Random Thoughts About my Dad
He
called me Lainie.
I
called him Daddy.
On
the outside, he seemed pretty uncomplicated.
He
bowled, he golfed, he followed baseball, he listened to music, he read books,
he walked his dogs.
He
was a family man.
He
went to work.
He
came home.
He
had his routines.
In
the evening, for instance, after dinner dishes were done and the rest of us
were doing our own thing, he would make himself a snack. Nothing fancy. Just
something to accompany a cup of instant coffee. A few Hydrox. Some Mallomars. A
couple of slices of rye bread, toasted, buttered, and topped with a slice of
Swiss cheese.
I
learned early on never to ask for a bite because be would say no. He wouldn’t invariably say no. He would just say no.
That
might sound harsh. Who doesn’t give someone a bite if they ask, particularly if
it’s their daughter? But that was Gerry. He had planned things just so. A bite
and a sip. A bite and a sip. The last bite timed to be finished off with the
last sip. He hadn’t factored sharing into the equation.
I
said my dad was uncomplicated, and that’s true.
But
he was given to deep thought. He
pondered things, was troubled by things. He questioned things. Occasionally he
and I would tangle over some of these questions. We seldom agreed. But in spite
of our differences, he seemed to love me anyway.
He
felt losses. All the way into his nineties, when we worked on his book, he was
still pained remembering the premature death of his cousin George who was
killed in action at the age of 20 during World War II, and the loss of his best
friend Stan who died in 1948 fighting for the state of Israel.
One
thing I loved and admired about my dad is his honesty. There was very little,
maybe nothing, that was pretentious about my dad. And though we didn’t see eye
to eye on a lot of things, in some ways, I think I’m a lot like him. I seem to
have inherited his independence, his stubbornness, his yearning, if I may use
that word, for meaning. I hope I’ve inherited his lack of pretense.
Both
of my parents instilled in us kids a love of music, an appreciation for
theater, an enjoyment of what you might call simple pleasures, a respect for
honesty. I’m thankful to them both for these values.
But,
if I’m remembering correctly, I think I have my dad alone to thank for something
else, and that’s my name.
I
don’t know I’m remembering this story correctly, so forgive me if I’m
embellishing a bit, but before I was born, my parents apparently had decided to
name their second child Paul if it were a boy, named after a family friend.
After
I was born, I believe there was some discussion about what to name me.
“Paula”
was one of the options.
As
I understand it, it was my dad who came up with the name Elaine.
Now,
Paula is a lovely name. But, with all due respect to anyone in the room whose
name is Paula, I’m glad I’m not a Paula!
He
named me Elaine.
He
called me Lainie.
And
I called him Daddy.
November 4, 2017
April 10, 1924 - September 30, 2017
Miss you, dad. Love you.
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