My Dad — A Tribute
More than anything, my Dad loved to laugh. He loved a good story. He loved to see the best and was genuinely interested in whoever happened to be nearby. Most of all, he loved my Mom and his three daughters. He attributed his love for people, his passion for the written word, and his can-do attitude to having grown up in a mostly Jewish neighborhood in Detroit. While I, his middle daughter, respected that aspect of his rearing, there is more to his story…
My Dad grew up observing his Mother being mistreated by his Father. Her husband, my Dad’s Father was mostly mean, inconsiderate, stingy and a hostil, stress-provoking driver of their model T. While a horrible thing for her and her three children, it was — in a strange generational kind-of way — a blessing for us. For as difficult as his Dad was, my Dad (though he seldom spoke of his Dad, and when he did it was with compassion) was just the opposite… kind, helpful, generous and fun loving. And, my goodness, was he ever.
My Mom was treated with utmost respect. She, his daughters, his newspaper dealings and their friends were it. He helped with homework and splashed us around in the swimming pool and, along with Mom, helped us through sticky situations, until his dying day. Our home was regularly filled with neighborhood kids who would observe my Dad, the publisher of the Reporter Papers, standing on his head, doubling over with laughter during a Johnny Carson episode, boycotting aerosol spray cans by growing a beard, and, as often as he could, offering jobs to those he felt needed a chance.
Morning after morning (during the countries centennial) Dad would hoist flags through town, pole by pole at sun-up, drive kids to and from my Mom’s nursery school, and don overalls to sing in the chorus of Oklahoma. Each week he published and edited a newspaper that was his passion and reflected his wholesome, family values and his never-ending belief in this country.
Each night my Dad, playing piano, would accompany my Mom on the violin or banjo. At least once per month, their circle of friends would gather to have a sing along around the pinao. These are the people who showed up, through out our lives and… the Sunday before he died, for his farewell sing-along. Words, despite having been a wordsmith his entire life, were few. But — he could still sing. And, he still had the infectious twinkle that made all — stranger, friend and family — come to life and light with love.
My husband asked what I thought it was, about my Dad, that caused strangers at Metro to come and sit by him, or youngster hover around. Now that he’s gone, I find myself pondering Rupert’s question. My Dad grew up in a household that was plagued with stress. Everyone had to tiptoe around this mostly cranky, nasty, mean-spirited force. From that environment grew a man of such integrity, honesty, kindness — always on the lookout for good, bringing his very best and looking to make life — even through the tough times — light and connected.
Dad’s memorial service was one year ago today. During the last 6 months of life here, Dad missed Mom . Life just didn’t make sense to him, without her. Shortly after her memorial, he asked me to teach him yoga. He knew that it was a process that was so important in my life — he was still reaching out. And, he realized the practice had tremendous feel-good, life-enhancing potential.
The fact is — and I told him so — that through out his life he had epitomized what we all hope to awaken through our yoga practice. The way that he lived every day of his life…in selfless service, filled to the brim with loving kindness was the inspiration behind an extraordinarily well lived and inspiring life.
For my twenty-second birthday, Dad gave me a Reader’s Digest songbook. In it he wrote,
“Dear Jody, What you do is this: Invite everyone over, open up this book, and have a sing along. It’s fun. Happy Birthday. Dad.
Somehow, one year after his death, his inscription, in so few words, says it all.
Love you dad. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!
