Washington, DC - 1998 to the present day.
I have a telling memory of something Gene Gordon said to me thirty years ago, close to the end of my psychoanalysis: “Can’t you find a woman whom you can take care of but who will also take care of you?” I found her, Gene, I often reply quietly. Her name is Sandy. In addition to taking care of me, Sandy also brought me an ever-growing family. When I met her in 1998, she came with three daughters of her own and a stockpile of grandchildren. When we all got together at my birthday party in 2024, I counted my extended kin to be six daughters, four sons-in-law, assorted boyfriends and girlfriends, and fourteen grandkids. Not bad for someone who arrived in the US alone with nothing but a valise full of pain.
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It was none other than Ron, my loyal divorce lawyer, who, shortly after the end of my second marriage, called me one day to suggest that I had to meet this wonderful woman, who had just gotten divorced not long ago. Ron and his wife, who was Sandy’s friend, thought she would be great for me. I laughed, suggesting that having divorced me twice already, he was angling for more business. Undeterred, he left me with Sandy’s number and, after several months during which I did not call her, Ron called me again. This time he warned me that if I didn’t move she would soon be off the marriage market.
“I’m not good at marriage,” Ron, I said, “you of all people should know.”
“Nah,” said Ron, “Sandy’s very different from your first two wives. I, of all people, should know what I’m talking about. If you marry her, I’ll never see you again.”
He was right.
I invited Sandy to dinner and—for the first time in years of midlife dating—woke up the next morning with her in my head. I called her to tell her so and asked her out again. And again, and again. We hit it off immediately. She was—and is today— gorgeous, funny, a great dancer, and a smart schmoozer. She soon introduced me to her three daughters and I introduced my three to her. One of her daughters, upon hearing of my keen interest in her mom, warned Sandy that she should take it easy in that I seemed to be moving too quickly. When Sandy related this to Dotsy, her own mom, Dotsy told her . . . not to share so many things with her daughters. Her family seemed to have a good sense of humor.
Since I didn’t trust my judgment in marriageable women, I decided to have Sandy meet as many of my friends as possible and to seek their advice. Over the next two years, we traveled to the four corners of the world: to Paris, where my friend Dani smiled and winked approvingly as we walked out of dinner past Voltaire’s desk at the entrance of Le Procope; to West New York, where my folks loved her at first sight; and to San Diego, where my friends nodded support. We also went to BA in 1999, where my best buddy Micky told me that if I didn’t marry her he wouldn’t talk to me again. During that trip, I took Sandy to meet Tante Rosl, Mom’s best friend from Vienna days who, for years after Mom’s death, had been another ersatz mother. Rosl gave me her maternal blessing. My daughters saw me happy for the first time in years and, despite the two divorces through which I had already dragged them, also approved of their father’s new lady friend.
Sandy’s parents liked me and didn’t care much that I was twice divorced. My father-in-law did some behind-the-scenes inquiries and announced that divorces and patent law go hand in hand. That’s just the way it is, he said, no surprises there. Initially, however, her parents seemed more concerned that I was a descendant of German Jews, the Yekkes I mentioned in Chapter 26, Jewish Taxonomy. But they promptly forgave me. Even Sandy, when I asked her if she was worried about my marital mishaps, smiled and said, “Well, you never met the right woman until now. Plus, I’m glad for Sharon, since she kept you out of the market until I was ready!” Dotsy, my future mother-in-law, started taking Spanish lessons so she could talk to me in my native language. Slowly, encouraged by the approving nods from family and friends, I started regaining my emotional confidence and began trusting the love I felt for her.
And so, I decided to propose. In 2001 I invited her to go to Italy, specifically Venice, which she had never visited. I secretly imagined popping the question in a gondola floating along the Grand Canal while being serenaded by a handsome gondolier. We planned our trip for the Fall of that year but my oldest daughter Thalia, with whom I shared my plans, suggested that instead I propose during our planned summer vacation in Bethany, on the Delaware coast. I agreed. So, I invited our closest future family, her three and my three daughters, and my future in-laws, to a weekend at a Bethany beach house. I arranged with a commercial pilot to fly a banner over the beach one morning that said, “Sandy, will you marry me? Jorge.” (Good Yekke that I am, I worried that there would be more than one Sandy on the beach that day expecting a marriage proposal!)
No one in our group realized what was coming, except maybe Thalia, who had been assigned to take photos, and Brett, Sandy’s son in law, who had brought the champagne. When the pilot flew over and Sandy saw the banner, she smiled broadly and closed her eyes in pleasure. I dropped to a knee, produced a ring, and. . . voila! As I looked up, my future mother-in-law was holding Sandy’s hand and congratulating us for having finally made up our minds. She admired the ring and asked me where I had bought it. And, I should add, Sandy said yes. But right after the yes, she asked with a knowing smile and quick-witted eyes, “Does this mean we’re not going to Venice? . . . I figured you’d propose then, no?” I reassured her that Venice was still on. But then 9/11 intruded. Our travel plans, together with those of the rest of the world, came to a standstill and Venice got postponed.
We were married in 2002, in a proper Jewish wedding where, under a chuppah, I stepped on a wine glass to yells of mazel tov from friends and family. After the terrorism panic abated, we spent our honeymoon wandering the waterways of Venice.
Ron was right. Sandy is one-of-a-kind, and I am deeply in love with her. We have now been together twenty-six years, and it feels as fresh as that first morning when I woke up thinking of her. She brought music into my life again. I bought a shiny red accordion and play waltzes as when I was a kid. We took tango lessons and dance it at parties. She loves opera and comes along, even to Wagner. We have kept a busy travel schedule, not anymore to seek approval to my uncertainties, but to see the world together. Some of my divorced law partners have asked me if she has a sister. She does, guys, but Elaine lives far away.
One more piece of advice about marriage that I have learned the hard way: find a partner with a sense of humor. One who will not take you too seriously, who will laugh at your stupid jokes. Who will find the absurdity of things that life will inevitably throw at you both. Laugh together as much as you can and you’ll be happy.
Here we are, our full extended family during my 2024 birthday party. Sandy is to my right, at the center of my life.

During occasions such as birthdays, I look at the road I have travelled from a lonely, orphaned child in exile, anxiously seeking anchor someplace in the world, to the pater familias of this extended and rowdy clan. I sometimes recoil from the crowd, go back to a space where I disconnect, and sit by my comfortable self, as in the old days. But it is temporary; I’d rather be in the present than in the past. The cold wind of the Tablada Cemetery whispering on that lonely day when we buried Dad in 1968 that, just like for him, no one would come to my funeral, is not as chilly anymore.
During the trip Sandy and I made to BA in 1999 seeking Tante Rosl’s approval, we sat in my auntie’s small downtown apartment having coffee and Kipferln, Viennese butter cookies. I asked for some sugar and Rosl handed me a bowl. Next to the bowl was a pair of silver sugar tongs. They looked familiar. I stared at them for a few seconds and then looked up at her.
"You recognize them?" asked Rosl, with a smile. I didn’t yet, but something stirred, and my breathing got deeper.
I looked at her, a question in my eyes. "Are these . . . ?"
"Yes, they are," she said.
"Oh my god! These are Mom's sugar tongs!"
These were the tongs that I had thrown onto the center pile when I left BA after Dad’s death. I had forgotten that they ended up with Tante Rosl. They were a favorite piece of Mom’s coffee service and we had used them throughout my childhood. Holding the tongs that afternoon put me right back at adult table as a boy of eight while Mom and Rosl were having their afternoon Kaffee Klatsch, coffee and conversation. I saw myself playing with the tongs, marveling at how clever it was to pick up a cube with what looked like dragon claws, endlessly opening and closing the thing, watching its shiny belly expand when the claws opened and contract when they closed. I even heard Mom's voice: "Stop it already with the tongs, Schorschi. You will break them!"
I was brought back to reality when Rosl spoke up. "I kept them all these years,” she said, and added, “I kept them for you . . . Willst Du sie? Do you want them?"
I looked at Rosl. My auntie looked quite aged that day. She was still chain smoking, diabetic, and well on her way to the end. Rosl’s eyes were sad, and I could sense that parting with the tongs meant saying goodbye to her childhood friend one more time. I paid no attention to her appearance and, hearing her Viennese slang and sitting at table now as an adult, imagined being with Mom. I wanted those tongs, but I wavered.
"Yes, please,” I finally replied. “I’d love to have them."
"Of course," she said, reading my thoughts, "After all, they’re yours."
Rosl told me that Mom had bought the tongs in Vienna for my grandmother in the 1930s, and Omi had given them to her when Mom left the city the day of the Anschluss. They were a shared memory of earlier carefree days. The tongs bonded mother and daughter across years and oceans. They crisscrossed the world with them and eventually with me. They moved from Vienna to BA, first to our home and then to Rosl’s, and came to rest in the US: a piece of cutlery joining three generations of wandering Jews in space and time.
***
The tongs now sit on a display shelf, together with other salvaged vestiges of my parents:

Some other of their remnants, together with additional photographs from my box of memories, have helped me imagine how Mom and Dad lived in BA when they were single. How they met, romanced, and married. I will tell you these stories next. They mark the end of my tales.
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