Sherman Ray, Jack Friedman, Otto Frank, and the New Emptiness on The Hebrew Home’s Second Floor

They weren't cut short

The guy on the left, Sherman Ray, died over the weekend. He was 102. He lived at Zarrow Point, The Hebrew Home, in an apartment on the second floor next to my father, who died at 96.

One was pushing 100; one already was.

That’s a lot of kvetching.

For years, they ate dinner together in the dining room — then they had an argument. I happened to be there. Sherman was demanding his dinner be made a special way, and the waiter, who had just started, said he didn’t know if that was possible.

“What are you talking about? It’s possible, it’s possible. Just tell ‘em in there,” he said, pointing to the kitchen. “I want it that way or I’m sending it back.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the waiter.

“Just tell them!”

“Leave the kid alone,” my father said. “He just started. Why are you hocking him?”

“What do you know?” Sherman responded. “You eat chicken every night.”

They didn’t talk for years after that. And Sherman started eating upstairs in his apartment.