Father's Day and Summer: Two Favorite Reasons to Celebrate

I'll start with Happy Father's Day! Happy First Day of Summer! Not in that order, obviously, but two of my very favorite days.

My favorite-father memories involve our walks and talks around the neighborhood where we lived in New Jersey, dancing on his shoes nightly when I was small and the stories he'd make up at bedtime. They weren't the greatest stories, but he told them well and I always wanted more of them, so he must have been doing something right.

He told me stories of his childhood, the close relationship he had with his twin brother and his older brother Sam. Stories of how he learned to fight anti-Semitic kids in his neighborhood and how Sam would fight for my dad and his twin. 

He taught me life was kind of like a twin too, with some parts hard and scary and others soft and easy. He wanted to be sure I was able to deal with both.

When my mother was angry at me, he argued on my behalf like a lawyer. (It was always against Judge and Jury, so very hard to win against her; but I truly adored him for trying).

My dad's chest had been badly burned as a while when he pulled at a pot of boiling water on the stove. You could see this when he got out of the shower or when we went swimming. I was very used to it so never thought about it until a friend made a comment. It made me realize there were many things I didn't know about my father's life growing up.

As he and I grew older, I heard more stories, including ones about my father's childhood and Army days. My favorite was about his first night in the Army. He was drinking a mug of coffee and noticed a cockroach at the bottom. He picked up the cockroach, threw it out and resumed drinking the coffee. This story was always told by my father while he was laughing; and always made me laugh, too.

My dad also had a tendency to rhapsodize about nature. He took us to the Pine Barrens in New Jersey at times and just the way he said the words "Pine Barrens" and "beautiful" taught me all I needed to know about the power of the outdoors.

As a nineteen-year-old he went out to Idaho to work in the national park system, and always talked about how much it moved him to sleep under the stars every night. When I think of my father at this point, I think of summer itself; the two are endlessly conflated because the season's gentleness and warmth reflect the same qualities my father had all through his life.

I know you can hear how I miss him in my writing, and I know you can tell how much my character (Ruby) loves her dad in the Beat Street Series if you read it. Today I want to honor the bond between all kids and fathers and to thank mine for showing me how fatherhood (and life) are done; or should be done.

I love you, Dad. Thank you.

Father's Day Morning: a Remembrance

My father died on March 18, 2008. We both said we were 39, though he was 93. I don't have the feeling of raw grief I had when I first lost him, but I do "see" him unexpectedly, here and there, on any given day. Memories can make me smile or hit me unexpectedly, with the sweetness of remembrance and sharp little pangs of sorrow.

I think of his face the day I told him my (former) husband had proposed. My uncles Archie and Sy were visiting with their wives, Helen and Vivian. My mother must have expressed some frustration that I was living with someone and not getting married, because when we told them, standing together at the basement bar while my father made drinks, my Aunt Vivian said, "See?" to my mother. "I told you it would happen."

My dad almost froze, mid pour, and I will never forget how still he became. I don't know if it was that he didn't like my choice or that he wasn't ready for his daughter to be married, but that stillness was one of the most endearing things I ever saw him do. And he did a lot of them.

I think of how wonderful my father was with my son Josh when he was a little boy. On one particular day, said little boy's mama was beyond exhausted, and we were visiting my parents, and my super-energetic two year old wanted mama to play. I asked my dad if he would hang with my son while I took a nap.

My dad readily agreed, and no sooner did I close my bedroom door than I heard immense and heartbreaking wails coming from my son. Luckily, my father wasn't freaked by them, and started to talk to Josh about someone named Ambrose. "We have to find him," my father said, because otherwise he'll lose our treasure. And I promise you. He HAS our treasure.

Somehow, after talking passionately and persistently to Josh for at least seven minutes, my dad got his grandson to stop crying and to become interested in finding Ambrose. They actually went out looking for him, though I have no idea how my father finessed the fact that Ambrose didn't exist and therefore, couldn't be found.

My son didn't seem to notice it. When they returned from their walk, my father made a snack for both of them, and by the time I woke up from my nap (which may have been about 45 minutes), my son's eyes were dry and he was having a wonderful time.

I understand. I always had a wonderful time with my dad. There was nothing he could say or do that wasn't interesting. His voice was gravelly and warm (and I have never found anything I loved nearly as much), his eyes twinkly and his humor always on point. On this Father's Day, as on every one I've seen since he died in 2008, I think of him (and on a lot of other days, besides).

He passed on his red hair (from his mother), his sense of fun, his love of reading and walking and nature. When I remarried to my new husband who happens to be of a different faith, he said only, "I like him. And I can see how good he is for you." If I close my eyes, I can almost see the kindness in his eyes.

I have to close my eyes, though. I understand we none of us can live forever. I am grateful I got to have this man in my life, but I can't help missing him, and there's nothing to be done with that. My character Ruby in The Beat on Ruby's Street is crazy about her dad, and of course, she would have to be.

Another bit of sweetness that I got to manifest, through my writing. Sweetness and a pang.


Father's Day Pie: Jim the Photographer