My dad was a good father. He worked hard to take care of his family. He overcame obstacles in life that might have turned an ordinary person into a cynical disaster.
But my dad was not ordinary. He was exceptional. And he spent his entire life proving it.
Like most fathers, my dad taught me many lessons about life. He taught me to treat others as I would like to be treated, to try to see the good in people, and to take good care of my car.
But most of all, he taught me how to love.
My dad was my hero. He was quiet, friendly, and funny. He was dedicated, loyal, and a little stubborn. He didn’t care what others thought of him, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because everyone who met him, loved him.
We didn’t have much money and life in our house was always chaotic, but my dad was a firm believer in Faith, in Hope, and in “keeping peace in the family.”
My dad always encouraged me to do my best. Whether it was being a good parent, doing my best at work, or just dealing with people, he shared his wisdom without preaching.
I inherited a few of his traits and talents, and the lessons he taught me only enhanced what was already there. His talent for writing, his compassion, his desire to help others; these are all a part of him, at the very core of who he was.
Several months ago, I wrote about a manuscript I found that belonged to my dad. The hundreds of pages aren’t in any specific order and it’s been difficult trying to make time to read it.
I later found out that the manuscript was therapy for my dad. He had his knee replaced in the ’90s and spent his hours typing up his life story. I was thrilled that I was able to find most of the pieces of this puzzle but a little ashamed that I haven’t picked it up and looked at it since.
There is always the “I’ll do it tomorrow, this weekend, next month….”
As I pulled the box out of the closet this morning, it occurred to me that the best gift I could give my father this year would be to finish what he started, to be able to show the world the hidden talent my father possessed.
The following is an excerpt from my dad’s manuscript, a scene he remembers from his childhood:
“Another sound recorded on my relatively unblemished memory was the old Jewish junk man who made frequent trips down our alley with his horse and wagon in the summertime. His horse wore an old hat with holes cut out for its ears.
Long before I could hear the creak of groaning wheels and soft clomp-clump of hooves in soft alley ashes, the warm summer air carried to me Mr. Golad’s sad, low litany of monotony:
‘Rags? Old rags,’ Old Golad intoned. ‘Rags…old rags…’
And I waited for the magnificent parade to lurch slowly past our place.
Sometimes the trio paused-horse, wagon, and Mr. Golad-and I could see both horse and human were in state of semi-siesta. The junk man comfortable in the shade of the umbrella; horse content to occasionally startle a fly with that fantastic control of its skin muscles. Until the old man clucked gently and the wagon creaked along down the alley toward 16th Street; until the warm summer air covered up his unforgettable song:
‘Rags. Rags? Old raaa-a-a-a-ags….’
I would listen for a long time before it would evaporate into silence. Or perhaps it would simply blend with the burr of a bee and my attention would turn to this busy bug invading some unsuspecting blossom.”
This just might be the greatest gift I could ever give my father.
Well, that, and the love only a daughter could give.