The last podcast episode marked the end of a series of excerpts from my upcoming book called, "The Friend at the End," which tells the story of the major stroke that I suffered in 2011.  As that series began, I was in the prime of my life, all was well, and I was about to enjoy the beginning of the summer season. But by the last episode, the stroke was well underway, I was in the midst of a near-death experience and was facing the possible end of my life.  By the way, if you plan to read the book when it comes out, here's a spoiler alert about the stroke – I lived! Anyway, that series about the stroke was actually a lead up to the next series that's about to begin with this episode. This series will feature some excerpts from my memoir, Wilt, Ike and Me and will portray the times just before and just after my father died of a sudden, major heart attack. I had some remarkable experiences during this time. I think you will find the story fascinating. And it all leads up to a rather enlightening conclusion.   So, let's get into this next series. It begins at the end of the summer of 1965. Our family had a place at the Jersey shore and I had spent the summer there, working at a day camp. But those days had unexpectedly turned into a coming of age, rite of passage era for me, because I had run headlong into a wild teenage romance that was as every bit as hot as the summer was.   The day before the story opens, Wilt Chamberlain had come down to have dinner with us and he had taken me out for a ride in his new car.  But as soon as the ride started, he unexpectedly gave me a quick, but very detailed talk about how not to get a girl pregnant. And so, the story begins…  The next day, as I thought about my car ride with Wilt, I realized that my father might have set it up. The whole thing seemed a bit contrived. Wilt had come down early, by himself. And as soon as we said hello, the next thing I knew, we were driving around in his Bentley and he was giving me a pregnancy prevention seminar. If my father had done it, I had to hand it to him. It was a pretty cool way to make sure I had all the information I needed to keep me out of trouble. But it really wasn't necessary. I had been going to overnight camp for nine years, and other than sports, all we ever talked about in the bunk was sex. And besides, as heated as our interludes ever got, my girlfriend and I were always careful to keep things out of the danger zone.  But now, it looked like things might be about to heat up a bit. There was a chance I could be getting the house all to myself for a few days. Although the idea was incredibly exciting, unfortunately, it was for a sad reason. My mother's uncle, Uncle George, had gotten critically ill and was failing. He probably had less than a week to live. That meant a funeral was coming up, and it would be in Brooklyn. My parents would go, but they wouldn't take me. I never went to funerals. They thought I was still too young.   As Uncle George kept slipping away, I went over the situation in my mind. My parents would be gone for at least a full day, maybe two. My brother and sister were both already back in Philadelphia. He was getting ready for his last year of law school and her college classes were about to begin. All I had to do was come up with a reason why I had to stay down the shore, which shouldn't be too hard.  I could hardly wait. My girlfriend and I had been limited to the back seat of cars, the beach, or anywhere else we could sneak in our steamy escapades. But now, finally we'd have the whole house to ourselves.  A couple of days later, my mother got the bad news. Uncle George was gone. My parents and I sat down for dinner that night, and, of course, the mood was somber. I had only seen Uncle George a few times in my life. He was from my grandparents' generation and lived in Brooklyn. But he had been very close to my parents and I could see the deep sorrow on my mother's face. A big part of me definitely felt sad. But I had another part that was equally as big. And it had just popped the cork on the champagne bottle. My imagination was already drunk.   In my mind, there I was, walking out of the dining room into the living room. But I was wearing a freshly pressed, white tuxedo, just like James Bond, and carrying two martinis. I had no idea what a martini was, but those glasses were so cool, whatever was in them had to be good.  My girlfriend sat on the couch wearing a black, low-cut evening gown, a long string of pearls lazily draped around her elegant neck. She crossed her shapely legs and dangled a black high-heeled shoe off the end of one foot. I handed her a martini. She took it and moistened her lips with her tongue. Then she brought the goblet up to her mouth. Oh, man, this was going to be great. "Duv?" I heard my mother's voice calling, from somewhere beyond the fairy dust. "Duvid, are you OK?" I was still waist-deep in my dreamworld and must have looked pretty distracted.  "We know how hard it is," she said sympathetically. My parents had a quick conversation in Yiddish. And then the killer came. "Duv, we think it's time – we think you should come with us to this one," my mother finally said. "Huh?" I grunted. I heard exactly what she said, and I knew what it meant, but I hoped like hell I had gotten it wrong.  "To the funeral, to Uncle George's funeral," she explained. "We talked it over, and we think you're old enough now. You really should come with us. It's time." I thought my head was going to explode. "Oh no! Oh my God, no!" I shouted silently. "This can't be happening!" But as I looked at them, I knew immediately that I was going. End of story. Dream dead.  I kept a calm, pensive expression as if considering the wisdom of the idea, but I was devastated. A moment earlier, I was a step away from romance heaven. Now, instead of being alone in the house with my girlfriend, doing God knows what, I'd be sitting in a long car ride with my parents, driving up to my first funeral. Reluctantly, my imagination switched from sex to death.   "Listen, Shortstop. I know how upset you must be," my father said. A master of the double entendre, he really knew how to say things without saying them. I realized that he probably knew exactly what I was planning to do with the house. In fact, I'm sure he knew it long before I did.  "But this is a perfect one for you to go to," he continued. "It's exactly right for you now. You were close enough to Uncle George that it matters, but not so close that it's gonna be a killer. It's always a good idea to get one of these under your belt before you have to go through a big one, you know what I mean? One that really hurts." It was obvious what he was referring to. His parents, my beloved grandparents, were getting older. Before too long, they'd both be gone. I had to accept it; going to this funeral made perfect sense. For a lot of good reasons, it was definitely the right thing for me to do. And besides, I had no choice. The next morning, as we started off for Brooklyn, both my parents were solemn. They had long, fond memories of Uncle George, and also, he was the last member of his generation to go. That always adds an extra dimension to a death. Now your generation becomes the oldest in the family. And every time someone goes, it hits you on a deeper level than before… that in reality, the bell tolls for thee. It was a quiet ride. But as we got closer to Brooklyn, my father began instructing me on the process of burying someone you love. He explained what a funeral home was, what would happen when we got there, what it would probably be like at the cemetery, and what would happen at the shiva back at the house. We pulled up to the funeral home, went inside, and were greeted by a large group of relatives from my mother's side of the family. We all hung around together for a few minutes. We didn't get to see each other all that often, so we couldn't help being glad, but it was obviously for the wrong reason. It's amazing how much a funeral is like a party, only it's not.  We all went in and sat in the middle rows. I could see the lid of the open coffin over the heads of the people sitting in front of us. According to my father's instructions, I knew that soon we'd walk past it, and I would see a dead person for the first time. I started to prepare myself. "It's not really real yet," my father muttered in my ear. "Maybe it's a mistake. Maybe it's even a dream. But when you go up there, and you look in and you actually see him, and you know it's really him, then it's real. Then you know it's over." "OK, Ike, let's go," my mother said to him. I felt him stiffen a little. Emotionally, everybody knew she was fifty times tougher than he was. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. "Yeah. OK." I braced myself for whatever was next. We stood up and went to the front of the room. We walked up to the coffin, and I looked in to see what was left of Uncle George. It wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. He didn't even look real. Actually, he looked like a figure in the wax museum on the Boardwalk. Still, it was clearly him, and he was clearly dead. My father linked his arm in mine as we stood there staring at the lifeless form. "Now it's over," he said quietly.  We went back to our seats, and the service began. The rest of the day was uneventful—a standard funeral followed by a burial at a huge cemetery. Then, we headed back to the house for a couple of hours with some of our favorite relatives. That was the nice part of a rather sad day.  On the ride home, once we hit the Jersey Turnpike, I actually felt pretty good. I had gotten one under my belt, and it really wasn't all that bad. So that's the end of this episode.  As subtle as it was, this marked the beginning of a major change in my life and things really start to build as the series continues. As always, keep your eyes, mind and heart open and let's get together in the next one.

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