Life of Wry

My dad died September 27, 2000, almost 11 years ago.

I just spent an hour or so looking back over a number of letters that we exchanged through the years.  I (of course) saved all the letters and notes I ever received from him.  Recently, my mom passed along a huge bunch of my letters that she’d kept, plus those my dad’s secretary had in the office files.  It’s quite a collection.  And I guess the reason I have all of this is so, on days like this, I can look back through it and remember who my dad was and what he meant to me. The letters form a telling and fascinating narrative.

It’s not a perfect story.  The 50s and 60s were an interesting time for dads–behaviors that were socially acceptable then (or tolerated, anyway) are not as socially acceptable today.  It’s probably not entirely fair for us, as adults, to look back at our parents’ parenting through a modern prism.  Some of it seems indefensible, some of it seems contextually justified.  Certainly parental roles were different back then.  Over the years I’ve worked to fit all the pieces together, to understand the times, to try to understand my parents’ relationship, to try to understand who I became as a result. It’s all a bit of a mixed bag.  But mostly, I’m very grateful for my dad.  There were many things I truly loved about him.

In my rummaging through the files this afternoon, I also came upon the comments I made at my dad’s memorial service.  And figured, as long as I’m blogging, I may as well transcribe the comments here, since until now, they’ve just been handwritten notes on binder paper.  So, here goes… comments delivered to about 300 friends and family members gathered at the Neighborhood Church on October 4th, 2000:

As a kid, I always thought of my dad as a larger than life guy.  He had an enormous back and huge shoulders and I remember it took me a long time to meet his challenge of getting my arms all the way around his trunk.  He was like a giant bear.  I even have sweet memories of him scratching his back along door jams, like a bear would. 

He always commanded a lot of attention–professionally, socially, and within our family.  I had a sense that he was very important.  In stature and in life, he seemed, to me, a giant.

As large and commanding a figure as he was, he was not a macho guy.  He was a person of quiet authority.  He didn’t huff and puff, didn’t raise his voice, he wasn’t aggressive or arrogant.  As Karen Hesse wrote in her card, there was a gentleness about him.

He always greeted my friends enthusiastically. He was eager to make people feel comfortable and welcome.  He was funny and genial with store clerks, waiters and complete strangers.  People liked him, liked being around him.  He’d make them laugh and feel relaxed.  He was willing to be solicitous, to be, or even, appear vulnerable.  Many wrote of his kindness.  One person who worked closely with him his entire career said he’d never heard him say anything bad about anyone.  And I think that’s probably true.  People really loved and admired him.

With us, he was generous.  To him, his role was clear: he was the provider and his job was to ensure his kids’ needs were covered.  No matter what we did or how much we needed, he was there.  

Dad, I have a few things I’d like to say to you:

– I’ll always appreciate your love for my son, Peter, though you only knew him for his first two years.  I loved talking to you on the phone and answering all your questions about his latest feats. He really loved the bory bory game. Thanks for playing that with him. 

– I’ll always remember how, on long road trips in the family wagon, whenever we’d ask, “when will we get there?,” your response was always, “six more turns,” no matter where we were.

– I’ll will always know that, had you not tripped on that piece of seaweed, and tumbled horribly in the hard sand, you’d have beaten me in the Great 100-Yard Dash on that beach in Mexico.  Even though I was at the peak of my sprinting prowess!

– I’ll remember our mutual love of the Dodgers and how we always ate breakfast together before anyone else got up, and read and discussed the sports section, but how you always let me read it first. 

– I’ll never forget your surgeon-like precision as you went to work on a whole baked chicken.  You ate slowly, meticulously, and left a clean, perfect bone, without ever touching it with your fingers.  You approached everything slowly and methodically, whether it was eating a bony meal, opening a present or telling a story.

– I’ll never forget your hilarious drawings in Pictionary.  You couldn’t draw a thing, of course, but you played, and you’d tap your pencil over and over next to your drawings, looking at us so hopefully and insistently, willing us to decipher your impossibly small and abstract etchings, but we couldn’t respond because we were laughing so hard.  

– I’ll remember always your beautiful singing voice and your annual Christmas Eve duet, Tell Me Why, with Betty.  And the way you hunched over the piano keys, playing one of two signature pieces–that sort of Vaudevillian number and Clair de Lune.  And the way you danced with Aunt Ellie, never moving a muscle, but spinning her all around the dance floor.  And your killer slice backhands and wicked serves in both tennis and ping pong, slyly delivered and impossible to return. You had many talents!

– I loved the funny notes you sent to me after I’d moved out, when I was in college, and when I was living abroad.  They were short, they were sweet, and they always included your signature smiley face–the one with the big hollow eyes.  

– I also loved that whenever we traveled someplace new, you couldn’t wait to ask for directions.  And never just once.  You’d get second and third opinions, and serial instructions.  We go from corner to corner, getting updated directions from new sets of strangers.  You had no trouble leaning out the window, asking people on the street, or in cars next to us in intersections.  You loved this.  It was so funny.   

– I’ll always remember how you loved chocolate.  How we could always find stashes in your closet, in your drawers, or in the trunk of your car.  You harvested our Halloween candy before we understood where it had all gone.  I remember Aunt Ellie and Uncle Bud delivering a giant 1′ by 2′ candy bar to you in the hospital once, and how you hoarded it afterward.  And I especially remember the 10-gallon vats of ice cream you brought home from 31-Flavors, your favorites: Pralines and Cream, and Rocky Road.    

– I remember how in Junior High, I asked for help in coming up with a topic for an essay, and not only did you suggest reconnaissance satellites, but you dictated the entire paper to me while I wrote as fast as I could to get it all down.  I got a bad grade on it, not because it wasn’t good, but because I obviously didn’t write it.  Seemed like a good idea at the time. 

– I remember endlessly practicing your signature, thinking it was the most sophisticated, dignified signature ever.  I was so in awe of you.  

In closing, I just want to thank my dad for being funny, nice and smart.  His most important goal was to enure that we kids got a good start in life and that we’d be ok.  He supported us and he was generous.  Dad, thanks for giving us the gift of a privileged life; you believed that was your role and you fulfilled it. 

And that was what I said.  Lots of others spoke, and then the pianist played Clare de Lune.

Here is the memorial bench that Jim, Peter and I had installed across the street just after my dad died. It sits beneath a eucalyptus tree, oriented toward our house.  The picture way above is a close up of the plaque.