Fredda Katcoff
Among the men in Midge’s life was one with four paws. Midge always credited me with naming Murray. However, there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that Murray was named after Joel’s cousin Murray. Knowing my lack of affection for the entire canine species, Midge always and fondly reminded me that Murray and I shared the same birthday.
I met Midge almost 28 years ago, when I was on bed rest while pregnant with my daughter Elizabeth. One day Andrea arrived in the Mitzvah Mobile—then in the guise of a station wagon with wooden panels. In her tow was a quirky, bubbly person named Midge. When Randee joined us we became the Birthday Club. For almost 28 years we celebrated each other’s birthdays in every kosher restaurant in Essex County. We knew exactly what Midge would order. French fries swimming in ketchup accompanied by a piece of meat that Midge invariably described as “black and blue” and “ready to moo.” The routine—along with an infinite supply of dog jokes and prank cards and props—never got old.
Midge was simply there at every important point in my life. There was never a crisis, mine or another’s, that Midge was not there for. When that same Elizabeth was hit by a car on Pleasant Valley Way during Succot, Midge and Mitchell walked to St. Barnabas. When family members passed away, Midge helped me cover mirrors. And when my kids had lice, Midge checked me.
When Elizabeth was married just over a year ago, Midge dragged herself on one of the hottest days of the year to the wedding. By this time we all knew the price Midge would pay for attending. Every outing extracted its toll. Each hour outside meant an equal number of days in bed.
I called Midge the Friday before she passed away. She told me that she was “in heaven.” Indeed, nothing delighted Midge more than sharing pictures of her grandkids.
Next week our Birthday Club is dining again. We will always have an empty chair. There will never be a better friend.
Among the men in Midge’s life was one with four paws. Midge always credited me with naming Murray. However, there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that Murray was named after Joel’s cousin Murray. Knowing my lack of affection for the entire canine species, Midge always and fondly reminded me that Murray and I shared the same birthday.
I met Midge almost 28 years ago, when I was on bed rest while pregnant with my daughter Elizabeth. One day Andrea arrived in the Mitzvah Mobile—then in the guise of a station wagon with wooden panels. In her tow was a quirky, bubbly person named Midge. When Randee joined us we became the Birthday Club. For almost 28 years we celebrated each other’s birthdays in every kosher restaurant in Essex County. We knew exactly what Midge would order. French fries swimming in ketchup accompanied by a piece of meat that Midge invariably described as “black and blue” and “ready to moo.” The routine—along with an infinite supply of dog jokes and prank cards and props—never got old.
Midge was simply there at every important point in my life. There was never a crisis, mine or another’s, that Midge was not there for. When that same Elizabeth was hit by a car on Pleasant Valley Way during Succot, Midge and Mitchell walked to St. Barnabas. When family members passed away, Midge helped me cover mirrors. And when my kids had lice, Midge checked me.
When Elizabeth was married just over a year ago, Midge dragged herself on one of the hottest days of the year to the wedding. By this time we all knew the price Midge would pay for attending. Every outing extracted its toll. Each hour outside meant an equal number of days in bed.
I called Midge the Friday before she passed away. She told me that she was “in heaven.” Indeed, nothing delighted Midge more than sharing pictures of her grandkids.
Next week our Birthday Club is dining again. We will always have an empty chair. There will never be a better friend.