Memorial for Irv

Irv was my best friend. We first met when he, Sherry, and Karen visited us shortly after they moved to Houston in 1957.
That visit had an element of who was going to be the big dog in our relationship. Somehow, we got around to talking about anorexia nervosa. That was the kind of problem that a child psychiatrist would take care of; that was Irv’s specialty. So I asked him, “Have you seen the latest about anorexia nervosa in the Proceedings of the Mayo Clinic? ”
He paused and admitted, “No, I haven’t.”
I dashed back to my study, found the article, and showed it to him. The game had started. Score: Dan--one, Irv--zero.
That didn’t faze Irv: in fact, we developed a genuine friendship. When I saw all the books he read, all the magazines he subscribed to, all the journals piled up on his coffee table, all the meetings he attended, all the countries he visited, I surrendered. No contest.
Our friendship was nourished by the closeness of Yvette and Sherry. They talked every day by phone. Sometimes twice a day, week after week, month after month. Finally Irv asked, “What do they talk about? “
I shrugged my shoulders, “Beats me.”
Then came the two-for-one phase of our lives. Houston’s restaurants offered coupons giving two meals for the price of one. The four of us were children of the Great Depression, so we attacked the offer of 2 for 1 with gusto. The downside was that most of the restaurants were one star or less. No matter, we filled our stomachs and at ½ price. If the food wasn’t good, the price was.
At about that time Irv and Yvette went on diets to combat their coronary artery disease. Result; fish, vegetables, fresh vegetables, more fish, and more vegetables. But we were saving money and eating healthy.
Then came the event that literally changed my life. Irv heard that Paul Gittings Jr of the portrait photography studio was giving a 10-week course on photography. Irv invited me to go with him every Wednesday night for 10 weeks.
I had been mildly interested in the camera since I had been bar mitzvah. Most of you don’t know that many years ago Eastman Kodak gave every Jewish boy a box camera when he reached his 13th birthday. Clever marketing: the lucky boy got a camera but had to buy film, then pay for having it processed and printed- a gold mine for Kodak. The course by Gittings reawakened my interest in photography and ever since has been important in adding life to my years.
Irv and I often spent Saturday mornings doing nature photography. I photographed flowers and leaves; Irv took pictures of me as I photographed.
Irv was a profound source of advice for me. I knew he was wise about life and helping people. Through the years when I called him, no matter the time of day or a weekday or weekend, he made himself available. When I called, he would respond, “Come over.” He was never judgmental; he gave me solutions to perplexing problems. I knew I could trust him. And he enjoyed advising me about problems that he and I shared as aging males and good friends.
In a way I could never repay him for what he did for me. I tried laughing at his sense of humor; well, I really didn’t laugh, I groaned. And it wasn’t humor; it was puns, awful puns.
For his birthday I invited Irv to our house for lunch. We talked, ate a bowl of hearty soup, sipped red wine, and ate chocolate birthday cake. We agreed we still had all our marbles. As I dropped him off at his house, he glanced at his watch. He noted that he had stayed longer than usual. He asked, “What shall I tell Sherry?”
I suggested “Tell her we’ve been talking about her.” He thanked me profusely. Hey, what are friends for?
Who will I send emails to, who will I invite for lunch and conversation? Who will I sing Happy Birthday to? Who will I forward sexy e-mails to? Who will I talk to about my problems?
Irv, I do miss you.