Growing up in Brooklyn, my parents were the final authority, the ‘life and death’ of all that matters. Mom had a place and Dad had his place, a mysterious place of high authority. I never intruded into his world but looked to him as who I might be some day.
He went to work every morning, and slept late on Saturdays
and Sundays and all declared holidays. When he did something nice for us, we
appreciated it and made it the highlight of our week.
As strong a personality Dad was, his influence ranged just
under Mom’s and he always deferred to Mom in the final say.
There was only once that I recall seeing him cry outwardly.
It was crushing for a seven or eight year old child, especially for a son and
his concept of his dad.
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| We did a lot together |
It was a Friday night and Dad came home and was upset, relating
to my Mom what had happened. It seems he was heading home for the weekend from
work when he discovered his wallet had been picked and his weekly salary was
gone. Someone ran to my grandmother’s house and she came over. Grandma gave him
the equivalent of his salary and it took care of the crisis.
This event more than any taught me that Dad, and fathers
everywhere, were indeed bonded to their families, that the sacred charge of
provider and defender was extremely important and necessary. His tears were the
tears of a loss, not of the salary but the tool to provide for his family after
a week of hard labor. He feared that we as his family would suffer because of
what happened.
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