Harold Berk

When you're a teenager, if you're lucky, there's a house besides your own where you can hang out, where you're always welcome and feel comfortable. For me, it was the Berk home. Their youngest son, Donny, was my boyfriend's oldest and closest friend. Their house was antique during an era when new construction was sprouting everywhere, and cavernous, with a key hidden for easy entry, cabinets filled with food, and parents who kept their lights on late in case you wanted to come in and talk. Even at age 16, I vowed that someday I'd have a home like this where kids felt listened to, and safe. My boyfriend has now been my husband for almost 35 years and Don is still our good friend. His father, Harold, died yesterday. I keep seeing Harold's sweet smile and hearing his genuinely interested questions. He was a successful dentist, family man, and a talented dancer. But I will always remember the warmth of his personality and the fact that he really cared during those tough years of the late 60's and early 70's when too many of his generation were too self-absorbed or too cynical to open their minds to different ideas. Harold and his wife Helen provided a needed haven for me and many others.

Kilimanjaro

My children have each experienced devastating tragedy. People close to them have died while challenging themselves physically, and obviously tempting nature.

Five months ago when Aron decided that he wanted to climb Kilimanjaro with two friends, I supported him but I was cautiously anxious. People say that these are well-worn paths, trekked by thousands of individuals. This is somewhat true, but I was aware that a six day excursion to close to 20,000 feet of altitude over steep, punishing terrain that would take my son from the parched, dusty Tanzanian village of Moshi to the howling, freezing hail atop Uhuru Peak, would be filled with inherent danger. Before Aron departed, we discussed my fears. He had prepared himself mentally, physically, and in terms of having the proper gear for rain, snow and frigid temperatures. Last fall, he was the guy working out in hiking boots at his local gym. He promised me that he would turn back if he felt debilitated by the altitude. He would e-mail before and after the journey.

True to his word, he stayed in touch. And for that, I will always be grateful. With his itinerary in hand, I was following his every step, form the Shira Plateau to the Karanga Valley. Those last few nights when I knew he could be approaching the "roof of Africa", I couldn't sleep. I tried to keep my imagination at bay, but it was hard not to picture him hypothermic or crawling, exhausted toward a rugged precipice.

I was elated when I received his message on day 6 that all three had reached the summit and were already safely at the base. The sobering news came at dawn the next morning. Loose boulders sliding down the mountain had seriously pummeled another group from Zara, the same guide service that Aron and his friends were using. They had been hiking on a different
route called the "western breach". Three climbers were killed and others were injured, two critically.

All that day and into the evening, I prayed, an unusual practice for me. My phone rang and my computer beeped each time a relative or friend wanted to inquire about my son's whereabouts. I bathed my grandson and cooked an elaborate dinner for my family. We were spared this time. I know what Aron will say when we finally have a chance to talk. Accidents happen, especially when you challenge nature, no matter how skilled you are. He would not trade this adventure which I'm certain required pushing himself over his limits, for anything.