My Dad
When I was a very little girl, maybe six or seven, I would crawl between him and the back cushions on the couch where we would nap together or listen to the radio. It was a place of safety and comfort for me. Whereas some of my friends were challenged by their fathers to get better grades and motivated to be the best in their career choice, my dad was satisfied with me as I was, am, would become.
Sometimes I wish he had dangled that carrot of accomplishment in front of my nose, pushed me harder, demanded more from his youngest daughter. I suppose being the only man in a houseful of women has a dampening effect on ambition.
The fact is, I really didn't know him very well. We never had deep conversations about his childhood, the effect his devoutly religious father had on his development. I know that after his bar mitzvah, he never entered a synagogue again, not even for high holiday services. I've had to guess at his reasons and suspect that my grandfather's neglect of his wife and four sons while he prayed every day was the root cause.
As a young man, he played handball. He enjoyed watching boxing matches on the TV on Friday nights, a sport he learned out of necessity when he was a teenager. His love of golf followed him for most of his life. When every hit became a slice, he turned to table tennis and became ambidextrous, hitting the ball with both hands easily.
He was generous with his hugs and compliments. He loved playing silly games with his grandchildren, like stretching his thumb and sounding like a train whistle. That's how he communicated his love. It never centered on what you had accomplished but rather on just the person you were.
Unconditional love.
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| My Dad hugging Sarah, 1980, Matt's Bar Mitzvah celebration |
What a beautiful lesson in parenthood! You learned so much from him. Thank you for sharing.
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