Dear Friends,
I wish to thank you for your support and readership. I have not posted in a while because I have been exceedingly busy preparing the manuscript for publication.
If you would like to place an order for one of the first copies signed by me with my crappy penmanship, please leave a comment on this blog or notify me at alandbusch@aol.com or alandbusch@gmail.com.
I am more than very confident you will enjoy the book. Coming soon.
alandbusch :)
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Reckoning
I dedicate this post to my friend Arnie whose father passed away about two weeks ago. I saw Arnie and his son in shul tonight. Arnie, wonderful families as yours don't just happen. They are the products of generations, linked together in the Jewish people's grand mesorah, stretching from is to was and forward to will be. May your father's neshuma soar to heights from which he'll kvell with naches whilst he oversees his children and his children's children.
Reckoning
It was the summer of 2008 when Dad
and I shared our first, last and only chance to recover the truly unrecoverable,
time.
An endless stream of sun worshippers strolled
east along Chicago’s Division Street twenty-nine floors below my father’s condominium.
They chattered excitedly as they neared the warm beaches and cool waters of Oak
Street Beach. Hundreds of sailboats dotted the canvas of Lake Michigan’s blue
waters when, on a clear day, one can see for miles and miles.
It was on such a day and from an
inspiring view of North Lake Shore Drive as seen through the kitchen
window of his 29th floor condominium at 1100 N. Lake Shore Drive, that my
father shared his life's reckoning with me.
The
Editor
"Son please, stop pacing. I'm trying to read.” Looking the part, I imagined, of a grizzled copy editor trying to meet his deadline, Dad busily reviewed the draft of our previous day's conversation.
"Son please, stop pacing. I'm trying to read.” Looking the part, I imagined, of a grizzled copy editor trying to meet his deadline, Dad busily reviewed the draft of our previous day's conversation.
“Done,"
he burst out, pushing himself away from the table and slapping his knees. “Ready to continue when you are, Son.”
For several days, you might never have guessed that intestinal
For several days, you might never have guessed that intestinal
cancer
was killing my father. Like a couple of ducks on the pond, we appeared calm,
but underneath we were paddling like crazy.
Urgency pursued us like a thief in the dark.
This is my dad. The way back would be
lonely. Mistakes made a half century before don’t seem as egregious as they once
did. The truth is Dad did spend too much time at the office when my brother Ron
and I were little kids.
While we would have preferred to see Dad more often following our parents’ divorce, we did visit and enjoyed many memorable times together. That wasn’t the problem. Rather, it was his daily absence in the growing up years-which begin with a fast breakfast, kiss, hug and a “see ya later Dad” as you run to catch the bus with a piece of toast hanging from your mouth. That’s the stuff we missed.
Please don’t misunderstand. We had a great dad, Ron and I. He just didn’t live with his children unlike the many horrendous dads out there who do.
While we would have preferred to see Dad more often following our parents’ divorce, we did visit and enjoyed many memorable times together. That wasn’t the problem. Rather, it was his daily absence in the growing up years-which begin with a fast breakfast, kiss, hug and a “see ya later Dad” as you run to catch the bus with a piece of toast hanging from your mouth. That’s the stuff we missed.
Please don’t misunderstand. We had a great dad, Ron and I. He just didn’t live with his children unlike the many horrendous dads out there who do.
One Late Friday
Afternoon
“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” Dad does not feel well today. Lying atop his sickbed with his head scrunched up against four pillows has left his toupee lopsided and disheveled. His frighteningly thin legs poke through the ends of the same pajama pants he has worn for the past several days.
“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” Dad does not feel well today. Lying atop his sickbed with his head scrunched up against four pillows has left his toupee lopsided and disheveled. His frighteningly thin legs poke through the ends of the same pajama pants he has worn for the past several days.
“Do you remember when you wrote how afraid
you were I was going to die that morning?” Dad speaks of his impending death
with the dispassion of a man who has squared his account with his Maker. I could
only nod. A lump as big as an avocado pit was stuck in my throat. “Well Son, I wasn’t
ready to die right then and, as a matter of fact,” he added forcefully, “the thought
never entered my head.”
I’d always admired but feared my father's toughness who, as a kid, had been trained as a boxer in his teens though he was more of a scrapper, the kind of guy for whom the only rule in street fighting was that there are no rules.
“Dad, I …” I swallowed hard, “I was so scared when I first saw you laid out on that gurney.” I had never seen him so sick.
He winced. “Dad, are you all right? Dad?” He doesn’t hear very well anymore. “I took two Vicodin, Son. I’m alright.”
I’d always admired but feared my father's toughness who, as a kid, had been trained as a boxer in his teens though he was more of a scrapper, the kind of guy for whom the only rule in street fighting was that there are no rules.
“Dad, I …” I swallowed hard, “I was so scared when I first saw you laid out on that gurney.” I had never seen him so sick.
He winced. “Dad, are you all right? Dad?” He doesn’t hear very well anymore. “I took two Vicodin, Son. I’m alright.”
“What’s
it like?” He looked at me as if he hadn’t understood my question. “Your pain, I
mean?”
"Sore,
you know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many green apples.” That was
about as bizarre an answer as I might ever have imagined, but I didn’t buy it.
Sure I knew what he was doing, being a dad and all, he thought, for my sake.
“I was thinking back when you were a baby.
Did you know you were born with a club foot?” His eyes glistened.
“No,
I didn’t,” I replied, untruthfully. I had heard the club foot
story
many times, but was never sure whether he had actually forgotten the many times
he had told it before or simply thought it worthy of repetition.
“I used to turn your foot like this, again and
again.” The lump in my throat grew bigger as he twisted his hands, one
clockwise, the other counter clockwise as though wringing out a wet towel.
“What time do you have,
Son?” He reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand.
“4:45,” I exhaled, drained by his story.
“4:45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late.” he cautioned.
“Have a Good Shabbos.”
Hmm, he hasn’t ever said that before.
“Dad, uh, enjoy the weekend,” I responded.
Enjoy the weekend? Dad is dying before my eyes and the best I can come up with is enjoy the weekend!
Dad sat up in bed with his back positioned squarely against the headboard. He had draped the sleeves of his schmatte sweater over his shoulders and knotted them on his chest as tennis players often do.
I wrapped his feet loosely. He had been complaining that his toes felt frozen. His whiskers were as they had always been, coarse like forty grade sandpaper, even when he was clean shaven.
My Prescription
My father lived his life far from shamefulness; you might even characterize him as an old-fashioned moralist. Careful not to take too many Vicodin pills (aware, as he well knew, of their addictive nature) to quiet the stomach pain that kept him up at night, he doggedly carried on.
“4:45,” I exhaled, drained by his story.
“4:45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late.” he cautioned.
“Have a Good Shabbos.”
Hmm, he hasn’t ever said that before.
“Dad, uh, enjoy the weekend,” I responded.
Enjoy the weekend? Dad is dying before my eyes and the best I can come up with is enjoy the weekend!
Dad sat up in bed with his back positioned squarely against the headboard. He had draped the sleeves of his schmatte sweater over his shoulders and knotted them on his chest as tennis players often do.
I wrapped his feet loosely. He had been complaining that his toes felt frozen. His whiskers were as they had always been, coarse like forty grade sandpaper, even when he was clean shaven.
My Prescription
My father lived his life far from shamefulness; you might even characterize him as an old-fashioned moralist. Careful not to take too many Vicodin pills (aware, as he well knew, of their addictive nature) to quiet the stomach pain that kept him up at night, he doggedly carried on.
“Dad,
I’ve a prescription,” I said, tongue in cheek.
“What’s that?”
“Get yourself a book, any will do, a half cup of wine, climb into bed. You’ll be asleep in five minutes.”
“I can’t do that Son. I don’t drink. You know that,” he responded with the fatigue of someone who had borne a burden for far too long.
“Dad, this is not drinking. This is a half cup of wine at bedtime.”
“Alan, did I ever tell you about the one time I drank?” Dad sighed, reluctant but now committed to tell a story he didn’t relish.
Dad’s dark side? I’ve still time. I scooted my chair up closer.
“What’s that?”
“Get yourself a book, any will do, a half cup of wine, climb into bed. You’ll be asleep in five minutes.”
“I can’t do that Son. I don’t drink. You know that,” he responded with the fatigue of someone who had borne a burden for far too long.
“Dad, this is not drinking. This is a half cup of wine at bedtime.”
“Alan, did I ever tell you about the one time I drank?” Dad sighed, reluctant but now committed to tell a story he didn’t relish.
Dad’s dark side? I’ve still time. I scooted my chair up closer.
“Your Mom and I were invited out to a dinner party.
Wasn’t the sort of thing we did ordinarily, but we thought to give it a try. I
don’t know why I did it Son,” he admitted, “but that night I got stupid
drunk.”
Stupid drunk? Was this Dad talking?
“And Mom?”
The wrinkles on Dad’s forehead appeared.
“Your mom, Son, well … let’s just say I had never seen her so angry with me.” His voice softened.
“Do you remember the six steps we had?" I nodded.
“I barely made it up the first step when I collapsed face down on the remaining five.” His face turned as red as a beet. “Not only that but I woke your brother up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me why I was sleeping on the steps, and I had to lie to my own son.” He looked down at the floor. There was nothing more he needed to say or even could have.
As a college kid, I would have enjoyed an occasional beer with Dad. Our beer never did happen, but at least now I knew why.
Baruch Hashem
Literally, it means Blessed is the Name of G-d. It has many other colloquial meanings of which the most common is: Thank G-d. Theologically, when a Jew says Baruch Hashem, he means: I’m not worried because G-d runs the world as He sees fit.
Dad often called between patients for a quick chat. “Alan, did I tell you about the low price I got on some new equipment?"
"Baruch Hashem! Great news Dad. Baruch Hashem!” I must have repeated it no fewer than twenty times during a phone call lasting no more than five minutes. Now you have to work hard to aggravate my father. I managed. “Alan, please speak to me in language I understand.” That is how my father rebuked me when I first set out on the perilous journey of Torah observant Judaism. His words might not seem very harsh to you. His intent, I believe, was not to derail me but to keep me on track, but that did not keep me from the shame I felt for having forgotten, in my zeal to race through the arduous challenges of Jewish observance, what Dad had once taught me.
We were tuned in to see American track star Bob Beamon break the world record in the long jump at the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics. “Did you see that Dad? It was like he was running in mid-air.”
“A patient needle, Son, sews many strong stitches over time, never rushing but producing garments that, in the end, will last for many years.” I don’t know where he got this stuff or if he made it up along the way, but I am thankful for having had such a man as my North Star.
The Kiss
I was overcome by a hint of finality when I kissed Dad before leaving for home that late Friday afternoon. I inhaled his scent, an intoxicating blend of early morning rain forest and a bay leaf.
Turning the front door knob as quietly as possible, I looked back to catch him peeking from around the corner of the hallway. “Dad,” I called out, Good Shabbos. He smiled. That tiny moment would remain ours forever.
Avi Mori* was at peace in the autumn of his days.
Stupid drunk? Was this Dad talking?
“And Mom?”
The wrinkles on Dad’s forehead appeared.
“Your mom, Son, well … let’s just say I had never seen her so angry with me.” His voice softened.
“Do you remember the six steps we had?" I nodded.
“I barely made it up the first step when I collapsed face down on the remaining five.” His face turned as red as a beet. “Not only that but I woke your brother up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me why I was sleeping on the steps, and I had to lie to my own son.” He looked down at the floor. There was nothing more he needed to say or even could have.
As a college kid, I would have enjoyed an occasional beer with Dad. Our beer never did happen, but at least now I knew why.
Baruch Hashem
Literally, it means Blessed is the Name of G-d. It has many other colloquial meanings of which the most common is: Thank G-d. Theologically, when a Jew says Baruch Hashem, he means: I’m not worried because G-d runs the world as He sees fit.
Dad often called between patients for a quick chat. “Alan, did I tell you about the low price I got on some new equipment?"
"Baruch Hashem! Great news Dad. Baruch Hashem!” I must have repeated it no fewer than twenty times during a phone call lasting no more than five minutes. Now you have to work hard to aggravate my father. I managed. “Alan, please speak to me in language I understand.” That is how my father rebuked me when I first set out on the perilous journey of Torah observant Judaism. His words might not seem very harsh to you. His intent, I believe, was not to derail me but to keep me on track, but that did not keep me from the shame I felt for having forgotten, in my zeal to race through the arduous challenges of Jewish observance, what Dad had once taught me.
We were tuned in to see American track star Bob Beamon break the world record in the long jump at the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics. “Did you see that Dad? It was like he was running in mid-air.”
“A patient needle, Son, sews many strong stitches over time, never rushing but producing garments that, in the end, will last for many years.” I don’t know where he got this stuff or if he made it up along the way, but I am thankful for having had such a man as my North Star.
The Kiss
I was overcome by a hint of finality when I kissed Dad before leaving for home that late Friday afternoon. I inhaled his scent, an intoxicating blend of early morning rain forest and a bay leaf.
Turning the front door knob as quietly as possible, I looked back to catch him peeking from around the corner of the hallway. “Dad,” I called out, Good Shabbos. He smiled. That tiny moment would remain ours forever.
Avi Mori* was at peace in the autumn of his days.
Alan D. Busch
This story is excerpted from my second book Between 10 and 5 With Dad, Keeping The Fifth Commandment which will be published by Cyberwit Publications. Any questions can be directed to alandbusch@aol.com or alandbusch@gmail.com
_____
avi mori: my father, my teacher
avi mori: my father, my teacher
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Reckoning
Reckoning
An endless stream of sun worshippers strolled east along Chicago’s Division Street twenty-nine floors below my father’s condominium.They chattered excitedly as they neared the warm beaches and cool waters of Oak Street beach. Hundreds of sailboats dotted the canvas of Lake Michigan’s blue waters when, on a clear day, one could see for miles and miles.
The Editor
"Son please, stop pacing. I'm trying to read.”
Looking the part, I imagined, of a grizzled copy editor trying to meet his deadline, Dad busily reviewed the draft of our previous conversation.
“Done," he burst out, pushing himself away from the table and slapping his knees. “Ready to continue when you are, Son.”
For several days, you might have never guessed that intestinal
cancer was killing my father. Like a couple of ducks on the pond, we appeared calm but underneath, we were paddling like crazy.
Urgency pursued us like a thief in the dark. This is my dad. The way back would be lonely. Mistakes made a half century ago don’t seem as egregious as they once did. The truth is Dad did spend too much time at the office when my brother Ron and I were little kids.
(Following my parents' divorce)
While we would have liked to have seen him more often, we did enjoy many memorable times together. That wasn’t the problem. It was his daily absence in the “growing up” years (that begin over a bowl of cereal or oatmeal and a “see ya later Dad” as you run out to catch the bus with a piece of toast hanging from your mouth.) That’s the stuff we missed.
Please don't misunderstand.We had a great dad, Ron and I. He just didn’t live with his children unlike the many horrendous dads out there who do.
(One late Friday afternoon ...)
“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” Dad does not feel well
today. Lying atop his sickbed with his head scrunched up against four pillows has left his toupee lopsided and disheveled. His frighteningly thin legs poke through the ends of the same pajama pants I have seen him wearing for the past several days.
“Do you remember when you wrote how afraid you were I was
going to die that morning?” Dad speaks of his impending death
with the dispassion of a man who has squared his account with his
Maker. I could only nod. A lump as big as an avocado seed was stuck in my throat.“Well Son, I wasn’t ready to die right then and, as a matter of fact,” he added forcefully, “the thought never entered my head.”
I’d always admired but feared my father's toughness who had been trained as a boxer in his teens though he was more of a scrapper, the kind of guy for whom the only rule in street fighting was that there are no rules.
“Dad,” I swallowed hard, “I was so scared when I first saw you
laid out on that gurney.” I had never seen him so sick. He winced. “Dad, are you all right? Dad?” He doesn’t hear very well anymore. “I took two Vicodin.”
“What's it like?” He looked at me as if he hadn’t understood my question. “Your pain, I mean?”
"Sore, you know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many
green apples.”
That was about as bizarre an answer as I might have ever imagined, but I didn’t believe a word of it. Sure I knew what he was doing, being a dad and all, he thought, for my sake.
“I was thinking back when you were a baby. Did you know you
were born with a club foot?” His eyes glistened.
“No, I didn’t,” I replied untruthfully. I had heard the club foot
story many times, but was never sure whether he had actually forgotten the many times he had told it before or simply thought
it worthy of repetition.
“I used to turn your foot like this, again and again.” He twisted his hands, one clockwise, the other counter-clockwise as one might wring out a wet towel.
“What time do you have, Son?” He reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand.
“4:45,” I exhaled, emotionally drained by Dad’s story.
“4.45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late.”
“Have a Good Shabbos*”
"Hmm, he hasn’t ever said that before.”
“Dad, uh, enjoy the weekend,” I responded.
Enjoy the weekend? Dad is dying before my eyes and the best I can come up with is enjoy the weekend!
I was exhausted. Dad sat up in bed with his back positioned
squarely against the headboard. He had draped the sleeves of his schmatte* sweater over his shoulders and knotted them on his chest like a collegiate tennis player.
I wrapped his feet loosely. He had been complaining that his toes felt frozen. His whiskers were as they had always been, coarse like forty grade sandpaper, even when he was clean shaven.
My Prescription
My father lived his life far from shamefulness; you might say he was an old-fashioned moralist. He was even careful not to take too much Vicodin to quiet the cancer related stomach pain that kept him up at night.
“Dad, I’ve a prescription,” I said, tongue in cheek.
“What’s that, Son?”
“Get yourself a book, any will do, a half cup of wine, climb into bed. You’ll be asleep in five minutes.”
“I can’t do that Son. I don’t drink. You know that,” he responded with the fatigue of someone who had borne a burden far too long.
“Dad, this is not drinking. This is a half cup of wine at bedtime.”
“Alan,” Dad sighed, reluctant to tell a story he didn’t relish.
Dad’s dark side? I scooted my chair closer. “Did I ever tell you about the one time I drank?”
Okay Dad you’ve got my attention. I nodded my head from side to side. “Your Mom and I were invited out to a dinner party. Wasn’t the sort of thing we did ordinarily, but we thought to give it a try. I don’t know why I did it Son,” Dad admitted, “but that night I got stupid drunk.”
Stupid drunk? Was this Dad talking?
“And Mom?”
The wrinkles on Dad’s forehead appeared.
“Your Mom, Son, well … let’s just say I had never seen her so angry with me.” Dad’s voice softened. “Do you remember the six steps we had?" I nodded.
“I barely made it up the first step when I collapsed face down on the remaining five.” His face turned red. “Not only that but I woke your brother up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me why I was going to sleep on the steps, and I had to lie to my own son.”
There was nothing more he needed to say or even could have.
As a college kid, I would have enjoyed an occasional beer with my dad. Our beer never did happen, but now I knew why.
Baruch Hashem
Literally, it means Blessed is the Name of G-d. It has many
colloquial meanings of which the most common is Thank G-d. Theologically, when a Jew says Baruch Hashem he means: I’m not worried because G-d runs the world as He sees fit.
"Alan, did I tell you about the great price I got on some new treatment equipment for room one?” Dad was always on the lookout for a great deal.
Baruch Hashem! Great news Dad. Baruch Hashem. I must have repeated it no fewer than twenty times in a five minute phone call.
Now you really have to work hard to aggravate my father.
I managed.
“Alan, please speak to me in language I understand.”
That is how my father rebuked me when I first set out on the perilous journey of Torah observant Judaism. His words might not seem very harsh to you, but I was ashamed because I forgot what he had once taught me when one evening we watched American track star Bob Beamon break the world record in the long jump at the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics.
“A patient needle, Son, weaves beautiful fabric from many little stitches sewn together over time.” I don’t know where he got this stuff or if he made it up along the way, but I am thankful for having had such a man as my North Star.
The Kiss
I was overcome by a special feeling, a hint of finality when Dad kissed me goodbye that late Friday afternoon. I inhaled his scent, approximating a blend of early morning rain forest and a bay leaf.
Turning the front door knob as quietly as possible, I looked back to catch him peeking from around the corner of the hallway. “Dad,” I called out, Good Shabbos. He smiled.
That tiny moment would remain ours forever. Avi Mori, my father, my teacher, was at peace in the autumn of his days.
It was the summer of 2008 when
my dad and I shared our first, last and only chance to recover the truly unrecoverable,
time.
From an inspiring view of north Lake
Shore Drive as seen through the kitchen window of his 29th floor condominium at
1100 N. Lake Shore Drive, my father gave over his life's reckoning. An endless stream of sun worshippers strolled east along Chicago’s Division Street twenty-nine floors below my father’s condominium.They chattered excitedly as they neared the warm beaches and cool waters of Oak Street beach. Hundreds of sailboats dotted the canvas of Lake Michigan’s blue waters when, on a clear day, one could see for miles and miles.
The Editor
"Son please, stop pacing. I'm trying to read.”
Looking the part, I imagined, of a grizzled copy editor trying to meet his deadline, Dad busily reviewed the draft of our previous conversation.
“Done," he burst out, pushing himself away from the table and slapping his knees. “Ready to continue when you are, Son.”
For several days, you might have never guessed that intestinal
cancer was killing my father. Like a couple of ducks on the pond, we appeared calm but underneath, we were paddling like crazy.
Urgency pursued us like a thief in the dark. This is my dad. The way back would be lonely. Mistakes made a half century ago don’t seem as egregious as they once did. The truth is Dad did spend too much time at the office when my brother Ron and I were little kids.
(Following my parents' divorce)
While we would have liked to have seen him more often, we did enjoy many memorable times together. That wasn’t the problem. It was his daily absence in the “growing up” years (that begin over a bowl of cereal or oatmeal and a “see ya later Dad” as you run out to catch the bus with a piece of toast hanging from your mouth.) That’s the stuff we missed.
Please don't misunderstand.We had a great dad, Ron and I. He just didn’t live with his children unlike the many horrendous dads out there who do.
(One late Friday afternoon ...)
“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” Dad does not feel well
today. Lying atop his sickbed with his head scrunched up against four pillows has left his toupee lopsided and disheveled. His frighteningly thin legs poke through the ends of the same pajama pants I have seen him wearing for the past several days.
“Do you remember when you wrote how afraid you were I was
going to die that morning?” Dad speaks of his impending death
with the dispassion of a man who has squared his account with his
Maker. I could only nod. A lump as big as an avocado seed was stuck in my throat.“Well Son, I wasn’t ready to die right then and, as a matter of fact,” he added forcefully, “the thought never entered my head.”
I’d always admired but feared my father's toughness who had been trained as a boxer in his teens though he was more of a scrapper, the kind of guy for whom the only rule in street fighting was that there are no rules.
“Dad,” I swallowed hard, “I was so scared when I first saw you
laid out on that gurney.” I had never seen him so sick. He winced. “Dad, are you all right? Dad?” He doesn’t hear very well anymore. “I took two Vicodin.”
“What's it like?” He looked at me as if he hadn’t understood my question. “Your pain, I mean?”
"Sore, you know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many
green apples.”
That was about as bizarre an answer as I might have ever imagined, but I didn’t believe a word of it. Sure I knew what he was doing, being a dad and all, he thought, for my sake.
“I was thinking back when you were a baby. Did you know you
were born with a club foot?” His eyes glistened.
“No, I didn’t,” I replied untruthfully. I had heard the club foot
story many times, but was never sure whether he had actually forgotten the many times he had told it before or simply thought
it worthy of repetition.
“I used to turn your foot like this, again and again.” He twisted his hands, one clockwise, the other counter-clockwise as one might wring out a wet towel.
“What time do you have, Son?” He reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand.
“4:45,” I exhaled, emotionally drained by Dad’s story.
“4.45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late.”
“Have a Good Shabbos*”
"Hmm, he hasn’t ever said that before.”
“Dad, uh, enjoy the weekend,” I responded.
Enjoy the weekend? Dad is dying before my eyes and the best I can come up with is enjoy the weekend!
I was exhausted. Dad sat up in bed with his back positioned
squarely against the headboard. He had draped the sleeves of his schmatte* sweater over his shoulders and knotted them on his chest like a collegiate tennis player.
I wrapped his feet loosely. He had been complaining that his toes felt frozen. His whiskers were as they had always been, coarse like forty grade sandpaper, even when he was clean shaven.
My Prescription
My father lived his life far from shamefulness; you might say he was an old-fashioned moralist. He was even careful not to take too much Vicodin to quiet the cancer related stomach pain that kept him up at night.
“Dad, I’ve a prescription,” I said, tongue in cheek.
“What’s that, Son?”
“Get yourself a book, any will do, a half cup of wine, climb into bed. You’ll be asleep in five minutes.”
“I can’t do that Son. I don’t drink. You know that,” he responded with the fatigue of someone who had borne a burden far too long.
“Dad, this is not drinking. This is a half cup of wine at bedtime.”
“Alan,” Dad sighed, reluctant to tell a story he didn’t relish.
Dad’s dark side? I scooted my chair closer. “Did I ever tell you about the one time I drank?”
Okay Dad you’ve got my attention. I nodded my head from side to side. “Your Mom and I were invited out to a dinner party. Wasn’t the sort of thing we did ordinarily, but we thought to give it a try. I don’t know why I did it Son,” Dad admitted, “but that night I got stupid drunk.”
Stupid drunk? Was this Dad talking?
“And Mom?”
The wrinkles on Dad’s forehead appeared.
“Your Mom, Son, well … let’s just say I had never seen her so angry with me.” Dad’s voice softened. “Do you remember the six steps we had?" I nodded.
“I barely made it up the first step when I collapsed face down on the remaining five.” His face turned red. “Not only that but I woke your brother up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me why I was going to sleep on the steps, and I had to lie to my own son.”
There was nothing more he needed to say or even could have.
As a college kid, I would have enjoyed an occasional beer with my dad. Our beer never did happen, but now I knew why.
Baruch Hashem
Literally, it means Blessed is the Name of G-d. It has many
colloquial meanings of which the most common is Thank G-d. Theologically, when a Jew says Baruch Hashem he means: I’m not worried because G-d runs the world as He sees fit.
"Alan, did I tell you about the great price I got on some new treatment equipment for room one?” Dad was always on the lookout for a great deal.
Baruch Hashem! Great news Dad. Baruch Hashem. I must have repeated it no fewer than twenty times in a five minute phone call.
Now you really have to work hard to aggravate my father.
I managed.
“Alan, please speak to me in language I understand.”
That is how my father rebuked me when I first set out on the perilous journey of Torah observant Judaism. His words might not seem very harsh to you, but I was ashamed because I forgot what he had once taught me when one evening we watched American track star Bob Beamon break the world record in the long jump at the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics.
“A patient needle, Son, weaves beautiful fabric from many little stitches sewn together over time.” I don’t know where he got this stuff or if he made it up along the way, but I am thankful for having had such a man as my North Star.
The Kiss
I was overcome by a special feeling, a hint of finality when Dad kissed me goodbye that late Friday afternoon. I inhaled his scent, approximating a blend of early morning rain forest and a bay leaf.
Turning the front door knob as quietly as possible, I looked back to catch him peeking from around the corner of the hallway. “Dad,” I called out, Good Shabbos. He smiled.
That tiny moment would remain ours forever. Avi Mori, my father, my teacher, was at peace in the autumn of his days.
Monday, January 23, 2012
The First Forty-Eight
The First Forty-EightI was never before so exhausted as when I worked straight through the first forty eight hours of Dad’s hospitalization. Remarkably, as sick as he was, Dad continued battling the angel of death and, from where I stood, his boyhood training as a fighter seemed to have paid off.
“Don’t do any more Son,” Dad pled after a third wave of diarrhea left us emotionally and physically drained. “Please, the nurses are better at this. It’s not right for a son to be doing this for his father.”
I didn’t quite see things that way. I was there to protect Dad’s dignity or so I thought. As it turned out, I could not have been more mistaken. My father was a retired brigadier general in the United States Army. He didn’t need me to protect his dignity, but rather the comfort of his sons at his side.
High Holidays Interlude
“I want to be in the right place at the right time,” I confided to Rabbi Louis. “Well then, if you know where that is, and I trust that you do, then this conversation is over.” And it was. I just needed to hear it from someone else. I told Ron.
“You’ve made the right decision little brother. Religion would not be worth much if you couldn’t take care of your father at a time like this.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Ron.” His face brightened. With his arm draped on my neck, we strolled down the hall to the elevators. “Coffee?”
“No, but a latte would be good right about now,” I quipped. “Be back in a few,” Ron said as he disappeared behind the elevator doors. I returned to the family lounge. He had always made life easier for me.
Ron (This paragraph appears as a text box in the manuscript)
|
My older brother by
eighteen months, Ron had to step into some pretty big shoes upon our
arrival in St. Louis but somehow always managed to keep them on. Big brothers
are awesome figures, kind of like the sole fireman I once saw, when I was a
little kid, extinguish a car fire, its flames shooting out from the engine
after the hood had blown off. The presence of heroes in the lives of children
is an invaluable ingredient in the formation of their character. So too
with the great fraternity of big brothers, always up for the challenge. And
you know what? I rather liked it that way.
|
Coffee Break
“So here you are.” Ron’s voice startled me. "It's so sad,” he began, handing me a steaming latte and pulling up two chairs next to where I had stood staring out at the dark vastness of lake Michigan. “Oh, wait! Did I tell you? Last night, Dad and I made it to the bathroom in time.”
“You did? That’s great to hear. And?” I was desperate for any good news. “Wait. That’s not the part I meant,” he cautioned. My stomach knotted up. “Dad told me he needed to sit on the toilet a while longer and that I should lie down for a few more minutes. He’d call me when ready. No more than five minutes later,” Ron paused. Oh God, here it comes. “I heard him sobbing,” Ron confessed in an undertone. “The rest of the night,” he sighed, “went from bad to worse.” Ron looked as exhausted as I had been after the first forty-eight hours. I took over.
Dad’s incontinence emergencies made it difficult for us to get any sleep. Dad slept as he had always, at the drop of the hat anywhere, anytime, but now, his mouth hung open gasping for air. As much as I wanted to respect his wishes, the bottom line
was Dad was stuck with me. We both knew the nurses could not always make it in time. So I went on helping him as much and as often as I could. If you’re wondering why he did not use a bedpan, I can tell you he mentioned its use once, but I’ll not quote him for fear you might think my father a coarse man. I assure you he was anything but; he could, however, be colorful at times. The use of a bedpan would have meant he had surrendered, given up and in. How appropriate would that have been for a United States Army Brigadier General?
And so we shuffled in a race against time from his bed to the bathroom, a distance of seven feet although it might just as well have been seven miles. Sometimes we didn’t make it slowed down, as we were, by the awkward weight of Dad’s heart monitor and drips. Each successive attempt, however, presented a greater challenge, and despite his embarrassment (which, by the way, he hid very well) he did not, as many would have, throw in the towel. I’ve known no other man so driven by sheer guts as my father.
Ribald
Everything went to hell in an instant. We called for help. The hour was 3:00 am but within seconds two nurses and their aides arrived to help with Dad’s clean up. Everything had to be stripped down: bed sheets, mattress and pillow covers, gowns, everything.
I watched. Armed with only his smile and charm, Dad began telling this joke which even made me blush, transforming this matronly foursome into a gaggle of schoolgirls as if at a pajama party, each one excitedly recounting the story of her first kiss.
If you wish to know how and when to measure the greatness of a man, avoid the many obsequious admirers who shower him with accolades at fancy dinners. Rather, watch him closely after he has survived several knockout blows and risen back to his feet with a perseverance and perhaps, an awe-inspiring grace.
Failure to Heal
“There is nothing more we can do for either his incontinence or cancer,” Dad’s oncologist said, a man who infuriated me one day when he showed up with his pretty nurse practitioner whom he desperately tried to impress with his cavalier manner. “The
prognosis varies with each patient for three months, six months, even a year,” he concluded, shrugging his shoulders and turning up the palms of his hands. Dad was scheduled for release on the coming Monday despite our protestations to the medical review board that he was not ready.
The digital clock on the end table dimly illumined the once glossy covers of several back issues of Sports Illustrated. 5:00 am. “Doctor, please forgive the early hour but the tincture of opium. Uh, I’m sorry. This is the answering service? Who’s the patient? The patient is my father, Albert Busch. (847) B-u-s-c-h, 894-1003.” I was trying to reach Dad’s gastroenterologist whose week old prescription of tincture of opium shots to treat my father’s incontinence hadn’t yet produced any positive results.
Two Minutes Later
“Thank you for the call back doctor,” I continued but the tincture of opium seems to have had no effect after more than a week.”
“I’ve tried everything I know to do,” he admitted, “but if it hasn’t worked by now, I do not know how to stop it.” My heart sank. Humph! Two of Chicago’s finest specialists and they can’t fix my father’s diarrhea.
Reb Isser’s Suggestion
I peaked in on Dad. Roberta had nodded off in the recliner, a copy of Danielle Steele’s latest book on the floor .Taking advantage of this opportunity, I returned to the family lounge where Ron and I had spoken several hours before.
“Prayer is like calling De Aibishter,” the voice of Reb Isser, an old friend and teacher, echoed in my ears. “Call Him three times a day. If He doesn’t pick up, He’ll get back to you. You’ll see.”
“Master of The Universe,” I began, “who heals all flesh and performs wonders, my father awaits his end of days. Please relieve him of this indignity that he may leave this world, when you call him, in peace.”
The wee hours are eerily silent in the oncology unit. I glanced at the clock radio. 5:59 a.m. became 6:00 a.m.
The hospital discharged Dad several hours later that Monday morning. Meanwhile, we waited for the tincture of opium to kick in. Dad’s first week at home was worrisome, preoccupied with the real likelihood that the incontinence might worsen.
The Best Call
We made it through the first week. My cell phone rang late Friday afternoon just as I pulled into my driveway.“Dad, what’s wrong? Are you still at home? What’s …?”
“Alan, it’s worked! The tincture, Son, the tincture kicked in minutes after you left!” I had to remove the phone away from my ear. “My G-d! Thank G-d. Heather,” I shouted for my wife, “the opium has cured Dad’s diarrhea!” (Had anyone ever uttered that sentence before?)
”So, Dad. Tell me how you feel?” Tears streamed down my cheeks. “Sonny Boy, I feel … I feel like I’ve so much to be thankful for.”
That was all he said. My brother Ron from whom I had never heard any religious exclamation, stunned me with a nearly evangelical “Praise the Lord!” And Reb Isser’s advice? Well, you know.
The teaming up of prayer with good old-fashioned guts proved itself once again a force to be reckoned with and an invaluable lesson for us all.
(excerpted from Between 10 and 5 With Dad, Keeping the Fifth Commandment by Alan D. Busch)
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Cruising Route 66 With Dad
Cruising Route
66 with Dad
Nothing, not even Mom’s first St. Louis Chanukah gift to me and Ron, of a dog collar and leash attached to a real live puppy
dog, could have approached the level of excitement we felt Sunday morning when,
just as he had promised, Dad arrived
right on time. Besides, a toy French poodle puppy named C’est Si Bon isn’t much of a guy’s dog. A boxer named Max might
have been a better choice.
“Gonna have a coffee with Mom. Be back in a few minutes. Wait for me here,” Dad advised, pointing to the leather cushioned back seat of his Ford Thunderbird, dubbed the T-Bird by aficionados.
Contemporary jargon would probably characterize it as the hottest ride on the road, but back then it was indisputably the coolest. So what’s a few minutes in a T-Bird, right?
“Hey, how long does a coffee take anyway?”
“Hold on to your horses, will ya?” Ron advised. However, when a few became ten and ten became twenty, even Ron, who just minutes before had been the patron saint of patience, became fidgety and began drumming on Dad’s rear panel as if playing the bongo drums. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get going,” we whined in harmony.
Nearly asleep in the comfort of the T-Bird’s backseat after what must have been thirty minutes, a long time when you’re a kid, the creaky sound of the screen door about which Mom had complained three, maybe even four times to the management company, awoke us. It could only mean one thing.
Donning a beige cap set rakishly, a sky blue knit shirt and white linen slacks, Dad’s Florsheim wingtips elevated his gait into near flight as he approached. If for but a moment Dad seemed a man whom the Sirens beckoned.
“Hey guys, hold this for me,” he requested, flipping his cap into the back seat.
“Sure Dad.” We lunged for it. He turned the ignition key. The engine purred like a kitten.
“Watch this guys.” Dad spoke with glee. “First, I unlatch it like this. Guys, over here, please.” We nodded agreeably. “Then with a flip of this switch, uh, Ronald, put the cap down for a minute, Son.” Dad gave us one of his looks. “Okay, Dad, we’re listening,” Ron announced. “Okay, ready? One, two, three. Switch on!” It rose up like a black bat, fully extended its wingspan and folded itself neatly away behind the backseat.
Mom stood by the doorway in her housecoat, looking a bit weepy. “I think Ma is crying,” I remarked to Ron, who busied himself with looking for a way to adjust the size of Dad’s cap. “Yea okay,” he grumbled without even bothering to look up. “Don’t worry. Ma’s fine.”
“Don’t worry, Ma. We’ll be back,” I shouted encouragingly.
“Albert, you’ll have the boys back next Sunday around noon, right?”
“Sure will, Gerry. I’ll have them back on time.”
And so Dad, Ron and I set out to get “our kicks on Route 66”, words immortalized by crooner Nat King Cole. At a time of the Cold War, Sputnik and the Rosenbergs, it was good some things hadn’t changed. For example, Gay still meant happy, carefree so I have no reluctance in telling you how gay Dad, Ron and I felt on that Sunday morning, a lifetime ago in 1960.
The Struggle
“Gonna have a coffee with Mom. Be back in a few minutes. Wait for me here,” Dad advised, pointing to the leather cushioned back seat of his Ford Thunderbird, dubbed the T-Bird by aficionados.
Contemporary jargon would probably characterize it as the hottest ride on the road, but back then it was indisputably the coolest. So what’s a few minutes in a T-Bird, right?
“Hey, how long does a coffee take anyway?”
“Hold on to your horses, will ya?” Ron advised. However, when a few became ten and ten became twenty, even Ron, who just minutes before had been the patron saint of patience, became fidgety and began drumming on Dad’s rear panel as if playing the bongo drums. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get going,” we whined in harmony.
Nearly asleep in the comfort of the T-Bird’s backseat after what must have been thirty minutes, a long time when you’re a kid, the creaky sound of the screen door about which Mom had complained three, maybe even four times to the management company, awoke us. It could only mean one thing.
Donning a beige cap set rakishly, a sky blue knit shirt and white linen slacks, Dad’s Florsheim wingtips elevated his gait into near flight as he approached. If for but a moment Dad seemed a man whom the Sirens beckoned.
“Hey guys, hold this for me,” he requested, flipping his cap into the back seat.
“Sure Dad.” We lunged for it. He turned the ignition key. The engine purred like a kitten.
“Watch this guys.” Dad spoke with glee. “First, I unlatch it like this. Guys, over here, please.” We nodded agreeably. “Then with a flip of this switch, uh, Ronald, put the cap down for a minute, Son.” Dad gave us one of his looks. “Okay, Dad, we’re listening,” Ron announced. “Okay, ready? One, two, three. Switch on!” It rose up like a black bat, fully extended its wingspan and folded itself neatly away behind the backseat.
Mom stood by the doorway in her housecoat, looking a bit weepy. “I think Ma is crying,” I remarked to Ron, who busied himself with looking for a way to adjust the size of Dad’s cap. “Yea okay,” he grumbled without even bothering to look up. “Don’t worry. Ma’s fine.”
“Don’t worry, Ma. We’ll be back,” I shouted encouragingly.
“Albert, you’ll have the boys back next Sunday around noon, right?”
“Sure will, Gerry. I’ll have them back on time.”
And so Dad, Ron and I set out to get “our kicks on Route 66”, words immortalized by crooner Nat King Cole. At a time of the Cold War, Sputnik and the Rosenbergs, it was good some things hadn’t changed. For example, Gay still meant happy, carefree so I have no reluctance in telling you how gay Dad, Ron and I felt on that Sunday morning, a lifetime ago in 1960.
The Struggle
We
were on the road no more than ten minutes about to cross the Missouri state
line into Illinois. “Hey boys, take a look. We’re crossing the Mississippi
River,” Dad excitedly announced. Ordinarily, that would have interested us, but
we were preoccupied.
“Give it here, “I demanded. “It’s my turn.” Dad entrusted his cap to both of us in theory, but Ron was only doing what I would have done had the tables been turned. Life was good but not always fair.
“Why dontcha come and get it?” Ron had thrown down the gauntlet. I had to respond. “Well?” His provocative grin emboldened me. I went for it. We scuffled.
There was no way he could have anticipated my boldness.
I bent back Ron’s three middle fingers, causing him such great pain, that he let go of the cap. The gusty winds sweeping across the Eads Bridge did the rest. I gasped, reaching out for Dad’s cap as if it were at all possible to reverse this debacle. Stunned by the speed with which it happened, Ron and I watched the cap float lazily away like a feather into the muddy waters of the Mississippi.
No, of course Dad could not hear us. Have you ever ridden in a convertible with its top down on the expressway? You can barely hear yourself think.
With his hand clamped tightly over my mouth, Ron wrestled me to the foot well of his seat, nearly bumping my head on the transmission hump. “Everything okay back there?”
“Just foolin’ around Dad,” Ron blurted out guiltily. Steering with his left hand while draping his right arm over the top of the front passenger seat, Dad was enjoying the day, quite impervious, or so it seemed, to the drama unfolding behind him. “You think he saw it? What are we gonna do?”
“What are you asking me for? I’m not the one who lost his cap,” Ron shot back.
“Me?”
“Yea, you.”
“Why did you dangle it in front of my face?”
“Why did you grab it?”
“You think we can go back and find it?” I asked pleadingly.
“Are you whacky? Some guy’s probably reeled it in thinking he had caught a fish..”
“You really think so?”
“Yup.”
Dad’s eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. “Boys will be boys,” he muttered approvingly. Had he seen it and now giving us a taste of our own medicine or was he simply enjoying our antics?
Litchfield, Illinois
One of countless tiny towns which dot the map between St. Louis and Chicago, Litchfield’s ubiquitous stop signs, cumbersome farm tractor traffic and deplorable road quality
slowed life to a crawl.
“Boys, will you hand me my cap, please,” Dad requested, pulling up to the two-way speaker as closely as he could.
“Welcome to Dog ‘N Suds. May I take your order please?”
“Oh, okay, sure,” Dad responded, turning back to the speaker.
“Hi, okay, thank you. Uh, one moment, Miss.” Dad seemed rattled.
“Hot dogs, fries and shakes, right guys?”
“Yea sure, Dad” we nodded eagerly.
“Hello sir, may I take your order please?” she repeated.
“Yes, sorry about that. We’ll have three dogs, three fries, two shakes and one large root beer.” Within five minutes, our car hostess, wearing a pleated mini-skirt, matching blouse and maid’s cap, roller skated to Dad’s car, deftly supporting our tray upon her fingertips. We were
hopeful Dad’s large root beer would cool him down enough that he’d forget about the cap.
“You guys ready?”
“Yes Dad, thank youuuuu,” Ron and I harmonized our yawns. He dozed off. I worried. Who had fooled whom? Dad had always been good to us, generous and forthcoming.
What had begun as Ron’s playful tease ended up floating in the Mississippi River. I considered confession but stopped short. Ron was still asleep. Any decision to tell Dad would have to be shared. He might give us that look upon learning the truth, but Ron? He’d kill me. Storm clouds gathered as we approached
Lincoln, Illinois, blotting out the sun and giving way to an awful darkness that was the same color as the gloom I felt.
Rain buckets fell from the sky, a welcome respite from the intense heat. Dad pulled over under a viaduct and put the top up. “Everything all right back there? Hey guys, my cap?” Ron, who had just woken up, looked at me. I looked at him. The jig was up! “Oh everything’s great Dad. Are we almost there?” Ron and I responded simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed it. “No. we’ve got a ways yet.”
“Dad, is there another Dog N Suds coming up?” Ron asked.
“Yea! Hey Dad, I’m really thirsty,” I chimed in. “Thirsty? You haven’t finished off my root beer yet.”
Uh, oh, do you think …?
You may find this incredible, but when nothing less than an act of God might have prevented the revelation of the awful truth …
“My god! What the hell was that?” The overpass shook, with us under it.
“Hey, watch out, will ya? Oh my god! Dad!”
“What? What happened? Dad turned around.
“Dad, it was an accident. I swear. Ron, really! It was.”
Well, I guess you could say that is precisely what it was. The thunderous collision of storm clouds, which must have been felt as far away as Litchfield, had caused me to spill the remainder of Dad’s root beer on Ron’s shirt. “Okay, fellas, no harm done, right?”
“Yea, except to my shirt Dad,” Ron muttered. Had I lost Ron as my partner in crime?
The second downpour, according to the local weather report, came and went after five minutes, leaving behind an incredible three inches of rain and causing the temperature to drop by fifteen degrees. A rainbow appeared. Who knows? It may well have been, like folks often say, an act of God. Dad put the top back down and pulled off his shirt. Driving the rest of the way while sunbathing, Dad looked more carefree than even the glamorous people on the highway billboards whose windswept hair would have been no match for Dad’s had he still had the red wavy locks of his youth.
My father never mentioned the cap again. Had he seen it happen or simply put two and two together? It doesn’t really matter but of one thing I am certain: Dad chose not to pay for
the price of the cap at the cost of our vacation. Better a man should lose his cap than his temper, a remarkable lesson Dad taught me about restraint in life and wisdom in parenting.
And so we headed into Chicago, the windy city, known for its blusterous politicians and blustery winds about which any seasoned Chicagoan can testify that unless your hand is atop your head you just may lose your cap.
“Give it here, “I demanded. “It’s my turn.” Dad entrusted his cap to both of us in theory, but Ron was only doing what I would have done had the tables been turned. Life was good but not always fair.
“Why dontcha come and get it?” Ron had thrown down the gauntlet. I had to respond. “Well?” His provocative grin emboldened me. I went for it. We scuffled.
There was no way he could have anticipated my boldness.
I bent back Ron’s three middle fingers, causing him such great pain, that he let go of the cap. The gusty winds sweeping across the Eads Bridge did the rest. I gasped, reaching out for Dad’s cap as if it were at all possible to reverse this debacle. Stunned by the speed with which it happened, Ron and I watched the cap float lazily away like a feather into the muddy waters of the Mississippi.
No, of course Dad could not hear us. Have you ever ridden in a convertible with its top down on the expressway? You can barely hear yourself think.
With his hand clamped tightly over my mouth, Ron wrestled me to the foot well of his seat, nearly bumping my head on the transmission hump. “Everything okay back there?”
“Just foolin’ around Dad,” Ron blurted out guiltily. Steering with his left hand while draping his right arm over the top of the front passenger seat, Dad was enjoying the day, quite impervious, or so it seemed, to the drama unfolding behind him. “You think he saw it? What are we gonna do?”
“What are you asking me for? I’m not the one who lost his cap,” Ron shot back.
“Me?”
“Yea, you.”
“Why did you dangle it in front of my face?”
“Why did you grab it?”
“You think we can go back and find it?” I asked pleadingly.
“Are you whacky? Some guy’s probably reeled it in thinking he had caught a fish..”
“You really think so?”
“Yup.”
Dad’s eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. “Boys will be boys,” he muttered approvingly. Had he seen it and now giving us a taste of our own medicine or was he simply enjoying our antics?
Litchfield, Illinois
One of countless tiny towns which dot the map between St. Louis and Chicago, Litchfield’s ubiquitous stop signs, cumbersome farm tractor traffic and deplorable road quality
slowed life to a crawl.
“Boys, will you hand me my cap, please,” Dad requested, pulling up to the two-way speaker as closely as he could.
“Welcome to Dog ‘N Suds. May I take your order please?”
“Oh, okay, sure,” Dad responded, turning back to the speaker.
“Hi, okay, thank you. Uh, one moment, Miss.” Dad seemed rattled.
“Hot dogs, fries and shakes, right guys?”
“Yea sure, Dad” we nodded eagerly.
“Hello sir, may I take your order please?” she repeated.
“Yes, sorry about that. We’ll have three dogs, three fries, two shakes and one large root beer.” Within five minutes, our car hostess, wearing a pleated mini-skirt, matching blouse and maid’s cap, roller skated to Dad’s car, deftly supporting our tray upon her fingertips. We were
hopeful Dad’s large root beer would cool him down enough that he’d forget about the cap.
“You guys ready?”
“Yes Dad, thank youuuuu,” Ron and I harmonized our yawns. He dozed off. I worried. Who had fooled whom? Dad had always been good to us, generous and forthcoming.
What had begun as Ron’s playful tease ended up floating in the Mississippi River. I considered confession but stopped short. Ron was still asleep. Any decision to tell Dad would have to be shared. He might give us that look upon learning the truth, but Ron? He’d kill me. Storm clouds gathered as we approached
Lincoln, Illinois, blotting out the sun and giving way to an awful darkness that was the same color as the gloom I felt.
Rain buckets fell from the sky, a welcome respite from the intense heat. Dad pulled over under a viaduct and put the top up. “Everything all right back there? Hey guys, my cap?” Ron, who had just woken up, looked at me. I looked at him. The jig was up! “Oh everything’s great Dad. Are we almost there?” Ron and I responded simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed it. “No. we’ve got a ways yet.”
“Dad, is there another Dog N Suds coming up?” Ron asked.
“Yea! Hey Dad, I’m really thirsty,” I chimed in. “Thirsty? You haven’t finished off my root beer yet.”
Uh, oh, do you think …?
You may find this incredible, but when nothing less than an act of God might have prevented the revelation of the awful truth …
“My god! What the hell was that?” The overpass shook, with us under it.
“Hey, watch out, will ya? Oh my god! Dad!”
“What? What happened? Dad turned around.
“Dad, it was an accident. I swear. Ron, really! It was.”
Well, I guess you could say that is precisely what it was. The thunderous collision of storm clouds, which must have been felt as far away as Litchfield, had caused me to spill the remainder of Dad’s root beer on Ron’s shirt. “Okay, fellas, no harm done, right?”
“Yea, except to my shirt Dad,” Ron muttered. Had I lost Ron as my partner in crime?
The second downpour, according to the local weather report, came and went after five minutes, leaving behind an incredible three inches of rain and causing the temperature to drop by fifteen degrees. A rainbow appeared. Who knows? It may well have been, like folks often say, an act of God. Dad put the top back down and pulled off his shirt. Driving the rest of the way while sunbathing, Dad looked more carefree than even the glamorous people on the highway billboards whose windswept hair would have been no match for Dad’s had he still had the red wavy locks of his youth.
My father never mentioned the cap again. Had he seen it happen or simply put two and two together? It doesn’t really matter but of one thing I am certain: Dad chose not to pay for
the price of the cap at the cost of our vacation. Better a man should lose his cap than his temper, a remarkable lesson Dad taught me about restraint in life and wisdom in parenting.
And so we headed into Chicago, the windy city, known for its blusterous politicians and blustery winds about which any seasoned Chicagoan can testify that unless your hand is atop your head you just may lose your cap.
Revisions to "Honoring Poppy"
Honoring Poppy
(author's note: text in red signifies major revision)
Seated opposite an antique Jade Buddha he acquired on one of his many trips to the Orient, my father awaited my arrival from the front room of his 29th floor condominium overlooking Lake Michigan. Appearing quite dignified despite his attire in a blue bathrobe and plaid pajama pants, he sat as if posing for his portrait in an elegant state room.
His smile patted the cushion of the chair next to his, as if to say, “Come. Sit down, Son. It’s been too long since we last spoke.”
Refusing to surrender graciousness to personal discomfort, my father welcomed everyone with a smile that made one feel as if he were the only person in Dad’s world who mattered at that moment. “No one should feel bad because I don’t feel well.”
His first grandson Ben dubbed him Poppy whom I came to know better at the end of his life than at the start of mine. But to my older brother Ron and me, Dad was and had always been Dad, except for the one and only occasion when I addressed him as father. He exploded. That’s all I recall.
Dad is a term of endearment, including its diminutive Daddy, an almost mythic figure, he reposits trust and unconditional love, that special someone who touches the heart. I suspect Dad feared the possibility, however remote, that he might lose us to the three hundred miles between us. Then again if you knew the kind of man my father was, it is indeed impossible to imagine that he could have ever surrendered his sons to divorce and distance.
Great Parents, Lousy Spouses
Following his 1950 graduation from the St. Louis University School of Dentistry, Dad worked many long hours, perhaps too many for an already strained shalom bayis*. In striving to become the best provider he could, he discovered something along the way he hadn’t anticipated.
My parents failed as each other’s spouse to find a balance between work and family, a failure that cost Ron and me our parents’ marriage. They divorced in 1959 after ten years, an outcome that wasn’t supposed to happen in the age of Leave It To Beaver and Father Knows Best.
Would it have been better had they decided to remain married
*Shalom bayis: peace at home between a husband and wife.
(end of page)
“About average I guess,” Rich responded when I asked him to rate Dad’s performance. Never one to embellish an explanation with too many words, I was struck by Rich’s response: “He and my mother never attended one swim meet in four years. He’d come home late, watch television, have dinner, smoke his pipe and go to bed.”
A Stepson
There are those like me who acquire a stepfather when his mother remarries. Dad was a six hour drive away. Though a stretch of highway lay before him, there was no distance between us. Harold Grossman, my mother’s second husband, respected that fact. Were it only for that reason alone and none other, I would honor his memory.
Then there are those who like Rich, as with all human beings, had a biological father but never a dad, at least not until his mother married mine. “I seem to remember you always addressed Dad by his name, Al, isn’t that right, Rich?
“Yes.”
“Tell me why.”
“It was never brought up for discussion,” Rich explained. “I guess my mother and Al figured I’d figure it out by myself which I did. I was comfortable with “Al”. He seemed fine with
it too, but when I looked at your dad, I saw my father, the only father I’ve ever known.”
(author's note: text in red signifies major revision)
Seated opposite an antique Jade Buddha he acquired on one of his many trips to the Orient, my father awaited my arrival from the front room of his 29th floor condominium overlooking Lake Michigan. Appearing quite dignified despite his attire in a blue bathrobe and plaid pajama pants, he sat as if posing for his portrait in an elegant state room.
His smile patted the cushion of the chair next to his, as if to say, “Come. Sit down, Son. It’s been too long since we last spoke.”
Refusing to surrender graciousness to personal discomfort, my father welcomed everyone with a smile that made one feel as if he were the only person in Dad’s world who mattered at that moment. “No one should feel bad because I don’t feel well.”
His first grandson Ben dubbed him Poppy whom I came to know better at the end of his life than at the start of mine. But to my older brother Ron and me, Dad was and had always been Dad, except for the one and only occasion when I addressed him as father. He exploded. That’s all I recall.
Dad is a term of endearment, including its diminutive Daddy, an almost mythic figure, he reposits trust and unconditional love, that special someone who touches the heart. I suspect Dad feared the possibility, however remote, that he might lose us to the three hundred miles between us. Then again if you knew the kind of man my father was, it is indeed impossible to imagine that he could have ever surrendered his sons to divorce and distance.
Great Parents, Lousy Spouses
Following his 1950 graduation from the St. Louis University School of Dentistry, Dad worked many long hours, perhaps too many for an already strained shalom bayis*. In striving to become the best provider he could, he discovered something along the way he hadn’t anticipated.
My parents failed as each other’s spouse to find a balance between work and family, a failure that cost Ron and me our parents’ marriage. They divorced in 1959 after ten years, an outcome that wasn’t supposed to happen in the age of Leave It To Beaver and Father Knows Best.
Would it have been better had they decided to remain married
*Shalom bayis: peace at home between a husband and wife.
(end of page)
for
our sake? The best answer is perhaps the simplest one-that a good divorce, as
undesirable as it may seem, is better than a bad marriage for Mom, Dad and the
kids.
For better or worse,
parents remain their children’s most influential teachers. I was impressed by how
respectfully my mother and father treated each other unfailingly after their
divorce.
Kibud Em (Honoring Mother)
“Mother deserves better than that, Son,” Dad scolded me once for having spoken of my mother in the third person.
“How’s Mom?” the first two words he asked us consistently every Sunday night when he called.
Mother was everything holy to my father. “My mother kept a kosher home and sent me to afternoon Hebrew school,” he said with the adoration a son reserves for his mother alone. Although he admitted to me on several occasions that he skipped Hebrew class for the stickball game around the corner, Dad quietly adhered to his belief in the One God, honoring one’s parents and acts of kindness.
Did my parents ever quarrel after their divorce? They probably did but never in our presence nor did either one say an unkind word about the other that Ron or I might have heard. When years later, my wife and I divorced, we vowed to treat each other as my parents had done.
The difference was our marriages was this: my parents had two reasons, Ron and I, for their mutual civility; my first wife and I had three: Benjamin, Kimberly and Zachary whom we love above all else.
Never one to abandon his responsibilities, he continued parenting Ron and me as if there had been no divorce. As my first and most important teacher, Dad’s pedagogic style was a blend of schoolmarm with rabbinic sage. I once heard a notable rabbi say that years after his father’s death, he remained and would remain a great teacher because his memory and teachings continued to live on through his students and his students’ students.
Floss Those Teeth You Wish To Keep
My father coined this pithy adaptation of the central principle of all responsible parenting. Should you wish to raise kind, loving children, begin modeling acts of loving kindness for them from their earliest childhood when they are most malleable. Preaching unaccompanied by good deeds only serves to remind us how cheap talk can be.
Dad’s devotion to me strengthened my devotion to him. Though we lived apart from each other, we never grew apart.
As a matter of fact, the relative infrequency of our visits taught us to cherish the memorable in each and every one. His diligence demonstrated that a divorced dad could remain as much an effective parent as any other, but there was one thing Dad couldn’t do.
Early divorce robs the whole family, but the children in particular, of both actual and potential memories. “We only
really saw Dad on Sundays,” my brother Ron said. “Mom put us to bed before Dad came home during the week probably sometime after ten o’clock.”
By the time Mom, Ron and I relocated to St. Louis, he and I had become accustomed to Dad’s daily absence, a fact which though sad made the transition to our official one parent household less disruptive than it might otherwise have been.
Kibud Em (Honoring Mother)
“Mother deserves better than that, Son,” Dad scolded me once for having spoken of my mother in the third person.
“How’s Mom?” the first two words he asked us consistently every Sunday night when he called.
Mother was everything holy to my father. “My mother kept a kosher home and sent me to afternoon Hebrew school,” he said with the adoration a son reserves for his mother alone. Although he admitted to me on several occasions that he skipped Hebrew class for the stickball game around the corner, Dad quietly adhered to his belief in the One God, honoring one’s parents and acts of kindness.
Did my parents ever quarrel after their divorce? They probably did but never in our presence nor did either one say an unkind word about the other that Ron or I might have heard. When years later, my wife and I divorced, we vowed to treat each other as my parents had done.
The difference was our marriages was this: my parents had two reasons, Ron and I, for their mutual civility; my first wife and I had three: Benjamin, Kimberly and Zachary whom we love above all else.
Never one to abandon his responsibilities, he continued parenting Ron and me as if there had been no divorce. As my first and most important teacher, Dad’s pedagogic style was a blend of schoolmarm with rabbinic sage. I once heard a notable rabbi say that years after his father’s death, he remained and would remain a great teacher because his memory and teachings continued to live on through his students and his students’ students.
Floss Those Teeth You Wish To Keep
My father coined this pithy adaptation of the central principle of all responsible parenting. Should you wish to raise kind, loving children, begin modeling acts of loving kindness for them from their earliest childhood when they are most malleable. Preaching unaccompanied by good deeds only serves to remind us how cheap talk can be.
Dad’s devotion to me strengthened my devotion to him. Though we lived apart from each other, we never grew apart.
As a matter of fact, the relative infrequency of our visits taught us to cherish the memorable in each and every one. His diligence demonstrated that a divorced dad could remain as much an effective parent as any other, but there was one thing Dad couldn’t do.
Early divorce robs the whole family, but the children in particular, of both actual and potential memories. “We only
really saw Dad on Sundays,” my brother Ron said. “Mom put us to bed before Dad came home during the week probably sometime after ten o’clock.”
By the time Mom, Ron and I relocated to St. Louis, he and I had become accustomed to Dad’s daily absence, a fact which though sad made the transition to our official one parent household less disruptive than it might otherwise have been.
Stepfathers and Stepsons
“What was
it like living with Dad?” I asked Richard, my stepbrother, who lived under his
roof from age thirteen through his high school graduation, following his mother
Lillian’s marriage to my father. Although my father never formally adopted him,
Dad continued to regard Richard as one of his three sons even after Lillian’s
death until the day of his own, October 18, 2008.“About average I guess,” Rich responded when I asked him to rate Dad’s performance. Never one to embellish an explanation with too many words, I was struck by Rich’s response: “He and my mother never attended one swim meet in four years. He’d come home late, watch television, have dinner, smoke his pipe and go to bed.”
A Stepson
There are those like me who acquire a stepfather when his mother remarries. Dad was a six hour drive away. Though a stretch of highway lay before him, there was no distance between us. Harold Grossman, my mother’s second husband, respected that fact. Were it only for that reason alone and none other, I would honor his memory.
Then there are those who like Rich, as with all human beings, had a biological father but never a dad, at least not until his mother married mine. “I seem to remember you always addressed Dad by his name, Al, isn’t that right, Rich?
“Yes.”
“Tell me why.”
“It was never brought up for discussion,” Rich explained. “I guess my mother and Al figured I’d figure it out by myself which I did. I was comfortable with “Al”. He seemed fine with
it too, but when I looked at your dad, I saw my father, the only father I’ve ever known.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)