before next summer.

Today's children and the next generation will enjoy the replenished beaches, new boardwalks and contemporary attractions of a rebuilt Jersey shore. Some may appreciate stories about how things were before Sandy, but with each passing year find them less interesting.

People with a lifetime of wonderful Jersey shore memories will be grateful for all the efforts to rebuild the places they cherish. Like old family photographs destroyed by Sandy, however, it's no sure thing the Jersey shore they grew up with can ever be replaced.

What do you think?

Patti Smith

Asbury Park boardwalk. August 5, 1978. A damp afternoon was turning to evening. Inside a candy store, a few young people shadowed a woman wearing a brown jacket, hat and boots. The woman was Patti Smith, in town for a concert just a few doors away.

"Wow, I can tell I'm back in Jersey," Patti said to the fans around her, almost giggling. "The salt water taffy gives me pimples."

A few hours later, wearing the same brown jacket, hat and boots, Patti strolled on to the Asbury Park Convention Hall stage to the applause of a crowd already ignited by a stirring opening set by The Ramones. And, she squirted lighter fluid on them, figuratively, with a set that included "Because the Night," co-written by Bruce Springsteen and heard on many radio stations that year.

Less than a year later, shortly after the release of her fourth album, Wave, Patti Smith ended the first of her two sets at the Capitol Theatre in Passaic by saying, "I'm going backstage, eating a roast beef sandwich, and I'll be back."

She returned for her second set and, after a few minutes, told the crowd, "Oh, sh*t, I forgot my roast beef sandwich!" At the end of the concert, she waved goodbye. It proved to be a long goodbye -- she waited nine years before releasing her next album and some more before touring again.

Fast forward to December 15, 1995. Opening for Bob Dylan at The Electric Factory in Philadelphia, Patti Smith walked on stage as her band began to play and started singing and dancing barefoot. The crowd applauded her set, and cheered when she came back later in the evening to join Dylan on a duet of "Dark Eyes," which she ended by planting a kiss on her hero's cheek.

Patti Smith returned to concert touring this year, scheduling dozens of dates in the U.S. and Europe, where the popularity of this New Jersey-born Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee seems highest these days. On Friday night, she came back to her home state for a performance at the State Theatre in New Brunswick. Anyone who thought being 65 years old and on stage with her daughter would mellow the godmother of punk were proved wrong. Patti is still "outside of society...where I want to be," per the lyrics of one of her most popular and controversial songs.

She was in fine voice, despite her claim that the humidity was having an adverse effect on her singing. She danced on stage and even ventured into the crowd a couple times to dance with her fans. She spat out lyrics -- literally, at times -- with the same passion she showed at shows 30-40 years ago, and pleaded with fans to "Vote! Vote! Vote!" at the conclusion of "People Have the Power."

At one point during the New Brunswick concert, the predominantly 50+ crowd got particularly boisterous, yelling at Patti and at each other. She paused to listen, and asked, "Is there something controversial going on?" After the cacophony died down for a moment, she looked up at a heckler and yelled, "If you got a problem, come on down so I can give you a hundred dollars to get the f*ck out of here!"

She played some guitar, and ended the show by purposely breaking strings in a way that would've impressed Pete Townsend. She talked about the effect the pending arrival of Sandy was having on her body, and told stories about attending a scary movie in a New Jersey theater, hanging outside CBGB in New York, and a concert at Lincoln Center's Avery Fisher Hall that she'll always remember for many wrong reasons.

"This has been some night," Patti said before walking off the State Theatre stage at the end of her two-hour set on Friday night. "I'll never forget this show."

Nor will I and many others.

The barber king

The second time I walked into his shop, he was sitting down, reading the New York Post, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette.

"Hello, Charley," he said, with an Italian accent. It's an accent that has stayed with him for 50 years since he left Italy and settled in the West End section of Long Branch, New Jersey, where he opened his barber shop in 1964. He's kind of semi-retired these days, working only five mornings a week. He cuts hair by appointment, something I didn't realize the first time I walked off the street and into his shop.

"There's one ahead of you," he told me that first time, although there was no one waiting. A few minutes later, a gentleman even older than the barber walked in slowly, sat in the chair, and spoke softly while his hair was cut. When it was my turn and he began using his scissors on my graying scalp, I acknowledged the Yankees memorabilia in his shop and asked if he had been to the new Yankee Stadium yet.

"I'm a Mets fan," he replied. "I went to their new stadium once. My daughter drove me there. We got there so early, we didn't know what to do. So, we waited and then went inside. It's a nice park. But, the Mets lost."

The second time he cut my hair, we talked about the Jets, Mets and Ryder Cup.

"I got sick Sunday, with the Jets losing so bad, the Mets losing, and the US not winning the Ryder Cup," he moaned. "It made me sick to my stomach, really. And then the Giants lost."

Midway through my haircut, the barber noticed someone approaching his shop. He looked at me, paused briefly, and asked, "Did you make an appointment?"

"I did," I replied. "I called you yesterday morning."

The man the barber had spotted outside seconds earlier walked into the shop, said hello, then sat down to wait his turn. After my haircut was done, with no other customer visible, he got up.

"Not yet, Charlie," the barber told the other man. "There's one ahead of you."

As I walked out, I realized the barber may have double-booked 10:30 appointments for a "Charley" and was probably waiting for the next appointment to arrive. He likely had just enough time to finish his coffee and cigarette and, perhaps, scan a few pages of the newspaper or chat with Charlie.

The barber has not, after all, stayed in business for over 47 years by rushing through haircuts. He is his own boss, king of his castle, one with a red and white and blue striped poll that rolls only when he turns it on.

A moving experience

No one said it would be easy to move from a four-bedroom house that's been home to me and my wife and our two sons for 18 years to a two-bedroom condo. The decisions about what to bring to our new home, what to sell or give away, what to store, and what to discard were hard enough, as were the organization and physical labor involved in preparing for the move. It was the emotions of the process, however, that proved most difficult.

For my wife, it was hard to hear an interior decorator (a "stager," in real estate terms) explain why it was a good idea to repaint our main foyer, dining room, spare bedroom/office, and replace all our upstairs carpeting. We could understand the importance of "depersonalizing" the house, but it was still difficult to take down our wedding picture and other items that made the house our home.

That was the point: once the house went on the market, with new interior colors and carpeting and less furniture, it did not really feel like our home any longer. It seemed like it already belonged to someone else; we just needed our realtor to help find these people. Fortunately, the new owners were identified within a week after the house went on the market.

Before putting up the house for sale and again after entering into a contract with the buyers, however, my wife and I wound up reliving our past 18 years -- as well as our youth and even parts of the lives of our parents and grandparents -- through the pictures, videos, music, books, magazines, cards, school projects, artwork, toys, sports equipment, instruments, computers, clothing, souvenirs and other mementos, and various household items that were in our attic, basement, closets, shelves, garage, yard and other parts of the house built for us when our children were just seven and three years old.

Some of what we came across as we cleared out the house for our move made my wife and I smile or laugh. Other things made us sad, even cry, not because they evoked bad feelings, but because we realized they were a special part of our past but could not, for practical reasons, be part of a future in smaller living quarters. Some of these items are now in a public storage space, where they may be forgotten until we come across them again and pass them on to our sons or, gasp, try to make the difficult decision of finally just throwing them away.

Some neighbors, friends and family members have expressed admiration, even envy, for the move my wife and I made this summer. Yes, it's been a dream for the past 3-4 years to eventually simplify our life and live year-round at the Jersey shore. This year, for a variety of reasons, the timing was right. We were fortunate our house sold quickly, and had the energy and health -- and the help of our two strong sons -- to undertake the move.

My advice to those who are thinking of simplifying their lives in a smaller home: don't wait. Do it as soon as the timing is right, and not a year too late. Oh, and start getting rid of those old things now.

Adirondack vacations

For over 20 years beginning in 1987, my wife and I and our children enjoyed vacationing at Moffitt Beach, near Speculator, New York, in the Adirondack Mountains. We created wonderful memories during our annual 1-2 week stays on Sacandaga Lake, and often were joined by my grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters and cousins while there. My grandparents actually started the family tradition of vacationing at Moffitt Beach before I was born.

It's been four years since we were last at Moffitt Beach, but summer days still sometimes find me thinking back to the pleasant times spent in such a rustic and beautiful part of the eastern United States. Following is a poem I wrote on July 10, 1998, during one of our family vacations there.

On a Moffitt's Day

On a beautiful Moffitt's evening the full orange moon
was caressed with the soft edges of adoring clouds.
Lightning drills were confined
to the inside of a white cloud in the distance.
And silence fell early and swiftly
as boats and cars turned in for the night.

With the aroma of a Cohiba and citronella candles,
the scene drew my family out and kept the mosquitos away,
But only for so long.
Nature always stakes its territory,
forcing us inside to old Tom Waits songs
and the view of flickering campfires in the darkening night.

In my sleep and in cities hundreds of miles away,
leather shoes and basketballs pound the pavement
and immigrants drink from America and the World Cup.
I think of the beach, the clear lake, the mountains,
all in view with a cafe con leche in the morning.
I dream of walks around the sites and rides on jet skis.

On a beautiful Moffitt's morning the clouds and sun
have their daily joust for supremacy,
the clouds with speed and mass on their side,
and the sun with patience and light to boast.
The sun will win today, for the clouds have already done so
too many other days this week, and we're on vacation.

A fisherman checks his nets and launches his boat
with the hope of catching dinner for family and friends.
He, too, will win today, for there are plenty of fish
and they are hungry, just like the campers
and other vacationers in Moffitt's with appetites
for the simple and good things in life.

--Charley Bruns, 7/10/98

The name game

Enjoying a Euro 2012 telecast with a friend recently, we realized that among the things we like most about soccer are...the interesting names of the players.

One of the best German players currently, for example, is Bastian Schweinsteiger, which translates to "pig farmer." Another German national team player is Holger Badstuber, the meaning of which is unclear, but the sound of which is clearly cool. Mesut Ozil is a German star of Turkish descent whose nickname is Nemo, after the big-eyed Disney character.

A Real Madrid clubmate of Ozil is named Kaka, one of the top Brazilians in the game today. A compatriot of Kaka goes by the name Dudu, but let's not go there.

Some philosophy students may have been surprised to learn that it wasn't until early this year that Socrates passed away. That Socrates was a great Brazilian player. A Greek soccer player named Sokratis Papastathopoulos--try stitching that across the back of jersey--remains alive and well, however.

At the other end of the spectrum, the Spanish national team that will be defending its European championship against Italy this Sunday includes three players who go by a single name: Pedro, Xavi, and Juanfran. Not to be completely outdone by their Iberian neighbors, the Portuguese national team defeated by Spain in Wednesday's semi-final match had five players on the roster with single names: Nani, Custodio, Pepe, Eduardo, and Beto.

Is there a place in soccer for people in the world named Jones or Johnson? Well, yes, of course. The English national team that competed in this month's Euro 2012 championship had a Phil Jones and Glen Johnson on the squad.

The Joy of Mets

When New York City’s two major league baseball teams meet in Citi Field this weekend, there will certainly be many more happy Mets fans than happy Yankees fans. It’s been that way for most of the past 50 years.

Since the Mets joined the National League in 1962, the team has given its fans many years of happiness – 19 to be exact. There was never more joy in Metsville than in 1969 and 1986, when the team won the World Series. But Mets fans were also ecstatic in 1973 and 2000, when the team made improbable runs to the World Series, and happy nearly all other seasons when the team won more games than it lost. In fact, among the Mets' 23 winning clubs, only the 1987 and 1988 editions, which failed to follow-up on the ’86 championship, and the 2007 and 2008 teams, which collapsed in September, disappointed Shea Stadium faithful.

Yankees fans? Most of them were only happy the eight times in the past 50 years the team won the World Series: 1962, 1977-78, 1996, 1998-2000 and 2009. For Yankees fans, a World Series championship from a team that perennially has the highest payroll and a lineup of well-established players is an expectation. Anything short of a World Series title is a disappointment, and certainly nothing to be happy about. The 12 years between 1964 and 1976, and 15 years between 1981 and 1996, when no post-season games were held at Yankee Stadium, are considered the dark ages in team history, and rarely discussed by Yankees fans.

The images of Jesse Orosco on the pitching mound celebrating the final out of the ‘86 World Series are forever etched in the memory of Mets fans. Older Mets fans will never forget the picture of Jerry Koosman in the arms of Jerry Grote and a joyful Ed Charles on the mound after future manager Davey Johnson flied out to Cleon Jones for the final out of the ’69 World Series. Do Yankees fans have comparable memories of major moments in the team’s history? Probably not, since people rarely treasure an accomplishment that was merely an expectation.

Considering the Yankees have been in existence 109 years, all but 27 seasons have been considered failures by their fans. It certainly gives New Yorkers and other baseball followers across the country a new appreciation for the suffering of Yankees fans over the years. For Mets fans, satisfied with victories whenever they come and happy when the team finishes with a winning record, no such sympathies are needed. That’s why Mets fans will seem so happy this weekend, especially if their team wins two or more of the Subway Series games, and few Yankees fans will appear cheerful, since a World Series will not be at stake.

I ♥ NY

When I began working in New York 3½ years ago and told my new boss how much I liked being in the city, he said to me, “It’ll get old fast.” As a New York native with fond childhood memories, I didn’t think being in the city could ever get old.

I was right. In fact, I fell in love with New York all over again.

I fell in love with the diverse group of fascinating people in New York, each with their own stories and reasons for being in the city. I sometimes stopped to talk to a few of them, including the Mexican man on 48th Street and 6th Avenue holding a sign advertising a nearby Irish bar, and the African man wearing a sandwich board for a discount clothier on 5th Avenue near 49th Street.

I became familiar with some of the people behind the counters of many of the inexpensive eateries in midtown, including the Asian-featured man with the Spanish accent who takes pride in the salads he prepares at the deli on Madison Avenue between 48-49 Streets, or the cheery group of Latinos at Margon on 46 Street between 6-7 Avenues who always seemed happy to see me when I stopped in for lunch once or twice a month.

I fell in love with the buildings and scenery of Manhattan, which makes a fascinating backdrop for the workers, residents and tourists that occupy it. I enjoyed walking around Rockefeller Center, watching the ice skaters and seeing the Christmas tree, rarely being annoyed with the crowds. I was wasn't bothered by tourists in Grand Central Terminal standing in the middle of rushing commuters in order to take pictures of the historic ceiling.

Bryant Park, a chameleon of an oasis where sun worshippers relax in the summer and ice skaters glide through the chill in the winter, was often the highlight of my walk back to the Port Authority Bus Terminal at the end of the day. Other times, it was Times Square or the theater district, both of which looked like oil paintings after a rain, that punctuated my day. If it was pouring at the end of the day, the crowded subway, with its own subculture, was a fascinating option.

I took advantage of being able to stand in the back of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue, or sit in a pew of the Church of Saint Paul the Apostle on Columbus Avenue and 59th Street, and quietly thank God for all the blessings in my life.

Working in the city enabled me to watch Mariah Carey, Katy Perry and others perform outside the Today show studios, take in a few more Broadway shows than normal, attend some midweek Mets and Rangers games, participate in a few Jets playoff rallies, and stand a few feet away from Bono and Henry Kissinger, Mayor Michael Bloomberg, former mayors David Dinkins and Ed Koch, Governor David Paterson and former governor George Pataki. Actually, I’m sure I crossed paths with many celebrities – I just didn’t know who they were. I doubt, however, they were much more interesting than the countless working people who found themselves with me in the city, by choice, by birth, or both, most days.

It’s these kinds of people, and the gorgeous landscape in which they operate daily, that I will miss most when my current work situation officially ends next week. New York isn’t going anywhere, though, so I’ll look forward to returning to play, eat, sightsee or, perhaps, work…and certainly, I'll be reminded what it is about the city I love so much.

Mother’s Day card

To someone who won’t be needing to buy a Mother’s Day card for the first time in their life, the subject lines on some recent emails are haunting, if not painful:

“Mom's the word”

“Make this Mother's Day memorable with gift ideas from ShopRite”

“There's Still Time! Save 20% & Get Mom Something Special”

“Shop our Mother's Day Gift Guide. (While Mom's not looking.)”

“Save 25% Sitewide & Make Mom :)”

“Show Mom She Raised You With Good Taste”

“Great gifts for Mom under $300 + 25% off”

“LAST Chance: FREE Shipping/NO Service Charge for Mother's Day!”

“30 Tulips for $30: Mom Deserves The BEST!”

“AAA e-Update: Mother's Day Deals, Spring Getaways & much more”

“Mother's Day Brunch: The Perfect Gift!”

“Perfect Gifts For Every Mom On Your List!”

“Mother's Day Gift Guide”

“Shop Our Favorite Picks for Mother's Day”

“$450 worth of Mother's Day savings!”

“Give Mom a Daisy from Marc Jacobs”

“Send A Sweet Note to Mom, get a Free Gift! Details Inside.”

“Sweet! 2 Dozen Roses, FREE Vase & Free Cookies for Mom ♥ Save Over 40%”

“Mom’s Day Brunch Ideas”

“Gift Pack and Free Shipping – Just in Time for Mom”

“The best Mother's Day gifts come in Coach boxes”

“Massage and Pedicure Package for Mother's Day”

“We miss you! Save an extra 20% off gifts for Mom + Free Shipping.”

“Mother's Day musts: 30% off cardigans & jewelry”

“You're Invited! Celebrate Mother's Day Party This Saturday!”

“Spoil Mom with Surprises! Plus 15% Savings for You”

“Great Gifts for Mom + 2012 Draft Cap for You”

“Make Mom's Day with $20 Off NOOK Color or Simple Touch!”

“Mother's Day is May 13th - Send our fresh and flavorful gifts”

“Celebrate Mother's Day in style with Lauren by Ralph Lauren”

“One Great Mom”

“Get exactly what you wish for this Mother's Day”

The former statement, “One Great Mom,” certainly rings true when I think of my mother, Elena, and all she did for me, especially during the challenging times for our family in New York City during the 1960s. But, the latter statement, “Get exactly what you wish for this Mother’s Day,” will never happen again for this son. I just want to hug and kiss her and tell her again, “I love you, mom. Gracias por todo.”

Through the past with the Rolling Stones

Struggling through the first half hour of a cardio class on a stationery bike in a local gym, I suddenly feel a jolt of energy when hearing the distinct guitar sound at the start of “Paint It, Black,” the Rolling Stones hit from 1966. I smile, and pedal faster.
---
Just days earlier, while riding an elevator with a co-worker known for his liking of the Rolling Stones, a middle-age businessman asked if the band might be touring again this year.

“I don’t think so,” his colleague, a white-haired attorney, replied. “I don’t think the four of them will be able to do it until 2013.”

“But, they’ll be a year older,” the man remarked, disappointed.
---
A New York City boy first heard “Paint It, Black” on an AM radio station, and went to a music store on Broadway to look for the single. A year earlier, in his neighborhood’s recreation center, he and his friends enjoyed listening to “Get Off My Cloud” over and over and over again.
---
Shortly after the first Super Bowl telecast ended one Sunday in January 1967, the Rolling Stones appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. They sang “Ruby Tuesday” and, in deference to Mr. Sullivan’s wishes, a slightly different version of the flip side of the single, “Let’s Spend the Night Together.” It was better than the game, and soon a young New Yorker made his way to a local Woolworth to buy the disc.

Almost 40 years later, during halftime of another Super Bowl, the Rolling Stones performed a 14-minute set that, again, turned out to be more entertaining than the game. Proving some things just never change, two of the three Stones songs had lyrics censored by the television network.
---
The album with the zipper on the cover, “Sticky Fingers,” couldn’t make it past the censor of a Bloomfield, NJ family in 1971, around the same time the famous tongue graphic became synonymous with the Rolling Stones and started appearing in shirts and other clothing.

Four years later, in Madison Square Garden, the band’s on stage and it’s one of those nights. As the opening licks of “Honky Tonk Women” sounded, the stage opened slowly with a band member at the tip of each point of a star-shaped structure. Life was never quite the same for a college student.

In 1981, at a Meadowlands Arena concert, Mick Jagger dashes up the aisle during a song, just feet away from a newlywed couple. Nearly everyone is up from their seats at the new arena, excited.
---
New Rolling Stones discs have come less frequently since the mid-1980s, as have concert tours, as Mick Jagger and Keith Richards occasionally bitch in public like siblings or lovers and do their own things. The quality of Stones recordings and performances, however, have never abated – their discs and tours during the past 25 years stand up well to their earlier work.

One more Rolling Stones concert remains on my bucket list. No doubt, it will make me smile and feel like that young New York boy at the neighborhood recreation center, at the Broadway music store, in front of the TV after the first Super Bowl, or the young man at Madison Square Garden or Meadowlands Arena.

Newark Penn Station, Saturday, 8 p.m.

The game up the hill behind them, but the next train more than 30 minutes ahead of them, the basketball fans settled inside the bar in the lobby of Newark Penn Station. A couple wearing blue strode in quietly and found stools in the back of the bar, across from a group of loud men wearing red. In the corner, a man wearing blue punched his jacket, out of frustration or anger.

The bartender did her best to take care of her patrons, quickly drafting beers into frosty glasses and occasionally mixing drinks. The blue-clad couple ordered glasses of wine.

“The bartender reminds me of Sharmila,” the man sipping wine said. “Look at her and listen to her accent. I bet you she’s from Trinidad.”

“I thought she was Hispanic,” his lady companion replied.

More people entered the bar. Most were dressed in red and seemed happy at their team’s improbable win, a victory that was insignificant to them from a practical perspective. The loss by their in-state rival, however, was potentially damaging to the team’s post-season prospects. Three 60ish-year old men in blue, one of whom looked tall enough to have played college basketball in the late 1960s, talked softly among themselves.

The lone African-American man at the bar stepped out, probably to use the bathroom across the hall. He returned a few minutes later and reclaimed his seat among the red-clad white men. As improbable as it could be for a black man in Newark, New Jersey, he stood out inside the bar with his black leather jacket and black leather hat in a sea of red, blue and white.

A few minutes later a thin man with sandy-colored hair and stubby growth on his ruddy face shuffled into the bar. Seeing him, the bartender drafted a glass of beer.

“Jimmy, sit here, not there,” she said, pointing to a corner of the bar with a few empty stools. He didn’t seem to hear her as he slowly made his way to a nearby spot.

“Sit here, not there,” she repeated, holding the frosty beer of glass. He sat where she didn’t want him to anyway. She sighed, and put the beer in front of him.

Within a few more moments, the bar was full. A group of young women, not dressed in red or blue but looking as if they could have just graduated from one of the rival colleges, made their way to the back and stood by patiently.

“In a few minutes the train is going to come and this bar will be nearly empty,” the woman sipping wine said. “She’s finally going to get a chance to slow down and catch her breath.”

As most people around the bar began finishing their drinks, the couple in blue took their last sips of wine and quietly made their way past the men in red and out the door.

Eulogy for my mom, Elena

The following is an excerpt from the eulogy Charley delivered today for his mother, Elena Bruns, who passed away on January 15, 2012, in a New York hospital after complications from heart surgery.

By many standards, my mother was considered an ordinary woman. By some, she was considered extraordinary. To me, of course, she was a very special, unique person.

She was born into an ordinary middle class family in Cuba, and received a normal education for girls growing up there in the 1940s. She did not possess the kinds of special talent or skills that were in particular demand in return for a strong livelihood. Her jobs included being a clerk and a cashier. Despite her passion for pictures, she struggled with a digital camera, and never learned to use a computer.
 
But she was extraordinary in other ways. My mother’s father passed away when she was four years old, and she joined her mother in this country as a teenager, several years before the Cuban revolution forced thousands of her compatriots to flee the island. She settled in the Upper West Side of Manhattan along with some other Cubans from the Mambo Kings era. She certainly wasn’t wild and crazy – she never drank alcohol or smoked anything – but she sure could dance. After her divorce, I remember how she would practice dancing with new boyfriends in our apartment living room. If her boyfriend didn’t cut it on a dance floor, a second date was unlikely. That made Roy very special. He wasn’t a particularly nimble dancer, but they had a second date and then some.

My mom studied hard to learn English, insisting that my brother and I speak it at home so that we could all become fluent. And she succeeded to the point that, by the end of her life, I think she spoke it as well or better than Spanish, despite her strong accent.

My mom also had the extraordinary ability of squeezing 15 or 20 cents out of every dime she had. Growing up, we somehow managed to obtain everything we needed because she always got items at a steep discount or for free. Absolutely nothing, including food and clothes, was wasted in our home. Her way with money was a major reason why she and my dad were able to enjoy having two new houses built for them.
 
My mom was unique. She may not have seemed the warm, bubbly type of Cuban that my grandmother, my aunt, and other women I knew in the family while growing up appeared to be. But, I never doubted her love for me, or how special she made me feel. I will always remember when on her birthday, not mine, she took me, my big brother and her little brother to a baseball game at Yankee Stadium. She always managed to find the gifts I wanted most for Christmas, to get a good spot on Central Park West to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade, and buy some tickets to see the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall.

She was very proud of delivering four children into this world. Her youngest child, and only daughter, was born while I was a sophomore in high school. My mom was beaming the day she left the hospital holding my sister. I remember my classmates asking me for weeks, “Hey Charley, was that your mother who just had a baby?” “Yeah,” I admitted, “that was my mom who just had a little girl.”

My mom was fortunate to learn how to cook traditional Cuban food from her mother. Our family could never figure out how she made her yellow rice and chicken look and taste perfect. She went through much trouble to get the right ingredients to cook with red beans. The taste of her black beans could not be beat although, fortunately for me, she was able to teach my wife how to prepare them just right.
 
After my grandmother passed away 20 years ago, my mom had a big void in her life. She missed her mother very much, and rarely went long without talking about her. Just recently she said to me, “Do you realize Belen would’ve been 100 years old this year?” Ironically, it was exactly 100 years ago today that her mom was born.

Now it’s my turn to have a big void in my life. But, just as my mom made sure I never forgot all the great qualities of her mom and the special times we shared together, I am determined to make sure my family, including my dad, my brothers, sister, children, nephews and niece, never forget her great qualities and the special times we shared together with her.