Robert Wallace
Now that I’m retired and have free time, I’ve chosen to spend the first few minutes of every day drinking coffee and honoring my ancestors. Starting the day with gratitude makes me a nicer person with less of an edge. In fact, I ask my Mom, through one of her photos every morning, to make me more gentle, kind, and understanding. I can never get enough of that.
But today Dad captures my attention. This photo, from their honeymoon, in 1946, shows the happiest couple, almost embracing with three out of four hands touching the other. Only Dad’s right hand is free. Free to hold a burning cigarette.
I stare at my Dad in this photo, his eyes and smile especially. Happiness is overflowing from him. Who was this man, I search my mind to recall memories from before 1965, since I was only 14 when he died.
My only sibling, 2 years older than I, probably filled in some gaps in my mind, but most of it is more likely just what I’ve concocted. Like distant ancestors, I create stories of heroism and adventure, coming to America on crowded boats to escape Czars and antisemitism; to give their children better lives.
So, too, I semi-create my own father.
He was an only child, born in Dallas from a brief love affair between his parents. Shortly after birth, they moved to Chicago and his parents split up. Nana ditched them and Gramps bought a clothing store in Detroit, bringing his 6 year old son with him. It was at that time that Gramps changed the family name from Weinberger to NAME. I wonder what the effect of that change was on Dad. Suddenly he had a new name and an absent mother. Did he ever recover and feel like a whole person?
Gramps sent Dad to boarding school. Something we never discussed and I found out posthumously. My brother once told me Dad had wanted to go to law school but he couldn’t afford it and the war was calling. He did graduate from the University of Michigan with a bachelor’s in business before joining the army as a captain. Dad’s best friend in the army was Jay Firman, hence my middle name, Jay.
I remember Dad liked play golf and bowling and poker. We didn’t have enough money for him to gamble, but he did it, regularly. He liked the White Sox and the Bears. I remember him leaving some nights after dinner to go back to work or going to play cards. He was a car dealer and salesman of Chrysler products in TOWN. Sometimes, lost in thought, he’d bite the inside of his cheek and squint a little. He used Mahdeen hair tonic and I remember the smell of it deep in my limbic system.
He died from his 3rd heart attack and never quit smoking. I’m sure he didn’t know what he’d be missing. Pretty sure, maybe.