My father had many admirable traits. He was absolutely honest -- "honest to a fault" even. He had a fine sense of humor. He was compassionate and though he affected stoicism, he was deeply romantic and emotional -- tears came easy to him. He was a self-effacing but diligent worker. He was a fine, graceful athlete -- basketball, tennis, baseball (a catcher!) His social views were progressive. I never detected a jot or tittle of bigotry in his conversation (in fact, words that denigrated racial or religious groups were unknown in our home. When I heard words like "goy" on the street, I had to do some research to find out what was meant.) He was a thoughtful man, a wise man, a realist and not an ideologue. He was an affectionate father and husband. He never provoked a soul and had no enemies. He enjoyed his life.
I profited immensely from observing these excellent traits in action.
But perhaps because of his impoverished first-generation beginnings, he was never at ease in the world. Yes, he was comfortable at home and in his backyard garden and among his circle of friends, many of whom he had known from childhood. He was comfortable walking to the BMT at Newkirk Plaza, taking the subway to Court Street in downtown Brooklyn, and practicing his profession, where he was much respected. But he did not like to step out of his milieu. He couldn't fend for himself. Here's an extreme but telling example: one day, when I was ten or so years old, as we were walking home, probably from the schoolyard, he stopped in front of the local A & P and said to me, "Your mother wants a quart of milk; you go in and buy the milk. I'll wait outside." Which I did, of course; I was used to running such errands. My father couldn't go into a market without stress. He could buy a newspaper at a candy store or kiosk, and he could bring home a loaf of rye bread from Ebinger's bakery, but I never once saw him in a vegetable market or a fish store or a butcher shop. When my mother died in 1978, he had to hire people to shop for him. And someone to cook, because, as the saying goes, he couldn't boil water. Because of his discomfort when out of his routine, he was a classic stick-in-the-mud. He couldn't travel. He never learned to drive a car. In his relations with others, he was totally passive. He allowed my mother to organize his social life and after she died, he became completely isolated. He hated change. Once when I visited him late in his life, when he was in serious arthritic pain, he complained about the station to which his radio was tuned. It was one of those "twenty-four hours of news" stations that repeated itself every few minutes. I said, "Why not change the station?" He said, "Aw, it's already set there."
I tried very hard not to imitate these less-than-admirable habits.
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