The from before

You met Burt here after the Lewy Body Dementia had taken a toll.

For years, as it progressed, he maintained a lot of who he was. And who he was was funny, friendly, inquisitive. Loving, caring, smart. It started to really diminish him this past fall, LBD did.

He lost his sociability. He gave up his mobility. It was about 3 or 4 weeks ago that he stopped engaging with visitors. Not entirely, he was very sweet with the dentist when she came during his last months.

At the end, as you’ve heard me say, he ceased to engage with any of us. He was mostly asleep the last four days.

When I met Burt, nearly 35 years ago, he was… simply, complicated as we all are but less obviously so. He had no notions of who he should be.

It didn’t occur to him to put on airs. He had lied. [I don’t want to be pretentious, and say he dissembled]. It took a bit of math upon meeting his eldest to realize he had subtracted from his age. He was truthful if a bit boastful about how much he loved the theater. He made up for any exaggeration by getting us an overwhelming number of subscriptions to the ballet in our first years together.

I loved the ballet, specifically NYCB, and we went to twelve performances in the first season and again in the second. I think we routinely saw 36 matinees in a year. Burt got the tickets for me, but he really enjoyed it. Going to the ballet was one of the things he said he wanted to do after the pandemic; at that point it was unlikely he could peacefully sit through a performance. The idea of going and of his wanting to go pleased me.

We went to the theater, too, and Burt took a shine to drama. His earlier experience had been going to musicals; the first he’d seen way before we met was The Music Man with Robert Preston. Over the next many years, we were indiscriminant consumers of staged works.

Burt taught me baseball. I found it delightful. He tried educating me about hockey, to no avail. Football on TV, even with the Burt tutorial, was unpleasant. He watched and I groused. We succeeded in getting me to the stadium to witness a Jets game; they lost but had they won, I wouldn’t have converted to fandom.

I liked basketball, however, to which Burt was indifferent. We went to a bunch of Knicks games because he got the tickets to please me. When the Liberty came on the scene, we became season regulars. At every game, we collected the giveaway T-shirts. In bulk.

Burt had anxiety and suffered panic attacks. Despite or because of, we went tooting around, not just all over town, often via the dreaded subway but on  weekends, away. He took me to Atlantic City; we actually wound up there some 5 times.

On one trip, I was on a streak, playing an odd table game. Burt favored roulette or black jack but came to check on me. Each time, he swept by, he took the winnings and left me with the opening stake. My table mates looked upon me with pity but Burt was just preserving the win. We came away $300 the richer. Gambling is really only fun when you win. Gamblers chase those wins; Burt believed in walking when you had one.

Our other gambles were on a trip to Saratoga. That’s a lovely town. We got that ticket when we complained to Amtrak about poor service on a Boston run.

Our honeymoon was also a train trip. We spent the 4th of July weekend in 1992 at Washington DC, complete with a protracted fireworks display and a visit to the White House. Roberta Flack sang at the Mall. It was glorious.

Our first weekend away together was to Newport, RI in 1990. We got stuck in a horrendous traffic jam. Burt, as panic over being trapped struck, took control to walk through lanes of stopped cars and returned to the driver’s seat moments before we were on the move. Our next challenge were darkening storm clouds at the bridge. Another trap, and with me singing always off-key a sixties love song.

Burt referred to that weekend in Newport as our honeymoon. Lots of lobster whenever we could find it; Newport’s can’t be beat. Which reminds me of our weekend in Mystic, for no particular segue, and the mess the grandchildren made at Mystic Pizza.

You don’t need details of every travel the Becks took but do know that for Burt, each time away from home was a challenge. Apparently, he was a man who embraced challenges. He chose to challenge himself and fight the panic attacks. We lived these little adventures and were fortunate.

We were happy. We bickered. We cooed. We walked all over New York City as New Yorkers do.

Somehow, we started going to fancy lunches at 5-star restaurants. It became a Friday routine. We added the decidely not Michelin Finnegan’s Wake to our Friday dates. We had dinner at Daniel’s for my birthday and again at Thanksgiving. Any such plans were orchestrated by Burt.

He orchestrated attending Jazz at Lincoln Center concerts and performances at the Beacon. I think we saw Willy Nelson 4 times at various venues. Bette Midler and Dolly Parton at Madison Square Garden; Frank Sinatra and Shirley McClaine at Radio City. Cher, Tony Bennett. Etc.

I think we kind of lived large thanks to Burt’s wonder and curiousity. I know we loved large.