My Memory of Dad                                                       June 7, 2014

 

     It takes all kinds of Dads to make the world go around and keep kids happy.  There are stern Dads, thoughtless Dads, lenient ones and above all there are mostly loving Dads. I had a loving Dad, a lenient one who was always ready to help me with art homework, spelling lists or math.  He left the rest to Mom.  He was lenient to a point.

     Shortly before I married, I had the temerity to climb into his lap one day; I needed a favor.  He was a big man and I was a small person.  Physically sitting on Dad’s lap posed no problem and he loved it.  That is he loved it until I verbalized the favor. As soon as he heard what I wanted his lap disappeared and I hit the floor, astonished.  My astonishment did not match his hurt.  How dare I ask him for something that way: I was buttering him up, he knew it and was offended.  It took months before he gave in and provided me with a railroad pass to visit my Beloved!

     He and I had an Easter Sunday routine, a date we looked forward to.  Every year on Easter Sunday, as our neighbors and friends dressed up for church or for parading on the avenue, he and I would don our oldest clothes. ( Easter is not a Jewish holiday.)  Then, looking like a homeless pair, we went down to the boardwalk at the beach and took a long walk.  We did lots of talking.  Subjects in my early years were about taking care of myself. “Take care of your hands, a lady should have nice hands, always wear gloves!”   Then as I grew and was making college plans, “Be sure you take a worthwhile course of study so that if you need to, you can have a job and earn your way.” He did not worry about me; I don’t think he did. Frequently he gave me his own point of view, I listened, sometimes, I heeded his advice.

     When Dad died in 1957, I remember sadly seeing him lying in peaceful sleep, I looked at his hands.  He had beautiful strong hands.  I pictured then and do now what those hands did for me: they taught me to hold a tennis racquet, they held me close when I needed a hug.  His hands taught me to draw a straight line, to hang on to him when we crossed the street.  His hands held many doors and showed me how to go first.  Those hands never hurt me; they caught me when I first jumped from the side of the pool,  taught me to swim.  They always helped me on with my coat and took it from my shoulders when we returned home.  In the early years, his hands pushed me in my carriage and straightened the covers; later they were not too big to push my doll carriage and help me cross the street.  Dad’s hands protected and reached out to me always; the memory of them lingers and continues to protect me.   Happy Father’s Day, Dad!