My Brother Ron

 

I haven't posted anything here in more than two years. That's a shame. It's not like I don't have things to say. I stopped writing regularly about ten years ago when I became more and more upset with the state of our politics and, standing back, viewed my pondering as an exercise in howling at the moon. It's gotten worse. 

However, my brother from another mother, Ron Levitus, died last Saturday. Ron was 76. Sunday was my first day on Earth without him. Ron had lived with Alzheimers since his late 60's. It's hard to keep track, but I remember that his 70th birthday party was particularly poignant because none of us knew how much longer he would be with us, cognitively and/or physically.

The family asked me to speak at Ron's funeral. It was an honor I could not refuse, even though I knew what I was about to go through. I spent Sunday drafting my remembrance. I sobbed on and off throughout the day. As noted in my remarks, I didn't consider it a eulogy. It was a personal tribute. 

When I was in the middle of drafting, I was reminded by Ron and my rabbi, R. Cohen, that there were a lot of speakers scheduled for the funeral and I should keep it to three to four minutes. I agreed to do so. On Monday, I informed the Rabbi Cohen that I was at six minutes. "After 73 years, I'm taking an extra two minutes." He advised me to "talk fast and don't cry". He asked for my draft so he wouldn't be duplicative of my remarks, a legitimate concern given the amount of time the three of us had spent together. 

I sent Rabbi Cohen my draft. Shortly thereafter, I received a text back. "Sam. This is absolutely beautiful. I would not change a thing. And you can speak slowly and cry. There will be a box of Kleenex on the bimah. Just save some for me. ❤️" It was the nicest thing he'd ever said to me, and that includes calling me a mensch during his sermon at Phil's Bar Mitzvah.

I went seven and a half minutes. I left out the story about Ron costing me a lot of money at a Vegas blackjack table by drawing on 15 when the dealer showed a 6. I left out the story about the time the press pass I finagled from the Vikings for a game Ron and I attended by claiming to be a blogger (with a telephoto lens) gave us entrance onto the field and, later, into the locker room. When we were busted (who knew you couldn't bring cameras into the locker room?), we bolted from the rest of the press and nearly made it through the labyrinth of the Dome before being stopped by a guy with a walkie talkie and a golf cart. He reported back to whoever was looking for us that we had a press pass and let us go. It was a great escape. 

I left out a lot. Because you can't fit 73 years into 7 and 1/2 minutes.

Here are my remarks, my remembrance, my Ron Stories. 

Good afternoon. My name is Sam Stern. I’m Uncle Sam to Ari, Morgan, and Michelle. And, by way of the introduction I always used with Ron and a third party, Ron knew me since my mother was pregnant with me. 

This is not a eulogy. Yesterday, after notifying the Minnetonka Rotary that our only honorary member had passed away, I received a condolence email describing Ron as a “kind man”. As far as eulogies go, that pretty much sums up Ron. All the rest is commentary.

I’m here this afternoon, for as long as I can stand it, to tell Ron Stories. Ron’s brother Stephen Levitus is the only person on Earth who’s known Ron longer than me, and he’s quarantining from COVID in Los Angeles. I have nothing on Ron’s first 3 years, but I have a lifetime of memories from thereon. Ron taught me a lot over the years, and I’m going to use Ron Stories to describe those lessons.

Ron taught me to pick helpful allies. Our fathers were partners in the trucking business in Chicago and moved their families and business to the Twin Cities in 1954. We lived next to each other in St. Louis Park, and it often felt like one big family. I was the eldest Stern son; Ron was like a big brother. As a big brother, he picked on me and gave me a hard time when I picked on my kid brother, Jordy. Eventually, I figured out that if I ratted Ron out to Stephen, the oldest of us all, Stephen would pick on Ron until he left me alone. A helpful ally.

Ron taught me that educating oneself could be an independent study. While I was reading My Weekly Reader, Ron had a subscription to Popular Mechanics. I remember seeing the magazine in his bedroom and realizing why Ron was so smart. He would have been about 10 and he was actively engaged in feeding his curiosity.

Ron taught me how to pin the needle on a speedometer. In the summer of 1969, Ron and I were given the task of driving to Chicago to bring back my mom and his grandparents who had all been visiting family. Ron was home from Film School at NYU. He was heavily bearded, had very long curly hair, and was the epitome of 1960’s counterculture. We didn’t leave the Twin Cities until late at night and had to stop at the Embers in White Bear Lake to see Ron’s girlfriend. Hanging out with a bearded, long-haired, NYU film school student at an Embers near midnight made me feel very mature. We drove to an exit for a Wisconsin State Forest, where we decided to pull over and sleep in the sleeping bags we’d brought. We drove into the pitch-black environment, parked the car, got ready to camp, heard growling noises that weren’t from St. Louis Park, packed up, and drove away. 

We ended up camping out with sleeping bags in the field behind an Interstate rest stop, wary of all the truckers who were spending the night because Easy Rider was a current movie and the hippies and truckers in that movie didn’t mix well. 

That morning, Ron demonstrated that if you drove faster than the highest number on the speedometer, your speed would increase but the needle would get stuck on the little nub at the 100-m.p.h. mark. He pinned the needle. 

Ron also taught me on that trip not to panic. Twice.

The first time was when a “Pay Toll 1 Mile” sign appeared and the car was filled with smoke from Ron’s, and only Ron’s, joint. I was sure the toll booth guy was going to report us to the highway patrol. Not Ron. I won’t repeat Ron’s expletive, but the windows came down, the fans were set to max, the speedometer was no longer pinned, and Ron cruised through the toll booth transaction like we were on our way to Bible camp.

He also taught me not to panic when we arrived at my Nana’s Chicago condo. We brought our backpacks and sleeping bags up to the 25th floor. Mom and Nana gushed over us, so proud that we had driven by ourselves all the way to Chicago. My mom took the sleeping bags to a bedroom to air out and Ron and I stayed in the living room, admiring the view of Lake Michigan. All of a sudden, my mother cried out from the bedroom “There’s grass in the sleeping bags!” That was it. My life was over. My mom had discovered that I was in the presence of marijuana and probably thought I was an addict. Not Ron. He gave me a “be cool, don’t panic” look. What Ron realized was that my mom was referring to the grass from the field behind the rest stop where we had slept because he knew that he had not put his stash in the sleeping bag.

Ron taught me to be flexible. After graduating from film school, Ron worked for a New York production company. One day, he was scouting for locations for the famous “Mama mia, that’s a spicy meatball” commercial for Alka-Seltzer. He went to Katz’s Deli where Ron described the commercial to Mr. Katz and asked if his company could rent the deli for the shoot. As Ron told it, Mr. Katz listened and then said, “Ron, you seem like a smart Jewish boy. Tell me. Why would I want people to think they’ll need Alka-Seltzer if they eat at my restaurant?” Being flexible, Ron found another location.

Ron taught me not to be judgmental. As our families grew, they remained one in many ways. We marvel at how four generations of Levituses and Sterns can share such a strong familial bond. Each year, our families gather on the evening before Thanksgiving and, invariably, grab the annual Levitus/Stern family photo. One year, Ron was fussing with his camera, unable to figure out how to put it on a timer so he could be in the shot. The wait was irritating me, and I used my own camera for the image. On the way home, I commented to Deb that I didn’t understand what had just happened. Ron was a professional photographer. How could he not know how to do something as simple as set a timer? Shortly thereafter, we became aware of Ron’s early onset diagnosis and I realized that the camera issue was a manifestation. I still feel guilty for getting upset about his fumbling and being so judgmental.

I have many more lessons from Ron (ask me at Shiva about the trip to Vegas), but I’m going to wrap up to give others time to speak. 

 I’ll end with the fact the Ron taught me that a lifetime of love and friendship hardwires emotions. Whenever I visited Ron at the memory care center, I shuddered at the prospect that he would not recognize me. But when Ron saw me standing at the glass entrance from across the communal living room, there was always a big smile and hand clapping as he waited for me to come into the facility. If he could, he would get up to joyfully greet me. I realized that, even if more than 70 years of details were gone, he recognized our connection and that our aura was one of love and inseparability.

Yesterday was the first day in my life without Ron. Except that’s not really true. He left Deb and me with a sister, three nieces, a couple of nephews, two grand-nephews and two grand nieces. His legacy of kindness, and devotion, and loyalty, and dignity will continue to serve as a guidepost from my life-long teacher.