Blood is blood

Yesterday, while watching a regional high school production of “Fiddler on the Roof,” I got caught up over a conversation between Tevye and Lazar Wolf in the moments before the exodus from Anatevka.

Tevye: Where are you going?

Lazar Wolf: Chicago, in America.

Tevye: Chicago, America? We are going to New York, America. We’ll be neighbors.

Lazar Wolf: My wife, Fruma-Sarah, may she rest in peace, has a brother who lives there.

Tevye: That’s nice.

Lazar Wolf: I hate him, but a relative is a relative. Good-bye, Tevye.

Tevye: Good-bye, Reb Lazar.

This conversation, specifically Lazar’s final sentence, reminded me of a dialogue I had with my paternal grandmother, Muriel, on the day we buried her husband.

Muriel and I sat in the living room, watching family members and friends intermingle, and we spoke of sibling rivalry and cousins not talking to each other.

“Blood is blood,” Muriel said.

I nodded, and those three words stuck with me.

Last weekend, while killing time in Newton before rendezvousing with friends in Boston, I realized I was minutes from Uncle David’s house. I hadn’t been there in 15 years.

We lounged in his den for an hour, talking of work and family, this and that. I recollected Muriel’s words about the importance of family talking to each other, if for no other reason than because blood is blood. Family matters to me.

Tomorrow night, his office is sponsoring a public forum at Harvard University, and as I have nothing better to do, I’ll come into the city and see it. Miss America is one of the speakers to talk about eating disorders. I’ll bring my camera.

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