My Father at 83

We never called my father “Dad”. His real name was Bill. But we called him “Bail”, which I suppose came about when either my brother or I asked him what his name was and we couldn't pronounce it right. Either way, I don’t ever remember calling him “Dad” until age 18, when I had already left home. So, in some ways you might say that I grew up without a father. But that would be quite a stretch as he was always around. We just didn’t call him “Dad”, as all the other kids I knew addressed their fathers.

Then there was the time in between; when we were aware that “Bail” was an odd thing to call your father, but weren’t comfortable enough to use the term “Dad.” So, at that point we didn’t call him anything. Oddly, on all of the cards and notes which were preserved by my mother; whom we called “Mom”; we addressed him as “Dad”. We just never spoke it.

It may have been about the time when my brother started to get serious with his then girlfriend Helene that this became an issue in our home. I’m not sure. But it was a long time until I felt comfortable addressing him in that fashion.

Today would have been his 83^rd birthday. I can’t say I miss him much; we didn't speak for the last 10 years of his life; and spent much of the rest of it at odds with one another. I cannot even imagine having a relationship with him at all.

There is an old photo of my brother and I in our bedroom in Brooklyn when I was about 10 years old. On the wall over the toy box hangs my first guitar. I got it for Christmas and was eager to make some music. But I was not allowed to play it unless I took lessons. I was never going to be good at math because my mother wasn't. I would never be strong, I would never be able to make a living because my health was bad. The list went on and on.

Today he would have been 83. Hey Dad; I excel at mathematics; even taught myself to navigate by the stars.  I learned it from a book. I've traveled the world 3 times by ship, plane, foot and train. I got really strong while serving in the U.S. Navy and later as a Merchant Mariner. I’ve even built shopping centers and housing developments using those math skills I’d never be good at. I became a surveyor and an Estimator, excelling at both. Later I became a Contract Administrator. Attorneys have called me seeking advice. I own 4 guitars and play them all well enough to satisfy my musical urges and even entertain others; as long as I don't sing.

And remember that $1,000 life insurance policy you bought from Uncle Roy when I was 6 years old? You cancelled my brothers but kept mine active until the day you died. I was 47 years old at that time. You never collected the $350 that had accrued in value over the 40 year period in which you paid over $1,000 into it. I guess you were wrong about me dying before you did. And I was wrong about you being so smart in financial matters.

In short; you were wrong about so many things; but mainly you were wrong about me. Happy Birthday, "Dad".

Old Slides #2 - Learning How to Fly (1957)

Most photos have a “back story” to them; where and when the photo was taken being the least important of the details. What happened just before the shutter clicked can be very revealing in some cases. And that’s what makes the photograph above, which is one of a series taken on Veteran’s day 1957, so unusual. There is none.

As I sift through the old family photos I can find very few where there is not something else that has just occurred which mars the memory a bit. Behind most of the smiling faces there was either a very recent scolding, argument or some other stupid and unnecessary problem. No one is really to blame for that; it’s just the dynamics of an ordinary family living and growing; together or apart.

But, let’s get back to this photograph which was taken over 57 years ago. This one is of me and my Dad. I’m the little guy holding the string. He’s the big guy showing me how to fly the kite. It was one of those big paper kites; bright red and with a tail made of rags. We were at Riis Park; for some reason we were always at Riis Park; winter or summer. I’m not complaining; I loved the place!

Riis Park was named after Jacob Riis, the famous campaigner for decent housing and social reform. His photographs of the Lower East Side at the turn of the 20^th Century are iconic. He championed airways in the tenements and windows in every room. It was only fitting that a bright, sunny, public beach be named for him.

Once again; back to this photograph. In the years after this was taken; remember I said that every picture has a “back story”? Well, this one really has more of a “front story”, as it was taken less than 2 years before my mother began a long illness, which permeated my entire childhood. I didn't really mind, I just always hoped that she would get better; but she never did.

So, this photo is one of the rare ones in which my Dad is smiling and really means it. Life was good. He had just been through the only job “layoff” he would ever know, and also had pneumonia, one of the only times I had ever seen him ill. The other time was when he gave up smoking in 1962 or ’63 after the Surgeon General’s first warning about cigarettes causing cancer. He didn't even wait until the warning was on the pack. He just stopped. And was very ill; throwing up and bedridden for several days. It was cold turkey, just like heroin withdrawal. He may have lapsed once or twice in the first few years after, but never went back to smoking full time again. Instead he discovered M&M’s.

We would go grocery shopping on Thursday nights when my mother wasn't in the hospital; and my Dad would buy a box of Peanut Chews, or a 1 pound bag of M&M's, which we would eat before getting home.When my Mom was in the hospital, either my brother or I would pick up what was necessary ourselves. We used a pull along type folding “shopping cart” to wheel the groceries home. My brother was not fond of this chore; I think he found it embarrassing for some reason; so I was usually the one “bringing home the bacon.”

So, this is a picture of my father before all the bad times began. It’s also part of a set of 14 photographs taken that day. My Dad’s teaching me how to fly a kite, a skill which I have passed on to my daughter and 2 of my granddaughters. And whenever I look at this photo I remember what it was like to have my parents and my brother, before all the bad times began.

A Thanksgiving Tale

I don’t think I have ever written down the story of George Edwards and the turkey before; but I have told it every year during the holiday season with the usual reaction; disbelief. But, I’m here to tell you that it really happened, and though I was not present at the time these events occurred, I can state that they were related to me by both his wife and children.

This was Thanksgiving Day 1992; which was about 20 years and a lifetime ago. It was like any day at the Edward’s house-hold; George was not drinking anymore; at least not until 4 PM. He would, by that time have consumed several packs out of his daily carton of Parliaments. I’m not kidding; a carton of cigarettes on one match. Do the math. 6 minutes to a cigarette at 20 per pack is 2 hours times 10 packs is 20 hours. Throw in 4 hours of sleep; which is all he slept; and there’s your carton a day. I don’t lie.

Anyway, back to the story; George was the type who did not believe in holidays and particularly despised the entire period from Thanksgiving through News Years. No one was ever quite sure why; though I do understand him more now that I am older; and anyway I’m sure he didn’t know himself.

So, Thanksgiving Day approached and George laid in an extra few cases of beer and several cartons of cigarettes; content with watching some football on television. But, his wife Anne; a sweet woman, and great cook; had decided to invite friends and family for dinner. He vowed not to come downstairs and join in the celebration; electing instead; to remain upstairs in his pajamas and watch TV.

The guests arrived and after some light refreshment and small talk, began to be seated at the table. The table, I might add, was piled high with food, in the center of which stood; gleaming with juices from the oven; a beautiful 25 pound turkey on a silver tray. Remember this stately bird.

As the guests sat down George bellowed from upstairs; he was a former iron worker in the days before cell phones or even walkie-talkies; “Anne, bring me a beer!” Of course Anne was embarrassed and ignored this request, as well as the two subsequent ones which were even less civil.

Finally, George himself appeared at the top of the stairs, clad in an open robe, wife beater tee-shirt and boxer shorts, shouting, “God damn it Anne, when I ask for a m-f-ing beer I ain’t kidding!” Anne was mortified and tried to soothe him with words, enraging him all the more, until finally; clad as formerly noted, but wearing work boots; he took the turkey from the table and flung it out the door of the house and clear across Benfield Blvd. It landed on the windshield of some poor, unsuspecting motorist, who was last seen staring at the heavens, wondering why he was chosen to receive this gift in the first place; and in such an unusual manner. For that man’s children; who were about 6 and 8 as I recall being told; the holiday has undoubtedly been ruined forever. But I still can’t help but laugh whenever I think of George and the outlandish things he did in the midst of a 30 year drunk.
 
Eventually, Anne left George and the house on Benfield Boulevard; I bet you didn’t see that coming; and they remained in touch with one another until his death in the late 1990’s. I think of him often, and have not written enough about him. On holidays, which he abhorred, I tend to think of him a bit more. He was a man of many contradictions, and I wish I had a photo of him to post here. But some of the greatest memories in life are not stored on film; or a camera card; they’re in your head, where they can never be erased.

And when Thanksgiving rolls around; year after year; I can see that turkey sailing across Benfield Boulevard, launched by George; bathrobe flapping in the frigid November air; as the guests quietly departed by the side door. And if you think that’s odd; wait ‘til I tell you about the Christmas tree…