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Metro-Detroit's Premiere Guide to Restaurants, Caterers and Specialty Shops

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Lebanese Garden

Healthy Middle Eastern Cuisine

43259 Woodward Ave
Bloomfield Hills, MI 48302

At Both Ends
Of The Rainbow
T

(Just N. of Square Lake — west side)

Dine-In, Carry-Out, Catering, Meeting Area

248.253.9300

JETS Pizza

31134 Haggerty Rd.
Farmington Hills, MI 48331
one block South of 14 Mile Rd.

JET'S

248.788.2511

PIZZA

883020

To advertise in this special Dining Guide section, call Sheryl Alpern

at 248.351 5170

As you begin your planning, let us help you create a memorable event by
turning your dreams into reality. At the Troy Marriott we offer a wide variety
of services to accommodate your special occasion needs.

Aarnott.

DETROIT TROY

For more information, contact Kelly Bacalja:
248-680-9664
marnott.corn/D 1111

Sunday, September 19, 2004

11:00 am - 4:00 pm

At the West Bloomfield JCC

FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!

'TN

9/10

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Vendors call 248.356.6000 to reserve your space

his was a par-
ticularly hard
week, in spite
of the holiday.
We buried an uncle
at a much-too-young
an age and I learned
that a good friend is
terminally ill. The
ALAN
usual columnist in this
HITSKY
space, Harry
Associate
Kirsbaum, just fin-
Editor
ished dodging the hur-
ricanes in Florida to
be with his dying father and attend his
funeral.
I thought I was too young to dwell
on death. Sure, a college roommate
was taken by cancer at the age of 20;
and, like all young adults, I assumed
the rare loss of an
acquaintance to fast
cars, drugs or a disease
was one of those things
that happened to some-
one else.
Now it is getting clos-
er. Not frightfully close
... just closer. I guess it
is no longer going to be
that "rare" event, some-
thing that happens to
someone else.
In the past, I've been
a bit insulated.
Uncle Sam
While my mother-in-
law died 30 years ago at
the age of 50, my own parents have
been blessed with longevity and fairly
good health. Thirty years ago, I was a
new father in my late 20s. The swirl of
hospital visits, funeral, shivah and grief
were an out-of-body experience for
me. It was all happening, but I wasn't
quite there.
Last week, I was.
Dr. Sam Indenbaum's death sent
shock waves through his family and
the community (see obituary, page
160). His sister-in-law's death 30 years
ago did the same. But this time, I
more strongly felt those waves.
Grief is a personal thing. Everyone
reacts differently. Now I'm reacting
differently.
Uncle Sam's funeral was a tribute to
a marvelous human being; someone
who cared deeply about others and

who had the ability to use those feel-
ings to heal. Some 1,000 mourners
jammed Ira Kaufman Chapel — fami-
ly, friends, colleagues and patients.
The long procession from the chapel
to the cemetery was torture, with my
eyes riveted on the car in front of me
as the line of cars expanded and con-
tracted through traffic lights green and
red. If Uncle Sam taught me nothing
else, it will be to never, ever drive in a
funeral procession again. I'll meet you
at the cemetery, thank you.
He taught us all a lot more than
that, which is why his passing is so
difficult.
More than 100 people attended the
shivah at his home that evening, and it
was surreal. His 12 lovely grandchil-
dren ran through the house, swam in
the pool or participated
in the service, according
to their age. His chil-
dren told stories about
their father during the
break between Minchah
and Maariv, stories
from their childhood,
from their grownup
years.
Earlier in the week,
on the day of his death,
we watched a video
made not quite three
years ago to celebrate
his 70th birthday. The
grandchildren told their
zaydie why they loved him and their
favorite activity with him. He wasn't
gone at all. It seemed to all of us that
he was still right there. And he is.
The day after the funeral, my wife
and I flew to New York to see our 20-
month-old grandson and — yes — his
parents, too. I slept on the plane, slept
in the car, napped when we got home
and slept like a log that night. I've
never been so tired in my life.
The next day, grandson Evan got me
going. He did his usual thing and took
us along for the ride. He called his
bubbie "Bubbie," gave her a kiss and
told her, "I love you." This was from a
lad who supposedly isn't talking yet.
Then he chased me around his play-
house in the back yard, chortling like
a 20-month-old, and repeatedly yelled
"Zaydie" during the chase.
I guess I'm not tired anymore. El