My Father, My Friend

It Only Took Six Decades And A Global Pandemic

Note to reader: We are a family with a sense of humor. Laughter over tears — that is the spirit with which this was written.

My dad is ninety-one and I am sixty-five. My entire life we have had the classic love/hate relationship. Actually, love has never been in question. It was more of an agree /disagree kind of thing when times were good, but could easily sour to like/dislike, during the rough patches.

Ironic, since we are similar in so many ways: tall, lean, prominent noses, love numbers, love books, impatient with people whose minds don’t work at the same speed as ours.

The big difference is our emotional intelligence. There are many ways to measure this but if I were to make up my own scale of 1 to 10, he would barely be a one and I would be a solid nine. There is obviously some bias here but it still makes my point!

Yet people have always been drawn to him. No doubt he is intelligent and charming. But there is an inner gentleness, which he hates to acknowledge, that brings his family back, time and time again.

We are both careful listeners. I work hard to set aside my own prejudices and preconceptions and put myself in the other person's shoes. When you’re listening to someone it should be about them, not you.

Dad, on the other hand, only processes information to one point of view, his!. “ Show me the money!” is one of his favorite retorts. There are other ways to measure your success — building trust, helping people, contributing to your community.

He likes animals but thinks the time and effort spent caring for them is ridiculous. “Just shoot them”, would be a better choice.

Generosity has been another bone of contention between us, be it with your time or your money. Life experiences have soured my father and this is not one of his redeeming qualities. He has trouble with the idea of giving, simply for the sake of giving. There must be some ulterior motive.

For years, he maintained that the children and grandchildren only came to his Christmas party to get their envelopes and the cash they held. The amount varied depending on whether you had been “naughty or nice”.

He thinks I am, often, a fool, easily taken advantage of. I know this because he tells me so! I shrug and say, “ I’d rather be me than you”.

My efforts to smooth our relationship started a few years ago. One of my daughters wisely pointed out that her children were so lucky to have a living great grandparent. It would be shameful for them not to know him. Out of the mouth of babes…She was right. I was wrong.

So began our semi-regular Sunday brunches. Initially, I think he was resentful that I was being the bigger person and letting bygones be bygones ( there had been a very rough patch after my mother died). Even as he sat drinking coffee and eating the meal I had carefully prepared with his favorite foods, he would pepper me with pointed remarks.

I was an “unpaid nanny” when I spent time with my grandchildren and the only reason the kids came on family trips was that my husband and I covered the airfare.

Old habits die hard. Even if his goal was not to be hurtful but rather to test, I was having none of it. I could not be broken.

About a year ago something changed. He crossed that threshold of ninety years old and started giving the occasional compliment or word of encouragement. Not directly, of course. They would reach me second hand through my husband,“ You won’t believe what your dad said about you today. He’s getting soft!”.

When I started writing on Medium a few months ago, I would call him to share my small triumphs. Getting a piece curated was nothing. He wanted to know “Where’s the cheque?”, and my earnings in June of $19.98 did not impress him. Still, trying to engage him while in isolation was the least I could do.

Yesterday he made an unexpected visit. It was 7:30 in the evening, late for an old man, and not our Sunday norm. He tackled the front steps to the house with grim determination-right hand on the railing, left hand clutching his cane. A white, plastic bag swung precariously from his wrist, knocking the cane with every other step and forcing him to stop and regain his balance.

He had brought me two books by Harry Golden, a journalist, and humorist. They were from his extensive library and one even had an inscription. He had given it to his own father, as a gift, in 1956. He thought I would enjoy Mr. Golden’s writings and find inspiration for my own. Maybe even, someday, put mine together in a book.

My jaw dropped. This meant he had read my articles and given them some thought. That’s what a good friend would do!

But as quickly as the spell was cast, so it was broken.

“ This is just a loan. When you’ve finished reading them, I want them back!”

That’s the Dad I know and love, and sometimes even like!