Dear Jonah Maccabee,

A year ago, I was in Buffalo, NY, for Father’s Day. I’d gone there for a wedding but my heart was pretty squarely with you and the University at Buffalo where you’d died. It had been little more than three months since we’d lost you.

My second Father’s Day took place in two locations.

Part one. Mom and I drove to Lenox, Massachusetts, for the wedding of a young woman she’d known since the girl’s birth. I know her too but not well, and only met her groom the night before. So while I was fully expecting mom to cry as she watched her friend, the daughter of one of her very best friends, walk down that aisle, I wasn’t at all prepared for my own tears. It was an emotional sneak attack. As I observed this young man, squeezed between his mother and father, awkwardly making his way through the gathered congregation (because no matter how wide these aisles are, grooms never seem to be able to make this walk with much gracefulness), I felt the tears begin. You were with me. At this wedding. Because you’d not be at one of your own. You’d not awkwardly walk a wedding aisle. You’d not be held on either side by mom and me. We’d not cry the tears of parents joyfully releasing their older son into a bright, loving future.

Part two. Later that evening. About three minutes after arriving back home. Katie and Aiden pulled out two big boxes and presented them to me in our family room, with mom looking on. The first gift was a digital picture frame for my Study at the temple. Perfect. Can’t ever have too many pictures (tho this one is limited to a mere thousand). The second gift was “the cheese plate.” Of course. Also perfect. You remember the cheese plate, a gag gift that’s been passed around our family since its arrival maybe seven or eight years ago. I can’t remember who got it first, but since then, whoever’s had it has selected an opportune moment to wrap it and re-gift it to some unsuspecting sap, most often met with a groan or a laugh or both (you usually groaned, but that didn’t stop you from passing it along to the next person). The last time you’d received it was when Aiden gave it to you for your high school graduation in 2008. You later presented it to mom during your last Hanukkah with us. Mom gave it to Aiden for his birthday in 2009. Aiden gave it to Katie this past Hanukkah. And now it’s come to me for Father’s Day, and is mine to decide who the next recipient will be.

Before heading off to the wedding, mom had said to friends of ours, “There’s still so much blessing, so much goodness in our lives.” And she’s right. What’s missing – you – will likely bring tears forever. But what’s so abundantly present – the blessings of your sister and your brother, and the love I share with mom – shine as resplendent as ever. These two, now necessary, ingredients in the recipe of our lives, stand side-by-side each day. And this Father’s Day I am poignantly reminded how lucky I am that, having lost so much, my life is still so very rich.

Love you forever,
Dad

Much of the Dreskin family life occurs around meals. Whether it’s the breakfast room, the dining room, in front of the television or out-and-about, some of our favorite shared memories come from those food- and antic-filled moments. This makes sense because it’s often the only time during the day when all of us are in the same room together.

Ellen is the family cook (not to be taken for granted in these days of changing gender roles around the house) and much of the credit for getting all of us around one table goes to her. The funny thing about this is that Ellen’s been a vegetarian since 1999 yet she regularly prepares meat and chicken meals, asking us, “How’s it taste? I can’t make it the way you like it unless you tell me what you think.” And except for an unfortunate incident in college involving Ellen’s discovering many servings of meatloaf in her apartment garbage can (and that was when Ellen was still eating meat), we’ve never felt like we were being poisoned or subjected to unusual cruelty.

Jonah liked his mom’s cooking. A lot. Which figures, since most moms make that earnest effort to give their kids stuff they’ll actually eat. Jonah loved Ellen’s fried chicken, ground beef tacos (including the refried beans and melted cheese nachos), artichokes with melted butter (which he always asked for when she was going shopping), asparagus (“From your side,” Ellen says to me because Jonah and I shared a preference for asparagus out of the can, all soft and mushy, while no one else would go near them), mushrooms and black olives (“From my side,” says Ellen because Billy does not like mushrooms or black olives). Jonah liked shrimp the way Ellen made them (sauteed in butter and garlic) and taught me the Tao of gently placing a bit of grated cheddar atop each one. He loved mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, raw purple cabbage, dry roasted peanuts, and Fruit Loops. He learned at the feet of his wise, older sister the technique of stuffing the middle of a black olive with taco meat and cheese before popping it into his mouth. And Aiden learned from him the ancient way of mounting five black olives on five fingers before gobbling them up (the olives, not the fingers).

Saturday Night Pizza
October 2000

There were other foods that Jonah loved which Ellen did not prepare. For as long as anyone can remember, Saturday nights at the Dreskins are for pizza and ice cream. This originated from our being allergic to so many of the ingredients in those two dishes, and our having been taught from Jonah’s Grandpa Jake the effectiveness of rotating and diversifying our foods, that we’ve always devoted one night a week to permitting ourselves a meal comprised of all our forbidden allergens. Jonah’s pizza order was always for mushrooms and black olives. And his favorite ice cream included the following Ben and Jerry’s flavors: Magic Brownies, Half-Baked, New York Super Fudge Chunk Brownie Batter, Chocolate Fudge Brownie, Fossil Fuel, and Everything But The … (he liked chocolate). You can see, that with so many beloved flavors, there was value in limiting our ice cream consumption to one night a week.

By the way, Jonah did not eat a lot of junk food. He was actually pretty careful about what he put in his body. At home, anyway. Which freed him up to have some fairly guilt-free fun when he was away from home (and on Saturday nights, of course). Nevertheless, he was quite fond of Charleston Chews and Peanut Chews. And while I can confidently assure you that he reached for the broccoli whenever it graced our table, when time came to “junk out” the aforementioned were among his faves.

Ben & Jerry’s!
May 2007

Every Saturday afternoon I’d arrive home from temple with lunch in hand. I’d drive into Ardsley and stop by Lisa and Tony’s deli where sandwich orders would first be confirmed by cellphone but were always fairly predictable. Jonah’s tastes changed a little over time, but our family’s memory of his sandwich order was roast beef, mustard, swiss cheese and lettuce on a roll (later modified to include turkey along with the roast beef). We’d all gather in the family room to eat while watching television, Jonah sitting just a few feet away in front of his computer, enjoying his sandwich and (always) a bottle of root beer (see “Bottled Up,” July 12, 2009). Later, he and I occasionally jettisoned our sandwich orders and I’d bring home a half-pound of pastrami, which we’d fry in a pan, divvy up and consume at our respective locations.

Infrequently, Jonah would cook for himself. He only had one dish he knew how to prepare. For the kid I sometimes called Jonah Macarona, that dish could only have been macaroni and cheese. Kraft’s Easy Mac was his brand of choice. Jonah loved macaroni and cheese, perhaps because he shared a name with it, perhaps because he just loved mac ‘n cheese. Whatever the reason, Easy Mac was … well … easy for Mac to make, and became for me somewhat analogous with Jonah himself: tasty, much-liked, warm and gooey, and rarely an inconvenience. I keep a box of Easy Mac around because it’s a light-hearted reminder of my light-hearted kid.

There was always a lot of laughter at our dinner table. Everyone took turns being its cause, and it made this time precious to us all. It cracked us up that Jonah always asked for a puppy dog when he wanted someone to hand him a napkin. His confusion really wasn’t his fault; Ellen had memorably remarked how funny it would be if a child grew up being taught by his parents that napkins were called puppies and puppies were called napkins. Frankly, I think Jonah adored his mother, and referring to napkins as puppy dogs was one of the ways he’d tell her that he loved her.

As with most families, many table-antics were designed to annoy but it was pretty much always in jest, not in anger. For example, if there was ever any aluminum foil on the table (usually from baked potatoes), Jonah would make sure it got balled up and chucked at someone (usually Aiden, who sat directly across from him). Katie, who sat to Jonah’s left, occasionally got into the who-can-I-annoy act too, having a subtle little habit of pushing Jonah’s chair a little bit away from her whenever he got up from the table. Eventually Jonah would find himself seated at the far edge, encroaching on his mom’s elbow room (she sat to his perpendicular right, at the table’s end), with Katie quietly reveling in her widely-opened spaces.

I wish I could remember more from the dinner table. These were such pleasurable moments for our family, and no one thought they should be written down because we thought there’d always be more. No one stopped to consider that one day one of us might no longer be at the table and that there might not be any new antics from him so we’d better keep track of the ones we’re seeing now. No one thought about that.

We had our assigned seats at each of our two tables which sometimes caused a ruckus when one of us deliberately sabotaged the arrangement. By and large, however, each of us knew our place. Or not.

Jonah liked to lean back on the rear two legs of his chair, always drawing a corrective advisement from his mom, but never sufficient for him to cease this habit (which we also witnessed as he sat at his computer in the family room). I can’t remember him ever falling backwards.

Sometimes breakfast just got weird
circa 1997

In the breakfast room, Jonah, Ellen and Aiden sat at the table’s end, boxing in Katie and me. This meant that someone else would always have to get up to retrieve something from the kitchen if either Katie or I came up short. Something I loved about Jonah was that he never complained when asked to do that. But that was Jonah. On Friday afternoons, he helped Ellen get the house ready for Shabbat. When winter or spring arrived, he helped me change the screen in the front door. PGT learned this about him, that he could always be counted on when someone needed a helping hand. Kutz Camp did, as well. Jonah would offer his assistance to anyone at anytime.

Late Friday evening, I come home from temple and prepare for the next morning’s Torah Study. I often throw a bag of popcorn into the microwave to give me something to munch on while I work at the breakfast room table. It brings a little bit of foot-traffic from the family room as various Dreskins take from my bowl. Jonah always yelled at me for burning the popcorn. He believed that microwave popcorn should be perfectly prepared, every kernel popped but none burned. I enjoy the occasional charred piece, which he believed ruined the entire lot so Jonah would try and make sure I entered 2:15 on the timer and not my preferred 2:30. If he spied that occasional charred piece of corn, he’d dismiss the entire bowl. My son the purist. Ah well, more for me.

In September 2007, I spent a week living on a dollar a meal in order to try and understand what it meant to live on Food Stamps in this country. During that week, I made no popcorn because I couldn’t afford it. But Jonah did, and when I asked him for a nickel’s worth, he dug out the worst pieces in the bowl and gave them to me. You might think this was mean, but he was just trying to give me my favorite pieces. If his popcorn bowl reached perfection as a result, that was just a happy consequence of his goodwill.

During Jonah’s nineteen years, he consumed somewhere in the neighborhood of 20,000 meals. While I understand that I wasn’t with him for them all, there are still thousands and thousands that we did share. When I consider how brief his life was, this number helps me remember that while I miss him a lot, my own life is much, much richer because, for a good while, he was here.

Billy

On a recent visit to my physician’s office, while I was waiting to be summoned I watched with muted delight as a father and his 20-year old son arranged to get the young man a check-up before he took off for a semester in Australia. The whole time they were there, the kid’s dad was joking around, poking gentle fun at his growing-up child. At one point, he said to the nurse, “I’m trying to get rid of him.” Both of the men seemed quite comfortable with what was probably a familiar routine to them both.

I recognized this exchange as one that Jonah and I had played out many, many times across the years. Part of me thought, “Jonah will never be 25. Jonah will never get to travel to Australia. Jonah will never need another check-up. Jonah will never again have to tolerate me making bad jokes to nurses at his expense.” But the other part, the part that keeps me sane, even a year after Jonah’s death, was thinking, “I’m so glad I got to share with Jonah what this father and his son are sharing.” We goofed around so much. Maybe it was compensation for our inability to communicate as well as we had when Jonah was younger, but our verbal sparring and even our wrestling and poking and punching, these, I’m very certain, were dear and precious expressions of the love between us.

Just arrived!
February 14, 1990

That office scene got me thinking. Across Jonah’s nineteen years, how often had we needed to provide medical care for him? Not often at all. He rarely got sick. Which is ironic, because he was born sick. He arrived into this world with what the doctors described as “a touch of pneumonia.” His infant body wasn’t bothered in the least by it, even though they stuck a needle in his foot and had to keep him in NICU until the very mild infection went away. But while he was there, the nurses fell in love with him because he was an 8-pound baby in a room filled with 2- and 3-pound preemies. They couldn’t get enough of holding him, singing to him, and watching over him but without the same critical concern the other newborns required. I remember visiting him that first week of life, watching him through the NICU observation window, and how I couldn’t wait to bring him home, to hold him in my own arms, sing to him my own songs, and watch over him as he grew.

The funny part about Jonah’s not getting sick was his feelings about school. He was so critical of it — of the teachers he felt imparted far too many irrelevant bits of information, and who assigned homework which Jonah always refused to complete on the grounds that, “If they can’t do their job and teach us what we need to know during the day, I’m not about to cover for them by doing their work on my own at night.” But aside from Jonah’s less than complimentary view of educators and of education, he almost never missed a day of school. Not only did he very rarely get sick, he never pretended to get sick either. I loved that about him. It was never easy to get him up in the morning, but eventually he always got moving, a bit too slowly for my own morning pace, but he always walked out that front door, either to catch the bus when it used to pick him up in front of our house, or for me to drive him to the pickup point.

There were a small number of medical interventions in Jonah’s life. And they make pretty good stories.

Day of the Smashed Fingers
Jonah with Ryan Bone, May 1995

Jonah’s first visit for urgent care occurred sometime while we were living in Cleveland (in other words, prior to his sixth birthday). He’d been playing in his bedroom with his buddy Ryan. This, by the way, was the one kid he missed when we left Cleveland, the one kid he never let us forget we’d ripped from his life when we destroyed it by moving to New York, the one kid (it turns out) who missed Jonah right back (and when Jonah died, whose mom drove him from Cleveland to New York so he could attend Jonah’s funeral). Oh, and the one kid who slammed a closet door on Jonah’s hand, squashing it at the hinge (so much so that the mold of the hinge had pressed itself not merely into Jonah’s skin but into the muscle and bone). Jonah’s screams alone were enough to persuade us to drive him to an Urgent Care facility. Amazingly, an x-ray revealed that not a single bone had been broken. Everything was so soft at his age that the bones just bent to the form of the door pressing into its hinges, and then (after a little time, of course) they just bent right back. Lucky Ryan, Jonah (who knew how to hold a powerful grudge) never thought for a moment to direct one at his extremely guilt-ridden friend. Their friendship held strong.

See Jonah’s scar?
Kutz, Summer 1995

But the most exciting medical moment in Jonah’s childhood took place during one of our summers at Kutz Camp (1995). Jonah and Katie had been sharing a bunk bed in our family cabin – Katie on the bottom and Jonah up on top. On this particular evening, Jonah, asleep, rolled off the bed and, on his way down, struck the edge of a small night table (it would be the very next day that guardrails would be built for each and every one of these top bunks throughout the camp). Jonah’s forehead split open right down to the bone. Blood was pouring out, drenching his blue Superman t-shirt (the irony of which was not lost on us). We banged on the wall for our neighbor Laura, who was also the camp nurse, to come over and convince us that Jonah wasn’t bleeding to death. She patched him up and we headed into Warwick to the local ER where we had to restrain his young arms behind him and inside of a pillow case, then had to wrap his entire body in a large sheet, so that we could hold his squirming frame in place for novocaine injections and stitches. Six years later, Jonah would write for a school project, “Since I was the kind of kid who liked reading Batman, I thought that stitches would’ve made me look like a thug. So I put up a real fight at the hospital. In the end I ended up getting the stitches and going home like nothing happened.” That’s probably as good a read of the evening as any. For the rest of his life, Jonah had a spiffy little scar on his forehead that at various times he would grow hair to cover, or cut short to let the world know he had some unique markings all his own.

Dr. Wally
PGT’s “Marvin’s Room”
May 2007

Until March 2009, Jonah’s only encounters with medical personnel (besides annual check-ups) would include the extraction of a baby tooth that wouldn’t fall out, and two of the characters he played in productions at PGT. In May 2007, he appeared as Dr. Wally in “Marvin’s Room,” and in December that same year, he played a retired, morphine-addicted Dr. Otternschlag in “Grand Hotel.” As I wrote earlier, Jonah rarely got sick. The closest he got to doctors was in pretending to be one.

The last time Jonah saw a doctor was on March 5, 2009. In his report, the Medical Examiner noted how healthy Jonah had been. On the night he died, Jonah was in great shape. And on the night he died, no doctor could save him.

Being the family storyteller and keeper of the story archives (just check my computer’s hard drive), I was surprised to find that Jonah had collected a few stories on his own computer. Very few, actually. But this was one of them:

A little girl named Liz was suffering from a rare and serious disease. Her only chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion from her 5-year old brother, who had miraculously survived the same disease and had developed the antibodies needed to combat the illness. The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the little boy if he would be willing to give his blood to his sister. The boy hesitated for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, “Yes. I’ll do it if it will save her.” As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color returning to her cheek. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded. He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, “Will I start to die right away?” Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the doctor. He thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his blood in order to save her.

What was it that appealed to Jonah about this story? Why was this one of the very small handful that he selected to keep? I think it may have something to do with the wrestling, and the poking, and the punching, that were dear and precious expressions of the love between us. Jonah’s heart was a deeply caring one. And were his brother or sister ever to need someone to make the ultimate sacrifice to save them, I think he’d have done so.

Of course, had any of us been given the chance, we’d have done the very same for him.

Every now and then, Jonah would poke fun at me, saying, “Watch yourself, dad. I’ll be picking your nursing home.” I’m sorry he won’t get to really do that.

Billy

I thought of you today, Jonah. Yeah, I know, I think of you everyday. But today’s is worth sharing.

One feather …
300-400 soda can tabs

Jeffrey Schrier and his “Wings of Witness” project was at Woodlands Community Temple this afternoon. Again. Jeffrey’s been coming to us for at least ten years now. And each time he appears, the temple kids are completely fascinated by the message of his project, and by the activity involved in creating it. “Wings of Witness” involves 13 million soda can tabs, and more than 50,000 participants since 1997 who have slowly been assembling the tabs into a memorial to the 13 million murder victims of the Holocaust (six million Jews and seven million others, including political prisoners, pacifists, disabled, gays, lesbians, Roma, and anyone who tried to rescue a condemned life).

Jonah, age 11 …
calm, quiet, and into it!

But you knew that, didn’t you? Because the first time Jeffrey came to Woodlands, back in 2001, you were eleven years old, in the sixth grade, and in that room. I remember walking into the Sanctuary and first being overwhelmed by the uniform cooperation the artist was receiving from the 50 or 60 middle schoolers who had just become his newest partners. Each student was quietly affixing three or four hundred tabs to a metal rod that would eventually become a feather on a giant, steel butterfly’s wing. But what stopped me in my tracks that afternoon was that, over in a side corner, quietly working on his own feather, sat my very own Jonah. You. Never one to either be quiet or terribly cooperative back then, my jaw dropped. But Jeffrey Schrier’s project had captivated you too, and at least one of the feathers on that mammoth butterfly is yours.

And isn’t that how life works? We move through our days, living our lives, doing the things we do. And along the way, slowly, almost imperceptibly, we make our mark on the universe. Like your feather, our mark is one among tens of thousands.

How you build a butterfly …
one feather, many times

Most of us will not do anything famous, JoJo, but our contributions, one feather among so many others, will be no less important. Somewhere in that butterfly, a butterfly by the way whose feathers are attached to the body of a human being. This particular person was imprisoned in a death camp and had dreamt of acquiring wings with which to fly and to escape. Somewhere in that sad butterfly, somewhere in that artist’s beautiful dream, is a feather contributed to it by Jonah Maccabee Dreskin.

One feather. Your feather. A feather without which the project would most certainly have still succeeded. But your feather nonetheless. It’s in there. A small but valued contribution to the whole.

I still think nineteen years is way too little time for a person to live. I’ll always think that. But here’s something about that butterfly project that’s stopped me in my tracks. You were really still just a kid when you died. And you never got a chance to do anything famous, or to get rich, or achieve any of the other dreams you had. But in your nineteen years, you made quite a few feathers. So many of your friends (and you had so many friends!) have told me how much you meant to them, how selflessly you gave to them, whether it was to make them smile with your goofy clowning around or, when they were down, to make them smile with your kind and attentive ear. Your feather – outrageously colored like a peacock’s, yet surprisingly soft and warm – contributed not only to your wings, but to theirs as well.

I would have loved to have watched the next few decades’ unfolding chapters in your story. As the father of a high school student and first-year collegiate, I wasn’t privy to a whole lot of the goings-on in your life. I certainly was in touch with you when you were at home-base. But so much of those years was spent out and about … at Summit, at PGT, at Kutz, and at UB. Only during this past year have I learned just how rich and famous your life had been (Robin Leach would have had a field day … I can hear his accented commentary now … “Jonah Maccabee Dreskin certainly made a splash along the eastern coastline of the United States!”). I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again … for all you were, all you said, and all you did, no dad could have ever been prouder.

In science, one hears mention of something called the butterfly effect. It’s based on the concept of “sensitive dependence on initial conditions.” The upshot is that small changes in a dynamic system can produce large consequences affecting the long-range activity in that system.

For nineteen years, Jo, you assembled the feathers that comprised your wings. And then you flew. It took some time, I know. But once those wings had emerged, your life soared. It was a life that you loved. And one that made you loved by so many.

Your nineteen years have ended. I’m so sorry for that. But the effect of those nineteen years? I’m more and more confident that yours is one butterfly that will remain airborne for a long, long time to come.

Love you forever, boy.

Dad

For more information on “Wings of Witness,” visit wingsofwitness.org.

I promised a part two to this piece and am finally getting around to it. It’s an important addition to the story: the “part two” that kicked in the day after Jonah died.

While Jonah was alive, I didn’t really “get” PGT. I’d definitely grown to love it, but that was mostly because: a) the shows became very moving and inspiring; and, b) Jonah and Aiden loved the place so very much. But it wasn’t until Jonah died that I learned just how remarkable a community PGT is.

In the days following Jonah’s death, as well as the day of his funeral, the four of us stayed close together. In Buffalo (at the hospital, the police station, and on campus) and back home, we rarely left each others’ sides. But once the seven days of shiva began, it was “every man for himself.” So many people came by to spend time with us that there were often lines right out the front door. By necessity (and for personal survival) we took up positions in four different spots throughout our home, to divide and conquer the overwhelming number of friends and acquaintances paying condolence calls. Katie and Aiden sequestered themselves in their bedrooms, and we were extremely sensitive as to who got through to see them.

On Friday evening, March 6th, the day after Jonah died, we received a phone call from the Abusches asking if it’d be okay to come get Aiden and bring him to their house to spend time with his PGT community. Thus began PGT’s strategy of caring for the youngest Dreskin. Prior to the funeral, Aiden spent many hours with his second family, absorbing their love and their strength so that he might better face the days ahead. During shiva, there were usually one or more PGT’ers in his room with him. And late each afternoon, a PGT parent would drive over to take Aiden to his rehearsal, which he’d decided was an important component of his grieving for Jonah and the beginning of his healing. Needless to say, we were grateful that such a support-system was in place for a 15-year old kid who loved his family but didn’t necessarily feel that we were going to be the sole source of his recovery from the greatest loss and sadness he’d ever faced.

For weeks after, while Ellen and I struggled just to get up each morning, a car would appear in the afternoon to transport Aiden to his next rehearsal, faithfully depositing him back each evening (though sometimes considerably later than the end of rehearsal, as additional invitations to spend time with Aiden supplemented the outpouring of support from his PGT community).

Bulletin Board @ PGT
Summer 2009

In August 2009, PGT, having returned to Bet Am Shalom Synagogue for its annual summer theater program, invited the Dreskins to stop by. We thought we were coming over to see a bulletin board on which photographs of Jonah’s years in PGT had been posted. But then we were invited into another space where the entire camp had been assembled. For the next half-hour or so, they shared songs especially selected and prepared for this moment. Included was a personal composition by PGT’er Ben Zacharia, reflecting on his own feelings regarding the loss of his friend Jonah. Rachel Berger, Jonah’s longtime partner in show after show at PGT, spoke about Jonah as having been everyone’s big brother. And then the kids sang a song that, in a million years, I’d never have found if I’d been searching for one to honor Jonah’s memory. But they did. It was an old song, recorded by The Mamas and the Papas in 1969, called “Make Your Own Kind of Music.”

Nobody can tell ya
There’s only one song worth singin’.
They may try and sell ya,
‘Cause it hangs them up to see someone like you.

But you’ve gotta make your own kind of music,
Sing your own special song,
Make your own kind of music,
Even if nobody else sings along.

You’re gonna be knowin’
The loneliest kind of lonely.
It may be rough goin’ —
Just to do your thing’s the hardest thing to do.

But you’ve gotta make your own kind of music,
Sing your own special song,
Make your own kind of music,
Even if nobody else sings along.

So if you cannot take my hand,
And if you must be goin’ I will understand.

You’ve gotta make your own kind of music,
Sing your own special song,
Make your own kind of music,
Even if nobody else sings along.

So many of these words fit Jonah perfectly. A kid who most definitely had his own song to sing. Misunderstood by some, cherished by so many others. He sang his song to the end, and left us an exquisite melody to treasure long after he had gone.

On January 2, 2010, after Aiden finished appearing in The Wiz and while he was in rehearsal for 13, Play Group Theatre celebrated its 15th anniversary, which they happened to do in their new digs at One North Broadway (“NoBro”) in White Plains. Participants from PGT past and present provided us with a retrospective presentation of pieces from many of the shows PGT has produced in the last decade and a half. Amidst their well-earned love-fest, the show stopped for a few moments to remember Jonah Maccabee Dreskin.

The Cast of “Hair” … without Jonah
PGT 15th Gala, January 2010

Jonah had spent countless hours with the PGT family throughout high school and, for some reason, he seems to have left a rather long-lasting impression there. The tribute involved the cast of Hair, Jonah’s last show with PGT, lining up across the stage and singing a bit of their music, pausing for an incredibly moving tribute by their director Jeff Downing, and concluding with fellow cast-member Aiden Dreskin, who got to play the invented role of Woof’s little brother to his real-life big brother, stepping forward to sing “Over the Rainbow,” one of Jonah’s ukulele favorites. It probably would have been better had Ellen, Katie and I not been sitting in the second row. I understand the cast had difficulty in rehearsal with the joyful acting that was called for in their song, “Aquarius,” and seeing Jonah’s family sobbing buckets during the performance itself couldn’t have been helping them. But oh how we loved what they did. Oh how we felt loved by what they did.

Aiden @ PGT’s 15th Gala
January 2010

To see Aiden standing in the middle of his Hair hippies, with Jonah obviously missing, and all of them obviously missing him, and Aiden standing steady and strong as Jonah was remembered by Jeff, and then Aiden stepping downstage to sing Jonah’s song … how it touched my heart, warmed it, and advanced its healing. With so much that is right emerging from one of the world’s great wrongs, I understood more than ever the power and the beauty of the human experience … which asserts itself regardless of the pain any of us may be required to endure. As I watched my little boy sing, a slide of my bigger boy came up on the wall behind him. And from where I was sitting, it absolutely appeared as if Jonah was watching his little brother, and the grin on his face said it all. Jonah couldn’t have been prouder, and couldn’t have loved Aiden more.

Jeff’s words from that evening are unforgettable. They not only capture PGT’s love for Jonah, but they articulate why PGT is so very special to the actors and the families of the PGT community.

Tonight wouldn’t be complete without taking a moment to remember our student, our friend, our uniquely remarkable Jonah. I was lucky enough to be Jonah’s director for six of his nine shows at PGT … and to be part of his journey, onstage and off.

Before the final performance of Hair, keeping in line with a special PGT tradition, Jill, Steven, and I gathered together with this graduating class. I would like to share with you some of the things I said to Jonah before that very special show.

“Jonah, I remember your first show very well. [It was Lucky Stiff for those of you who may not know.] I remember teaching you how to walk on tempo to an eight-count, and I remember that it took a while. If someone had told me back then that you would one day be playing roles like Ben the Gardener in The Secret Garden, or the doctor in Grand Hotel, or the doctor in Marvin’s Room, I’m not sure I would have believed them. What I will remember most about you, Jonah, is your remarkable journey from a boy to one of the most dependable, engaging, and passionate young men I have ever worked with.”

Jill asked me to choreograph a few songs for Hair, which was wonderful because I got to work with these guys on their final show. I guess I worked them pretty hard. I’m not sure who it was, but someone came up with the phrase, “musical theatre boot camp” (apparently there are times when my choreography is physically demanding). Jonah was king of the boot camp. He was the fiercest, sweatiest, most fabulous monster of a hippie I have ever seen. He just danced his face off. I remember screaming to Jill during tech week, “Look at Jonah. LOOK AT HIM! He’s going to throw his arms right off his body!” I was so proud of him … to go from Lucky Stiff where he had trouble walking on a tempo, and to end up at Hair, choreographically leading the way … is just remarkable.

The cast of Hair was kind enough to make us a very special PGT yearbook from their graduating class. Here is some of what Jonah said to me. I should probably preface this by telling you that I have this issue with laziness … the issue being I don’t really like it when my kids are lazy. It did take Jonah some time to adjust to my “No Laziness” Policy.

Program page, PGT’s 15th Gala
January 2010

“Dear Jeff: So I made it. Nine solid seasons of PGT, most of them under your direction, and I want you to know that I plan to spend the next 25 years being very, very lazy. It has definitely been amazing. I have learned so much about fearlessness and following impulses … that I don’t think I am ready to function in normal society again. I might scare a few people. But the two most important things you taught me are how to dance and that gay-bashing is not good. I am sad to be leaving such a loving community, but I am so glad I found it … even if I was about seven years late. I look forward to entering my future with the knowledge PGT has given me, and I cannot thank you enough. Sincerely, with a far from lazy hug … Jonah.”

Later that night, after the PGT Gala, about 2:30 in the morning, I couldn’t sleep. The tribute had moved me so deeply, I had to pen the following note to Jeff:

As I’ve said to Jill a bunch of times, there aren’t a lot of adults around who knew and cared (they didn’t necessarily go hand in hand) for Jonah. You and Jill gave Jonah precisely what he needed during his high school years – support and direction. I’m so grateful for all you’ve done.

Speaking with another of Jonah’s longtime PGT friends at the reception, I said, “You know, if I’d known that Jonah’s high school years were going to be the last of all his years, and I’d had to pick where I’d like him to best spend them, I couldn’t have done any better than PGT. He loved it here. He had such a wonderful time, and was able to grow up and become a better person inside these walls.”

“Inside these walls.” When I congratulated Jill on PGT’s arriving home to NoBro, I whispered to her, “But for me, PGT has always been home. You never needed any particular walls. Wherever you and Steven and Jeff and the kids were, that was home.”

Thank goodness, back in the ninth grade he chose PGT over the Trigonometry Club. Not that he would ever have volunteered to do more schoolwork in his free time, but the kid’s heart knew good people when it found them. There was no way PGT would get away from him without a fight.

Funny thing about PGT’s new home, “NoBro.” If Jonah had lived to hear about it, he’d have loved to roll up his sleeves (like his little brother did) and lend a whole lot of helping hands to get it ready for occupancy. Jill Abusch wrote, “I have been thinking so much about how he would have loved this whole thing – he would have been right in there, shlepping and painting and making us all laugh while we work to get it done. He would have loved this.”

In Jonah’s senior-year goodbye letter to PGT, he wrapped things up, writing …

I promise that someday, when I am a billionaire, I will buy PGT its very own theater.

And Jeff, in his January tribute, wrapped his own things up with these words …

Well, Jonah, your wish came true. We got our very own theater. I wish you were here to see it. But you will always be a part of it. Every cast that warms up in that new green room, which is dedicated to your memory, will look at your walls, inspired by your famous checkerboard hat … and we will remember you. We will remember those brilliant characters you created, the endless amount of laughter you gave us, and the one of a kind personality that will never be forgotten.

As Jonah walked off the stage of his incredible-but-far-too-brief journey, his friend Rachel Berger spoke about the last time he walked off a PGT stage:

My all-time most powerful, favorite memory of Jonah was the final moment in Hair, which was our final PGT moment all together. Jonah is always so strong, and always there to hug others. But in the final moments of Hair, he collapses. And I, who am often a mess, was there to comfort him for once. As he collapsed, I went over to him and hugged him. And he fell into my arms and we cried. Then we sang “Let the Sunshine In,” and we helped each other to our feet. Finally, we put our arms around each other and walked off the stage. This was my final PGT moment, and it makes perfect sense that it would be with Jonah. I am so lucky. It was the absolute perfect way to leave the stage. I will always cherish that moment — where we cried because of an ending, but sang to let the sun shine in. This moment was perfect then and it is perfect now. I wouldn’t have walked off the PGT stage with anything less.

It’s possible, I suppose, that Jonah Mac would have become “The Clown-Mensch” without PGT. But in my deepest soul, I know that just as Jonah gave everything he had to help make PGT a better second home for all of its young participants, PGT gave to Jonah gifts whose value is beyond measure. How lucky he was to have such giving, caring, supportive, challenging, loving, accepting people in his young life. I may not have truly understood PGT when Jonah was in it, but I sure do now.

In April 2009, I received a note from Steven Abusch. We had been sharing reflections on a poem Jonah had written to his cast at the end of PGT summer camp. Steven writes, “In reading it again just now, I realize he alludes to coming back to PGT next summer. How could it be possible that I feel my loss is even greater from that one sentence? Your boy… well, they do say in all good comedy … leave ‘em wanting more. He got that down, that’s for sure.”

Billy

After someone we love has died, it’s a rare and exciting moment when we realize they’ve just reached out to us, a paranormal “shout-out” that reassures us they are okay and that they continue to care about us. I don’t necessarily subscribe to this belief – in loved ones interacting from beyond – but I most certainly recognize that connections between us and them exist. These connections are wholly felt and therefore, on some level, experienced.

Unlike many of his friends’ reports to me, I have not dreamed of Jonah since the first week after he died. Those ongoing, even if rare, nighttime “encounters” are extremely meaningful to Jonah’s compadres. And while sometimes I creep myself out walking through our darkened house in the middle of the night, I don’t personally expect Jonah to pop in and say hi (although I certainly wouldn’t object … … Jonah?).

But sometimes, events converge in such a way as to feel rather uncanny. “Why is that thing that’s happening in front of me right now happening in this place where I’m standing at this moment?” I’m not willing to ascribe supernatural origins to these occurrences. But they’re very cool. And I won’t completely rule out the possibility.

Here are a couple of those moments. You decide for yourself. Is it a “shout-out” – is Jonah saying hi – or in our lives where thousands of unexceptional moments slide by each and every day, are occurrences like these just bound to happen? And is it we who “organize” them, adding the meaning that gives them a place in our lives? Either way, I welcome these moments. If nothing else, they remind me of my boy. And I like remembering my boy.

Jonah’s mandolin

1) Jonah’s UB belongings were packed up and shipped to us by the university. When these four very large boxes arrived home (somewhere around March 12), it was both a very sad collection of last effects, as well as a kind of bizarre treasure chest. This was what remained of Jonah in the physical world – his clothes, his books, his Rubik’s Cube, and whatever other belongings a college student would manage to squeeze into his dorm room. We feared but also wanted to savor unpacking it all. Of course, in these boxes, we came across Jonah’s musical instruments: his electric guitar, his ukulele, and his mandolin. I found myself rummaging through his mandolin case. Who knows why. Jonah had been there, so I wanted to be there too. Anyway, inside the case’s pick box, I spied a very odd-looking object (certainly nothing like a guitar pick or anything else one would expect to find in a space like this). As best we could figure, it resembled a baseball-shaped piece of candy wrapped in cellophane. But really, we had no idea. The very next day (Wednesday, March 18), Ellen was driving into New York City with our close friends, Jeffrey and Susan Sirkman, to hear another friend’s (Zoe Jacobs’) senior cantorial recital at Hebrew Union College. Stopped at a traffic light, Susan remarked, “Oh, isn’t that interesting.” Ellen turned her head and was stunned to see “half a baseball” protruding from the glass of the window in the car that was parked immediately adjacent to where their car had stopped. In Jonah’s mandolin case, a practical joke – a make-believe baseball crashing through the window. Pure Jonah. One moment in time. A random glance. A random comment. And a piece clicks into place. Jaw dropping.

2) My father and I have always shared a love for things pickled. Not anything, mind you (well, maybe him … he grew up during the Depression … but I grew up picky). Good dill pickles were always in order, and then (in the remaining juice) radishes and celery we’d prepare together. A generation later, Jonah and I shared this love. He and I would especially look forward to the empty pickle jar, to slicing up a stalk of celery into bite-size, pickling-size pieces, and placing them into the juice (more like shoving them in, to fit as many future-consumables as possible). It would take three days for the pickling to ready our celery, and the two of us checked in with each other throughout, both to make sure the celery wasn’t eaten before its time, and also to make sure the other hadn’t eaten them before our time. Shortly after the conclusion of the shiva week, neighbors Sandy and Peter Rosenthal showed up at our door with a container of half-sours they’d picked up from the temple’s annual 5th grade visit to the Lower East Side. My head knew the trip had been planned nine months earlier, but my heart said that Jonah was back for some pickles. Big smile. Fast forward one year. This past week. Once again, the Rosenthals provide a new container of pickles. You may already be minimizing the paranormal element here, but the kid’s dad refuses to acquiesce. Jonah immediately comes to mind, and with the first pickle, these words: “I dedicate this to you, boy.”

3) Why do you suppose, of all days, on March 5, 2010, the first anniversary of Jonah’s death, I see, for the very first time in my entire life (other than on television) a van that displays “Medical Examiner” on its side? This isn’t a happy encounter for me. Jonah’s death remains, to this day, of undetermined cause. The Medical Examiner in Buffalo, Dr. Jim Woytash, was in personal and regular contact with us throughout his investigation. He was respectful, kind and thorough. And then he was apologetic that he could provide no clear answers. I see this van as I’m driving my family to the cemetery. What possible kind of connection could this be? And yet, how is it that this would happen at this time, in this place? Of all days.

No duck sandwiches, please

4) Later that same day, it is the middle of the afternoon and I haven’t yet had lunch. Absentmindedly I stop by the local deli. Tony and Lisa are familiar, friendly faces, and that’s probably what drew me there. I order a turkey sandwich on a roll. As I’m leaving, I realize I don’t order sandwiches on rolls much anymore (calories, you know). Today I do. It was not a conscious act (other than consciously being hungry), but again, why this day? Until Jonah went away to college, it was my routine, following the Shabbat morning service at temple, to stop by this deli and pick up sandwiches for the two of us. Once Jonah left for college, that pretty much ended. I might go in to get a pound of this or a pound of that, but not sandwiches. Except for today. Of all days.

Connections are everywhere. We may be manufacturing them ourselves, or perhaps they really are a loving touch from beyond. Either way, I will continue to welcome them. If for no other reason, they usher in cherished memories of a kid I wish I could share a sandwich with or get the scoop on why there’s half a plastic baseball in his mandolin case. Until then, I’ll keep my eyes, and my heart, wide open.

Billy

One year ago, innocence was erased. The world changed forever. A single phone call, presumed to be nothing more than a late-night hello, brought word that Jonah was in a bad way, that an ambulance was en route. An hour later, a second phone call, presumed to be the one that would tell us about our son’s injuries, how long he’d be laid up, brought word that Jonah had died.

One year ago, innocence was erased. I’d always believed the world was a dangerous place and that much needed to be done to help those in distress. But despite all this, my own world was safe; no harm would come into my family’s life. One year ago, this all proved to be naive. We weren’t safe. None of us really ever are.

Doug Siegel and Jonah on Mt Bierstadt
Clear Creek County, Colorado
August 2002

A photograph arrived to our home this week. It’s a picture of Jonah and his cousin Doug taking a rest as they climbed Mount Bierstadt in Colorado. Jonah was twelve years old at the time, and reports tell me he complained most of the way up.

I remember that guy. His sense of adventure wasn’t strong, nor was his sense of humor. He didn’t think people liked him, and except for Eisner Camp during the summer, there was very little that drew him out of the house.

But he was well-loved. Jonah had a mom and a dad who believed in him … deeply. He had a brother and a sister who adored him … unconditionally (no easy feat, because Jonah could be very difficult to live with). And while, admittedly, much of our hope was channeled through abundant prayers that he someday find his spirit and his heart, we offered endless advice and encouragement as best we could. We let that little boy know that if he’d just show the world the smart, funny, affectionate guy we all knew at 25 Oak, he’d have more friends that he’d know what to do with.

And damned if that didn’t work! Little by little, Jonah Dreskin found that heart and that spirit of his. He discovered the power of his personality, that he could not only energize a room through his music, through his theater, and through his goofiness, but he could also be a powerfully good friend, one with a listening ear, a supporting shoulder, and a voice filled with ideas of how to make things a little better for someone residing in that uneasy place he’d known all too well.

I think that’s why Jonah started to go by his middle-name. His inside name. His previously hidden name. Jonah had discovered the amazing stuff that had been inside him all along. And once he’d brought it out for all the world to see, there was no way it’d get put back inside. Jonah was his past; Maccabee represented his future. Both were him, inside and out, interior and exterior. And he loved that. And he changed his name to let us all know that life was heading in a different direction for him than it used to.

One year ago, innocence was erased. But not for Jonah. Not for Maccabee. He lived his life on his own terms. And he died with all of that intact. Jonah Mac had nineteen years. A fair amount of struggle along the way. But you know what? He reached the top of that mountain. The one we all have to climb. Or not. Some of us won’t ever insist on following our dreams. We’ll settle. And we’ll call that “life.”

One year ago, Jonah’s life ended. But not before he made it to the top of his mountain. And he loved being up there.

The world may not be safe. But the possibilities – for fascination, and delight, and adventure – abound!

I miss my boy. My heart breaks anew every morning. But while I wonder where his life might have taken him, I know where he’s been. And I’m so grateful his climb was a successful one. And I’m so proud of the mighty work he did along the way.

Zekher tzadik livrakha … the righteous ones are remembered for a blessing. That’s you, Jonah Maccabee.

Billy (11:58 pm)

I wrote this for the March 2010 issue of my temple bulletin. Once again, not a Jonah-story but, to mark Jonah’s 1st yahrzeit, some thoughts on my journey of the past 12 months.

“God will destroy death forever, and wipe the tears from every face.”

This text is from the prophetic book of Isaiah (chapter 25, verse 8) and was written in the 7th century BCE. It’s old.

What’s most interesting to me about this verse is God’s relationship to death. Death is something separate and distinct from God. Perhaps death is not a god itself, but it’s still presented as a power over which God does not necessarily hold dominion. It is predicted (which I think means “hoped”) that one day God will.

Of course, while our hearts may say otherwise, you and I know that a world without death would become catastrophe. For a while we would take comfort in knowing our loved ones won’t be leaving us, but our home on this planet would quickly run out of room and resources. And then I wonder, in a world without death, is pain eliminated as well? Or must our loved ones suffer for eternity? Given that perspective, death isn’t quite the cruelty it feels like when we’re forced to let it into our lives.

Confirmation
June 2006

Unbelievably, a year has passed since Jonah died. His first yahrzeit will be observed this month. It is an occasion to reflect on loss and yearning.

We have all come a great distance since the news arrived from Buffalo that Jonah Maccabee had left us. So many tears, and so many questions why. Even I have demanded of God an explanation for such outrageous behavior on the part of the Creator of the Universe: “Loved ones in the prime of life should not be cut down. Who do You think You are?!”

But you and I know that fifteen billion years ago, laws of physics were given governance over affairs of matter (and heart). The people we love don’t die because God says so. They die because the laws of nature don’t ever get set aside. People get sick, and sometimes die. People have accidents, and sometimes die. People are in the wrong place at the wrong time, and sometimes die. If God has any say in this, that say was made at the dawn of Creation, when life was deemed fragile and always – always – subject to nature’s rule.

I miss Jonah. A year later and the tears may not fall quite so often, but they most certainly fall. I hope they do so forever. But if I had been given the opportunity to prevent Jonah’s death from ever happening, with the price being the upending of the laws of physics and the introduction of Divine whim into the workings of the universe, well, that’d be a very tough choice. But in my more philosophical moments, I think I really value residing in a universe where laws can be counted upon, where we take our chances, hoping to live decent, fulfilling lives, yet always with the possibility that the very rules which allow for us to thrive may also be the ones that bring what is good and beautiful to an early and tragic end.

This world of ours is a tough blessing, but a blessing nonetheless.

Billy

Dear Jonah,

I remember, when Mom and I studied in Israel for a year (1982-83), someone telling me how much they loved living in a country where you can write the Hebrew date on your checks. I really enjoyed hearing that and, to this day, I too like writing the Hebrew date on letters and notes (albeit alongside the English date).

But it really took me by surprise when the 9th of Adar arrived and, try as I might to let it quietly slip by, I couldn’t. Katie, Aiden, Mom and I had decided that March 5, for this year at least, would be the date we light a candle in your memory. We hadn’t even bought one yet. So when I got home last night … late … about 11:30 pm … and quietly mentioned to Mom that I’d just realized it’s the 9th of Adar, we shared some tears together. And then this morning, Mom and I found a tiny candle (pumpkin-scented … you would have liked that) and have it burning right now to remind us that one year ago, Jewish time, on 9 Adar 5769, we said goodbye to you.

You and Me
Purim, 14 Adar 5753
Age 3 (you, not me)

The 9th of Adar means that Purim is five days away. Such a funny holiday, Purim. A holiday to commemorate something that never actually happened, to celebrate a non-event but one that evokes too many memories of Jewish tragedy across the generations yet, if we do it right, reminds us to savor our celebrations as well.

None of this is lost on me as I complete a year not only of crying for you, for this very real tragedy that has now become part of our family-story, but also of collecting and archiving our memories of you, so that we might always have plenty of words and pictures on hand to commemorate what did actually happen … nineteen years of the wonder and joy that was Jonah Maccabee Dreskin, that was you.

On the 14th of Adar, we will sing and tell jokes and celebrate the goodnesses that can emerge everywhere in our lives. A fictional story will inspire us to do so, as it has inspired so many generations before us. Today, on the 9th of Adar, we will try to do very much the same, this time inspired by the very real story of a young man who took a shaky start in life and leveraged it into a thousand friendships, a thousand hearts you held close, a thousand hearts that held you close.

We miss you terribly, boy. Thank you, though, for sharing that gigantic heart of yours (and those gigantic bear-hugs too). We will cherish all the memories, and you, forever.

Love,
Dad
9 Adar 5770

Jonah’s 18th birthday
February 14, 2008

How does one celebrate the 20th birthday of your child who died nearly a year ago? Well, “celebrate” isn’t exactly the correct word. But it’s not entirely off-base either. Jonah’s birthday was always a bit more fun for us because it took place on Valentine’s Day. Not that we did anything valentiny, but it just sort of always set the tone for the festivities … lots of energy, lots of fun, all directed toward this kid we so very much loved.

The last time I celebrated Jonah’s birthday with him was in 2008, his eighteenth. We weren’t together in 2009 because he was up in Buffalo, and Ellen, Aiden and I were in Washington (see this blog’s “Birthday Present” entry from June 6, 2009). Katie got to have a birthday dinner with him, though, so there was Dreskin involvement.

Today, as with much of our journey these last eleven months, we’ve each followed our own trajectories, checking in with each other, and coming together for a few brief but significant moments. I’ve spent much of my day listening to Jonah’s iTunes collection. He’d think it hysterical that Nickelback and Infected Mushroom have been dominating the airwaves around here. But there’s also been Bill Cosby and Avenue Q on there, so I’ve had moments where my ears could catch their breath. Katie checked in to tell us that Robin Leach was narrating one of those stupid shows about the rich and famous, and that we should tune in because Jonah loved doing impressions of Robin Leach. We all remember that well, and smile full-on when we think about it. Then, a short while ago, Aiden tapped on the second-floor window … from the outside. He had climbed out onto the roof, snow be damned, to spend a little time where he and Jonah used to hang out together. Ellen, waiting in the Raleigh, North Carolina, airport this morning, saw a man who looked nothing like Jonah but who was wearing the combination flannel shirt and hoodie jacket that Jonah had adopted in order to arm himself against the Buffalo cold. The stranger’s jacket was even more striking because this one was covered with black-and-white checkerboard squares. A nod from Jonah? Well, it sure got a smile from his mom.

Emails and Facebook postings have gently punctuated our day. Most have come from friends who wanted to let us know that we’re in your thoughts. But some really wonderful ones have come from a few kids, some much younger than Jonah, who wanted to share a memory or a story that connected them to him, strengthening this ever-unfolding picture of Jonah as someone who had grown into an exceedingly kind and generous young man. Still a clown (always the clown), but with a humanity about him that makes me so incredibly proud to be his dad.

Jonah, my boy, you did great. You left a legacy of goodness and of joy that would be worthy of someone who’d lived four times the years that you did. I am flabbergasted at the decency and grace you’ve managed to spread so far and wide. I had always hoped I would be a good model for you; now, you’re the model for me. Thank you for that.

Happy birthday, my son. We all love you. You very much are our valentine.

Billy