I remember when I was very young . . . driving down Lexington Avenue, past Bloomingdales and an old man standing in the middle of road, a newspaper over his head, eyes closed . . . and the sound of my fathers voice, the frustration--the anger--and the look in his eyes that said, "I hope my children do not understand the intention of this man."
I remember how he would be the shark in the pool at the club, how he would make me feel like an Olympic swimmer at 7,8, 9, 10... and how he would give pointers--like a challenge and not direction. And I remember the inticement of ice cream--Boysenberry Yogurt to be exact covered in dark chocolate.
I remember Little League, the practices, the games...and I wonder how he put up with a bunch of girls year and year. I remember his sitting by the fireplace at the ice rink reading the Book Review from the New York times and offering a hot chocolate when I would break from going round and round the rink. Basketball games and practices--and the one time we almost beat the "stacked team" by sheer back-court strategy...up by four don't cross the midcourt line--hold the ball; I remember the oppositions parents screaming how 'unfair', 'this isn't basketball' and my father responding, 'There are consequences to selectively breaking rules' And the silence that followed [but my father let it go--and the stacked team won the game--but his point was clearly made]. I remember swimming and how bored he was with practices and the meets...and how uncomfortable it was for him to read his newspapers in a humid environment--the pages sticking to wet fingers; but I remember his face afterward--and his patting my back and congratulating me--because this was the one sport that meant everything to me. Dance recitals, Science Fairs, computer shows, Love Boat/Fantasy Island/ All My Children and playing Monopoly, summer camp visits, vacations to Bermuda, bicycle riding in Central Park, broadway shows (The Whiz, those words...ease on down the road...lol), Mets games, driving friends about, and the joy he shared with us. There is so much...so much.
I remember my fathers book cases, stacked with history. That we each, in our own way, make our history. Some more significant than others--but none to be taken lightly. And I remember his introducing me to one of his clients--well no, actually the warehouse...the central shipping repository for books prior to making it to various bookstores. Stacks and stacks of books...and my father looking at my wide-eyed wonder and whispering..."As many as you can carry--you may bring home." I was never stronger or bolder...or more methodical.... My collection of philosophy grew immensely that day...and after many trips to the warehouse I am happy to confess that I was probably the only 15 year old with 100s of books in her collection...hand picked and read.
I remember his solitude. His inability to speak about his parents. His loneliness. I remember the sadness, the long hours, the wanting to always make things 'right'. And I know he clings to things that are difficult for me to understand--that I may never. In all his humanness...in everything he provided to the best of his ability--I thank him and wish him a very happy birthday.
Some of us are very fortunate to have parents who give it their all--who do not get caught up in themselves, who sacrifice just about everything to ensure that their children live good lives. I am one of the fortunate ones.
Thank you Dad!