My Father's Yarhzeit
Yahrzeit is a Yiddish word meaning literally ‘year’s time’, and is the anniversary of someone’s death, as figured on the Hebrew Calendar. That we celebrate someone’s death has always seemed peculiarly Jewish, but then, I find much of the rituals around death and dying in Judaism to be some of the best thought out rituals around. It just sort of snuck up on me this year.
My father’s Yahrzeit was this week, and may have been some of the reason for feeling sad. Part of my subconscious mind remembered what I consciously forgot. My father died 15 years ago. He had the gracious good sense of timing to have his last illness in the summer, when I was on an academic schedule, and had time to be with him and my mother. I think it was an uncomfortable death, but not a painful one. I think if I knew then what I know now, it could have been easier for everyone, but we all did our best at the time.
I never thought of my father as an extraordinary man. He wasn’t rich or famous. He was not physically striking (except for a brief period in his late teens, early twenties). He was well educated. He wasn’t especially well read, but from time to time would refer me to a book, or take an interest in something one of us was reading. He was an avid viewer of Public TV. He was generally fascinated by TV, and used to hang out at the TV repair shop (back in the days before transistors, back in the day when TV tubes gave off their own unique smell) just for fun.
He was his mother’s favorite, simply because he slipped into this world without much labor. My sister wanted his life to bookend, a home birth and a home death, but that was not what my mother wanted. I still believe taking him to the hospital was the right thing to do, for my mother’s sake, if not my father’s, and my father would have taken her feelings and fears into account.
My parents were best friends. That doesn’t mean they didn’t argue or fight, they did. But they were also affectionate, my dad even more so than my mom. He would come up behind her and hug her as she washed dishes. What is it about women near water that affects men? He was connected to his family and her family, so much so that he would not move our family out to Utah for his work, because he didn’t want to take my mother far from her family, even though he sometimes resented my mother’s relationship with her brother.
He went back to college in his 40’s, to work on a graduate degree in Geology. His studies were disrupted by his first heart attack in 1977. His retirement was not what he expected it to be. His identity was much more connected to his work than anyone thought it would be, and there was not a flexible way for him to continue part time, or find something else part time to keep his hand in. He missed the popularization of the internet, which he would have loved.
A week ago I was sitting in a restaurant with my brother and nephew, recalling my father’s favorite foods. It was an interesting exercise, and I think I did very well. I don’t know if I had a better memory because I was older, or because I paid more attention. If I paid more attention, was it a “female” thing, or a “foody” thing? I’d like to think it was neither, just being more observant, but I don’t know for sure.
Food memories have always been very strong for me. I could remember the smell of four kitchens growing up: My mother’s, which smelled “neutral” to me, because she fried things in margarine. My grandmother’s, which smelled of (burnt) butter. My great-grandmother’s, whose kitchen smelled of chicken fat and opera mints, and my paternal grandmother’s, who’s kitchen was altogether different, as she cooked “Hungarian” and not “Russia-Poland”. Her kitchen smelled of fresh basil.
My father would make lunches for us on Sundays, when my mother was teaching Sunday School. He would get more credit for his creative lunches, once a week than my mother would get for cooking all week. Mostly because he was more adventurous, making curries and chilies, and other things my mother wouldn’t make, and he would take time to present food especially for kids, for example putting smiley faces made out of vegetables on open face sandwiches. My “father’s kitchen” smelled of strange spices and pipe tobacco.
I miss them all.
posted by the other Joan @ 8:46 AM
2 Comments:
Your testimonial to your dad blew me away. There were many things I never actually knew (like about the kids' lunches). It means a lot to me as, of course, I've known your family for so long. The house, during high school, was one of our favorite places to be. Bert's (Bert or Burt?--never had to spell it) combination of wry humor and genuine interest in our (i.e., your friends') doings was irresistible to us. Although my dad was more of a "macher" in his professional sphere, I had envied you your more involved, apparently more (relatively) emotionally-available dad (meaning he was logical and analytical in his responses, but we felt that connection emotionally). The affection between your parents was also apparent to us, which was one of the factors that made us comfortable hanging out with them. Your dad may not always have been right about everything he told us, but we felt his sincerity and interest. We also were appreciative of his intelligence and the fact that he really cared about your (meaning you, m'love) future. Both your mom and dad were stand-out figures in our lives, greatly to be missed. I'll be reading your entry about him many times over.
Oh, this was so beautiful. You're really finding your voice. I'm crying, you know, and you know why too.
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