Staying Home and Loving It

There’s no place like home.

I wrote this story in January 2020 — in our Coronavirus America, it takes on new significance.

There’s an old Jewish joke: A stewardess approaches passenger Sol Rabinowitz as the plane prepares for takeoff. “Are you comfortable?” she asks. Sol shrugs, “I make a good living.”

I am all about creature comforts. Growing up, my father had a recliner in his home office. When my ex-wife and I bought our house, I signed up for a department store credit card because that covered the shipping fees for a similar recliner (which I am sitting in as I write this piece).

I don’t have samurai swords decorating my walls. You won’t find pictures of me and my kids conquering Mount Etna. The last time I tackled an escape room was when my younger son accidentally locked himself in the bathroom. The world is a big enough, scary enough place. A 73-year-old sociopathic narcissist has the nuclear launch codes, so I have enough to worry about when my head hits the pillow every night.

“How about a ski vacation?” My sister-in-law from Denver occasionally asks. “You can start on the green trails for beginners.” Yes, I would certainly turn a lovely shade of green as I gained speed on the ski trail. “Nobody expects you to instantly become a black diamond skier!” she added, exasperated. True, but you can break your leg in New York City slipping on…