I don’t like November. Only later, well past the shock, did I figure out why. Not just the accumulating darkness of the fall winning the war with light.
I’ve always rooted for the forces of the winter solstice to claim their slow-moving victory. But, early on, I found the autumn gloom more personal than that.
My father, Milton Stein, always left early for his 7:00 am shift as a postal supervisor downtown. His only weeknight recreation was bowling in a league. On Wednesday nights, I think. Since I would still be asleep when he went to work, I asked him to write down the scores he got the night before.
I took them in as I sat down for breakfast and opened the daily newspaper to the sports section. School followed.
My dad was my hero, as almost all dads are. Funny, I’ve never said that before, even to myself. He’s been gone for 25 years.
But I was talking about autumn, wasn’t I? About November 1958.
Someone from the office knocked on the door of my seventh-grade class at Jamieson School on a Thursday afternoon that year. The teacher called my name. I left the room and entered the hallway as requested.
Mom was waiting for me.
She shouldn’t have been there.
Something was wrong.
We drove home, and she told me when we arrived. Dad was in the hospital. He suffered a heart attack. She broke down as she delivered the news. I remember the place we were standing.
Much later, I learned that he had been afflicted at least twice. Once at the bowling league and once on his way from the downtown Chicago Post Office the next day. He described a crushing pain, unlike anything he had ever experienced. Dad rested against a building until it passed.
My father didn’t exaggerate. He had survived the Great Depression and World War II. He had survived his father leaving the family apartment to live with another woman. What had it been like to endure such things? And now this.
When I returned to school the next day, a group of girls in my class surrounded me. “What happened?’ My voice cracked as I told them the story.
I was not yet 12.
Dad was sentenced to six weeks in Michael Reese Hospital, typical of heart disease treatment in the ’50s. It felt like a prison term to me and for me, a long one.
Kids couldn’t visit. Nor do I remember any phone calls. Just waiting. We wrote letters. I still have one telling Milton Stein that my brothers and I had saved some money to buy him a present.
It must have meant something to him, because he saved it.
It was formal, though. I stuffed down my feelings.
Dad was a funny guy. He joked with his three sons—me, Ed, and Jack—about his alleged baseball career and imaginary time playing for the Chicago Cubs.
Dad claimed he was so dependable that his nickname became “Rain or Shine Milt Stein,” a man who could compete for the team, pitching every day, no matter what.
My brothers and I share the joke and much else. Dependability, keeping promises, and working hard. That was the creed of our father and his sons.
He returned to our house. At least someone who looked like him came back home, but I wondered. I needed to ask. He’d become like a Christmas gift in a dented box, portending something disappointing if you tore it open.
Dad and I were in the front room when I raised the question. I faced the street, and he sat on the couch with his back to Talman Avenue.
I was direct.
I wanted to understand why he wasn’t himself.
“I’m afraid,” he said.
Of that quotation, I am sure. Of the wisdom of honesty in that moment, I am less sure.
He offered more. Dad was scared of another heart attack. Scared of dying. He said this matter-of-factly, but the message carried doom, like a guided missile headed for the heart of his firstborn. Heart disease, the real kind, killed, and men his age all but piled up on the street. At least that was my sense of it.
From then on, mom started reading magazines on diet and disease prevention. From then on, my dad took nitroglycerin pills every day.
The Stein boys did neither, but took their fear to school with them. Every day.
When “Rain or Shine” walked upstairs for the Western Avenue elevated train arrival, he stopped long enough to take a nitroglycerin tablet. With time, I wondered whether it continued to serve a purpose beyond mere reassurance.
Nonetheless, we all—sort of—tried to forget about pop’s vulnerability to heart disease: put it in a box that opened, but not as often as it had. Medical science learned a few things, too, and the death rate from the ailment declined.
Still, when you love an aging parent, something I have become myself, there is the internal whisper reminding you of the Grim Reaper. This strange creature, a personification of death, has been a recurring subject in painting since the 14th century.
The dangerous fellow is out there, always waiting, his scythe ready to perform its inescapable task. In Dad’s case, the news came from my brother Eddie, who announced to Jack and me that the irreplaceable one was gone.
The patriarch of our family made it to 88, a long life he defined as happy when he and I created his four-hour videotaped oral history at 75.
A friend who celebrates Hanukkah tells me that lighting the menorah (candelabrum) candles during the current Jewish holiday, as well as lighting candles before every Sabbath, is both a commandment and a good deed.
On the same day as the Bondi Beach massacre, December 14, people came to the village hall in her town on a cold night to celebrate the holiday, but carrying the heartbreak.
The rabbi acknowledged the crowd’s pain while reminding them that they must never give in to despondency. He told the assemblage that the reason for lighting the menorah for eight nights—by adding another flame each evening—was to reinforce its message: never give in to the darkness. Increase the light instead.
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The first image includes my parents. The second photo from the left, first row: Jack, Gerry, and Eddie. Second row, from the left, my parents, again.
What a beautiful tribute to your Dad, Dr. Stein. “Rain or Shine Milt Stein” – I like that! It kind of makes me wish my name rhymed with something cool.
Yes, in these dark times—and I’m not just talking about the daylight—we must each try to be a beacon of light and goodness. The holiday season is a good reminder of that.
I wish you all the best for the holiday season, Dr. Stein! And a happy and healthy 2026.
Thank you, Michelle. I was lucky to have parents who both had a sense of humor. It doubtless got them through some of life’s challenges. I have sometimes wondered what they would say about our world, as it is right now. To the good, they lived a long time and checked out well before they could comment. All the best to you and the world we share.
Thank you seems insufficient but thank you just the same, Dr. Stein, for this heart song of a post. I’ve loved the stories you’ve told about your father, Milt Stein and this essay – complete with lovely family photos was a privilege to read. These words were especially powerful:
“He returned to our house. At least someone who looked like him came back home, but I wondered. I needed to ask. He’d become like a Christmas gift in a dented box, portending something disappointing if you tore it open.”
Your father’s truth – telling you he was scared. What a moment – for both of you.
And last…thank you for the powerful conclusion from Elizabeth Barrett Browning…”light tomorrow with today”. Indeed, indeed. 💝
Thanks, Vicki. We have all had our moments. I continue to write about my father, always finding a somewhat different angle. He remains alive within me, as Sue does in you.
There is an ancient belief that we continue to live so long as our name is spoken. Perhaps that explains the Jewish custom of naming a grandchild after a deceased relative — to keep the name alive. Happy holidays to you and your family.
I love reading about your father. Thank you for sharing Milton Stein with us. ❤️
What a touching personal story Dr. Stein. Thank you for sharing that during a time when many, many people struggle I think. Hoping that everyone has the ability to find even some small light and allow it into their life right now.
I am glad you liked it, Deb. Indeed, a world of people struggling. It is important that we “see” them and do what we can, as you do, I am sure. Thank you and may you have a holiday and new year full of light.
Thanks so much for sharing this deeply personal and human experience with your dad, Gerald. May we all be so vulnerable, realize out common humanity, and find ways to love each other. Wishing you a peaceful and meaningful Hanukkah, old friend.
Well said and very kind of you, Frank. I share your wish for humanity. Here’s hoping you continue to write and share your unique voice and perspective. It is much appreciated by this old friend.
What a difficult thing for any family to go through! The uncertainty and fear must have always been somewhere in your psyche, even when you were distracted by something else. The fact that your dad lived to 88 speaks to the fact that it’s never too late to make some healthy changes. One line that jumped out at me was, “Dependability, keeping promises, and working hard.” Passing those positive traits on to his sons shows what a good man Milton was.
One of my best friends has been in and out of the hospital all year, but especially in the last couple of months. He hasn’t had a heart attack, but he has heart disease. He gets tired just walking out to his mailbox. I had lunch with him this week, and he was in good spirits because he said his heart has gone from working at 18% capacity to 30%.
Yes, Pete, my Dad’s vulnerability was always something I was aware of, even though it receded over time. And thanks for saying my dad was a good man. He was, and I can’t think of many he knew who would have said otherwise.
Your friend has had a rough road, but it sounds like he has the right attitude. May he continue to improve. With friends like you, he has some help and great good fortune. Best wishes for you and your family in the new year.
I absolutely loved this touching piece, Dr. Stein. My Mother was my parent who was seriously ill when we were young children. When you mentioned not being able to go to the hospital reminded me of how my Dad lifted us up to the window at the one-story hospital so we could see my Mother. That doesn’t leave you, as you know. Thank you so much for such a touching piece. Happy holidays to you. 🙂 Harry in Palm Desert CA. 🙂
Thanks, Harry. Yes, we remember. A mom in the hospital at your tender age sounds frightening. I would wish you a warm holiday, but living in Palm Desert, CA is probably a good deal warmer than the Chicago area. Stay well and best wishes.
thank you for this, it is beautifully said, and learned. your story reminded me of story within my own family that had to do with the fear of death that took on it’s own life and perhaps I’ll write about it as well. thank you again.
If I spark you to write about your own family’s challenges, I will have done some good, Beth. Our shared humanity is so often bypassed. Others assume we have had an easy life, but few lives are ever easy. I know you have done your part to make the world a better place. God bless you.
“never give in to the darkness. Increase the light instead” this touched my heart, it’s truth is so deep.
My dad’s death shattered me, while it was my mother’s life that shattered me, and her death brought peace.
My dad was a draftsman for his day job, but a musician and choir and band conductor in the Ukrainian community in Montreal. He brought over the folk songs from his youth in his heart and multiplied them by writing the music for all the in the band and all the voices in the choirs, both church choir and community. To me he was the personification of music, and when he died, music died for me for a long while after.
Your esteem and love for your father shines through your words, Tamara. You know the quote: “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” Your dad was clearly worthy of your admiration. Thank you for sharing this part of your life. Those of us who know even a bit of your story, also admire you. Many thanks and may the future offer you much kindness and love.
This was so powerful, Dr. Stein. Thank you for opening up a piece of yourself to us. As others have mentioned this line is so powerful: “never give in to the darkness. Increase the light instead.” My mother’s father died of a heart attack, around that same time, when she was 8 and I think–to this day–she still carries the scars of that loss and the fear of losing a loved one. It sounds like your father and entire family came to better understand the fragility of life, allowing a full life without a constant fear of the inevitable. Beautiful.
Wow, so beautifully told that the love and fear is palpable, Dr. Stein. This reminds me of what you’ve taught me about set points. Both you and your father returned to yours but it took time and courage.
Light tomorrow with today seems like a good way forward.
Thank you, Wynne. You and Vicki are my cheerleaders! I am very grateful.
I can imagine the kids are just about bursting through the roof over their coming Christmas holiday! I am sure Santa will treat them well. All the best for all your tomorrows.
Dr. Stein, thanks for sharing this heartfelt story of your dad. It’s amazing that he not only recovered but also made it to 88. Your mother’s loving care and love for his sons must have empowered him throughout those years.
With regards to the Bondi Beach massacre, we must never give in to the darkness.
Thank you, Rosaliene. My father married the woman of his dreams and put her on a pedestal. He gave her credit for surviving his heart condition. We were lucky to have him as long as we did.
I hope the fates and your belief in God sustain you. I am lucky to live in your time and with your support. Onward.
Onward <3
Such a beautiful story of love and family and holding onto the light, Dr. Stein. I am so glad your father was able to survive those initial heart attacks and remain with you all for many more years. Every father can be a hero, I believe—-and it’s wonderful your father was one for you. ❤️
Very kind of you, Lori. Yes, while I wouldn’t have told you I was lucky 50 years ago, I know it now. There is something about the presence of a father even after he is no longer someone you can rely upon, as often happens in his old age. Just knowing that he was there made a difference in my life.
Yes. My father made a terrible mistake when I was little, which led to the end of our traditional family, but he was a good man—a very good man in his essence—and I loved him very deeply.
What a heartfelt tribute, Dr. Stein. I didn’t have a dad, but it’s powerful to hear a son speak so warmly of his father. Thank you for sharing this with us.
I was lucky, Edward. My dad often said, “Every knock is a boost,” meaning you learn something, as he did, from all the rejections he experienced in the jobless 1930s.
I am sure your own hard experience has already transformed you into the kind of man children (and adults) look up to. Thank you for your service and may we all feel a little better about the world at the end of 2026.
I just saw this beautiful tribute. We share the sadness of November as well as the enduring love of our hero fathers. Thank you for spreading the light. I will add the Elizabeth Browning quotation to my collection.
Thank you, Evelyn Your praise is much appreciated. We are much in need of the light and each of us needs to kindle it.