Page 14 - Boca ViewPointe - July '23
P. 14

Page 14, Viewpointe                                                   July 2023
      Holding Babies And History




      By Robert W. Goldfarb                              he said, but looking back, I think that’s when I became      I’m aware the hope and joy that once again surge
                                                         a man. Barely out of my teens, I had earned the trust of   through me can end with a fall and broken hip. I’ve long
         My granddaughter handed me her month-old son, my   men I held in awe.                             been old enough to be offered seats on trains and busses.
      first great-grandchild, smiling as she did so. I had seen a      I felt the surge of that pride as I held Amari for the first   My arthritic shoulders grate as I raise my arms. Amari
      smile like that 70 years earlier when my wife held out to   time. Instead of slumping to the dirge of an old man’s music,   and his parents live in San Francisco and I live in Florida.
      me our first child. It struck me that neither mother spoke as   I straightened to the blaze of a trumpet I heard on long-ago   Travel has become more stressful for everyone, even
      they placed the babies in my arms. As young as they were,   fields. When the training day ended, I stood with tough,   more for a 93-year-old. But, I’ve brought a baby-carrier
      both seemed to know they were not only entrusting new life   irreverent men who snapped to attention when “Retreat”   and will continue flying across the country knowing
      to me, they were writing pages in a family history. Muriel   sounded as the flag we loved was lowered. It’s as though   something young and promising awaits me. The blaze
      was 19 and I was 23 when I held our first child. Now I am   at 93 I was hearing the trumpet’s call to stand proud as I   of a trumpet will stand me tall as I board a plane taking
      a 93-year-old widower holding that history in my arms.  held my great-grandson.                      me to my family’s future.
         Most of my grandchildren are in their thirties and I’ve      I wonder if it’s that call that made it possible for me to
      held, fed and diapered them, carried them along streets   survive the death of my wife. While no longer physically      Bob’s articles have appeared in The New York Times,
      where we now meet for lunch. They were probably too   alongside me, Muriel’s presence is in my being, my soul.   The San Francisco Chronicle and in Next Avenue, the
      young when we began training together to run the three-mile   She knew the boy I was and the man he became. She would   publication of the Public Broadcasting Service. His
      races we still enter. We’ve had time together I will not have   want Amari to hear that call and his own as I held him. My   book, “What’s Stopping Me From Getting Ahead?” was
      with Amari. But his birth has me thinking of beginnings   love for Muriel tightens my grip around Amari. I want him   published by McGraw Hill and is in five languages. 
      rather than endings. Just holding him creates memories that   to know how much she would have loved holding him.
      might one day tell him we touched.
         I’ve also begun behaving in ways that should embarrass
      me. I hurry over to young couples holding babies, telling                                                       Norbert Graber, R. Ph.
      them, “I’ve just become a great-grandfather and held the                                                       and Lynn Graber, R. Ph.
      baby the way you’re holding yours!” Instead of recoiling
      and shielding their children, they smile and say “Here, hold
      her. You’ll need the practice.”
         I’ve begun to see something in the young father I was
      that endures in the great-grandfather I am now. I became
      a father less than two years after returning from the
      Korean War. Most of what you bring back--especially the
      memories--you discard, or hope to. But something far more
      important must have lain dormant in me over the decades.
         The men who trained and later led me had jumped
      into Normandy six years earlier. They were quiet men
      whose only words we heard were orders. I was surprised
      one day when my platoon sergeant beckoned to me. He
      said “Goldfarb, you’ve become one of us.” That was all


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