At the age of 12 - when the winter snow reached my earlobes - I returned home one morning from my paper route - nose running and exhausted. The mosaic clock over the stove showed 10 minutes to 7.  Seated at the kitchen table - and as usual - simultaneously eating toast with marmalade and scratching numbers on a piece of paper - you looked up.  Seeing the tearstains thawing on my cheeks, you didn't hesitate:

 

"What happened, Pete?"

 

Holding back a flood of tears, knees shaking, bottom lip curling - I recounted how Mr. Eisenberg - the spare parts salesman who lived behind our house - had cornered me on his front porch like a mad dog and blasted me for misplacing his "Herald".  Mr. Eisenberg was an ogre.  In a good mood, he would have sooner poisoned any of us neighborhood kids - than allow us to play near his semi-colonial at the corner of Park and Cotton.

 

Gulping down a bite of toast, silently you got up from the table and went to the phonebook.  My teeth - still chattering from the cold outside - continued now - in fear I had screwed up - but not knowing what  Mr. Eisenberg might say or even worse -  I pictured him climbing through the bushes separating our houses and crashing through the backdoor with a baseball bat.

 

Boy, he must've been surprised when he picked up his phone. 

 

"Eisenberg" you growled.

 

"This is Bob Rosenberg - from next door."  Pause.

 

"My son just walked in with tears in his eyes."  Long pause.

 

I tried to hide my expression but sensing your eyes searching for mine I looked up - and then - in a way I had never seen - you looked me in the eye.  It was O.K.  You were every child's father and I was your son.  Then - practically  holding the phone between your teeth - you whispered:

 

"...you lean on my son and I'll lean on you."

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