Michael Alan Peck

I sold 14 of my 15 boxes of comics today, a collection accumulated over about 50 years. I started by buying at the Dresher 7-11, which is long gone. I traded many books back and forth with some good friends, and with an older kid who lived across the street and used to trade me comics from an orange crate of books he’d stolen out of a locker at his school. (That detail never bothered me because I wasn’t the one who’d stolen them. And because children are sociopaths.)

I was a huge Avengers fan as a kid because you got more characters for a quarter in each book, so why spend that money on just a one-character title? I liked the X-Men and the Justice League for the same reason.

As I got older, I kept buying Avengers to keep my run going, but I also got into the cosmic stuff, such as Adam Warlock and Captain Marvel. I bought a lot of Warren titles, such as Eerie and Creepy. And in the ’90s, I used to hit the bookstore around the corner from my Hoboken apartment to buy a lot of the X-titles I felt like reading. (Being a comic fan as an adult is much better, because you can just afford to raid the rack and buy all you like, for the most part.)

Some of them ended up being valuable, but I never would’ve predicted which ones. A few X-Men from the ’60s are worth the most because they’re in pretty stellar condition. I just happened to have bought the first appearance of Gambit. Iron Man #1, which I picked up for three bucks at a convention in the late ’70s. Or a ratty copy of the first appearance of Supergirl, which was one of the books we traded back and forth.

But I never collected for the money. Mine was a reader’s collection. Which is why some of my more valuable keys aren’t in the condition I’d like. Like the first appearance of Sabretooth in Iron Fist #14. I thought he was a stupid character, so I didn’t even bag that one for years. It was just crammed into a giant stack with all the other books I didn’t care much about. How was I supposed to know he’d eventually become a big deal?

Or X-Men #94, bought off the rack when it first came out. That was the beginning of the Claremont run. In top condition, it’s worth at least a thousand bucks, but not mine, which is probably worth less than half that due to it being just OK. And did I mention I used to have two copies? I tore the cover off the dupe and threw darts at it when I was a kid because I thought Count Nefaria was—once again—a stupid character, and what did I need with two of those anyway?

Oh, 12-year-old Mike. If only I could float back in time and tell you what to take care of.

But really, it was never about the money. I’m hanging onto the one box of keepers, and I may get five or six of them cleaned, pressed, and graded, but they’re just fun to hang onto.

They all helped me. When I was down, or lonely, or needed a mental escape, they were there for me. I read them over and over. And they helped me through some dark, sad times.

The beauty of it is that they’re headed to the local comic shop, some to be sold for 10 bucks each, others to be sold for almost nothing. But somebody looking to complete a run will be happy to have that Avengers they’ve been having a tough time finding for a decent price—or finding at all. Every title, no matter how obscure, is loved by somebody. There’s a home for that Defenders, that Omega the Unknown, that Howard the Duck, even.

And what actually chokes me up a bit is that the half-covers, which were never supposed to be resold at all, and even the no-covers—the issues I bought for pennies at the Montgomeryville Mart and The Bazaar, which were the places to go before the malls opened—will find a home. The guy who bought them said he has a free table where kids who don’t have money to buy anything will be happy as hell to have something to take with them.

That’s everything to me. As I told him, I didn’t care how much money I got for them as long as I wasn’t being ripped off. I just wanted them to get into the hands of someone who’d be as excited to have them as I was, some kid who doesn’t care at all that an old Hulk issue had half its cover slashed off.

These stories are the foundation of my imaginings. I would never have written the books I did without them, without Stan Lee, Chris Claremont, Jack Kirby, Steve Ditko, Gerry Conway, John and Sal Buscema, Neal Adams, Jim Starlin, Marie Severin, Frank Miller, and countless others I’m forgetting.

So long, old friends. Go fill the heads of new fans now, and may the love of story and the thrill of good versus evil never lose their appeal.

‘Nuff said.

We think we’ll get to say goodbye, but nobody really promises you that.

Dad was by himself in the early morning dark. The last time I saw him, I had only a few moments before we had to leave, and I spent them telling him the dumbest jokes I could find online. After we left, he didn’t realize we weren’t there anymore because his eyesight had failed. My brother, Larry, hearing him still telling us goodbye, ran back into the room to give him another hug. I told myself that if I never had the chance to talk to him again, leaving him laughing was as good as it gets.

Sometimes I believe it.

When Mom passed, I hadn’t seen her in more than five years. The reasons were ours. She’s gone. Now I just carry them alone.

When she’d talk about me coming down—sometimes asking, sometimes suggesting, sometimes something harsher—I’d think, I may well see you one more time, but you might not know I’m there.

I was right.

That, too, is mine alone to carry.

When I said goodbye to River Garden, the complex where Dad and then Mom lived out their last days, it was a heavier parting than I’d realized it would be. With Mom still living there, the keeper of the photos and memories, Dad had somehow remained, too. It never occurred to me that when we cleaned out her place, we’d be breaking down both their lives and moving them out.

Her things. His.

There is no next generation. No one to pass anything to. So you sell what someone will pay for. You give away what will be loved or merely used.

Then you throw away everything else. Even that which was most beloved. What hung on the walls of the house you lived in for all your growing years—and wherever they called home in the years after that.

Thirty outside Philadelphia. Thirty more in Jacksonville.

Someone will throw it out for you if you don’t. It’s only a matter of time.

Weddings. Parties. A vintage Rawlings mitt. The terrifying clowns. My great-grandmother’s table-clamp meatgrinder, which helped make enough chopped liver to capsize a container ship. Awards and notes and appointment reminders and people you don’t recognize and dancing and costumes and poses and smiles and laughter and captures of what was once happy but now breaks your heart.

Gone.

You talk to them while you do it. You say you’re sorry through your tears, when you’re able to say anything at all.

I kept Dad’s dog tags from World War II, the Kiddush cup I was given as a baby—my Hebrew reading proficiency is rusty at best, and that’s being kind, but I still recognize my own name—and my grandfather’s shaving mug.

Our last night, I sat outside and used the Kiddush cup to toast the place and the home they were able to make in it, along with their memories. Accompanied by Larry; my wife, Renée; and a pair of Canada geese, I silently thanked the friends, neighbors, and staff members who packed the memorial service we held, along with everyone who helped and spoke. 

The woman in the “I [Heart] Hadassah” shirt who said she always thought my dad was so cute.

The Action News Jax anchorman who told the crowded room he’d received “just a few” emails from Mom over the years with her take on his broadcasts, unfurling enough taped-together pages to reach the floor, before he found himself overcome and unable to speak for a moment.

God bless Mom. She’d be so happy to know that in the end, she silenced a man who talks for a living, if only for a few long seconds.

All the ladies who showed up in the kind of bright colors Mom favored, wearing the items she’d cajoled them into buying at the gift shop. Which says something about how she raised $100,000 for the home in her time running it. And she was still ordering and merchandising when she passed at 90.

They needed the memorial service, people said. She’d left for a routine procedure and never came back, though they’d only just spoken to her a day or two before. They needed to say goodbye.

Don’t we all.

I took pictures of whatever grabbed my eye, even if it would only have meaning for me. The turtle pond we used to roll Dad out to. The table from our Dresher living room, which sat in the hallway outside Mom’s room for the last few years. Word is they’re going to use it outside the dining room to display the dishes on offer each night.

Whatever people will love or use.

As we pulled out of the parking lot for the last time, a woman passing stopped to roll down her window and tell us how much she’d appreciated the service.

And when the plane took off, and I knew I wouldn’t be back, I had to push myself up from my seat to make out the ground fading below us so I could thank the place one last time.

You mostly don’t get to say your goodbyes the way you’d hoped.

So you do the best you can.

Just like you did in all the years leading up to that.

Time it was,
And what a time it was
It was . . .
A time of innocence
A time of confidences

Long ago . . . it must be . . .
I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They’re all that’s left you

I’ll echo my brother, Larry, in thanking you for joining us. It means more than you know.

It seems it wasn’t all that long ago that we were here with Mom for Dad’s service. Now, nine years later, it’s time to tell her goodbye.

When you sit down to put a eulogy together, you’re faced with a dilemma: you know how the story ends. But where do you start?

I started at the beginning, of course. In my head, wandering back to our house in Dresher. But I didn’t go where I thought I would. Instead, I found myself in my room with an old comic from my collection.

I don’t remember what it was for certain—it might’ve been Superman—but the cover featured a hero and villain speeding toward each other, all intense lines of action and determined expressions. It posed the question in big, bold letters: what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? An old paradox. And one that gave me my start.

I know what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object.

Because I knew Evelyn Peck. And Evelyn Peck was both.

Mom was a force to be reckoned with and a woman who held her ground for what she believed in.

She’s easy to talk about because nearly everything she did and said was memorable. The hard part is narrowing it down. There’s just so much.

Not long after I posted about her passing on Facebook, memories and stories from friends came pouring in. Many of them involved food and Mom’s cooking. Because, of course, they did. Nobody loved a kitchen more than Evelyn, who would bury you in very good brownies if she thought you gave her the opportunity, like the marching brooms in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.”

My friend Anne told me about the time she came to our house to play. Mom asked her if she wanted anything, and Anne said a jelly sandwich when she meant to say a peanut butter sandwich because she didn’t actually like jelly. But she was too embarrassed to correct herself, so she sat and pretended to enjoy every bite.

My friend Charlie stayed for a weekend. Mom was experimenting with new recipes for a Sisterhood function. She tried a pot roast marinated in coffee that was the best thing you’ve ever tasted, despite that description. But she couldn’t use it because it fell apart and wouldn’t present well, so she served it to us instead. We devoured it like a pricey filet thrown to the dogs, chowing down, asking for seconds, and praying for additional failed trials to land on our plates.

My friend Mike said Mom’s kitchen smelled like Jewish heaven and recalled her endless kindnesses, love, and smiles.

My friend John told me, “Please write down that her candor was overwhelming—and I loved her for it.”

She would’ve loved that.

Because Evelyn Greenberg Peck was a person of overwhelming candor and love. Someone she herself would’ve described as a real character. If she had an idea, you were gonna know about it. A plan? You were gonna do it. You might even have some say in the matter. But probably not.

When we were kids, she’d wake us up before sunrise, singing “Rise and Shine” at full volume. She’d always make sure we beat the morning traffic out of the Philadelphia area, and we’d head south for 10 hours until we reached Greensboro to visit my grandfather, my brother and I asleep in the rear of our old Plymouth Fury III station wagon, laid out on tartan mats patched with electrical tape, waking up somewhere near Baltimore to do battle for turf as quietly as we could so she and Dad wouldn’t catch on.

At some point, when we were little, Dad began a running joke on road trips. We’d approach a crossing, and he’d say, “Here comes the bridge that Mommy built.” Driving over it, we’d all agree, “This is the bridge that Mommy built.” I never actually understood the gag. But I didn’t need to. Mom made plans, and off we went.

To Cape Kennedy to watch Biosatellite 3, the project Dad worked on, launch into the darkness before dawn. To Myrtle Beach. Six Flags. The Auto Train to Disney World. And the time I came home from New York City for Thanksgiving, got up at some ungodly hour—it was always some ungodly hour—so we could drive back to Manhattan in a punishing downpour and visit Ellis Island as a family, then drive back to suburban Philly to continue the holiday weekend. Never mind that I could’ve just stayed in New York and met them on Ellis Island some other weekend. That was not the plan.

She once told me that when Dad proposed, she got a call from a guy who’d gone silent on her after a date some time before. Now he wanted to know if she was busy that weekend.

“I’m busy for the rest of my life,” she told him.

And anyone who knew her knows she was. 

All those plans. All those events.

The cakes she baked—made to order for the birthday boy. My brother and I were predictable, going with chocolate every year because her chocolate cake was a gift all its own, topped with baseball players on a diamond laid out in icing. Or wooden antique cars at an intersection drawn in sweetness. The Shabbat dinners she cooked—always fresh, never leftovers—to make Friday night after sundown a special occasion. The candles she lit. The prayers we recited and sang together.

For Hannukah, she’d make and decorate cookies and bring them into school to explain the holiday to the class. When we went to camp, she sewed or ironed name tags into all our clothes. Nothing was done halfway. Nothing.

Just ask her fellow Hadassah members. Or the people at River Garden, where she took over running the gift shop, ordering and pricing merchandise, conceiving and creating display windows, conjuring record amounts of revenue into the cash register to help the home.

Ask my brother, who was planning on staying at River Garden while Mom had her procedure. After Mom passed, he went into her apartment, opened the refrigerator while he was on the phone with me, and found all his favorite fruit and food. She’d gone shopping, knowing he was coming.

Nothing halfway.

She never skimped on opinions, certainly, which is what my friend John meant when he mentioned her candor. If she loved something or someone? You were gonna know about it. If she didn’t? You’d know that, too.

Liza Minnelli was more talented than Judy Garland. NFL players’ hair should be short enough to hide beneath their helmets. Frank Sinatra was bulletproof until his later years, when he “just didn’t have it anymore.” Sarah Vaughn was Divine. Theodore Bikel was Fiddler’s perfect Tevye. Topol…was not. And turkey should be cooked halfway, stashed in the ‘fridge overnight, and cooked the rest of the way on Thanksgiving Day so that it won’t be dry—food-safety rules be damned.

When I was a child, I knew who and what occupied the wrong side of the line based on whoever and whatever crossed or offended her—and I’m talking before I ever made it out of the single digits. It was like Richard Nixon’s enemies list, which is fitting because in the early ‘70s, our president was near the top of Mom’s roster of foes.

In fact, now that she’s left us, I feel comfortable enough to publicly name these villains for you today. They are: Nivea moisturizing lotion. Colonel Sanders. Overdone fish. Mel Brooks, especially for Blazing Saddles but not for Young Frankenstein. Women who wear their hair past a certain length by a certain age. Ethel Merman. The Acme supermarket. And Mario the barber.

To enjoy those things or people, to frequent those establishments, was a betrayal of Nature’s law. Until, that is, I was old enough to drive myself to Mario’s for a haircut, which Mom seemed OK with by then. Mario was always professionally friendly to me, and I briefly considered clearing the air about whatever had happened between them. But it mostly felt like it wasn’t, as the song from A Chorus Line says, something you’d want to discuss. (And I know that tune so well because of the love of Broadway I inherited from Mom.)

All her life, a fighter. Often for good reason. Sometimes just to fight. In a famous scene from the classic movie The Wild One, a woman asks Marlon Brando’s Johnny what he’s rebelling against. His answer: “What do you got?” Like Johnny, Mom wasn’t always choosy about her battles. But as my friend said, you had to love her for it just the same.

She was a fighter to the end. And, sadly, the end for Mom came so suddenly. So shockingly. That’s what makes this goodbye difficult. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all. I’m not really kidding when I tell you I thought she might outlive me, 30-year difference or no, just because she was a phenomenon all her own.

But now, surprising as it is, we gather to see Evelyn Peck off.

When things went wrong, they went wrong fast. The doctors laid the situation out, and we had a decision to make. Once we’d made it, Larry held his phone up to Mom so Renée and I could say goodbye, even though we’ll never know if she was able to hear us.

They shut it all down. I told her it was OK for her to go. That we’d be fine. Then we sat for a quiet minute or two, which was all we would have. And I thought: my mother is in this world with me. I still have a mother. But only for a few moments more. And then she’ll be gone. And then I won’t.

But.

Who am I to say?

I keep thinking of the movie Nomadland, and a line I often use whenever I part ways with people I like. People I care about. One of Frances McDormand’s fellow travelers tells her, “I never say a final goodbye. I always just say, ‘I’ll see you down the road.’”

Maybe we’re not saying a final goodbye to Evelyn, either. Maybe we’ll find her waiting for us. Sewing in nametags like the one I found in my kippah. Icing a chocolate cake. Or sticking a broom straw into a banana cake to see if it’s done. Baking mondel bread. Or cookies. Basting a pot roast that tastes like it came from God, never mind that it doesn’t present well. Or making a jelly sandwich for someone who wanted peanut butter but refuses to let her down.

Because of all Mom’s opinions, the strongest was that you only get one life, so you should make the best of it. Do the good you’re able to. Help as many people as you can. Do it with grace. With purpose. With the understanding that the result is the reward.

And what, in the end, is a more noble belief than that? For her? For us?

So.

Here’s to Evelyn Greenberg Peck. An outsized presence and a true force. She always did her best. And her best was something to behold.

Godspeed, Mom. Safe travels.

We’ll be OK.

We love you.

And we’ll see you down the road.

You know the one.

It goes over the bridge that Mommy built.

In some versions of the story, John Henry didn’t die at the end.

Like the one my brother just told me.

My dad’s retirement was ironic in a good way. After layoff trauma from the days of space-program cutbacks and even longer years of getting up with the sun to carpool to Lakehurst, NJ, from suburban Philadelphia every day, he and my mom settled into a house near the beach in Jacksonville, FL. He bid his working routine goodbye.

Or so he thought. It turned out that naval contractors sought out guys like him because he’d been trained the old-fashioned way, unlike the kids coming out of school who relied on software to do everything. When they asked him to do contract work for them, he gave them a number so high he was sure they’d balk, and then he wouldnt have to work again.

They accepted.

So there he was, the white-haired guy with the pocket protector, heading into an office of wise-ass upstarts who kidded the old man about his ancient ways.

He begged to differ.

We don’t have all the details, but apparently somebody came up with a challenge that pitted the young guys with their scientific calculators against Dad and his slide rule.

And he handed them their asses.

I only wish he were still around to tell us himself. Either way? Respect the elders, kids. They still haven’t shown you all their tricks.

Image credit: Carrie Berry

A little TMI for you.

After my dad’s eyesight went, and he’d fallen getting out of bed in the middle of the night a couple of times, the home staff decided to put him on the memory-care ward because that was where they could better look after him. It meant he was surrounded by people in various states of decline who generated moments of humor and pathos in—well, not equal measure, but with enough differentiation that there were a few lighter moments to be found if you looked for them hard enough.

During our visits, Mr. Feldman used to wander in now and again. A resident who was in pretty good physical shape, comparatively speaking, he was still mobile and steady on his feet. His trademark uniform was a shirt-and-boxers combo, and he inhabited a mental space that was half addled and half spoiling for a fight. Whatever you said to him, no matter how pleasant, he’d usually respond with an ornery, “Yeah?” while looking you up and down as if trying to figure out if he could take you. Then he’d stick around until he’d gotten his fill of glaring at everyone and make his exit.

Now, the boxers. I figured that given his score on the cantankerous scale, the people caring for him had probably long since given up on trying to get him to wear pants. And he was otherwise harmless enough. Well, except for that time someone in a wheelchair disappeared, causing a minor panic, and it turned out he’d come upon them in the hall and wheeled them to another part of the wing before wandering off and leaving them there.

But he and Dad are both gone now, and I digress.

On my day off, I rode to Staples in a steady rain because we needed Sodastream carbonator refills, and the break in the weather I’d been waiting for wasn’t going to come. So I just got wet.

Returning home, I, being a paragon of pragmatism, traded my soaked biking shoes and socks for Tevas, hung my shorts up over the shower, and left the performance-fabric shirt and underwear on to dry while being worn. I mean, hey—nobody else around, right?

I banged away at the computer for a bit, then looked down at my rainwater-damp wicking boxer-briefs and started to laugh. For a second, I wanted someone there to talk to, just so I could scowl at them suspiciously and respond to whatever they had to say with, “Yeah?”

I am Mr. Feldman.

As are we all, ultimately.