fathers

July 30, 2023

I’d Like You To Meet My Deceased Father … Sort Of

When you meet someone new, you try to catch up to the life he lived before the moment of your arrival. Who were you before? Where did you live? Who did you love? What were your parents like?

Maybe you don’t ask. Perhaps you think the backstory doesn’t matter. After all, it’s who this person is now that counts, you say to yourself.

But I’m a psychologist by nature, training, and experience, so I’m the sort of person who asks. My wife’s dad, Thomas Henek, died a couple years before we met. He had his issues, but he survived battle in World War II, something he volunteered for despite being too old to be drafted.

Mr. H. had many friends, the kind of men who knew Tom would stand with them if the chips were down. They came in droves to his wake and funeral, and, at a time when men weren’t supposed to, they wept for his loss.

We sometimes miss knowing people by inches. Think of performers who passed away or retired before we had a chance to see them.

Yes, they leave recordings behind, but the communal experience of sharing the concert hall with others is rarely reproduced fully by electronics. Thus, the opportunity for a state approaching intimacy is gone forever.

Face to faceness becomes impossible.

Several years ago, however, I was prompted to rethink all this. Maybe there was a way to “meet” someone deceased, short of retrieving her from Hades, as Orpheus tried with Eurydice.

This brings my favorite uncle, Sam Fabian, to mind. My brother Jack acquired some old soundless movie film that had been transferred to DVD and gave a copy to me as a gift of sorts. Sam had been filmed by his wife almost 75 years ago while he played golf, probably on his honeymoon.

My uncle died when he was 50 in 1972. The silent film reminded me of his antic quality and the imposing 6’4″ animated presence that made him irresistible to almost everybody. He was a big man with big ideas and towering, thick-wristed strength; you had to look up to him.

The film recreated and enlarged my memory of Sam, something that stories about him or still photographs never do with anyone. If it is true that a picture is worth a thousand words, a movie film is worth far more.

Mr. Fabian moved, and the movement was both touching and delightful. You had to watch him move, or you could not know him any more than you can grasp the measure of a gifted athlete without seeing him play or a magnificent orator without hearing his voice.

Think of all the people we missed because cinema came so late in human history. Women and men like Joan of Arc, Plato, Harriet Tubman, Moses, Jesus, Jane Austen, the Buddha, Pocahontas, Marcus Aurelius, Caesar, Cleopatra, George Washington, and more.

But the title of this essay suggests I might “introduce” my late father in a palpable way, a man who is forgotten by history except for those who loved him. Impossible in the conventional fashion because he died 23 years ago.

Ah, but he lives on in audio recordings and a four-hour oral history video I made of him almost 40 years ago.

Were you and I friends or mates to whom fathers mattered, you might want to know him, the better to know me. If you wished to understand how I came to be as I am today, you’d learn how he spoke, the way his mind worked, the manner in which he told stories, and the values he communicated to his three sons: myself, Eddie, and Jack.

You might look into his eyes.

I made that video because I knew there would come a day when Dad would vanish, as we all do. I made it because he could speak to the generations of his descendants and allow them to learn where they came from and the goodness of his being.

I made it because I loved him.

The past is valuable if we learn from it, just as books and films are essential to our self-understanding. To my mind, they are of desperate importance, now as much as ever.

Maybe more.

One piece of advice. If you ever meet someone who means the world to you, don’t forget to “introduce” her to your deceased parents or ask to meet her own. They still have something to say, to influence, and to reveal.

No matter what you believe, they are not done with you yet. Or with those you meet along the way.

===========

The top profile of Milton Stein, my father, was made in Paris in 1945 during World War II. The city had been liberated from the Nazis six months before.

The second image is Thomas Henek at the time of his confirmation in 1923.

The photograph of my Uncle Sam, probably taken in the 1940s, is uncharacteristically somber. His family was desperately poor during most of the 1930s. You can interpret the few dollars he placed on his body as you wish. The photo on the dresser displays a picture of himself.

November 8, 2019

November Anniversaries

This week brings two anniversaries to mind, not of the wedding kind.

A birth and a death, both. A man I knew well and one I never met. I’ll concentrate on the former.

My dad would have been 108 had he lived another 19 years. When I think of him, it is not as a man near life’s end, but the middle-aged version. Perhaps that’s because he was 35 when I walked on stage, and never less than 40 during my school days.

I think of the challenges he faced getting a job in the Great Depression and his wartime service in the army. I recall how hard (and how much) he labored to make a living for his three boys and our mother. I witnessed how the responsibility was like a machine-lowered ceiling pressing down on him.

Milt Stein was a sweet man. My brothers and I saw him express that affection to my mother with tender words and embraces. She occupied his world. We were satellites circling a planet named Jeanette.

How might one celebrate his memory?

I could revisit the video interview I did when he was about 75.

No, too weighty. Moreover, the four-hour recording won’t fit my schedule right now.

I might arrange one of his favorite hot meals and uncap a lava flow of ketchup on top of it, as was his habit. My mom, you see, was not a master chef.

Another possible homage would be to stir a creamer in my morning coffee as he did, for what seemed like minutes at a time, almost long enough to wear his metal spoon to a nub.

The bell-like sound echoed too early and too long inside our two-flat on Talman Avenue. You knew dad was home — so announced the clanging — as it did that by 5:30 AM he’d be off to his job at the downtown post office.

If I had the urge to go to Chicago’s Loop today, a visit to the main library would serve as a symbolic honor. He borrowed books there and read novels and the Sun Times on public transit to and from work.

My memories take me to all these places and more: to excursions on the elevated train beginning at the Western stop, to trips on the #11 Lincoln Avenue bus, to Riverview Park’s high-rides, and Cubs games at Wrigley Field.

In the bag full of a lifetime’s remembrances, those ritualized, repeated events stand out. One such repetition occurred at the baseball contests. We understood the drill, though Milt Stein never failed to remind his boys of an essential feature.

The relative poverty of dad’s childhood required continued focus on the dearness of a hard-won dollar, even as time moved him away from the economic challenge of America in the 1930s. Thus, this man told his three sons we could each have only “two items” on our day at Wrigley.

Mom packed us all lunches. Corned beef on rye bread was typical, maybe a banana, too. But if we wanted ice cream or a Coke or a hot dog, my father limited us to any two of these, not more.

Ed, Jack, and I thought the restriction unreasonable, but we’d never experienced want. Our sire got categorized as a miser. Only years later did I recognize his limitations offered protection against a future when food might be a question not of how much, but whether we’d have any.

This little story leads me to salute Milton Stein’s 108th birthday anniversary the way he’d have advised. I intend to shop at the grocery, especially those aisles filled with all the goodies I likely wanted on a day at the ballpark in, say, 1959.

You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?

I’ll buy just two items.

—–

The top image is a sign of The Four Candles, a Wetherspoons pub in Oxford named after The Two Ronnies comedy sketch. Matt Brown is the author. It was sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

March 24, 2018

How Would You Like to be Remembered?

Some people try for financial success, some for fame, others for happiness. But what about after? Thus arises a question. What might you want to be remembered for? I asked 58 of my friends. Forty-three put their words together for me. My response is also included.

Here is a selection of the answers I received. Each prefaced by a word or two from me (in bold), with a few other comments along with way. I’m going to begin with the response of the only stranger, the actor John Malkovitch. His recently published interview prompted this essay.*

  • Malkovitch: By my friends as hopefully someone who was a good friend, or at least amusing, but I don’t need to be remembered by people I don’t know.
  • A fierce protector of his family: As crafty and cunning – like a fox. Nobody messes with a fox.
  • A woman of conscience: As having been a person whose children were her highest priority, and whose husband and friends joined her children as her dearest treasures, for whom learning and growing were essential parts of her life, who tried to do the right thing in both ordinary and difficult situations, who tried to understand and be kind and compassionate, who made mistakes and tried to learn from them and make amends for them, who tried to be mindful of and was often grateful for both the obvious and the less visible blessings in her life, and who loved as well and as deeply as she could.
  • An ecumenical reply: As someone who cared deeply about people, and who tried in his own way to make the world a better place for as many people as possible. As the expression goes, “God Bless The Whole World. No Exceptions.”
  • Fathers: After my wonderful father died, my younger brother said he could feel my father’s love moving through him, as he felt so much love for his own children. I would like to be remembered for honoring my father’s legacy with the same hope, that he lingers on as we pass his name to our children and grandchildren and love all of them in the way we were loved by our father.
  • A man’s man: Honest, fair, loving, successful, a survivor.

This is not a scientific survey. It is, however, a pretty good sample of what my friends think. Who are my friends? A well-educated, mostly liberal crowd who are more than usually successful as it is defined in America. This is not a particularly diverse group. The age range begins with a few people in their 30s and many more who are seniors. Just a few more women responded than men, and this selection reflects the same proportion. I’m grateful to all who answered.

  • A quiet man of depth: As a man of integrity, respected – with few acquaintances, but for those close friends a deep and lasting friendship.
  • An answer which nobody can deny: a fun guy to be around.
  • The importance of trying: I always thought I’d like “A for Effort” on my gravestone. I guess I’d like to be remembered as warm, caring, funny, and smart. A good woman and a good (doctor) and a good wife.
  • Two strong women:
    • As a woman who questioned authority and conventional wisdom and who saw people as individuals beyond established categories.
    • As a person of integrity who was prepared to pay the price for standing up for her values and principles. (Both of these women paid the price).
  • Getting to the essentials: A nice guy. If they can’t say that about me, nothing else really matters. And, if they can say that about me, then nothing else really matters.
  • The value of joy: He enjoyed life and helped others do the same.
  • A quotation: “Changing the world is good for those who want their names in books. But being happy, that is for those who write their names in the lives of others, and hold the hearts of others as the treasure most dear.” From Orson Scott Card’s Children of the Mind (1996), the fourth book in his Ender’s Game series.
  • A gentle soul: I want to be remembered in a kind, soft, and compassionate way.
  • Beauty: I’d like to be remembered as an honest guy who did his best. A lover of music and all things beautiful.

You might wonder why the answers are short and why the response rate was high. Here is how I posed the email to which my sample responded:

I’m preparing a blog post on the question, “How would you like to be remembered?” I’d be grateful for a very quick answer. One or two sentences only. Not a word more. Your first impression. If it takes you more than three minutes, it won’t be a first impression. Your identity will be masked in both the blog post and any private conversation I have about the essay. No problem if you’d rather not reply. But, as I say, do it straight away if you’d like to do it.

  • Someone sweet: Every once in a while, I would like my family and close friends to hear a song, see a painting, smell a perfume, or remember a phrase and say to themselves: ”What a great memory. You know, she really made me feel loved.”
  • Living in the present: I don’t care whether I’m remembered.
  • A man who knows what he wants: He always insisted on finding the real problem.
  • From a wise counselor. Lawyer or therapist? You might be surprised: As one providing an ear more than a mouth.
  • A lover: I’d like to be remembered as a kind person who truly loved people and who always loved to learn – no matter the subject.
  • Let’s be frank: As a decent enough person who didn’t f **k up my kids too badly! And hopefully, I’ll have done some things to make the world a little better.

The most commonly used words were honesty, integrity, family, friends, love, and some version of the phrase “making the world a better place.” Many of those who offered such words were not included in this selection of comments in order avoid repetition. No one mentioned the word money. No one cared about their name in history books or hoped for lasting fame. If you can hear it, my friends, I am applauding you all.

  • A man with lots of awards who knows their real value: As a good person, good dad, good friend. With now a moment’s reflection, you should be able to evaluate your own professional life. The doodads you put on the wall or the desk don’t mean much.
  • The salt of the earth: Family, friend, honest, funny, Chicago, California, Texas, 2016 Cubs!
  • Someone who lives by these words, though born in 1947: As a funny, cultured pre-World War One gentleman.
  • The Hippocratic Oath from a non-physician: I’d like to be remembered as someone who cared about the well-being of others and was concerned to do no harm.
  • A survivor and more: Wonder woman-like. I’d like to be remembered for not only triumphing over traumatic adversity, but also utilizing that information to help others in some meaningful way.
  • Saving the planet: As someone who listened and tried to understand and as someone who made a very small difference to improve the lives of humans and animals. And as someone who respected nature.
  • A mom: As the creator of my family: what I brought together.
  • Last words: How would I like to be remembered? With love by those I loved.

—–

*This essay was inspired by a question Rosanna Greenstreet asked John Malkovich, as published in The Guardian on March 10, 2018. His answer is above and the full article is here: Rosanna Greenstreet/

August 20, 2009

A Wedding Toast

8/16/09

Welcome to everyone. Its wonderful that you are here today to help us celebrate Carly and Keith’s life together. Speaking for Aleta and for myself, there is nothing better in life than to be with the people who are dearest to us, friends and family, at a moment such as this.

Carly is, of course, our second child and had a tough act to follow in her sister. When you have a wonderful daughter like Jorie, its hard to imagine that any other little person might come along and steal your heart a second time. But then Carly was born and that’s exactly what happened.

When Carly was quite small, she said, occasionally, “People are looking at me!” Now I’m a clinical psychologist, so I took this very seriously. Like, yikes, my child is psychotic!

But then Aleta and I noticed something interesting: people were looking at her. Even when she was little, Carly had a radiance, an animation, and a shining presence that drew the eye of strangers.

My mother knew from the start that Carly would be something special. She said that Carly would give us life and, if fact, it is Carly’s embrace of life, her warmth and enthusiasm, that anyone who meets her soon discovers.

Carly looks for the best in people and touches the heart. Indeed, Carly’s art is to touch people, whether it be through her kindness or through her singing voice. But even before we ever knew that she would become a musician, even before we ever heard her sing a note, Carly made our hearts sing. Aleta and I could not be more proud of her or love her more.

Aleta and I are grateful to Keith’s parents for the lovely rehearsal dinner that they hosted Friday evening. They have raised an extraordinary young man, Keith Hebert, who is now Carly’s husband. They have much of which to be proud.

That, of course, brings me to Keith, but before I say a word about him, I should say that the job of being a father to two beautiful daughters is not an easy one. You spend a lot of time thinking unkind thoughts about little boys, wondering what plots they might be hatching to ensnare your female children!

And so, perhaps naturally, when Carly told us that she was in love, I wondered and worried about whom she had chosen. Would she be safe with this man? Would he care for her? Would he make her happy?

I needn’t have worried. Keith is the kind of man a father can only dream of for his daughter. He is smart, funny, talented, and hard working, but most of all, dedicated to Carly in a way that allows a parent to sleep easily at night knowing that words like romance, chivalry, and devotion are not dead, but live in him. I am delighted to call him my son-in-law.

Please join me in a toast to Carly and Keith. As I’ve said at least once before in my life, although I’m not Irish, I believe that the Irish have most of the good toasts. And to give this one some context, my oldest friends and I have been known to make plans far into the future. With that in mind:

Carly and Keith,

May your home always be too small to hold all of your friends,

and may all of us here today meet again to see you both gray and combing your grandchildrens’ hair.