IN SEARCH OF FAMILY

As we all know, in the Jewish world, family counts for everything. We gush over our children, dote on our grandchildren and love to spend as much time as possible with siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. But sometimes, things go askew and we lose touch with treasured members of our extended family for many years. Such was the case with my cousin Vic. A first cousin to my beloved dad, Vic spent much time at our home in New Jersey while I was growing up as he had a difficult home life with a mother who was in and out of mental hospitals. As a young man, his father told him never to marry or he might pass on those flawed genes, and for many years after his dad died, Vic was the main caregiver for his mother since his brother Harry moved away and left him with this burden. When I left for college at 17, married the erstwhile rabbi and moved away, spending time with my cousin Vic became a thing of the past. But I never forgot how he always took the time to squire me and my girlfriends around to Di Lorenzo’s Pizza and other local hangouts even though he was ten years older than we were. I last saw him at my father’s funeral when I was 25 and he was 35. That was over 50 years ago. Recently I decided to google him and up popped his website – with his photo and a description of the large law office he headed up. Within moments, I called the number on the screen, and though the secretary answered, “Mr. Walcoff’s office,” she told me that he was living in a Jewish assisted living facility after awaking from a two -month coma last January, We began an email exchange that resulted in my going to see him in our home town of Trenton, New Jersey, last week. As the administrator took me to Vic’s apartment, I marveled at how fond everyone seemed of his elderly gentleman who struggled to get to his feet as I approached him. Bent over from the ten-month ordeal that was not yet over, he leaned on the walker that was next to his chair to come closer to me. When I looked into his blue Walcoff eyes (my dad’s eyes were that same Paul Newman blue), I recognized the delightful cousin who had been a wonderful part of my growing up years. We spent the afternoon together chatting and sharing as he guided me around the city to see my elementary and high schools, the three different homes we lived in and the cemetery where my dad and nana were buried, side-by-side. I couldn’t believe that he remembered the exact location of their headstones as he, too, hadn’t been there in fifty years. He took me for dinner at the Jewish country club where he was welcomed with great respect and attention as we parked at the front door. As I showed him, one by one, the pictures of my daughters, their husbands and my grandchildren, he quietly smiled while asking questions about each of them. He told me how he had been president of the Jewish Federation and his synagogue, Adath Israel, head of the local office of the United Way and a past president of the Jewish Community Center all while building an award winning legal office. As I listened to his telling me of his life’s achievements, I saw a man who was confident without being arrogant and successful without being boastful. When I asked him about my dad, he said what he loved best about him was that he was a non-conformist and a talented, creative man who was good at everything. He knew that my parents had a solid marriage even though my dad struggled with earning a living. Their home was always open, and he met the most interesting people there whenever he stopped by. He always felt at home there. I remembered that he helped my mom with financial matters after my dad died. He was family, and that meant he would help whenever he could. Hugging him goodbye later that night, I was grateful I had made the effort to see him this one last time. His life was a testament to those Walcoff genes that had traveled from a remote village in Russia over a hundred years ago so that future generations could enjoy the privilege of living in America. As I drove out of the parking lot late that evening, I knew that I had spent time with the last person alive who remembered my mom and dad and the home we shared together. In my mind, I hear my Hazzan’s words as I nervously begin to play the piano for Shabbat services. “It’s all good