THE BOCA HOUSE IS OVER

The Boca house is over.  For twenty-five years we traveled down there, starting when our daughters were babies.  The room upstairs was for Brad and me and the single bedded room for our daughters; Brad’s brothers and wives stayed there as well. It was a frequent winter retreat for all of us from New York, and we spent countless school vacations there. 

It was a beautiful, fancy Florida house with high ceilings and tasteful keepsakes adorning the shelves. Original art was everywhere; giraffe statues peered over the staircase landing. It was the home of Gramarlene and Papa, and it was filled with photographs depicting family celebrations, past and present. There were so many delicious meals served at that kitchen table, with enduring conversations, and every visit promised Papa’s perfectly prepared grilled cheese.  And the net-less volleyball games played over the years in the pool right outside were just so much fun.

But after a very long life, Papa died in June, this past June 13^th to be exact.  I never really knew what name to call him, until my girls started calling him Papa, and I adopted that name for him as well.   Calling him Ralph was strange, but so was ‘dad’ since I had my own dad, or at least one alive until I was 26.  Papa was much like a father to me, but we were quite different.  He was a conservative businessman, an immigrant from Germany much like my parents, but a Democrat turned Republican who never returned.  His three sons and their wives were liberal, thrilled when Obama was elected and then reelected, but of course he wasn’t.  But when he and his wife both voted for Trump, it was too much.  No talking politics. On guard at the Thanksgiving table.

Papa was a loving grandpa, a devoted husband for 64 years, a kid who came to this country at 6 or 7, born of a poor family, but who became a successful businessman who did well for himself and his family. Hence this Boca country club house, an impeccably furnished expansive Florida house with that pool out back and one down the road. 

I never thought deeply about my relationship with him.  He just was.  Papa. Brad’s father. My father-in-law.  We sat around that June weekend, sharing our memories of him prior to the funeral which would be held on Father’s Day.  I spoke about how powerful he seemed to me when I was 20 years old, sitting as a passenger in the back seat of one of his big American-made cars. I always felt safe and like a kid in that back seat with Papa driving, my own father never having learned to drive. I shared my memory of how Marlene and Ralph sprung out of their seats and ran to the dance floor at Ariel’s sweet 16 to dance to the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” when everyone else was just beginning to eat their salad. It was a grand entrance, and I knew that moment would live on in me eternally.

But change has come.  And we are worried about Marlene now. There has been little time to mourn Papa. Or the Boca house which is about to be sold. The Boca house is over.