Milton Baron

My grandfather, Milton Baron, was one of the best men I've ever known.

He was generous, smart, kind and compassionate. And he was a mensch. It sounds trite, but it's true.

He ate puffed wheat cereal with milk lovingly warmed by grandmother every morning. The rest of the day he munched on raw vegetables, fish and salads with no dressing. So it was shocking that he succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the young old age of 70. I'm not sure why I was surprised since my mom was (is) one of the healthiest women I know and she too had cancer. I was pretty healthy, too. I digress. When my grandfather was diagnosed, he knew that his cancer was a death sentence. But he was determined to fight. He decided to have a risky surgery which only 5% of patients survive after 5 years in the hopes of prolonging his life. I remember sitting in the hospital with him after his surgery and listening to him tell my grandmother that his quality of life wasn't going to be good anymore. Quality of life, family and his work were everything to him. My grandfather practiced medicine until his illness required him to stop. He served a lower income population that desperately needed his services and he loved his work and patients. When he realized that he would no longer be able to practice, he quietly ensured that his wife and children were taken care of, and died.

He was the first and only man to tell me that I could have "whatever my little heart desired," (I'm still trying to get Boris on board with that one). And he was serious. So was my grandmother. If my parents wouldn't buy me something I wanted, my grandparents would. As a child I used to have weekly sleepovers at my grandparents' house. My grandfather used to tuck me in to bed at night and tell me a bedtime story. It was always the same. A recount of the day and night's activities. He and my grandmother took me on my first international trip: Israel and London when I was 13. On the beach in Tel Aviv, he wore black dress socks and dress shoes. He snored like a train. He never got mad. His temperament was even keeled and calm. Always. Upon meeting Boris, my family immediately likened him to my grandfather. I wish Boris could have met him to know what a compliment that is.

My grandfather was an avid gardener and grew stunning orchids and cymbidiums. When he gardened he looked homeless. His clothes were dirt stained and full of holes. My grandmother was mortified. He could have cared less. He never wanted to offend people. One day he was gardening and needed cardboard boxes. He went rummaging through a garbage can of a local grocery store that my grandmother regularly shopped at. One of the employees apparently thought he was homeless and gave him a few dollars. Much to my grandmother's horror, rather than embarrass her and tell her that he was a doctor who lived up the street in a giant house on Rodeo Dr., he humbly said "thank you."

He was also incredibly open minded and wanted to understand the passions of his family. When I was in the 11th grade, I took my first Women's Studies class. I was enthralled and idealistic and wanted to change the world. I went on to major in Women's Studies in college. The more I learned, the more pissed off I became. Sexism was (is) so pervasive in every aspect of our culture. I was angry and combative a good majority of the time. Particularly when it came to religion. Women's role in the bible horrified me as did the way they were treated in most devout homes. I hated that God was (is) always referred to as a man (although quite frankly I think the world is so fucked up that if there is a God, he's a he for sure). Raised as an orthodox Jew, my grandfather's commitment to Judaism and Israel were vital to him. We often battled about the role of women in the bible and their role in Jewish life. I refused to go to temple with my family during the High Holidays which was devastating to my grandfather. I remember him telling me that Women's Studies was becoming my religion. But even though he was hurt and angry, he still wanted to understand me. He read my college thesis ("Pseudofeminism in Advertising") and came to discuss it with me. "I feel like I understand you much better now," he told me before he died. And he told me how proud he was of me.

Before Boris and I got married we discussed (or rather fought about) whether I would take his last name. Initially I told him I'd change my name, but I wanted him to make his middle name my maiden name. It only seemed fair that we should take each other's names. He was hesitant. He said that he didn't expect me to change my last name, but thought it would be sad that when we had kids, they would all have his name and I wouldn't. I was shocked and responded that I didn't understand why he thought the kids would get his last name when they were coming out of my body. "That's just the way it works," Boris said. I reminded him that we used to have slaves and women couldn't vote and that's just the way it worked, but it didn't make it okay. And then my insanely smart husband actually said "I'm the man and the kids will have my last name or I'm not having kids." Jesus. That now comes in handy and I frequently remind him that he's the man and thus the breadwinner and I'm going to stay home with the kids and be a homemaker (with a nanny and housekeeper). He usually replies that that entails me having dinner on the table for him when he gets home from work and being subservient. Hilarious. We ended up agreeing that I would take his last name, we would both make my maiden name our middle names, and any children we had would also have my maiden name as their middle names. And, since I do not believe that childbearing is a partnership, I would get to choose our children's' names and he'd retain veto power if he really, really hated it.

When I became pregnant with Miles, I knew immediately that I wanted to name him after my grandfather. Before settling on Miles, Boris and I briefly discussed naming him Baron. I loved it. Boris wasn't sure. But we both loved Miles so we really didn't give much thought to other names. When I became pregnant with MWFS and was diagnosed with cancer, I wanted his name to mean miracle or warrior. The options for miracle were grim. Milagro, Chinua, Breindel...not so much. And then one day I looked up the meaning of Baron on several websites. "Young warrior," and "warrior" was its most frequent meaning. Done. Done. Done. I could once again honor my grandfather. And I could honor another woman warrior - my mom since Baron is her maiden name. And even though Boris wasn't smitten with the name, it grew on him throughout my pregnancy. And now that Baron is here with us, we couldn't imagine him with any other name.

I wish that my grandfather could have met Boris. I wish he could have seen me mellow out and not be angry all the time. I wish he could have seen me be a mother. I wish he could have enjoyed his great grandchildren. But I believe that he knows I am happy and I couldn't think of a better way to honor him than thinking of him every time I look at my beautiful boys. Miles and Baron. In honor of Milton Baron.