This isn't the best way to get back to my blog, but one I feel I need to write. I just found out that one of my parent's friends, Bob Katz, has died at 92, a respectable age, I know, but I grieve nonetheless. Whenever one of my parents' friends dies, it leaves me grieving for them (I must admit, especially my father) again. It's another door closing on my secure childhood, another reminded that I am the adult now, the oldest living generation.
Bob was at my parents' wedding, lived around the corner most of my life, and was my dentist. Pammy and I grew up together, as did Mark and Richard. He was a nice man, the kind of dentist who kept talking during the examination and cleaning. He could show his temper. My memory is a bit weak in regards to this incident, but I believe he slapped either me or Nancy when we fussed too much at the dentist.
His wife, Polly, was hard as nails, but good-hearted, too. She was involved with German shepherds and obedience training. She guided my father through showing Gigi, our first standard poodle. Polly was equally in love with her little chihuahua, Jose, who she taught to smile, among other things. Polly died of lung cancer quite a few years ago.
Several times when my parents went out of town, I stayed with Pammy, at the Katz's. I remember their house well. The living room was always blocked with dog jumps, designed to keep the dogs out. Mark was the terror of the neighborhood. Five years younger than I, he still made me nervous when I had to drive him to Hebrew school. Mark died from pneumonia couple of years ago.
I have a lot of little memories, but they are fading, as is my past, the core of my childhood. I shed tears for Bob and for me...
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