Father's Day

Today, June 18, 2017, is Father's Day, at least in the United States. In Brazil, it will be celebrated on August 13 this year.  But as I have no father nor children in Brazil, I will celebrate today.

When I was a child, Father's Day meant my father, Harry Lasky, born September 7, 1901 in Troy, New York, the seventh of eight children in a family of first generation Jewish-Americans whose parents had emigrated from eastern Europe.  My father believed, as many of his generation believed, that being a father meant being a "bread winner."  That's it.  Mother did the rest. He was a good bread winner.

At home, my father was quiet, mostly uncommunicative.  I don't remember him talking to me before departing in the mornings for his office at the Netherland Dairy near the western edge of town. When he would return at the end of the day, my mother would warn me not to bother him because he would be very tired from work. So, I didn't.  My father would either go to his office, watch TV or read the newspaper, in silence.  When my mother announced dinner (always meat and potatoes plus a lettuce and tomato salad) was ready, he would join the rest of us and eat mostly in silence.  He would usually spend the rest of the day watching TV in silence.

Days would come and go without my having any conversations with my father.  And often, such conversations would be negative, as in I had done something wrong that would upset him. He appeared to me as an intimidating person, not approachable nor benevolent (like Robert Young in Father Knows Best).  

I remember some days, such as when I was alone watching sports on TV, that my father would enter the room and sit and watch as well.  He would try to make small talk, but I would be on edge that this would evolve negatively leading him to shout at and/or threaten me with corporal punishment (he never hit me).  Typically, after some minutes of silently watching sports on TV together, he would leave and I could relax.

From age 10 to 12, I played Little League baseball on a team sponsored by the local Police Department.  My father never came to see me play.  When I was a teenager, I remember a few occasions when my father sought me out to tell me certain things, such as what to do after being with a woman or negative facts about my mother's family.  When I went away to college, I had to discuss finances with my father, as this was outside my mother's purview. I finally found him to be approachable and accommodating. 

My father had a pet name for me which he used on rare occasions, The Duke of Devonshire.  Why? I don't know.

My father did serve as a role model in some ways.  He always supported my mother, thus presenting a united front to us children. When we went out to eat, I paid attention to what my father ordered and did like he did.  At Whalen's Drug Store on Saturday mornings, he ordered bacon (not kosher) and eggs.  At Vince's, an Italian restaurant, he ordered shrimp cocktail (not kosher) and steak (never their Italian specialties).  

My fondest memory of my father was one day in 1977 when, as an adult, I was visiting my parents in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  He was showing signs of dementia.  I suggested that we go to a nearby spring training baseball game between the two New York teams, the Yankees and the Mets.  Twice when I was a child, my father turned down opportunities to take me to a football game.  It turns out the love of baseball was something we had in common, as he enjoyed playing as a child, as did I.  However, this time it was as if I were the father and he was the child.  I took him to our seats and bought us some hot dogs. He died four years later.

On December 7, 1975 (Rachel) and August 15, 1985 (Bret), I became a father.  As a result, Father's Day took on a new meaning.  

When I was on the verge of fatherhood, I saw it as an opportunity to be the father I never had.  I would be more than just a bread winner to my children.  I would be totally involved in raising them, along with their mother, Bonita, to be happy, well-adjusted, self-confident human beings.  

When my children were born, I felt an immediate bonding with them, something I had never experienced before.  I felt that I would sacrifice anything for them, without question. Raising my children became my #1 priority.  I also discovered that I totally enjoyed the experience of being their father, which has been the greatest pleasure of my productive life.  

I know I made mistakes.  Nobody is perfect.  However, I did not repeat what I consider to be the mistakes of my parents.  I took what I thought they did well and rejected what I disagreed with, such as corporal punishment.  I also learned from Bonita's counsel and from reading about early childhood education.                      

As part of raising my children, I wanted Rachel and Bret to know me, warts and all.  This was important because my father and I missed the golden opportunity we had to know each other.

It's impossible to choose my favorite moment with my children because there were so many memorable ones.

My children are grown now and I am very proud of them.  I consider Rachel and Bret to be the greatest successes of my life. They are also how I measure that my life has been a success.

Happy Father's Day!   
__________
I will be on vacation until Sunday, July 16 

Best of Intentions, Chapter 12

"I don't want another big church wedding," says Rita to her cousin, Maria.  "I want something simple and refined.  We'll do it here at my house with a few friends and relatives."

"Whatever you want, Rita.  It's your day, yours and Ben's."

"You must go with me to choose something tasteful to wear.  Not white, but elegant."

For Thanksgiving, 1940, Ben goes to his brother Dave's home in Syracuse.  While his wife, Peggy, cooks the traditional turkey and stuffing, Ben talks politics with Dave and his eighteen year-old son, Harry.  

"So, Ben, have you accepted that Roosevelt will be president again, for the third time?" 

"Of course.  I believe in democracy.  I just hope he has enough wisdom to keep the American people from getting involved in the war."

"It won't be the same with you so far away, Ben.  I guess we won't see you for a while."

"I promise I'll come back as often as I can.  I'll miss all of you."

Harry adds that, "I think it's kind of neat you're be going to live in Mexico.  Can you speak Spanish, Uncle Ben?"

"I'm gonna learn."

On Christmas eve, Ben walks toward the entrance of his church in Oswego as snow is gently falling.  There is about an inch of accumulation on the ground.  Traditional Christmas music emanates from inside. The street is empty as he arrives late. On the steps of the church Ben notices a solitary figure approaching from the opposite direction.  It's his ex-wife, Paula.  When she sees Ben, she stops and they stare at each other for a moment, without either saying a word.  Then Paula continues towards the open doorway followed at a short distance by Ben.  After they both enter the church, the door closes behind them.  

Soon it will be 1941 and much will change for Ben and the rest of America.  

Emily

One Saturday night in the fall of 1964, I went alone, as usual, to a theater in center city Philadelphia to watch a popular movie of the day, the name of which I have completely forgotten.  However, much to my delight, I got to see a second film, a surprise screening of a new release, The Americanization of Emily, a film I have never forgotten.  It starred James Garner and Julie Andrews. Garner had become a TV star from the popular western series of the 1950s, Maverick, where he portrayed "an articulate cardsharp." Andrews had just finished the film, Mary Poppins, for which she would win an Academy Award for Best Actress.

The Americanization of Emily initially caught my attention as a rare black-and-white film of that era.  It also appeared to be another typical World War II drama, taking place in London, just before the D Day invasion (June 6, 1944 - 73 years ago next Tuesday). However, this was not the usual picture glorifying war.  It was an anti-war film.

Garner, as Lieutenant Commander Charlie Madison, is a "dog robber," a highly efficient aide to his Admiral.  His job is "to keep his boss supplied with luxury goods and amiable women."  Needless to say, Charlie is the best dog robber in the U.S. Navy.  

Andrews, as Emily Barham, a driver from the British military motor pool assigned to Charlie, "has lost her husband, brother and father in the war."  A hopeless romantic, Emily falls in love with Charlie because (1) his job keeps him far from danger and (2) she is both fascinated and disgusted by his access to expensive material goods while England endures wartime rationing.

There is some wonderful dialogue in the film which was written by Paddy Chayefsky, a winner of three Academy Awards: 1955, Best Adapted Screenplay, Marty (see blog post, Marty the Movie); 1971, Best Original Screenplay, The Hospital; and 1976, Best Original Screenplay, Network.

"You American-haters bore me to tears, Miss Barham. I've dealt with Europeans all my life. I know all about us parvenus from the States who come over here and race around your old cathedral towns with our cameras and Coca-Cola bottles... Brawl in your pubs, paw at your women, and act like we own the world. We over tip, we talk too loud, we think we can buy anything with a Hershey bar. I've had Germans and Italians tell me how politically ingenuous we are, and perhaps so. But we haven't managed a Hitler or a Mussolini yet. I've had Frenchmen call me a savage because I only took half an hour for lunch. Hell, Miss Barham, the only reason the French take two hours for lunch is because the service in their restaurants is lousy. The most tedious lot are you British. We crass Americans didn't introduce war into your little island. This war, Miss Barham, to which we Americans are so insensitive, is the result of 2,000 years of European greed, barbarism, superstition, and stupidity. Don't blame it on our Coca-Cola bottles. Europe was a going brothel long before we came to town."

"War isn't hell at all.  It's man at his best; the highest morality he's capable of.  It's not war that's insane, you see. It's the morality of it.  It's not greed or ambition that makes war; it's goodness.  Wars are always fought for the best of reasons: for liberation or manifest destiny.  Always against tyranny and always in the interest of humanity.  So far in this war, we've managed to butcher ten million humans in the interest of humanity.  Next war it seems we'll have to destroy all of man in order to preserve his damn dignity.  It's not war that's unnatural to us.  It's virtue.  As long as valor remains a virtue, we shall have soldiers."

"I don't trust people who make bitter reflections about war, Mrs. Barham.  It's always the generals with the bloodiest records who are the first to shout what a hell it is.  It's always the war widows who lead the Memorial Day parade. We shall never end wars, Mrs. Barham, by blaming it on the ministers and generals, or warmongering imperialists, or all the other banal bogeys. It's the rest of us who build statues to those generals and name boulevards after those ministers. The rest of us who make heroes of our dead and shrines of our battlefields. We wear our widow's weeds like nuns, Mrs. Barham, and perpetuate war by exalting its sacrifices."

"I don't want to know what's good, or bad, or true. I let God worry about the truth. I just want to know the momentary facts about things. Life isn't good, or bad, or true. It's merely factual, it's sensual, it's alive. My idea of living sensual facts are you, a home, a country, a world, a universe. In that order. I want to know what I am, not what I should be."

"Well, you're a good woman.  You've done the morally right thing.  God save us from all the people who do the morally right thing.  It's always the rest of us who get broken in half.  I want you to remember that the last time you saw me, I was unregenerately eating a Hershey bar."

Garner and Andrews enjoyed working together so much they did it twice more:  1982, Victor/Victoria (a musical comedy about a woman pretending to be a female impersonator) and 1999, One Special Night (a made for TV movie about a widow and a widower who take refuge together in an abandoned cabin one stormy winter evening).