I guess my parents are a cliché. They met in high school. They lived around the corner from each other. They first talked at the local pool and tennis club. When people ask how they met, they always seem somewhat embarrassed about their story. Is it a good idea to marry the girl or the guy from around the corner? I have no idea. But what I do know is that just because you share the same space on the map, your life story may not be the same.
When people hear the term “high school sweethearts,” they often respond with either one of two immediate reactions. One is, “Aww, that is so sweet.” The other is, “Really? Well, I guess if it works for them that’s okay.” In today’s world, it is uncommon to find a couple that takes their high school relationship all the way to the altar. In fact, most people bet against it.
Really, I often wonder how these two ever ended up together. While they grew up in the same neighborhood and had similar socioeconomic backgrounds, their family environments were quite different. My mom was the youngest child in her family with three older brothers. She was quiet, not daring to share her opinion in an unwelcoming atmosphere. All controversy was avoided and no conflict was discussed. As my mom describes, there was a risk of alienation. My mom still doesn’t like to upset anyone. She is the peacekeeper when tension arises. She acts as a diplomat in the middle, finding a balance between both sides. In her house, interaction was kept to a minimum, with everyone retreating to the safety of their own rooms, often listening to music at ultrasonic levels or more likely engaging in the mandatory Rosen midday nap. My grandfather wins the award for his uncanny ability to fall asleep at any moment.
Let’s be clear: nobody napped in the Lieber house. The coffee was flowing and the volume was high. It is somewhat ironic that she chose a guy like my dad, who is one of the more opinionated people on the planet. About everything. He grew up in a family filled with conversation, debate, and even conflict. My dad’s brother was only thirteen months older than him. In other words, too close for comfort. Each day, my dad would come home from school, looking forward to his daily after-school meal, a bagel with cream cheese. But my uncle had a different idea of how things should go down. The tension would often escalate to the point where my uncle would chase my dad around the house, wildly swinging a tennis racket or hockey stick. On many occasions, my dad would brandish a knife and exchange death threats. Another time my dad had to resort to kicking my uncle in the face, in the process taking out a tooth.
The Liebers are also passionate, almost tribal sports fans, yelling at refs during games or owning Knicks season tickets for twenty-nine years and counting. On any given night, my dad and I can be found watching some sort of sporting event, usually with a partisan rooting interest. For a short period, my dad and my mom’s brother shared Knicks season tickets. When the playoffs came around, my uncle actively pursued the sale of his tickets. For my dad, it was not about the money. He would go to every playoff game if he could. He saw it as betrayal. Needless to say it did not go well. My dad was willing to risk family estrangement to make his point. For some time, the entire incident was a source of tension in the house, with my mom fearing the repercussions of this cultural clash.
Of course, there was common ground as well. They both love animals but never had a dog growing up. So six months after they got married, my parents decided to adopt a chocolate lab from an ad in Newsday. That dog meant everything to them. It is good to be a dog in our house. My mom is obsessed with rescuing animals, mainly dogs but I wouldn’t rule any out. Thanks to her, we have had twelve animals living full time in our house in my lifetime: seven dogs, three cats, and two fish. There has been a stream of foster animals in and out of our house for the past few years from the organization where she volunteers. Let’s take a moment to remember and honor Wallace, Carly, Remington, Darcy, and Olive, the foster dogs from 2016. Those are just the visitors. The permanent residents get the most attention, with dibs on my parents’ bed for the night. For our pets, it even extends to the afterlife. Each pet we’ve ever had sits on shelf in the study (we’re talking ashes) always available for visits on occasion.
Not long ago, my parents, my sister, and I left a dinner in Manhattan and found ourselves standing in front of the site of my parents’ wedding: the famed Waldorf Astoria Hotel. It couldn’t hurt to take a journey into the past, the place where this family all began. It felt clandestine. We slipped into the lobby and called for the dedicated elevator to the Starlight Roof. It’s a historic room and my dad told us in the 1920’s people would come to dance there and the roof opened up to the sky. The doors opened and we immediately felt out of place. We stepped into a room full of people in black tie and gowns. There was a band playing and cocktails were flowing. My parents looked around with genuine excitement. It wasn’t about fights over tickets or who is loud and who is withdrawn, who is right and who is wrong—it was about that moment. Even a kid like me could notice. Going back down the elevator, I could hear the faint sound of a jazz quartet playing into the night. I wonder if that classic New York night twenty-five years ago also ended to the strains of a wailing trumpet and saxophone.