An Appreciation, of Sorts

Y

When you don't have a father anymore, those ads that feature handsome, prematurely grey-haired men shilling ties and shirts and cufflinks while toting an adorable blonde moppet in each arm really can be annoying. Not that I ever paid attention to them, even when my father was alive, because he wasn't a shirt-and-tie-and-cufflink kind of guy. It wasn't easy to find a Father's Day present for him. He didn't read anything except the newspaper. His sport was limited to trudging up four flights of stairs, every day for sixty years. He didn't own a car. He didn't drink fine wines or smoke foreign cigars. So I was pretty much limited to buying him handkerchiefs, 'cause he did blow his nose, and socks, 'cause he did wear shoes, and bathrobes, because he did bathe, except for the last three years of his life, when that chore became my responsibility.

For the past year, I've been trying to remember the things I loved about my father. It's been difficult, because in the last few years of his life, when he decided to stop living, he made my life hell on earth. I won't go into detail, because this is not a memoir. I hate memoirs. The first one I read was Angela's Ashes. I couldn't believe how someone could expose to the world (and profit from) the failings of his parents; an alcoholic father and a mother so ill-prepared for motherhood that she should have been sterilized instead of popping out babes as if on schedule.

That bestseller spawned an avalanche of crappy books about people who were famous for 15 seconds; a phenomenon with no apparent end. So this isn't a memoir, which, as I believe I said, I hate. I just want to recognize my father on Father's Day, because I can't send him a card or buy him a lottery ticket any more. He used to like when I did that. He always was so hopeful that he would win. Once, he won $863, which, to him, after decades of tearing up stubs, was like winning a million bucks. We went up to the lottery office in World Trade Center, where he proceeded to make a scene because I didn't have a black pen in my pocketbook. It had to be black, and I carried only green. I begged a woman to lend me hers, just to shut him up. Kind of took the thrill out of the occasion.

He possessed a volcanic temper and a sparkling sense of humor, either of which could materialize with no apparent impetus. This was his legacy to me. He didn't say funny things as much as he said things funny. Once, he told me a story about two fellows he knew, who he referred to as "what's-his-name and the other one." In thirty seconds, I knew who he was talking about. We got each other. I'll never have a relationship like that again.

Tomorrow, I'm going to watch a video of "The Bank Dick." It was one of his favorites. He loved Fields and the brothers Marx and Gleason and the great old character actors of sixty years ago; a time when people could act and movies were interesting. I'm going to prop his picture up in front of the television, so he can watch the movie with me. Crazy? – perhaps. But if I didn't believe that he's in the room with me, or that I'll ever see him again, I couldn't keep going. So, Happy Father's Day, Dad. Love from your sweetheart. Y