The fiery embers of a wildfire will engulf as much fuel as it needs to satisfy an appetite that sometimes is so enormous, that containment seems too difficult a task to mount. Destruction diminishes the sheer serenity of a place so complex, that was just simply set on Earth to nurture and showcase the wisdom and wonderment of nature. Scientists often say, and perhaps with the eons of years that fly by, the evidence is true, from the giant flames engulfing everything in its path, embers of new life emerge, and the growth of something great if not even more magnificent.
In the midst of the madness which has become a trademark of anything and everyone Trump, Saturday, November 3, two events occurred each settling on a separate spectrum of life, but both with common connections of the continuum of life, and the chance that within chaos can come celebration.
My Aunt Meercy, my Doris Day, My Auntie Mame, the person who told me, that when you ask a girl to dance, you look her in the eye, take her by the hand, and assure her that once you are on the dance floor, she can depend on you to move as if you were flying. My Aunt Meercy, who was a single lady in the 50’s a time when women were considered less than if they were not married, proved that being a female meant you were no less than a male! She understood there were times she could and would surpass, any negative expectations misogynistic men might ponder. Aunt Meercy would teach her nieces and nephews manners, explaining that when entering a museum, you stick to the right, that way you avoid, bumping into people more concerned about reading their maps, and by doing so, never missing any piece of art or artifact, and the story is told. Aunt Meercy taught me to do the cha-cha and insisted I never stop dreaming. On Saturday, November 3, she turned 101 years old. Dementia has begun to demand more of her time, straining memories of when and how, who and where, but there are still a few things of which my Aunt Meercy still owns…she will tell you she thanks God each day she is alive, she is Jewish, and she grew up in Squirrel Hill.
On Saturday, November 3, my daughter Dani, and my might as well be another son Scott, both musicians/singers/songwriters, both of the group TeamMate, performed once again at the Troubadour Club in LA. My kids, the musicians, my kids pursuing their dreams, my kids were on stage, and the entire audience was mesmerized, moved, and I was one of the proudest of Papa’s in the world. It was an eclectic crowd, of which many could not only be the age go my kids but the age of my grandkids. The last piece of music, Dani and Scott performed was a song written a while ago by both of them and Todd Wright called “We’re Still Here.” Standing on the stage of the Troubadour my kids explained to the crowd that Dani is from Squirrel Hill, and Scott had spent many, many years in that neighborhood and that proudly both are Jewish. The crowd cheered, the crowd applauded.
I am still mourning loss the purity and preciousness of a neighborhood, and the lives once lived there. It was not always pristine, but Squirrel Hill is a place called home. It is a place of pride for my 101-year-old Aunt Meercy, and both Dani Buncher and Scott Simons, known as TeamMate.
