Byron and Norris    

That is what Norris Oler would answer whenever I asked how he was doing. I always thought it was a remarkable answer, given that his living space was about 8 feet by 12 feet, which had to include his bed, clothes closet, and the rest of his worldly possessions.

Words can sometimes come easily, certainly more easily than actions, and it was Norris’s actions that especially impressed me. Norris was the roommate (if that’s the word) of my longtime friend Byron Bronstein. Byron and Norris lived in the same skilled nursing facility; they would both have been homeless without it. Byron could be cantankerous, and Norris, within this cramped space, never got upset with Byron and never insisted on his due. If Byron, due to his Crohn’s disease, needed the facilities for a lengthy period, Norris never said a word. Norris was kind —it seemed he was kind by nature — but it was more. It was as if he had a professional objectivity, a dispassionate view of Byron’s issues. He judged neither them nor Byron, only tried to help.

Norris shared with me his own struggles with alcoholism. He ruined his life, he said; and, he repeated, it was all his own fault. He hadn’t had a drink in some 30 years, but he ruined a rewarding career in the US Air Force. So, whatever its provenance, Norris’s character shone through. In a tiny living space with a roommate burdened by his own past, Norris was blessed.

Byron Bronstein became part of my life, and almost like a member of our family. Roughly 15 years ago, I noticed his name as the signatory of a letter to the Intermountain Jewish News. It was highly intelligent. It reminded me of a name — Bronstein — I had not heard for decades, since the old days at a shul in a neighborhood that had long lost its Jewish character. I asked my secretary whether she could locate where Byron lived, and she did. When I heard he lived in a facility, I decided to visit him. Ever since, on Erev Shabbos, I have spent some time with Byron Bronstein.