By Nick Reiher

I’m pretty sure I remember the day when Jerry Bloom came into my life. But it’s been a while.

My brother, Gordon, and I were playing catch in the street in front of our house. I had been out for a while with the flu and was just getting my rhythm back when this car pulled up behind us. Gordon recognized his friends from high school in a car driven by Jerry and hopped in.

What began as a minor annoyance turned into a 56-year friendship, as Jerry grew from high school friend to a cherished member of our family.

So many memories came flooding back as we stood under a hot, mid-day sun in the sprawling, cramped Waldheim Cemetery in Forest Park. Jerry had been ill for some time, but until the last few months, he was able to function in his home – as he wished — thanks to the loving care provided by Gordon and my sister-in-law, Anne.

As I stood there, I thought, we would have been doing this some four years earlier if not for them. But, as was noted during the graveside service, Jerry was pretty firm in his ways. And he wanted to live life as best he could.

Jerry was unlike anyone I had met in my previous nine years on earth when he started showing up more frequently at our home. Always impeccably dressed, talking animatedly with a deep and full voice that would become famous in the Chicago theater circuit, radio commercials, at least one video game and, as we heard at the service, during announcements at temple for Sabbath services.

After graduating from Steinmetz High School, Jerry would go on to major in Theater Arts at Northwestern; later getting his master’s at Northeastern. I was proud to wear a purple shirt and my Northwestern tie to his services.

That’s not the only tie we shared. Jerry noticed I was becoming interested in classical music when I was in my early teens. He suggested I start listening to WFMT and even bought a several of my first few cassettes, including Beethoven’s Ninth performed by the London Symphony, led by Leopold Stokowski.

Jerry also fostered a love for the Marx Brothers in both Gordon and myself. People who have suffered through my endless puns and sarcastic humor have those two to thank.

More often than you would expect two guys some eight years older to allow, I accompanied them to various outings. In one case, it was to a special showing of “Animal Crackers” and “The Cocoanuts” at a theater in Evanston.

Speaking of Cocoanuts, oh that pretty young blonde in the white sweater selling popcorn at the counter. Not that she made an impression on a teen guy, or anything.

Throughout the years, Jerry was nearly as important in my early development as Gordon. Even when I finally moved away from home to take a newspaper job in Joliet, Jerry was part of nearly every celebration. He also was a pallbearer at my mother’s funeral, and gave a speech – written by Gordon – detailing my Dad’s history after he passed away.

But Christmas Eve, that’s when the whole family got to know Jerry, or Jerome, as my wife, Tammy, would call him. Parties that began at Mom and Dad’s house back in the day continued at Gordon and Anne’s house after Mom passed.

In the early days, Mom always would give Jerry a tin of homemade Christmas cookies. He would return the empty cannister so they could continue the tradition the next year. Maybe she thought it was the least she could do since his pipe tobacco “smelled like cookies.”

And something I noticed when our kids got to be of talking age: Jerry never talked down to them, just as he never talked down to a 9-year-old who grew to see him as family.

Puns? Oh, yes. Sarcasm and teasing? You bet. And did THAT come in handy when my younger in-laws to be tried to give me some hell. Amateurs.

Christmas Eve never will be the same. Neither will any other event that brought Jerry into our lives.

Jerry, I forgive you for interrupting that game of catch. In fact, I thank you for it. Your passing leaves a large void; you mean so much to us.

Nick Reiher is editor of Farmers Weekly Review.