Sitting in his Nowhere Land…

 March 4th, 2006

 

They say you can’t pick your parents in life. So at the time of my father’s death, I think of that question, and I ask would I have still picked him to be my own, had I any say in the matter. The answer of course is yes. Without a doubt.

Without my father, my mother would never have known what true love is… without my father, his friends lives would have had less joy all those parties they made time for year after year. His co-workers would never have the pride in the meticulous jobs they did, and for me, I would not be who I am in any way, shape or form.

Because of my dad, I came to the US when I was 4, because of him to New York, the greatest city in the world, and because he loved to gamble, we moved into our first house just 3 blocks from the track, so he could spend his weekends there watching the horses run. I don’t think the winning was that important to him, I think he liked the possibility of living well for the day if he won. And if he did win, it would go to a party with his buddies, or a few bucks to my mom. Or even to me if I asked him at just the right time.

But my dad loved our house not just because of its location; no I think he took great pride in owning something of his own. This was his yard, his lawn, and his driveway, which he wanted shoveled in a particular manner. We would cart snow in garbage cans to the backyard, so it wouldn’t be dumped on the grass, which was his baby.

He loved to garden, he loved to mow, and if the leaves weren’t raked off every weekend, well then there was hell to pay. After all this is what he worked for, a house for his family that was always clean and great to come home to. My dad had this thing about not going out to eat, he preferred to buy good ingredients and cook meals at home. Why spend $100 for 4 people, when he could eat much better in his backyard. He loved my grilled steak, if there was a special occasion to celebrate, he would tell my mom to buy steak and have me cook it while he watched and waited.

 And then he would get to his other pastime, supervising. He loved to comment, to narrate, and to ask if you remembered all the details. I use to think of it as nagging, but he was a perfectionist really. It came from his being a flavor chemist, and from his love for tennis. I mention this, because if you knew my father, tennis to him was like being in the Olympics. Is the weather outside just right for tennis? Which of my friends will show up to be destroyed by me? I’m undefeated! Don’t you know that? 

I heard him say these things many times, and while these details may seem glossy, the truth of the matter was, my father was a simple man. He liked good alcohol, despite his lifelong shares in Heineken – expensive cognac was his favorite, preferably as a gift on his birthday. He loved to dance; he would do this thing with his hips that made you think he was about to throw his hip out. But thinking back on it, he didn’t care who was in the room, or who might see him, if he wanted to dance, he would just do it! And he swore he was good, even if only epileptics would clap.

There are many things though that I will remember personally because our relationship had so many ups and downs. Down – he was not happy with my decisions. Why do you want to be an artist? There’s no money in that. Why do you paint with such dark colors?

Up – he paid for my art college, and my teaching degree, even though he didn’t believe in them, he did it cause he loved me. I could go on, but I’d like to share a favorite memory of just the two of us.

In 1992 I was in a deep depression, and my whole world seemed to be nothing but waking and going to work unhappy. Somehow in all of this, he noticed my pain, and on one really bad day, he asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t explain it to him, it was over a girl, and that much he knew, but what good would have come from telling him the details? He couldn’t change any of it. That’s when my dad surprised me more than I ever thought he could. He saw the tears on my face, and he just put his arms around me and held me for maybe 2 minutes. He just held me, and didn’t say a word. I will always love him for that day, for showing me just how much he cared for me when I needed it most.

I could talk on and on about how much he loved my mom, about their song being “Only You”, and how he signed all his love letters, birthday cards to her as “Rey the King”. She would know more about that part of their lives. But let’s see, dressing up, he loved that, he loved to plan his outfit so when he was done he could say,” I look good – are you kidding me?”

And I wouldn’t call him a vain man; he just liked arriving at the party in style. He still used handkerchiefs most of his life, and if you ever road in his car, he insisted on telling you how well he kept it in shape, how it had amazing mileage, and how well it ran even after 10, 15, 20 years. Only once did he ever lend it out to me, when my ex and I drove it home from Pennsylvania one time. I told her, “My dad must really love you, cause he doesn’t lend this car to anyone.” But he didn’t do that just because of her, he lent the car out because of me.

It was this kind of indirect, in between the lines kind of love, that you had to look for if you ever wanted to understand him. He wouldn’t talk to me with pride about myself, he would tell his best friend, Noe when they first met…

“My son’s an artist.”

“Oh yeah, so is mine.”

He would come home then and say you have to meet Noe’s son Joey, he’s just like you. When he’d go to California to be with his mom, he would tell my cousin Richie about me, or my uncle Ed.

“You should meet Bobby, Richie. Ed, you should see his drawings.”

Course I would know none of this, Richie would tell me years later, and so would my uncle. But that’s how my father was… In my brother’s case, I would be the one to hear about him whenever he came back from visiting with his family in San Francisco. Don has this, Don has that, Don took me here, and Don and I played tennis. This was his way.

One of the strangest things he ever said to Don and me was, “You know you guys will be much better fathers than me, because I did all the drinking, and the gambling. You know what not to do. “ And the thing is he was right, I look back on any of the fights I’ve ever had with him, and they’re perfect lessons on what not to do. I know he didn’t mean them that way at the time, but in hindsight I like to think he planned it all. He taught me to think for myself, and he made me laugh at an insult, because his sense of humor was sometimes bizarre.

One of our last conversations was when I called his hospital room the day before his last seizure. As I was saying goodbye to my mom, I yelled to her over the phone to tell him I love him, and a second later she got off and shouted to him, “Bobby says he loves you!”And my dad through his mask, as clear as day yelled back, “LOVE YOU!” I heard him perfectly, and he sounded so strong, it was as if he was on the receiver.

One of our ongoing inside jokes was, that whenever I called home, instead of asking him how he was feeling he would say, “Cut your hair, loose weight.” And that’s when I knew he was in good spirits, when he took the time to tease me, he would laugh when I’d tell him, “Okay now I know you’re feeling better…”

Like I said, you can’t choose who’s going to love you, or how they’ll love you. Some people get Donald Trump to buy them things; I get the filipino Don Rickles. I’m certain if my dad could, he’d yell at my mom for spending too much on his funeral. Ask if she bought the right kind of beer for the reception, want me to cook steaks outside in the winter rather than go to a restaurant, and above all thank everyone for coming.

But he wouldn’t tell them to their faces, later on my mom and he would be talking over breakfast and they would tally who showed up, who brought what, he would tell her… oh yeah so and so and his wife, he’s good friend. That was his way.

Goodbye Dad, I will love you more and more from this day on. Thank you for being mine.