In order to be creative I'm aiming for a chain effect: When I wrote about Passover, I mentioned the 1960 World Series; while writing about that I mentioned my grandfather.

My grandfather's name was Jacob David Golding; his friends called him "JD." He was tempestuous, forceful, intolerant. As a young person growing up, he irritated me so much that I blamed him for any and all family problems. His attachment to Orthodox Judaism I thought neurotic; the kosher laws I found unbearable. All I knew was that if I wiped dry a "meat" plate using a "milk" dishtowel I brought all God's thunder down on my head.

This is one of those stories where--and it's been recounted millions of times--somebody in your family dies and you didn't appreciate them until it was too late.

I've grown up; and yes, I now see "JD" in a different way. His adoration of Judaism was beautiful and pure. On Friday nights we had Shabbos dinner with my grandparents, and sometimes my parents left me there overnight. In the early mornings I would wake up and hear a mumbling, singing sound. I got out of bed to explore and I came upon my grandfather in the breakfast nook, wearing his phylacteries and prayer shawl and "davening." He was singing and reciting the morning prayers. He "saw" me standing there in my pajamas but he didn't see me; he was lost in his prayers to God. When I think about this scene, my mind's eye puts an aura of light around it.

I tell people that my grandfather ate the same lunch for 50 years. Do you think I'm kidding? He was a lawyer with his office in downtown Pittsburgh, and at lunch time he went over to the Colonnade for his meal. Every day he ate a plate of cottage cheese, lettuce, and fruit. And did he once, ever, say: "I would give anything for a pepperoni pizza from Mineo's." (Best pizza in Pittsburgh.) NO--of course not--it's laughable! He loved keeping the kosher laws; this was his first love. Family came a close second.

I would like, just once, to spend Shabbos with my grandfather. Have the majestic Friday night meal of home made chicken soup followed by a roasted chicken, walk with him to Poale Zedek (an Orthodox synagogue in Squirrel Hill in Pittsburgh), sit on the "womens'" side with no complaint, walk back, talking about the Jewish scholars he admired, then receive the "child's blessing" that my grandfather always said on Friday nights, his hand above my head.