The Sunday Memory Drawer - A Man of Few Words

It's Father's Day and here we go again.   The memories of my father come to the forefront one more time.  I could talk for hours about him.

Except he never said much himself.

This was never more evident than in the later years.   My dad's birthday was June 20, so it often coincided with Father's Day.   He would like it when I took him out to eat at the Victoria Station on Tuckahoe Road in Yonkers. 

Except we didn't really talk much over dinner.  Not that we were mad at each other or anything.  Indeed, at this restaurant, it didn't really matter.  Because my father was mesmerized by a salad bar.  Apparently, he had never seen them before.  This was all you can eat and my dad sure did.

"Beet salad.  I haven't had this since I used to get it at the deli on 238th Street."

"This cole slaw tastes like the one you would get at the deli near Scott's Bridge." 

"Artichoke hearts.  I didn't know they made these any more."

I realized that my dad was in heaven at this advanced age because he was reliving meals of the past.  The trips to the Bronx delicatessens.  My father would go there every Saturday morning to stock up for the week.  I understood.  These days myself, I crave tastes and treats from my youth.

I guess the best way to describe my dad was that he wasn't verbally demonstrative.  He conveyed more with a look than with his words.  I got plenty of looks, trust me.  And the few words I got needed to be listened to.

From time to time when I was a kid, my father would pull me out into the driveway.  He had the two baseball gloves in our house.  It was time for a good old fashioned catch.  He would stand at the end by the street.   Otherwise, I'd be running out into traffic to get all the balls I would miss. 

Dad would toss the ball to me.   I was still pretty uneasy with this game.   I'd steady myself and, instead of letting the ball come to me, I would throw my hand at it.  It would always bounce away.

"Two hands!  Two hands!"

Words that still play in my head.  And rare coming from my father.

If I looked out the window on a summer's afternoon to see my dad washing the windshield of whatever Buick we had at the time, I knew that meant only one thing.

We were going up to the Elmsford Drive-In Theater that night.

My father didn't have to say a word. 

Given my dad's limited use of dialogue, I often wondered just what the hell he and my mother ever talked about.   When they were dating, what were those conversations like?   Or, did my mom talk the blue streak and never noticed that my father was even part of the evening?

When I was around ten, I uncovered their secret.  Both were working at nights at the time.  I was shepherded by my grandparents.  Mom and Dad would come home at midnight.  One night, I woke up and saw a light in the kitchen down the hall.  They were catching up on their days over a glass of milk.  And my father was doing a lot of the conversing.

So, as I crept back to bed, I realized that it was possible.  The man did have something to say.  It wasn't just a series of stern looks that signaled to me that I better not do that again.

My father rarely showed any emotion.  There were a few moments of anger when I must have done something the second time after being told I better not do that again.  I only saw him tear up twice.  Once was when he came home early from work the day my grandfather died.   He walked into Grandma's kitchen with all of us gathered around the table.  He broke down and bolted from the room.

The second time was a bit more obscure.   We were on a Sunday drive.  Just me and my father.   And, for some bizarre reason, we were motoring down the West Side Highway.   News came over the radio.  General Douglas MacArthur had died.   I looked over at my father and was astonished to see tears streaming down his face. 

"My boss died."

I guess that's the way an Army guy would see it.

I did see laughter.   I remember him howling out loud when he took me to see the movie "Operation Petticoat."   On television, he loved Jackie Gleason and the Fred Mertz character.   Later on, I can recall the rare occasion of both my parents laughing together as they watched "All in the Family."

Of course, I would learn later that my father's true emotions did appear from time to time.  His brother, my namesake, had been killed in the waning days of the Second World War in Europe.  At the time, he had been engaged to a girl named Stella.  Several years later, Stella married someone else.   And my entire family was invited to the reception.  Stella would tell me this story after my father died.

At the reception, my father came over to Stella and was, according to her, sobbing. 

"This is such a nice wedding.  We really wanted you in our family."

Rare words from my dad.  But, oh, so poignant.

Indeed, he did have something to say.

Me?  I got words of wisdom as I grew up.   For instance, if we were at a baseball game....

"Don't buy a soda from the vendor if it's the last one in his tray."

Oh.  About ten years later, when I was a vendor at Yankee Stadium desperately trying to sell that one last soda, my dad's words ping ponged around my noggin again.

"If your car is more than five years old, drop the collision."

Oh.  I remember my father telling everybody that as I was growing up.  As if it was his signature advice.  Of course, when my very first car, that Toyota Corolla, hit the five year mark, I didn't wait for my dad's voice.  I dropped the freakin' collision.

"Don't buy a roll after 3PM."

I have no clue whether my father had scientific knowledge of how fresh or stale a roll had become late in the afternoon.   But this was his mantra every time we visited a bakery.

"At the end of every traffic jam is a cop."

I hear that declaration to this very day.   And, as I drive around either Los Angeles or New York, it's always proven to be the case.

With so few words, I never ever doubted that my father cared for me.  None is more evident by the wordless act that he exhibited when I became a New York Met fan.  Three times a year, we would drive out to Shea Stadium for a game together and I would be in my young, giddy glory.  Several years later, it was my mother who shared the sacrifice being made.

"You know, your father was a big Yankee fan all his life.  But he stopped to become a Met fan because you were."

And he rooted for the Mets the rest of his life. 

Those are the little things a father does.  Without attention.  Sans fanfare.  Uttering nary a word.

I think about this today.  Those car rides to Flushing.  We'd say little.  The car radio was on and, with my dad driving, it was always WNEW 1130.  Middle of the road.  On one of those treks, a song came on and this always reminds me of my dad.  Whenever I hear it now, I can see the stadium, replete with those blue and orange aluminum plates, looming up in front of me.  The vinyl of the Buick passenger seat sticking to the back of my legs.  Dad saying nothing.


I hear this tune again and every sensation and every nuance comes back to me.

I never had kids.   I wonder what kind of father I would have been.  I've been a great godfather, pseudo uncle, and a surrogate, but never a real dad.   I can only imagine the real sensation.

You learn your parental skills from how you were treated.   It's a family heirloom being passed down from generation to generation.  I think about this relationship that never happened.  Would I talk more with my son? 

Regardless of what traits I would pick up and discard, I think I would have made a good father.  I had a good one myself.

So, on this Father's Day afternoon with my dad gone for over two decades and his birthday again just around the corner, I'll be at my Dodger Stadium seats.  My father will be next to me.   How will I know?

When Yasiel Puig goes to catch a fly ball, I will yell out.

"Two hands!  Two hands!!"

Dinner last night:  Pepperoni pizza.