My sister
The first memory I have of him - of anything, really - is his strength. It was in the late afternoon bag making machineryin a house under construction near ours. The unfinished wood floor had large, terrifying holes whose yawning darkness I knew led to nowhere good. His powerful hands, then age 33, wrapped all the way around my tiny arms, then age 4, and easily swung me up to his shoulders to command all I surveyed. The relationship between a son and his father led street lightchanges over time. It may grow and flourish in mutual maturity. It may sour in resented dependence or independence. With many children living in single-parent homes today, it may not even exist. But to a little boy right after World War II ,a father seemed a god with strange strengths and uncanny] powers enabling him to do and know things that no mortal could do or know. Amazing things, like putting a bicycle chain back ball valveon, just like that. Or building a hamster cage.Or guiding a jigsaw so it forms the letter F;I learned the alphabet that way in those pre-television days. There were, of course, rules to learn. First came the handshake. None of those fishlittle finger grips, but a good firm squeeze accompanied by an equally strong gaze into the other's eyes. " The first thing anyone knows about you is your handshake," he would say. And we'd practice it each night on his return from work, the Gucci Shoesserious toddler in the battered Cleveland Indian's cap running up to the giant father to shake hands again and again until it was firm enough. As time passed, there were other rules to learn. "Always do your best.""Do it now.""Never lie!" And most importantly,"You can do whatever you have to do." By my teens, he wasn't telling me what to do anymore, which was scary and heady at the samehid lights time. He provided perspective, not telling me what was around the great corner of life but letting me know there was a lot more than just today and the next, which I hadn't thought of.
One day, I realize now, there was a change. I wasn't trying to please him so much as I Blister packagingwas trying to impress him. I never asked him to come to my football games. He had a high-pressure career, and it meant driving through most of Friday night. But for all the big games, when I looked over at the sideline, there was that familiar fedora. And by God, did the opposing team captain ever get a firm handshake and a gaze he would remember. 　　 Then, a school fact contradicted something he said. Impossible that he could be wrong, but there it was in the book. These accumulated over time, along with personal experiences, to buttress my own developing sense of values. And I could tell we hadFan Motor each taken our own, perfectly normal paths. I began to see, too, his blind spots, his prejudices and his weaknesses. I never threw these up at him. He hadn't to me, and, anyway, he seemed to need protection. I stopped asking his advice; the experiences he drew from no longer seemed relevant to the decisions I had to make. He volunteered advice for a while. But then, in more recent years, politics and issues gave way to talk of empty errands and, always, to ailments. From his bed, he showed me the many sores and scars on his misshapen body and all the bottles for medicine. " Sometimes," he confided, " I wouldtibet travel just like to lie down and go to sleep and not wake up." 　　 After much thought and practice (" You can do whatever you have to do." ), one night last winter, I sat down by his bed and remembered for an instant those terrifying dark holes in another house 35 years before. I told my fatherhow much I loved him. I described all the things people were doing for him. But, I said, he kept eating poorly, hiding in his room and violating the doctor's orders. No amount of love could make someone else care about life, I said; it was a two-way street. He wasn't doing his best. The decision was his. He said he knew how hard my words had been to say and how proud he was of me. " I had the best teacher," I said. " You can do whatever you have to do." He smiled a little. And we shook hands, firmly, for the last time. Several dayschina travel later, at about 4 A.M., my mother heard Dad shuffling about their dark room. " I have some things I have to do," he said. He paid a bundle of bills. He composed for my mother a long list of legal and financial what-to-do's " in case of emergency." And he wrote me a note. Then he walked back to his bed and laid himself down. He went to sleep, naturally. And he did not wake up.
There was no one quite like my father -- in our town of Victor. When any other man in town had an extra dollar, he bought a drink; when Father had an extra dollar, he bought a book. Other people had pictures on their walls, or at least a calendar; we had books, 3000 of them, lining every vertical surface of our little four - room house, on every subject from astronomy to zoology. Father was the most persistent scholar I ever knew. Every summer he took a month or so off to attend classes in Denver or Omaha or Chicago. Twice aCheap designer handbags week, a neighbor recently arrived from Germany came over to converse with him in German because he hoped some day to study with the great professors of medicine in Vienna. Eventually, he earned seven degrees, attended 11 different colleges and universities, and in 1951, when he was 82 sent us a cheerful little note from England to say that he had just enrolled for a graduate course in Elizabethan literature at Oxford. Pherbia, and I were the immediate beneficiaries of Father's insatiable hunger to learn. Every spring, carrying his geologist's hammer, he would take us hiking through the mountains to study mineral formations and search for rocks and wildflowers for his specimen collections. We were expected to identify all specimens without hesitation. On winter nights, when the skies were especially clear from DC motorour, 10,000-foot vantage point in the Rockies, he would set up a telescope and wake us to come view the stars, which he then named with the affectionate familiarity of a local tour guide. For the rest of my life, wherever I traveled around this earth, the stars remained my friends. Of course, here have been times as a young man, when I got tired of study and devoted my time to playing. Then Father would admonish me succinctly by quoting a saying from Shakespeare, "If all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work.Obviously, his efforts were not entirely in vain, for my voice has enabled me to earn a fair livelihood. But that fact doesn't begin to define the enormous debt I owe my father.