The café had four octogenarian Irvings. Two have passed; one is infirm. The fourth, now 92, sat on a bench outside the Cheese Board. We spoke of every day being a blessing, of every hour.
I gave a dollar to Albert, the skinny, dreadlocked, near catatonic panhandler. He said, “How’s Adele?
I gave a dollar to the accordion player, even though I hate accordions.
“I haven’t seen your wife,” I told Irving.
“She gardens,” he said.
Irving’s from Brooklyn; he doesn’t. I’m from West Philly: I don’t either. My father’s father came from Kiev to a communal farm in South Jersey in 1890. Maybe that is why my father had tomato plants in our 30-foot-square back yard.
One Sunday he saw an ad in the Times for lady bugs to eat your aphids. When he opened the package, the lady bugs flew off to Mars or Jersey or to protect their children from burning.
My father’s eyes twinkled whenever he told this story.
Like mine are now.