Dad

My father was born in 1919 and died n 2005(?). To give an idea of the relationship of U.S. history, he was born when Teddy Roosevelt died.

He (my father; I know less about Teddy) wasn't a perfect man, but in many ways he was a very good man. When I say he wasn't perfect, that's not an insult. No one is, though I occasionally still tell the joke that there's only ever been one perfect human who walked the earth, but modesty forbids me to tell you who that is.

He lived in a strange time. He wasn't born in this country, but people who knew him as an adult didn't know that. He almost never mentioned it, and he had no accent and a great vocabulary in English. His family came to the U.S. in two different waves. When the first wave, consisting of several of his brothers, came here, the immigration papers listed the country of origin as Russia. When my father came with his parents and a sister, though they'd come from the same place, the papers said Romania.

Years later, I figured out that the actual place was Moldova, also known as Moldovia. It was part of the Soviet Union and that explained the "Russia" label, because for many years Russia and Soviet Union were used interchangeably, Also, although the Communists had won the revolution in 1917-18, they didn't take over all of what became the Soviet Union, for several years. Also, Moldova kept going back and forth between the nations that dominated it.

Also, in terms of historical interest, he was the last of 10 children and was apparently an accidental birth, which I'm obviously glad occurred. But there was such a broad difference of ages that my father fought in World War II and his oldest brother fought in World War I.

As a father he wasn't always the most attentive, but he was kind. I'm sure I must have been spanked a few times as a child, but  I really don't remember the experience. I know that he yelled at my brother and me from time-to-time, sometimes giving in to laughter when one of us said something funny to defuse that anger.

Anger was an emotion he could deal with. Love and tenderness were harder.

First when I say he could deal with his anger, I wouldn't suggest for a moment that he was mean or a drunk, or any of those things. When he grew up, it was unusual for men to show tenderness, and thus uncomfortable.

Once, when I'd become an adult, for his birthday, I wrote and gave him a long note that expressed my gratitude for all he'd done as a father, including - with my mom - moving the family out of Chicago and to L.A. He later told me, with difficulty and an apparent lump in his throat that it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever given him. Some things are hereditary. That lump's in my throat as I write this.

Usually, when people talk about others having a good sense of humor, they mean either or both of two things: either that they laugh easily at the humor of others or that they can make others laugh. Dad had both types, but he was really good at making people laugh. He told jokes very well and he expressed off-the-cuff wit. He was also one of the easiest audiences I've ever seen for anyone trying to get a laugh, including his wife and kids.

When he died, I didn't cry and wasn't surprised. The remainder of the family seemed very surprised. By that time, I'd moved away from California, so maybe the distance gave a greater perspective. But I could tell he was on the way out. I didn't cry or seem t mourn, because I'd already done it for the previous couple of years. When I did think about him dying, when I was by myself, I would feel teary and sad, but I went through that for quite a while.

So when he did have his final heart attack, when in the hospital for unrelated problems, I had already processed the loss. Plus, his Alzheimer's meant that he really wasn't fully on this side of life for a while.

I miss him.

I no longer think of him every day, but do with some frequency. He's one of the reasons I hope there is a Heaven.