Harry Stein - The Girl Watchers Club: Lessons from the Battlefields of Life

First things first: there probably would be no Girl Watchers

Fifteen minutes later, a spiffy little Daewoo turns into the

Stuart Walzer, the most recent member of the group, is

I got some ice cream from Alaska, says Moe, as

Ten minutes later Harry Handler shows up.

Gene Cooper fought a very different kind of war, never

Lemme tell you, muses Moe, behind the wheel of the

So, I throw out the question, as the guys move

I realize there are some who will take the way

The odd thing about my relationship with Moe is that

The next time the full complement of Girl Watchers gathers

Its very gracious of you to do this, says Boyd

By now it comes as no surprise that the Girl

As it happens, during our luncheon following the one on

Several weeks after this session, Im back home in New

Say, Boyd, says Moe, taking the seat alongside Huff at

If you want to talk to someone who has real

Buckle up, Turner, commands Huff, as we set out one

I knew a kid once that grew up to be

For all the flak the other Girl Watchers give Stuart

Whenever you ask Gene Cooper these days how he is

As I sit with Earl and Gerry Godfrey in the

You still smoke cigars? I ask Boyd Huff as we

When it comes to Moe and Boyd and the Saturday

Paul Eugene Cooper, 86, a professor, died Saturday at his

Taking Life Seriously (but Never Themselves)

I guess well have to cancel todays lunch, I tell my father-in-law. Wed better call the guys.

My father-in-law, Moe Turner, looks at me, incredulous. Why in hell would we do that? he demands, his west Arkansas accent even sharper than usual.

Why in hell would we do that? It is, after all, the morning of September 11, 2001, and as I stand there in my in-laws sunny living room in Monterey, California, the TV across the room is once again showing the slow-motion collapse of the World Trade Center.

Listen, Moe, I really dont think anyone will feel like coming over.

Sure, they will, he snaps. We gotta talk about it, dont we?

Its not that I cant see Moes point. He and the others due here today are part of a luncheon club, informally known as the Girl Watchers, that has been meeting for nearly four decades. Ranging in age from the late seventies to mid-eighties, these men have literally grown old together, and around one another, nothing is off limits. Ifmake that when they say things that would leave todays politically correct aghast, no one even seems to notice. The talk ranges free and uncensored, from their thoroughly enjoyable (if frequently misspent) boyhoods to the warno one has to ask which oneto the annoying particulars of aging and their own impending demise. They banter about religion and politics; about personal triumphs and persistent regrets; about love and family, about jackasses they have known and individuals theyve greatly admired; about what, finally, it all adds up to and the definition of a well-lived life. And all the while theyll be having a helluva good time.

In the six months Ive been attending these gatherings as a sort of fly on the wallalbeit a fly with an occasional big mouth this is what Ive found most striking about these men: how much they find to laugh about even when the subject is painful or grim.

For the lives theyve lived have given them something so many of us whove had it easier conspicuously lack, a fully operational sense of perspective. All veterans of the war that spared the world the barbarism of Hitler and imperial Japan, they have long been keenly aware of the human capacity for unspeakable evil; and in their private lives they have experienced their fair share of tragedy and pain. But what theyve learned along the way is that hand-wringing does no good and pessimism is absolutely deadly; and if you cant always make your own luck, good or bad, you sure as hell decide how to deal with it.

Nothing seems to throw them; their very manner conveys reassurance.

Yet if ever there was a moment to test their unflagging confidence in the future, this is it. Even the newscasters and reporters on the tube barely seem to be holding it together. Some are already saying whats happened today signals the end of our entire way of life.

Cmon, Moe, I add now, why dont we just reschedule for next week? We were only going to have a partial turnout anyway.

Oh, what a bunch of nonsense! We got all that food ready; lets go!

As we shall see, Moe is a complicated case; and like so many men of this generation, he will go to almost any length to avoid open expressions of emotion. Indeed, it would take some yet-to-be devised form of torture to get Moe to express a fraction of his love for his friends. On those rare occasions he reveals anything at all, it is usually via a kind of code in which the words he speaks tend to have only the barest relation to what he means.

Translation: At this most horrific and precarious instant in our nations history, he needs the Girl Watchers to help make sense of it.

Still, when my father-in-law is as adamant about something as he is now, theres generally no stopping him.

Okay, Moe, I give in, turning back to the horror on the TV screen, have it your way.

You just watch; theyll want to come!

He was right, and I was wrong.

The first to show up, Harry Handler, an old colleague of Moes from the Naval Postgraduate School, is among those not even expected, since he called a couple of days ago to say he was committed to lunch with some ex-colleagues from the physics department. But I just went over to the Navy School, and the whole place is closed down, he tells me at the front door. So here I amI figured there wasnt much chance Moe would be shutting this down.

Quite a day, isnt it? I say, as we head into my in-laws living room.

Just terrible.

How are you doing?

Harry is an exceedingly gentle man, whose puckish humor, lively eyes, and neatly trimmed white beard call to mind an overgrown elf, and I am expecting the standard-issue expression of shock and pain. Instead, he thinks about it a moment and says evenly, Well, you know, personally I dont get teary.

This is so dramatically at odds with what already is the tenor of the awful days public conversation that, product as I am of this touchy-feely age, I must show some surprise.

Of course, its probably a kind of protection, he quickly adds, almost apologetically. Ive been that way ever since I got back from the war. What I am is angry I want to hit these people back, very fast and very, very hard. Then, shooting me a quick half-smile: I do cry at opera. Catch me at La Boheme, and, I guarantee, youll see the tears flowing.

Hey, Harry! Moe enters the living room, appearing from his bedroom in back. Didnt expect to see you.

They closed down the Navy School, replies his friend mildly. So I chose the least objectionable available alternative.

Moe shakes his head in disgust. What nonsense! Only idiots think youre ever going to be totally safe. You cant live in that kind of fear.

Thats right, agrees Handler. Because this is going to go on a long time.

At this point a third Girl Watcher, Boyd Huff, strides into the room, having availed himself of the open front door.

Hes not supposed to be here either!

Hello, gentlemen, booms Huff, the retired head of the Navy Schools history department. An eighty-six-year-old bantam rooster, barrel-chested and ruddy-faced, with keen blue eyes and thick white hair, he bears more than a passing resemblance to the older Spencer Tracy, if you can imagine Tracy in a red fleece San Francisco 49ers vest; and as with Tracy, his manner is direct and his language salty.